Sacred spots and soaring peaks... Bucket-listing across the heartland and the Himalayas.
Roopa Unnikrishnan and her father journey through the heart of India.
There is a particular kind of comfortable silence between a father and daughter when they travel together -- broken by observations, familiar jokes and deeper discussions -- and in this case, quiet determination of what to give as thank you gifts for the many helpers who made the trip possible, pushing wheelchairs, lifting luggage and driving us around.
My father is nearly ninety years old. He walks slower now, leaning on a stick, surveying the world with the cheery nostalgia of a man who has already seen most of it.
When I suggested I visit with him for a few weeks, and maybe take a trip to wherever he wanted to go -- he selected a set of cities that surprised me.
Rather than Paris or the Maldives, he chose a sweep across the spiritual heartland of north India and into the cool mountains of Sikkim. And he took charge of the discussions with the travel agent. He was prepped before I knew it -- "When do we leave?" he asked, ready and willing to take on what turned out to be a fulfilling, though tiring 10 days.
We left on April 27, flying out of Chennai to New Delhi, and returned from Bagdogra on May 6.
In those ten days, we covered four spectacularly different worlds: The crowned capital city, the golden dust of the sacred plains, the ancient ghats of the Ganga and the mist-wrapped valleys of Sikkim.
It was frequently transcendent, generally exhausting, occasionally frustrating and entirely worth it.
Gurugram
I had originally planned on being in Amritsar for an offsite of senior communications leaders of India where I was to speak about how writing fiction can fortify your strategic chops in business. But the heightened sensitivity of the elections meant that conference attendees were concerned about being that close to a border.
The conference organiser, Mr Amith Prabu, a true marvel, decided to sponsor a book talk in Gurugram. It was a true life highlight, for me, but also for dad since The Jasmine Murders draws from his memories as a young police officer in Tamil Nadu.
First, let me tell you about the trip outward.
On the day of our departure, the universe offered us an early test of patience. Our flight was delayed by four hours due to a technical issue with the aircraft.
We had just started taxi'ing out when we accelerated harshly, then screeched to a bone-crunching stop. We then had repair crews swarm into the cockpit to see what ailed the craft.
About 15 minutes in, the pilot did the sensible thing and returned us to the terminal rather than press on, which meant clearing security again -- a minor inconvenience in the grand scheme of things. I, for one, was entirely unbothered.
Just last year, I had the singular misfortune of being on a flight when a plane engine blew up mid-journey. That kind of experience recalibrates your tolerance for inconvenience permanently.
A four-hour delay with a working aircraft and an airport lounge? I will take that arrangement every single time.
My father, characteristically, used the extra hours to have a proper meal and read the newspaper.
We also benefited from the great wheelchair services now available in all airports in India. They won't accept tips, though I did sometimes try to sneak a little into shirt pockets because the work the young women and men did in getting us through the airport was truly a God-send.
I'm not sure I'd have been able to do any of the trip without them.
The delay also meant that I could browse the generally beautiful and varied airport stores in Chennai. Unlike the anodyne, uniform, highly branded offerings across international airports, Indian domestic offerings are much more exciting and vivid. I know I'll always be able to find something -- especially the wonderful offerings of Forest Essentials.
We arrived late, but were hosted to dinner by Mr Prabhu -- a warm, generous host, whose company made the meal feel like a celebration rather than simply a meal.
Good conversation, good food, the particular pleasure of being in the company of someone who is genuinely glad you are there. These are the dinners you remember.
The highlight of the Gurugram stretch, however, came at the Museo Camera in Gurugram, where Amith also facilitated a book session with Sabina of TABCC -- The Art Book and Coffee Club.
The Museo Camera, for those who have not yet been, is a remarkable space: India's first museum dedicated to the history and art of photography, tucked into the heart of Gurugram like a secret the city is keeping from itself.
Walking through its galleries is a meditative experience. There are vintage cameras from across the decades -- large-format plates, early Leicas, Indian studio cameras -- alongside rotating exhibitions of photographic art.
