DALHOUSIE
The snow capped Dhauladhar gleams over the rooves of the British relinquished Indian township. The British might have left long ago but the town still carries in it's heart the essence of colonial quintessence. Back in 1854, the British bought five hills from the Kings of Chamba; Katlog, Potreyn, Bakrota, Tera and Bhangora. To escape the hot summers of Indian plains, they forged this small settlement in the hills into a picturesque summer retreat. The sun is a little shy here and the tall deodars dance wild. While the gorals graze on the slopes, the valley has a lush carpeted of pansies, poppies and geranium. The clouds loom low over the hills. And fragrance of the woods loiter among the narrow lanes zigzagging over the mountain slopes. Quite a few colonial houses look over the valley. But now, modern luxurious hotels have found abode over the ridge alongside their antiquated cousins.
That's Dalhousie for you...
For me???... It has a different fervour.
The Long Drive
The mountain breeze was playing with my hair as I dozed over the cab's window. Four hours back, we had boarded the cab from Chandigarh. The morning stillness hovered over the hills, we ascended twisting across the serpentine roads into the lap of the mighty Himalayas. Glancing over my shoulders I found my wife deep in slumber and Twinkle busy with her cell phone on the backseat.
The husky voice of Mr. Narinder chimed in my ears, "Sir ji, Garam kapde pahen lo. Yahan se ab thand badhne wali hay."
I should have done that a couple of hours before. By now my ears and nose tip were cold enough to pass for an ice slab. Numbness was settling across my face. In need of a break I asked Mr. Narinder to pull over.
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| At Cafe Coffe Day, Pathankot |
A gust of chill air that rushed in was enough to get Seno out of her slumber. The rugged peaks, speckled with patches of greenery, stretched away from just beneath our feet. Deep gorges and valleys mingled around these ridges. I believe I had dozed off long as I had no memory of the plains passing by or the advent of the mountains. We were just a few kilometers away from Pathankot now. An urge for coffee was knocking on our brains, necessitating a stop at the Cafe Coffee Day outlet overlooking a cliff in the outskirt of Pathankot. Caffeine engulfed the languor that kept us from savoring the Himalayan visual treat. And as Mr. Narinder's snow white 2016 model Swift Dzire veered out the driveway, Google map was flashing in a route map of couple more hours to Dalhousie.
Dalhousie stood looking over the hill on the southern face of the mountain. A sharp right turn at the Gandhi chowk led us to a narrow lane curling away beside the 1863 built St. John's church. Few paces up ahead was our stay, Hotel Mongas, whose open terraced dining had lured me enough to have a booking. We couldn't hold back the delight of having dinner by the camp fire when the night sky looked over the summits with frigidity in its eyes. Meanwhile, we decided to have a brief visit to Khajjiar, while there was still few hours of light left in the mountains.
Khajjiar - Well, that's a story for another day.
The Mall Road
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| Mall Road - Back in the days |
Denizens hailing from the land of Angles (The Great Britain), who briefly settled in these mountains during hot Indian summers yearned to socialize with their own kind. And thus the hill stations of India warranted their landmark "Mall Roads". In the days of the Raj, these avenues were preferentially for the white ladies, and of course the Sahibs. Men with melanin gifted skin were prohibited. Loud bounty masculine talks, chiming ladies' giggles and occasional drunk brawls echoed these streets once upon time. Briskly walking the same path now, it seems like all that has faded into the womb of time. All that stands ruminant today, holding those days to its bosom is Cafe Dalhousie on the prow of the Mall.
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| Cafe Dalhousie |
Old and quaint, the cafe allures passersby with sweet aroma of freshly baked cinnamon cakes and coffee. The rustic Victorian windows resonates vibrancy of the history it carries. Originally Shalik Ram Khanna Wine and general Store in 1870s, remodeled into a Bengali sweet shop in 1950s and finally couples of decades back to this elegant cafe it is today.
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| Strolling the Mall |
Down the lane, thrift shops flaunt with gifts, souvenirs and racks showcasing an array of fruit wines. One can hardly pass by without grabbing one for that predinner contentment a soul requisites in Dalhousie's chilly winter evening. A brisk walk across the street and we were hungry to the core. Settling in at a small eatery at the far end of the Mall road we ordered some tandoori momos. I would have preferred some local delicacies but the momos seemed far too tempting to be ignored. Steaming hot cottage cheese stuffed dumplings, fried with spice covered crust, served with green chutney... bliss. The cold breeze was sweeping in from the high mountains, chilling us down to the bones. And I wondered the white paradise this place would transform into while the snow showered down in peak winters. A silent promise to myself drifted away into the warm lanes to visit Dalhousie in the winters - someday.
