Its 4 am and I am driving on a surface that looks more Martian than that of our planet. The baked, grey earth over which we are driving is the Rann of Kutch. The stars are shining overhead in an ink black sky. We have no maps, no road signs or signals, no GPS coordinates and no roads to take us to the destined place. Our SUV, racing at a speed of 25 Km/hr looked like a space shuttle on the rugged surface of mars.
Being blessed with the beatific sight of huge flock of flamingos at Lake Neruru in Kenya, my yen for catching a glimpse of them in the Indian mainland was fuelled. This brought me to probably the most arid and tantalizingly beautiful landscape in the country – Rann of Kutch. I reached Bhuj with a set goal of capturing flamingos. From the beginning of my trip, the omens were bad. I had landed in the wrong season and this being a dry year hadn’t attracted many birds. But situations like this, often compel you to take the less travelled by route. A grand revelation came when I learnt that the manager of the Royal Orchid resort, Mr. Neeladri Das, was himself an avid birder and adventurer. It didn’t take me much time to rope him in this booty business. And that brought me, at 4 am, in a completely unknown surface with no landmarks, in search of flamingos. I am at Chaari Dhaand, a lesser known wetland in the midst of Rann. It does find a mention in the travel map of Kutch, but looking at the desolateness of the place, one can spot, that it is a less travelled by place.
Kodaimelanadu or Kodagu or Coorg: the name itself conjures up images of verdure – gushing cascades, babbling brooks, green hills, gorgeous dales, gurgling rivers all together flaunting the munificence of Mother Nature. Oh! Add coffee plantations to it. A compulsive coffee drinker like me cannot find a better place than Coorg, for a sip. After an hour of drive from Mysore our chauffer announced that we are entering Coorg.
The scenery is mesmerizing. The winding roads take you through a maze of greenery. At every labyrinthine, you meet a collage of colours which explode into shades of greens, browns and yellows. The roads seem to have no particular destination. They just lead you from one part of paradise to another. As we squint though the green fabric, we pass plantations of coffee, cardamom and pepper which merge with forests, foliage and fauna. There are no villages, no people, no shops, and no cars. We deliberately slow down to take in the moment. It is an ode to nature and no wonder it has been attributed the sobriquet, Scotland of the East.
Coorg is all about coffee with a fair amount of cardamom and pepper thrown in. As we drove in, the sylvan surroundings hit us. Our destination is Siddapur.
Ghent might be less renowned than its classy neighbor Bruges, but it is still bags full of history and culture. Being a university town, it is buzzier and looks less Disneyfied than Bruges. Across its canals, are endless opportunities to lose oneself in its narrow lanes, that take you to fascinating squares with splendid churches, magnificent castles, and comfortable cafes and bars. In the Middle Ages, Ghent grew both in reputation and riches on cloth and wool and was the second-biggest town in Europe, after Paris. Today the medieval heritage still lives, on an old merchants’ street that runs along the bank of the Leie River. The street is steeped with Gothic guild houses with stepped roofs and ornately carved facades. And a little east of this street, are two of Ghent’s great monuments, St. Nicholas church and St. Bavo Cathedral, a splendid display of riches, and dexterity in craftsmanship Ghent has seen.
Pragpur, a quaint little village
in Himachal Pradesh’s scenic Kangra Valley, became the first village in India
to be branded a heritage village. Pragpur was founded in the late 16th century
by the Kuthiala Soods in memory of Princess Prag Dei of the Jaswan royal
family. With its winding lanes, wooden slate-roofed houses, the village looks
nothing less than a miniature painting set on an aisle. As the story goes, in
the early 19th century the prosperous Kuthiala Sood community arrived and
settled here. These merchants who were well exposed to architecture and arts
outside the area, returned to Pragpur to build buildings, chateaus and mansions
in architectural styles they observed outside. With their efforts, Pragpur
gradually transformed into a grand display of immaculate beauty and spectacular
architecture that evolved as a perfect blend of Portuguese, Rajput and British
styles. This reminded me of the unique way in which Shekhawati
architecture of the havelis, cenotaphs, and stepwells has
evolved, with designs
taken from different cultures the traders got exposed to.
To experience the charm of
Pragpur, take a walk through the village. The square shaped water pond, in the
middle of the village, will lure you to spend some time around it. A village
walk introduces you to the architectural beauty strewn across Pragpur. Built
before 1868, the Taal is in the center of the village and is surrounded by
several old community structures like the Nehar Bhawan, Naun, and Dhunichand
Bhardial Serai. The village market by the pond is a bustling place and has an
unlikely charm missing from most villages. At a stone throw away distance is
the Lala Rerumal’s haveli, with elements of Mughal-styled architecture, and has
a large water reservoir. Ancient temples, courtyards, even age-old windows and
doors with intricate carvings, leave an everlasting impression on the
travelers. Most of these houses exhibit fancy tile-work, ornamental towers, and
stained glass windows. It’s like a world merged with old Himachali
architecture, where you see an overuse of wood and pillars. Interestingly, the
rooftops of these buildings have gables and slanted slopes, which is quite
unique considering it seldom snows in the Himalayan foothills. The slanted
slopes is a ubiquitous feature in the uphill Kangra and Kullu valley. The
village committee is entrusted with restoring and conserving these
Another jewel in the Pragpur
cultural mélange is the Judges Court.
