The Second Snowfall

On witnessing joy instead of just feeling it.

23rd Jan 2026. Himachal Pradesh.

I wouldn’t have thought of a moment like this ever in my life had I not lived it. As a young girl, I always dreamt of witnessing snowfall live and raw, and this dream came true a few years ago when I was in Kedarkantha. I thought that was it. I can’t feel it any other way. I presumed everyone felt the same. Showering under soft, cold cotton candy, feeling dreamy and heavenly uplifted in the moment, made it so surreal.

But nature whispered. Under the constellation of billions of stars, where the sky moves constantly, where unknown winds land in the tiniest corners, where you unearth new events, invent foods, and discover new species, the world drags itself forward, where everything changes – how, in cosmic events, would a human feel the same?

As I woke up to the distant sound of yelling and shouting, unusual for where I stay, I pulled the curtains from the window, and I saw a few kids throwing snow at each other on one of the terraces. They were exhilarated, their teeth matching the fallen snow.

There’s something about how you feel seeing others in their truest, happiest and brightest form.

I stood there watching the kids living their innocent times - a slow-burning realisation of missed opportunity hitting me hard, thinking, ‘This is how I should have enjoyed my first snow.’

The urge scaled within me from top to bottom. I desperately wanted to be out and see how my fellow neighbours felt. But as soon as I opened the front door, a heap of ice blocked my way. For the next couple of hours, I scraped the ice from my doorway.

Then, I decided to walk.

My first stop was to my aunty’s kitchen (know her here). I saw her standing by the kitchen window, admiring the beauty that she couldn’t witness for four years. She stood there singing alone – a local Himachali song, which I could barely understand. She didn’t realise my arrival, and I didn’t nudge her either. After a few moments of witnessing her rendition of joy, I left silently.

As I walked through the exotic wonderlands of the village, a few middle-aged women smiled and giggled in their exuberance, putting tikka on each other. For a brief moment, I reckoned with their existence in awe. Another realisation flowed into me – a celebration of connection.

Until I reached my final destination, I couldn’t understand how grand an event is of the snow falling for these villagers. It’s the same cafe cum homestay where I spend most of the time writing, thinking and contemplating. But today, none of that mattered. A story was already unfolding in front of my eyes. Men and women from the village gathered here to have yet another form of celebration. In one corner, a young group of men opened the beers; in the kitchen, some men and women were engaged in adult conversation, deep-frying the puris simultaneously; some were clearing the ice from the lane; some were preparing to make the sweets; and some gathered around the fire in the centre.

That morning, before I woke up from the bed, I read a few lines by Marcus Aurelius – “The greatest blessings of mankind are within us and within our reach.” When I stood there in that room watching people in the embrace of each other’s presence, I understood what Marcus said. In that moment, I realised these are the people who have witnessed snow ever since their birth, yet their longing and delight could kill that of a first-timer.

I took some time to analyse my own feelings about that day.

I have been blessed to live in the environment of this joy every single day in many unrecognisable forms. Perhaps I forgot to be grateful. The day when I was under the spell of snow for the first time was special. But the day spent in the village, marvelling at it with the locals, was one of the most terrific experiences of my life.

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If you want to hear a Himachali folk song, here’s one of my favourites. I would recommend rereading the post, playing the music in the background. Let me know how you feel. :)

Dhudu Nacheya