by Ruskin Bond
A bold, bad place was Mussoorie in those days, according to the correspondent of the Statesman, who, in his paper of 22nd October 1884, wrote 'Ladies and gentlemen, after attending church, proceeded to a drinking shop, a restaurant adjoining the library, and there indulged freely in pegs, not one but many; and at a Fancy Bazaar held this season, a lady stood up on her chair and offered her kisses to gentlemen at Rs 5 each. What would they think of such a state of society at home?'
Fifty years later, a Mussoorie lady auctioned a single kiss for Rs 300. A vivid illustration of the inflationary process throughout history.
But inspite of such goings-on, or perhaps because of them, the inhabitants were conscious of their spiritual needs, and a number of churches were soon dotted about the hill-station, the oldest of them being Christ Church (1836).
When, in March 1905, Her Royal Highness the Princess of Wales (later Queen Mary) visited Mussoorie, she planted a deodar tree outside Christ Church. The plaque commemorating this event can still be seen, now almost embedded in the trunk of the tree.
Some thirty years later, the chaplain of Christ Church was the fair-minded Reverend T.W. Chisolm. In his usual Sunday service prayers, in the year 1933, he sought god's help for veteran Indian leader and freedom-fighter, Pandit Motilal Nehru, a regular visitor to Mussoorie, who was then seriously ill. There was an immediate hullaballoo in all official tea sessions, and the chaplain was reprimanded. This caused him to comment, 'that in these years of our Lord, Holy Orders can be interpreted to mean wholly Government orders.'
It is easy enough to get to Mussoorie today, but how did visitors manage it before the advent of the railway and the motorcar? It was surely a difficult exercise. Mr Shore and Captain Young merely scrambled up the goat tracks to get here; and Lady Eden used her pony to canter along paths and 'up precipices'; but before that, one detrained at Ghaziabad (near Delhi), engaged a bullock-cart or tonga, and then proceeded in the direction of the Himalayas as speedily as only a bullock-cart or tonga could go. After that, one either walked, rode a pony, or was carried uphill in a doolie, a crude sort of palanquin.
By the turn of the century, the 'Sind, Punjab and Delhi Railway' had got as far as Saharanpur, and the bullock-cart had given way to the dak-ghari.
The only way to reach Dehra Dun, en route to Mussoorie, was by the dak-ghari or 'night-mail'.
Dak-Ghari ponies were different animals, 'always attempting to turn around and get into carriage with the passengers,' as one disgruntled traveller described them. It was only when the coachman used his whip liberally and reviled the ponies' ancestors as far back as three or four generations that the beasts could be persuaded to move. And once they started, there was no stopping them; it was a gallop all the way to the first stage, where the ponies were changed to the accompaniment of a bugle blown by the coachman in true Dickensian fashion.
The journey through the Siwaliks really began—as it still does—at the Mohand Pass. The ascent starts with a gradual gradient, which increases as the road becomes more steep and winding. The hills are abrupt and perpendicular on the southern side, but slope gently away to the north.
At this stage of the journey, drums were beaten (if it was daytime) and torches were lit (if it was night), because frequently wild elephants resented the approach of the dak-ghari and, trumpeting a challenge, would throw the ponies into panic and confusion and send them racing back to the plains.
The railway reached Dehra Dun in 1901. Till then the main overnight stop was at Rajpur, and the well-known hostelries and forwarding agencies at Rajpur were the 'Ellenborough Hotel', the 'Prince of Wales Hotel', and the 'Agency Retiring Rooms' of Messrs Buckle and Company's 'Bullock Train Agency'. They have long since disappeared. As Dehra Dun grew in importance, Rajpur's importance dwindled, and for many years its long winding bazaar resembled a ghost-town.
Soon the Savoy and Charleville Hotels opened. Massive furniture, grand-pianos, billiard-tables, barrels of cider and crates of champagne had all come up the hill in lumbering bullock-carts. In 1909, the hotels were suddenly ablaze with light, for this was the year when electricity came to Mussoorie. Before that, the ballrooms and dining-rooms had been hung with chandeliers, the rooms lit by candlelight, and the kitchens with spirit-lamps.
