There are places on this earth where silence is older than sound, where wind is a prayer and light remembers every soul that has passed. From these mountains, faith was never a doctrine, it was how one lived: to wake before dawn, to walk the same pilgrim road, to offer beauty as a way of saying thank you for being alive.
Science tells us how the world moves. Philosophy asks why we exist. But faith, faith teaches us how to remain whole when neither can answer.
That is why the people of the Himalayas wear their devotion to their skin. Each ornament is a vessel of breath and time, a bridge between the seen and the unseen, between the trembling of a human hand and the stillness of the divine.
They adorn themselves not out of vanity, but out of remembrance, because when the world turns harsh, to adorn is to pray; to endure is to worship.
And when the wind sweeps through the passes of Kailash, it carries not sorrow, but song, a reminder that even in struggle, there is grace; even in silence, there is life.