There’s something about snow that silences not just the land, but the mind. It hushes the chatter of thoughts, the static of schedules, the ticking of to-do lists. That’s what I found in Sikkim, in the hush of winter, when everything familiar melted away under a blanket of white, and what remained was stillness—pure, crisp, and healing.
I arrived in Gangtok in early January, chasing a silence I didn’t know I needed. My days in the city had begun to blur into each other, filled with the hum of traffic and the endless flicker of screens. I wanted a place where I could hear the crunch of my own footsteps. I wanted a place where time moved slower. Sikkim, I had heard, wears winter like a secret—quietly and beautifully.
The drive up to Lachung was my first encounter with this secret. As we climbed higher into the Himalayas, the trees thinned out and the air grew sharper. Flurries began to kiss the windshield. The roads twisted like question marks through valleys dusted with white, and every turn revealed another postcard-perfect scene—pine trees bowing under snow, frozen waterfalls glistening like glass, prayer flags fluttering defiantly in the wind.
When we stopped for tea at a roadside shack near Chungthang, the warmth of the stove welcomed us like an old friend. The owner, a cheerful woman wrapped in thick wool, served us steaming glasses of butter tea and offered us roasted corn by the fire. Her children played in the snow outside, laughter echoing through the hills like wind chimes. We didn’t share a common language, but somehow we understood each other. There’s a kind of kindness that doesn’t need words.
That evening, I reached Lachung just as the sun dipped below the mountains. The village looked like it had been carved out of a dream. Wooden houses with sloping roofs, smoke spiraling lazily from chimneys, and snow—everywhere. It felt as if I had stepped into a world untouched by time.
The silence in Lachung was unlike any I had experienced. It wasn’t the eerie stillness of absence—it was the presence of peace. It was the sound of snow settling on rooftops. The rustle of wind through cedar branches. The occasional bark of a dog in the distance, answered by a deeper silence. Here, silence was not empty. It was full—of stories, of spirits, of centuries of people who had lived in rhythm with the mountains.
The next morning, I visited the Lachung Monastery, perched high above the village. The path was slippery with ice, but I took my time. Inside, the air smelled of incense and old wood. A young monk offered me a cup of hot thukpa, and I sat with him in companionable quiet as chants echoed through the stone corridors. The walls were painted with stories—of gods and demons, of enlightenment and rebirth. Outside, snow fell gently against the prayer wheels, as if heaven was leaning in to listen.
In the days that followed, I wandered through Yumthang Valley, where yaks moved slowly through snowfields, their shaggy coats like moving clouds. I met a group of local herders who offered me a ride on a sled made from old wooden planks. We laughed as the sled bumped down a gentle slope, and for a moment, I forgot everything but the wind on my face and the joy in my chest.
Everywhere I went, the snow became my companion. It transformed the landscape into something sacred. I began to understand why so many pilgrims come to Sikkim not just for its temples and monasteries, but for the silence. It is not a silence of emptiness, but of presence. It asks nothing of you, yet gives you everything.
One afternoon, I sat alone near a frozen stream, wrapped in a woolen shawl, watching the light dance on the snow. A group of schoolchildren passed by, their laughter trailing like footprints in the air. One of them, a girl with bright eyes and a navy coat, paused and handed me a tiny snowball, smiling shyly before running off. I held it in my palm until it melted, and in that moment, I felt something melt inside me too.
I had come to Sikkim expecting to see snow. I hadn’t expected the snow to see me.
On my last day, as I prepared to descend back into the world of movement and noise, I stood one last time at the edge of the valley. The snowfall had returned, thicker now, swirling like a curtain being drawn. I watched it cover my footprints, as if erasing my presence—but I knew better. The mountains remember. The snow remembers. And now, so did I.
Sikkim in winter isn’t just a destination—it’s a transformation. It’s the kind of place that doesn’t ask for your attention but rewards your stillness. It invites you not to do, but to be. Not to speak, but to listen.
And when the snow falls, it doesn’t fall like a storm. It falls like silence. Like grace. Like a breath you didn’t know you were holding, finally let go.
