ONCE UPON A TIME IN THE DOON, page 6
Time was when it was not unusual for households to have their own stables for horses that served to pull vehicles that are now only to be seen in museums that ranged from sporty gigs to grand carriages, from stately Victorias to swift Phaetons. Every house had servant quarters, some a dairy and many their own piggery as well as poultry. It was a place where High Tea was a custom that was as indispensable as any of the three main meals. And, yes, the bill of fare was as elaborate as the occasion was sacrosanct. Incidentally, it was 'eaten' in the best British traditions with 'Three Tier Charlies' laden with cream puffs, mince cutlets, pies stuffed with all that was nice, rich plum cakes and scrumptious patties. One would be invited to tea and visitors would take especial care as to their dress and deportment.
In Dalanwala, each house was set amidst its own orchard. In fact, till Independence there actually existed a legislation as to the minimum area in acres that was a mandated requirement before permission was granted for a house to be built in the Dalanwala area. This ensured that it was a magical place where you would grow up amidst litchi, jack fruit, pomelo and mango trees. A place where children would play in the shelter of giant trees that watched over them. A place where colourful butterflies flitted through the subtle play of light and shadow amidst sprays of wild orchids on the dark trunks of mango trees laden with nectar sweet pendant Chausa mangoes.
Dehra Dun. A place synonymous with home. A place where even today, people strive to live after their retirement. A priceless place where, as a result of the spiralling price of real estate, a plot of land is far beyond the reach of most citizens. A place that an astute adman may sell with the slogan 'where the classy, the rich and the famous aspire to retire! A place where one can savour the cold of clear winter nights as well as the warmth of warm, sunny winter days with azure blue skies even while the rest of the northern plains reel under the depressing damp fogs!'.
It is the strategic geographical location of Dehra Dun at the very base of the majestic abode of the eternal snows that ensures it the title of the gateway to the Garhwal Himalayas. A sleepy town nestled between the Ganges and the Yamuna. A sylvan vale protected on one side by the Himalayas and, on the other, by the Shivaliks. The valley of the Doon. The name serves to conjure up misty images that are magical in themselves. Basmati rice... The story goes that the seeds of this fragrant, long-grained rice reached the Doon Valley as a part of the effects of the deposed ruler of Afghanistan who was forced to live out his days in inglorious exile here after being defeated by the British. Alas, today the Doon basmati is a mere memory as most of the traditional basmati growing areas are rapidly getting colonised by rapacious property developers.
There was a time when the valley was renowned for its beauteous tea gardens in which grew a green tea that commanded a tremendous value in the export market. However, the tea gardens were perhaps the first blow to the forests in the valley, as to set up a tea garden one first needed to fell the dense sal forests. Ironically, this very felling of natural forest resulted in a rise in the temperature here which proved detrimental to the tea industry! Alas, today the pressure upon my green valley is the greatest ever. One actually wonders how long it will be before the tea gardens themselves are gobbled up in the name of development! The fact remains that they are still a green lung in this area!
Ironically, it is the very attraction of the Doon Valley that is proving to be its undoing. Almost every day, stately old bungalows are being pulled down to make way for towering apartment blocks to cater to the great demand to live in the environs of the Doon. However, how many care to consider that the entire region is in zone five, as far as seismic activity is concerned, which means that it is eminently avoidable to construct multi-storey buildings here as there is a great risk of damage during an earthquake?
By far, the best thing about Dehra Dun is that one is still close to nature. Time was when all one had to do was to move a few kilometres in any direction from the hustle and bustle of the clock tower to be in the arms of Mother Nature. Sal forests, the ferny banks of swiftly flowing crystal-clear streams, the gold spots of the Chital, the Red Jungle Fowl darting across the burnt sienna of the tracks in the forest... Today, though, these are images from the past.
However, in spite of the great changes, hope still exists and something that is good remains. For all those who are fond of the hills and like to walk, the valley is a staging post to mountain heaven. A walk to Everest Estate, better known as the Park Estate or simply the Park, is one of the best reasons to make a trip to these hills. However, the moment one gets to The Park, one is saddened by the shabby state that this once stately monument has been reduced to and that too, as a result of its so-called restoration.
