ONCE UPON A TIME IN THE DOON Page 2
Nearby is the Sakya temple. One of the four schools of Tibetan Buddhism, widely popular and populous. His Holiness Sakya presides and is quite amenable to visitors. The Sakya Buddhists are unusual in that although paying respect to the Dalai Lama their tradition of succession is hereditary. Many devotees inhabit the Rajpur village, a sizeable township. They live in harmony with their Hindu neighbours although there is less social inter-activity. There are recorded cases of intermarriage by Tibetan Buddhists outside their community, but not in the closed non-secular society in Dehra Dun. His Holiness said, proudly, that he has two sons. A sister living in Canada has four, the oldest of whom married a Japanese girl and the third's father-in-law is Scottish with a Philippine wife. Perhaps, outside their family-oriented lifestyle in India, the Tibetans feel freer to chance their arm.
Rajpur village is on the top of a steep hill, where the Rajpur Road peters out. There is a First World War memorial which records that seventy-nine men went to the 'Great War' and xxx returned. One must assume that they all got the chop somewhere on the battlefields of France. Lastly, one reaches the police chowki, one of the earliest established by the British and which still maintains its original building, constructed with the establishment of a force in 1850. Here, the police confirm the lack, or is it apathy, of communal violence between the two communities. Disputes comprise in the main marriage and land or both. A case of a wife-to-be who failed to turn up for her shaadi. She had eloped with someone who had more landholding than the disconsolate jilted groom. Land disputes would fill another book for Job and certainly marriage is covered by the Ten Commandments. The latter mentions not the Eleventh Commandment 'Thou shalt not get found out'.
In Rajpur, live Lt Gen (Retd) Shamsher Singh and his wife Honey and their daughter Cherie. Shamsher has some good stories about when he was Indian Defence advisor in Moscow. Although his command of Russian is about the same as mine over Hindi. Confined to the basics of life: booze, food, 'bed, book and candle'. Although the candle is more necessary in our power- poor state of Uttarakhand. Next door to the Shamsher Singh's is an old people's home where some seventy or eighty couples and singles live in retirement. Each have their own miniscule flat but with good security and an office manager. Their constraint is mobility. The road to Rajpur village has a steepish gradient for old people and there are no helpful traders who would come, even occasionally, to sell fruit, vegetables and household necessities. But they seem a happy and hospitable crowd. People in their later years rarely groan and moan as much as the young.
Halfway between the Rajpur bypass turnoff and the Rajpur village is my humble establishment. Set in a little over two bighas, it is essentially an English style country cottage with plenty of windows and jaali doors which open to allow the breeze. They also admit a host of keedas of varying sizes and species. These are hungrily gobbled up by two tame geckos, to whom I remain eternally grateful. I have not yet seen a snake in the garden, although cobras and rat-snakes do abound. This, I attribute to the advice of the swami who blessed the cottage on its completion. He insisted that two silver cobras be planted, or rather entombed in the foundations. My accountant added my business card encased in cellophane, lest there should be any dispute over ownership. So far, both the cobras have, touchwood, accomplished their task very well. But I cannot for the life of me remember in which part of the foundations they are encased. Thanks to the alluvial soil, washed down from the Himalayas, the garden is a haven for flowers, fruit trees and vegetables of all kinds. There are, of course, monkeys of which I have a dislike mixed with fear. Freddie, my Labrador's, favourite pass-time apart from sleeping is chasing these animals. Although, he would be as surprised as I, if ever he caught one.
