The Reflection of a Forgotten Song: Surabhi’s Spiti Valley Trip with Thrillophilia
Surabhi’s father had always been a man of stories. On quiet evenings in their Delhi home, he would hum an old Himachali folk tune and think about a time when life was simpler, slower, and full of possibilities. The melody had no lyrics - just an expressive and lifting tune that evoked distant mountains, misty valleys, and an ache of something lost.
“I heard it in Spiti,” he would say dejectedly with his eyes far away. “A shepherd played it on his flute, sitting on a rock above the valley. I have never been able to forget it.”
The family had heard this story countless times, but that year, Surabhi decided it was time to bring her father back to the land of his cherished memory. She did not want to retrace his steps but weave new memories together.
…And the Trip Started
The wonderful family trip began in Chandigarh, where they joined a small group of travellers in a tempo traveller. Surabhi, her brother, and their parents alternated between their car and the group vehicle to soak in the companionship of their fellow adventurers.
The road to Narkanda was lined with apple orchards glistening with fresh rain. Their heavy branches bowed with the season’s harvest. They stopped briefly at one such orchard, where a kind farmer plucked apples straight from the trees and handed them to the family.
“Does it taste like the ones you ate back then?” Surabhi asked her father with a smile.
He bit into the apple and nodded, smiling. “Almost. But nothing beats the ones you steal when you are young.”
The family laughed, and for the first time in a long while, Surabhi noticed the lightness in her father’s eyes.
Chitkul: Where the World Ends
The journey to Chitkul brought with it winding roads, mist-covered cliffs, and the rhythmic sound of the Baspa River. Located on the edge of civilization, the village seemed untouched by time. Surabhi’s father, who had been quieter on this leg of the journey, suddenly pointed to the horizon.
“That ridge over there - I think it looks the same,” he said softly.
They spent the day exploring the wooden houses and twisting trails of the village. While exploring around the square, they came across an elderly man playing a flute. The melody was surprisingly familiar.
“It is the same song,” her father whispered, hypnotised. The man playing the flute smiled at them and gestured for Surabhi’s father to come closer. As the music wove through the cool air, tears rolled down her father’s eyes.
Later that evening, gathered around a bonfire, her father told them the full story behind the tune. “I met a shepherd here years ago. He taught me that melody when I was just a boy, wandering through these mountains with my friends. We sat by the river all night, him playing and me trying to hum along. It was the purest memory of my youth.”
Surabhi’s mother placed a hand on his shoulder. “And now, it is our memory too,” she said.
The Mystique of Spiti
Crossing into Spiti Valley, the landscape turned sharp and mystical. The rugged mountains stretched into the heavens, the air grew thinner, and the silence became almost tangible. The family stopped at Nako Lake, where their father sat quietly by the edge of the water.
“You know,” he said after a long pause, “there was a moment back then when I thought I would never leave these mountains. Something about this place…it makes you want to stay forever.”
The family spent some time around the lake and left for Kaza. There, they visited Key Monastery clinging to the mountainside. The family was greeted by a young monk, who led them through the ancient halls and showed them a corner where prayer flags fluttered in the wind. Surabhi’s father ran his fingers over the faded murals, deep in thought.
“This monastery,” he said, “I did not visit it last time. My friends and I had to leave before we could come this far. It feels like I have finally finished what I started all those years ago.”
The Song of the Stars at Chandratal
Their last stop was Chandratal Lake, a crescent-shaped waterbody situated amidst tall peaks. Reaching the lake required a short trek, and the family walked in silence, each step carrying a mix of anticipation and respect.
When they arrived, the still surface of the lake reflected the surrounding mountains and sky to create a breathtaking mirror image. Surabhi’s father stood at the edge and gazed at the scene with quiet intensity.
That night, they camped near the lake, the chill of the air offset by the warmth of their shared stories. While others retired to their tents, Surabhi and her father stayed outside, wrapped in blankets and staring at the Milky Way.
“I always thought I would come back here with my friends,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “But maybe…maybe it is better this way. With all of you.”
Surabhi did not say anything, simply leaned her head against his shoulder and let the silence speak for them.
The Final Stretch
The road back to Manali was bittersweet as the family retraced their steps through the rugged beauty of Spiti. They stopped at Solang Valley for some lighthearted fun, where Surabhi’s brother convinced their mother to try zorbing. Her laughter echoed across the meadow, contagious and uncontrolled.
In Manali, they spent their last evening at a cosy café and sipped on steaming mugs of butter tea. As they prepared to leave the next day, Surabhi’s father pulled her aside.
“Thank you for this trip,” he said, his voice thick with emotion. “For bringing me back to this place…and for letting me see it anew through your eyes.”
The melody of the Himachali flute stayed with them long after they returned to Delhi. It became their family’s song- a reminder of the mountains, the memories they had created, and the bond they had strengthened. And every now and then, when Surabhi caught her father humming it softly, she could not help but feel satisfied.
Read more: Thrillophilia Spiti Reviews