Memories of a Bygone Age (contd.)

We Arrive .....

To get back to my first exposure to the hills - When we finally got to Kandaghat, after what seemed a lifetime on the road (actually it took ‘just’ 5 hours or so – including just over an hour maybe on cooling stops and tea/lunch stops), it was like stepping on solid ground after a gruelling ocean voyage. At least for me, it took a not too restful night’s sleep for the ground to stop rocking and for me to find my feet again. But the best part of finally setting foot on the ground was the laughter of welcoming relatives, the hugs of the cousins who had gotten there before us and the anticipation of exploring all the places that I had heard so much about from my sister. My cousin, Suneet, had come along with us from Delhi, but another cousin was already there. Veena was the local resource, as she lived with Papaji and Ammaji, and studied at Kandaghat, and it was she who knew all the interesting places we should visit. She was also the person to be scared of, for all our escapades were duly reported by her. Soon our mothers and aunts were down to their gossiping, cooking and cards, and we children were more or less on our own, free to explore the bazaar, the railway tracks, and the hills and dales. Many were the forays we made down to the Ashwini Khud and up to the Karol Tibba and many were the scrapes and scratches we suffered from the falls we undertook and the thorny bushes we forced our way through. By the time our summer vacations were over, our arms and legs were covered with scabs and coloured red or blue, depending upon whether mercurochrome or gentian violet had been applied to the wounds.

I distinctly remember that the barberry (Berberis aristata) and the wild raspberry (Rubus ellipticus) used to be in fruit at that time and, as we wandered along the village paths and trails, we, along with the other village children, would gorge ourselves on the succulent berries. I am told that the number of such bushes has vastly reduced now – partly because the barberry bushes have been overexploited for their medicinal roots, and also due to construction of roads where the village paths used to be. If this is so, it is not only a huge loss to the biodiversity of the hills, but also an end of a way of life for the children of the area. There is, though, a village in Rajgarh, where the wild raspberry is sold as a preserve and, I am told, has quite a market. Down by the Ashwini river (more of a rivulet really) one would be able to catch fish with a hook and line. On every trip we were able to hook a couple of fish, which we proudly carried home to be cooked. This feat of ours was not kindly looked upon, as the fish were not only small, but replete with fine bones, which made eating them a challenging task. Now, I am told, the Ashwini has become so polluted that there are no longer any fish surviving in its waters! When I think back on those times, fifty years ago, I realise what we have squandered away or destroyed is not just the natural resource but also the childhood experiences of our children. When, many years later, I asked my children to go into the valley and enjoy the same things that I had done as a child, I was told it is just not worth it. Village paths had been widened into motorable roads, the wild fruits and berries were all gone and the river was no longer fit to fish or even swim in! What a waste!

The Karol Tibba, as I have already mentioned, was another favourite haunt. We would ascend to the railway line, walk along it for about a kilometre and then take the footpath leading to the small village of Mai, where dwelt a retired Forest Ranger, one Shri Man Singh. His grand-daughter was Veena’s class fellow; hence Veena was ever forcing us to accompany her there. Now that I think of it, it was perhaps Man Singh’s stories that sowed the seed of desire in my mind to become a forester. Over some ‘Makki’ rotis and spinach, Man Singh used to narrate his experiences as a forester, sometimes thrilling us with his encounters with wild bears and leopards, and sometimes making our skins crawl when he talked about ghosts and ‘churails’ that abounded near the abandoned ‘baolies’ or village wells. The path to Mai was through dense forest of oak, beneath which hardly any sunlight penetrated. In fact it was quite moist and clammy underfoot, with rotting oak leaves strewn everywhere. At one point, just above Mai village, on the way to Karol temple, I was able to collect some calcium deposits with oak leaf impressions in the form of fossils, a treasure that I still retain. I am sorry to report, though, that the oak forests spreading all the way from Salogra to Kandaghat are today severely depleted partly due to the ever-increasing demand for fuel wood and green fodder, and partly due to the lack of regeneration, that is trampled over or grazed by the innumerable cattle that roam the hillsides. Ad-hoc policies of the government are also partly to blame. I remember that some twenty years ago, while the forest department was charged with the protection and regeneration of the oak forest, the sericulture department sanctioned a scheme for raising tussar silkworms on harvested oak leaves. There needs to be greater coordination between the various departments of the government to prevent such contradictory plans. A good thing, however, is that the treeless hills facing the south are today covered with thick patches of chir pine plantations.

