An unexpected encounter on a blurry path

What you can see in this photograph is quite close to what I see through my myopic eyes without glasses: blurred edges, indistinct shapes, yet somehow the details appear if you squint long enough.

Two years ago, three of my friends and I had our first experience of seeing a waterfall up close by trekking through a jungle. 

We went on a short tour to Sitakunda, where we visited the Khoiyachora waterfall. It was an adventure I had been excited about for weeks. But as with most adventures, things do not always go according to plan.

The morning of the trip, I lost my glasses as we were kayaking in Mohamaya Lake. A small, almost trivial loss at first, but when you are hiking through unknown terrain, it quickly becomes significant. 

As we reached the trekking spot, I had already seen people at the base of the trail preparing for the journey, wearing anklets to guard against the rough terrain, but I disregarded the idea. I thought I would be fine without them. Little did I know that I would later regret that decision.

We began our trek with enthusiasm, but it started to rain, and we found our feet quickly sinking into the sticky mud. The excitement of being in the jungle dulled the discomfort at first, but as we ventured deeper, the terrain transformed. 

The mud grew thicker, wetter, and dangerously slippery. Without my glasses, I could not see clearly what was beneath my feet. Everything was a blur, and it was becoming increasingly difficult to tell a safe step from a risky one.

It happened more than once that I misjudged my footing. What looked like firm pebbles underfoot were actually mud balls that crumbled into a slick, wet mess the moment I stepped on them. I slipped multiple times, barely managing to catch myself. 

My friends were constantly calling out, guiding me as best as they could, but there was only so much they could do. The fear of slipping and falling kept growing, and while their support was comforting, the final responsibility was mine — I had to stay balanced, alert, and cautious. It was not easy.

And then we encountered three fellow trekkers — a couple who must have been in their 60s and a man who seemed to be their son. 

Their energy was infectious. They were chatting and laughing as if they were on a casual evening stroll, not hiking through a challenging jungle trail. Their confidence was inspiring, and their cheerfulness stood out amidst the murky path. 

What surprised me most was their warmth — they greeted us like old friends despite meeting us in the middle of nowhere. The woman, noticing my cautious steps and squinted gaze, asked me directly why I was not wearing anklets. 

Before I could respond, my friend Tawsif explained that I had lost my glasses that morning. The concern on their faces was immediate and genuine. The middle-aged man, who had been walking ahead of his parents, turned back, smiled, and without a second thought, took off one of his anklets and handed it to me. 

"You need this more than I do," he said with a grin. I tried to decline, embarrassed to take something from someone I'd only just met, but he insisted, his voice firm yet kind. His parents, standing by, added their blessings, making dua for my safety. Their words carried a weight that went beyond polite concern; they felt like genuine care, something rare and deeply personal.

With the anklet now around my foot, my steps felt surer. Maybe it was the extra grip, maybe it was the symbolic weight of someone's kindness, but suddenly the trek seemed less daunting. There was something about the quiet strength of these adventurers — their generosity, their willingness to help a stranger without a second thought. 

It made me feel like I could handle whatever lay ahead, no matter how blurry or uncertain it might be. As I continued the trek, my thoughts drifted back to those few moments. 

How remarkable it is, I thought, that a two-minute interaction can linger in your mind, change your outlook, and stay with you long after it's over. 

The jungle, the waterfall, and even the trek itself faded into the background of my memory, replaced by the warmth of human kindness. In that fleeting encounter, I was reminded of the simple beauty of human connection — the small, unspoken acts of care that make this chaotic world feel a little less overwhelming.

I have witnessed hundreds of two-minute interactions. I find it amazing how some two minutes of our lives can be different from the other two minutes. 

It is an incredible feeling to know people care, just care, without expecting anything in return, knowing that perhaps you will never cross paths. 

I do not mind having myopic eyes as long as they land me in such sublime settings, or I continue to meet people who remind me why every moment of our odyssey on this beautiful little planet is worth living.