It was after World War I in the 'gay twenties' that the Charleville and the Savoy entered the most popular era, when they were to be as well-known as Raffles in Singapore or the Imperial in Tokyo. Wealthy Indian princes and their families and staff occupied entire wings of the Savoy Hotel. The Savoy Orchestra played every night, and the ballroom was full of couples doing the tango or fox-trot, the latest dancing craze of those days.
After India's Independence in 1947, Mussoorie went through a difficult period. The British had gone, and the wealthy princes and landowners were also finding times difficult. Hotels and boarding-houses began to close down. Then, in the early sixties, the prosperous Indian middle-classes became hill-station conscious, and once again crowds thronged the Mall on summer evenings. These days the foreign tourist is discovering the delights of the lower Himalayas.
Those who wish to move further into the mountains, either on foot or by road, have a wealth of flora and fauna to discover and enjoy. One of the remarkable features of the Himalayas is the abruptness with which they rise from the plains, and this gives them a verdure that is totally different from that of the plains.
None of the common trees of the plains are to be found in the hills. At elevations of 4,000 ft, the long-leaved pine appears. From 5,000 ft there are several kinds of evergreen oak, and above 6,000 ft you find rhododendron, deodar, maple, the hill crypress, and the beautiful horse-chestnut. Still higher up, the silver fir is common; but at 12,000 ft the firs become stunted and dwarfed, and the birch and juniper replace them. At this height raspberries grow wild, amongst yellow colt's-foot dandelion, blue gentian, purple columbine, anemone and edelweiss.
Not every hillside is covered with foliage. Many hills are bare and rugged, too precipitous for cultivation. Sometimes they are masses of quartz, limestone or granite.
Just as the trees of the plains differ from those of the hills, so do the animals and birds. The bear, the goral (a goatlike animal), the marten, the civet-cat, the snow leopard, and the musk-deer, all belong to the Himalayas. The caw of the house-crow is replaced by the deeper note of the corby, and the melodious green hill-pigeon takes the place of the small brown dove.
You do not always see the birds, but you can hear them. As you trek in the interior, or wander along a quiet road in the hill-station, the sound of birds is very pleasant to hear; just as the sound of water in the valleys, the singing of the hill people, the smell of the pines, and the blue smoke rising from the villages, are always with you in the Himalayas.
Landour Bazaar
IN MOST NORTH INDIAN BAZAARS, THERE IS A CLOCK TOWER. And like most clocks in clock towers, this one works in fits and starts: listless in summer, sluggish during the monsoon, stopping altogether when it snows in January. Almost every year the tall brick structure gets a coat of paint. It was pink last year. Now it's a livid purple.
From the clock tower, at one end, to the mule sheds at the other, this old Mussoorie bazaar is a mile long. The tall, shaky three-storey buildings cling to the mountainside, shutting out the sunlight. They are even shakier now that heavy trucks have started rumbling down the narrow street, originally made for nothing heavier than a rickshaw. The street is narrow and damp, retaining all the bazaar smells— sweetmeats frying, smoke from wood or charcoal fires, the sweat and urine of mules, petrol fumes, all these mingle with the smell of mist and old buildings and distant pines.
The bazaar sprang up about a hundred and fifty years ago to serve the needs of British soldiers, who were sent to the Landour convalescent depot to recover from sickness or wounds. The old military hospital, built in 1827, now houses the Defence Institute of Work Study.* One old resident of the bazaar, a ninety-year-old tailor, can remember the time, in the early years of the century, when
the Redcoats marched through the small bazaar on their way to the cantonment church. And they always carried their rifles into church, remembering how many had been surprised in churches during the 1857 uprising.
Today, the Landour bazaar serves the local population, Mussoorie itself being more geared to the needs and interest of tourists. There are a number of silversmiths in Landour. They fashion silver nose-rings, earrings, bracelets and anklets, which are bought by the women from the surrounding Jaunpuri villages. One silversmith had a chest full of old silver rupees. These rupees are sometimes hung on thin silver chains and worn as pendants. I have often seen women in Garhwal wearing pendants or necklaces of rupees embossed with the profiles of Queen Victoria or King Edward VII.
