Diwali comes from the Sanskrit word Deepawali, which means “row of lamps”. It is celebrated during the darkest night of the year, although it is a festival of lights.

The night we got there, it was dark, but we had seen plenty of lights on the way. The lights of Solan and other shanty little towns from twilight to darkness, blinking like long buried stars of my soul. I had come here before. It was different then, more innocence, more confidence. I was all of seven and mother must have been in her thirties. We were poor, and she took me by foot to this rich and affluent school. I remember that morning, the little Sanawar on the way up the hill, and then the grand Lawrence School Sanawar. School was no big deal, but little vignettes of nostalgia are the stuff magic is made up of, in part.

Shimla, the autumn of two thousand and a nine, it left… what a time it was! She was unique and no other girl was taking me to my soul where true love is pure, and pure love is true, she did; now you have to understand what I mean the Shimla hills did. She was the ripe age for the heart. So 22 years later I come with broken wings and a soul on the flame, as we thought her to be and she proved to be worthy of the claim.

The bus ride from Dharampur, where we got off last, was the distance between 1600 hrs and 2100 hours, something like that, with cold air, huddled together in the last row window seat on the conductor’s side -- the side people got off and on about a dozen times, with people almost falling over on us, the cold was a trifle uneasy for both of us. We had a few photos clicked, and I conveyed that in this point of time, we were together; there was plenty of excitement and fun as the autumn chill came in through the window and the rickety, old door, which was open for travellers through the length of the journey.

The host assured us that Shimla would be without crackers and he was right, it was peaceful all day. We walked into the fresh air like the first swallow of water after a day in the desert; we needed this fresh air, this mountain breeze and forests of pine trees. There was a spring in the walk, I asked her if she would like this weather in Delhi, and guess what she answered?

This house we thought was special, personally it takes me to Italy, especially those staircases with wilting wood fences, a clothesline cutting across over and above the classic staircase. The triangulation with the use of tin, like a picture from a fairytale, this was decrepit, but it still held its own. Rusted, old tin hoardings and scrap to cover the body of the house like makeshift windows or even the façade.

At the end of the crowded market place is a striking old Islamic dome, sitting upon a grey cone stalk stone; it seemed classic and out of place, stretching from Satwik Sweets.

We walked up to the ridge for the first time on this trip, it was like reaching out into the open after hours of climbing as the expanse spreads out before you; the air was crisp and we were refreshed.

We took snaps near the statue of Indira Gandhi and that overlooked the valley below; it was for the forever.

We explored the church. Nest day being Sunday, we could catch the mass; now every time I see a church, I get into a tizzy to fall into my soul with choir, since I was besotted by it in Cambridge a few years ago; little did I know that was the beat choir in all of England, and here sadly but understandably, the soul is dislocated for foreign nationals like me, because hymns and sermons are now in Hindi, damn! So we know that we would be here at noon and then rush to the other hill after that before we lost the great sun, where my mother was once a scholar. We took a photo outside the church anyway, and behind the church is the Ritz — the cinema hall.

At dusk, we rushed back from Lakkad Bazaar, just running through the seventies market, exploring one shop for gifts or maybe two. We picked up a shawl for her; it was a steal. We raced back in no time, compared to the morning that seemed a little close to endless — getting from Chaura Maidan to The Mall. The night was approaching, the evening had set in, I realised in a flash, and it felt like walk in the park, not the ordeal of the morning. It is a beautiful walk; you came down the ridge that opens into The Mall again. The Mall was lit up for Diwali like a quite fanfare, the hustle bustle was a whisper – delicate stuff. The town lights, captured the imagination; she turned to stop and catch a snap, I thought, well so would I like to, but it was enough that she was having fun with photography. I took a real photo of her taking the photo, who knows I may get another real one next time again.

In the other room, we experienced the most homely-comely and blissfully lonely. Diwali celebration that was beautiful. It was full of beautiful music, we missed the first song, which was my best — Jai Ganesha, Jai Ganesha, Jai Ganesha Deva, Mata Jaki Parvati Pita Mahadeva. “Oh Lord Ganesha, your mother is Parvati, and your father is Mahadeva — Shiva.

I was busily enjoying filming this quaint celebration, two sons, a mother and a father, her and me. I got some dope from a video we had shot on the puja, that evening as we rushed back to the cottage, here it is. She wore a black shawl with a bindi on her forehead and looked half Indian and cherub. The hostess began… so we always worship Ganesh Ji in the beginning and then the others, even Krishna. Why we asked very interested…and she told us the story.

Then this is goddess Saraswati, they can be jealous of each other, a friend who runs a café told me this one time in the boring summer…Wow! winter is amazing…Life comes alive! There in the warmth of that autumn evening; we were safe…With conch shell that began the proceedings to the soulful melody and words to it, I had been here before, she had not, let’s wish to revisit. There is silver platter called a thali that homes many little fairy lights called diyasthat circumambulate the heads of the mere mortals who sat there that cozy evening of Diwali 2009.