The snow didn’t stop for three days. Shimla turned quiet again, the quiet that makes you notice how loud your own thoughts are.
Classes resumed on Thursday, but half the students didn’t show up. I went through my lecture on emotional cognition anyway, pretending not to mind.
Afterward, the department head mentioned that someone from Khanna & Co. had called. “Mr. Rayan Khanna invited the faculty to visit his restoration site this weekend,” she said, handing me a printed note. “He seems very… enthusiastic about local collaboration.”
I knew it wasn’t “faculty.” It was me.
I waited until Saturday afternoon to go. The snow had hardened into a thin crust that cracked under my boots. The sun had finally decided to show up, pale and cold.
When I reached the mansion, Rayan was outside, talking to one of his workers. He waved when he saw me.
“You actually came,” he said, sounding mildly surprised.
“You invited me,” I replied.
“People usually say yes and never show up. Guess you’re different.”
“I just don’t like wasting words,” I said.
He smiled, and that made me smile too.
He walked me around the site first. The place looked less like a ruin. The frames were repaired. A few walls were painted. The entry hall was cleared of dust. It already felt like something waking up slowly.
He talked about the building’s history. He mentioned the family who built it and how it had changed hands. Some rooms still carried a faint smell of old smoke. He spoke with the kind of attention you usually reserve for people, not places.
I liked listening. He didn’t fill silence just to fill it; he let it sit there until the next thought came naturally.
When we finished the tour, he asked if I’d like to stay for dinner.
“It’s nothing formal,” he said. “Just something warm before you head back.”
I should’ve said no. I didn’t.
The dining room had large windows facing the slope. Outside, the sky had gone dark again, snow glowing faintly under the porch lights. Inside, the table was simple—two plates, candles, soup that smelled like ginger and garlic.
He poured me water, then sat across from me.
“You live alone?” he asked.
“In Delhi, yes. Here it’s a guesthouse. So… technically, still yes.”
He nodded, as if he understood something deeper than what I said. “You like it that way?”
“I don’t dislike it,” I said. “It’s peaceful. No noise, no people asking where you’ve been.”
He smiled slightly. “Peace is underrated.”
We ate in comfortable silence for a while. He didn’t make small talk, and I didn’t feel like pretending to be overly polite. It was easy… unusually easy.
At one point, he leaned back and said, “You know, I read one of your papers. The one on behavioral repetition in emotional trauma.”
I looked up, surprised. “You did?”
“It was in a psychology journal online. You wrote about how we repeat situations to feel a sense of control over them.”
“That was a long time ago,” I said, suddenly aware of how quiet the room had become.
“It’s true, though,” he said. “We rebuild what breaks us, hoping to do it better next time.”
I didn’t know if he was talking about architecture or people. Maybe both.
After dinner, he offered coffee. I said yes, even though I don’t usually have it that late. He handed me a mug and stood near the window, looking out.
“Do you miss Delhi?” he asked.
“Sometimes. Mostly the noise.”
He turned around. “Noise keeps people company.”
“That’s one way to put it.”
He studied me for a second longer than normal. Then he smiled again, like he was filing something away in his head.
When it was time to leave, he insisted on walking me to the gate. The air was colder now, but not unbearable. We stood there for a moment, neither of us saying anything.
“Thanks for dinner,” I said finally.
“Thanks for showing up,” he said. “You don’t seem like someone who does that easily.”
I wasn’t sure what he meant, but I didn’t ask.
As I walked back toward the main road, I turned once to see if he was still there. He was—standing by the light, hands in his pockets, watching the snow again.
Something about that stillness stayed with me all night. Not the dinner, not the conversation. Just the way he looked at the world like he already knew what it was hiding.
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