Last week was an emotional and nostalgic one. After 45 years, I returned to Shimla—the city where I spent my childhood and later pursued my post-graduation. It felt like walking through the pages of an old, beloved book, worn with time but rich with memories.
My life in Shimla can be divided into two chapters. The first was my childhood, when I studied at SD High School. We lived in the Christopher Hotel at Lakkar Bazar, and each day, my brother and I would walk nearly 2–3 kilometers to school. The route was etched in memory: passing through the Ridge, strolling down Mall Road, then descending the stairs near the erstwhile Baljees restaurant into Lower Bazar, and finally navigating more stairs to reach Ganj Bazar and our school.
Those walks were not just physical journeys, but small adventures—every corner familiar, every step part of our daily ritual.
When I arrived in Shimla again, old memories came rushing back. Lakkar Bazar, once a quaint stretch of wooden souvenir shops and friendly banter, had become more crowded, overtaken by buildings that seemed too modern, too hurried. Many of the old, iconic shops had shut their doors for good. Shimla now buzzed with the hum of cars and motorbikes—something unimaginable in our time. The city’s limits had stretched far beyond what we once knew.
Yet despite these visible changes, the soul of the city remains untouched. The warmth, the sense of belonging, and the emotional pull are still deeply rooted in its atmosphere. Shimla still feels like home—a place where my heart continues to live.
I was reminded of my school days, especially my mischievous habit of playing truant. I would often sit alone for hours at the Ridge, finding solace in the quiet and the view. During this visit, I returned to those benches—though they may have changed, I still reached out and touched them, silently thanking them for their companionship. Everything changed the day my elder sister caught me skipping school. She marched me back—through the Ridge, down Mall Road, and along those familiar stairs—beating me lightly with the umbrella I had been carrying. That memory still makes me smile.
SD High School played a formative role in shaping me. I was a fairly good student, fortunate to be in the good books of my teachers. I earned scholarships in both Class V and VIII and brought home several prizes in declamation contests on behalf of the school. The school took care of me, nurtured me, and laid the foundation for the person I became.
This time, my brother and I walked down those same stairs and reached the school ground after 45 years. The school was closed for Parshuram Jayanti, but a few staff members were present. We wandered through the verandahs, taking slow steps through memory lane. The building may have aged, but the echoes of our childhood laughter still lingered in the corridors.
Later, I visited Christopher Hotel—Flat Number 25, our home for many years. The building is now in a dilapidated condition, but standing there, I could still feel the heartbeat of my childhood. Much has changed, of course—construction has transformed the surroundings—but the threads of memory were easy to pick up. Every corner had a story to tell.
The highlight of my visit was meeting old friends at Shimla’s iconic Indian Coffee House. Reconnecting with Mohan and Lalit over coffee. The years melted away as we talked, laughed, and reminisced. As we strolled along the Mall, we ran into Satinder. Lalit asked him, pointing at me, “Pehchaan kaun hai?” Without a moment’s hesitation, he replied, “Biswajeet!” and we embraced, the warmth of old friendship wrapping around us like a blanket.
As the three of us continued our walk, we encountered another old acquaintance. This time Satinder called out to a man, “Idhar aa!” When the man approached, Satinder asked him, “Yeh kaun hai?” He looked at me closely, broke into a smile, and said, “Biswajeet.” He was Sudarshan Sharma, topper of our batch.
I stood there, stunned—not at being recognized, but at being remembered.
That’s when it hit me: Shimla had not forgotten me. This city, with its winding paths and ancient stairways, had remembered the little boy—Billoo—who once roamed its streets, dreamed on its benches, and lived within its embrace.
And in that moment, I knew something truly magical: no matter how much time has passed, no matter how much the world changes, the places we grow up in never really let us go.
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