It was past seven in the evening. The light was leaving the hills. In front of my hotel balcony, the scarlet of rhododendron blooms was being obscured by a fluid, purposeful fog. Lights pricked out vaguely along the road, dogs barked incessantly, a stiffish breeze jangled wind chimes somewhere. The streets began to look ghostly: the residents of Pelling had left them to their devices and retired for the night. It was, to my nostalgic mind, a scene out of a Dev Anand movie from the ’60s — any minute now, the dapper hero would emerge from the haze as he did once on the streets of mist-enveloped Shimla and pace the pavements crooning “Tu kahaan, ye bataa”, searching the casements for his beloved. That was Pelling.