There is a rare magic in walking alongside a writer whose imagination has shaped generations of readers, and Margaret Atwood’s presence in the Himalayas is precisely that kind of experience—both grounding and transporting. Over the course of mornings spent together in the village of Nasogi, the combination of ancient mythology, rugged Himalayan landscapes, and Atwood’s storytelling creates a narrative that feels both immediate and timeless.

Each day begins with a stroll down a bustling street filled with tourist shops, brimming with Kullu shawls, Turkish charm bracelets, and the kind of colorful bric-a-brac that seems to have a story of its own. Atwood’s voice, low, raspy, and textured with the gravitas of someone who has spent decades observing human nature, guides me through the surroundings. She plays with words, often teasing me with questions like, “In what style should I tell you my story? Eighteenth-century couplet, or like Edgar Allen Poe?” Her playful yet precise delivery evokes laughter, but it also carries a profound weight, the resonance of someone who has wrestled with history, culture, and human frailty through the written word.

As we walk past two temples—the first dedicated to the goddess Hidimba Devi and the second to her son, Ghatotkacha—I am reminded that the Himalayas are a land where mythology and daily life intermingle seamlessly. Hidimba Devi’s stories, retold across centuries, find resonance not just in religious devotion but also in literature. Kavita Kane’s Bhima’s Wife, which revisits these myths, intersects with Atwood’s storytelling, creating a tapestry where ancient narratives converse with contemporary reflections.

Atwood shares glimpses of her own early life, painting vivid pictures of her family. Her father, Carl Atwood, was an entomologist studying insects in the Canadian boreal forests, while her mother, also named Margaret, left the comfort of Toronto to live in a log cabin with the family during summers and autumns. Margaret recounts her childhood alongside her older brother Harold, revealing the textures of a life lived both immersed in nature and shaped by academic curiosity. These recollections are interwoven with a sense of wonder and a tinge of melancholy, echoing themes familiar in her novels.

Her stories move seamlessly from family life to schooldays, where she faced bullying in Toronto. There is a weary resonance in her voice as she narrates these experiences, underscoring the human desire for power and the vulnerabilities of childhood. She remarks, “Anyone who thinks that females are perfect, that girls are nicer, that every sadistic thing girls and women do is the fault of the ‘patriarchy’, has either forgotten a lot or never been a nine-year-old girl at school. The desire for power is a human constant.” These reflections inform her novel Cat’s Eye, offering insight into the psychological landscapes of childhood and adolescence, and the subtle, often painful negotiations of identity and agency.

As I listen, memories of my own childhood surface. I recall episodes of teasing and games that were never quite innocent, moments when the social dynamics of power and submission played out in playgrounds and classrooms. Atwood’s narration, combined with references to books that helped her navigate these experiences—such as The Bounty and Alice in Wonderland—offers a sense of consolation, revealing the transformative power of literature and storytelling.

Our walk winds past a bridge over a mountain stream and an open area where local women gather to wash clothes. These scenes of daily life, so grounded in routine and natural rhythm, juxtapose beautifully with Atwood’s reflections on faraway forests and urban childhoods. The path eventually leads through apple orchards to a construction site where building work is underway. Here, the practicalities of life—marble deliveries, specialized fasteners, waterproofing chemicals—intersect with the imaginative journey, reminding me that even in the Himalayas, storytelling is inseparable from lived experience.

The day is punctuated by moments of logistical chaos—plumbers delayed, masons absent due to emergencies—but Atwood’s presence continues to anchor the experience. Even as I navigate the practicalities of construction, her narrative carries me effortlessly from the Himalayan valley to the boreal forests of Canada, then to the corridors of her school in Toronto. Her humor and candid recollections, like the story of needing glasses and feeling “My life is over!” as a teenager, create a rhythm that alternates between levity and introspection.

By the time our paths diverge at the construction site, the sense of journeying with Atwood feels complete yet ongoing. Her stories linger, shaping the way I perceive both the landscape around me and the inner landscapes of memory, imagination, and history. Even the mundane elements—the stone masons’ schedules, the mason’s need for marble—blend seamlessly with her tales, creating a layered experience where the quotidian and the extraordinary coexist.

Margaret Atwood in the Himalayas exemplifies a rare kind of storytelling: one that is rooted in place but transcends it, one that acknowledges the complexities of human behavior while celebrating the continuity of cultural narratives. The combination of myth, personal history, observation, and literary reflection makes the journey through Nasogi, its temples, streams, and orchards, a living tableau of storytelling in motion.

As I prepare for a long journey ahead—a six-hour drive, a flight, and hours of waiting—Atwood’s voice accompanies me. The audiobook of Book of Lives becomes a companion, offering insights, humor, and moments of quiet reflection. Each story she shares, each anecdote, is a reminder of the power of words to illuminate, to console, and to inspire, even when the physical journey ends.

Walking with Margaret Atwood in the Himalayas is not merely a literary exercise; it is an encounter with history, myth, and human experience, all refracted through the lens of a master storyteller. The hills, streams, and orchards of Nasogi provide a backdrop, but the true journey is inward—through memory, imagination, and empathy. In this space, the ancient and the contemporary, the mythical and the personal, converge, creating a narrative rhythm that resonates long after the walk ends.

In the end, the Himalayas are not only a setting but also a mirror reflecting the universality of stories, the endurance of human curiosity, and the intricate tapestry of life itself. Walking with Margaret Atwood is, ultimately, a lesson in listening—to history, to nature, to memory, and to the voices that have shaped us. And as I continue on my travels, her words remain a steady companion, turning every journey into an exploration of both the world and the imagination.