Dead man's advice

The Bangalore morning was a bruise of purple and grey. At 6:45 AM, the air in the narrow lane was thick with the scent of damp dust and the distant, rhythmic grinding of a neighbor’s wet grinder. Somnath, forty-seven, adjusted the strap of his helmet. Beside him, the Honda Activa stood as a humble contrast to the heavy SUV parked deep in the shadows of the car porch—a silent monument to their corporate success that remained unused in the city's strangling morning traffic.

Vijaya, forty-three, pulled her dupatta tight against the chill. They moved with the practiced, quiet synchronization of a couple who had spent years navigating the silence of a house without children.

The heavy iron gate groaned as Somnath pulled it open. The sound, sharp and metallic, acted like a summons. The ground-floor door creaked open, and Bharati, the seventy-two-year-old matriarch of the house, stepped out. She was draped in a faded nighty, her silver hair a halo of uncombed static in the early light.

"Wait a minute," she called out, her voice cutting through the scooter’s idle hum. "Good morning. How is the work going?"

Somnath coasted the Activa toward the car porch, keeping his feet dragging on the concrete. "All good, Madam," he replied with the reflexive politeness of a long-term tenant.

Before she could respond, Pakirappa emerged from the shadows of the living room, a folded newspaper tucked under his arm like a weapon. He didn't offer a greeting.

"Hi, Somnath," Pakirappa said, his voice flat. "From next month, we are going to increase the room rent by twenty percent. From the last three years, we never increased it."

The words hit harder than the morning cold. Vijaya stepped forward, her hand resting on the back of the scooter. "Uncle, twenty percent is very high," she said, her voice laced with the exhaustion of a thousand boardroom meetings. "Nowadays, the IT industry is not good. We aren't getting hikes, and the pressure at work is immense."

Somnath looked at Pakirappa, his eyes pleading. "Can we please increase it from next year instead?"

Bharati didn't let her husband answer. Her face hardened, the morning pleasantry vanishing. "If you are not interested, tell me," she snapped. "I will give the room to the next person."

The ultimatum hung in the humid air. Somnath felt the ticking of the clock, the looming login times, and the frantic pace of the MNC life waiting for them just a few kilometers away. He couldn't afford a battle at 6:50 AM.

"Now we need to reach the office," Somnath said, his voice tight as he pulled his visor down. "While returning from the office, we will discuss this."

He kicked the stand up. Vijaya reached back, clicked the gate shut with a finality that echoed down the street, and climbed onto the pillion seat. As the scooter sped away into the waking chaos of Bangalore, the rearview mirror showed the two figures on the porch, motionless and expectant, watching them go.

The journey to Electronic City was a grueling test of patience. For an hour and thirty minutes, the Honda Activa crawled through a sea of brake lights and exhaust fumes, the infrastructure of Bangalore struggling to contain the morning rush. By the time they reached the sprawling campus, the humidity of the road had wilted their spirits.

Inside the glass-and-steel sanctuary of the office, the couple split toward their respective worlds. Vijaya disappeared into the HR wing to manage the endless bureaucracy of human capital, while Somnath stepped into the pressure cooker of his department.

As a Team Leader, Somnath’s morning was a relentless barrage of fire-fighting. His dashboard was lit with red flags—errors in the latest deployment, complaints from the onshore clients, and a string of careless mistakes made by the juniors that he now had to rectify manually.

The morning briefing was a storm. Jayakumar, the manager, paced the front of the room, his frustration boiling over. He didn't just point out errors; he dismantled the confidence of every Team Leader in the room. His voice, sharp and unforgiving, echoed through the glass partitions, leaving Somnath’s head throbbing with a dull, persistent ache.

During the short reprieve of the tea break, Somnath stood by the vending machine, his eyes fixed on the steam rising from his paper cup. Naveen, a long-time colleague and friend, leaned against the railing beside him.

"Bro, you look like you’re about to collapse," Naveen said quietly. "Too much stress. Why do we even put up with it?"

