A corner in Himalayas

In my experience, almost all of hill stations look good on coffee table books or on glossy tour operator brochures, but when it really gets down to having first actual contact, you are assailed by mass of concrete and haphazard rows upon rows of untidy cubes lumped together on some mountain slope generically known as budget hotels. I might add that on any hill station the term budget and hotel are intrinsically opposed to each other and resolutely fail to provide any value for money. An upmarket version would be a resort of some sort, flaunting better location and facilities. But the promises of unparallel vistas and quaint idea of relaxing will be short lived for within few hours you will find confronting yourself with hoards of rich Indians on holidaying spree, their kids running around like a riot with their aunts and moms following in pursuit while the man of house is making his first enquiry about location of in house Bar. Parking staff of resort and drivers of pseudo SUVs arguing over best parking spot in the crammed park frame will soon join the melee and whole squabble just refuse to die down till you decide to take a walk off resort premises and hope peace will return with you. Not to be left behind Indians there is a bus full of somewhat obese western tourists in late 50s who have been saving for 5 years and sold onto an Indian tour promising sights like nowhere with their guides herding them around like a flock on hooves while they take picture of just about anything in sight from a cow petty to a gnarled beggar standing on main gate, building up their memories about endearing India that they are going to share with folks back home.

There is however an alternate available to this mayhem and when it really comes to lodging in hills I find myself in absolute favour of Forest Dak Bungalows and hotels exclusively manned and run by state tourism boards. On most occasions one can do rather well by avoiding private enterprises, as these govt tourism hotels are in business since ice ages and they really do have location advantage of best views. But on the flip side, as a reasonably prudent and seasoned tourist the usual caveat still applies and you should not expect services of a 7 star hotel. But to get the permission to stay in most of forest guest houses or Dak Bungalows is a hassle you dont want to go through every time you plan a vacation but it will be worth everything once you realise what a charming world exist in those quaint and somewhat rundown cottages. This also brings me to the raison dtres of this write up.

Being a regular visitor and red tape taken care by the caretaker himself I often use to go to a place in Himachal Pradesh in the past when internet and mobile phones have not made appearance in India. A telegram will inform the caretaker, my arrival date along with a money order to buy provisions for kitchen. On appointed day I will get down from the bus and meet my old friend Dukhi Ram from another world. It took him few visits to not insist on carrying my luggage, as I felt terribly awkward to allow him the entire luggage at his age while I gingerly trailed him. Dukhi will come at that bus stop that looked more like a tin shanty than a bus stop on a no-where road and wait from morning till whatever time bus comes, waiting for his young friend from plains. From thereon we wait for another local bus that will arrive at even bigger time scale of unscheduled running to take us into interiors on the road that seemed to be particularly not going anywhere for there is next to nothing traffic on it. That rickety contraption on four wheels arrive like a kaleidoscope of all things about hill people. Inside the bus it will be somewhat humid, full of exotic smells, sweat, infants tied and latched to mothers breasts, little sheep calf huddled in a farmers lap, small bales of fodder, cans of pesticide, pungent Bidi smoke wafting all around, an ex Johnny on way back home on his pension, young boys returning home for annual holiday with their bags full and bursting at seams, full of gifts for all family members and laughter that will prevail as the bus lurch toward the destination after bus conductor has passed a rather lewd observation on a passing belle alone the road. A Sadhu would sit quietly all through the noise and melee, perhaps in a stoned state rather than contemplating on world passing by.