At the other extreme there are the kabari shops, where you can pick up almost everything—a taperecorder discarded by a Woodstock student, or a piece of furniture from Grandmother's time in the hill-station. Old clothes, Victorian bric-a-brac, and bits of modern gadgetry vie for your attention.
The old clothes are often more reliable than the new. Last winter I bought a new pullover marked 'Made in Nepal' from a Tibetan pavement vendor. I was wearing it on the way home when it began to rain. By the time I reached my cottage, the pullover had shrunk inches and I had some difficulty getting out of it! It was now just the right size for Bijju, the milkman's twelve-year-old son, and I gave it to the boy. But it continued to shrink at every wash, and it is now being worn by Teju, Bijju's younger brother, who is eight.
At the dark windy corner in the bazaar, one always found an old man hunched up over his charcoal fire, roasting peanuts. He'd been there for as long as I could remember, and he could be seen at almost any hour of the day or night, in all weathers.
He was probably quite tall, but I never saw him standing up. One judged his height from his long, loose limbs. He was very thin, probably tubercular, and the high cheekbones added to the tautness of his tightly stretched skin.
His peanuts were always fresh, crisp and hot. They were popular with small boys, who had a few coins to spend on their way to and from school. On cold winter evenings, there was always a demand for peanuts from people of all ages.
No one seemed to know the old man's name. No one had ever thought of asking. One just took his presence for granted. He was as fixed a landmark as the clock tower or the old cherry tree that grew crookedly from the hillside. He seemed less perishable than the tree, more dependable than the clock. He had no family, but in a way all the world was his family because he was in continuous contact with people. And yet he was a remote sort of being; always polite, even to children, but never familiar. He was seldom alone, but he must have been lonely.
Summer nights he rolled himself up in a thin blanket and slept on the ground beside the dying embers of his fire. During winter he waited until the last cinema show was over, before retiring to the rickshaw coolies' shelter where there was protection from the freezing wind.
Did he enjoy being alive? I often wondered. He was not a joyful person; but then neither was he miserable. Perhaps he was one of those who do not attach overmuch importance to themselves, who are emotionally uninvolved in the life around them, content with their limitations, their dark corners; people on whom cares rest lightly, simply because they do not care at all.
I wanted to get to know the old man better, to sound him out on the immense questions involved in roasting peanuts all one's life; but it's too late now. He died last summer.
That corner remained very empty, very dark, and every time I passed it, I was haunted by visions of the old peanut vendor, troubled by the questions I did not ask; and I wondered if he was really as indifferent to life as he appeared to be.
Then, a few weeks ago, there was a new occupant of the corner, a new seller of peanuts. No relative of the old man, but a boy of thirteen or fourteen. The human personality can impose its own nature on its surroundings. In the old man's time it seemed a dark, gloomy corner. Now it's lit up by sunshine—a sunny personality, smiling, chattering. Old age gives way to youth; and I'm glad I won't be alive when the new peanut vendor grows old. One shouldn't see too many people grow old.
Leaving the main bazaar behind, I walk some way down the Mussoorie-Tehri road, a fine road to walk on, in spite of the dust from an occasional bus or jeep. From Mussoorie to Chamba, a distance of some thirty-five miles, the road seldom descends below 7,000 ft, and there is a continual vista of the snow ranges to the north and valleys and rivers to the south. Dhanaulti is one of the lovelier spots, and the Garhwal Mandai Vikas Nigam has a rest house here, where one can spend an idyllic weekend. Some years ago I walked all the way to Chamba, spending the night at Kaddukhal, from where a short climb takes one to the Surkhanda Devi temple.
Leaving the Tehri Road, one can also trek down to the little Aglar river and then up to Nag Tibba, 9,000 ft, which has good oak forests and animals ranging from barking-deer to Himalayan bear; but this is an arduous trek and you must be prepared to spend the night in the open or seek the hospitality of a village.
On this particular day I reach Suakholi and rest in a tea-shop, a loose stone structure with a tin roof held down by stones. It serves the bus passengers, mule drivers, milkmen, and others who use this road.