In a neighbourhood defined by glass towers and corporate ambition, the Museo feels like a haven: Quiet, curated, unexpectedly moving.
The book session with Sabina was a reminder of why I believe so strongly in the power of these intimate literary gatherings with 50 engaged readers.
My father sat in the midst of the audience and listened, and I occasionally caught him smiling across the room with something between amusement and pride.
I always enjoy having him wave as I get asked about what prompted my book -- which is based on the early crime-fighting tales my mother and he shared from their youth.
New Delhi
The secret to happy travels is for each person to take some for personal trips as well. His second day was spent with family.
My father was in his element, surrounded by people who have known him for decades, who call him by old names and tell old stories.
I managed to fit in a meeting with my publisher, who shared very positive news (The Jasmine Murders is in its second print just three months in), and an investment firm focused on female founders and emerging tech -- a reminder that even on a pilgrimage, the professional world keeps turning.
I have found, over the years, that the best business meetings happen when you are slightly distracted by more important things. It keeps the perspective honest.
We reconnected and drove back, exhausted by the dry Delhi heat.
Ayodhya
Our IndiGo flight from Delhi touched down in Ayodhya at 11 in the morning.
The airport is relatively new, and there is something deliberately ceremonial about it -- the architecture gestures toward temple gopurams, and even the signage feels hushed, as though you are being asked to lower your voice before you have stepped outside.
Our driver from Travel Chest Services was waiting for us, Toyota Crysta idling in the sun.
The vehicle was a godsend. For a man of my father's age, the ability to step into a spacious, air-conditioned car rather than navigate a crowded bus or a jostling autorickshaw made every difference.
We checked into the Park Inn by Radisson. Standard room, double bed, continental breakfast the next morning.
In a city that's just coming together, the hotel had a similar air of just having come out of the box.
The staff seemed to all be in training, stressed by any question they hadn't heard before. I'm guessing that a couple of years will get them ready for the fast lane. For now, it's cool, clean and generally welcoming, which is all we needed at that point.
The drive into the city was our first brush with the scale of what Ayodhya has become.
The road to the Ram Mandir complex is broad and swept clean, lined with saffron flags snapping in the warm April breeze.
There is construction everywhere -- new dharamshalas, new roads, new lighting -- the whole city caught in the middle of a transformation that feels both spiritual and deeply political, a nation making a statement through stone and gold leaf.
The Ram Mandir emotional visit
The Shri Ram Janmabhoomi temple was our first stop, and I will be honest: I had steeled myself for a crush of pilgrims that would make it impossible for my father. I was so wrong. The paved walkways, were wide and welcoming.
We availed the VVIP darshan, thanks to my father's old police connections and this made an enormous difference -- we were guided through a separate entry, sparing my father the worst of the wait.
Inside the sanctum, the idol of Ram Lalla -- the child Ram -- is luminous, and somehow overwhelming.
My father, a man not much given to external displays of emotion, stood before it for a very long time.
I smothered my tears as I thought of my mother, and then heard a sob or two from my father. We stood by each other, remembering her, and praying her soul was with the Lord.
The temple is a sight to behold. It's built on 100 acres -- with work still continuing on parts of the campus.
I wandered around with the guide and my father rested on a seat vacated by one of the willing guards.
This became a recurring motif of our trip -- what he could access, what I would access on his behalf, and what we would both simply stand at the edge of and appreciate from a distance. It was not a sad arrangement. It was simply honest.
Kanak Bhavan, our last stop of the day, was gentler -- a flat-floored temple dedicated to Sita and Ram, manageable for him, and extraordinarily beautiful in the late afternoon light, its interior walls painted in shades of yellow and rose.
That evening, we checked back into the Radisson. The place is still coming together, but the food is fabulous. Another consistent theme.
Our hotels know how to feed guests, even when the gym is nonexistent. Seems symbolic of what ails us as a populace... but that's for another article.
After the heat and the walking, the hotel's cool corridors felt like mercy.
One thing about travelling with a parent is that you realise how well you know their routines and foibles.