Somnath rubbed his temples. "It’s the errors, Naveen. The juniors are slipping, and Jayakumar is on a warpath. I don't see a way out."

Naveen took a slow sip of his tea. "Last time the pressure got to me, I didn't argue. I just took a month of leave and went to Kedarnath. The silence there... it’s different, Somnath. Inner peace isn't just a word; it’s a physical feeling when you’re up there. You get a perspective that these cubicles can’t give you. It changes you both mentally and spiritually. Why don’t you and Vijaya try that? You need to breathe."

The return journey was a slow crawl through the neon-lit exhaustion of Bangalore’s evening rush. The Honda Activa was their only sanctuary, the only place where the roar of the wind and the hum of the engine allowed them a private space to discuss the fragments of their lives.

Vijaya leaned closer to Somnath’s shoulder to be heard over the traffic. "I’m going to order idli and sambar for tonight," she said, her voice sounding hollow. "I’m not in the mood to cook. What do you want?"

"Order the same for me," Somnath replied, his eyes fixed on the flickering taillights ahead.

The silence that followed was filled with the looming shadow of their morning confrontation. "What are we going to tell Pakirappa?" Somnath asked. "Ten percent is okay, but twenty is too high. It’s a burden we don't need right now."

Vijaya tightened her grip on the side rail. "Don't worry about him. I’ll use my HR skills to convince Pakirappa to settle for ten percent. I know how to handle people like him."

They rode in silence for a few more kilometers, crossing a flyover that overlooked the sprawling city. The weight of Naveen’s suggestion was still heavy in Somnath’s mind.

"Can we go for a tour?" he asked suddenly. "To get away from all this stress. But we would need a month’s leave. Is that even possible?"

Vijaya didn’t answer immediately. Behind her closed eyes, twelve years of marriage flashed by like the passing streetlights. She thought of the relentless questions from in-laws, the judgmental whispers of society, and the constant inquiry: “When are you having a baby?” She wondered if the fault lay with him or with her, a silent blame that neither dared to voice. They had spent a fortune on treatments, endured countless hospital visits, and felt the crushing weight of hope and disappointment time and time again.

She realized she needed a break more than he did. "I will check with my boss and confirm tomorrow," she said quietly.

As they reached the gate of their house, the SUV sat in the porch like a silent observer of their return. They had reached home, but the peace they sought felt further away than ever.

Two days later, the path ahead began to clear. Vijaya discovered she had forty-one days of leave sitting in her bucket—days she could have encashed for a significant sum, but she chose time over money. She needed the silence more than the silver. Somnath, driven by a newfound desperation to escape the crushing briefings of Jayakumar, managed to secure his own long leave. For the first time in years, the corporate tether was cut.

The preparation felt like a project plan of its own. They booked flight tickets to Dehradun and navigated the digital portals to secure their entry passes for the Kedarnath temple. One evening, they drove to MG Road, the heart of Bangalore’s commerce, to gear up. They bought heavy thermal jackets, trekking boots, and accessories designed to combat the unforgiving ice of the Himalayas. They packed a miniature pharmacy of medicines—painkillers, altitude sickness pills, and bandages—ready for a terrain far different from the carpeted floors of an MNC.

Three days later, the humid air of Bangalore was replaced by the thin, crisp oxygen of the north. From Dehradun, they took a bus that wound through the serpentine mountain roads toward the base of the trek.

As "smart techies," they felt prepared. They had their offline maps, their high-end gear, and the confidence of people who solved complex problems for a living. They didn't feel the need for local guides or unsolicited advice. Side by side, they began the climb, their breath coming in white puffs of mist as they stepped into the ice-cold climate, walking upward into the vast, silent white of the mountains.

The trek began at Gaurikund. After the flurry of registration and the final checks of their paperwork, Somnath and Vijaya stepped onto the path, their pace slow and deliberate.

