While I was cleaning my home on a Sunday afternoon, one of my closest friends came to meet me. When we got to chatting and talking, she revealed, “I am travelling to Spiti. Will you accompany me? It will be fun. Everything has already been booked with Thrillophilia. All you

“I can’t believe I forgot my jacket!” my brother exclaimed, shivering as the chilly winds of Spiti swept over us. We were standing near the picturesque Key Monastery, and his dramatic antics had everyone in splits.  My dad, always the savior, pulled out an extra shawl from his bag,

Surabhi’s father had always been a man of stories. On quiet evenings in their Delhi home, he would hum an old Himachali folk tune and think about a time when life was simpler, slower, and full of possibilities. The melody had no lyrics - just an expressive and lifting