To get there, all that one has to do is to get to Mussoorie, take the road to the infamous Lambidhar limestone quarries from the invariably clogged library roundabout. It is an interesting walk along a tree-shaded road once one is past the Mussoorie Modern School and then on through Hathipaon, an intriguing name if nothing else. One tale is that it got to be called Hathipaon because of a nearby knoll that is shaped like an elephant's foot. Anyway, this is an ideal place to top up with cold, clean, refreshing, revitalising water that gushes from a natural spring. Of course, one must wait while those who got here first satisfy their thirst—this is one of the cardinal rules of these lovely hills. This is not the place to push and shove and elbow others out of the way—this is a place where one nods companionably, smiles and does things fair and square. This is a place where the density of vehicles, as well as the blaring horns and the loud music that tends to shatter one's sanity decreases in a pleasing manner to miraculously disappear.
Then, it is an enchanting walk through thickets of Himalayan oak till one is on Cloud's End Road. The air here is crisp and cool and rich with a variety of birdsong. Then, one abruptly comes to the Wishing Well, where wishes never come true. Moreover, no one drinks the water as it is believed that the water guarantees bad luck.
But, don't even for a moment despair; a stone's throw away is a tiny shrine where, hold your breath and cross your fingers, they say every wish comes true. Of course, this is too good to be true. One is informed that only those wishes that will ultimately result in the greater good of all parties involved come to fruition. And, don't forget, the other thing is that only if you are really and truly pure in heart, will your wishes come true. So, now that you are privy to the best kept secret of this little town, here's wishing you all the best. And, do be careful of what you wish for—all things being in order—you just may actually get what you wished for. So, all the best—happy wishing!
One has to take the fork to the left. A determined assault will power you up the steep slope and up pop a couple of traditional pahari houses with their sloping roofs and the ubiquitous livestock. A welcome contrast to the oh so 'mardern' ugly blocks of cheesy flats and flashy houses that mushroomed in Mussoorie during the building boom that occurred in the Eighties and Nineties. This pastoral scene, set on gentle meadows is framed by viridian deodars. As one takes in the stately cedars and the green, green grass one can't help wondering how long before overpopulation annihilates this rural idyll. Anyway, for now, this is a good location to set up camp. There is a plentiful supply of water nearby, you are near enough to the town to get provisions and medical help and yet far away to enjoy the peace that nature affords.
Everest Hill is a stark contrast to the wooded walk that preceded it. There are no trees, only thorny scrubby bushes. However, one is constantly amazed to find stands of deodars and loads of mansura shrubs that invite the tired wanderer to linger beneath their hospitable boughs. Incidentally, it is the superabundance of the mansura bush in these hills that gave Mussoorie its name. However, this is not a resultant of Ma Nature being fickle or even capricious—where there is forest cover invariably is a sign of the absence of limestone or at least, it was just not economically viable to exploit it! It is a sadly ignored fact that wherever there is a depletion of forest cover, in fact, earth cover, wherever the bedrock is exposed to the eye that is precisely where the quarrying of limestone has taken place. The evidence will make even the most hardened soul wince. So much for the way God willed it to be.
The villain of the piece seems to be the limestone mining that has wreaked havoc in these parts. According to one knowledgeable source, these parts have the distinction of boasting of the most pure limestone in the entire world. At best a dubious distinction keeping in view the damage caused by the commercial exploitation of this mineral. In fact, one old-timer avers that the British would say Mussoorie dead is worth a million times more than Mussoorie alive. So, that is exactly what has happened and the scars and gashes on these once thickly wooded slopes is evidence enough of the avarice of our fellow-human beings. A sparrowhawk wheels about in the sky—I wonder, if it has found anything to eat. I wonder... I find it highly ironic that the great ornithologist Dr Salim Ali intended to lead an expedition in these very parts to try and find the Mountain Quail, a bird long thought to have become extinct.
At the site of the Park exist a few scrawny-looking deodars which seem a far cry from being anywhere near this fabulous tree of the Gods. Still to be seen are the enormous underground chambers used to collect, compress and store snow. An excellent and eco-friendly way to store and harness the bounty of nature and that too, without giving the benefactor undue stress.
