Kalpa where tranquillity takes over turmoil

It's around 2 in the afternoon and we've just reached Kalpa — a slow, sun-drenched town, tucked into the hills of Kinnaur. We have arrived from Reckong Peo, all worn-out, yet my gaze remains fixated on the gigantic mountains I had always yearned to see.

On way to our hotel, we come across a herd of yaks trying to cross a lane amidst a group of school kids heading back home. Despite the biting winds, we are savouring every stunning detail, trying not to miss any aspect of the beauty all around.

Finally arriving at our hotel, a Kinnauri architecture-inspired retreat among lofty deodars, I grab my luggage but my eyes remain glued to the breath-taking scenery around.

A little later, my sister and I find a bench in the hotel’s open area and indulge in the serenity surrounding us. Soon, an old lady takes a seat nearby, her warm smile inviting conversation. "Kahan se aaye ho aap log?" (Where are you from), she asks. I tell her that we've come from Chandigarh via Sarahan (Shimla), where we visited the Bhimakali temple. She is curious to know if we witnessed the Dasehra festivities there. I excitedly share how we got to witness the local deity, being carried on a decorated palanquin.

Suddenly her gaze shifts towards the mountains, and she says excitedly: Let me show you something... that's Kinner Kailash (Kinnaur Kailash). She grabs my arm, trying to show the peak, and pulling us closer to the view. Kinner Kailash reveals itself in all its glory, and we're simply awestruck. We sit there for good half an hour before heading back to our room.

Later in the evening, I pull back the curtains and glance out of the window. Suddenly I see a bright, ginormous moon peeping out from behind the giant peaks. The moment feels like the world has paused for its own moon-lit portrait.

At that moment, Kalpa feels like a whole world unto itself. Everything slows here: the locals move with an unhurried grace; and the mountains make you impervious to the outer turmoil.

And in the profound, crisp silence, the only thing left to measure is the quiet beating of your own heart.

Girinandini Sharma, Chandigarh