My recent visit to Wellington and a walk past the Lawrence School there triggered an unexpected memory. It took me back to mid-2011, to a quiet weekend in Kasauli. We did not want a holiday. We wanted a pause.
Introduction: A recent stroll past the Lawrence School in Wellington unlocked a vivid memory from 2011—a quiet weekend in Kasauli. At the time, we were navigating the heavy fog of grief and a chaotic move to a new city. We weren’t looking for sightseeing; we desperately needed a pause. This Kasauli Memoir recounts how the hills gave us a moment to breathe again.
परिचय: हाल ही में वेलिंगटन में लॉरेंस स्कूल के सामने से गुजरते हुए, 2011 की एक याद ताजा हो गी—**कसौली मेमोयर** जैसा अहसास। उन दिनों हम पिता की मृत्यु और नए शहर में बसने के गम से जूझ रहे थे। हमें घूमना नहीं, बस एक पल की शांति चाहिए थी। यह कहानी है कि कैसे पहाड़ों ने हमें जीने की राह दिखाई।
Why Kasauli, and Why Then
We traveled just weeks after we had moved from Pune to Gurgaon and just as we were emerging from a personal tragedy—the loss of my father after a prolonged illness. My mother had left for the United States, and suddenly it was just the two of us, in a new city, in the oppressive heat and humidity of Delhi NCR, trying to find our emotional footing.
In mid-2011, the usual hill-station suspects—Shimla, Manali, Mussoorie—felt exhausting even in imagination. We had no appetite for itineraries, viewpoints, or the pressure to perform happiness. We wanted something quieter, almost forgettable in the best possible way. While Himachal Pradesh Travel often involves bustling tourist spots, Kasauli, a small cantonment town, came up as an understated option: close enough for a weekend, distant enough to feel removed. In hindsight, that understatement was precisely what we needed.
The Journey: Heat to Hills
We left Gurgaon before dawn, taking a Meru radio cab to New Delhi Railway Station—this was before ride-hailing apps rewired urban mobility. The early morning Shatabdi to Kalka was efficient, almost clinical, but it marked the psychological transition from plains to hills.
The real shift happened on the toy train from Kalka. Securing a booking felt like a small victory. It was early July, the monsoon had settled, and the landscape was a saturated green. Pine forests, tunnels, low clouds brushing treetops—the train moved slowly enough to make you notice everything. After weeks of emotional turbulence, that slowness felt medicinal.
By early afternoon, we reached Kasauli station and took a cab to our hotel, tucked into fog and hills. The air was cooler, drier, and suddenly breathable—physically and emotionally.
Evenings Without Urgency
After lunch and some rest, we walked to Mall Road. It was familiar yet gentler than other hill stations—small cafés, bakeries, a few shops, people strolling without urgency. There was no compulsion to tick off attractions. We walked, we sat, we watched the mist roll in.
At that moment, doing nothing felt like doing something important.
Lawrence School Sanawar: A Memory That Lingered
One place that stayed with me was Lawrence School, Sanawar. Walking through the campus felt like stepping into a parallel world—heritage architecture, forested grounds, and an institutional calm that only decades can create. Founded in the 19th century, Sanawar is among India’s oldest co-educational boarding schools. At the time, I did not think much about its history. I only remember feeling that some places carry time differently. Years later, seeing the Lawrence School in Wellington brought that memory back with surprising clarity.
Fog, Drinks, and the Comfort of Routine
Back at the hotel, we had cocktails, dinner, and even visited a small discotheque. It was understated, almost empty, but comforting. Routine—dinner, music, sleep—felt grounding after weeks of hospital corridors, phone calls, and emotional uncertainty. We slept deeply. That alone made the trip worthwhile.
Sunday, Drizzle, and Return
Sunday morning arrived with clouds brushing the windows and a light drizzle. Breakfast felt introspective, cinematic, suspended in time. By afternoon, we reversed the journey: taxi via Solan to Chandigarh, from there on the Shatabdi train to Delhi, and back to Gurgaon by late evening. We returned to the same city, the same apartment, but something had shifted. The intensity of grief had softened into something manageable.
What That Weekend Did
Looking back, that weekend in Kasauli was not about sightseeing. It was about recalibration. We had moved cities, lost a parent, and lost a sense of normalcy. The hills gave us a neutral space—neither home nor hospital, neither past nor future.
Travel is often framed as discovery. Sometimes, it is recovery.
Travel to Kasauli, Then and Now
Kasauli today is not the same quiet cantonment town of 2011. Boutique hotels, cafés, and Delhi NCR weekenders have arrived. Yet, compared to Shimla or Manali, it still retains a slower rhythm, pockets of silence, and the ability to disappear for a weekend.
From Wellington Back to Kasauli
Seeing Lawrence School in Wellington recently unlocked this memory loop. Landscapes and institutions archive personal history in ways photographs sometimes cannot. Losing data to disk corruption years later erased many images from that period, but it did not erase the sensory memory—the smell of pine, the sound of the toy train, the relief of cooler air after Delhi’s heat.
Final Reflections
Kasauli was not a bucket-list destination. It was a pause button at the exact moment we needed one. Fifteen years later, it stands out not for what we saw, but for what we processed. Sometimes, the most important journeys are the quietest ones.
Have you taken a quiet trip during a difficult life transition? I would love to hear how travel helped—or failed to help—during moments of loss and change.
Also Read: Wellington Travel Notes
This post titled “Kasauli 2011: A Quiet Weekend After Loss” was published under category “Travelbugs” and last updated January 26, 2026.