Shimla diaries

In Shimla, the bustling hill station nestled in the Himalayas, my small business hardly gives me any peace. Perhaps some passersby see me on the Mall Road and feel a twinge of pity, though I remain blissfully ignorant of it. The worries that come with running my modest shop wrap themselves around my mind like the swirling mountain mist, causing my brow and temples to ache, yet without the promise of satisfaction due to the modest scale of my venture.

I have to plan my arrangements hours in advance: jogging the memory of the errand boy who is distracted by the tourists, repeatedly reminding him of the precise things to fetch from the Lower Bazaar. There’s always the worry of mistakes—the wrong color, size, or item—and the ever-present need to predict what the next season's visitors might fancy. The challenge isn’t just about knowing the tastes of the locals in Shimla, but guessing the whims of those from distant places, visiting the hills for a brief respite.

My money, earned with such effort, is in the hands of strangers—tourists who come and go with the seasons. I have no idea about their circumstances or what unforeseen events could affect them, which could, in turn, affect me. Some might leave in haste, abandoning a promised payment, off to Delhi or perhaps to a new life in America, stopping by for one last hurrah in some café overlooking the valley, the setting sun casting long shadows on their fleeting farewells.

When I close my shop in the evening—its shutters rattling against the wooden frames as I lock them—I face an endless stretch of time where I can do no more to meet the relentless demands of my business. The morning's excitement, which had once carried me forward with hope, returns like a wave crashing back, and I'm helpless, swept away by its force. My tired body moves automatically, carrying me down the cobbled paths that wind through the town.

And yet, this sudden release of time is of no use to me. My face and hands are soiled with the grime of the day; my clothes, stained with dust from unpacking goods; and my boots, scratched by the rough boards of crates. I walk as if on a wave, clicking the fingers of both hands, stroking the hair of childr

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en who dart past me on their way home. It’s a short distance to my house—too short, really. I reach it almost immediately, opening the gate to my small cottage tucked away from the main road.

Inside, I step into a creaking, old elevator—the kind with an iron grill that needs to be pulled shut by hand. As soon as the elevator door clangs closed, I find myself suddenly and completely alone. Other people, who live in the newer hotels or larger houses, climb staircases or walk down hallways before they reach the solitude of their rooms. But I am alone the moment I enter this narrow, rattling cage, peering at my own tired reflection in the small, foggy mirror.

As the elevator ascends slowly, I whisper to the reflections of imagined crowds, my voice barely louder than the hum of the old machinery:  

"Be still, all of you; step back, if you will, into the shade of the pine trees, behind the curtains of the old British bungalows, into the shelter of the tall deodar trees."

I speak through my teeth as I watch the walls of the elevator shaft slide by, the dim lights of each landing casting brief shadows like water cascading over stones.

“Fly away; let your wings, which I have never seen, carry you to some quiet village in the valley or off to Paris, if that is where your fancy takes you. But don’t forget to enjoy the view from the Ridge when the crowds gather and refuse to budge for one another, intermingling as they pass by, recreating the open square with their bustling energy.”

“Wave your scarves, laugh at the children selling trinkets, and marvel at the echoes of the laughter of young men climbing Jakhoo Hill. Go on, follow the unassuming traveler who looks lost, and when he turns a corner, let your laughter echo down the winding lanes. The stray dogs might bark, but they will soon settle back down, knowing that the empty streets belong to the night.”

I reach my floor, pull open the heavy iron gate, and step out. The evening air, cooler now with the sun long gone, brushes against my face. I send the elevator back down with a press of a button, ring the doorbell, and the maid opens the door as I murmur, "Good evening."