Two Brothers.
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Old Gangotri Dham, Uttarakhand. Deep in the Himalayan range.
(A wonderful place of nature, you can check its beauty online.)
Somewhere high in the mountains of Uttarakhand, the world opened up into a view that could only be described with one honest word: breathtaking.
Layer after layer of mountains stretched as far as sight could carry—small hills rising into giants, their snow-white peaks cutting into the sky. Clouds wrapped around them like soft scarves. A river spilled down from one ridge, carving its way toward the valley below, glinting in the thin mountain sunlight. Everything looked untouched, ancient, and impossibly serene.
On one of the mid-sized mountains stood two young men. Technically, only one of them stood—the other was bent over, fighting for breath after the climb.
They looked alike enough that anyone could guess they were brothers. The older one, somewhere in his early twenties, had neatly trimmed black hair, dark brown eyes, and a light brown complexion. He was athletic but not the kind of handsome that stops conversations—more like the dependable kind that blends into a crowd until he smiles.
His younger brother was the opposite. Better-looking. Long black hair tied with an almost careless kind of style, lighter brown eyes, a fairer complexion… and absolutely zero interest in fitness. Both wore slim black body suits under their jackets—the older brother in red, the younger in white—backpacks strapped on, and identical simple bracelets on their right wrists.
Deep breaths echoed in the thin mountain air.
"Haaah… I wonder what this place looked like a hundred years ago," the older one said, staring at the horizon. "Whatever it was, this—this has to be one of the most beautiful sights left in the world. What do you think, Yash? Worth the climb?"
Behind him, Yash wheezed like the mountain itself had punched him.
"Big brother… I don't know about beauty… but climbing this whole mountain just killed me. Why are you obsessed with these icy death-traps?"
A laugh answered him—light, warm, unbothered.
"Even if I tell you, you won't understand the love a history scholar feels when he sees a historical place with his own eyes."
Yash collapsed onto a rock. "Whatever. I need rest. Actual rest. If I walk one more step, I'll pass out."
"Fair enough. We should rest anyway. The hardest climb is still ahead."
"Finally," Yash groaned, lying fully on the ground. "Mercy."
Watching him melt into the dirt, the older brother—Hira—could only shake his head. One more step, and Yash's soul truly might have left his body.
While he rests, allow the protagonist a proper introduction.
. . . . . .
My name is Hira Vedman, twenty-one this year. And the dramatic creature lying on the ground is my little brother, Yash Vedman, eighteen.
Before explaining what we're doing here, let me tell you a little about us.
Our great-grandparents lived in a place called Amritsar—somewhere in old Punjab, before the war rearranged half the world. They were tailors. Simple people. When the war came, the government relocated them with thousands of others to Varanasi. My grandparents eventually settled there permanently.
Yash and I were born in Varanasi, so we never saw the old home.
Dada used to describe Amritsar with pride. He said it was known for many things, but above all, for a temple made entirely of gold—the Golden Temple. Hearing that as a kid felt like hearing a fairy tale. Gold is one of the rarest metals in the world now. You see it only in big museums or with the ultra-rich. Imagining a whole temple made from it feels almost mythical.
(And remember, this is nearly a century in the future.)
I'm studying history and Hindu religion at Banaras Hindva University—B.H.U.—one of the top five institutions in all of Hindvarthya. Its roots go back long before the war. Yash, meanwhile, just finished his secondary education and was fully enjoying his vacation until I dragged him up a mountain. And yes, he doesn't have any say in that.
My love for history came from my grandparents. Dada and Dadi filled our childhood with stories from the Ramayana, Mahabharata, and Bhagavad Gita. Maybe Yash forgot most of them, but they shaped me. And they're the reason we're here.
They told me about Gangotri Dham—the ancient source of the river Ganga. I've taken dips in the Ganga since childhood. How could I not visit the birthplace of the river that shaped so much of our culture?
We reached Uttarakhand on August 1st by sonic train, one of the great inventions of the Yugadi era. They run through underground tunnels using sonic propulsion—fast, silent, and strangely calming once you get used to the hum.
While on the topic of inventions, Yash would yell at me if I didn't mention his favorite: the Omnione bracelet. The bracelet itself isn't the invention—it's the tech chip inside it. It works like the old smartphones from before the war. You can do everything: calls, payments, documents, entertainment—basically your entire life in a wristband.
From the sonic station, we took a solar bus to the nearest inn before the trek. The inn was run by an old couple living quietly away from the chaos of the cities.
Morning came, and we began climbing the mountain the old man had pointed us towards—six to seven kilometers high. The true location of the original Gangotri Dham has been lost thanks to earthquakes, landslides, and time. Still, I wanted to reach as close as possible. The old man told us to follow the path opposite the river's flow.
Rain slowed us down. The climb stretched into a full day.
And that's how we ended up here, standing (or lying) on a mountain surrounded by the untouched beauty of a world still healing.
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A.N.: The title means, 'two brothers', in Sanskrit.
This is the revised version, with better English translation. One of my friends is helping me improve my English. I hope you all will like this version.
And one more thing, to not confuse the readers, now I will add the English title with the Sanskrit one on the top.