I didn’t go to Shimla chasing snow.
Or sunsets.
Or photos with hashtags.

I just packed a bag, threw in some old tees, my camera, and a book on novel writing that I hadn’t touched in months. Delhi felt too loud that week — too full of people asking how far I’d come. I didn’t know what to tell them. Shimla wasn’t an answer. It was an escape route.

The room was small, wooden, honest. No view. No fancy lobby jazz. But the bed was warm, and the windows let the cold in slowly — like truth creeping into a tired mind.

That morning, I made myself a cup of chai in silence.
No alarms.
No calls.
Just the soft click of my camera bag’s zipper, the weight of solitude, and the surprising comfort of being alone without feeling lonely.

The tripod lay by the bed, unused. Not every moment wants to be captured. Some just want to breathe with you. Like the steam rising from the cup. Like the unread pages beside it. Like the pause between waking up and checking your phone — when you remember you’re more than your to-do list.

I sat there. With chai. With myself.
And for once, it was enough.

Travel doesn’t always ask you to explore the outside.
Sometimes it just lends you a quiet room — so you can explore the inside.

— from The Inner Notebook