Held by Fog, Healed by Silence in Fagu

Time is sometimes gentle, sometimes unforgiving. Since March, life had begun to unravel on many fronts both in my personal and family life but perhaps the most frightening thing was my health issue: swelling in all my joints which started with the right ankle in feburary had now moved to my elbows and knees. It was stubborn and unrelenting and I could find no cure despite repeated visits to doctors. It felt as though divine forces were conspiring against me. My friends rallied around me—calling, taking time to talk, accompanying me to doctor visits, and suggesting remedies. My lifeline was not my family, but Dilip Shankar, with whom I had reconnected with in March at the Centre for Creative Expression after years apart. His gentle guidance helped me make sense of what was unfolding in my life.

I did my best to gather myself. I rested, but I was far from well—mentally and physically drained. Most days, I lay down, my elbow in such pain I couldn’t even lift a phone. Walking more than ten minutes worsened the swelling. I tried everything to recover—meditation, massage oils, and homeopathy. The turning point felt near, yet I remained unwell.

Amidst the turmoil, I received a call from an old friend in Toronto. I was surprised to hear a familiar voice after years. The friendship, decades old. We planned a trip. I explained my health condition but felt that the Himalayas might offer calming balm to my battered body. We travelled—a mix of trains and taxis—and arrived in Shimla.

Why Shimla? I had long wished to visit both shimla and Kufri, my mother’s hometown after Partition. She often spoke fondly of skiing on Kufri’s hills, walking along Mall Road in the biting cold of winter, and warming herself with an angithi beneath her phiran. Perhaps she was the only person who truly loved and cared for me.

It was raining when we arrived in Shimla. We were frozen, shivering under lashing rain and strong winds. I stayed in a tony hotel on the Ridge—my only requirement was a view. In the evening, as twilight fell, Shimla lit up beneath the dark sky. It felt like heaven. I drank jamun gin—a must-try recommendation—and smoked many cigarettes, watching the morning sun rise on the horizon.I slept most days while my friend explored the town. I had no interest in tourism. Our evenings were quiet: slow walks along the Ridge, local chai, and food from modest stalls.

The next day, we set off for Kufri. I was emotional, to say the least. As we climbed the winding roads in a bumpy four-wheel drive, I stared out at the hills, hoping to feel some kind of reconnection with my mother. But the moment never came and I couldn't connect to her suprisingly grief never overtook me either. Around us, tourists were dressed in traditional Himachali outfits, and my friend encouraged me to join in—try one on and dance. I did. It brought back memories of our nights at the “Besharam“, nightclub,  in Toronto. I remember little; my friend remembers most of my dance moves. After the obligatory twirls and laughter, we tucked into hot pakoras and chai before making our way back down.

The following day, we went to Mashobra. The Presidential Retreat was a beautiful old Victorian building. I was immediately taken by its classic English charm—silver chandeliers, high-backed carved chairs, heavy velvet drapes, and polished wooden floors that creaked with history. The house exuded a quiet dignity, a place with true soul.

Later, we drove to Wildflower Hall Hotel. It had been spoken of often by my old boss, Tarun Vij at PATH, who took his wife there in a Mercedes every year. I had heard his bragging for four years. Many wealthy Delhiites had also mentioned it—an elite retreat, seen as a mark of prestige if you could afford to stay there independently or through generous corporate discounts.

The moment I stepped inside, a wave of recognition hit me. This was the old Himachal guest house where we had stayed as a family in the early 1980s. Back then, it had a rustic charm, run by Himachal Tourism with simple furnishings and unassuming warmth. Today, under the Oberoi Group, it had transformed into a polished luxury hotel—plush carpets, gilded mirrors, grand fireplaces, and curated antiques adorned the rooms. Yet, for all its opulence, something vital was missing. The spirit of the place, the warmth and soul of its earlier self, had vanished. I was sorely disappointed. After lunch, we quietly left for Fagu.

Fagu is a tiny town about two hours away from Shimla where nothing exists. Kohra or fog surrounds it most days. Our Himachali hosts welcomed us warmly. I was charmed by the cottage—with its 360-degree views of the Himalayan ranges and a small garden.

Each day, I sat inside or outside, simply watching the clouds—a meditation suggested by Osho. My mind calmed as I observed the ever-changing spectacle before me. Clouds touching, departing, reforming with wind and light. Like life: a burst of emotion, a passing moment, a reunion, a parting and relalignment. The sky absorbed it all, silent and witnessing. I ate local food, sipped tea, and read books I had long wanted to. Silence came—and somehow, it healed me. Sometimes the best thing one can do is withdraw and let things be. My swelling started subsiding a bit.

As I reflected, I realized that selfishness has appeared in my life in many forms—through people I have encountered on this life's journey. Some sought me out only when they were bored, broken or lost, leaning on me for emotional support. I held space for their pain, helped them through their darkness—only to be forgotten once their lives improved. Not a single call or message. It was as if I ceased to exist once my usefulness had run out, a mere flicker in the memory of time. Others—like my sibling and parents—have treated me as a convenient caregiver for decades, without recognition or gratitude. That kind of taking wears on the soul.

And yet, amidst this, I have also been blessed. Life has gifted me with friends, both old and new, who have embraced me with open arms and been a lifeline during difficult times. They remind me that not all connections are one-sided, and that true support exists and one is a family we are born in and one we create. I suppose life teaches us through both hardship and grace—offering difficult lessons and unexpected blessings along the way.

The journey to Fagu was exactly what I needed. It offered a quiet retreat from the noise of betrayal and fatigue. In Fagu’s soft fog and sweeping Himalayan vistas, there was no need for words or explanations. The silence itself was healing. The air held a stillness Each morning, I sat wrapped in a shawl, sipping tea, watching the clouds drift and reshape themselves, as if nature were gently teaching me how to let go and begin again.

What struck me most was the sense of community—a quiet but powerful belonging. People cared for one another without pretence. At a simple Himachal wedding, even as complete strangers, we were welcomed with open arms. The host loaned us clothes, smiles came easily, food was shared generously, and dogs stretched out in the sun, resting peacefully. Life was hard here, but slow and rooted. People rose with the sun and gathered by the fire at night. There was rhythm, connection, and grace in their way of being. A part of me couldn’t help but wish I had not been lucky to be born here  but at least I could die here. As I returned to Delhi I thanked my friend that we did this trip together it was what my soul needed.