The White Conch Shell

The snow-clad peaks of the Himalayas had borne witness to countless souls, but never before had they seen a resolve as unflinching as Sudheer’s. With each laboured step, he carved his way upward, braving howling gusts that tore through his jacket like needles and knee-deep snow that had swallowed many a wanderer whole. But Sudheer wasn’t just another explorer chasing myth—he was a man possessed, driven by something more primal: belief, purpose, obsession.

An archaeologist by profession and a seeker by nature, Sudheer had set out in search of the Shwet Shankha—the White Conch Shell said to belong to Lord Vishnu himself. Myths claimed it was hidden deep within these mountains, and that its ethereal sound dispelled evil, summoned divine beings, and shifted the balance between this world and the next. Such a herculean piece of mythology was believed to appear only to the worthy.

By his side was Sangeeta—his wife, his colleague, and in many ways, his better half. A rationalist to the core, she had always dismissed any mention of gods and relics with a skeptical brow. But she'd come along—out of love, out of loyalty, and perhaps to challenge her own disbelief. “What is faith if not tested?” she had once said. But now, far from camp and deeper into the frozen unknown, her skepticism had taken a backseat to something more urgent: survival.

Days had passed since they’d last seen their base. Their supplies had dwindled alarmingly—particularly fuel, which they needed to melt snow into drinkable water. The bitter cold had begun to bite not just at their skin but at their spirits. And yet, Sudheer pressed on. His mind, once brilliant and methodical, now burned feverishly with visions of destiny. To Sangeeta, it felt like he was chasing a ghost into a storm.

The sky, once a crisp blue, had turned a cruel grey. Winds grew stronger, lashing them with stinging snowflakes. Each step forward became a battle. Sangeeta, who had braved much already, could feel her body rebelling. Her limbs stiffened, her breath grew short, and her courage—so steadfast before—began to fracture.

“I can’t go on like this, Sudheer,” she said at last, her voice barely a whisper above the wind. “Let’s stay put for the night.”

But Sudheer, lost in the fog of his ambition, heard her plea as mere hesitation. “We’re close, Sangeeta. I can feel it. Just a little further.”

His eyes, usually warm with compassion, now flickered with something wild—something desperate. Sangeeta hesitated, but then her body made the decision for her.

She collapsed.

“Hang on—Sangeeta! Sangee—what’s happening to you?” Sudheer turned just in time to see her curled on the snow, her frame trembling violently.

“I can’t… my body won’t move…” she groaned. “I don’t feel good.”

Panic replaced purpose in Sudheer’s eyes. He rushed to her, pulling her into his arms, shielding her from the wrath of the cold. Her skin was like ice, her breath shallow and rapid. She was slipping, and for the first time, the realization pierced through his fever-dream of discovery.

“S-Sudheer… help me,” she whispered, her eyes filled with fear. “I don’t want to die…”

His heart shattered. This wasn’t the bold, laughing woman he knew—the one who mocked godmen and challenged ancient texts. This was someone fading before him, and he had led her into this.

“I promise,” he said, pressing her hand to his lips. “We’ll get out of this. Together.”

He worked with frantic hands, clawing through the snow to set up a tent, using the last of their fuel to warm it. He placed her inside, wrapping their bodies together for warmth. For a while, he thought it was working. Her shivers dulled, her breathing slowed to something steadier. Relief swept through him like sunlight through fog.

But hope, like fuel, runs out.

He touched her forehead—burning. Her cheeks were pale, her lips a ghostly blue. Fever had taken hold. The cold was winning.

He activated the emergency beacon, sending an SOS into the void, praying against the howling winds that someone, somewhere, was listening. But the Himalayas do not care for prayers. Hours passed. The storm screamed louder, and help did not come.

He tried to keep her talking, kept whispering to her of their first dig in Hampi, the funny Tibetan monk they met in Kathmandu years ago, the night he proposed to her under a meteor shower. But her replies came slower… and then, not at all.

Her breaths thinned. Her grip weakened. Her eyes, so full of fire, dulled like dying embers. And then—

Nothing.

“Sangeeta?” he whispered. “No, no—please…”

He shook her gently at first. Then with panic. Then with the despair of a man whose world was ending.

“Sangeeta, come back! Don’t do this! I’m sorry… I was wrong—I was wrong!”

His cries echoed across the white emptiness. He begged the mountains for mercy, but they remained unmoved. Silent. Indifferent.

He had chased the whisper of a legend into the lap of death, trading the only treasure that mattered for a myth that refused to appear.

And now, she was gone.

The tent trembled under the weight of the storm. Outside, the snow buried footprints and flattened paths. It began to build around the tent, like nature itself was writing an epitaph in frost.

But Sudheer could not move. He stayed beside her still form, cradling her hand, rocking gently like a man lost in a lullaby of grief.

The White Conch Shell may have existed, or perhaps it never did. But what Sudheer found in those mountains was something far more devastating than any godly relic.

He found the cost of obsession.

And it was steep.

-The End.