As one sneaks a peek through the dirty glass pane, the fungus-covered walls inside are the colour of an exotic French cheese that has rotted. There are still remnants of the builder's aesthetic sense. An exquisite Doric design ornaments the area along the ceiling of the principal room. The room is in the shape of a bullet—a rectangle capped by a hemisphere! Thick wooden beams, undoubtedly local sal that is reputed to be as strong as steel, provide support to the ceiling. There is a fireplace in every room. The shape of the fireplace in this room is noteworthy— this one is flanked by vaulted Grecian columns and crowned with a mantle in an unusual hemispherical shape. There is a verandah shaped like a quarter that opens up into a dramatic vista that showcases the sheer drop on the side facing the valley.
Everest Estate is an important historic landmark of this region. Colonel George Everest, Surveyor General of India, after whom the highest mountain in the world is named, lived in this house from 1833 to 1843. It is one of the great ironies of all time that he was not even aware of the existence, let alone significance of this great massif that by the efforts of mere men, came to bear his name and caused him to become part of the eternal magic of Chomolungma. It was in the role of the superintendent of the Great Trigonometrical Survey that he completed the Great Meridianal Arc of India. He requested permission to move a part of his office to Mussoorie, ostensibly for the purpose of bringing to a satisfactory termination the two northern sections of the Great Arc. An interesting bit of trivia that very often gets missed out is the fact that the Park House was built in the year 1830 by a certain Colonel Whish. Everest purchased the estate from the good colonel in 1833.
Access to the Park was by an unsafe track until the Pioneers cut out a path that in those rough and ready times passed for a good and safe road! However, the government had never been very happy with the office of the Surveyor General of India being situated in Mussoorie. In 1843, Everest received his marching orders and dutifully disposed of Park Estate with a heavy heart. Amongst its illustrious list of subsequent owners have been Col Skinner, John Mackinnon, and Chowdhury Pooran Singh, the legendary criminal lawyer of the Doon Valley.
Sandeep Singh, the son of the late Chowdhury Pooran Singh is a mine of information on the Park. He recalls living in the main house and farming in the estate when it was held by their family. Life in those days was still very much like it was in Everest's time at the Park. During their ownership, the house still retained its original Victorian furniture and ambience.
Everest's observatory-cum-office is still standing at the Park. Local lore has it that this is where he would receive visitors, especially those whom he considered too infra dig to be entertained at his residence, which was a few hundred feet away. However, the one constituent of Park Estate that never fails to excite even the most frigid visitor is its row of 'bibikhanas' that are situated within a yelling distance from the main house. According to knowledgeable locals, these stone walls housed the quarters of a retinue of native mistresses who would help to warm Everest's bed on cold winter nights!
Until a few years ago, the roof was made of sloping tin sheets, which is an essential requirement in these hills. 'When there was not a single leak in Everest's time and we remained dry under that very tin roof, then what was the need to go in for a flat roof?' asks Sandeep Singh when informed about the change.
Today, the visitor would find that the house is topped by a flat, reinforced concrete roof. Anyone who is even remotely familiar with this part of the planet would tell you that this is the most asinine thing to do in this region, where torrential downpours and a few feet of snowfall are but routine facts of life. However, this seems to be the result of some misguided 'renovation' work after the Park was acquired. Today, the most pertinent question that needs to be raised is not how much longer will the legacy of Sir John Everest remain standing, but whether the valley of the Doon will be able to preserve its character in the coming years?
Travelling with a Phantom
Sumanta Banerjee
t was a sunny December morning. After my usual jogging in Gandhi Maidan, I was resting, watching the children playing cricket. All of a sudden, there appeared this lady— may be in her late thirties, of medium height and solid build with a round face—briskly walking up and down. She was dressed in a full-sleeved white blouse tightly knotted round the neck, and a sari that descended in numerous folds right down to her feet—without even a tiny glimpse of the female midriff that is on display so much in Dehra Dun today! And; her feet; again, were similarly fully cushioned in a pair of tiny brown moccasins, peeping out every now and then like mice from under the massive folds of her sari. After a few rounds of walks, she finally decided to take rest—and slumped down at the end of the bench that I was occupying. She brought out an old paper fan, and began to wave it around her face. And then, she turned towards me and said in a strangely archaic fashion: 'Babu, may I seek your help?' Although a bit surprised by the term of her address, I said: 'Yes, ma'am.' She then came out with her request: 'Please...I'm very tired...Can you please help me to walk down to the gates?'