The morning climate was kind; the sun offered a pale, comforting warmth, and for the first time in years, the tension in Somnath’s shoulders began to dissolve. They were happy, buoyed by the novelty of the mountain air. However, as the first two kilometers passed, the reality of the terrain set in. The backpacks, filled with their carefully selected MG Road gear and medicines, seemed to double in weight with every incline. The thin air made each step a calculated effort.

By the time they reached Jungle Chatti, their breath was coming in ragged gasps. They found a spot on the sidewalk to sit, the cold stone a relief against their tired muscles. They ordered tea and shared some snacks, the steam from the cups dancing in the cold air.

"We should go slowly," Somnath suggested, leaning his head back against a rock. "There’s no login time here. Slow is comfortable."

As they rested, they noticed a couple—a man and a woman—whose appearance stood out even in this diverse crowd of pilgrims. They were from Australia, but their foreheads were smeared with sacred ash, and they carried the calm demeanor of long-time devotees. They struck up a conversation, and the woman explained that they returned to this temple every single year.

Somnath watched them, fascinated. "This God must have a real power to reduce stress if people come from the other side of the world for it," he whispered to Vijaya. "Look at them. This is the place for inner peace Naveen was talking about."

The Australian woman overheard him and smiled gently. "Yes," she said, her voice steady and light. "I am here for inner peace. It is the only thing worth walking this far for."

The ascent became a grueling test of endurance, every meter gained a battle against the thinning oxygen. By the time they reached the base camp, their bodies were a map of aches and exhaustion. They stayed the night under the heavy silence of the peaks, and with the first light of morning, they completed the final stretch to the Kedarnath temple. Standing before the ancient stone structure, they offered their prayers, the bells echoing against the towering white walls of the Himalayas.

On the descent, the mountain decided to show its true temperament. As they moved below the base camp, the sky bruised a dark, heavy grey. Sudden, thick snowflakes began to dance in the air, quickly turning into a blinding snowfall accompanied by a biting rain.

Seeking refuge, they spotted the mouth of a cave carved into the rock face. They hurried toward it, stepping inside just as the weather turned feral. To their astonishment, the cave was not empty. Deep within the shadows, two yogis sat in profound meditation. Somnath and Vijaya stood near the entrance, awestruck; they had never seen snow like this, let alone human beings who could remain motionless in such bone-chilling cold.

They set their heavy bags aside and sat quietly, watching the white curtain of the storm veil the world outside. The cave was surprisingly divided into two distinct chambers, carved deep into the mountain’s heart.

Two hours passed in a heavy, sacred silence, the only sound being the distant howl of the wind. Then, one of the yogis slowly emerged from his meditative state. Without a word, he stood and moved into the inner room. He returned minutes later, carrying steaming tea, hot water, and a few simple snacks.

He offered the nourishment to the shivering couple, his eyes calm and unreadable. He gestured toward the inner chamber, indicating a space where they could rest and stay warm. Before they could even find the words to thank him, the yogi returned to his spot, closed his eyes, and slipped back into the depths of his meditation, leaving the two corporate travelers alone with the silence of the stone.

After a while, the first yogi stirred again. He looked at Somnath with a calm, piercing gaze. "There is food kept inside the room," he said, his voice echoing softly against the stone walls. "Do not leave until morning. A heavy snowfall is coming." Without waiting for a reply, he stepped out into the swirling white mist, walking upward toward Kedarnath.

​Left behind in the dim light of the cave, the couple looked toward the second room. There, the other yogi remained, encased in a layer of ice nearly four inches thick. He was a statue of flesh and frost, motionless in a deep trance.

​"Vijaya," Somnath whispered, his voice trembling. "He must be the Guru. Look at him... meditating inside the ice. How powerful he must be."

​Vijaya nodded, her eyes wide. While their resting area felt strangely warm, the Guru’s chamber had an opening to the sky, allowing the snow to drift down directly onto his frozen form. The sight was beyond anything their logical, corporate minds could comprehend.