I've learned to roll with the snores, sleep talking and very early wake-ups.
He probably had had to learn to deal with my set up of every possible outfit I needed for that leg of the trip... and my varied toiletries around our shared bathroom.
No complaints -- just some gentle ribbing.
Ayodhya to Varanasi: The road between two sacred cities
We were originally set to fly from Ayodhya to Benaras, but our thoughtful driver laid out the benefits of a drive instead.
So we got on the road after the buffet breakfast on May 1. How do they do it?! Every hotel we stayed at made sure to set out the most mouth-watering buffets for breakfast.
I haven't seen anything like this in the US or Europe, or indeed in other Asian countries. India does breakfast fabulously -- and we were offered dosas, idlis and vadas everywhere.
If the news gets you down-hearted about the fissures of our great nation, just go to breakfast. It's the one great unifier!
The four-hour drive to Varanasi covers roughly 220 kilometres, and the road passes through the Uttar Pradesh plains at their most elemental -- flat, wide, agricultural, ancient.
My father dozed for stretches and looked out the window for others.
At one point, he said, "I feel like I have been on this road before." I didn't ask when. Perhaps memories, or maybe visions from a devotee who has travelled this road many times.
We arrived at the Radisson Varanasi on The Mall in Cantonment in the early afternoon -- a superior room booked for two nights, again with continental breakfast.
The Radisson is a reliable, if somewhat sanitised, Varanasi experience. It is not where you feel the city; you feel the city when you step outside it. But as a base for an 89-year-old traveller, comfort, reliability and cleanliness matter more than atmosphere.
Ganga Aarti in Varanasi
In the evening, we went to the Dashashwamedh Ghat for the Ganga Aarti.
I have seen videos of the Varanasi Aarti before, but actually getting on the boat and being rowed over to watch it with my father beside me felt sublime.
The ghats descend in broad stone steps to the river. For my father, navigating them would have been slow work, except for another unexpected helper who happened to have a wheelchair handy.
We avoided the more historic ghats, going to the newer ones with ramps to the boats. Still, the steps are uneven in places, worn smooth by centuries of feet, and there are no railings on much of the approach to the boat.
The Aarti itself is an act of orchestrated devotion.
Five young priests in identical crimson robes stand at the river's edge, each holding enormous multi-tiered brass lamps.
They move in synchronised arcs, the flames swaying, bells ringing, conches blowing, the river shimmering beneath it all.
The boat took us on a mini-cruise on the Ganga -- this was included in our package -- and from the water, the ghats appear entirely different: Less crowded, more ancient, the burning ghat at Manikarnika visible in the distance, its smoke a permanent smudge against the sky.
For my father, the boat was actually easier than the ghats. He sat comfortably, the river moving slowly beneath us, and said nothing for a long time.
The experience of finding the angel with the wheelchair underscored for me the need to help my father a little more with getting from point A to point B.
I called the tour guide -- Diana Travels -- and they arranged a wheelchair overnight. It cost a pretty penny -- Rs 1,000, to be exact -- but what a game-changer!
Varanasi: Temples, Sarnath and a city that has not slept for centuries
We were up before dawn. At five in the morning, the air in Varanasi has a quality I cannot quite describe -- cool and thick with incense, river mist and the distant sound of bells.
We made our way to the Kashi Vishwanath temple for early darshan.
The wheelchair helped us get my father through the twists and turns through the ancient gullies to the entrance of the sacred temple. Once again, a wonderful young police officer added a special something to the travel agent's VIP access plan. The original lane to the temple is a narrow, stepped alley that would have been genuinely impassable for my father in the morning rush; the managed entry kept us clear of the worst congestion.
The Kashi Vishwanath temple corridor, rebuilt and expanded in recent years, is a strikingly modern space alongside a deeply ancient one. The new marble floors were accessible, the corridors wide. My father was in awe.
At the Jyotirlinga, he closed his eyes for a long moment, and I thought about the decades of life contained in that pause -- a man born before Independence, standing before one of the holiest shrines in Hinduism, still walking, still present, washed in the ancient holiness that surrounded us at that moment.
