When the Clouds Called

Fleeting escape turns into a quiet journey through rain, reflection, and the raw beauty of slowing down.

Written & Photographed by : Shashwat

As I rode out for the first time, the heat didn’t matter anymore. Homework? Gossip? All forgotten. For the first time, my life made sense. I was flying.

That Monday morning began like many others with the dull ache of routine and the weight of exhaustion despite a full night’s sleep. As I stared at my laptop screen for what felt like the hundredth hour in four days, I could barely bring myself to move. My body resisted, my soul begged for mercy, and my mind well, it drifted. All I could think was, “Is the weekend already over?”

Unlike the usual oppressive heat of Western Uttar Pradesh’s June, that day felt different. The sun was hidden behind thick cumulonimbus clouds. The light was soft, the air cooler. Through the same window that had become my reluctant gateway to the outside world, I watched the sky shift. It was an invitation from the universe itself. “Take a break,” it seemed to whisper. “If I can rest from scorching the earth, maybe you can pause too.”

And then, like it always does when I feel lost, my mind wandered. I thought about my beloved Himalayan parked downstairs, still, patient. It had been idle for far too long. That longing to ride, to feel free, began to overpower the guilt of skipping work. I wrestled with a decision. The responsible thing would be to stay and meet my deadlines, but the sky outside and the silence within wanted something different.

Before I knew it, I was in my riding gear. Boots on, jacket zipped, fingers wrapped around the keys. I don’t even remember how I got from my bed to my bike. It was probably muscle memory that guided me. I gave my Himmy a soft kiss on the tank, a quiet ritual I follow before every ride, a plea for protection and companionship.

And then we were off.

The streets of Western UP rolled beneath us. Every sound, the wind brushing past, the hum of the engine, the rhythm of the exhaust, everything felt like I was hearing it for the first time all over again. No destination. Just escape. I moved past the city, away from honking horns and hurried faces, until the world slowed down and the countryside stretched out in peace.

What started as an impulsive escape became a meditation. My anxieties began to melt into the rhythm of the ride. With every gear shift, I spoke to myself. With every pull of the throttle, I let go of something I didn’t need. The weather played along, the heat disappeared, the air cooled, and soon, fresh farmland replaced the chaos of the concrete.

Then came the rain came, soft at first, then steady. It could have been a reason to stop. But after weeks inside four walls, the rain felt holy, angelic even. I didn’t take shelter, I kept going. Water soaked my jacket, filled my boots, and weighed down my bike. But my heart? It had never felt lighter.

Eventually, I found myself in Garhmukteshwar at the Ganga Ghat. The river, in all its post-rain glory, brimmed at the banks. People hustled about, covering stalls, taking dips, embracing the storm. I took my own kind of dip, sitting by the edge, feet in the water, letting each tide wash away a little more of the life I’d left behind that morning. That river wasn’t just sacred, it was grounding. For the first time in weeks, I thought about my life without measuring it in productivity or success. It was relieving, relaxing, filling me with a sea of tranquility.

After over an hour, I knew it was time to return, but leaving wasn’t easy. I took the longest possible route back to my bike, delaying the inevitable return to routine. As I started the ride back, soaked and content, I was quickly reminded that reality hadn’t left me, my fuel gauge was nearly empty. Panic struck like lightning, serenity was replaced by survival instincts. What if I get stuck here? Alone, in the rain? But a few hundred meters later, a petrol pump appeared, as if to mock my moment of doubt.

It was humbling. A reminder that calm is fragile, that anxiety often returns faster than peace. But it was also a lesson, something that every philosopher from Buddha to Marcus Aurelius had believed, that we must learn to focus on the present not the future.

Worrying changes nothing, riding through it sometimes does.

As I neared the city, the sun broke through the clouds, bright, unforgiving, and hot. It felt like an omen. I was returning to heat, deadlines, and digital demands. But something had shifted.

What began as a casual morning ride turned into a 250-kilometer pilgrimage, not to a place, but to a state of mind.