Riding Through the Clouds: A Heavenly Yet Haunting Journey from Thimphu to Phuentsholing

By Sivasankar Venkatakrishnan (oshovenkat)
Last evening, I embarked on what was supposed to be a routine journey from Thimphu to Phuentsholing. But little did I know, it would turn out to be a ride that danced between heaven and danger—a journey that blurred the line between the mystical and the mortal.

As usual, my cab driver, a kind and soft-spoken Bhutanese gentleman, greeted me with a warm smile. His calm presence was reassuring, something I’ve always admired about the people of Bhutan. The first stretch of the journey was smooth. The winding roads, the cool breeze, and the serene mountains kept us company. I settled in, expecting a peaceful ride down the hills.

Halfway through the drive, the driver turned slightly toward me and said, “From here, it may get a bit foggy… quite hard to drive at times.” I nodded, thinking of a light veil of mist—romantic even, like a scene from a mountain tale. But what came next was something I hadn’t imagined.

We didn’t just encounter fog. We entered the clouds.

Yes, quite literally, we were inside a thick, white world—an ethereal cocoon where visibility dropped to near zero. The landscape vanished. The trees, the valleys, the road—everything disappeared into a blinding whiteness. At first, it felt heavenly, like gliding through the breath of the mountains. A part of me was in awe, as if we were on a spiritual ascent to another realm.

But soon, that awe turned into unease.

The beauty of the clouds became haunting. The road ahead was invisible. The car’s dome light gave no clue of the path, swallowed completely by the cloud blanket. I couldn’t see the edges of the narrow mountain road, and it seemed like my driver was navigating more by instinct than sight. For a moment, a strange thought crossed my mind: Is he Yama, the God of Death, silently ferrying me to the gates of heaven?

Time slowed down. Every curve, every incline, every moment felt suspended between faith and fear. The journey, which normally takes about six hours, stretched an hour longer. But not once did the driver lose his calm. His silence, his focus, and his slow, deliberate driving became my anchor.

Eventually, the clouds thinned. The outlines of the world slowly returned. And when we finally reached Phuentsholing, I stepped out with a deep breath, my heart filled with gratitude—for the driver, for the journey, and for the strange beauty of traveling through the unknown.

Some journeys leave behind not just memories, but imprints on the soul. This was one such ride—heavenly, haunting, and humbling.