In a quiet village tucked beneath the cedar ridges of Kinnaur, where the wind speaks in riddles and the river hums ancestral songs, lived a child named Tashi. He was seven, curious, and often silent—not because he had nothing to say, but because he was always listening.
Tashi had a gift. He dreamt in symbols.
🌙 The Dream
One night in mid-October, before even the frost had kissed the rooftops, Tashi dreamt of a white horse walking across the orchard, its hooves leaving no prints, its breath forming clouds that whispered his name.
Behind the horse walked a woman in silver robes, her face hidden, her hands scattering snowflakes that melted before they touched the ground.
Tashi woke before dawn and whispered to his grandmother, “The snow is coming. The horse has walked.”
She looked at the sky—clear, blue, and warm. “Not yet,” she said. “The Devta hasn’t spoken.”
But Tashi insisted. He tied a red thread around the cedar tree near the shrine and lit a lamp at the threshold, just as his grandfather used to do before the first snowfall.
🕯️ The Signs Begin
That evening, the river changed its sound—deeper, slower, like a drumbeat. The dogs howled at dusk. The wind carried the scent of juniper and silence.
Elders gathered at the temple and debated. “It’s too early,” said one. “But the signs are old,” said another.
Tashi sat quietly, drawing the white horse in the dust.
❄️ The Snow Arrives
Two days later, without warning, the sky turned silver. Clouds rolled in like ancestral blankets. And then—snow. Soft, steady, sacred.
It fell on the cedar, on the shrine, on the orchard where the horse had walked in Tashi’s dream.
The villagers lit fires and performed the Ash Circle Ceremony, whispering thanks to the mountain spirits. Tashi was asked to lead the offering at the temple.
“The Devta spoke through him,” said the priest. “The child listens.”
🌌 What the Dream Meant
In the weeks that followed, the snow stayed longer than usual. No crops were lost. No animals fell ill. The village said the early rituals had balanced the spirits.
Tashi’s dream became part of the oral archive. Each year, before winter, children are asked to share their dreams. And if one dreams of the white horse, the village prepares.
🧭 Final Reflection
In Himachal, dreams are not fantasy—they are forecast. Tashi’s tale reminds us that the land speaks through silence, symbols, and sleep. And sometimes, the smallest voice carries the oldest truth.
To dream the snow is to walk with the mountain’s breath.
To listen is to live in rhythm.