I find a couple of mules tethered to a pine tree. The mule drivers, handsome men in tattered clothes, sit on a bench in the shade of the tree, drinking tea from brass tumblers. The shopkeeper, a man of indeterminate age— the cold dry winds from the mountain passes having crinkled his face like a walnut—greets me enthusiastically, as he always does. He even produces a chair, which looks a survivor from one of Wilson's rest houses, and may even be a Sheraton. Fortunately the Mussoorie kabaris do not know about it or they'd have snapped it up long ago. In any case, the stuffing has come out of the seat. The shopkeeper apologises for its condition: 'The rats were nesting in it.' And then, to reassure me: 'But they have gone now.'
I would just as soon be on the bench with the Jaunpuri mule drivers, but I do not wish to offend Mela Ram, the tea-shop owner; so I take his chair into the shade and lower myself into it.
'How long have you kept this shop?'
'Oh, ten, fifteen years, I do not remember.'
He hasn't bothered to count the years. Why should he? Outside the towns in the isolation of the hills, life is simply a matter of yesterday, today and tomorrow. And not always tomorrow.
Unlike Mela Ram, the mule drivers have somewhere to go and something to deliver—sacks of potatoes! From Jaunpur to Jaunsar, the potato is probably the crop best suited to these stony, terraced fields. They have to deliver their potatoes in Landour Bazaar and return to their village before nightfall; and soon they lead their pack animals away, along the dusty road to Mussoorie.
'Tea or lassi?' Mela Ram offers me a choice, and I choose the curd preparation, which is sharp, sour and very refreshing. The wind soughs gently in the upper branches of the pine trees, and I relax in my Sheraton chair like some eighteenth century Nawab who has brought his own furniture into the wilderness. I can see why Wilson did not want to return to the plains when he came his way in the 1850s. Instead he went further and higher into the mountains and made his home among the people of the Bhagirathi valley.
Having wandered some way down the Tehri road, it is quite late by the time I return to the Landour bazaar. Lights still twinkle on the hills, but shop fronts are shuttered and the little bazaar is silent. The people living on either side of the narrow street can hear my footsteps, and I hear their casual remarks, music, a burst of laughter.
Through a gap in the rows of buildings I can see Pari Tibba outlined in the moonlight. A greenish phosphorescent glow appears to move here and there about the hillside. This is the 'fairy light' that gives the hill its name Pari Tibba, Fairy Hill. I have no explanation for it, and I don't know anyone else who has been able to explain it satisfactorily; but often from my window I see this greenish light zigzagging about the hill.
A three-quarter moon is up, and the tin roofs of the bazaar,
drenched with dew, glisten in the moonlight. Although the street is unlit, I need no torch. I can see every step of the way. I can even read the headlines on the discarded newspaper lying in the gutter.
Although I am alone on the road, I am aware of the life pulsating around me. It is a cold night, doors and windows are shut; but through the many clinks, narrow fingers of light reach out into the night. Who could still be up? A shopkeeper going through his accounts, a college student preparing for his exams, someone coughing and groaning in the dark.
Three stray dogs are romping in the middle of the road. It is their road now, and they abandon themselves to a wild chase, almost knocking me down.
A jackal slinks across the road, looking to the right and left—he knows his road-drill—to make sure the dogs have gone. A field rat wriggles through a hole in a rotting plank on its nightly foray among sacks of grain and pulses.
Yes, this is an old bazaar. The bakers, tailors, silversmiths, and wholesale merchants are the grandsons of those who followed the mad sahibs to this hilltop in the thirties and forties of the last century. Most of them are plainsmen, quite prosperous, even though many of their houses are crooked and shaky.
Although the shopkeepers and tradesmen are fairly prosperous, the hill people—those who come from the surrounding Tehri and Jaunpur villages—are usually poor. Their small holdings and rocky fields do not provide them with much of a living, and men and boys have to often come into the hill-station or go down to the cities in search of a livelihood. They pull rickshaws, or work in hotels and restaurants. Most of them have somewhere to stay.