Finally Dukhi and I will get down for about a kilometre walk to the forest guest house which is probably the smallest one I have seen in hills. Perched atop a small hill, gently rolling onto a fenceless grazing ground for local cattle the guest house has only one visitor room with an attached bathroom which was an epitome of simplicity and function and a kitchen cum living room of Dukhi Ram, a small store-room adjacent to the kitchenand a loggia just about long enough for an easy chair and you can doze off in it putting legs up over wood rails and peg table nearby, this overlooked a valley that sometime send clouds wafting right onto the front door of the bungalow. The furniture was minimal and whatever that stood vagaries of time, bore impressionable time stamp of Raj days. Whatever got decayed was probably never replaced nor did Dukhi ever seemed to have made any official reports for fresh acquisition. So our impressive collection of Raj furniture made for a curious mix of DIY efforts very effectively patched up on the old and decadent pieces. We had a chair made from finest pale Burma teak; standing on three original legs and fourth supplemented with a local wood splinter tied with hemp. Two little peg tables that has lost most the tiny support legs, which actually suited us perfect as it cant be knocked over as easily after couple of drinks. A dressing table whose drawers bottom was long gone with a mirror that lost the mercury ages ago. A simple bed that protest loudly of his old age and a corner table where we kept all our things that found no other suitable place to be kept. It all smelt little mouldy and mushy but felt like home within few hours.

Not only the size but location of our bungalow also explains why not many go there as prospect of a 1 km walk uphill seems too much for usual marry makers. Not even govt officials on French leave with their girl friends come there. Most others were simply oblivious of its existence and Dukhi made no efforts to make a must visit ultimate tourist destination either. It is on this estate Dukhi Ram and I will preside over, unhindered from any freeloading government top brass or loons that be. After a strictly official but brief handing and taking over wherein Dukhi will hand over my stay permit and make official entry in the register of my checking -in we will double check the lists of personal provisions. From there on Dukhi and I will fall into a rhythm of life in sing song manner, well, at least for few days.

A typical day will start with Dukhi Ram coughing and pottering about outside my room, indicating me to get up and go for a short morning walk, for which, I will leave when its still dark and come back home when sun is just about coming over the hills. Early morning walk in Himalayas is like nowhere else and wakes you up with smells and sense of vigour thats hard to be replicated anywhere else. While the mist still hangs about lightly in the crisp air, Dukhi brews a jug full of potent tea with liberal use of ginger and an opium pod a that we will empty in our own sweet time slurping and blowing in hot glass held between palms for warmth. Then Dukhi will mutter something about breakfast and get going to make delicious golden deep fried parathas in every imaginable combination. There is no one I know who makes onion and cauliflower paratha as good as Dukhi Ram and his insistent over feeding surpasses my mother!! Breakfast over, if it is warm sun kissed outside I will saunter off for a long walk on an unpaved road where you can still discern the day breaking into many hues in sky, stout oaks dripping last droplets of mist gathered on the leaves overnight, some distance away a perennial tributary of a great river system is leaping down in tearing hurry and drifts of wind will decide what you hear of her, a terrific roar or a subdued prattle. In a while that you are out for a walk sun has come up in all its resplendent glory vibrating through everything, the sunshine gently touches and rock face have started to get a bit warm and wind drift coming either from valley or rock face will get you swinging between hot and cold seesaw. As you enter another band on road in the leeway it feels like walking in cold tunnel and dense jungle not letting in any sun makes you hurry back to the safety of sun and rest house.

Back home its time for bath or just a dry cleaning depending on various factors like weather, Dukhi Rams mood and availability of firewood that is strictly rationed by him, for the wise environmentalist wont lope off any fresh wood even if drift wood or fallen ones are hard to come by. After bath and ablutions are over Dukhi will insist to feed huge parathas with butter and some more hot opium tea to fight off cold. After breakfast Dukhi will attack pots and pan with such a gusto that our humble aluminium utensils will put the stainless steels ones to shame. Now am free to dive into some book or day dream about serious issues of life or just waste my mind. Lunch will materialise before me sharp at 12 with a usual fight between Dukhi and I where he insist to serve hot roties to me first and I tell him to have his lunch along with me instead of serving me. Dukhi likes to doze off after lunch and I go for a walk again if its sunny and take a longish walk this time, armed with a book.

Dukhi taught me if the clouds are wispy and high in sky you can be sure of clear weather near the brook. From there you can gaze at the not so distant mountain range of Greater Himalayas that got fresh snow last night and lammergeiers soaring high on thermals along with choughs. Down here in wooded valley deep throated hill crows are scrounging for food in company of black face Langoors. A family of Langoors with sinewy, strong beautiful limbs quietly enjoy their day out with babies prancing around. You cant see some birds around unless you sit very quiet and you may see a jungle fowl, a singing babbler or a pheasant with metallic iridescent blue nape making a quick dash across the brook. On way back to rest house you may startle a fox or a pine marten crossing the walkway and there might be a big cat or panther around who have seen long before and quietly slinked away deeper in valley.