Our companion had made sure we had pots of holy water in our hands -- in a daze, as we looked upon the silver murti before us, we were gently turned to the side where the linga sat, covered in flowers and emanating a stillness that took my breath away.
We poured the water onto the linga and then each crouched down and touched the sacred linga and prayed for the family.
Some day, we'd all come back here together. (Once again, the VIP tickets are a real boon, others pour the water onto a spiral sluice that poured over the sacred linga and only get a glimpse of the murti and linga. A good investment for the long trek, I would say.)
We also visited the Annapurna temple and the Kal Bhairav temple in the morning, then returned to the hotel for breakfast before heading out for the afternoon circuit: Sankat Mochan, Tulasi Manas Mandir, Durga temple and finally Sarnath.
The afternoon temples were generally more manageable from an accessibility standpoint -- larger premises, more open space, easier for my father to move at his own pace.
Sarnath was quite extraordinary. This is where Lord Buddha delivered his first sermon after enlightenment, and the place holds a different kind of silence than Varanasi -- quieter, greener, less frenetic.
The Dhamekha Stupa rises from a wide, flat archaeological park, and the paths between the ruins are flat and broad. It was the most accessible heritage site we visited on the entire trip.
My father paused at each exhibit in the museum, savouring the ideas and passage of history -- what battles had been fought with steel and spoken word. We both hurt a little for the wanton ruinage of the main stupa -- pulled down in the 1800s by labourers to build roads for the raja. What a terrible loss.
We hired a tourist guide for Sarnath, which was very useful. Not necessary, but helpful, especially for the nuances.
But having eavesdropped on some of the guides, you might want to "interview" them before you pick them -- I heard some huge deviations from the norm from some of them.
The long way to the mountains
The final leg of our trip was the journey to the mountains of Sikkim.
From 2018 to June 2025, tourists had the opportunity to fly to Pekyong airport. Unfortunately, a landslide in June 2025 took out that airport, so travellers to the Top of the World reverted to the traditional route, landing in Bagdogra and then driving the 130 km to Gangtok.
Our early flight meant that we had a rather easy trip. Airports, ironically, were among the more accessible environments of the trip -- wheelchairs available on request, ramps everywhere, staff trained to assist elderly passengers.
The drive from Bagdogra to Gangtok took approximately four hours, winding up the Teesta valley into the hills.
The road climbs steadily, curves following the river through forests of subtropical short trees and bamboo before they mesh into alpine conifers as the hills become steeper and the temperature begins to drop.
By the time we arrived in Gangtok, the air was cool and clean. We checked into The Elgin Nor-Khill -- a heritage property that retains its imperial history with photos of the Chogyal rulers across the property. And very properly-mannered staff everywhere.
The Elgin Nor-Khill was, without question, the finest hotel of the trip. Age may show in a few corners, but that's more than compensated by the grace and historical depth of the service and experience.
Built in the style of a Sikkimese royal residence, it has high ceilings, antique furniture, deep verandahs, and gardens full of flowers, including orchids.
Breakfast was, as I explained before, a diverse buffet that squeezed in continental, South, north and eastern Indian cuisine. The staff was attentive.
I watched families, who sat on the verandah that first evening, wrapped in a shawl, looking out at the hills disappearing into the clouds.
By now, the fatigue was starting to hit both of us, so we trundled up to our room, declared it "quite satisfactory" -- and fell into a dreamless sleep.
Gangtok
Gangtok is a city of extraordinary visual drama. It sits on a ridge at 1,750 metres, surrounded by hills, with the high Himalayas visible on clear days.
We missed out -- the fog was a constant companion on our two days there.
The primary problem, though, from the perspective of an older traveller with limited mobility, is that it is also a city built almost entirely on slopes.
Our stay at Gangtok unfolded at a gentle pace, shaped as much by the mountain air as by my determination to show my father a good time and his very real knee pains. Travel, at that age, becomes less about ticking off landmarks and more about absorbing presence -- of place, of memory, of time itself.
