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As I looked at the bearded strangers through my car window, I wasn't sure if I had made the right decision to volunteer at a school in Kargil. A region less ventured due to its infamous war of 1999. A place disconnected from the outside world due to its terrain. And historically, religious tensions have always made Kashmir seem unapproachable. I stood out like a skyscraper in the middle of the Himalayas in this mountainous city. My Nike Killshots against the open-toed chappals. My 40L Wildcraft rucksack in contrast to their handwoven bags. Their almond cardamon and saffron infused Kahwa versus my ginger spice-filled Masala Chai. We shared the same tongue. We adored the same Bollywood movies. We passionately supported Indian cricket. But still, we came from distinct shores. I was a person who finds solace from the Californian coasts, and now I'm planted in one of the highest mountain ranges in the world. The only thing giving me comfort was the trusted and familiar Chai. The taxi driver dropped me on the narrow street amidst passing cars, motorcycles, and work-weary humans. I requested him to let me call the school teacher who was going to be my guide throughout the volunteering opportunity. He obliged. "Hello, Vijay sir! I'll come to pick you up in 10 mins. Please wait there," came the reply from the other end. With my two weeks of belongings on my back, I glanced around the surroundings. The red-skinned goat dangling on a steel hook made me switch my eyes to another direction—the abundance of green overshadowing, not just nature but also the layered houses on the small hill. Names of stores elaborately decorated in Urdu inviting the potential locals for everyday shopping. A world where I had never seen, tasted, or smelled before. Only here on a whim of giving my time to volunteering. I told myself, "It's for the greater good." Through the winding road of the hill, a bygone era Maruti hatchback rode in and came to a stop as other cars whizzed by. A dapper of a man in his 40s turned off the car engine, stepped out and introduced himself, "Hello, Vijay sir! Welcome to Kargil. Please give me your backpack." "No, it's ok, I can carry it. Thank you, though, for picking me up." Here is a man in his 40s, calling a 29-year Indian-American vagabond "Sir" as if I'm a dignitary and offering to carry my backpack. In a country where respecting and serving the elders is of utmost importance, he is breaking the clutch fisted traditions with abandonment. Steadily, the clouds of fear surrounding the heart drifted away. The border of differences with our familiar tongue of Hindi patiently carried away. Through the shared goal of educating students, a bond of friendship weaved as if a Kashmiri Pashmina was being born. As we arrived at his place, he asked if I would like to drink some Kahwa? A grin emerged, followed by a yes. A cup of Kahwa, which was the dividing line for me, now becoming the invitation to be part of the family, part of the culture, and part of acceptance.