Art and Love
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| Engraved in the wood |
Seno lay cozy in my arms as we made our way back to the hotel. A small crowd gathered beside an antique shop. We snooped in to have a look. Dressed in a warm black jacket that looked a little weathered around the collars, a young man was intently working on a small wooden cutout with swift strokes of his brush. Gliding over the rectangular timber, his brush drew clean figures of a couple standing under an umbrella staring into a starry navy blue sky. Completing his art with practised agility in no time, he then swayed a hot air blower over it, concreting his magnum opus over the wooden canvas. Cleanly wrapped in an old newspaper he handed it over to a gleeful honeymoon couple standing in audience. They hopped away, arm in arm with hearts and cupids dancing over their heads. I looked at Seno's gleaming eyes which now twinkled with rejuvenated love. And yup... No words said, we joined the que to get our love story engraved on wood.
Gulab-jamun
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| That treat of hot Gulab Jamun (AI) |
At the nook near the cafe, on an aluminum
parat (open broad pan), hot
gulab jamun gamboled in the simmering sugar syrup. The Persian origin
Gulab Jamun - fried cheese balls tossed in rose scented sugar syrup. An Indian delicacy now, has survived the Mughal and British period and reigns over sweet toothed Indians' hearts from the Himalayas to the southern peninsula. I wonder, the vendor who smiles at us with inviting eyes ever knows of its history. Deciding not to displease him or our watering tongues, we make away with two plates. The hot sweet syrup when passed through our gullets warmed its way down - a soothing relief from the bitter cold. Two more plates follow. The winds have picked up by now. And a warm campfire awaits us at our hotel. We were delighted to have our dinner by a campfire, as assured by our manager at arrival. Watching over the valley with shimmering lights of Dalhousie blanketing the face of the mountain, it feels as if the town is getting cozy for the winter night. It's late October and snow hasn't made its appearance yet but the nights have already borne the guise of frigid season to come. Locals tell us that the Dalhousie winters were longer a decade back, from late October to late March. Now, it merely lasts from late December to mid-March. It seems even the winters have receded to the higher mountains to find a peaceful abode.
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| Blowing away with the smoke rings (AI) |
It was time to call it a day as my wrist watch's glowing arms struck 9. Oblivious of the transfixing gaze of the Indian scops-owl perched on a pine tree across the lane, our wobbly legs guided us uphill to our resort. A bit drowsy and a lot more tired, Seno leaned on me, almost hanging on like a winter jacket on my left shoulder. Her warm breath on my shoulder felt comforting. Twinkle followed a few paces behind engrossed in her cell phone. No matter how ill she felt, her pics should never be devoid of even the slightest of her grace. I believe some of her pics were getting a makeover. The sweet aroma of the Mall road delicacies hovered in the night air, to be occasionally overpowered by the pine woods' whiff. A
bhotiya dog all sprawled out, slept peacefully near the entrance of the resort. The red tattered collar around his neck proclaimed him to be an "
Indies" (Indian stray dogs adapted as pets) . Most probably by the watchman who sat on a culvert a few paces ahead smoking on a bidi. Lost in his thoughts, and worry of the day vaporing away with the puffs of smoke that escaped his lips - unaware of our presence. Unnoticed, we melted away into the shadows of the staircase as fluidly as the smoke rings of the bidi into winter's mist.
Dinner at the Terrace
The
kharshu oak crackled, as it burned in the bonfire with subtle flames dancing over its bare body. Dalhousie shimmered over my shoulders like a conclave of fireflies, oblivious to the open terrace dinner served at the Monga's (resort)...oblivious to those many faces, who sat beside me and Seno, indulged in romantic and familial talks. As long as these mountains embosom their charm of being "the abode of snow", people will swarm in to places like Dalhousie. Places that have kept the fragrance, savour and quintessence of the past alive in its lanes.
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| As we wait for dinner at the terrace |
Waiting for the dinner to be served, Seno and I venture into seclusion of unuttered romance. Her eyes admiring the flames while words flowed in poetic verses that melted away before knocking at my ears. I never heard what she said. I did not want to. My gazed hovered over her flame brightened face with jubilation in my heart of having her by my side. I left my thoughts to wander away into the mountains above. When will another such day come when we find another moment in the cradle of Dhauladhar cherishing our journey was unknown to us... to our stars. Reputedly, we submitted our being to that surreal moment. The next day we were to leave Dalhousie for Dharamshala. On the prow of that hill, we just let this beautiful night cuddle us with her tender warmth as the moon on the west horizon kissed the mountains...
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| Dalhousie - That little charming town in the lower Himalayas |
Dalhousie it will be... Always.
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