ROOHISM

Oct 2005: I was a fresh graduate with a bucket list that started with three bold words: Everest Base Camp. I didn’t know then that it would take twenty-one years of life and ten of the most incredible humans I now know to finally cross it off… cross it off with the very specific, nostalgic sensation of pressing your royal blue Reynolds pen onto a crisp, blue-lined notebook, leaving the ink with its permanent, messy mark all over your fingers.

It’s a stain I’ll wear forever.

And really, who better to share this expedition with—a certified stamp for a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity that demanded months of sharpened focus and training—than the person who has known me my entire life: my brother.

Now, back in the thick air of Kathmandu, the reality and the true magnitude of standing at the base of the world’s highest peak at 5,364m has finally settled in.

What you see in the photos—the colorful gear, the menacing poses, the mischief in our eyes—is really just the tip of the iceberg. Hidden beneath is the raw grit it took to move, knowing that “one step at a time” was fake news, especially when we had countless steps and kilometers worth of a grind ahead. Trekking 70km while navigating the ‘known unknowns’ of the human body took a toll we couldn’t have predicted quite accurately. It was a relentless, individual battle; every time we looked up, the goal remained at a distance, staring down and questioning our intention, determination, and perseverance—all at once. The knees ached, the body surrendered, and confidence wavered. Every single morning, we had to wake up, give ourselves a chilly shake, and find a way to fake the strength we didn’t yet feel.

We survived -19°C nights where the cold rented our bones, navigating over 70km of grueling terrain and an altitude that brought challenges we didn’t even know existed, turning every breath into a hard-earned victory. From extreme fluid retention and a total loss of appetite to functioning the last three days on just two boiled eggs, the struggle was raw. I remember my entire anatomy shaking vigorously just to swallow a Diamox, my lungs extracting with full force every bit of the 50% oxygen available.

The “teahouse shock” was real… the drastic differential between the Yak & Yeti’s luxurious spoils and the raw reality of Gorakshep. No washbasin, the toilet window slightly open and ventilating the fresh, crisp -19°C air, and the teahouse management shrugging their shoulders with a “I don’t know dude, figure it out” kind of attitude.

But we just didn’t survive… we thrived—simply because we had each other. We made it through on the heavy repetition of monotonous Dal Bhat, the warmth of our shared stories, and a soundtrack of Bollywood hits spanning every decade. Despite the fancy menus presented at every single meal, accompanied by that rhetorical question, “What would you like to have today,?” we already knew the offerings by heart. And yet, each day offered a sliver of hope that some new option might miraculously appear and excite our eyebrows. Dismayed, we’d find the same old Dal Bhat, noodles, or eggs and toast. In the end, if it weren’t for Paddy and his red mirch-masala, we would have all surely died of esophageal boredom.

We were excited for every new view, every suspension bridge, and every peak in sight; at the same time, we were opening up our onion layers, one per kilometer, or one each over ginger-lemon-honey tea. New perspectives, hidden treasures, and Bollywood melodies… right until our guides told us to shut up and focus on conserving our energy (or maybe just focus on what to order for dinner).

We struggled together in the quiet, freezing moments and celebrated loudly at our final party, where we handed out “awards” for the absolute madness we endured. It was a night of pure joy—recalling a Guinness-level “breakup” at high altitude, an Opera Award for a snoring symphony that could’ve woken the dead, and the existential crisis of someone questioning if their HRV should be low or high while gasping for air. We toasted to friends, me included, who got the best of high altitude, and shared a laugh for those who literally left pieces of themselves—mostly via their digestive systems—all over the Khumbu Valley.

It wasn’t just the compounded effect of collective snoring that became a highlight; it was the compounded effect of the individual fire we each carried that pulled us through. Amidst all the masti and the unfiltered leg-pulling, we shared a quiet, subtitled pact: we drafted a goal, and through thick and thin, we were going to dodge the missiles and drones of a world at war just to get to that start line, stick together, and see the finish. Swollen faces, stomachs hollowed to the lining, zero energy, and crushed souls—it didn’t matter. No war, no differences, and no geopolitical chaos was going to come between us and the base of the world’s highest peak. It was us 11 vs. 5,364m.

Back in reality now, I’m breathing okay but the heart is heavy. It feels good to do laundry and to feel like a simple human again, but I’m experiencing an ‘unknown known’—an extreme case of withdrawal symptoms. There was so much to learn from the other ten; I watched mental strength, true grit, and inner force manifest in real-time. It was almost as if I could turn the inner self inside out to see what truly lies beneath the smiles and the laughter—the realization that when the mind conceives the goal, the body has no choice but to follow.

They say you leave a piece of yourself on the mountain, but I think we did the opposite—we brought the mountain back with us. 11 of us went up, and 11 of us came back, inspired and in awe, as a unit, as family. Twenty-one years was a long wait to finally turn that page, but as I look at my hands, I realize the “messy ink” from 2005 has finally dried. Everest Base Camp—the very first item, the three bold words on my bucket list are checked. The sticker on my bottle is earned. The stain is permanent, and the journey? I wouldn’t trade it for all the oxygen in the world.

“Mountains to climb, depths to venture; Oh Time, please walk slower.” – Roohism