In a mood of chivalry, I rose and took her by her arms and led her to the gates of Gandhi Maidan. As soon as we came out from the main gates on Rajpur Road, I was struck by a blast of cold wind which blinded my eyes. When I could regain my senses, I found that it had become dark. It was night, with a few lamp-posts around emitting a pale lemon green light. I turned right and couldn't find Astley Hall, but made out the shapes of some shops beyond, dimly lit from inside. In front, there was no Kwality, but a long deserted stretch, with a few houses in the distance, their tiny lights glimmering.
As I stood shivering in the cold, I heard sounds of a slow trot and soon a horse-driven carriage came to a halt in front of me. From its window, there peered out the face of the woman whom I had escorted a few minutes ago from Gandhi Maidan. She no longer looked tired, and appeared to be quite chirpy. But still very formal in her manners, she addressed me in her old fashioned way: 'I am extremely grateful to you, Babu, for helping me. Can I have the pleasure of giving you a lift and dropping you at your residence?'
Since I found no sign of any Bikram or scooter around, I accepted her offer, and stepped into the carriage. Taking a seat opposite her, I apologised: 'Sorry, ma'am, my home is far away—a village called Johrigaon.' At this, she said in a stentorian voice: 'You will be dropped wherever you want to. But before that, I have to attend to some important work—if you don't mind.' I hastily assured her: 'Certainly, ma'am!' By now, she was looking like a formidable schoolmarm, and I was increasingly beset by an uncanny feeling of helplessness in her presence— she having assumed the role of taking me under her protection. It was so different from what it was a few minutes ago!
The carriage trotted along Rajpur Road. It was rather eerie. The houses and shops with which I was familiar seemed to have disappeared behind a grey fog. After a number of twists and turns, the carriage stopped in front of a building—a rather modest looking structure with the words 'Presbyterian Church' inscribed on its arch. My companion stepped out, and then turned to me: 'Babu, we are Christians. If it does not offend your religious feelings, can I invite you to spend a few minutes at our home? My father will be delighted to meet you.' I got down and followed her. She took me behind the main building, and we entered a small cottage. An elderly gentleman came up to greet us. He was clad in dhoti and kurta, with a Kashmiri shawl leisurely spread across his shoulders. 'Meet my father,' she said, introducing him to me, 'Bhubanmohan Bosu. He is the headmaster of the A.P. Mission Church School of Dehra Dun.' Unable to check my Bengali parochial sentiments, I said to her: 'Arrey, you should have told me that you're from Bengal!' We then slipped into Bengali. Sliding down in his leather-cushioned armchair, Bhubanmohan broke out into loud laughter and said: 'This girl is a madcap! How did you get into her clutches?' The daughter meanwhile, dropping her schoolmarmish manners, wagged a finger at me and said: 'You'll have to wait for me till I come back', and disappeared.
Bhubanmohan kept me engaged in a fascinating conversation—an exchange between my curiosity and his memories. 'We are from a village called Mahanad in Hooghly in West Bengal,' he said. He then began his story: 'This girl, whom you've met, was our first child. She was born on 3 August 1860. We had earlier converted to Christianity, and we baptised her as Chandramukhi. I moved to Dehra Dun as a teacher, and when she was old enough, I admitted her to a girls' school here.' Bhubanmohan, with his eyes sparkling, said: 'Her teachers were so impressed by her performance that Reverend Heron, who was the superintendent of the Dehra Dun Girls' School, made a special appeal to the Calcutta University in 1875, for allowing her to sit for the Entrance school-leaving examination—which till then had remained debarred for girl students.' What happened? To my query, Bhubanmohan said: 'Since the Calcutta University could not depart from its rules, they sent the question papers to her home to test her ability. Her answers, which she did on her own, bowled over the examiners, who recommended that in future, girls along with boys, must be allowed to sit for exams.' With a twinkle in his eyes, Bhubanmoan added: 'Shouldn't you regard my daughter as a pioneer of what you folks describe as the feminist movement?'