The Judge’s Court, the 300-year-old ancestral
home of Vijai and Rani Lal, has now been converted into a heritage resort.
Vijai Lal is the grandson of Justice Sir Jai Lal, the second Indian to become a
Judge of the Punjab High Court. The story goes that for years the ancestral
property was left unattended, before being restored and turned into a heritage
hotel. Apart, from a nice stay-over, this two-storey brick-red mansion, steeped
in history, offers an insight into life of one of the most influential families
with roots in Pragpur.
As you walk, Pragpur seems a busy
and prosperous village, with a cultural history worth falling in love with. The
cultural history seems well veneered with contemporary charm. All one needs is
a nice little walk to live this experience.
Garli: The next stop
At some three kilometers from
Pragpur, Garli is literally the next stop from Pragpur, on Shimla route. During
their migration from Punjab, some Sood families settled in Garli, and started
trading in timber. Some families who moved uphill used the Beas River to
transport the logs downhill to Garli. Soon Garli had evolved into a major hub
for timber business. With timber, came money, and with money prosperity. The
old heritage buildings, some now converted into heritage hotels, are living
tell-tales of those prosperous days.
A unique feature of architecture
in Garli is the Anglo Islamic architecture of the mansions, marked by airy
spaces in the mansion, intricate carvings on the doors and windows, courtyards
outside the main building, and extensive use of pillars. Most of these private
marvels lie in various stages of decay. Most buildings abandoned or occupied by
the tenants and divided into many families. The upkeep is almost nil. Still,
the out shells of these structures never fail to fascinate the travelers, and
the upper turrets of these old buildings seem to dominate the entire village.
One of the marvels in the village
– the Chateau Garli was restored and
converted into a heritage hotel. The building was restored to its age-old glory
by carefully recreating the colonial, Portuguese, Mughal, Rajasthani and Kangri
architectural influences. The Chateau is a fine imprint of this heritage. The
village of Garli offers experience through time.
As I wandered through the village
lanes, I came across many architectural marvels now left to ruin. One of the
buildings the Bishnu Sagar, a splendid example of the dexterity in art and
design that called Garli it’s home, lies abandoned today. And it isn’t the only
one, there are scores of such buildings left abandoned today. And while Pragpur
has worked to restore the old buildings, Garli presents a different side of the
story. Nevertheless, the village serves as a beautiful reminder of our past.
The village leaves you with a mix of emotions. The sheer awe of the historic
charm, and history, the delight of hospitality, the bliss of natural beauty
with Dhauladhar Range rising as a backdrop to this quaint village, to a sense
of pity for the mesmerizing buildings that stands as beautiful ruins today.
Only if the government or private sector has stepped forward to restore the old
buildings, probably convert them into museums or homestays.
How to reach
Garli and Pragpur are well
connected by roads from Chandigarh, Pathankot, and Delhi. There are regular
buses from Chandigarh and Delhi, going to Dharamsala passing through Pragpur. The
nearest railhead Amb is nearly 28 kilometers that get trains from Delhi. And
the nearest airport is at Gaggal, about 50 kilometers from away.
Where to stay
Pragpur has many budget options
to stay. For a luxury stay, one can opt to stay at Chateau Garli or Judge’s
Five days on and Spiti had been a
promised traveler’s delight. These had been days full of explorations,
welcoming smiles, giggles, and developing a bond with Spiti. The hospitality of
Kaza had taken me over. All you need to do is to break the ice with a smile,
say ‘Juley’ (greetings and respect), and engage in a conversation with a local,
or best a monk in a monastery. From religion, local lore to culture and
history, you can crack up any topic with monks. Kaza is a cultural potpourri
for Spiti valley. Every morning village folks from Langza, Mud, Kibber, and
Cheecham, come in the morning bus, to do their daily business in Kaza. The same
bus leaves in the evening. This is how normal days go. Being close to the bus
station, I was witness to these shades, day begins early here and continues
On this day, I had decided to
take the route heading towards Langza, the fossil village; Hikkim, with the
unique distinction of hosting Himachal Pradesh’s highest polling station as
well as the world’s highest post office; and Komic, world’s highest village
connected with a motorable road. The journey to the villages is short, but not
without its own challenges. Even though, the scenery weans away all pain of the
journey, the benign neglect of the development of road infrastructure is hard
to ignore. Half the journey is covered on dirt tracks, but in Spiti, there can
be no better inspiration to travel than the scenery. I had decided to go to Langza,
and then trek from there to Komic and then downhill to Hikkim. The open spaces
along the way promise an endless supply of solitude, and the concoction of
solitude, serenity, and the feeling of being with oneself lures travelers like
Signs of life in Langza
When you drive towards Rangrik
from Kaza there comes a bifurcation, one road takes you to Key and Kibber, and
the other goes to Langza – Komic – Hikkim. Langza is unique in its own way.
