It’s famously said that the British favoured Kasauli over its twin hill town, Shimla. And though Shimla remains a popular choice till date, the old world charm, the quintessential quaint feel that Kasauli has to it remains a winner.
There are no ever expanding markets, or Mall Roads, like all the other hill towns. The market here, though referred to as The Mall, takes hardly 30 minutes to scour through.
Christ Church that stands right by the winding road that takes you to the Sunset Point is a beauty in shambles. It might be ill maintained but the haunting beauty reminded me of Miss Havisham of Great Expectations. Like the old lady who died in her bridal gown, waiting for her lover, this church seems like a gentle reminder of an era long gone.
Up the road, towards the Sunset Point, there seems to be a flurry set loose. A flurry of silence; silence that’s so engrossing that it speaks to you. Well, almost. The rustle of leaves, pine against wind, sal against wind, violet wild flowers against the wind, and yes, those pink flowers that swayed, close to the ground.
I could hear them all.
So entrancing was the sound of silence that every single leaf that touched the ground created a ripple, a ripple of sound waves.
You could actually see it spreading.
Just like a pebble thrown in the calm, still lake water.
The sun that was dipping down the horizon had everything bathed in orange, a very different orange. Disrupted by stark browns, dark greens, shocking pinks and more, the whole valley seemed to be on fire.
With soldiers donning different colour caps trying to put it out. The charm of the sunset that evening was such that one could talk to oneself.
Conscience, some call it.