A Cup of Tea in the Hills .

- "I didn't want to miss the morning tea," Rohan replied with a smile. She poured the tea into clay cups, adding crushed ginger, a pinch of cardamom, and a little jaggery. The rich aroma filled the room, blending with the gentle scent of burning wood.

- Samarth Sharma

W inter mornings in Mussoorie arrive quietly, as if the hills are careful not to wake anyone. Mist drifts slowly across the slopes, weaving through pine and deodar trees. The air is cold, crisp, and clean, tingling the nose in a way that feels both sharp and pleasant. From the wooden house perched on the hillside, the valley below looks like a painting made of clouds.

Rohan loved these mornings. Every winter, he came to Mussoorie to stay with his grandparents. Their old house stood a little away from the main road, connected by a narrow stone path. Built of grey stone and wooden beams, it had a tin roof that hummed softly when the wind passed over it. The small windows, framed in dark oak, looked out toward the wide valley.

At dawn, Rohan woke to the sound of birds. A pair of magpies hopped along the railing outside his window, and somewhere in the trees a koel called gently. He pulled the blanket tighter around himself and listened. Then came another familiar sound - the whistle of a kettle from the kitchen.

That whistle meant only one thing: morning tea.

Rohan slipped out of bed and pulled on his hand-knitted woollen sweater, slightly loose at the sleeves and faintly scented with soap and cedarwood. The wooden floor felt icy under his feet as he padded softly toward the kitchen.

The kitchen was warm and glowing with firelight. His grandmother stood by the stove, her silver hair neatly tied in a bun, a faded wool shawl draped over her cotton sari. A small wood fire burned beneath the kettle, fed by neatly stacked logs along the wall.

"You are awake early today," she said, without turning around.

"I didn't want to miss the morning tea," Rohan replied with a smile.

She poured the tea into clay cups, adding crushed ginger, a pinch of cardamom, and a little jaggery. The rich aroma filled the room, blending with the gentle scent of burning wood.

His grandfather sat near the window in a cane chair, wearing a brown coat and a wool cap pulled low over his ears. A newspaper rested in his lap, forgotten for the moment as he gazed at the mist-covered hills.

"In Mussoorie," Grandfather said thoughtfully, folding the paper, "mornings teach us patience. Nothing moves fast here."

They gathered at the wooden table. Buttered toast, homemade apricot jam, and boiled eggs wrapped in cloth to keep them warm waited for them. Outside, the mist slowly lifted as sunlight touched the treetops.

After breakfast, Rohan and his grandfather stepped outside. The cold air rushed to greet them. Rohan wrapped his muffler tighter around his neck as they walked along the quiet path, dry leaves crunching softly beneath their shoes. Sparrows and bulbuls flitted among the trees, beginning their day.

Smoke curled upward from chimneys scattered across the hillside. Below, the town stirred awake, slowly and without hurry.

"Your father used to walk with me like this," Grandfather said gently. "He asked me as many questions as you do."

Rohan listened carefully. His grandfather's memories felt like treasures handed down to him.

By late morning, the sun shone brighter, though the air remained cool. Rohan helped his grandmother in the kitchen - washing vegetables, wiping plates, and arranging firewood.

"Cooking is also a kind of waiting," she told him as she stirred a pot slowly. "If you rush it, the food loses its taste."

By afternoon, the house smelled of rajma simmering steadily on the stove. The windows fogged over from the warmth inside. Rohan traced shapes on the glass with his finger while a crow perched quietly on the tin roof, soaking in the pale winter sun.

As evening fell, the sky turned from soft grey to deep blue. Lights began to glow one by one in the valley below, like scattered stars. The family gathered for dinner. The food was simple, but it was warm. They spoke of old winters, changing weather, and small village happenings.

Later that night, wrapped snugly in a thick blanket, Rohan thought about the day.

In Mussoorie, he realized, warmth did not come only from sweaters, fires, or hot food.

It came from shared tea, unhurried mornings, quiet walks, and sitting together while the cold remained outside.

And that, he felt, was the greatest comfort of all.