Dense clouds obscure all but the pink, snowy peak of Khangchendzonga at 28,168 feet—the world’s third-highest mountain. This is reason to see Darjeeling in the winter. But it's cold, wickedly cold; so cold, my husband's camera lens won't focus properly. He suggests (only half-jokingly) he might sleep with his camera. Maybe I will do the same with my computer, whose battery won't charge at these temperatures. Darjeeling, the old British hill station with Tibetan monasteries and prayer flags flapping at the foot of the Himalaya, rightfully attracts masses of visitors. In the summertime. Only masochists (such as myself) come in the bitter wintertime. There is no indoor heating in these parts of India—the colonial fathers built this town for their summer respite. Winter life survives around fireplaces and roadside blazes. Everyone waits for the sun. And when it shines, people pack Chowrasta, the central square. Dogs and horses, too—everyone stands on the pavement, soaking up rays. On clear mornings, I've taken to eating breakfast at the Stardust, a pure vegetarian restaurant right on the square, with a wide patio and perfect views of the mountains. I sit with my hands around a hot cup of Darjeeling tea, as others on Chowrasta take their morning brew from a tea-wallah whose kettle sits behind park benches. Little kids take pony rides, and old men rub their hands to keep warm. When clouds appear, the street population drops by half. There are few places to go but home, to a warm fire or a bed with piles of blankets.
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