Popularly known as the fossil village, Langza is for science buffs looking for
signs of early life, and the great geological event of a collision of tectonic
plates of India and Eurasia, which gave rise to the mighty Himalayas. The
circular rings like fossils are signs of prehistoric marine life, of a time when
this land was a sea. Due to tectonic movements, the India plate shifted and
thus the Himalayas arose. But even if you aren’t looking for fossils, the
mesmerizing scenery at Langza wouldn’t fail to captivate you.
Even before entering the village,
the grand Buddha statue overlooking the village captures your attention. The
sight of Lord Buddha sitting in the lap of mighty Himalayas all around is a
sight to behold. You starting enjoying Langza from the moment you take a steep
turn to reach it. The road ascends fast, and from your window, you could watch
valley getting deeper, slopes getting steeper and the peaks growing
shorter as your altitude begins to match theirs. And then gradually, the peaks turn to flat
plateau, absurdly green for the barren brown landscape, that had accompanied
all along the journey. The terrain looked like a verdant carpet of green, a
piece of heaven, tended by elves, for the gods who would descend here on some
bright, starry night. And from the edge of this green carpet, arise a piece of
earth, a near flat, vertical wall, with snow-covered crown, dominating
everything around. This is the Chau Chau Kang Nilda peak (the literal meaning
of the name of this peak is “Blue moon in the sky”).
In the lap of this 6500m peak
(highest in Spiti region) peacefully sits the village of Langza, a hamlet of
some 50 houses skirted with lush green fields. In such a beatific setting,
moments are never rare. Even though I spent nothing more than an hour in the
scenic village, I felt a huge calling here.
The highest nest, Komic
I made a move from Langza towards
the highest motorable village of Komic. A short two-three hours of trek take you
to Komic. Alternatively, you can always take the road. Perched at 4500m, it is
among the highest inhabited villages in the Himalayas. A board saying, ‘welcome
to the highest homestay’ welcomes you to the village. On one side stands the
Komic monastery overlooking the lush green fields. Opposite to the monastery is
tucked a cute café (ah, world’s highest café) like some fairytale romance. From
the monastery, I looked at the village. A total of 10 houses. Upon inquiry, I
came to know some 60 people live in the village.
Legend has it that due to a long
drought, the monks of Komic decided to shift the monastery to the nearby low
lying Hikkim village. But the grand statue of Mahakal couldn’t be moved. The
entire monastery was moved, but the statue of Mahakal remained adamant, with
all but one monk. In 1975, a massive earthquake struck Spiti which completely
destroyed the new monastery set in Hikkim. The monastery at Komic didn’t suffer
much damage. Thereafter all the monks returned to the Komic monastery.
The road from Kaza leading to
Komic is a steep winding uphill climb. It is both a seasoned dream and a
rookie’s nightmare, as the lack of oxygen and change in weather becomes
palpable. First-time travelers need to be cautious, and it is always advisable
to keep Komic towards the end of the itinerary. The village is housed in a
bowl-shaped depression, distinctly split into two parts, the lower with a small
cluster of houses and upper with a cluster of larger houses. A hillock above is
housed the Komic monastery, painted in beautiful bright colors.
When in komic, take a detour
around, it’s not difficult to find fossil rocks. Pencil in some time to be at
the world’s highest café, don’t forget to order Spiti sandwiches. The service
is quick, and taste, just like the scenery, beyond expectations.
Though there may not be a huge
list of to-do in these villages, their seclusion is enchanting. And a thought
on life at these heights and so off the road villages is inspiring. I broke
into a small talk with a local, who took me to his mud-house, offered Spiti’s
butter tea, and started telling me about life in the village. Summers is the
month to work and save, while in winters, one can only be indoors, enjoying the
reserves of the summers. Still, winters are something the villagers await for.
There could be a surreal, romantic charm in temperatures, dipping below -20
degrees. There should be, and probably a prosaic feeling in the white splendor
of snow, one that can only leave us to shudder, but becomes the sole companions
of these villagers. I could only smile at the thought, life shapes up in
different ways and people have evolved to live in these extremes.
On a postcard pilgrimage to
Taking leave from Komic, one can
go downhill to Hikkim, the highest post-office. Fortunately, I had got a lift
from there to Kaza. Yes, such plans work in Spiti. The walk to Hikkim wasn’t
tough, but it went steeply downhill. The Hikkim post office was opened on
November 5, 1983, and Rinchen Chhering—has been the branch postmaster here
since inception. This conspicuous Spitian landmark is also his home, and in a
place with no communication channels, works as the only means to communicate
with the other world. It is this place, where monks from Komik monastery
receive their letters from other spiritual centers, some as far as Tibet and
Bhutan, where farmers open their savings account, and tourists like me send
postcards, to hold by as a memory from the Spitian highs.
The journey of the post from here
is as interesting as the place itself. Every morning, two runners take turns in
delivering mail on foot from Hikkim to Kaza. From Kaza, the emails are taken by
bus to Reckong Peo, onward to Shimla, further by train to Kalka, and then
loaded on a bus to Delhi, from where it is further distributed. Following the
long-held tradition, I too sent myself two postcards from Hikkim. And as I
write this piece, I can look at those two tokens of love, sent from the land,
every shade of which, leaves you enchanted.
