It’s almost weird how nearly everything associated with travel invokes nostalgia in some form,
Whether it’s the overloaded suitcase gasping through the tight straps, housing the fresh swimsuit, boots from yesteryear’s snow, or saving up autumn’s postcard souvenir for eager eyes that await on the other side.
I have long believed that even immaterial things live by a perspective; they too experience everything with the same vigor as us.
Like railway stations, they too bear witness to it all.
The tight hugs of long-awaited reunions, the welling up of eyes as the engine starts,
the anxious searches in the crowd, and an optimistic hope that accompanies each farewell, as if reassuring that life’s journey is metaphorically destined to accompany them to the station of hope.
…..
As we disembarked from the renowned toy train ride at the bustling tourist hub of Shimla, breakfast became our initial escape of choice.
Contrary to the bustling crowds that fill the space, culinary stops were a rare sight.
In a corner of the station, we noticed a weathered sign that read “Canteen,” with a door of unwiped glass, a decaying wooden relic hinting at the vitality thriving within.
Upon entering this space, we realized its distinct contrast from the chaos outside:
Quiet, homely, and radiating a comfort beyond description.
A young man in his twenties occupied one corner, engrossed in playing with an origami bird. He managed to utter a few halting words to notify his older brother of the arriving customers.
His brother, presumably older by about four years, offered a fractured smile before returning to sorting through the collection of bills and coins that seemed to have resided in the drawer for ages.
A gentleman in his 60s, I presumed, walked in and warmly greeted us, inquiring if the daily staple from their menu would suffice.
We consented to the meal of comfort, and he retreated to the kitchen, the only other room within the establishment.
This scene could be set in the 1980s, a quintessential Himachali kitchen, as some would term it. We observed the elderly man approach his wife in the kitchen, whispering to her about the early-morning guests (us, obviously). She peeked through the window, casting a quick glance at us, and signaled to her assistant, who counted the chapatis on her fingers.
Through the weathered glass of the window, we witnessed the exchange of smiles shared by the elderly couple, the warmth with which they brewed the tea, and the essence of love that filled the air— Not romantic love, but the kind that can only reside in a bond of pure affection and care.
As she heated the tea and he arranged the condiments, the children busied themselves with preparing for the day, exchanging words, glances, and fits of laughter amid their ordinary lives, possibly in a modest existence but content, living day by day.
While the primary focus should have been on the food and the delicacies this charming place had to offer, The slower pace of life and the joy found in the small things claimed the most cherished space in the memory box.
These little joys accumulate into life’s meaningful moments; they numb the pains or sorrows that occupy larger proportions.
It’s in experiences like these that one learns to truly appreciate life
With those who share it, those who work hard to make it special, And those who ensure they bring a smile to your face while wiping away your tears…
Ooh and did I mention?
Amidst this family of unique souls, each of them embraced special challenges of being differently abled
And yet they waltz through life’s rhythm, finding harmony in small joys, interlaced.
Here’s a picture of the food that filled me more than my appetite could ask for :