Whispers of the Caucasus

Georgia - Europe’s hidden gem - was beckoning. The journey had been an impulsive decision, driven by a friend’s casual remark: “You’ve seen too many predictable places; go somewhere your soul won’t expect.” And so, I packed my bags, armed with curiosity and a stubborn refusal to overplan. The flight itself was a kaleidoscope of languages and faces. My seatmate, a middle-aged Georgian woman named Nana, noticed my faltering attempts to pronounce “Gamarjoba” — hello in Georgian. She offered to teach me a few phrases and shared stories about Tbilisi, her home city. By the time we landed at Shota Rustaveli Tbilisi International Airport, I had more than a few awkward phrases under my belt and a mental list of must-try dishes, thanks to Nana’s enthusiastic notes scribbled on a napkin. Stepping out into the crisp Caucasian air was a jolt. Spring was teasing the city - blooms on trees, a gentle breeze that hinted at the snow-capped mountains in the distance. My cab driver, Giorgi, greeted me with a warm smile and an even warmer “Gamarjoba.” His battered old Lada rumbled through the city streets, weaving between ancient churches and trendy wine bars. Giorgi proudly pointed out landmarks as if he were showing off personal treasures. When he dropped me at my hotel, he pressed a small packet of churchkhela - strings of nuts dipped in grape juice—into my hands. “For your energy,” he winked. The hotel was a charming boutique place in the heart of Tbilisi’s Old Town. Wooden balconies with intricate carvings jutted out from weathered stone facades. My room overlooked the Kura River, winding lazily under the watchful gaze of the Narikala Fortress perched on the hill. I spent that first evening wandering aimlessly through the cobbled streets, letting my senses lead me. The smell of baking khachapuri wafted from tiny bakeries, mingling with the sweet, slightly fermented scent of wine.

At a cosy restaurant near Sioni Cathedral, I met a local artist named Luka. We bonded over a shared table—me, struggling with a khinkali dumpling that threatened to burst in my hands, and him, sketching passersby on a napkin. Luka insisted on teaching me the “correct” way to eat khinkali: “Hold it by the top, bite carefully, and don’t waste the juice.” He said this like a secret, as if the dumpling held the soul of Georgia itself. We toasted to our brief friendship with chacha, the potent Georgian grape brandy that left me dizzy with laughter and warmth. The next day, I took a marshrutka—a shared minibus—up to the Kazbegi region. The journey was a breathtaking assault on my senses: rolling green hills giving way to jagged mountains, snow dusting their peaks like a whisper of winter reluctant to let go. The driver played Georgian folk music, the haunting melodies weaving a spell as we climbed higher and higher. At one point, we stopped for fresh water at a roadside spring. An old man with a face as craggy as the cliffs poured me a glass and motioned for me to drink. “Cleanest water,” he said in broken English. It tasted like ice and earth, pure and bracing.

In Stepantsminda, the gateway to Mount Kazbek, I stayed at a guesthouse run by Maia, a grandmotherly figure whose hospitality rivaled any five-star hotel. She fussed over me like a favorite niece, plying me with homemade jams and urging me to take seconds of her hearty kharcho soup. That night, I sat on the wooden porch wrapped in a wool blanket, the cold mountain air sharp against my cheeks. Above, the stars were startlingly close, as if you could pluck them from the sky. Maia joined me, sharing tales of her childhood, of Soviet times and the slow rebirth of Georgia. Her stories painted a picture of a country both ancient and eternally new. I hiked up to the Gergeti Trinity Church the next morning, my breath stolen by the beauty of it all. The church itself, modest and solitary on the hilltop, seemed to watch over the entire valley. A shepherd passed by with a flock of sheep, the bells around their necks creating a gentle symphony. He tipped his hat at me, a simple gesture that felt timeless. I paused to soak it all in—the grandeur of the mountains, the quiet strength of the church, the fleeting connection with a stranger.

Back in Tbilisi, I spent days losing myself in the city’s contradictions. I sipped coffee at a sleek café next to a centuries-old sulfur bathhouse. I browsed through dusty bookstores where Russian classics shared shelves with new Georgian poets. In the Rezo Gabriadze Marionette Theater, I watched the clock tower come alive at noon, a puppet show playing out the eternal dance of life and love. One evening, I stumbled into a wine cellar, lured by the music spilling out onto the street. A local folk band was playing, and I found myself swept up in the music—strangers linking arms, stomping feet, and voices rising in song. A man with a kind face and a shock of white hair poured me a glass of amber wine. “This is our qvevri wine, fermented in clay,” he explained. The earthy, honeyed taste was unlike anything I’d ever tried. We clinked glasses, and he said, “In Georgia, we say ‘Gaumarjos!’ May you have victory in all you do.” My last day in Tbilisi was spent at the Dry Bridge Market, a sprawling bazaar of curiosities. Soviet memorabilia, delicate jewellery, paintings that seemed to hum with history. I bought a tiny silver ring from an elderly vendor who pressed it into my palm, saying, “For you. To remember.” It felt like a talisman—a piece of Georgia to carry home.

As my flight back to Delhi approached, I sat by the river one last time, watching the city glow in the early evening light. Tbilisi was not a city you merely visited; it was a city you felt. A place where ancient churches shared a skyline with modern glass towers, where every meal was a celebration, and every stranger a potential friend. Georgia had offered me its warmth, its music, and its fierce pride—a reminder that the best journeys are not just about places, but about people. On the flight home, I thought of Giorgi’s parting words as he dropped me at the airport. “Come back,” he said simply. And I knew I would. Because Georgia had become a part of me—a mosaic of flavours, faces, and fleeting moments that would linger long after the plane touched down in Delhi.