It felt there that the azure blue skies and empty expanse around had joined hands to deliver an inviting feeling of seclusion. There are subtle signs of authenticity and rusticity in life at these heights. The age-old ways of farming, the plain mud and stone houses, painted white on the exteriors and beatifically adorned with colored flags, and a life seemingly frozen in time: simple, and in inviting synergy with the habitat. With every step, I felt myself closer to this land and was unraveling the deeper meanings of life, hidden in the vast barrens of Spiti. And nothing was more loud and clear than living in synergy with nature. I made my way back to Kaza, having grown richer in the philosophy of life, memories, and pictures that would form the décor of my walls to teach me how big and beautiful life is, and how less have I explored it. As we returned, we halted to have a look at the old monastery, destroyed during the earthquake. I searched in the mountains to look at the Komic monastery one more time. A story a time leaves in the midst of a puzzle called faith and belief. Who to believe, and what to take as real? In the land called ‘lands of God’ by Mark Twain, everything seems real. Perhaps its only faith that can make you a part of this vastness.
This was my fourth day in Spiti valley, and with every turn, I was getting more acclimatized and acquainted with this middle land. I didn’t have to spend hours to learn that this cold desert, a heady mix of barren mountains, unexpected bursts of green fields, and deep gorges formed by the fierce Spiti River, is also a melting pot of cultures. My visit to Tabo and Dhankar, had made me intelligent of what to look for. The signs of Hinduism in Kinnaur, had been gracefully replaced by those of Buddhism, and wouldn’t be found till Keylong. I knew my way from Kaza, the last stop on my Spiti journey, and also the administrative capital of Spiti. I were to spend three days here, hoping from one village to the other, looking for my cultural murals, one monastery to the other, one story to the story.
I reached Kaza, from Dhankar, a one hour journey, bringing you from a
village perched on the top of a mountain to one by the river. The weather, with
the clouds almost descended upon us, made the journey all the more prosaic. The
proximity of Spiti to Tibet, has ensured this martian landscape to be dotted
with Gumpas and monasteries, the sheer beauty of which, never fails to amaze
you. It won’t be hard to find one in the middle of the road, and vehicles
taking a full circle of it in reverence. For the next three days I was to be in
Kaza to cover some of the most secluded and prettiest villages. And some
crowned with their tags of the ‘highest’ and the ‘largest’.
By the time I reached Tabo, I had
promised myself to completely ditch the word ‘planning’. There was no need of
it, I was in Spiti, and I wanted to remain spell-bound by this ‘time wrap’. And
in the course of staying a little long in Tabo to enjoy the morning sun and my
host’s famous pancakes, I happened to miss the only bus to Kaza. But Spiti is a
land of hope against all the hardships; and in hope to get a hitch-hike to
Schichlling, I took the road. Spiti is unpredictable, and travelling here can’t
be a time-table job. Thankfully I was travelling light, keeping enough space in
my backpack to pack memories back home.
In such a hospitable place,
hitch-hiking is quite possible, and even waiting or walking a few kilometers doesn’t
hurt. The pace of life here is slow, and people warm and hospitable. After walking
for a few kilometers, passing villages with a population board stating “50
souls”, I got a ride to Schichlling. Next on my Spiti trail was Dhankar
monastery, and a trek to the Dhankar Lake perched high in the mountain. I
reached Schichlling in about half an hour. From there my journey was another
ten kilometers uphill to the Dhankar village. From downhill, Dhankar looked
like a village created by stacking some matchboxes, on a craggy brown hill, and
two rivers merging with each other in the foothill. The 1000-year-old Dhankar,
perched precariously on jutting rocks on a mountaintop. The Dhankar monastery is
listed among the 100 most endangered monuments in the world by the World Monuments Fund. The old monastery is on a constant fight with the
elements of nature. While it’s still in good terms with snow, and an
unimaginable amount of it, it is losing battle against increasing and
disturbing patterns of rainfall, a fall-out of global reality of climate
change. The signs of heavy rain, the day before, were evident everywhere in
washed away roads, and wet mountains.
An eight hour journey, on the
world’s most dangerous roads, can be both tiring and exhilarating. But the
views of the craggy peaks whooshing past the window, the spectacle of a
turquoise ribbon of river cutting through the valley, hundreds of falls and
streams merging into the river, and the bends taking you from one slice of
paradise to the other, are a prize worth the madness of being on the world’s
deadliest roads. And while the bus past these, nicely framed picture perfect
frames, my mind weaved a story of a land of Buddhist Gompas doubling up as
landmarks, prayer flags fluttering, mummies sitting still in monasteries, azure
blue skies and stars dancing in galaxies at night, and above all the cultural
mysteries it has held over time. I wanted to know how local people live their
life here, holding natural and mystical mysteries for centuries. A land that
wasn’t open for people till 1970s, a land tucked between the Himalayas and the
Tibet, a land that has been called ‘world within a world’ by Mark Twain; I
wondered how that land would be.
