So I did.
I packed my bags, left behind the noise of my thoughts, and boarded a bus from Delhi, chasing solitude and something unspoken, something I couldn’t quite name. The journey felt long yet liberating, the city lights fading into winding roads and sleepy villages, until finally, I reached Aut. From there, I hopped onto a humble Himachal Pradesh Tourism bus that took me up roads so narrow and mist-kissed that they felt like a secret passage into another world.
And then—Shoja.
The first breath I took there was different. Crisp, cold, untouched. The kind of air that makes you feel like you’re breathing for the very first time.
I checked into my hostel, a cozy little place where the walls carried stories of travelers past. But my first stop had to be somewhere warmer, somewhere quieter. I found myself at Ghar 1964, the cutest, most welcoming café tucked into the arms of the mountains. The hot chocolate I had there? Divine—rich, velvety, and warm, like a hug from an old friend. As I sipped, a playful dog curled up beside me, a book lay open on my lap, and the mountains stretched endlessly before my eyes. For the first time in a long time, I felt at peace.
Evening crept in like a soft lullaby. Back at the hostel, conversations sparked between strangers who didn’t feel like strangers at all. We decided to head to Firgun, another hostel, for dinner. And what a dinner it was—under a sky so alive with stars that it felt like the universe had laid itself bare just for us. There, surrounded by new friends and old silences, I let the mountains listen to the stories I wasn’t ready to say out loud.
The Swing That Touched the Sky
The next morning, before the sun had fully stretched its golden arms, I was on a bus to Jalori Pass. And there, by sheer luck or fate, I found a guide—an old soul who spoke of the mountains as if they were old friends. He led me through winding trails, whispering stories of the village, of spirits in the wind, of forgotten kings and ancient stones.
We trekked up to Raghupur Fort, a place where time stood still and the sky seemed closer than ever. And then, I saw it—a lone swing, hanging at the edge of the world.
I sat on it, and for a moment, as the wind pushed me higher and higher, I felt weightless. It was as if I was floating over the valley, dancing with the clouds, touching something infinite. I have never felt more alive.
With a heart full of something indescribable, I climbed down and rewarded myself with a steaming bowl of Maggi and coffee, watching kids play cricket on the mountain’s peak. Laughter echoed, the sun melted into the sky, and I realized—I was exactly where I was meant to be.
A Goodbye, but Not Really
As evening approached, I found myself back at Ghar 1964, reading, breathing, just being. I took a local bus to Aut and then the volvo bus back to Delhi. But this time, I wasn’t leaving as the same person who had arrived.
Shoja and Jibhi weren’t just places; they were lessons, they were whispers from the universe reminding me that even in solitude, I was never truly alone. That the mountains heal, that the cold air can cleanse, that sometimes, you have to lose yourself to find your way again.
Would I go back? In a heartbeat. But next time, not just for a weekend. Next time, I’d stay—a month, maybe more. I’d live with the locals, learn their stories, wake up to the mountains each morning, and let them teach me more about life than any city ever could.
Because some places don’t just steal a piece of your heart—they become a part of your soul.
And Shoja, oh, Shoja—you have mine.