The Graceful Rebellion of Snow

My friend Ajay and I were lost. Even in this day and age, we had managed to lose our way. Our rented bike looked at us with utter disgust and disappointment. Dusk was fast approaching, so we headed to the nearest village called Chakrata. The road was a voluptuous and unpredictable single lane, accompanied throughout by precipitous falls. Traffic was non-existent. The stunning views were ours alone.

Chakrata welcomed us with overcast skies and a chilly breeze. We walked through the main street, lined with an array of shops and vendors, which connected the entire village. The sun hung low, painting the sky in hues of red. Temperature had plummeted. We had to find a place to stay. There were no hotels or guesthouses. The wine shop owner guided us to a tailor who had extra lodging. It was not too hard to find him. He was an affable old man. His archaic shop sat beside his modest home. We exchanged pleasantries and he told us about the lodging. Our countenance spoke volumes about our situation and he had read it perfectly. We ascended a narrow staircase which, like the road leading up to Chakrata, was meant for one-way traffic only.

The room was bigger than we expected. It housed four single cots, mounted with thick white quilts. The highlight of the room, however, were the three front-facing windows, overlooking the expansive mountains. It was an absolutely charming sight. We left our bags in the room and decided to explore the streets. Tall Deodar trees gazed nonchalantly at us. We had dumplings and a steaming bowl of soup for dinner. Afterwards, we continued our little excursion.

As darkness settled, a solemn beauty took over. The entire village was wrapped in a golden glow, radiating from the shops and the occasional street lights. We walked till our legs ached. And then we went back to our room, stared outside the window for far too long, and just as peacefully, went to sleep.

Ajay woke me up the next morning. “Look,” he said, pointing towards the window. Outside, the streets that we had walked upon last night, were simmering with the magic of fresh snow. It fell effortlessly; meandering along the way, and finally touching the ground. It was all happening outside our window. Yet, it seemed other-worldly. I was enchanted; beholden by the sight in front of me. Each snowflake found its own way to reach the ground. The journey of the fall surmised the lifespan of the snowflakes. Some fell gracefully, some catapulted by a gust of wind followed a circuitous route, some, in a fit of rebellion, refused to touch the ground altogether. They planted themselves on Deodar leaves, rested atop walking umbrellas, and struck hard against my glass window, trickling down the window pane and resting indefinitely within the sill. Quite a rebellion.

Somehow, I forced myself away from the window and put on my shoes. I descended the narrow staircase, which for me, was now a gateway to bliss. I opened the door and stood mesmerized. An ocean of white had taken over. There is a certain grace to the falling snow when it returns after its year-long absence. The locals walked around the street, shielded with colourful umbrellas, almost oblivious to the graceful and rebellious journey of snow. Maybe for them, it was an ordinary event, even a nuisance. But for me, a 22-year-old who had never witnessed snow-fall before, it was spell-binding. I felt elated, emotional, and weightless; weightless as if I too, were part of the graceful rebellion of snow.