THE BOY WHO DOES NOT KNOW THE WORLD

My name is Abhinav Khoshto. You don’t know me yet, because for the first decade of my life, I was the boy who did not know the world. My existence was tucked away behind a heavy, shimmering curtain of clouds, high in the Himalayas. It was a place where every breath was a gift of crisp, mountain air, sweet with the drifting scent of apple and apricot orchards.

Growing up, I wasn’t interested in what lay beyond the horizon because I saw the universe through a different set of eyes—ones framed by the towering, jagged peaks of Kinnaur. Back then, very few people, even within my own country, knew of this land’s existence. Even now, it remains a mystery to many. My home is a village called Duni, nestled within the region of Kalpa—though to us locals, Kalpa is still known by its ancient name, Chinni. I lived a childhood that most people only dream of, a life moved by the beat of the seasons rather than the ticking of a clock.

It all began on April 12, 2006. I was born in Shimla, but my heart was raised in the rugged, beautiful soul of Kinnaur. This is my chronicle of discovery—a journey through high-altitude wonders and the beautiful, sometimes terrifying, memories that forged the man I would become.

My universe was a small, tight-knit constellation held together by my family. My Papa (Boba) was the stoic pillar of our home; my Mummy (Amma) was its warmth; and my Grandmother (Appi) was its soul. Just two years older than me was my real elder sister—my Dothcha—who was the first of the sisters who would guide me. Because I was the youngest—not just in my house, but among the entire sprawling web of cousins—I was the gravity around which the family orbited.

In Kinnaur, there is a special term of endearment for small children: Baiyou. To my Appi, that wasn’t just a nickname; it was a sacred title. Whenever she called out for her "Baiyou," the word echoed against the valley walls, I knew I was safe.

The structure of our family was large and complex, a kingdom of its own. My Boba had two elder brothers—my Teg Bobas. One of them had sadly passed away, but his legacy lived on through his three children: his two sons, my elder Aatey, and his daughter, another of my Dothchas. My other Teg Boba lived just ten minutes away and had one son, also my elder Aatey.

In total, I was surrounded by a chorus of four elder sisters, my Dothcha. There was my real elder sister; the daughter of my late Teg Boba; and two more Dothchas who were the elder sisters of Ankit. Ankit was the son of my Boba’s real sister—my Nane (Bua).

The age gap between us and the rest of the siblings was massive. While my three Aatey and the older Dothchas spent their days away at school, Ankit and I were left to rule the mountain slopes. I was closest to Ankit; with only a year between us, he was my partner in every adventure. Even my real Dothcha, though only two years older, seemed a world away when the older kids were off studying.

In Kinnaur, life is a rhythmic, exhausting dance with the earth. Because Amma, Boba, and Appi were constantly consumed by the heavy demands of the farm and livestock, they rarely had a free moment. I wasn't simply passed from hand to hand; our family actually kept specific people whose sole job was to look after me. Until I learned to navigate the rocky terrain on my own two feet, I lived in a state of constant elevation—carried and watched over by these helpers while the sun traced its slow, golden arc across the sky. I grew up steeped in the melody of their laughter and the Kinnauri folk songs they hummed as they worked. I was never truly alone.

And then, there was Rocky.

Rocky had joined our family a year before I was born, and in my eyes, he was never just a dog. He was my elder brother, a silent, golden sentinel. In the lonely stretches of the peaks, Rocky was the guardian who never slept. He seemed to understand that as the "Baiyou," I was the most fragile part of the pack.

Our days were also measured by the chores of the homestead, specifically the preparation of Punning. We would spend hours in the emerald-green fields, gathering fresh grass and chopping it with rhythmic precision to mix with water for the cattle. It was a humble meal, but we were convinced our cows deserved a feast fit for our second mother, for we worshipped them with all our hearts.

The secret to our "enhanced" Punning was hidden inside a massive, black plastic drum. Deep within its belly, buried beneath a mountain of grain, sat a small bowl. Our strategy was a masterpiece of childhood espionage. While some of us orchestrated a loud distraction to lure the adults toward the house, one of us—the smallest and most nimble—would scramble into the darkness of the drum.

Sometimes it was me, the small Baiyou; sometimes it was Ankit; and other times it was one of our friends, the children of the laborers who worked our land. We would tunnel our arms deep into the grain until our fingers brushed the hidden bowl, scooping out the extra feed we weren't supposed to touch. With the "contraband" secured, we would stir it into the grass, feeling the adrenaline of a successful mission. In those dusty moments in the shed, standing with my brother and my friends, I felt like the master of a secret kingdom. I had no inkling that beyond the white-capped peaks of the Kinner Kailash, a vast and complicated world was waiting. For now, I was just a boy, safe under the watchful gaze of his dog and the unconditional love of his Appi.