Dharamshala: Same Mountains, Two Journeys

The first time I went to Dharamshala, I thought it would be a one-off thing. A sweet little getaway, neatly wrapped and stored away in the memory box. But mountains,  especially the ones that hold the sky the way the Dhauladhar does,  have their own plans.

I was with my husband that first time, and both of us needed a pause far more than we allowed ourselves to say. The drive up from Gaggal airport was like stepping out of the noise of life, one curve at a time. By the time we reached Dharamkot, even our silence felt comfortable.

Cars can’t take you all the way to Eagle’s Nest,  you have to walk the last bit. At first, I mentally cursed whoever thought a fifteen-minute uphill climb was a good vacation idea. But somewhere halfway up, the pines started whispering and the valley began revealing itself… and suddenly the climb felt like an initiation into calm.

The days there didn’t rush. They stretched, like the mountains asked time to slow down and behave.

We trekked to Triund, me bargaining with my legs, him pretending he wasn’t tired — and at the top, the clouds came so close, it felt as if we could borrow a piece of sky. But the universe knows how to keep things interesting, and on our way down, the clouds opened up. Rain. Slippery stones. That thrilling fear of one bad step. And far below, McLeod Ganj twinkling like scattered galaxies, as though the town itself was cheering us on.

We slipped and squealed our way through Bhagsu Falls another day, a beautiful mess of cold spray, laughter, and mild panic.

By then, we had earned a slow morning. So we decided to go slow, very slow. The cozy library lounge at Eagle’s Nest became our nest for the day. I curled up with my current read while also browsing through the bookshelves, completely fascinated by their wonderfully curated collection. Time stretched, tea refilled itself, and for once in life there was nowhere to rush to.

Later, that same leisurely mood led us to simply wander down to McLeod Ganj, following prayer flags, food smells, and curiosity wherever they led.

Nights had their own magic there.

One evening, we heard faint music, followed it, and ended up at a little hillside festival, fairy lights overhead, strangers dancing as if they’d known each other forever.

Another night, we tucked ourselves into Moonlight Café, warm cake, cold air, and the kind of quiet that wraps you like a blanket.

Also Read: Meghalaya- A Journey Through Nature’s Wonderland

And then came the evening.

A short walk from Eagle’s Nest… a ridge where the entire range shows off its sunset. The sky turned liquid gold, the peaks glowed like fire, and his hand found mine without a word. Some moments don’t need narration, they just stay.

Somewhere in between all of this, the Dalai Lama Temple gave us a different kind of stillness, prayer wheels spinning gently under our palms, as though helping us unload things we no longer needed to carry.

When we left, I thought the story was complete.

But months later…

I was packing again, same mountains,  different heartbeat.

This time, it was a girls’ trip. The kind that begins with a group chat that refuses to be silent. The Hyatt welcomed us like royalty and we acted accordingly, slow mornings, long showers, oversized breakfasts, and laughter that echoed through hallways.

Returning to the Dalai Lama Temple felt like déjà vu, but with giggles, selfies, and a lot more colour. Lunch stretched into a marathon conversation at Morgan’s Place. Tibet Kitchen gave us steaming momos and a warmth that had nothing to do with the weather.

Then there was shopping. It wasn’t about what we bought, it was about the glitter in someone’s eye when they tried something on and we yelled “YES, this is so YOU!” The joy was communal ,the kind that only happens when women hype each other up without restraint.

Also Read: Where the Mountains Healed Me

But the nights…

The nights were where everything happened.

A corner seat at the Hyatt bar, clinking glasses, stories that made us wheeze with laughter, the playful chaos of friendships that feel like home.

Later, one friend’s room became our campfire, blankets, soft lights, honest hearts. We talked until every last thought found air.

If the first trip helped me hear my heartbeat,
this one made it dance.

Same mountains.
Same wind brushing the hair off my face.
Same prayer flags fluttering above winding roads.

But the story had changed,  because I had.

That’s the thing about places. They stay.
We evolve.

From love that speaks in quiet gestures…
to friendship that roars with joy…
Dharamshala now holds both chapters for me.

A pause button on life —
and a play button on joy.