Pramit Deshmukh 1 The hills of Dharamshala carried a silence unlike any other. It was not the silence of emptiness, but one layered with murmurs of prayer wheels, the occasional clang of temple bells, and the distant rustle of pine forests swaying with the mountain wind. In the early mornings, the mist floated across the ridges like drifting spirits, veiling and unveiling the town in turns. Pilgrims wound their way to monasteries, their maroon robes a steady rhythm against the gray stone paths. The air smelled faintly of incense and butter lamps, mingled with the earthy dampness of rain-kissed soil.…