Chapter 1: The First Night at Champa Rock

There was a night, early in my guiding days, when I squeezed into a tent with three city women—each one wide-eyed, whispering about adventure as thunder rolled far off in the hills.

The tent was cramped, our knees knocking over a half-empty packet of Parle-G, the women’s perfume mixing with the old smell of rain-soaked canvas and talcum powder. The laughter inside fluttered between daring and innocence, a strange mix that felt almost electric in the mountain air. That night, as I lay awake, listening to the wind slap at the tent, I realised adventure is different for everyone—sometimes, it’s just daring to laugh loudly in the dark.

Of course, they all said it was by choice.

Their eyes sparkled with mischief the next morning, as if every broken rule was a medal for some private collection. Maybe in the city, such stories would raise eyebrows, but here in the jungle, it was just another memory to pack up with your rucksack. Still, I had my doubts—what people say and what they really want aren’t always the same. But in these hills, nobody judges. The forest keeps its own counsel.

My cousin—the one who brought me into this line of work—told me there were plenty of women like that: "Arrey, nowadays, girls are bindaas, yaar. What a time we live in."

He’d grin, tugging at his stubble, and talk about how the world was changing—how girls now came to the hills looking not just for views, but for stories to take back to their WhatsApp groups. I was still learning how to talk to such people—how to read the difference between city boldness and real courage.