To be Continued ..........

Memories of a Bygone Age (contd.)

Beyond the Plains .....

Fortunately for the mothers and aunts, before the pullovers are pulled off, a pink and blue bus with the words “PEPSU Road Transport Company Ltd.” trundles up. A flying horse (my sister, more educated than I, tells me it is ‘Pegasus’) is painted on both sides, and a board stating the destination is fixed in front. Though the bus has come all the way from Patiala, on its way to Chail, there are hardly any passengers on board and there is plenty of space for our group of 4 adults and 7 children. The moment Bimla Masi asks for seven and a half tickets to Kandaghat, the conductor’s face lights up. He knows where we are going, for grandfather is a well known personage of that small village. He is an advocate and, at some time or the other, almost everybody in those parts has been represented by him. Grandpa Madhok (or Papaji as everybody called him) was also a personal friend of the then Maharaja of Patiala – Yadavindra Singh – and since the bus belonged to Patiala State Government, the conductor’s response is understandable. By 11 am the bus is loaded with the passengers (of whom our group forms the majority) and baggage (again our stuff dominating the roof space) and off we go. As the bus turns left on to the main Delhi – Shimla highway, I feel my adventure is well under way.

As the bus literally moaned and groaned its way up the slope from Kalka towards Shimla (or Simla as it was then spelt), one could not help but recall the lines recorded by Sir Edward Buck in his paper presented before the Simla Natural History Society in 1855 – “Let us hasten up from Kalka, then, as quickly as we can, and pass by that noble mango tree which, spreading over the road a few miles from the foot of the hill, always seems to me like a huge boundary mark erected by nature for the purpose of noting the division between the flora of the plains and the flora of the hills.”  The huge mango tree on the outskirts of what is now Parwanoo might well be the same tree as alluded to by Buck. Interestingly, there was hardly any tree vegetation up till Dharampur, from where the road branched to the left towards Kasauli, except for a few scattered Mango, Amaltas and Semal. This I came to realise only after I joined the Forest Service in 1971 and got allocated to Himachal Pradesh. In 1956, however, the only indication one had of entering the coniferous tree zone, and thus really and truly the hills of Himachal Pradesh, was the cool, pine oil laden, breeze from Koti onwards. It is claimed that, while other trees during respiration take in carbon-dioxide and give out oxygen, the pine tree gives out enriched oxygen, or ozone. It was perhaps for this reason that TB sanitaria were set up in the hills, whether at Murree, Kasauli or Dharampur. Though I have not been able to find anything in literature to substantiate the claim, I am sure there is something to be said about the healing powers of the forests. Alexander’s soldiers are reported, after the day’s battle, to have renewed their energy by standing with their backs against trees. In any case, the recuperative powers of the tranquil surroundings, the cool air and the enforced rest afforded in the forested hills cannot be denied.

It was also at Koti, coincidentally, that the engine of the bus would get heated up. The bus drivers had it down to a T – either they knew the exact distance the buses would go before heating up, or they had conditioned their buses to heat up only at the locations where water springs were available – but the fact remained that whenever the engine heated up, and before the radiator cap blew off, the bus would stop at a natural spring. The conductor would extract an empty oil can from beneath the driver’s seat, jump off the bus, rush to the water trough and start splashing water on to the radiator, with the driver gunning the engine all this while. Now I realised why the winged horse symbol was painted on the bus. The open flaps of the engine bonnet did indeed give the impression of wings sprouting from the extended front of the bus. While all this was going on, the passengers would also alight and wash the dust and sweat of the plains off their faces and arms with the cold water emanating from the hillside. Interestingly these water troughs were also the ‘stages’ where the ponies and horses taking the sahibs and tongas from Kalka to Simla prior to 1903 paused to refresh themselves.

As a matter of fact, soon after British officers started frequenting and spending summers at Shimla from 1820 onwards, the Kalka-Shimla Cart Road via Kasauli/Subathu was laid. There were 17 stages of 4 miles each to cover the 60 odd miles (96 km) from Kalka to Shimla. Since every ‘stage’ had to have facilities for food and water, for animals as well as humans, it is fairly safe to presume that there were at least 17 ‘Baolies’ – or natural springs – fairly well distributed along the entire route. I distinctly remember at least four natural springs in and around Kandaghat – one at ‘Ded Ghraat’, another two between that place and Kandaghat Bazaar, and another at Srinagar, just opposite the SDM residence. It is reputed that water from this last was transported to Patiala on a regular basis for use by the Maharaja there. As related by someone a few days ago, 40 odd springs and ‘baolies’ existed between Kalka and Shimla about 25 years ago – today there are just 9 ! What has led to this decline is worth researching. 

