A Family Trip

Birthdays are special. But what makes a birthday truly unforgettable is being remembered without social media notifications. When someone waits for the day and wishes you without fail, year after year, it becomes more than a greeting. It becomes love in its purest, most undemanding form.

I am grateful for the very few who remember me that way, and one of them entered my life during a life-changing North India trip in 2017.

In the summer of 2017, I travelled with my family on a 10-day North India tour across Delhi, Haryana, Punjab, Chandigarh, and Himachal Pradesh. 

We were part of a group tour, mostly Tamil families and two Malayalee families like ours. It was my first time travelling with strangers, people from different cultural backgrounds, different preferences, and different expectations. 

We flew into Delhi and, after a day’s stay at the guest house, boarded a large Volvo bus arranged by the travel agency. That was when we met our tour guide for the entire journey, Jitendra Singh Yadav. He warmly introduced himself, shared his phone number, and assured us that he was available for anything we needed. 

Our family was seated at the very back of the bus. After a quick breakfast halt, as the journey resumed toward Haryana, Yadavji walked down the aisle toward us. Three seats at the very back were empty. He sat down, and just as he leaned back his head, he fell asleep. Although it looked funny back then, I now realise he must have been exhausted from a long journey. I couldn’t help but chuckle at the sight of our guide sleeping peacefully at the back of the bus. 

At every destination, Yadavji would brief us, explaining the significance of each place, the parking arrangements, the time limits, and what to expect next.

As the journey unfolded, so did human nature. In the mountains of Himachal Pradesh, while I was eager to taste local food, some longed for home cuisine. They complained about not getting idlis and sambar for breakfast. In Himachal. Good Lord, the irony. How far some people travel, only to search for what they leave behind.

Some frequently challenged Yadavji over the smallest inconveniences, sometimes everything, be it the rooms in Shimla, the food, the cold tap waters, ah you name it. I watched him closely. He must have been irritated. Anyone would be. I was. I closely watched him. I expected irritation, and yet, he chose humour over anger. Even when pushed to the edge, he responded playfully, trying his maximum to preserve the spirit of the trip. 

One of the most beautiful stops of our journey was Manali. After a long and exciting morning at Rohtang Pass, covered in sun-lit snow, we returned to our resort to have lunch late at noon. As we were resting, Yadavji knocked on our door with an idea.

He proposed a small musical night at the resort. If each family contributed a small amount, he would arrange live musicians. Fog outside. Music inside. Joy in the mountains. It felt cinematic. I was thrilled. After a long morning in the snow, this would be the perfect way to end the day. My family and I agreed immediately.

But you know where this is going. Some families refused outright, stating it was not included in the package and they would not pay extra. I still remember the elderly lady opposite our room firmly declining. Yadavji tried persuading her, pleading. We also did with our best puppy faces. But she wouldn't have it. When she refused again and again, he pointed playfully at her and, while returning her money, he said with a full smile, “Madam, I will kill you!”

It was funny and although we all laughed a little, we sighed shaking our heads in dismay. Eventually, because several families refused, the plan was cancelled. Yadavji returned our money apologetically. I felt irritated, not about the money, but about how easily plans could be dismissed by these killjoys.

And yet, even then, Yadavji handled it all with grace.

The next morning, we prepared to leave Manali. As luggage wheels scraped gently against the interlocks, I could hear someone arguing with him, again. Though I don't recall what it was about now, I remember watching him from a distance as someone spoke sharply, pressing a point that seemed too small for such intensity. I quietly thought to myself, 'Ah… these people just cannot help themselves.'

This time, I could see that Yadavji was not entirely untouched by it. His effortless smile which he usually carried wasn't there anymore. He sighed, not in anger or defeat, but just the tiredness that comes from being patient for too long. He then forced a smile as he replied.

How deeply human is this behaviour. How easily we complain and quickly demand. How often do we forget the person standing in front of us may also be carrying burdens we cannot see? In that moment, I was not just observing my guide manage a difficult traveller, I was watching a man choose restraint over reaction, again and again.

Perhaps I had been too obvious in my watching, because he saw me too. As he dismissed the traveller to get onboard he now walked toward my family. His face glowing with each step. He then said something to my parents that I will never forget for the rest of my life:

“You know, I really like your daughter. She is very special. Whatever happens, she is smiling.”

And then, in the cool early morning air of Aleo, he added:

“I have two sons. I wish I had a daughter and she was her.”

This was no humor, just honesty. 

My family laughed at his comment. Even I did. But unlike them, the words did not fall casually. They settled.

The mountains of Manali were behind us. The resort portico, the parked bus to our right, fellow travellers moving about with luggage, the muted conversations in the background. Time paused for me. Even now, years later, I can reconstruct that frame with photographic precision.

A stranger, a father of two, who wished I was his daughter, and to have him say it to my parents, not in passing but with sincerity, was more than I knew how to hold. It was not about praise or being admired. It was about being seen, for something as simple and honest as the smile I carried. To notice a man troubled with some people and to offer an assured smile each time.

For him to value that, to recognise it, and to speak it aloud was more than enough. In that moment, I did not need anything else.

There, in the Himalayas, a man who had known me for less than a week affirmed something I didnt see in myself. A quiet reminder of my gentleness, my heartfelt smile.

When our trip ended in Delhi, he ensured everyone had their luggage. He gave us a brief wave and quickly walked away dragging his luggage and didn't look back.

There was no dramatic farewell like I had thought. Just a man who had done his duty returning home.

As we were about to leave Delhi, a quiet thought stayed with me — Will I ever see him again? Or is this one of those encounters that life allows only once? Some trips are like that. They leave a mark on you, and then the people who made them meaningful walk out of the frame.

I did not want this to become just another memory that would fade with distance.

So before boarding my flight from Delhi, I sent him a message. I thanked him for making our North India journey memorable. Not only for the places we visited, but for the way he carried himself through it all.

His reply was simple and kind. And from that small exchange began a WhatsApp conversation that continues occasionally to this day.

Years have passed. I do not know if I will ever walk through Manali again with him leading the way. But his words remain.

And every year, without fail, he wishes me on my birthday.

At the beginning, I told you that birthdays become special when someone remembers you without being social media notifications.

One of those people in my life is Yadavji.

Out of the countless travellers he must have guided through Delhi’s streets and Manali’s snow, he remembers one smiling girl from the back seat of a Volvo bus in 2017.

And so when I call this a family trip, I do not mean it merely in the biological sense. Yes, I travelled with my parents. Yes, we shared hotel rooms, meals, and photographs. But somewhere between the snow of Rohtang and the quiet morning in Aleo, my definition of family expanded. Beyond bloodlines, a man who was once a stranger, a father of two looked at me and wished I was his daughter. In the vastness of North India, in the valleys of Manali and the returning roads to Delhi, I learned that family can also be chosen by the heart. And every year, when Yadavji remembers my birthday without fail, I am reminded of him who once stood with me in the mountains, saw something beautiful in my spirit, and chose never to forget it.

And that really is the best souvenir I brought back from Manai.

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