Tucked Away in the Memories of Mountains I Remember Being Perched On Dad’s Shoulders in My Canary-Yellow Parka

Dad would often quote “The beauty of Shimla is not just in the views, but in the moments that take our breath away.”

The mist is rising. I pull my navy blue wool cap down over my ears. The cold whoosh of winter filters through the redwoods, skimming the crystal-clear turquoise waters of Lake Tahoe. I hold my hands over a fire pit while children toast marshmallows for s’mores. We are at the Marriott Timber Lodge, tucked into the stunning alpine mountains—a sanctuary for the soul.

The memory of our walk along the tranquil lake’s shore invokes waves of deep reflection. As half-melted snow crunches underfoot and the aromatic scent of cedar tickles my nostrils, memories circle me back to a childhood spent under the gaze of another lofty mountain range: the Himalayas.

In my mind’s eye, I am not in the Kashmir Valley but on a sun-dappled ridge in Shimla. Shimla—the queen of India’s hill stations. The abode of Goddess Shyamala. A favorite retreat of both British colonials and Indians escaping the scorching plains. The scent of damp earth, wildflowers bursting through thawing soil—purple lupines, yellow wild mustards, white daisies, blue-eyed grass painting the slopes—it’s all tender. Nostalgic. Like nature opens a portal through the festooned evergreens, revealing twin souls. One is held in the Sierra Nevada, and the other is in the Himalayas.

Shimla was my dad’s Xanadu. In 1863, Shimla was the summer capital of British India and was also known as Chhoti Vilayat by locals. Dad loved taking us to all his familiar haunts. We’d walk along the hilltop Mall Road, bask in the gentle winter sun, and inhale the scent of cedar and toasted pine nuts. He called them chilgoza and offered us fistfuls of these delicious tree nuts.

I remember being perched on his shoulders in my canary-yellow parka—a little bird watching the valley cascade below, a saree of emerald green stretching for miles. I remember the name more than the grandeur of The Wildflower Hall—an Oberoi resort, once the residence of Lord Kitchener, commander-in-chief of the British army. Floor-to-ceiling views of the Himalayan panorama were beyond our reach then, but Shimla’s vistas could be enjoyed from any humble perch on the ridge. We stayed at Clarke’s hotel.

After picking up a tray of fresh Afghan cream rolls from Trishool Bakery, we’d amble into the famous Shimla Coffee House—an old-world, warm, wood-paneled establishment buzzing with familiar faces. Poets, journalists, artists, actors, diplomats, cousins, friends, neighbors—all in love with the vibe of Shimla. Dad exchanged pleasantries with so many people, shaking hands with his right while holding me with his left. My mother would admonish him to set me down. He’d laugh, finally settle into a booth, beaming with joy.

Fluffy clouds would drift into Dad’s room through his bedroom window.
Wind whispering through the deodars: Come back… Come back…

He’d order rounds of coffee, hot cocoa, and pastries dusted with sugar pearls. As we waited for the waiter in a white-liveried uniform to bring our order, Dad would tear off a piece of cream roll for me and pop the other half into his mouth. I can still taste the flaky pastry and fresh cream. When I see cream rolls now, I always buy some and share them in his honor. It’s become a sacred ritual.

Dad came to Shimla and Solan during the Partition of India in 1947—a lanky teenager from Lahore with spectacles and windswept curls. He was young. Full of dreams, love for Urdu poetry, and the pain of loss. Shimla became his sanctuary. The mountains shaped his will to survive. They weren’t just a refuge but a healing place. A haven. A hymnal. A hope.

Like so many displaced people, he arrived with nothing but dreams, a beating heart, a shared language, and a faith that inspired him to scale both real and metaphorical mountains. I never understood it then. But the familiar peace echoing in Lake Tahoe reminds me of the healing power of these cedar, juniper, and pine-covered slopes.

A place to pause. In vipassana. To be with oneself. In the refreshing air. Without devices. Just to be one with breath.

When I look at the tall cedars, their delicate leaves splayed against the blue sky, I hear a timeless call. I can’t tell if it’s from the deodars of Shimla or their Western Pacific cousins in Lake Tahoe. But the call comes. It is a clarion call.

Maybe it’s an urgent reminder from the home of snow—from Shiva’s abode, where Goddess Parvati requests him to tell the story of creation, but falls asleep when he begins to reveal the secret of the cosmos.

Or is it the echo of ancestral memory? Calling me to pen another poem?

Maybe it’s just my imagination.

But this morning, the light on Mount Diablo transformed my study into a lucent canvas.  A pair of blue whistling thrushes mocked a russet sparrow at the window. I woke up in a haste to write down a dream. Then got dressed to meet a friend for coffee in Walnut Creek. My friend is from Chandigarh and owns an apartment in Shimla overlooking the western peaks. She showed me photos—golden sunsets, snow-capped ridges turning pink at daybreak—the woodpecker and the Himalayan cuckoo exchanged gossip. I felt a deep tug. A yearning to sit on her balcony and offer my salutations to the rising sun. It all felt so surreal. Was I dreaming, or traveling in time?

I could almost hear the Kalka–Shimla toy train chugging along its narrow-gauge tracks, winding past rustic bridges and dark tunnels that made us shriek with delight. A journey into another world.

We talked about spending summers in Chandigarh. We didn’t have weather apps growing up. Just instinct. When cold winds hit the well-planned city, we’d all chime in unison: “It’s snowing in Shimla!”

Trips to Kufri, Chail, and to the Jakhu Temple—where Hanuman met Rishi Jakhu, who told him about the Sanjeevani Buti that revived Lakshman. The site of the tallest 108-feet Hanuman statue.

Yak rides. Rosy-cheeked children from Himachal Pradesh. Apple orchards are heavy with Golden Delicious fruit. Temple bells tolling at dawn and dusk.

Affordable, freshly made meals, served with a smile.
A swirl of soft-serve ice cream.
Concerts in the park.
Games of hide-and-seek.
Hours spent collecting acorns, pressed flowers, and leaves.
Storytime before sleep in small rooms with sloping roofs.

Fluffy clouds would drift into Dad’s room through his bedroom window.
Wind whispering through the deodars: Come back… Come back…

Tahoe has her flair. Gondolas and ice skating on snowy ridges. Funnel cakes and creamy coffee at dawn. Hikes around alpine lakes. The thrill of a bear sighting sends shivers up your spine. A glass of California wine at golden hour. An omnipresent beauty of high altitude.
A quiet bliss in a mountain lodge.

A home away from home.

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With one foot in Huntsville, Alabama, the other in her birth home, India, and a heart steeped in humanity, Monita Soni writes as a contemplative practice. She has published hundreds of poems, movie reviews, book critiques, and essays, and contributed to combined literary works. Her two books are My Light Reflections and Flow Through My Heart. You can hear her commentaries on Sundial Writers Corner, WLRH 89.3 FM.