Below flows the roaring Satluj river, snaking its way through the valley, above stands the mighty Kinnaur Kailash as a royal guard, and tucked between these two forces of nature, is the small hamlet of Kalpa. No sooner the bus brakes mooned, wheels screeched, and I got down and framed the first frame of this tucked away paradise, than I fell for its idyllic setting. No doubt the petrifying valleys and heart-warming culture had been a calling of many a travelers. A short, inviting walk through the main road, is enough to warm your heart. Studded with wooden houses, and apple orchards on sides, and uncountable smiles to greet you, Kalpa seems a village taken out of Nora Roberts novel.
Never thought a village so small that it can fit in one wide frame of camera lens, can have so many eternal bounties to offer
The first image from the village, that is bound to find a special corner in your heart, is of the Shivling peak (Kinnaur kailash) that rises over 20,000 feet. The peak stands as a royal guard to the village. This idyllic setting of the village, makes one feel that one is sitting in the lap of the holy mountains. Continue reading →
What is it waking up in the middle of an apple orchard overlooking snow clad mountains, and a little distance away is the Beas, a tributary of the Indus, its roar filling your ears and its thump echoing in your heart? The beauty of Manali can never be put in some prosaic forms, and I had chosen to miss the hustle-bustle of the town, and settle in some secluded corner to live the rawness of the Himachal. I could feel a sense of adventure as I arrived in the quaint little village of Haripur, heading to the LaRiSa Mountain resort. Perched in the middle of an apple orchard, spread out to endless horizons, overlooking the electric green fields, with stone and wood cottages seamlessly fitting in this beatific landscape, LaRiSa sent a strong cue. A connection was made the moment I stepped in the resort. And to make things livelier, rain gods played merry. And as the clouds danced in gay abandon, the greens and yellows of the valleys and the strikes of white on the mountain top, came out in their pompous best. And the resort seemed like a magical pot placed in the middle of this heavenly landscape.
Perched in the middle of an apple orchard, with stone and wood cottages, LaRiSa sent a strong cue.
Cradled by the Shivaliks, encircled by snowy Himalayan peaks, cleaved by silent trails, and interrupted only by sudden gushes of crisp mountain air, a little over three kilometers from Mussourie, uphill, lies a hidden paradise, Landour, a town with an inescapable colonial aura, carpeted with Himalayan flora, and carrying an enticing fragrance of wilderness. As we drove through the circular bridled paths, called the ‘Gol Chakkar’ to reach our destination the ‘Rokeby Manor’, I could feel like turning back the pages of history. The expansive views of the Himalayas, quaint colonial bungalows, a surreal charm in the air, and deserted wooded paths calling for long walks and friendly chats, have made Landour an artists’ getaway. Rokeby manor – an English retreat, dating back to the 1840s, is a prominent landmark, in this hilltop oasis. The manor stands as a symbol of the vintage colonial charm of Landour and still holds the glory of that bygone era profoundly in every nook and corner. The stoned walls, tall arches, thatched roofs, an endearing garden overlooking the Doon valley, fireplaces, wooden staircases, furniture wearing that old, colonial look, and aesthetically designed bookshelves, impart Rokeby the quintessential heritage look.
The common room
A small intimate door leads you to the great room, doubled up as reception, and a resting place, with its log fire and extravagant furnishings, is reminiscent of its colonial legacy, while the rest of the manor draws on contemporary trends. Rokeby stands in perfect harmony with its surroundings, be the interiors of the room or the common room by the reception, it conveys the typical hillside touch. The rooms are set within a wooded landscape, fusing rustic luxe with contemporary design, designed to give an earthy touch through the use of natural materials and harmonious architectural style.
Make history your companion
A property dating back to 1840s is meant to be steeped in history and tales. Rokeby was a house built by a certain Captain GN Cauthy on a two-acre plot of land in 1840 and named after one of Sir Walter Scott’s poems, which mentions the Rokeby castle in England.
“I saw his melancholy smile,
When, full opposed in front, he knew,
Where Rokeby’s kindred banner flew…” – Wilter Scott
Rokeby has passed many hands before coming to Mr. Sanjay Narang, who moved to Landour and came across Rokeby in 2011, and began working on restoring the property to its original design, extracting the history, and almost creating a tale to fall in love with. But beyond the façade of old world, Rokeby has all the amenities of the contemporary world, with an addition of mountain bikes and scooter rentals to set off and explore the dramatic landscape of Landour, which the British fondly called ‘Hamlet in the hills’.
Breakfast at Emily’s
The wooden stairs take you to one of the most celebrated places to eat in Landour – Emily’s café, named after one of Landour’s most famous literary affair with Emily Aden, sister of Governor-General Lord George Eden, who wrote extensively on British racist attitude towards Indians. The intimately decored Emily kitchen brings back the tea love of the British. The interiors are reminiscent of a ski chalet with fireplaces, cozy corners, brightly colored walls, lanterns, and a lot of literature. The breakfast spread is welcoming and homely, relish on their tea collection, that’s surely a steal. And one look out of the windows, at the cedar covered hills, and it’s clear this place is a prize. The witty quotes on the walls are unmissable, they make you halt, read, and ponder.
