Rafi Meander

The plane dropped through the cloud and suddenly there were hills — blue-green, layered like folded cloth, with a scatter of tin roofs catching the last of the light.

Shillong sits on a plateau at 1,500 metres, and you feel it in the air. It's cool and damp and smells of wet pine and woodsmoke. The Khasi hills hold the mist like a secret. The British called it the Scotland of the East, which is the sort of thing the British did — found a place that looked like home and gave it a nickname so they could feel less lost. But the hills don't care what you call them. They've been here under the name Lei Shyllong, for the deity who lives on the peak above town, far longer than any empire.

I checked into a small guesthouse near Police Bazar. The woman at the desk asked if I was here for the music. Shillong has a famous live-music scene — decades of rock and folk and Khasi ballads, passed down through generations. I said yes, even though I'd only just found out. That's the thing about landing somewhere new: you arrive as a stranger, and within five minutes someone shows you a door you didn't know existed.

Tomorrow I'll walk. Today I'm letting the mist settle.