Lohaghat

You don’t really arrive in Lohaghat. One minute you’re on a road that’s winding through pine trees, and the next, you’re here. There’s no big entrance. No noise. Just a slow shift like someone turned the volume down on the world.

There are towns that welcome you with lights. Lohaghat welcomes you with silence. And somehow, that’s more than enough.

Nothing rushes here. Not even the morning

You open your eyes before the alarm. Not because something wakes you. But because nothing does.

It’s cold. The blanket clings to your shoulders. You don’t want to leave it, but you also want to stand by the window. So you do both. Half-wrapped, half-shivering, you pull the curtain aside.

Outside, there’s a kettle whistling somewhere. A chulha (चूल्हा) burning. A voice calling a child softly. A door creaks open, slow like it’s still deciding.

The air smells of burnt wood and ghee (घी). Someone is making breakfast. And that’s your welcome.

You don’t follow directions. You follow the feeling.

There’s no real plan. You just walk. Down a lane where moss grows between cobblestones. Past a house with blue paint flaking off its gate. A woman is drying her long hair in the sun. A boy ties his schoolbag with a piece of cloth.

Nothing here asks to be photographed. So you don’t take out your phone. You pass an old man sitting on a bench. He’s not doing anything. Just sitting. You almost say good morning, but he already knows.

Someone mentions a fort, but that’s not why you go.

“You should go up to Banasur,” someone says. “It’s quiet there.” So you do.

Not because you’re curious. But because your feet want to keep walking, and the road feels like it wants company.

The trail is uneven. There’s no one around. Just the sound of your breath and the wind through deodar branches. When you reach the top, it’s not what you expect.

Just a few stones. Some fallen. Some are standing like they’re trying to remember something. There’s no plaque. No board. No story. But you sit. And that feels like the story.

At Abbott Mount, the sky feels older than time.

A path turns somewhere, and you find yourself at Abbott Mount. You didn’t plan to. You just drifted there.

Old bungalows. Iron gates. A church with its windows shut but not cold. No one around. Or maybe they’re just indoors. But it doesn’t feel abandoned. It feels… paused.

You sit on a bench. Paint peeling. Wood cracked. And the sky in front of you, not blue, not grey, just... still. Nothing moves. But nothing feels stuck. And for once, you’re okay not moving either.

The food is not special. That’s what makes it perfect.

You find a dhaba where the man behind the stove doesn’t speak much. He gestures to a bench. You sit.

There’s a plate. Roti. Aloo sabzi. A spoonful of ghee (घी). Nothing fancy. You eat. The food doesn’t try to impress you. But it feels like someone made it for you. Not because you’re a guest. But because you’re here. That’s all.

You ask how much.

He shrugs. “जो ठीक लगे” (Whatever you think is fair).

You leave more than what it probably costs. He nods. That’s it.

The afternoon is slower than the morning. And warmer.

The sun stretches across rooftops. Shadows soften. A radio plays somewhere, old music. Maybe Lata. Maybe Jagjit. You don’t know. But the voice fits.

You pass a temple. No pujari. No crowd. Just a diya (दीया) flickering even though there’s no wind.

A group of women walks by with bundles of wood balanced on their backs. One of them laughs. The others don’t say anything. But their silence is not empty. You sit on a low stone wall. Watch a cow nibble on something invisible.

The sky starts changing colour.

Evening doesn’t fall. It folds itself around you.

The lights come on, not all at once. One window. Then another. A bulb flickers outside a small shop. Inside, a boy is pouring milk into steel glasses.

The smoke rises again. This time it smells sweeter,  maybe someone’s burning leaves. Or maybe just making halwa. You wrap your shawl tighter. Walk slower. Everything is dim, but nothing is dark.

And for the first time in a long time, you don’t feel like you need to check your phone. Or talk to anyone. Or post a picture.

You just want to be here. Quiet.

You don’t take anything. But something stays with you.

The next morning, you pack. There’s no rush. No goodbye to be said. You walk past the same bench. The same blue gate. The same dhaba. The old man is there again. Sitting. This time, he looks at you and smiles.

You smile back.
 

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