Rokeby is for book-lovers, and Wilson’s chamber where the breakfast is spread would notably the favourite corner of any bibliophile. One can spread hours going through the collection of books, you can comfortably read there or take to your room. This love is reflected in the wide spread of magazines in the common room, and is exemplary of the literary affair Landour is known for.
Breakfast at Emily’s
Taken at Emily’s kitchen in Rokeby Manor
At a stone throw away distance, is tucked another gem, the Landour Bakehouse, nestled among the pines at the edge of a winding road as it slopes downhill. The green paneled door transport you back to 1940s to the world of the elites of Landour, who would meet every week to discuss social affairs, do proceedings of their reading club, and exchange age old recipes. That goodness still remains. The recipes used here are taken from Landour Cookbook curated by Ruskin Bond. A small and charming place housing some of the best baking secrets, doles of cake, some gooey chocolate goodness, and a hot sipping coffee, doubled up with a great view to furnish a happy touch to your vacation. Though the place only opened a couple of years ago, but its vintage look, antique portraits, and some old Landour culinary secrets, makes you believe that the place has been existing forever. One of the boards here say “We Do Not Have Wi-Fi….Talk To Each Other. Pretend it’s 1895’’. It doesn’t seem so difficult in the Landour Bakehouse.
Dishing the goodness of the age-old recipes of Landour
Clock Tower Cafe
The special moments
Being a boutique property, Rokeby is a choice for an eclectic traveler. Small, cozy, and uniquely located, Rokeby ticks all checkboxes of a luxury hotel, but it is the special moments staying in the manor that makes you reconstruct the definition of luxury. While Rokeby may not offer you creature comforts, what it does is offer you unforgettable moments. These are moments of doing absolutely nothing, lost in thoughts, just sipping your tea and looking down the valley, breathing in the moments, letting the chill mountain air embrace you, enjoying the unique experiences Rokeby Manor lets you soak in. These experiences emanate from the tales Landour unpacks for the travelers. Rokeby seems like an attempt to make your vacations more personal, and just perfect.
Sunlight glinted on the hill-tops, and valleys were half dark and half lighted. Trees yawned as morning hue woke them from their slumber. The still breeze carried an indescribable purity and sweetness, laden with an aroma from the virgin forests. At a distance was this comfortable looking little town extending uphill and eastward. A steep four-five kilometers drive from Mussourie brought us to Landour, a British raj relic, a town, draped by an old fashioned aura, numerous colonial-era bungalows with slanting roofs, brick arches and stone walls, and silence that was interrupted only by the gusts of invigorating cold breezes. We glided over the shining track, going past the little houses with red thatched roofs and backyard, waving to the welcoming villagers who were off to collect the firewood, school kids and the typical heavily built, bush bearded, leather-jacketed Harley Davidson guys to reach the smiling Landour.
Life seemed to be taking a deep breath in the town; the natural beauty topped with reds and greens of roofs, extending a colonial reminiscence. We were passing through narrow roads that could barely fit two cars at a time. The driver was delicately maneuvering the car through these needle hole sized turns. Occasionally I had my head peering out of the car window to sap in the pure, cool breeze. There hung a certain, zeal in the breeze, flowing in gay abandon, like a harbinger of good times.
Taking another turn through Landour’s old bridle path, passing interesting sights and the famous St. Paul’s Church, with the endless stretches of pines and willows and the mountain sun filtering through the threshold of trees to accompany us; we reached one of the landmarks of the town, Rokeby Manor, our haunt for the next three days. And the property was everything that could have been expected; colonial touch taking you back to the era of 1840s when it was built, lovingly renovated rooms with stone walls and wooden floors, and cutely tucked gardens overlooking the valley. Continue reading →
(Absolutely nothing in life, can be compared to this remarkable journey from blogging to writing a novel. It’s a story of knowing myself as a storyteller, a learner, a listener, and a crafter. In this blog I share the splendid moments that marked this journey of being a novelist)
I hate writing advisory articles. Not that I have ever written one, or plan to write, I somehow hate to tread that path. And only after scores of friends and readers asked me to pen something about my journey from being a blogger to novelist, I got down to sink in this idea of probably writing my first advisory piece. I am a consultant by day, and even in that role, try my best to keep to the more traversed paths of drawing empirical evidences, underlying philosophies and insights. And so, yeah, a big no to ‘off the bounce’ advices. And in this blog too, I will keep to my journey and the many questions I have been posed about the book and my spur for writing a forbidden love story.
The first chapter, an unending passion
I’m sure you won’t be surprised if I say writing the first chapter is the most difficult part of a long journey called novel. Let me pour in a little of editorial advice I got – ‘most readers put down your book, after reading the first chapter, and quite a majority in this majority, after reading the first few pages’. In a novel that is destined to be more character led than narration led, the first chapter should be more ‘tell all, mince no words’ tale. As a writer, I was asked to pour in my individuality in this chapter.