​Moved by a sudden, desperate impulse, they decided to lay their burdens at his frozen feet. They sat beside the ice-encased Guru, the silence of the cave amplified by the rhythmic howling of the wind outside.

​"Guru," Somnath began, his voice breaking. "We are from Bangalore. We have everything—work, money, a family—but we have no peace. The stress of my job is suffocating me, and the lack of a child... it is breaking us. We came here to find a way out."

​Vijaya leaned in, her tears finally falling. "The doctors say there is nothing physically wrong with either of us, yet for a decade, I have faced the taunts of society and family. I am so tired, Guru." She sobbed, her head bowed.

​Somnath’s voice grew heavy with a hidden truth. "The problem is actually with me, Guru. The doctors said there is only a thirty percent chance. And the pressure at work... traveling four hours a day in that traffic... I don't know what to do."

​Then, the cracks in their marriage began to leak out.

​"Guru," Vijaya whispered, her voice laced with a different kind of pain, "it’s not just the baby. My husband... he flirts with other women. He doesn't give me the importance I deserve. I feel invisible."

​Somnath looked away, his jaw tight. "And I? Ever since the doctors told me about my condition, she has lost interest in me. She spends all her time chatting with other men on her phone. As a husband, how am I supposed to adjust to that?"

​They sat there, two successful professionals stripped of their titles, pouring their secrets into the cold mountain air. "We need a baby," they prayed in unison. "If a child is born, we promise to return here to see you again."

​Suddenly, a violent crack of thunder shook the mountain, vibrating through the very floor of the cave. A massive gust of wind roared through the opening, swirling the snow into a frenzy. A single, bright flower, which had been resting atop the Guru’s frozen head, was swept off by the wind. It fluttered through the air and landed softly on the ground, right between Somnath and Vijaya.

​They stared at the petal-soft offering in the middle of the ice. To them, it wasn't just a flower; it was a sign. They believed, in that flickering moment of lightning and ice, that their prayers had finally been heard.

The descent toward Gaurikund felt different. The air, once thin and punishing, now tasted sweet, carrying a fragrance they couldn't quite name. As they walked, the heavy silence between them wasn't the cold, defensive wall it had been in Bangalore; it was a quiet, shared peace. They felt a strange vitality returning to their limbs, as if the mountain had breathed youth back into their tired, corporate bodies.

Vijaya reached out and intertwined her fingers with Somnath’s. He stopped, pulling her into a long, firm hug. They stood there for a moment, two small figures against the backdrop of the majestic, snow-capped peaks of Kedarnath, finally looking at the world instead of their problems.

As they approached a checkpoint, a local police officer held up a hand to stop them. "Is there still heavy snow and rain up there?" he asked, looking at their damp gear.

"Yesterday was very bad," Somnath replied, his voice steady. "It was snowing from the morning. No wind, just heavy snow."

An army officer standing beside the policeman narrowed his eyes, looking them over. "Where did you stay last night? The base camp was full."

"We stayed in a cave," Vijaya said, pointing back toward the jagged cliffs. "With a Guru... a great man covered in ice. He allowed us to stay."

The army officer froze. He exchanged a sharp, panicked look with the policeman. "What did you say? Which cave?"

"The one with the rooms," Somnath explained. "A yogi gave us tea and then we sat with the Guru. He was meditating inside a thick layer of ice. He was very powerful."

The officer’s face went deathly pale, his hand trembling as he reached for his radio.

"What... inside that Dead Man's Cave?" the officer stammered, his voice dropping to a whisper. "The Guru you are talking about... he passed away in deep meditation nearly twenty years ago. No one goes in there. That cave has been sealed by ice and rock for a decade."

Somnath and Vijaya looked at each other, then back at the flower Vijaya still tucked safely in her pocket—the fresh, vibrant flower that had fallen from a frozen man’s head. The mountain wind suddenly picked up, carrying a faint, echoing laugh that sounded like peace.