Winter in Shillong does not announce itself gently. It arrives in the early hours of the morning, when breath turns visible and the hills feel sharper than they did the night before. Tin roofs sweat with frost, fingers stiffen around cups of tea, and the sun takes its time climbing over the ridgelines. For years, this was the season people avoided. Too cold, too quiet, too little to do. The hills, many believed, were meant for rain.
But winter has always had its own life here—one that only reveals itself if you stay.
Banshan notices it first in the mornings. The city wakes later in December, as if giving itself permission to rest. Schools are closed, and the silence feels earned rather than empty. Children linger under blankets a little longer before spilling onto the streets, cheeks red, hands wrapped around steaming packets of momos. The rush of routine softens. Shillong moves at a pace that belongs only to winter.
For Banshan, winter has always carried memory. Growing up, it meant holidays without travel. Long walks to the local bakery with siblings. Warming hands over charcoal fires at roadside tea stalls. Watching fog lift slowly from pine trees while elders lingered over their second cup of tea. Afternoons were for football matches played in woollen sweaters that were never quite warm enough. Evenings belonged to radios, guitars, and conversations that had nowhere else to go. Cold, yes—but never lifeless.
What has changed is not the winter itself, but who now chooses to experience it.
In earlier years, visitors arrived with the rains. Winter was something locals endured and outsiders skipped. These days, the same biting cold draws people in. Banshan sees it on the roads—more cars leaving early, backpacks strapped tight, unfamiliar voices asking for directions. Shillong in winter has begun to feel busier, more visible.
And yet, something essential remains.
The city still opens differently in winter. The sky clears. The hills stand still. Without mist or spectacle, Shillong feels honest. From the city, roads stretch outward more easily now. To Sohra, where cliffs no longer vanish into cloud but hold their shape against the sky. Waterfalls run quieter, thinner, as if resting after months of excess. To Mawphlang, where the sacred forest feels heavier in the cold, its silence more pronounced, its stories closer to the surface. To Dawki, where the Umngot sheds its monsoon force and turns transparent, unsettling first-time visitors who lean over boats unsure whether to trust their eyes. And to Ranikor, where winter light bends along the river and the hills seem to fold inward, private and calm.
These places have always been here. Winter simply allows them to be seen without interruption.
Back in the city, the cold gathers people inward. Cafés fill by mid-morning—not for Wi-Fi or haste, but for warmth. Tea stalls stay crowded longer. Conversations stretch. Fireplaces are lit at home, and gatherings feel less planned, more habitual. Music—always part of Shillong—sounds fuller in winter, carried by the cold air through half-open doors.
The streets, however, tell another story now. Delivery bikes cut through traffic. Shops open earlier and close later. The winter calm shares space with modern urgency. Shillong is busier, more connected, more in motion than Banshan remembers. And yet, the city absorbs this change without resistance.
Festivals settle into winter without urgency. Christmas arrives not as spectacle but rhythm—midnight services, familiar hymns, shared meals. The New Year brings noise, but also a gentler joy, the kind that belongs to people who know each other well enough not to rush.
Banshan often thinks of how the city holds its contradictions. Shillong is laid-back and busy, cold and warm, old and steadily changing. Even Bob Dylan fits into this strange balance—his songs still drifting through cafés and homes, his birthday quietly celebrated each year by those who remember how his music once found a home in these hills. The times, they are a-changin, the song goes, and Shillong seems to understand that better than most places.
In recent winters, the city feels fuller. Not crowded, but present. More footsteps on cold pavements. More unfamiliar faces surprised by how the cold lingers even in sunlight. People who once planned their trips around rain now arrive deliberately in December or January, wanting to know what the hills feel like when they are bare and breathing.
Shillong in winter does not try to impress. It asks you to slow down, to walk instead of rush, to listen instead of collect. It remains chilly, sometimes unforgiving, but quietly generous.
When winter begins to lift, Banshan notices it quietly. The floors aren’t as cold, the sun lingers longer, and tea cools more slowly. Life moves on, and Banshan smiles at how the winter people once avoided is now what they plan their trips around.
