Summer in Ahmedabad reminds me of winter.

Last winter, I was in Bhutan, probably the happiest place on earth, and topper in the negative carbon footprint index. Our trek, the Tiger’s Nest, perched atop a mountain cliff like something out of a dream. We started early from Phuntsholing, a town near the India border. The temperature hovered between 5 and zero degrees. Our group of six and our wonderful local guide Sonam. He wore the traditional gho — sounds ghostly, but at least it is pronounceable. This knee-length skirt-like garment is paired with a matching jacket that serves as the national dress. We had seen the Nest’s photos in travel brochures: its whitewashed walls and golden roofs clinging impossibly to a sheer granite cliff, with a final heart-stopping drop (and climb) of 800 feet. The travel posters don’t do justice to the reality. Or the challenge. Our base Paro, the nearest pronounceable town, is a picturesque valley settlement straight out of a fairy tale, with small restaurants, a disco(!!!!), and squeaky clean streets lined with antique shops and cafe-bakeries that serve pink butter tea as thick as it can get. Three of us were over sixty, including a retired policeman from Kerala and his friend. The night before the hike, they opted out. That left a young Marwari couple on their honeymoon, an IT girl from Bangalore who had undergone fat-reduction surgery, our sporty 40-something guide and yours truly.

The early dinner turned dramatic and a bit sad. The newlywed couple fought at the table. The bride broke down and cried. The level-headed IT executive tried to console her. To ease the tension (and to cut back on my craving), I shared my sinfully rich cheesecake for dessert. I had bought it during the pre-dinner stroll and kept it in the fridge. I don’t know if it worked, but the couple decided to opt out of the Tiger’s Nest climb. Our guide suggested a gentler trek for them and turned to the rest of us: “Do you still want to go? Three of us. Thin air, cold and steep climbs?” We started before dawn. On an empty stomach. The trail was uneven, the air thin, and the views increasingly breathtaking as we progressed. The cold bit at our faces, but the anticipation kept us moving. I had tea, skipped breakfast, and deposited my heavy jacket, muffler, and thermos at the only restaurant on the way. Now, the 8th-century lore about the nest. The great tantric master Guru Rinpoche (also known as Padmasambhava - probably pronounceable) brought Buddhism to the Himalayan kingdom. Unlike us, he didn’t arrive on foot or horseback. Instead, his enlightened consort, Yeshe Tsogyal (no, your pronunciation is wrong!), transformed herself into a flying tigress. On her back, Guru soared through the skies and landed in a small cave halfway up the sheer cliff. For centuries, the cave remained hidden. In 1692, the Fourth Druk Desi (almost pronounceable!), secular ruler of Bhutan, Tenzin Rabgye (don’t try!!), ordered the construction of the magnificent monastery complex. Built in a few years without a single fatality (no small miracle, according to locals), the temples seem to defy gravity, clinging to the rock at over 10,000 feet above sea level. Hours later, the guide and I reached the monastery all in one piece, tired but triumphant. Inside the temple, a tourist separated from his bunch cornered me and whispered, “I am from Hong Kong. Not China.” The IT girl wisely skipped the last 1000-odd steps. Sheer drop and climb. My knee brace felt like a burden by now. Climbing down was easier in the fading sunlight. We regrouped on the way and rode back in the waiting vehicle. Back at the hotel (the best room with a view I have ever stayed in), I returned my climbing stick to the girl at the reception. She grinned and said cheekily, “My grandpa has done this climb many times!” Ps. This is less about climbing and more about wanting to climb.