Silent Guide

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Yesterday, we went on a short hike through the wildlife sanctuary in Gangtok.

It was one of those walks I had not taken in years.

The sun was bright, but the forest carried its own coolness.

Not long after we started, a dog appeared.

Light brown and white, with the kind of face that looked familiar even when it wasn’t.

For the day, I called him Bhalu.

From then on, he walked with us.

Whenever we stopped to catch our breath, he stopped too. Sometimes he would move ahead, only to sit and wait until the rest of us arrived.

As though he already knew the way.

We eventually reached the summit.

Bhalu, however, chose not to climb the final stretch.

He stayed behind somewhere below while we spent an hour at the top.

When we began our descent, I assumed our paths had parted.

But halfway down, he appeared again.

Without ceremony, he fell into step beside us and continued all the way to the base.

On the walk back, I found myself wondering about him.

Was Bhalu even his name?

How many groups had he accompanied before ours?

How many summits had he climbed?

How many conversations had he silently listened to?

Later that evening, I shared a few photographs online.

A friend replied.

“The same dog guided us two years ago.”

For a moment, that felt stranger than it should have.

In a world where most encounters disappear as quickly as they arrive, Bhalu seemed to persist.

Appearing and reappearing in other people’s stories.

Waiting on trails.

Leading strangers uphill.

Then quietly disappearing again.

As though the mountain had appointed him for the job.