The biting air of December in the Himalayas had a distinct, clean scent - pine, woodsmoke, and the promise of fresh snow. I had chosen a remote village in Himachal for New Year, escaping the clamour of the city for a quiet, authentic celebration. On New Year’s Eve, the village was a frosted postcard, its wooden houses clinging to the hillside, roofs dusted with white. I spent the afternoon simply strolling, letting my footsteps be the only sound in the narrow, winding lanes.
The beauty was mesmerising. Every corner offered a panoramic view of snow-capped peaks against a brilliant blue sky. As I paused to admire the intricate wood carvings on a centuries-old home, a soft voice broke the silence.