Speak the Poem, Write Your Own

The place I cannot forget is a small hill village called Lansdowne, three hours from my home in Dehradun. We went there in October 2025, the week after my Class IX exams ended.

My uncle, who has visited every hill station in Uttarakhand, suggested it because most tourists skip it for Mussoorie. I went with my parents, my younger brother, and my uncle himself — a small group, which turned out to be the whole point.

We packed light — warm jackets, walking shoes, a thermos of hot tea — because my uncle insisted we'd want to walk everywhere. No itinerary, no booked tours.

We stayed in a small wooden guesthouse run by a retired army officer, with a verandah that faced the eastern hills. Every morning we ate parathas and pickle on that verandah while the mist lifted from the valley below.

On the last evening, we walked up to a small WWII memorial at the top of the hill. The wind was sharp; the names on the stone were faded. My uncle, who rarely speaks of his own service, stood quietly for a long time. We didn't say anything. That silence is the part of the trip I cannot forget.