Stepping back into time at Shogi

I thought I’d seen all flavours of nostalgia in Shoghi, near Shimla. Mist-draped hills, ancient deodars, the mandatory whiff of Maggi from roadside stalls. But no, life threw me a curveball — in the shape of Chachu ki canteen at the government school there.

I was accompanying a friend who was to pick up his son from the school. The moment we turned the corner and I saw that canteen, I felt like I’d stumbled onto the set of an old black-and-white Bollywood film—minus the heroine in a chiffon saree dancing around pine trees.

Not only was its vibe retro, Chachu’s canteen seemed allergic to progress. The counter was made of wooden doors that probably once hung somewhere important. The tables were sturdy planks of wood nailed together like a makeshift bridge. One suspicious whiff of modernisation, and I’m sure the entire canteen would have developed hives.

Inside, the walls had little speakers perched like birds, steadily crooning vintage Bollywood numbers. Kishore Kumar’s voice floated over curry-pakora fumes, sounding oddly philosophical when you’re surrounded by silence and the rustle of wind through pine needles.

And then there’s Chachu himself. Now, don’t let the name fool you. Chachu was not some wrinkled uncle with a Himachali cap and trembling hands. He’s relatively young, though he had managed to absorb every atom of the canteen’s old-world vibe. He floated around with a ladle in hand, greeting teachers, staff, and students like he’s the unofficial Principal of Culinary Affairs.  And he served his legendary buttermilk with such affection that I half expected him to recite a shayari while he was pouring it into my cup.

Looking around while sipping chaach, I found myself thinking: the world might have gone digital, AI might be writing poetry, but Chachu ki  canteen was stubbornly and gloriously analog. And maybe that’s exactly why it felt like stepping back into a secret pocket of time.

In my Shoghi memories folder, there’s a new snapshot now —Chachu’s canteen, wooden tables, old Bollywood songs, and a curry-scented breeze rustling through the trees. A place that refuses to grow up — and I hope it never does.   Saurabh Malik, Chandigarh

Himachal Tribune