My novel ‘The Other Guy’ starts with a sex scene, and just three pages after that I reveal the gay identity of the protagonists. My editor’s remarks ‘hide no emotions’ came hard and I chose to conceal it all, and as the book reads ‘chose candour over coy’.
Giving a title to the first chapter, that could express the theme of the novel, was another hard put. The idea of keeping it ‘The incomplete man’ came from an advertisement. I remember that moment well, I was in a bus, huddled, when this thought struck me. That was a moment, I was literally, living my work.
“In the last few days waking really hurt, a sullen feeling overcoming me. Mornings are just cold reminders of being alone, another day to drag through. It takes time to be my other self, to unclothe myself from my nightwear, in which I was me, and get into my day attire, in which I am as others perceive and define me – the unreal me. By the time I dress and become the sleek, polished guy in the mirror, I have donned the role I have to play the whole day.
I am gay; I sleep with my boyfriend at night and live the life of a ‘straight’ guy during the day. Looking into the mirror, I see myself; my predicament stares back at me.”
Pushkar hung in my thoughts like a dream. After having seen several of my plans for Pushkar get cancelled, this time I tried some serious nudging on myself; to be there at the sacred moment of Pushkar camel fair. The very idea of camels and traders journeying across the vast deserts of Rajasthan in a time immemorial fashion to meet, socialize, and trade, found an inkling in me. Pushkar is a complete teleportation from the urbane life to a rustic one, from economy that survives on cars to one where camels form an integral part. The romantic image of camels loping across the desert in Rajasthan, enthused me to plan the plan I had waited for so long.
Pushkar has a magnetism of its own – it’s very unlike the way one imagines Rajasthan. Fair or not, it will never cease to sweep you off your feet. The town celebrates the riddles of life, throughout the year. Pushkar made me rejig the concept of time; moments into Pushkar and a feeling that everything has been stalled, got me. The antiquity of the town is inspiring. The everyday world of Pushkar does more than inspire and encourage well-being, it makes the sordid routine seem novel.
I was in Pushkar, at the annual camel fair, indisputably, the best time of the year to be in. Everywhere I turned, I could hear music, see a riot of colours, feel the exuberance of the fair and sense Pushkar’s ability to engage with tourists pouring from world over; and then there was the rustic hue, atmospheric shots of herders and their camels, trekking past the deserts. Calling the Pushkar fair just magnetic, would be an understatement. It is far more than that, it takes you out of your cocoon, into a world unknown and untraversed. One eyeful of Pushkar, and the reason that made it a favorite among foreign tourists, becomes discernible. Pushkar is everything most Indian cities are not; it’s sleepy, calm, inviting and engaging; a tell-tale of a town that has thrown off its provinciality.
Hot air baloon is a new addition in Pushkar Fair
In the autumn, as the moon starts its journey for the brightest night of the year, tribes from all over Rajasthan, stream out of their ethnic lands, arid landscapes, stubbly fields, thickets, scrubs, and deserts; trudging with their beasts, draped in multi-colored turbans, travelling with rivulets of kaleidoscopic caravans. The women of the tribes, come draped in their gypsy bright skirts swaying in autumn winds like daffodils, sporting bright silver and bronze jewelry rivaling the smoldering sun and big, arresting bindi on forehead; engrossed in little chats. And at certain distance are scattered groups of travelers, some from different corners of the country and more from abroad, lost in the little riddles and proses of this town.
Pushkair fair brings them all together.
Pushkar, the Brahma’s land
Pushkar, is a legendary town, stretched around the three sacred lakes, and legends say Lord Brahma, the Creator of the Hindu Trinity, while flying over this land, had dropped three petals from the lotus he carried. The three petals became the three lakes of Pushkar. Some say the creator landed on this auspicious land and performed a holy ritual. Others take the tale a little further and claim that Lord Brahma married a tribal girl in Pushkar. Ever since, people gather in thousands, at this holy place to bathe and worship on the anniversary of the Creator’s sacrifice.
Regardless of legendary tales, Pushkar has grown, both as a colourful animal fair and an international tourist destination. While traders throng here to trade cattle, sheep, camels and thoroughbred horses; for tourists, it’s an escape from their world with an added flavor of good deal of craft shopping and café hopping.
A colony of backpackers
The moment our car breast the hill, magic unfolded. It was early morning, wind carried the chill of the night and the sun was in a sleepy state. In the distance the three lakes glinted like jewels, and a little further, through dust and haze, campfires twinkled. We maneuvered our way through the narrow alleys, the morning markets, the hubbub of a touristy town, making our way towards the hotel. And as we drove, a part of us mingled with the razzmatazz of the place. It seemed like a shifting kaleidoscope of emotions, trying to find a balance somewhere between the serenity of the place and the ordered chaos of the fair. The central area of the fair was crowded with visitors thronging the shops and eateries, while the herders and traders took the plains, focusing on their business.