The long and winding road now lives up to its name in the fortuitous ascent up to Mussoorie. Much more comprehensively chronicled by the aficionado Ruskin Bond. Once, Rajpur was the staging post for intrepid travellers prepared to walk through the jungles and forests to the 6,000 ft Mussoorie hill station. For the less hardy, there were 'palankeens' normally carried by six coolies. For the weak-legged or faint-hearted, mules and horses. The introduction of a new road and subsequently a bypass and the motor car led Mussoorie to be a more accessible hill station and a summer abode for the rich and famous. The road was once precarious, but is now safely guarded by retaining walls from all but the most outrageous and often inebriated drivers from the plains who, perhaps thinking they are in Europe, tend to drive on the right, especially around hairpin bends. Some of the Mussoorie grand houses remain. The Skinner sisters at Sikander Hall in Barlowganj maintain their modest but high standards and a wide circle of friends. Even higher in Landour and in Sisters bazaar, established owners have resisted the lure of lucre and preserved their historic traditions. But Mussoorie has basically been turned, like Shimla, into an urban dump. Much has been written about the few remaining characters who still live there. The Rajmata of Jind at 'Oakless' with her companion, the author, Bill Aitkin, the long-closed gates of the summer palace of the Maharaja of Kapurthala, Christ Church on the Mall and its tiny sister St Paul's in Landour. Mussoorie cannot be complete without a nostalgic memory of the Savoy Hotel. Fifty or sixty years ago, it was the only place to stay, to take one's lady friend and live in carefree disrespectability where sly surreptitious liaisons were as acceptable and tolerated as one's tiffin. Separated from the inevitable squalor of the squats in Mussoorie are the cemeteries at Mussoorie and Landour. Small patches of peace. Rather, like land in Dehra Dun for the living, being buried in these two cemeteries has a certain cachet, although both are pretty expensive. The graves, like the houses, closely packed together. Perhaps, some enterprising businessman will combine the two. 'Live, die and lie in the lap of Landour'.
Touch of the Vanished Hand
Rakesh Bahadur
iver Yamuna breaks out of the hills ahead of Kalsi. One moment it is swift flowing, sky-blue and green in colour, climbing and dashing against yellow-black rocks, and then, broadens in a wide expanse, flowing gently over pebbles, as if it has conquered the mountains and is now. relaxed, perhaps overcome with exhaustion and displaying lassitude.
I had camped close to Kalsi, at Dakpathar, in an inspection bungalow on the banks of the river. Having reached late in the evening, there was just enough time to have a quick meal, gaze for a while on the few lights of Himachal Pradesh across the river, and smoke a pipe. Mentioning the pipe is important, since it has a bearing on the story that I am about to relate. I was carrying two pipes with my favourite tobacco. The pipes were in a leather bag, while the tobacco was in an oilskin pouch, and kept in a small moccasin bag. Needless to say, since I was camping for four days, the quantity of tobacco was sufficient for the purpose.
The night fell early, and autumn nights in the Himalayan foothills are cold. A refreshing sleep, an early morning wake-up, when the dawn was just breaking, and a good breakfast of scrambled eggs and bread; followed by two cups of hot coffee, are very conducive to start an interesting day. Although autumn days are generally clear, it was a surprise to find the sky laden with clouds promising rain.
I was going to a remote corner of the district, near its highest point, and would have to trek for about six miles. I felt that I owed myself a chance to get away from the cosmopolitan life of Dehra Dun and Mussoorie, which, interesting as it was, sometimes got on your nerves. Fortunately, no VVIPs were scheduled to arrive in Doon during the week, and one could legitimately get away from it all. In any case, the police wireless system would help me keep in touch (there were no cellular phones then). My two young daughters were staying back because something interesting, like the annual sports of the school was happening and therefore, my wife had to stay back. Of course, we had trooped over the entire district, the whole family, many times, and would have many opportunities to do so in the future. One was reasonably sure about one's tenure in the districts at that time!
The road from Kalsi rises steeply into the mountains. Because of the clouds, the mountains looked dark and forbidding. The initial few miles were gentle elevations, where the hills softly rolled in folds, but the dark clouds gave it a decidedly Moorish look, I thought. When a scenery or vision which impresses you is before the eyes, most of us believe that it will never go away, and one can recall it without effort. I have, however, learnt to disbelieve this slowly. Unless captured in a photograph or a painting, or written down on paper, the colour of the landscape as well as the timbre of the sounds associated with it, can never be recaptured. One only has a vague memory of feeling good at that time, though the mind searches vainly for what it was that made the moment special. Can you recall the gentle swoosh of the reel making an arc and then splashing in the midstream of a mountain river before the fly is taken up, or on the same bank, the lonely cry of the tern when it rises from the bushes beside the river? It was, therefore, with some amount of pleasure that I was able to place the landscape accurately on this drive.
