I never planned to build a temple. But the hills here have their own plans. You live long enough in a Himalayan village and you stop thinking in straight lines. Things wind. Paths curve. Conversations drift. Ideas arrive sideways.

I rent a small stone cottage in a place called Mat, a tiny village tucked behind Kasar Devi, outside Almora, Uttarakhand. It’s quiet, forested, scattered with old stone homes and ancient pine. Up here, the rules of land and ownership stretch in interesting ways. People have lived on this ridge for generations, walking the same footpaths their ancestors did—paths that sometimes run right through your yard.

Most of the time, it’s not a problem. The main path behind my cottage cuts across the mountain, but the locals usually take the easier way through my yard. It’s mostly quiet. Once or twice a day a migrant Nepali worker passes through, on his way to work in the morning, back home at night. I don’t mind, but my dog Maurice explodes when he senses a trespasser, shattering my evening prayers.

Since I mentioned it, though, nobody crosses through my yard anymore. They’ve started using the rear path that climbs about fifteen meters above the cottage. A little more effort, but they want to respect the space. The yard stays quiet. The mountain, mostly undisturbed.

It’s not customary to block a village path here, and honestly, I like the openness and the occasional smiling walk-through. Ninety-nine percent of the time I get perfect peace. But I’ve been reforesting this land, slowly letting the wild reclaim the edges—encouraging the mountain to breathe a little freer. And lately, I’ve wanted to lean into the separation. A little more definition between this life I’m building and the traffic that drifts through.

So I decided to build stone walls. Not fences; walls like the locals build, dry-stacked from the same rough mountain rock that’s been used here forever. The masons found a few good stones up the hill behind my cottage, tucked just above the path. The lady who owns the land gave her approval, and they got to work.

When they pulled those first stones from the hillside, they left behind an open scar—a raw, ugly hole gouged into the slope. It sat right in the amphitheater of my little valley, where every sound echoes from two specific points near the front yard. You speak there, your voice travels. You stand there, people hear. Now, your eyes landed on that bare pit every time you looked up.

At first, I directed them to fill it in. But then I paused. The spot was too central, too prominent. It felt like the mountain had offered me something. A space—not for storage or cover—but for meaning. A temple.

I called my assistant, who’s been overseeing the whole project. We spoke to the landlady and I asked which deity should we celebrate at our new temple? Names flew around—Shiva, Ganesh—but she settled on Kali. Fierce, wild, protective Kali. When my assistant told me, I could hear the excitement. His only warning? If I built this temple, I’d have to host a festival. Invite the villagers. Open my little world to the mountain and the people who live upon it.

I smiled. It was the right decision. Not only would the raw hole would be transformed, but it would give me another way to give back in some small way to the locals who have given me so much by welcoming me into their community. The land would breathe easier and the people would gather. I asked if I could also place a small murti of Isa—Jesus, in Hindi—alongside. My offering to the mix, a little thread of my own faith woven in. He told me there’d be no problem. It’s all welcomed here. Let’s see.

Just today I learned the local Pandit from Kasar Devi temple would need to be involved. That’s how these things go here. Step by step. Voice by voice. Stone by stone. I don’t know where this will end. But the decision is made.

The hills asked for a new temple. Now, we’ll see what they do next.

To be continued.

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