When we first decided to visit Kali Tibba Resort, it was based on glowing recommendations. Everyone who had stayed there seemed to speak about one thing in particular—the personal attention of the owner. Add to that the beautiful photographs we had seen, and our minds were made up.
The drive was long but beautiful, and when we finally reached, I was spellbound. The resort sits high on the slopes of Chail, with every room facing the valley. It felt as if we had found one of the highest, most peaceful corners of the hills. After some tea and a little rest, we went for a trek. Later in the evening, tired but happy, we lit up the barbeque. Cooking together, with the valley spread out below us, felt like a scene from another life. As if on cue, the rain arrived just after we finished eating. We ran to our room, had a quiet dinner, and fell into bed, exhausted.
Fear in the Middle of the Night
At 2 a.m., I woke up to a sound that shook me to my core. A loud, howling noise—like a storm trying to tear the world apart. Rain lashed outside, and the wind’s roar felt deafening. My first instinct was fear.
I lay there, heart pounding, not wanting to wake my wife and son. Why should they be scared too? But my thoughts raced. Would the car be blown away into the valley? If it was, insurance would cover it, I reasoned… maybe I could finally get a new model. But then—how would we get back home to Faridabad?
The storm seemed so strong, I began to wonder if the room itself would hold. Logic whispered: the hill supports it, it’s not open on all sides. But fear shouted louder. For a brief moment, I even thought of the cave-like structure I had noticed on the hillside when checking in. Maybe the three of us could hide there, safe from the storm.
Then my eyes fell on a chair in the balcony. It was still standing. If the storm was truly so fierce, surely that chair would have flown away. This small observation calmed me, but only for seconds—the sound kept breaking through my logic. My mind spun in circles until, drained of energy, I gave up the fight. I closed my eyes and handed over my fears to God.
The Morning Truth
When morning light came, I woke to find the “storm” still howling. Summoning courage, I opened the balcony door—and instantly, the sound disappeared. That’s when I saw it: the doors weren’t perfectly aligned. A small gap between them had been whistling all night long, turning into the terrifying roar that had kept me awake.
I couldn’t help but laugh at myself. How my imagination had blown that gap into a storm big enough to carry away cars, rooms, even lives. I sat on the balcony chair—the very one that had comforted me in the night—sipping tea, smiling at the valley, and smiling even more at my own mind.
Reflection
That night reminded me of the true nature of fear. It does not always come from the outside world—it often comes from within. A small gap, a tiny crack, is enough for the mind to build storms, doubts, and disasters. In darkness, imagination becomes our greatest enemy, whispering louder than reason and silencing logic.
But morning always arrives. And with it, clarity. The same sound that terrified me in the night became trivial in the daylight. Life is much the same—most of what we fear is never as big as it seems. The storm exists, but often only in our heads.
Fear is powerful, yes, but it is fragile too. Sometimes, all it takes to silence it is the courage to open the door.
