The Stranger Who Knew the Mountain’s Secret

Describe a random encounter with a stranger that stuck out positively to you.

The Stranger Who Knew the Mountain’s Secret

Nestled amidst the whispering pines and mist-kissed hills of Sanawar, there lies an old-world charm—one that cradles silence like a lullaby and lets time slip through your fingers like fine mountain dust. It was during one of my solitary evening walks through those winding hill trails that I encountered a stranger whose presence was fleeting, yet unforgettable.

The evening sky was beginning to blush with shades of tangerine, the sun taking a quiet bow behind the Dhauladhars. I had just taken the path past the Chapel, a route less frequented, often echoing with one’s own footfalls and thoughts. A gentle breeze rustled the deodars, and the air had that typical hill nip—a reminder that the night was not far behind.

That’s when I noticed an elderly gentleman seated on a moss-covered bench carved into the hillside. His attire was simple—woollen shawl draped over his shoulders, a tweed cap slightly askew, and a walking stick resting against the bench like an old friend. What caught my attention was the book in his hands—Marcus Aurelius’ Meditations—dog-eared, annotated, and clearly loved.

“You’re fond of the Stoics?” I asked, more out of curiosity than intent for conversation.

He looked up, eyes twinkling behind thick glasses. “They’ve never left me,” he said with a chuckle. “I read them not to escape, but to arrive.”

Intrigued, I sat beside him. What followed was a conversation that defied time. We spoke of the Stoics and sages, of Gandhi and Gibran, of mountains and the metaphors they gift us. He told me he once taught Philosophy at a university, then chose to retire early and live amidst the hills, teaching the children of the staff and the local villages in the afternoons, not for income but for inspiration.

“You see,” he said, pointing at the peaks bathed in gold, “every mountain teaches resilience, every sunset whispers closure. We just forget to listen.”

He shared how he’d lost his wife to illness a decade ago, and how the silence of the hills had become both balm and companion. There was no self-pity in his words, only a tranquil acceptance—like the mountain accepting every season with grace.

As darkness tiptoed in and the cicadas began their chorus, he stood up, tapped his stick twice on the ground, and smiled. “Keep walking,” he said, “but remember—it’s not the summit that matters. It’s the stillness you find along the way.”

And just like that, he was gone—disappearing down a footpath I hadn’t noticed before.

I never saw him again, though I returned to that spot several times. Perhaps he was real, perhaps a phantom of the hills sent to stir the embers of reflection. But his words remain etched in my soul, particularly in moments when I question the rhythm of my journey after retirement.

In a world so obsessed with noise and motion, that chance encounter was like a whispered prayer—reminding me that the quiet ones, the thinkers, the strangers with worn books and wiser hearts, are often the ones who carry the real secrets of life.

And Sanawar—oh dear Sanawar—remains the keeper of such secrets, cradled gently in her cool, pine-scented arms.