His name is Samraat. He asks if I am going to the waterfall. 

“I have a scooty”, he says. Tempted, I stop and consider his offer. Water drips from my waterproof hood. I wipe my face with water-logged glove. I feel like a child out on an adventure. “Time constraints”, adult me prompts. The inner child pouts. Plans are obstacles I curate to prevent me from getting bored … and then I regret not being able to free fall.

‘Bungee Jumping 1.3km.’ I see an arrow to complete surrender and wonder how far I would go to jolt my psyche out of limiting patterns and paradigms.

“You need a guide”, Samraat persists beyond my distracted mind. Water drips from my fingertips. I’m torn. My morning intention on lacing up my walking shoes was to baptise myself in the waterfall … just my head. The snow has been melting for several days now and the waterfall is my only access to the nirvanic nectar sliding down ravines carrying blessings from god. Not that I believe in god. I’m not sure what I believe in … besides nature … and kindness.

I gaged an hour and a half’s uphill hike would get me hot enough to take the plunge but it’s a rainy day in Bir and the snow is sure to come again tonight.

“Why do I need a guide?” I probe. Animatedly, Samraat tells me about a a big rock he will have to help me climb over. Indignant, I state my certifications as a mountain guide as well as a yoga teacher, qualifying me with both the strength and flexibility to conquer any old rock in a riverbed. But it’s a kilometre away, I’ve walked five and I’m no warmer than when I set out. My hair is wet, my socks are too and I have to be in class in 90 minutes.

I’ve been compared to a horse on an outride before — the whiff of home and I’m off. Focused, single-minded, I don’t need to check time to know it … to feel into it.

Samraat is speaking again, telling me about tours. I no longer hear the content; my body prepares for the canter. I am engaged and disengaged … ADHD. He has a captivating smile, a generous way of being. So, before my body engages full throttle, I retrieve my phone with cold-stiffened fingers. I pass it to him. “Add your number”, I request. “I would love to connect when the rains pass.” Because everything eventually does. Anicca, anicca, anicca.

For now I simply allow the holy drops to anoint me as I push through the veils of where I am and where I hope to be.