They say a
picture is a worth a thousand words. Well, if you are someone who is not
very good with a camera, the only other options is to punch out the
words.
So here it is.
For the record, this is not a travelogue. It doesn’t entail names of the places to visit or of the restaurants to critique; it, however, partially, says how Shimla is and how it is worthy of the predictable adjectives that aptly describe it: Serene, Tranquil, and Pleasant. Also, I am writing this within 24 hours of leaving Shimla, while the memories of Shimla are still fresh and before the pollution and the noise of a metro city contaminate the memories of a lovely week gone by. Hence this is not an detailed account.
We all know what makes a hill station picturesque: comfortable climate, abundant greenery, lack of dense population, and a general feel-good factor that ows its existence to absence of over civilization–well, everything good owes itself to lack of over civilization. The moment I stepped in Shimla is the moment I stepped out of a Time-machine. It was the year 1947 and the date was 16th of August: the British had just left India. And in Shimla everything froze in that time–Shimla was the summer capital of British India. The roads are small and clean and elegant; buildings, along with the whole set up, are neo-Victorian: incandescent, stone white walls supporting pointy, bottle green roofs; cast-iron grills, cast-iron drain-pipes, and cast-iron chimney covers. Cast-iron bus-stands, cast-iron benches, cast-iron lamp posts. Touch any of ’em and they would still whisper: “God Save the Queen”.
Even the firang tourists are of the decent and the family type: no dread-locks or weird body piercing or gaudy tattoos that rampantly walk the streets of Goa or Kasol–the infamous pseudo sadhus of the west on a quest to find quick enlightenment in the quasi-spritual weed pockets of India. Even the monkeys, both red- and black-faced, are well behaved. Red- and black-faced Monkeys both move in packs and never cross each other’s paths, like there is a unwritten truce rule that is being observed. Monkeys are the stray-dogs of Shimla, found more abundantly than the most densely populated stray-dog area in your city.
On a personal note, Shimla for me is my summer sasural. In winters my in-laws migrate down to Kalka as Shimla gets too cold for comfort. And since I got married in winter, it was my first time in the Indo-Tudor city of Shimla. I was a guest, not a tourist, staying at a home, not at a hotel–it’s the little things that make a world of difference. I had access to local food, customs, and accents.
Mustard and Garlic are predominately present in the aromas, which escape out of the home kitchens. Ingredients are fresh and flavorful. Hill grown spinach tastes better that the topical one. Ice-cream lovers are in a for a treat. The softee is available everywhere and across various flavors. You take a bite of it and your head spin delightfully, engulfing your cold nerves, tingling them, teasing them. If you are not a connoisseur of ice-creams but of Scotchs, then you are in for a treat, too. And a more profound one. Because Scotch tastes the way god intended it to taste in the highland climate of Shimla: crisp, symphonic, and oaky; every sip packs a punch as it hits your gut, its warmth spreads from your torso to your fingers to your feet to the back of your head, giving you a heightened sense of things.
The people of Shimla are considerate and helpful and honest. I guess, a combination of extreme climatic condition and surrounding dense forests instill a sense of both nobility and community. If your car breaks down in the middle of the highway around dusk, don’t be surprised if the cars passing by stop and offer to help, without you asking for it, for the locals know that not many cars may pass-by later.
The locals say: “When in Shine it Pours”. And rightly so. No sooner the Sun shines brightly, making you go out and soak some of its warmth, the dark clouds arrive and the thunderstorm ensues. Rain. The pleasant spring turns into a merciless monsoon in minutes. And since it is Shimla, intense is the order of the day. Rain is usually followed by severe hailstorm. We were traveling back from the up hills on a bright sunny day with a plan to visit one of the more famous tourist location on the way down. And there was a crack in the dark sky. Dew become omnipresent and visibility reduced to 10 feet. The Sea of Mountains that stretched way into horizon was replaced by that of a single ghat road on the way down. Cold raindrops and hard hailstones smashed against the car’s windshield. The wiper struggled with its movement to clear the water-ice slush that kept blocking our vision. The bonnet and roof of the car cried as they took the wrath of hailstones and storm got intense. Hyper monkeys on hot tin roof, both red- and black-faced together. There was no shelter in sight to take cover from the sudden, bad weather. Not everyone on the highway was in the protection of a car. The horses and yaks and mountain sheep and their shepards had no choice but the surrender to the cold, hard whips of rain and hailstones that lay bare on their bodies and at their feet, wave after wave. Needless to say, the plan to visit a few well-know spots was disposed off. I saw a different side of Shimla that many don’t imagine exists. I guessed, Shimla was not in the mood to present herself that late afternoon and took a rather horrifying form to make her intension clear and shoo us away from her. We steered clear of the highway for home was where the warmth was.
All good vacations come to an end and it was time to part from the nature, form the mother who had held me close to her and showed me how beautiful life is. We reached the train station as the Sun got sleepy and boarded the Toy Train–or as the toddler in me calls it “Toy Toy”. The Toy Toy is narrow gauge train with chair cars that have big windows. The Toy Toy is not in a rush to reach anywhere. I guess it strongly believes the journey is the destination. The Sun was hiding, the sky red. Whistle blew and Toy Toy started moving. White Clouds crawled over the mountains, kissing them, covering them, holding them, trying to tuck them in bed. The mighty, green mountains in the foreground and the fading blue ones in back were both expression less, like they were unhappy to see me go, fighting tears, not letting one out. Or may it was just me.
