Mussoorie Walks — I
Do the Himalayas ever get out of your system? I hope not.
Every time I return from the mountains, they linger with me for a while. The Himalayas, in particular, seep in and settle into nooks, to be rediscovered periodically through books, music, and once in a few years, visits.
Rain in the Mountains is one of my favourite names ever for a book. It brings together the two things about nature that I love the most. My copy of the book has a beautiful cover featuring a green, wet winding road. This is the kind of road we walk onto, while in Mussoorie, when we leave the tourists behind on Mall Road and climb up the path that leads to Camel Rock. The rain is keeping the weekday tourists away, though the crowds will arrive over the weekend, packing the road with their SUVs, piercing the bustle of conversation with honking.
But back to the quieter weekday.
We pass a few small shops selling every day items — hairbands, groceries, vegetables— then leave most of humankind behind. The clouds are creeping up through the valley, and whatever little is visible of the mountains is rapidly covered in a thick sheet of grey-white. The mist is rising towards the curving path, reducing visibility; but we are on foot and have all the time in the world to linger and do nothing, even as we hope that we will see the camel-shaped rocks perching high up on the mountainside.
Ruskin Bond has good things to say about this time of the year in the Himalayas:
Towards the end of September, those few clouds that still linger over the Himalayas are no longer burdened with rain and are able to assume unusual shapes and patterns, chasing each other across the sky and disappearing in spectacular sunset formations. I have always found this to be the best time of the year in the hills. The sun-drenched hillsides are still an emerald green; the air is crisp, but winter’s bite is still a month or two away; and for those who still like to take to the open road on foot, there are springs, streams and waterfalls tumbling over rocks that remain dry for most of the year. The lizard that basked on a sun-baked slab of granite last May is missing, but in his place the spotted forktail trips daintily among the boulders in a stream; and the strident sound of the cicadas is gradually replaced by the gentler trilling of the crickets and grasshoppers.
…
The hillside is covered with a sward of flowers and ferns. Sprays of wild ginger, tangles of clematis, flat clusters of yarrow and lady’s mantle. The datura grows everywhere with its graceful white balls and prickly fruits. And the wild woodbine provides the stems from which the village boys make their flutes.
Bond, Ruskin. All Roads Lead to Ganga (pp. 111–112). Rupa Publications Private Limited. Kindle Edition.
We have unwittingly ended up here at the end of September, driven more by work schedules than practical considerations. We usually choose to take vacations to rainy places, simply because living in a city known for its ridiculous rainfall patterns propels us into towns that thrive in the rain. Occasionally, they thrive a little too much for our comfort, but the experience overall is always positive, especially when we are left with the image of lush, green surroundings imprinted in our heads and hearts to rescue us from our concrete traps.
We have few other human companions on the walk to Camel’s Back. A brownish-red bug crawls slowly by the rocky, plant- and moss-covered rocks on the side, finding a nook in the damp grass. Ferns grow everywhere: on trunks, branches, electrical lines, between trees, sometimes forming a lovely canopy. Flowers appear in the wild growth — I wish I knew their names — and bunches of red berries. A white spider makes its way slowly around one of these clumps. The sun makes occasional pale appearances. Crevices appear in the mountainside, but they are much too high to permit any exploration. Hollows closer to the ground yield only a discarded wrapper or two, some dribbling rainwater.
This walk is maintained by a spiritual institution whose hoardings and boards are prominently placed on the railings. To our left, descending into the valley, are a few houses; further up on the right are more houses, steep paths rising towards them from the road. Most of these mossy paths have locked gates; the owners, like in the old days, probably summer here and stay away in harsher weather.
Early in the walk, we see a little roadside temple. It houses a Swayambhu image of Ganesha — appearing naturally in a tree — and is decorated with fresh flowers. Shiva, Parvati, and Kartikeya appear in plastic-wrapped white statues, as does Hanuman — protection from the elements.
We pass an old cemetery. The gates are locked, but we peer into a chamber of sorts and spot a few photos. Established in 1829, this cemetery seems to have been the resting place mainly for Europeans. I would have read the plaque or taken a picture of it, but a monkey making merry just overheard quelled my desire to do so.
We are now close to Camel’s Back, according to the map — and it points us to a hotel, where a freshly arrived group of travellers are engaged in noisy banter. A lady who walks with the busyness of a local passes us, and we ask her where the rocks are. She smiles and walks us a few feet ahead, then points high up on the mountainside. ‘There!’
I would offer you a photo, but my phone does not do justice to it. A pile of boulders, arranged by nature to look like a seated camel with a load on its back, is the attraction that captured the imagination of an intrepid British traveller a couple of centuries ago. At a time when these mountainsides must have been blanketed by thick trees, how did the rocks catch his attention? How was he even looking at rocks, when vegetation of this kind hypnotised the mind?
It is time to return. The walk has made us hungry and the heavy breakfast of the morning seems like a dream. The rain stays away for the most part, allowing us to revisit almost everything we marvelled at on our way up. Little do we know that we are coming back to this road in a couple of days for the company of the trees and the quiet of the mountains, during a surprise appearance of glistening blue skies. We will not see any snow-capped peaks from here, none of the mighty names listed on the board near the tea shop: but we will experience a deep peace and a sense of belonging that only the mountains can impart. The Himalayas are home.
