My Accidental Sanctuary

There’s a small hilltop near my native place—a place so ordinary, so unapologetically mediocre, that no tourist would ever bother climbing it. There’s no grand view, no mystical aura, no ancient legend attached to it. Just a bit of grass, some stubborn rocks, and a breeze that feels like it’s been on duty since the 90s with no chance of leave.

And yet, every time I return to my hometown, I make it a point to go there.

Just once.

Just long enough to reset something in my head that I didn’t even know was glitching.

I can’t explain why. There’s absolutely nothing “Instagram-worthy” about it. If anything, it’s the kind of place where your network bars disappear, but oddly, your thoughts become louder. So maybe that’s part of the charm—forced introspection, brought to you by rural topography and poor connectivity.

The first time I walked up there as an adult, it wasn’t because I was seeking enlightenment. I was simply escaping a house full of relatives who believed that asking the same five questions in different tones counted as meaningful conversation. You know the ones:

“Beta, when did you arrive?”

“Beta, when are you leaving?”

“Beta, have you eaten?”

“Beta, why are you so quiet?”

“Beta, why aren’t you quiet?”

The hill, in comparison, felt like an upgrade—silent, nonjudgmental, and most importantly, incapable of offering unsolicited advice.

But somewhere between the climb and the breathlessness (a polite reminder from my lungs that I’m no longer 18), I realized the hilltop had become something more. It’s the one place where I can sit down, look at the landscape spread out below, and think without interruption. Or not think at all—both options equally acceptable.

It’s funny how the mind works. Put me in a city café with an overpriced latte, and my thoughts scatter like I’m trying to herd pigeons. But place me on a slightly dusty hill with no seating arrangement, and suddenly I’m Socrates. Maybe solitude really does come with altitude.

Each visit feels the same in the best possible way. I sit on the same rock. The same breeze tries to mess up my hair. The same distant noises float up—the azaan calls, bike horns, someone arguing about vegetable prices loud enough for the entire district to know. Familiar chaos, viewed from a safe distance.

And in that distance, something settles. A thought, a memory, a small internal shift. Nothing dramatic. Just a quiet realignment of the clutter I carry.

People often talk about their favorite places in poetic tones—mountains that moved them, beaches that healed them, forests that whispered wisdom. I envy them sometimes. My hilltop doesn’t whisper anything. If anything, it looks like it’s wondering why I keep coming back when there are clearly better places in the world.

But maybe that’s exactly why I love it. It doesn’t try to be special. It just is.

And in its unremarkableness, I find a strange comfort.

A reminder that solitude doesn’t need grandeur.

That peace can come from the plainest corner of home.

And that sometimes, the places we love for “no logical reason” are the ones that quietly hold the fragments of who we used to be—and who we’re still becoming.

This post is a part of ‘Real and Rhythm Blog Hop’ hosted by Manali Desai and Sukaina Majeed under #EveryConversationMatters blog hop series.