Lekha by Leheja

The first thing I noticed about Shimla was the quiet. It was not the kind you get in big cities early in the morning. It was a thicker kind. It felt like the air itself wanted you to slow down.

The cab dropped me off near Ridge Road. The driver offered to wait while I checked into the guesthouse, but I told him not to. I wanted to walk a bit. The snow had just started, soft flakes that melted the second they touched my hair.

I dragged my suitcase along the slushy road, half-worried it would flip over in one of those uneven patches. Everything smelled faintly of pine. There was also something colder. It was the kind of air you feel in your chest before you breathe it in.

The guesthouse was small and old, painted a dull green that had peeled in places. A wooden board outside read “Oakview Residency.” It didn’t look like much. The man at the reception smiled when he saw me. That was enough.

“First time here?” he asked while writing my name in the register.

I nodded. “For work.”

He glanced up. “Teaching?”

“Yeah. Psychology department, short-term faculty.”

He smiled again, that polite Shimla kind of smile. “Good. It’s peaceful here. You’ll like it.”

I wanted to tell him that peace wasn’t really what I was looking for, but I let it go. People mean well when they say things like that.

My room was upstairs, facing a small valley. When I opened the window, cold air rushed in immediately, sharp, clean, and real. Down below, kids were throwing snowballs near a parked car. A dog barked once and joined in like it was part of the game.

I sat on the edge of the bed, looking at the steam rise from the heater. I should’ve felt some big excitement. There was nervousness, perhaps even pride for finally taking a break from Delhi. But mostly, I just felt still.

After a quick shower, I went out to walk before it got dark. Shimla looked different in the evening quieter, almost too quiet. The kind of place where you hear your own footsteps and start noticing the way your thoughts sound.

I stopped at a café near the ridge. Wooden chairs, yellow lights, people talking softly. I ordered coffee and found a seat by the window.

That’s when I first saw him.

He was sitting alone in the corner, a sketchbook open in front of him. His coat was dark. His hair was slightly messy. There was a calmness about him that didn’t fit the rest of the room.

I didn’t think much of it at first. People sit alone all the time. But there was something about the way he looked at the page. He was focused and patient, like he was waiting for it to give something back.

When the waiter brought my coffee, I caught him looking up for a moment. Our eyes met. Just for a second, there was no smile, no awkwardness. It was just that small recognition people share when they notice someone noticing them.

I looked away first.

Outside, the snow was falling harder now. The sound softened everything: cars, footsteps, even voices. The café lights reflected off the glass. For a while, it felt like I was inside a snow globe. Someone had forgotten to shake it.

I finished my coffee slowly, pretending to check my phone. When I finally looked up, he was gone. Only his empty cup and the half-closed sketchbook remained on the table.

I don’t know why I waited a few extra minutes before leaving. Maybe I was curious about what he’d been drawing. Or maybe I just liked the silence he left behind.

Either way, I remember thinking this place is going to change something.

Then I brushed it off. People always think that when they move somewhere new.