It started to rain gently, and it only ended when I reached the inspection bungalow of my intermediate destination, about 7,000 ft high, where the metalled road also ended. It had rained here also, but the jeep track was said to be firm, and I felt that since my arrival had already been announced, it would not be proper for the trek to be put off for one day. Of course, the desire to start walking, after nearly two hours of sitting inside an ambassador car was there. And, if the surroundings at 7,000 ft were so enchanting, after an elevation of nearly fifteen hundred feet, what more would be better. As if to encourage me, some of the clouds to the north shifted, and the great snow peaks shone in their majestic glory. A quick cup of tea, and I was off.
The jeep track was tortuous, but the two petrol jeeps were in good condition, and it was around ten in the morning that I reached the small hill, from where walking was to be
gin. A plate of sandwiches, washed down with ice-cold water and then a cup of tea, I was ready to start. Since the provisions and my effects had been sent already, there was little luggage except for some food and tea for the way, and yes, important to reiterate, my pipes and tobacco, which I checked personally. Lest it gives an impression that I am fond of inhaling noxious vapours all day, let me clarify that one, or at the most two, pipeful of tobacco is what I used to smoke at the time. Now, fifteen years later, weekend smoking is all that I can afford to indulge in, that too, if there is an interesting book to read, and if the phones are not ringing. How one longs for the good times when mere gusts of wind could make the phones 'dead'!
The path was moderately steep, but we set a brisk pace. There was much to admire on the way. We were climbing a ridge, with some fields on the southern slopes (since this part of the district was not really populated), while towards the north the snowy vista stretched towards me, with clouds at the roots of the peaks, having spent their moisture, and then a dense, dark jungle of mainly indigenous trees, as if, the godly peaks had decided to detach themselves from the world, the dark jungle of existence, as it were, and were floating on a bed of wispy, white clouds. Although the frost had set since it was late autumn, the heather still bloomed in patches, with bright flowers against the background of golden brown and dying bracken.
By afternoon, I had reached the inspection bungalow, set on a grassy knoll, with a deep forested valley on the north side, where a stream meandered its way, sometimes seemingly lost among the dark trees, at other places shining in the late afternoon sun. One had official business to attend to, and the sun was setting when I was done for the day. The setting sun made the peaks more interesting, the white of the snow turning to amber.
I now had a chance to examine the resthouse. Built more than one hundred years ago, it was relatively small, with one large bedroom and a sitting room, besides the normal kitchen and outhouses, situated back from the main building, but linked to it through a covered passage. The main building faced north, with a wide stone-flagged verandah, where one had the chance to sit and admire the view. As soon as the sun goes down, this part of the country becomes cool, and at this height, it was definitely cold. However, I was adequately clad, and waited till it had become dark, when the stars were starting to come out. The sitting room was very comfortable, although sparsely furnished. A log fire and something soothing from an island in the Western Isles of Scotland prepared me for dinner, which I finished early. My staff retired for the night, and I also went to the bedroom, but having finished early, decided to read for some time, sitting in a comfortable arm-chair facing the bed.
The bedroom and the sitting room both faced the verandah, and the cold necessitated the closing of the windows. One side of the bedroom led to the bathroom and on the eastern wing outside was a small patch of green, where the local chowkidar had made attempts to make the ground yield some beans and similar vegetables. The moonlight was strong, but after looking across the window, I drew the curtains so as to make the room cosy. Outside, the wind slowly stirred the leaves of the rhododendrons. In short, peace in this corner of the world.
