When the World Pauses, Surprises Begin

On hidden hills, wordless songs, and books waiting to be found.

There’s something magical about arriving at a hill station that doesn’t appear in glossy brochures. No signboards promising attractions. No queues at crowded viewpoints. No selfies against neon backdrops. Just winding roads that open into stillness.

At the small resort where we stayed, mornings began with mist that curled over the treetops, wrapping the hillsides in a shawl of grey-white softness. We lingered over steaming cups of coffee, watching the world appear and disappear in veils of white.

You could step out onto a balcony and feel the cool air brush against your skin—a breeze so clean it seemed to rinse away the residue of city fatigue, like a secret only nature knows.

Breakfasts stretched unhurried, with the dining hall nearly always empty. A scattering of chairs, the faint echo of cutlery, and the luxury of space that felt almost extravagant. Even food tasted different there—unhurried, as if flavours had the time to stretch and bloom in the absence of noise.

Afternoons carried the scent of eucalyptus and damp earth, slipping easily into the skin, slowing our inner clocks without asking permission. Sleep came not from exhaustion but from release. And as evenings descended, the fog thickened, conversations softened, and words were spoken more gently, as though we too had been subdued by the mountain air. Time lingered long, as if it had joined our table.

It was, in every sense, restorative.

And it made me think of books.

The famous ones are like celebrated hill stations—alive with noise, full of reputation, their glamour unquestioned. But then there are the quieter books, written by authors whose names are not yet known. They don’t arrive with fanfare, but if you stumble upon them, they can offer the same stillness, the same unhurried connection, the same sense of renewal.

One evening, with the mist pressed against the windows, I put on some music. Then it arrived—The Great Gig in the Sky by Pink Floyd.

The story goes that the band had been recording, the instruments flowing steadily, when they invited a young, unknown singer named Claire Torry to step in. There were no lyrics, no script, no plan. They simply asked her to feel what the music was saying. And she did—improvising with cries, sighs, wails torn straight from the soul. In just a couple of takes, the band—and later the world—was stunned. That spontaneous voice became The Great Gig in the Sky: a song without words, and yet unforgettable.

As I looked out at the quiet hillsides, her voice seemed to echo the same truth. Claire Torry had given everything to a moment, without knowing how it might turn out. And the hills, too, were offering their calm without ever asking to be noticed.

Both were unexpected. Both were overlooked at first. Both became unforgettable the moment you allowed yourself to listen.

Perhaps life is full of such surprises—the places not circled on maps, the voices not yet famous, the books not yet stacked on bestseller shelves. Each capable of leaving an imprint deeper than the ones that come advertised.

Because not all treasures stand beneath a spotlight. Some live in the mist, in the steam of morning coffee, in the improvisation of a song without words, or in the quiet courage of a first-time writer daring to share a story.

And maybe, just maybe, that’s where the truest beauty waits.

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Hi there, If today’s story resonated with you, sharing it with someone you care about would mean the world.

This October, I’ll be releasing You Told Me To Be Brave, my first memoir. I think of it not as a crowded hill station, but as this quiet retreat—a place you may not have heard of, yet one where you might find moments that stay with you.

Because beauty doesn’t ask for recognition before it exists. Sometimes it simply waits—for someone willing to step away from the obvious path, and wander into a quieter one.