Misty mountains

There is something magical about mist. It veils all the ugliness our beautiful hill stations are left with by insensitive hordes of tourists. The mist seems to forgive them all by covering up the act.
Had it not been for an assignment to shoot mountains in mist, I wouldn’t have taken the trouble. The back breaking and leg aching drive through Kalka Pinjore stretch is like mandatory purgatory before you are allowed entry into the heaven. Though, once you cross the ordeal, heaven sure awaits you.
Kasauli is at its most pristine when enwrapped in mist. Like a newly delivered baby all wrapped up in white, clean, soft sheets. A walk to upper mall in eerie silence of the woods, punctuations of a crow’s cowing, distant, faint notes of mountain flute, dew drops hung at the tip of pine needles, things making magical appearance and disappearance out of the mist…like mystery of life and death…so much packed within a few hours to transport you onto another world. Just a thin veil between what could be viewed as ugly and exhilarating.

And then a cool drizzle, breeze like whirl of a darwesh! I don’t mind getting drenched. I like to walk in rain. You smell the peculiar flavour of mist, if only you can discern it. A sudden appearance of the Sun and the inevitable rainbow!
Why is the world so ravishing!