29/08/2026
My social media feed and news channels are inundated with coverage of the Nepal–Tibet flash floods.
But my reaction is plain and simple denial.
How can it be?
I was there barely two months ago.
I was there with my Trekkers@heart team when we successfully completed the Kailash Yatra. We took a bus from Kathmandu to Sybrubesi. For reasons best known to him, the driver took a mud path almost in the river bed. It was a single-lane road, muddy and slippery. Every time a vehicle approached from the other side, we had to stop, often reverse, to a part of the road that was wide enough for the other vehicle to pass.
The Trishuli river, flowing inconspicuously on the side, was a silent witness to our circus.
Soon we reached the pretty town of Sybrubesi, nestled in the Himalayan mountains.
We were greeted by curious kids who stopped their game of marbles and approached us. They smiled at us. They wanted to touch our backpacks. The street dogs sniffed us before going back to their business.
The hospitable homestay owners helped us with our luggage and provided us with additional blankets to keep us warm. Before we knew it, a tasty homemade dinner was served. They were rushing around to serve hot rotis and papads. They opened up with a few genuine compliments and served us homemade pickles from their private kitchen that was reserved for their special guests.
When we woke up in the morning, piping hot tea was ready.
We took a stroll through the village and admired every house that was so tastefully done. All the homestay owners were busy taking care of their guests.
We strolled to the river. A small bridge served as the perfect location for our first group reel. A simple activity which we enjoyed and which is now etched in our memory.
We took a bus from there to Timore. Another hot and tasty meal was served before we went to the Chinese-Tibetan side immigration.
We crossed the bridge and admired that tall building, but struggled with the bureaucracy of the immigration department. We spent almost a day there. When we eventually crossed the immigration, some of us jumped with joy. Others let their happy tears roll.
We went to a local coffee shop. The coffee shop girl messed up our order. We couldn't get our well-deserved coffee as we rushed for our bus.
None of this exists anymore.
Erased by a wall of water and mud.
It is painful to watch the news or 'special reports' on this tragedy. Every channel is doling out estimates of the number of missing tourists and highlighting the numbers from their own country.
Reporters who were unaware of the existence of Sybrubesi or Timore until now are landing from helicopters and giving us 'on-ground' reports. Pundits are debating whether the glacier fell first or the earthquake happened first.
Neither my trekmates nor I are interested in this.
All we remember are warm blankets, piping hot tea and finger-licking-good pickles.
All the estimates are about missing tourists.
What about the missing locals?
What happened to those kids playing marbles?
What happened to the homestay owners?
Did they hear the roaring sound of the water early enough to escape? Did they make it to the high ground?
I know there are more questions than answers.
I keep thinking about that river.
Two months ago, it was just part of the landscape. We crossed it, walked beside it, took pictures and made a reel on a little bridge over it.
Today, I can't look at those pictures in the same way.
All of us are shaken. There is deep sadness, a feeling of loss and, strangely, a feeling of relief. We were there barely two months ago. Somehow, we were lucky.
I don't know what we can do yet. But once the shock settles, we will find a way to help.
I hope you will support us when we do.
