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My grandfather was a man of tradition. Being the priest's son, he had spent his entire life around temples and shrines. And for the past few weeks, he had been coaxing dad to accompany him on one particular pilgrimage – Vaishno Devi. Dad declined, citing increased client pressure as his reason. Dad had often tried to explain to me the nature of his job, but I never could quite get it. Each time it was a new word, bigger than the last – strategist, consultant, data analyst. Only God knew what might come next. As for me, I was enjoying that blissful period between the end of school and the beginning of college. Thus, I was chosen as the perfect companion for my grandfather. The distance between Vaishno Devi and Delhi could be covered in 12 hours by bus, so naturally it took us twice the time to do that. Traffic, poor infrastructure and incompetent driving; all played their roles wonderfully. Grandpa spent most of the time singing Hindu prayers, trying to get the fellow travellers to join in, and I spent most of my time advising him not to do that. As we were getting out of the bus, grandpa told me that he used to come here every year when he was a kid, alongside his grandfather. Oblivious to my obvious nonchalance, he went on to describe the experience. How earthen pots were placed throughout the route to provide pilgrims with cold water in the heat, how fruit sellers would magically appear whenever the desire of a juicy mango entered one’s mind, and the awe experienced when one finally reached the temple at the top. Grandpa led the way to the base of the mountain from our hotel. He noticed my irritable mood. “Just wait till you get there. You are going to be blown away by the simplicity. It is an 8 hour trek in nature, and with devotion being in the air, you’re bound to enjoy it.”, he said, his eyes lost in a lost time. I was looking at the rhythmic thumping of my feet, when I realized that grandpa had abruptly stopped. Vaishno Devi was here. I was definitely impressed. At the starting point, there was a huge hoarding of an American automobile company. Lining up to the hoarding were stores offering anything and everything, from 15 minutes in a massage chair to the latest high quality cameras. Grandpa kept looking all around himself, disbelief evident on his face. I grabbed his hand and rushed towards the security check, a newfound excitement in me. Conversation with fellow travellers told us that helicopters were also available for going to the top. Grandpa's eyes bulged hearing this. The man was in the same place as me, but in a different time. I booked the helicopter ride, and to our luck, two spots were empty on the next shift. I dragged grandpa inside the helicopter before he could resist. And voila! In 5 minutes, we were at the top. Plus, I did not see a single fruit seller the whole time. From there it was a short walk to the temple. Grandpa’s brows were furrowed this whole time. “You don’t have to be such a buzzkill. It was your idea only to come on this trip.”, I said. He stared at me and said, “Pilgrimage. ” After seeing the look of confusion on my face, he added, “Not a trip, a pilgrimage.” The temple was situated inside a cave that looked like it had seen generations after generations come and go. But scattered all around it were security cameras and metal detectors, small specks of modernity, which looked out of place. Or maybe it was just the cave that was out of place. Everybody got exactly 30 seconds with the idols and then they were shown their way out. When our turn came, grandpa chanted a small prayer under his breath, bending down to touch the feet of the idol, when someone interrupted - ”No touching.” On the ride downwards, grandpa kept muttering to himself. I put on my earphones. The old man was clearly going senile.