When it's really cold in Mussoorie, the streets are deserted and the only signs of human presence are the huddled groups of migrant labourers singing their village songs round a sigri. From 5 pm to midnight, you are tucked inside a tulma (a soft blanket of beaten wool), a marvellous stretch of uninterrupted reading ahead of you. No phone. No TV. (The monkeys shivering under the eaves have pulled the wires out anyway.) The quiet on these spacious nights is not a deathly hush but a vibrantly beautiful communion with reality. The only illusion is the tick of a quartz clock. The patter of sleet on the tin roof makes you realise you are snugger and warmer here than you would be in Delhi.