The book was not very interesting, and moreover, I was not used to reading by a candle, however big it was, and I gave up the attempt. You will do well to remember, that I had not smoked my pipe even once during the day, and I now carefully filled it to the brim from the pouch, lighted it and settled to enjoy a well deserved smoke. My thoughts turned to the happenings of the day, the trek, the conversations with the villagers, and their simple expectations from the authorities. I was puzzled by one remark which the local pradhan had made to me separately, stating that he was surprised as to why I had chosen this particular resthouse to sleep, but I had left it at that.
I blew out the candle, and turned in for the night, going off to sleep immediately, tired after the long walk. Suddenly, I woke up after some time. Instinct made me look at my wrist-watch, which showed about two in the night. The room was in near complete darkness, but I had the feeling that I was not alone and there was someone else in the room. I thought it would have to be either a very brave or a very foolish burglar attempting to rob the district magistrate in camp. Becoming wide awake immediately, again by practice, I waited in an amused fashion for some movement on the intruder's part, but this man, whoever it was (it never occurred to me that it could be a woman) was totally silent. I began to think that perhaps, my imagination was playing tricks. I decided to sleep, yet some sixth sense stopped me. It seems surprising, but I put my head slightly high on the head-board of the bed and pulled my pillow up, the sort of position one adopts while trying to read, and which all ophthalmologists say, is bad for the eyes. There was no element of fear, and I decided to wait for whoever, or whatever it was, to make a move. My torch was besides the arm-chair, resting on a tea-table, where I had kept my pipe and the tobacco pouch, and I did not want to leave the warmth of my blankets to traipse across the room, which was fairly large. At no stage did I feel the need to challenge the visitor, perhaps secure in my own strength, and also aware of the armed guard mounted in the resthouse, as is usually the custom when the collector is in camp. I also did not feel threatened at any stage, yet my senses were alert. Nearly ten minutes later, I heard what I perceived to be a muted sigh, and then, a very soft touch, or a mere sense of something on my right hand, as if a hand just brushed me about the wrist. A touch so gentle, you'd wonder whether there was any touch at all. A slight stir of the curtain on the window in front of me, and then, a feeling that I was alone in the room again. Immediately, I felt that the presence, man or animal, real or shadow, leave the room, which became cosy once again, and I promptly fell asleep.
I am an early riser, and promptly at six in the morning, the knock announced the morning cup of tea. The sun was shining gloriously in the sky, every leaf and blade of grass looked as if it had been washed in the night, and a solitary Himalayan vulture soared in the sky, close to the snowy range in front of me. I was camping here for two nights, and despite the unusual experience of the night, did not feel it necessary to shift. I went inside to bring the pipe which was beside the ashtray near the arm-chair. The pipe was very much there, but the tobacco pouch was gone, carrying some of my best pipe tobacco. Well, it was there in the night when I had smoked, so where was it now? It had, simply and cleanly, disappeared.
My friend, the pradhan had a twinkle in his eyes when I met him for a cup of tea after breakfast. He asked me solicitously if I had slept well. I feigned surprise, and said that yes, I had, indeed. Out came the story that in the previous century, a party of British soldiers on a shikar trip, had camped in the resthouse for a few days. They were led by a sergeant, who died in the resthouse mysteriously, and since then, the locals avoided the building. The chowkidar had been here for about two years, given to drinking, and stayed in a village about a mile away. No, he saw no reason to wait after dark in the resthouse, particularly since his house was close by, and he had a cow to milk in the evening. Actually, most of these chowkidars do not stay in resthouses that are not frequently occupied. No district magistrate, in living memory, had halted here, and very few forest officers, too, as was evident from the visitors' book. Those who had halted were, perhaps, non-smokers as well!
I slept in the resthouse for one more night before moving back to headquarters, and was not disturbed at all. Why was I to be disturbed, considering that the tobacco had gone, perhaps, now being filled in a vintage Irish pipe. I did not regret losing the tobacco, but I did wonder whether the sergeant (if it was indeed he who had visited me), was a pipe-smoker. And, what if he smoked cigarettes, or preferred hand-rolled cigarettes. In the latter case, you would do well carry cigarette papers if you are visiting the north-west or Dehra Dun district.