I didn't know what to expect when Dad said we were going to Himachal. I'd heard the name before—in songs, in movies, in the kind of poetry people write when they're searching for something. But I didn't know what it meant. Not really.
I thought it would be beautiful. I thought it would be cold. I thought I'd take some pictures, eat some momos, and come back with a tan and a few good stories.
What I didn't expect was the silence. The kind that isn't empty, but full. The kind that holds space for thoughts you didn't know you were thinking. For feelings you didn't know you were carrying.
In Himachal, time moves differently. The mornings are slow. The afternoons stretch out like prayers. The evenings arrive with a hush, like someone gently closing a door.
I've always been someone who needs to move. To do. To check things off. To prove I'm making progress. But in those mountains, I learned something quieter. Something softer.
I learned that sometimes, the most important thing you can do is simply be. To breathe. To listen. To let the world hold you for a moment, instead of the other way around.
Wind through pine trees
Temple bells in the distance
Steam rising from chai
Prayer flags whispering
The first thing I noticed when I opened the hotel window wasn't the view—it was the air. Clean. Cold. Sharp in a way that made me breathe deeper, like my lungs were remembering something they'd forgotten.
The mountains weren’t in front of me. They were all around me.They call it the “Mini Switzerland of India”. But standing there, in that endless meadow, surrounded by pine forests and snow-capped peaks, I realized it doesn’t need a comparison. Khajjiar is its own kind of magic.
Built in 1863, this Victorian-era church stands quietly among the pines. Inside, the light filters through stained glass, painting the wooden pews in soft colors. It felt sacred—not in a religious way, but in the way old places do when they’ve held centuries of silence.
Panchpulla means “five bridges,” and the streams here converge in a gentle dance of water over rocks. Nearby, Daisy Valley blooms wild and untouched. Dad told me this is where freedom fighter Sardar Ajit Singh was cremated. History suddenly felt less like dates and more like stories.
Mountain mornings
Monastery silence
Roads & memories
The HPCA Stadium might be the most beautiful cricket ground in the world. Behind the pitch, the Dhauladhar range rises like a natural amphitheater. Even if you don't care about cricket, you care about this view.
The War Memorial is quiet in a different way. It holds the names of soldiers who gave everything for a country I was born in but grew up far from. Standing there, I felt the weight of distance—and the pull of belonging.
“You don’t leave the mountains. You carry them.”
When life gets loud again—and it will—I’ll close my eyes and remember the stillness. The way the mist hung over the valleys. The way the prayer flags danced without urgency. The way I felt held by something bigger than myself.
Somehow, I already knew. I’ll be back.
