Shibani Deshmukh The cold hit Dr. Neha Kapoor before she even stepped out of the jeep. The wind in Spiti Valley wasn’t just chilly—it carried a weight, a silence that wrapped itself around her city-worn senses. She tightened the scarf around her neck, blinking at the vast, arid landscape dotted with whitewashed stupas and jagged peaks dusted with snow. Kaza looked like a forgotten outpost painted in muted tones—nothing like the neon haze of Mumbai. Her phone had lost signal three hours ago, and the absence of constant vibration felt more like amputation than relief. A dozen strangers from different…