ONCE UPON A TIME IN THE DOON Read online

  Once Upon a Time

  in the Doon...

  Copyright © Rupa & Co. 2007

  Published 2007 by

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  This book is dedicated to the memory of David Keeling

  We are indeed, fortunate to receive his last piece, and salute his enthusiasm for this anthology

  Contents

  Introduction

  That Long and Winding Road

  David Keeling

  Touch of the Vanished Hand

  Rakesh Bahadur

  The Many Worlds of Dehra Dun

  Arijit Banerji

  How Green was my Valley?

  [Wildlife and Forests of Dehra Dun]

  Bikram Grewai

  Doon: Up Close and Personal

  Nayantara Sahgal

  The Net and Nostalgia

  Ramachandra Guha

  Life and Times of the Savoy

  Ganesh Saili

  Dehra Dun—A Magical Walk Down Memory Lane

  Himmat S. Dhillon

  Travelling with a Phantom

  sumanta banerjee,

  IMA, FRI, The Doon School and RIMC

  Kunal Verma

  A Journey into a New Life

  Florence Pandhi

  Random Thoughts

  Karan Thapar

  The 'Doon' Syndrome

  Dev Lahiri

  The East Canal

  Irwin Allan Sealy

  Last Train to Dehra Dun

  Victor Banerjee

  Mussoorie House Names

  Bill Aitken

  Milk Rusk to Maharaja Mac

  Palash Krishna Mehrotra

  Nehru's Love Affair with Dehra Dun

  Raj Kanwar

  Reading and Books in the Valley

  Upendra Arora

  Saga of a Soldier

  Ruskin Bond

  Know More about Our Contributors

  Introduction

  he Doon Valley and the adjoining hills are bordered by the Ganga to the east and the Jamuna to the west, a situation that ought to afford the district a certain sanctity. But the Doon is known as a centre of learning and instruction. The Forest Research Institute, the Indian Military Academy, the Survey of India, and the many famous schools in Dehra Dun and Mussoorie, give the Doon its unique character.

  This presents an interesting conundrum. Does one have to be situated on the banks of a river, or in sight of it, to absorb some of its sanctity? The temples and sacred places are all up-river—Badrinath, where the Alaknanda rises; Gangotri, where the Bhagirathi is born, Kedarnath between them; and Jumnotri at the source of the Jamuna. And downstream on the Ganga, Rishikesh and Haridwar absorb a multitude of pilgrims.

  From where I stand, on a spur of the Landour-Mussoorie range, I find that all springs, streams and rivulets flow to the left and become tributaries of the Ganga, while all those to the right eventually find their way to the Jamuna. This then is the perfect watershed. But, of course, geography and religion do not necessarily coincide. On this spur are a number of schools— temples of learning, one might call them—several of them established over a hundred years ago, and more in demand with the young India of today than they were in the past.

  The valley and the mountain provide several sharp contrasts; climate and geography come into the picture again. The Doon is sub-tropical, the flora completely at variance with the temperate growth of the Himalayan foothills. So, while the Mussoorie range is clothed with oak, deodar, pine, rhododendron and horse-chestnut, Dehra Dun has its jacaranda and laburnum, its forests of sal and shisham, and its mango, litchi and papaya orchards.

  Or, at least it did. The orchards, sadly have given way to housing estates, and the day may not be far off when there will be no litchis growing in the Doon. Like the famed Basmati rice of Dehra, it will have to be brought in from elsewhere.

  We still have the Rajaji Sanctuary, with its rich variety of trees, but even here the forest cover seems to have thinned out over the years. And alas, there are no longer any tigers in these jungles. They were all shot in the days just before and after Independence, when poaching was at its peak and jeeps could take the forest tracks and penetrate deep into the jungle.

  There were tigers aplenty in the days of my youth. My Uncle Ken, who was terrified of big cats, was persuaded to accompany a party of shikaris into the forests near Haridwar. But he declined to join them on this hunt for a tiger. Instead, he remained behind in the forest rest house, taking care to close all the doors and windows. This done, he retired to a bedroom, only to find a handsome, full-grown leopard asleep at the foot of one of the beds. Uncle Ken shot out of the nearest window and ran for the safety of the forest.

  Although I did my schooling Shimla, my holidays were spent in Dehra Dun, and most of my friends went to St Joseph's Academy, a school which has served the residents of the town, for seventy-five years. Our favourite haunts were the Chaatwala Gali, the Sulphur Springs (then a wilderness), the Robber's Cave, the Odeon Cinema (now gone), and the old bridle-path to Mussoorie; this last we covered on foot whenever we wanted to visit the hill station.

  Recently, I wrote a poem about the old footpath, and as one or two readers had enjoyed it, I reproduce it here to add to the introduction and give you a flavour of a Doon boyhood...

  Remember the Old Road

  Remember the old road,

  The steep stony path

  That took us up from Rajpur,

  Toiling and sweating

  And grumbling at the climb,

  But enjoying it all the same.

  At first the hills were hot and bare,

  But then there were trees near Jharipani

  And we stopped at the Halfway House

  And swallowed lungfuls of diamond-cut air.