It began as an adventure and ended up being a love affair. One that leaves you shaken yet inspired and with a particularly warm feeling.
So here it is.
For the record, this is not a travelogue. It doesn’t entail names of the places to visit or of the restaurants to critique; it, however, partially, says how Shimla is and how it is worthy of the predictable adjectives that aptly describe it: Serene, Tranquil, and Pleasant. Also, I am writing this within 24 hours of leaving Shimla, while the memories of Shimla are still fresh and before the pollution and the noise of a metro city contaminate the memories of a lovely week gone by. Hence this is not an detailed account.
We all know what makes a hill station picturesque: comfortable climate, abundant greenery, lack of dense population, and a general feel-good factor that ows its existence to absence of over civilization–well, everything good owes itself to lack of over civilization. The moment I stepped in Shimla is the moment I stepped out of a Time-machine. It was the year 1947 and the date was 16th of August: the British had just left India. And in Shimla everything froze in that time–Shimla was the summer capital of British India. The roads are small and clean and elegant; buildings, along with the whole set up, are neo-Victorian: incandescent, stone white walls supporting pointy, bottle green roofs; cast-iron grills, cast-iron drain-pipes, and cast-iron chimney covers. Cast-iron bus-stands, cast-iron benches, cast-iron lamp posts. Touch any of ’em and they would still whisper: “God Save the Queen”.
Even the firang tourists are of the decent and the family type: no dread-locks or weird body piercing or gaudy tattoos that rampantly walk the streets of Goa or Kasol–the infamous pseudo sadhus of the west on a quest to find quick enlightenment in the quasi-spritual weed pockets of India. Even the monkeys, both red- and black-faced, are well behaved. Red- and black-faced Monkeys both move in packs and never cross each other’s paths, like there is a unwritten truce rule that is being observed. Monkeys are the stray-dogs of Shimla, found more abundantly than the most densely populated stray-dog area in your city.
On a personal note, Shimla for me is my summer sasural. In winters my in-laws migrate down to Kalka as Shimla gets too cold for comfort. And since I got married in winter, it was my first time in the Indo-Tudor city of Shimla. I was a guest, not a tourist, staying at a home, not at a hotel–it’s the little things that make a world of difference. I had access to local food, customs, and accents.
Mustard and Garlic are predominately present in the aromas, which escape out of the home kitchens. Ingredients are fresh and flavorful. Hill grown spinach tastes better that the topical one. Ice-cream lovers are in a for a treat. The softee is available everywhere and across various flavors. You take a bite of it and your head spin delightfully, engulfing your cold nerves, tingling them, teasing them. If you are not a connoisseur of ice-creams but of Scotchs, then you are in for a treat, too. And a more profound one. Because Scotch tastes the way god intended it to taste in the highland climate of Shimla: crisp, symphonic, and oaky; every sip packs a punch as it hits your gut, its warmth spreads from your torso to your fingers to your feet to the back of your head, giving you a heightened sense of things.
The people of Shimla are considerate and helpful and honest. I guess, a combination of extreme climatic condition and surrounding dense forests instill a sense of both nobility and community. If your car breaks down in the middle of the highway around dusk, don’t be surprised if the cars passing by stop and offer to help, without you asking for it, for the locals know that not many cars may pass-by later.
The locals say: “When in Shine it Pours”. And rightly so. No sooner the Sun shines brightly, making you go out and soak some of its warmth, the dark clouds arrive and the thunderstorm ensues. Rain. The pleasant spring turns into a merciless monsoon in minutes. And since it is Shimla, intense is the order of the day. Rain is usually followed by severe hailstorm. We were traveling back from the up hills on a bright sunny day with a plan to visit one of the more famous tourist location on the way down. And there was a crack in the dark sky. Dew become omnipresent and visibility reduced to 10 feet. The Sea of Mountains that stretched way into horizon was replaced by that of a single ghat road on the way down. Cold raindrops and hard hailstones smashed against the car’s windshield. The wiper struggled with its movement to clear the water-ice slush that kept blocking our vision. The bonnet and roof of the car cried as they took the wrath of hailstones and storm got intense. Hyper monkeys on hot tin roof, both red- and black-faced together. There was no shelter in sight to take cover from the sudden, bad weather. Not everyone on the highway was in the protection of a car. The horses and yaks and mountain sheep and their shepards had no choice but the surrender to the cold, hard whips of rain and hailstones that lay bare on their bodies and at their feet, wave after wave. Needless to say, the plan to visit a few well-know spots was disposed off. I saw a different side of Shimla that many don’t imagine exists. I guessed, Shimla was not in the mood to present herself that late afternoon and took a rather horrifying form to make her intension clear and shoo us away from her. We steered clear of the highway for home was where the warmth was.
All good vacations come to an end and it was time to part from the nature, form the mother who had held me close to her and showed me how beautiful life is. We reached the train station as the Sun got sleepy and boarded the Toy Train–or as the toddler in me calls it “Toy Toy”. The Toy Toy is narrow gauge train with chair cars that have big windows. The Toy Toy is not in a rush to reach anywhere. I guess it strongly believes the journey is the destination. The Sun was hiding, the sky red. Whistle blew and Toy Toy started moving. White Clouds crawled over the mountains, kissing them, covering them, holding them, trying to tuck them in bed. The mighty, green mountains in the foreground and the fading blue ones in back were both expression less, like they were unhappy to see me go, fighting tears, not letting one out. Or may it was just me.
It began as an adventure and ended up being a love affair. One that leaves you shaken yet inspired and with a particularly warm feeling.
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