A Sacred First Journey: From Babaji’s Cave to the Pradhan’s Home

The first time my dad and I visited the Himalayas together, it wasn’t just a trip, it felt like something we were both quietly being pulled toward.

Around that same time, we had both finished reading Autobiography of a Yogi. My dad first picked it up in Rishikesh and couldn’t stop talking about it. One story from the book stayed with both of us: the tale of Mahavatar Babaji — the ageless Himalayan yogi who passed down the practice of Kriya Yoga. There was a cave mentioned, somewhere in the mountains of Uttarakhand, where Babaji had appeared to Lahiri Mahasaya. That was it. We wanted to find it. The cave was in Dunagiri. On the morning of our visit, I woke up early and sat in meditation. The air in the mountains has a way of helping you sit longer. There’s a kind of stillness here that doesn’t ask anything of you.

The cave was in Dunagiri, a few hours from Kasar Devi. So we made Kasar Devi our base.

That morning, I woke up early and sat in meditation. The air in the mountains has a way of helping you sit longer. There’s a kind of stillness here that doesn’t ask anything of you. On the drive to Dunagiri, I remember seeing a man throw a chicken by the side of the road. It was such a small thing, but something about it made me feel everything. My body felt the shock of it. And in that moment, I knew I didn’t want to eat meat anymore. I had been thinking about it already, but this felt like a sign. A quiet message sent ahead from Babaji.

The road winded through thick forests and sleepy villages. Our driver had never been to the cave either, so he decided to join us for the hike. The trail up was soft, green and quiet, except for the crunch of leaves underfoot and the occasional birdcall. We walked past moss-covered logs, wild mushrooms, and patches of fern. The path was gentle but kept rising steadily. And then, suddenly, we saw it.

The cave.

Dark. Still.

It wasn’t grand, but it didn’t need to be. We stepped inside. The air was cool and quiet. We sat and meditated, my father, our driver, and I..and it felt like everything had paused. There was a silence that didn’t feel empty. It felt full. And for a few moments, we just sat in it. Breathing.

On the way down, we took the wrong path. We ended up deep in someone’s farm, surrounded by trees and not a clue where the car was. No network. No maps. Just a winding trail and the slow realization that we were completely lost.

Just then, we saw a man walking along the edge of the fields. We asked him for directions, and he smiled and said, “Pehle chai pijiye. Fir dekhte hain.”

Come home for tea first. We’ll figure it out after.

Something in me hesitated. But my dad nodded. “This is how it is here,” he said. And he was right.

The man led us to a small house made of stone and wood, nestled between trees. He brought us warm tea, and later, simple food. “Yahan mehmaan bhagwan hote hain,” he said. Here, the guest is God.

His home was modest. But the warmth was immense. He told us he was the Pradhan, the elected head of the village and shared stories about the cave, the forests, and the sadhus who had come and gone over the years. He said many seekers had lost their way here, just like us. He even showed us the orange tree growing outside his house and plucked fresh fruit for us to take.

Before we left, he called a friend who drove us around until we found our car parked on a road far from where we had descended.

I went looking for Babaji that day. I don’t know if I found him — not in the way I expected to. But I found something else. The silence of a cave. A decision made in the heart. The kindness of a stranger. The reminder that in the mountains, when you get lost, someone always shows up to help you find your way back.

And maybe that’s Babaji, too.