  Then onwards, upwards, to the town,

  Our appetites to repair!

  Well, no one uses the old road any more.

  Walking is out of fashion now.

  And if you have a car to take you

  Swiftly up the motor-road

  Why bother to toil up a disused path?

  You'd have to be an old romantic like me

  To want to take that route again.

  But I did it last year,

  Pausing and plodding and gasping for air—

  Both road and I being a little worse for wear!

  But I made it to the top and stopped to rest

  And looked down to the valley and the silver stream

  Winding its way towards the plains.

  And the land stretched out before me, and the years fell away,

  And I was a boy again,

  And the friends of my youth were there beside me,

  And nothing had changed.

  Over the years, Dehra Dun has grown from a small garden town into a bustling mini-city, the capital of Uttarakhand
. Unlike Delhi and some other cities, its growth is circumscribed by its geographical situation, for which we must be grateful to the two great rivers, Ganga and Jamuna. Thus far, they say, and no further!

  Most of the contributors to this volume have lived in the Doon long enough to witness the changes that have taken place. There is nostalgia here, and history too, and social change.

  The collection includes writings by some well-known authors, and also by gifted people who write entertainingly but whose occupations prevent them from becoming full-time writers. They may have spent the greater part of their lives in the district, or they may have discovered it comparatively recently. Either way, they bring their own personalities to bear on the subject, and the result is a variety of views and viewpoints. The richness and diversity of the Doon is captured in these personal stories and vignettes.

  During the preparation of this anthology I met Deepali Jain, who was kind and enthusiastic enough to help out with the compilation.

  Shortly after submitting his entertaining contribution to this anthology, David Keeling reached the end of his 'long and winding road'. He passed away in a Delhi hospital, much to the dismay of his many friends in Dehra Dun and Mussoorie.

  David was a friendly, convivial gentleman, always curious about his surroundings, and eager to be friends with anyone who had done something interesting. He was a frequent visitor to Sister's Bazaar, Landour, after stopping at my place on his way up, to talk about books, cricket, and local history.

  Rajpur, where he lived, won't be the same without him.

  Ruskin Bond

  August, 2007

  That Long and Winding Road

  David Keeling

  he Rajpur Road, that long and winding road journeys from the clock tower to Rajpur village. Then, and now, it forms the very backbone of this emerging city. Having seen Dehra in all its former glory, the base of this spine travels Northwest with many ribs housing new estates; through squalor and splendour to culminate in Rajpur village before joining the old road to Mussoorie. Tree-lined—it was with grand old houses and wide boulevards. No longer! The sprawl of urban development has made it unrecognisable from its former self. Encroachments and the interminable and apparently uncontrollable traffic, the latter with tempos, trucks, buses and cars vying with two-wheelers for space. But still, squeezed between the high rise and the shopping malls remain some lovely old compounds. Emerging after the Mussoorie bypass the road continues steeply upwards through pleasanter surroundings with remaining trees and stately if not altogether elegant houses. There is no apparent planning permission required for whatever monstrosity one wishes to construct. At the top of the road, the apex, there is Rajpur village. But more of that later. To the present—

  I think that I shall never see

  a billboard lovely as a tree.

  Perhaps, unless the billboards fall

  I'll never see a tree at all.

  Ogden Nash 'Song of the open road' 1933.

  In 1933, the sight of a billboard or hoarding on this long and winding boulevard or in the hills of Mussoorie would have been unthinkable. Not to say ludicrous. Then the Rajpur Road was guarded on both sides by trees giving shade and comfort to the pedestrian. There was little vehicular traffic. It takes a great deal of imagination to conjure up how Dehra must have changed from that small sleepy and quaint town into the present-day architectural disaster. A great deal of profiteering by the unscrupulous land-grabbers to cater to the out-of-towners was needed to achieve this. But achieve it they have and created the unthinkable, the unspeakable. The ultimate urban slum!

  Doon's Rajpur Road begins at the inevitable clock tower, built as so many were, in the 1930s. All townships in the hillside region have one. As do most other townships in North India. Villages would begin with a few shops, followed by a police chowki, the court, a lock-up, places of worship and then the clock-tower. Whether, to denote its importance, or to provide a directional bearing or simply and more likely, to enable good citizens to tell the time (few people had watches then) is a matter for conjecture. But no township would be complete without its clock-tower. Not all have survived, particularly the one in Tehri which was slowly and relentlessly submerged along with the old city by the river Bhagirathi to form the Tehri Dam. The clock-tower was the last to go. Its roof sticking incongruously from the insidiously encroaching waters. The clock did not suffer the same ignominy. Some entrepreneurial characters purloined or nicked it before the waters could take their toll. But depart it did without a farewell ding or dong. Probably, in the back of a tempo. Waste not, want not.

  Proceeding north up this long and winding road, the old-style colonial offices and houses have been torn down and replaced by a higgledy-piggledy collection of small shops, offices and doctor's surgeries in rather primitive conditions. In contrast to the modern centre for the state postal services with its garish fountain, the Post Master General's house higher up on the road is unchanged. Built in brick and wood with extensive gardens. It is haunted!