Back home 3.30 oclock is tea time again and this time around I insist to have just some pure Darjeeling or Earl Grey while Dukhi have a fresh bout with ginger tea. Soon the shadows will start to lengthen and breeze from valley will pick up, sending early mist swirling and creeping over the mountain side. Dukhi and I peel some potato for curry and cucumber for salad for the dinner that will be served by at 7.30 (which is quite later by the usual time keeping standards of Dukhi but he allow me this luxury as a special gesture) but not before there is some drinking. While attending to thousand and one household chorus around 5.30 Dukhi will open the sundown in-house bar that will close at 6.30 sharp as neither of us is heavy on bottle nor Dukhi will allow me to reach in state of being sloshed and became a complete fool on the hill. From bar opening till dinner is served Dukhi and I catch up with Radio and in between discuss world news and local politics, troubled times of world, families, career, savings, money and other issues so typical of Indian household. Dukhi will always have some new tales to tell of his boyhood in simla and last days of British Raj. His tales replete for me the old gossip of palanquin bearers, crazy ways of Angrez sahibs, Mrs. Huxbee on issues of elopement and other kitsch you would expect from a society lunch lady. In contrast I offer him my views on about how the modern world is going and in total agreement we bash the troubled world and greedy people from plains, gen-x, spiritual gurus, television, western influence on Indian ways and Margaret Thatcher before happily finishing off the rum tote. For Dukhi Ram his interest in white world somehow came to a standstill at Thatcher and I never did try to pull him out of the time wrap he was in. Outside the stars are already out in full glory with and Milky Way spanning across east to west, separating great bear and Orion. In the valley not to be outdone by shiny stars, a ceaseless drone is whipped up to frenzy by united concert of crickets and cicadas. It will be time to sleep in a while.

Its been four days and by fifth day Dukhi will go on half day leave and get some mutton, eggs, veggies and dry provisions for home and remind me for Nth time not to go very far for walks as the big cat from jungle is always looking for opportunity to break into kitchen. I know there is almost next to nothing left in the kitchen of our frugal subsistence that the big cat can amuse with. Maybe Dukhi is hiding something precious, maybe few hard earned rupees or something personally very dear to him, I shall never know. After drinks we will have a simple dinner and later I can listen to radio or read by a kerosene lamp for a while as electricity supply is rather erratic but this fact singularly fails to have any impact whatsoever on our simple life in the rest house. Latest by 9.15 am off to sleep and wake up at 5 next morning to live another day in paradise. Maybe it is going to be cloudy tomorrow and it might rain so not much walking is possible but there is always some opium tea or rum by fireside and a warm home to stay in.

It never occur me to ask Dukhi his age, for he always looked sagaciously ancient and never appeared to get any older than I first met him. He stayed in a Dak Bungalow that nobody bothered to enquire for either good or bad, I doubt if he ever complained about the state of affairs to anyone at high-ups, he went about doing what was expected of him and did not destroyed the jungle at whim. Dukhi retired from forest services; he went home, a thoughtful wizened man, an excellent company full of native wisdom and genuine warmth to offer. I always miss Dukhi Ram who in spite of his name Dukhi Ram always proved just the opposite to others around him and brought cheer in life of whosoever came in his contact. After his retirement his post was replaced by a callous drunk and I never went back to that Dak Bungalow again. We were in touch till the time Dukhi's youngest son was not employed and his grandsons were growing fast, he was a worried man but in end it all went well. Dukhi passed away sometime back and I am sure he died a happy man who lived life without complaints, happy in spite of no recognition, independent and as an upright man.

It is a sad realization that humans like Dukhi Ram with sterling qualities parish and pass away but the sound, sights and smell of Himalayas remain just as they were when I, first time ever took a stroll on the road winding up to Peterhoff House on summer hill.