When I announced we’d be going rafting in the Teesta River, half the group cheered and the other half asked if it involved swimming. I assured them it was safe, fun, and that no, they didn’t need to know how to swim—just how to scream on cue. We suited up in oversized life jackets that made us all look like colorful marshmallows and paddled out into the frothy water. The guide shouted commands like “Forward!” and “Back paddle!” and we, naturally, responded with “What did he say?” Still, we somehow managed to stay afloat, even when a surprise splash sent Auntie Meena shrieking as if she’d been dropped in the Arctic. By the end of it, we were soaked, slightly sunburnt, and exhilarated. We celebrated surviving the rapids by demanding extra momos at dinner. A fair trade, if you ask me.
Paragliding: Or, How I Briefly Thought I Was a Bird
Paragliding in Darjeeling was a dream I never knew I had until I found myself standing on the edge of a cliff, strapped to a stranger with a parachute and questioning my life choices. The wind was cold, the view breathtaking, and the instructions far too casual for comfort: “Just run, and don’t stop running.” I took off with all the grace of a baby goat but somehow found myself soaring. Beneath me, the valleys opened up, and I let out a scream that was part terror, part awe, and part dramatic effect for the GoPro. Meanwhile, someone in the group thought it was a great time to sing Bollywood songs mid-air. From above, Darjeeling looked like a painting come to life. When we landed, I kissed the ground dramatically and vowed to never mock flying squirrels again. It was terrifying, hilarious, and absolutely worth it.
For our final adventure, we took on the hills with mountain bikes. The idea sounded great over breakfast—cycling through pine forests, cool breeze in our hair, Instagram reels incoming. Reality hit the moment we encountered our first uphill stretch and suddenly all of us realized we hadn’t pedaled anything but office chairs in years. I led from the front, pretending I wasn’t dying inside. We had a few wobbly starts, one minor fall (shoutout to Mr. Sharma, who claimed his ego was more hurt than his knee), and frequent snack breaks that suspiciously looked like nap breaks. But the ride through those misty trails, with birdsong echoing and Darjeeling’s quiet magic surrounding us, made every pant and push worth it. We finished the ride feeling like champions—slightly sore champions, but champions nonetheless.
By the end of the trip, we were all tired, full, and a little sad to leave. Darjeeling had worked its magic—with its misty charm, kind locals, and countless cups of tea. I returned with new friendships, a camera full of blurred photos, and the promise to never again eat anything with “fermented” in the name.
This Darjeeling tour reminded me why I love what I do. Guiding isn’t just about routes and reservations—it’s about shared laughter, unexpected detours, and finding joy in the journey. Even if that joy comes wrapped in yak wool and tastes faintly like over-brewed tea.