  A quiet supper with Mrs Suneeta Trivedi, then Chief Post Master General for tales from the past, both mine and hers. The compound spreads over five acres. The estate garden once had litchi and mango trees now depleted by a declining underground water table. Then, leopards and panthers roamed unchecked. Now, only monkeys. It has a history. Built in approximately 1887–88 by the then Maharaja of Sohara, a place near Bijnor, UP, it was constructed in keeping with the tradition of Hindu royalty of maintaining two households. One, where principles, vegetarian food and purdah were strictly observed. The other, for entertainment and social compatibility with the Raj. In legend the house was built, by the Maharaja for his eighteen year-old mistress, Roshanara. Said to be half-Dutch with a Jewish background, her beauty had become the toast of Dehra Dun cantonment, desired by Englishmen and Indian royalty alike. After the Maharaja, the mistress stayed on until she died mysteriously and was apparently buried on the estate. Still, we are told, to rise, roam and moan through the roses dressed in a white skirt with big floral patterns. A maali, who lived to be ninety-six years, swears to seeing the real 'Gori memsaab' in her haunting habit. The legend continues. I scurried away before midnight. Lest the ghost of Roshanara fancied me.

  It is easy to see how far the desecration of Doon has reached. Past the Osho fast food restaurant made popular by local school boys, the shopping malls nearing stages of completion, the trees that were hacked down to make way for modernity replaced by some token bougainvillea. The avenue of old trees begins again. The Survey of India housed in the lovely Hathibarkala estate. Opposite is the National Institute for the Visually Handicapped and the Central Braille Press. Next, approaches the President's Bodyguard. Here, there are no obvious encroachments on the vast tracts of virgin land. Woe betide any developer who tries it on with these august organisations.

  When I was posted in Seychelles, I was fascinated by an obviously five star hotel on the beach which had neither sun-bathers nor people in the restaurant. I asked the Manager over a drink why his hotel was doing badly and was somewhat astonished when he said they were always full. 'This is,' he said 'a place for the newly weds and the nearly deads.' Neither category got out of bed even for room-service and in the evening they would sit on their balconies looking at the sea, coddling and canoodling, not too far removed from their favourite piece of furniture. The bed. Dehra Dun used to be like that when street lights became superfluous after seven in the evening. But has it changed? Not much. My lady personal bank manager, Anshu tells me that few young people go out in the evenings except to each other's houses. On Sundays, they might drive or picnic; in summer, a swim in the stream at Robber's Cave or Lacchiwala. But both lack privacy and one is more than likely to find giggling village children peering through the bushes hoping for a glimpse of naked flesh. In Dehra city the young men mainly use the evenings to play billiards or snooker in one of the many seedy joints which abound in some of the dingier streets, or carrom in one of the coffee or chai houses. The cosmopolitan Doon young has
seen the arrival of the coffee shop. Barista is one such meeting place of a few groups of young people and quite often, couples. Innovatively attached to a book shop. So, one can buy a book and read it over the many variations of the cup of coffee. Some, bereft of a loved one, string a guitar to themselves and wish. Even these coffee shops are losing their novelty and are now more often seen empty. The ties, if not the attractions of home and family seem to win out over the semi-illicit assignations in a dark corner over a cappuccino. A few hopefuls have opened so-called trendy bistro's. These fare even less well. The Mughlai Kitchens, K.C. Soup Bar, Café Day offer culinary hopes which are rarely fulfilled. The food is generally a limited variation of the real thing served in their Delhi or Mumbai counterparts. The shopping malls are for browsing, not buying, their attraction being air-conditioning in the summer and warmth in winter.

  Past the village at Jakhan at the Mussoorie bypass is the centre for dance and music, 'Ghungroo' run by noted Kathak exponent Mrs Promila Pande. A few shops dealing in 'antiques' mark the diversion towards Malsi on the new Mussoorie Road. As one continues on the Rajpur Road, one enters the land of the once powerful but mainly retired civil servants and military officials. They are inveterate walkers, both in the mornings and late afternoons, which is why the road was christened 'the road of green trees and white hair'. Here, the plots of land remain largely undivided although further down the hill towards the now empty water bed of the Rispana an enterprising few sighting a fast buck have built less than desirable residences which cling to the hillside cheek by jowl. It is on this stretch of road that one can see at night, the necklace of sparkling Mussoorie lights, separated safely by a vast swathe of reserved forest mountains. Living on the other side of the Rajpur spur to the south and west, one may be lucky to gain a panoramic view of the Shivaliks. This is temple land. The Ramakrishna Mission and the very popular Sai Baba temple. A meeting place for devotees, principally on Thursdays and Sundays. As in most religious organisations or foundations, the Sai Baba temple is a weekly event, an outing for families who doff their shoes and donn their finest garments before offering prayers and swapping homespun gossipy stories with their neighbours. But even the Sai Baba temple, especially in the early mornings and late afternoons is sadly bereft of devotees. Despite artificial illumination, it seems quietly to sleep in the heat of the summer while providing an ideal film setting for the haunted house during the lashings offered by the Gods during the monsoon.