So we were rational, and he was resolute: If we had come this far, we would see what mattered.
Sikkim monasteries and mountain roads
The journey to the Rumtek monastery was long, winding through roads that zigged and zagged, our utility vehicle sometimes perching at the edge of sheer drops.
I watched the young drivers like a hawk, and reassured myself that their nonchalance must mean they could handle it. But in my mind, I played out how I'd snap my father's seatbelt and push him out and then lunge to safety myself, if need be. Call me dramatic, why don't ya!
Rumtek monastery's scale is impressive, but what stayed with us was its history and deep stillness.
Monks moved with quiet purpose, prayer wheels spun steadily and the air carried that distinct blend of incense and altitude. My father chose to sit for a while rather than explore every corner.
After genuflecting at the feet of the massive Buddha and Rimpoche, I joined him. In that shared pause, words felt unnecessary.
Travel often pushes you forward; Rumtek invited us to stop.
We continued to the Ranka monastery, less crowded and somehow more intimate.
If Rumtek was about presence, Ranka was about perspective. Perched with sweeping views of the surrounding hills, it offered a sense of openness that contrasted with the inward pull of the earlier stops.
My father, leaning slightly on me as we walked, seemed lighter here. He pointed out beautiful illustrations in the Tibetan style on the monastery walls, and distant ridges, tracing lines in the landscape as if mapping memory onto geography.
Our next stop was the Tibetan Museum, a space that felt less like an institution and more like a living archive of displacement and resilience.
As we moved slowly through its corridors, my father lingered over the beautiful thankas and Buddhist artifacts, none of which we were allowed to photograph. Sprinkled in were black-and-white photographs--faces marked by exile, landscapes left behind, monasteries rebuilt in unfamiliar terrain.
He didn't say much, but I could sense a quiet recognition. Perhaps it reminded him of his generation's upheavals, of a world that had shifted dramatically within a single lifetime.
The museum invited reflection, not spectacle, and we left with a silence that felt full rather than empty.
The sightseeing circuit -- Tashi View Point, Ganesh Tok, Hanuman Tok, Bakthang Falls -- involves a series of hilltop locations connected by staircases.
Hanuman Tok, a temple perched above the town, requires climbing a significant number of steps. Ganesh Tok is similarly elevated. The views from these points are extraordinary -- I used the telescope at Ganesh Tok and saw a 360 view of the valleys around, and gorgeous falls that sparkled in the cool air.
I'm told that we would see the entire Kanchenjunga range, the third-highest peak on earth, floating above a sea of clouds on clear days. Not something we got to see....
At Tashi View Point, my father pointed to the distant peaks that appeared in gaps in the fog and reminisced about his training days as an IPS recruit in Mussoorie and Mount Abu. At one point, one of the drivers watched him navigate the uneven terrain and asked me how old he was.
When I shared his age, and the fact that he'd been in the police, he was visibly impressed. "Woh ek asli mard hain," he observed. He's a real man!
From there, we made our way to the Royal Palace. Modest by grand historical standards, it carried a certain dignity -- less about opulence, more about continuity.
The palace stood as a reminder of Sikkim's relatively recent monarchy, a chapter that seemed both distant and oddly immediate.
It was under construction, so my father gave this a miss. I wandered with the guide, and had to wonder why the government hadn't made the palace accessible -- think of the Versailles, for example.
There is always a draw about royal lifestyles that tourists pay for. I think they've missed a revenue generator here!
Your guide may not think to do this, but make sure to grab a traditional Sikkimese meal. We insisted on it, and went to a little homey place called Hamro Bhansa Ghar which served lovely local food.
The veg thali had subtle, yummy flavours, and my dad tried the non-veg thali and the Karchimarchi which is a spicy dish like my mother would have made, with the innards of a chicken. He swears it was fabulous!
We ended day two at the Orchidarium, a burst of colour after a day steeped in history and contemplation. Rows of orchids -- delicate, intricate, improbably varied--felt almost celebratory.
My father smiled most here -- especially when he saw the orchid named after his personal idol, the PM.
