Going back to India—specifically, to Himachal—has always stirred a curious mix of emotions in me. And yes, before anyone clutches their pearls, let me just say: I know Himachal is stunning. Trust me, I’m not blind. Nestled in the northern stretch of India, brushing shoulders with the mighty Himalayas, it’s the kind of place travel bloggers drool over.

My grandfather’s village, in particular, is basically a postcard come to life. Snow-capped mountains? Check. Crisp mountain air? Check. Views so gorgeous they make you momentarily forget Wi-Fi exists? Double check.

So… why the dread, you ask?

Well, dear reader, settle in—because that’s exactly the story I’m about to tell.

As politically incorrect as it may sound, visiting the village—beautiful as it may look today—wasn’t always the easiest or most joyful experience. I have vivid memories of 10-year-old me, reluctantly dragged along to “go meet the family,” as if I were being sent on a diplomatic mission to a place light-years away from civilization. The village was nestled far from the main road, down winding paths that could make even the most robust stomach question its life choices.

Water came from a tank delivered once a day—and yes, it often ran out just when you really needed it. Electricity was more of a suggestion than a guarantee. And the beds? Let’s just say a few bed sheets were expected to pull off the performance of a mattress. Spoiler: they didn’t.

The journey itself took an entire day, leaving us completely knackered before we’d even arrived. And this, dear reader, was just the beginning

But even back then, there were little pockets of magic that shone through the chaos. The biggest one? The community. And I mean real, old-school, everyone-knows-everyone kind of community—the kind you only ever hear about in nostalgic family WhatsApp groups or old Bollywood films.

As someone who had only recently moved to the UK at the time, still fumbling my way through a brand-new culture and trying to figure out if beans on toast was an actual meal (spoiler: apparently, yes), it was strangely comforting—and slightly overwhelming—to be in a place where everyone knew who we were.

“Aren’t you so-and-so’s granddaughter?” they’d say, squinting at me with a mix of familiarity and suspicion, as if I might’ve changed beyond recognition in the three years since they last saw me. Suddenly, I was surrounded by aunties and uncles (none of whom were related to me) offering snacks, unsolicited life advice, and the kind of warm-but-nosey affection only South Asian elders have mastered.

And let’s be honest—if you’re South Asian, you know exactly what I’m talking about. Don’t pretend you haven’t been offered food, scolded for being too skinny (or too ‘healthy’) and quizzed about your future all within the same breath

I remember this one visit in particular—I must’ve been in my teens, still rocking the awkward phase and probably a questionable haircut. A family had rented a room near our house. When I say room, I mean tiny. Think four people, a bathroom, and a couple of portable stoves squeezed into a space barely big enough to swing a cat (not that you’d want to try).

The kids would head off to school during the day and return like little whirlwinds in the afternoon. They became fast friends with the local kids—meaning, much to my delight, I suddenly had actual humans to play with! We spent hours playing cards, sprinting around in chaotic games of chase, and swapping stories like mini philosophers.

At the time, I didn’t grasp how different our lives were—I was just happy to have people around who could run as fast as I could and laugh just as loudly.

Now, two decades later, I find myself wondering where those kids are. What paths did they take? Did they ever learn how to shuffle cards properly? I hope they’re out there somewhere, thriving—and maybe remembering the girl with the terrible haircut who never stopped talking.

And of course, my dad—never one to miss a teachable moment—used these visits as a chance to remind us just how lucky we were. Though neither of my parents grew up in a village, my dad came from a humble background and was the first in his family to go to university (and became a doctor- a huge feat, for that time!). That perspective never left him, and he made sure it didn’t escape us either.

One of the ways he did this was by taking us to visit the local school. And when I say school, I mean a single-room setup for children aged 5 to 11, run by one dedicated teacher, with the kids sitting cross-legged on the floor, learning with quiet determination.

It wasn’t about pity—it was about perspective. Even as a child, it hit me: not everyone gets the kind of opportunities we take for granted. And while I probably didn’t appreciate the lesson fully at the time (too busy sulking about no phone signal), it planted a seed that’s stayed with me ever since

Today

Today, things look very different. Fast forward 20 years, and the house is still right where it’s always been—only now it’s grown, expanded into multiple sections, and looks more like a small family estate than the humble structure I remember. The once-bumpy road now runs right down to the doorstep. There’s running water, heating for the winters, and even AC for those scorching Himachali summers (luxury, I know!).

The village itself has transformed too. Where there were just a few scattered homes, there’s now a bustling little community—fields still line the outskirts, but right next to the house is a corner shop. And remember that tiny one-room school? It’s long gone. In its place are multiple, well-funded schools, and the focus on education in the area has taken a massive leap forward.

But through all the change, the beauty of the place hasn’t budged. The view still steals your breath, and the stream running through the (now very large) backyard still sparkles like something out of a movie. And the people? Somehow, they’ve become even warmer.

Those early visits—discomforts, lessons, and all—left their mark. What once made me groan (no electricity, no proper bed, no snacks on demand!) has become a source of quiet pride. Not just because things have changed, but because we have.

Today, my brother and I see this place for what it truly is: not just the backdrop to our childhood complaints, but the foundation of our family’s story. A village that raised a generation, reminded us of our roots, and taught us that love, resilience, and community will always matter more than Wi-Fi.

And honestly? I wouldn’t trade that for all the hot water and memory foam in the world.