It felt like I was living out of an antique
shoe box. Hotel Broadway at one end of Camel’s back road has been around for
more than 50 years! Her exterior betrays no luxury and I can safely say that
her interiors don’t either. It’s listed in Lonely planet as a backpacker’s
favourite and for 200 bucks a night I really can’t argue. However, if you think
I’m complaining about making this by home for the weekend, you’re mistaken.
Hotel Broadway might not be the finest – her rooms are poky, the food, basic, but
the flowered pots, the wooden floor panels and the excellent views of the green
slopes from the balconies still lend a rustic charm to the place. She stands almost stoically slightly raised
off the road, as if the British never left Mussoorie. But in truth, while the
Raj has long gone, their memory remains here in names, monuments and gothic
styled edifices.
Mussoorie was initially constructed as a
shooting lodge way back in 1825. 2 years later a sanatorium was built here at
Landour. Slowly but surely, as India moved into the next century, Mussoorie
became a popular holiday destination, especially during the summers. It now
attracts thousands of tourists every year and not surprisingly, the forests
have been pruned to make way for hotels, guesthouses and the like.
But I choose to defer my colonial tours for a walk
through the woods, a short trek to Kempty falls. Kempty falls is a frequented
destination by tourists to Mussoorie. One can go there by road or trek to the
falls from Happy Valley which is home to a Tibetan settlement including a
school for the community. A short visit to the monastery, I think is in order
and I find myself at the Shedup Choepelling temple at the end of Happy valley.
I don’t really know what to make of the temple, but at least I finally learn
what Mo Mani Padme Hum means.
The trek to Kempty begins from the
monastery itself. The trail winds its
way through moderately dense forest and a few local settlements. It being
August, the dampness of the monsoons engulfs me. Moss and short grass creates a
green canopy on the forest floor. The trail beneath my feet seems softer than
normal and the clarity of every insect buzzing, every bird chirping reminds me
of my isolation on this trail.
A short distance away are the bustling bazaars
of Mussoorie, but out here, humans are oddly conspicuous by their absence. After about 2 hours, I realise that I'm closing in on the falls – I follow a rather small stream and
the sound of gushing water to arrive at a cluster of stalls selling packaged
snacks and ‘Maggi’ noodles. A little upstream from here, the little stream I followed,
cascades down several feet to become the Kempty falls.
Kempty falls is quite the tourist
attraction and there is even an Indian stamp issued with a picture of it. As
for the name, I’m not quite sure, but it seems like it’s a local derivative of
‘camp-tea’, after the tea parties held here during the days of the Raj. But
pleasing as the cool breeze and the spray of water is, I must rush back to
Kulri Bazaar for what could be the highlight of my trip.
When the British left India in 1947, some
of them stayed on, being smitten with India’s exotic and yet down-to-earth
charms. You can find quite a few of their fair-skinned descendants across the
country. And it is not surprising that here in Mussoorie, the local celebrity
is of British origin. Ruskin Bond, a Padma Shri awardee is famous for his
contributions to children literature. In fact many of his stories draw
inspiration from Mussoorie and the Doon valley. He today resides in Landour and
you can get a chance to meet him every Saturday afternoon in Kulri Bazaar.
Well, thats at least what the sign outside Cambridge store said earlier that
day.
Unfortunately for me, I found it quite
difficult to get a ride back into town and as I hurry into Cambridge store, I
realise that I am 15 minutes late – Mr. Bond had already left. As consolation,
the storekeeper pulls out an entire heap of Ruskin Bond authored books, already
signed by the man himself and available at the normal rate. I guess there are
plenty like me around.
Its early evening now and I choose to spend
the rest of the day in and around the bustling Mall road, where you are more
likely to meet neighbours from Delhi than a local. I take the ropeway up to Gun
Hill, where I was promised I would get a rare glimpse of the Himalayas. The
trip isn’t very exciting – there isn’t much to see owing to the cloud cover,
but the kids around love it nonetheless.
Gun Hill at a little over 2000m is the
second highest point in Mussoorie. In the days gone by, a canon atop the hill would
fire everyday at midday to allow people to adjust their watches. Post
independence, the gun was melted to make taps, yes taps! The hill still
attracts many tourists for views of the ranges. But once again, I reach the top
to find mountains and the Doon valley below hidden behind the spoiler of the
day – the clouds. Optimistic though were the local guides, who were convinced
they could show me a few mountain peaks through their telescopes.
A few minutes later I am back at Mall Road
after negotiating the moss covered steps down from Gun Hill, and decide to end
my ramblings for the day at a ‘familiar’ Barista. My search for the real Mussoorie took
me through her woods, mountain slope settlements, and her bazaars. Yet, I am
now looking at the most ‘touristy’ version of the town, one that I had
intentionally tried to avoid the entire day - the clouds slowly drift in- tourists stroll along the road
adorned with old lampposts right out of the 1920’s. They are enjoying the
weather, looking for the odd bargain with the street vendors and soaking in
views of the Doon valley, whenever the clouds care to part. Above the din of
the crowds, I can hear the clip-clop of hooves as kids enjoy horse rides. Its
almost as if the ghost of Christmas past is about to sneak up beside me. Ironically,
the only thing that seems a little out of place is the spritzer i’m drinking. I wonder if I should be wearing a top hat and sipping on some tea. But,
like most other Indian hill stations , Mussoorie has moved on to a comfortable Anglo-Indian
blend.
The names are British, but the people are
Indian, the buildings around show you her roots, but the lights tell you that
she has moved into the new millennium. I trudge back to my shoebox for the
night absorbing the last bits of Mussoorie before I leave in the morning.
