A week ago, a foolish little idea landed me at what felt like the edge of the world.
The Galápagos was never on my list. I grew up fearing water, fearing the tropics — that particular cocktail of beauty and dread I could never quite name.
Perhaps it was the reptiles, or perhaps it was simply the grip that fear disguises as instinct. Whatever its shape, it kept certain horizons off-limits.
And somehow, I came here anyway.
Even arriving felt like a kind of trespass — this place is so rare, so sacred, that wanting to visit it seemed presumptuous. Like booking a seat at something that wasn’t meant for audiences. But standing inside it, I understood: you don’t observe the Galápagos. You are absorbed by it. It is not a Sir David Attenborough documentary playing in front of you. It is the documentary, and you have stumbled into the frame.
We stayed at Semilla Verde — a small, green, breathing place that knows what it is. Cattya and her entire staff carry something rare: the ability to make you feel not like a guest, but like someone who has simply come home after a long time away. It is in the small gestures, the unhurried attention, the sense that everyone there genuinely wants you to experience something true. And then there are the other residents — Saba the lab, who greets you with the particular joy that only dogs possess, Negra the cat, who tolerates your presence on her terms, which feels entirely appropriate, and the geckos — darting across walls at all hours, going about their business with complete indifference to mine. I will not pretend I was comfortable with them at first. But by the end of the week, their indifference had won me over. They were never interested in my fear to begin with.
And presiding over all of it, Oscar — one hundred years old, unhurried, magnificent. The kind of presence that makes you instinctively lower your voice.
Wendy suggested we do a headstand beside him and so we did. Wendy then Uday did a headstand beside him. And then, somehow, so did I. I normally struggle to balance — walls have always been a crutch — but there I was, on uneven grass, no wall- albeit initial assurance from Uday when I jumped up - upside down and steady. I cannot explain it. Maybe Oscar had something to do with it. He reminded me of Master Oogway: ( from kung fu panda) ancient, unbothered, carrying wisdom so deep it no longer needs to announce itself. I offered him gratitude — not as performance, but as reflex. He did not acknowledge me. That felt correct too.
The yoga found its own rhythm here — unhurried, unscheduled, shaped by wherever the week took us. Uday wove it through things: the boat trips, the snorkelling, the long days among creatures who have never learned to fear us. Being present enough to truly absorb what surrounded us — to let it land rather than merely photograph it — that was the practice. I think the Galápagos asks that of you anyway. We just had a good reason to listen.
That presence was tested immediately for me. I snorkelled for the first time — coaxed gently into the water by naturalist guides whose patience made the impossible feel obvious. The ocean I had feared for a lifetime received me without ceremony. I am glad it did not make a fuss. Neither did I, on the outside. Inside was a different matter entirely.
It was like looking at an aquarium except I was also part of it - mantas , turtles , coloured fishes , sharks , star fish , sea lions ..
Nineteen of us made this journey together — strangers who became, somewhere between the tides and the tortoise pond at Semilla Verde, something closer to family.
Each one particular, each one generous. The week was also a celebration — Uday gaining another year of wisdom — and there is something fitting about marking that in a place this ancient, among creatures who measure time so differently from us. The land itself seemed to approve.
From there, the world only continued expanding. The dragon-like iguanas motionless on black lava rock. The lava lizards darting like small flames. The tropic birds, white against impossible blue. The sea lions — endlessly, joyfully playful — as if they had never learned to take anything seriously. And woven through all of it, a deeper register: the Galápagos penguins, fewer now than they should be, a fact that pierces the heart and stays there. On the roads, butterflies drift in ancient flight paths that existed long before tarmac. Some don’t make it. A car passes and they fall. It stops you cold.
This is their home. We are the visitors — temporary, noisy, consequential. The question the Galápagos keeps asking, gently, is what kind of visitor will you choose to be?
The ego is a convincing storyteller. It has us believe we are the main event — large, consequential, necessary. Then you stand at the edge of this ocean and understand, without anyone needing to say it, how extraordinarily small we are. Not tragically. Just truthfully.
We leave with a prayer that feels earned by everything we witnessed. For the penguins holding on, the butterflies navigating roads that weren’t there when their ancestors first flew, the iguanas standing their ancient ground, the lava lizards and geckos going about their unhurried lives, the sea lions who trusted us without reason, Oscar who outlived entire generations of human certainty. If this place gives you anything, it gives you the desire to deserve it. To tread more carefully. To take up less.
सर्वे सन्तु निरामयाः
May all beings be free from suffering.
-Sonali