There was something about the flowers, perhaps their quiet insistence on beauty, that lifted the day's tone.
We didn't rush. We dawdled in the scents. This is an absolutely world-class experience -- it HAS to be on your list if you get to Sikkim.
The guide insisted on taking me for a short walk through MG Marg, a pleasant promenade and shopping area, where the trendy congregate at night. I recommend it for youth and young families. I just grabbed a tea and called it a day.
We missed a few must-sees like Nathu La and Changu lake, given recent snows and the length of time it takes to get there. I'll be back to see it some day -- and my dad is planning a week-long visit as well!
By evening, as we returned to the Elgin, the visit felt complete not because of what we had seen, but because of how we had seen it -- slowly, attentively, together.
At 89, my father wasn't just traveling through Sikkim; he was, in his own way, travelling through time. And I had the rare privilege of walking beside him.
The accessibility challenges in Sikkim are real and worth naming clearly. For travellers with older parents or mobility limitations, the standard sightseeing circuit assumes a degree of physical capability that not everyone has. There are few ramps, few handrails on the steeper sections, and the concept of 'accessible tourism' has not yet fully arrived in this part of India.
I would strongly recommend discussing this in advance with your tour operator to identify which sites can be visited with support and which may simply need to be adapted.
To the Sikkim tourism department, I wonder if some of the techniques now available in other such locations may be worth considering. I remembered the funiculars of Lisbon and Montmartre, for example. And in some cases, less daunting steps.
That said -- and this matters -- the landscape itself does not exclude anyone. The mountains, waterfalls and valleys are visible from the road.
The air is clean from the car window.
The prayer flags that line every ridge can be seen from anywhere.
Sikkim does not require you to climb to be present in it. You simply have to be there.
More importantly, the state is doing a lot that's right for its young people. I found them uniformly excited about the future, kind and thoughtful.
The place is safe for women, thanks to a police service that actually works.
The one family, one job strategy, great healthcare and educational support makes it easy for people to feel connected and hopeful. I hope the progressive administrative approach continues.
Coming home
On the morning of May 6, we had breakfast at the Elgin for the last time -- my father ate his eggs, idlis, and malpoa with the focused appreciation of a man who knows when he is eating well -- and then we drove back down the mountain to Bagdogra.
The IndiGo flight back to Chennai felt like a return from a different world.
Somewhere over the Gangetic plain, my father fell asleep in the window seat, his head tilting slightly toward the glass, the afternoon sun pale on his face.
I watched him sleep and thought about what we had done in the past seven days: Stood before Ram Lalla in Ayodhya, floated on the Ganga at night, touched the stone of Kashi Vishwanath in the early morning dark, looked at the Dhamekha Stupa where the Buddha first spoke, driven up into the Himalayas and stood beside a sacred lake at 12,000 feet.
There is a Sanskrit concept -- tirtha yatra or pilgrimage -- that encompasses both the physical journey and the internal one.
The places we visited are tirthas: Crossing points, thresholds between the ordinary and the sacred. You go to them not only to see but to be changed by the seeing.
My father is nearly 90. He walks with a stick. He cannot climb every staircase or stand in every queue. But he stood before a Jyotirlinga at dawn in Varanasi. He immersed himself in still karmic thoughts in the monasteries. He watched the Ganga Aarti from a stone ledge above the river as the flames moved in arcs against the dark water.
Some journeys, you take for your own edification. Some, you take for the people you love. This one was both.
I would not trade a single, gentle step of it. Deep memories were made and shared that I'll cherish forever.
Roopa Unnikrishnan is the author of The Career Catapult (2017) and The Leader's Oracle, which explores strategy and decision-making with a nod to the ancients (hitting shelves in February 2027).
In 2026 she ventured into novel writing, releasing The Jasmine Murders.
Please read the review here.
Most recently, she was senior vice president and chief strategy and innovation officer of IDEX Corporation, and was previously at Harman, Pfizer, Citi and BlackRock.
Photographs curated by Manisha Kotian/Rediff
Feature Presentation: Ashish Narsale/Rediff
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