Prologue: The Epic Ride of Sadhguru
Just this year, defying age, illness, and every whisper of “You can’t,” Sadhguru did something almost mythic: after two major brain surgeries in 2024, the man mounted a motorcycle and rode all the way to Mount Kailash. He conquered high passes, muddy terrain, icy chills, and thin air — all on two wheels. A two-week pilgrimage that makes even Bollywood heroes look under-trained. That ride is legendary.
Meanwhile, I was just trying to figure out how to survive with my Google Pixel, my clumsy feet, and my very confused brain.
Chapter 1: Kathmandu — I Arrive, The Guru Rides
While Sadhguru was cruising the Himalayas like Amitabh in Zanjeer, I landed in Kathmandu with two backpacks, one Google Pixel, and a confusion level so high even Google Maps was buffering.
The group went silent at Pashupatinath Temple. I went searching for snacks. At Patan, people admired centuries of art. I loudly asked, “So when does the Maratha Morcha start?” The guide gave me a look usually reserved for Govinda’s comic relief scenes.
Chapter 2: The Map, The Morcha, and Me
The confusion actually began much earlier — on the way to Mumbai airport. Our cab rolled straight into a Maratha Morcha rally: saffron flags flying, drums beating, slogans echoing. The whole road was electric, like a Bhansali film set.
Everyone in the car understood instantly what it was. Me? I leaned out and asked, “Is this the official Kailash send-off parade?” The driver almost braked out of sheer disbelief.
That image of the rally stayed in my head. So later, when the Kathmandu guide said, “This temple has been a site of worship for centuries,” I confidently replied, “Yes, yes, very much like the Maratha Morcha.”
The silence that followed could have been a satsang. Meanwhile, my Google Pixel faithfully clicked five blurry selfies of my forehead.
Chapter 3: Border Mayhem — The Group Visa Circus
Crossing into Tibet wasn’t immigration; it was a Bollywood action sequence. We were on a group visa, which meant one piece of paper, thirty names, and one golden rule: stand in the exact order as the list.
Our leader shouted like a school headmaster: “Don’t break the line! Don’t move!”
Naturally, I sneezed, stepped forward, and ended up two slots ahead.
The Chinese officer looked at me the way Gabbar looks at Sambha: “Arre o… tumhara naam idhar hai, par khade udhar ho.”
When I panicked and shuffled backwards, my bag swung like a villain’s mace and toppled two pilgrims. Domino effect. The whole line collapsed. The leader screamed, “Snankaran Pillion! Tumse na ho payega!”
The officer’s glare could have frozen Lake Manasarovar. In that moment, I knew I had become Mogambo’s disappointment.
But the Isha volunteers? Calm. Zen. Smiling. Restoring order like Rajnikanth walking in slow motion. Their patience was divine. I was just the sidekick clown keeping their enlightenment sharp.
Chapter 4: Saga — Where My Heart and Veins Rebelled
Saga is called “Happy Land.” For me, it was “Hypertension Land.” My oxygen (SPO₂) was always over 95 — perfect, like a schoolboy who’s studied. But my blood pressure shot up to 150/90, like a hero making a dramatic interval entry.
The doctor frowned, the volunteers hovered with thermometers and oximeters, while I tried to look brave. In reality, I was muttering, “Bas, abhi climax mein heart attack aa jaayega.”
While others sat cross-legged in serene meditation, I sat clutching my BP report like a villain clutching his last will. The Isha volunteers, though, were absolute angels — calmly explaining, reassuring, and making sure I didn’t faint in my own drama. Their patience was Bachchan-level. My stupidity was pure Govinda.
Chapter 5: Lake Manasarovar — Two Buckets and One Idiot
Forget the heroic dive into Lake Manasarovar that pilgrims talk about. Our Sherpas, practical geniuses, brought us two humble buckets of freezing water. No dramatic plunge, no cinematic slow motion — just bucket one, bucket two.
They called it Kak Snan. Everyone approached it with reverence, eyes closed, whispering mantras. I approached it like a toddler facing his first shower.
The first splash hit me, and I screamed as if someone had switched off the heater in a Mumbai bathroom. The second bucket landed, and my brain short-circuited. In that moment, I think I dissolved something I’d been carrying for years — my last three functioning brain cells.
Others spoke later of karmic cleansing, of lightness, of liberation. I just stood there dripping, muttering, “Why didn’t I pack a geyser?”
And yet… in between my teeth chattering and my nervous system filing for divorce, something shifted. A tiny piece of baggage — not my luggage, which I promptly lost again — but some old, heavy nonsense inside me. Even idiots get lucky at Kailash Manasoravar– Bye Bye Papa!
Chapter 6: Yamadwar — Gateway to Wi-Fi?
Yamadwar, the Gateway of Salvation. Except salvation seemed to have multiple user manuals. Some said, “Go straight through the gate.” Others insisted, “No, no, go clockwise around it.”
I, of course, tried both. Walked halfway through, doubled back, circled once, then asked aloud, “Can we just order salvation on Swiggy?” Even the yaks rolled their eyes.
And then came the reverse lottery of porters and yatris. Everyone prayed for a strong porter to carry their load. Naturally, my number came up in the one category nobody wanted: no porter. Bags on my back, confusion in my head, BP still dramatic.
The Isha volunteers managed the chaos with Buddha-level patience. I, meanwhile, was staggering like a sidekick in a Govinda movie, mumbling, “Kya main Yamadwar se seedha ghar wapas jaa sakta hoon?”
Chapter 7: Kailash Itself — Silence That Punches You in the Face
At Dirapuk, the clouds parted, and there it was: Mount Kailash. Majestic. Immense. Everyone fell silent.
And miracle of miracles — so did I. For once, no questions, no Google Pixel fumbling, no “where’s the Wi-Fi?” nonsense. Just me, staring like a stunned extra in the background of a Yash Chopra movie. Five minutes of silence — my lifetime best performance.
Then, of course, stupidity returned like a sequel. I pulled out my Google Pixel and tried to take a selfie. First photo: my ear. Second photo: half the sky. Third photo: one very irritated yak photobombing. By the time I managed to frame Kailash properly, the clouds had covered it again. I had literally missed the mountain while trying to capture it.
Others spoke of darshan, of grace, of timelessness. I spoke of battery percentage. And yet, somewhere between my fumbling fingers and that yak stealing my snacks, something clicked in my otherwise empty brain:
Kailash doesn’t need my Pixel. Kailash doesn’t need my captions. Kailash doesn’t even need me. I needed Kailash. And in that moment, idiot that I am, I felt it — a strange stillness, like even fools can stumble into truth if the mountain is kind enough.
So yes, I came as Shankaran Pillion, the confused comic relief of this grand Yatra. But I left with a sliver of silence in my heart, and the realization that maybe the universe has space even for bumbling fools. Especially bumbling fools.
Epilogue: Lessons From a Fumbling Pilgrim
Sadhguru’s ride showed me what true grit looks like. The Isha volunteers showed me what unconditional service feels like. Together, they created a sacred bubble where even clowns like me could stumble, fumble, and still walk away with a sliver of silence in the heart.
Others returned with moksha. I returned with misplaced oxygen, soggy shoes, and the eternal nickname: Shankaran Pillion.
But maybe that’s enough. After all, every Bollywood movie needs its comic side character — and in the grand Yatra of life, that role was mine.