The colonization of backpackers have made this a model town: a place created by and for the tourists, with multicuisine eateries, chic cafes, schools of yoga, massage, Indian music and dance, shops selling herbal cosmetics, perfumes and the inexplicable clothing that characterizes the backpacker diaspora. And it’s all there, shops feasting with colourful textiles, silver jewelry and crafts, town lost in backpacker’s thoughtless party reverie, locals engrossed in their daily chores playfully mixed with spiritual detours, houses with open courtyards with murals to keep you on a click frenzy mode, nomads exhibiting their ravishing dreadlocks and loincloths, and a gastronomic culture that has evolved due to mixing of myriad of cultures and aspirations. The rooftops of medieval buildings with exquisite jharokhas have been turned into cafes, offering new vignettes of the lake with its ghats, the sprawl of temples and the town around the sacred lake. Some ancient courtyards have been turned into meditation centers. It’s suggested to keep enough time on hand to pencil in such moments, after all everything in Pushkar moves at its own leisurely pace. From temple to temple, take your time to discover the cultural and spiritual nuances of the place.
I often ditched the fair to be by the lake, often joined by a group of backpackers with their musical instruments. These are not rare moments, this is routine in Pushkar. And be it any moment, there’s always a spirit of gay abandon, hanging in Pushkar.
Pushkar has evolved as an offbeat and ethnic shoppers paradise
The divine in Pushkar
In the evenings, as the sun slips into the valleys, the lake comes alive with the flickering of the lamps during the scenic aarti. The Pushkar fair ends on a full moon night, and thankfully, I was there, to bear witness to his heavenly spectacle. The ambience with lights twinkling in the twilight was ethereal. Drumbeats, clash of symbols and chiming of bells herald the aarti on the final day i.e. on Purnima (full moon). Lamps are lit and placed all-round the Ghat. This was probably the first time, I was coming in terms with the spirituality of Pushkar. I had seen its jamboree, its gay abandon, the way it has engaged with all cultures and left a part of it in them, and the way it has shaped itself to be a hot tourist destination, but this was different. This was Pushkar, the way it has been for all these centuries, when the travellers had not arrived and it still carries that air.
What else to do
Apart from all the spiritual, culinary, musical, and shopping adventure, you can hire a bike and go to Ratnagiri Hill for sublime sunset views over the lake. Do a one-and-a-half-hour hike up to Savitri Devi Temple. Most times of the year, the skies are fabulous canvasses of delight.
This wasn’t a well-planned tour; last minute tickets, itinerary gone through in haste, no pre-research done and entire plan charted out on way to the railway station. My first impression of Nagaur, as I landed the next morning, was that of a quaint town. I took a corner in that humble station and rolled my eyes to detail out every corner, to assure me that I was still in this century. ‘The town looks ancient’ I said to myself, coming out of the station. This was Nagaur, in the arid northwest of India’s largest state, Rajasthan. Bordering the Thar desert, most of the cityscape has been painted royal yellow with a magnificent Fort standing in the middle of the city; the city walls echoing the tales from time immemorial and the fort speaking of tales of glory and valour.
Landscape view of the Nagaur Fort
I was soon drawn into a history lesson by my chauffeur as we drove to the hotel. A major draw for anyone seeking an immersion in courtly history, Nagaur grew from a strategic trade point to the centre of Rajputana power in its hey days. Naguar lived under the influence of conquerors from vastly different cultures. Over time it gained a distinct Rajput-Mughal architectural design as gardens, temples and fountains were added. Passing through the town is like passing through an age frozen and wrapped in time. The city seems as unmoved by changing times. The 4th century Ahichhatragarh Fort, standing in the middle of the city, was originally built by the Nagavanshi clan (hence the name that means ‘Fort of the Hooded Cobra’!) and rebuilt in the 12th century by the Ghaznis to include palaces and mosques. The Nagaur Fort epitomizes the city more than anything else. Continue reading →
Stories abound in this fort. Wrapped in history, Chittorgarh Fort has been a textbook lesson on valour, honor, sacrifice and never to fade aura of romance. Haunting silence of the innumerable historic episodes, that found a setting here, still echo in the ruins. Every corner seems to have a story to tell. “You must have heard the story of Queen Padmini” said my driver with a toothless smile, as we whizzed past the lanes of this living fort. Chittorgarh, has been a part of history lessons, taken as an epitome of Rajput valor and pride. One of the oldest surviving forts of India, it was actually built by the Mauryas. Over centuries, it changed many hands, seen many battles, but its grandeur only increased with time. Even though it stands in decay today, it gives you a feeling of awe and magnificence of ages and periods of history, these buildings have seen.
Rana Kumbha Palace, though in ruins, still evokes myriad emotions in travelers.
Chittorgarh was once a fortified city and the capital of Mewar Rajputana (Southern part of Rajasthan), before falling into hands of Khiljis, then ruled by Gehlot and Sisodia dynasties from 7th Century AD until captured by Emperor Akbar. Today this stunning fort is a UNESCO world heritage site. This was my second visit to Chittorgarh, infact Chittorgarh was my introduction to Rajasthan, when I had combined it with Bundi. As I entered the gate (Pol), frames from my first visit, flashed before me. In a minute, Chittorgarh turned into a bouquet of emotions for me. Continue reading →