.... To be continued

Memories of a Bygone Age .....

(Edited version published in 'Whispering Deodars' - Rupa)

The 'Grand Journey' Begins ...

The year is 1956. I am eight years old and the summer vacations are fast approaching. Kanpur is sweltering hot and dusty to boot. The smoke from the hundreds of chimneys dotting the skyline of this ‘Glasgow of India’ covers the sky like a dark pall. My sister and I are anxiously waiting for the day that we will begin the journey that will take us to Kandaghat, that little village nestled in the hills just beyond Solan. This is an annual feature, almost a ritual, though I will be joining for the first time!

Aunts and cousins gather at the railway station (fathers will join later) and soon we are aboard the Kalka Mail for the first leg of our journey. This is the same train - 1UP/2DN - that was introduced in 1903 for carrying the officers and babus of the British Raj on their annual sojourn from Calcutta to the summer capital of the Imperial government, Shimla. Kalka was, and still is, the gateway to Himachal Pradesh. In its location and layout, this town is no different from Dehra Dun (for approaching Mussoorie), Kathgodam (at the base of Nainital) or Siliguri (in the Darjeeling foothills). I guess the uniformity of design is because of the fact that all the tracks were laid by the British, at or about the same time.

We arrive at Kalka, excited and cheerful, early in the morning. The air is cool and anxious mothers begin draping the children in pullovers. A pullover, it is said, is something that mothers make their children put on when they themselves are feeling cold. But pullovers in June? What a story to tell the mates back in school! The poor blokes back in Kanpur are, I expect, down to their vests and shorts right now. As I said, despite the fact that the coolness in the air is, more probably than not, because of the early morning hour, I like to think that it is because of the proximity of the mountains that one can see peeping over the station compound wall.  My oldest and most experienced aunt, Bimla Masi, quickly organises the luggage and the children, in that order, on the platform. Mothers are asked to identify both items, and soon a string of red shirted coolies, engaged after protracted financial negotiations, duly loaded with assorted items of baggage, is wending its way towards the bus stand.

A grand view greets us as we step out of the railway station - passengers pouring out of the station, against a backdrop of the hills, rickshaws and horse drawn tongas lined up, with the drivers calling out for passengers and the general hubbub and excitement of a holiday crowd! Though the bus stand is just a furlong or so up the road, we see many of our co-passengers being borne away in style aboard either a rickshaw or a tonga. Our pleas for a similar ride, however, fall on deaf ears and we trudge along behind our mothers and aunts up the slight gradient leading to the bus stand.  Part of the reason for the walk is past precedent (or tradition) and part is just to save money, although we are told that it is only the ill, old or the infirm who take rickshaws and tongas – we are not in any such category, are we??  So, having been put firmly into place, we soldier on!

Sure enough, within a couple of minutes, we spy a few brightly coloured, but tired looking, buses – Fords and Bedfords mainly. The air is full of cries of the conductors, and their assistants, calling out various destinations and exhorting passengers to board. Quaint names such as Nalagarh, Pinjore, Solan and Subathu assail the ears, and we keep expecting to hear ‘Kandaghat’, but are disappointed. There is excitement and expectation in the air – everybody is keen to be on the first bus out, if nothing else, to escape the plains before the sun really climbs up into the sky. Coolies and bus conductors are busy loading luggage on to the carriers atop the buses and tying it down with thick hemp rope. One by one, the buses load up and move off, but we hang back. It appears we have to wait for a bus belonging to one particular company – for that is the one we always travel by. While we wait for the bus – no time given on the notice board – we while away the time eating ‘Kulche-Chholle’ from one of the numerous carts that line the other side of the road, opposite the bus stand. Though the sun is getting hotter, the breeze is still cool, and the pullovers are no nearer being pulled off tousled heads. 

                                                                                                       ...... to be continued

On Retirement

Every retiring ‘gorment’ servant, particularly at a senior level, carries the misconception that he has substantial literary skills. So, the first thing he or she promises themselves is to pen down their experiences or write a technical treatise or a work of fiction. But first one wants to catch up with all the rest and the sleep that the last days of ‘service’ had deprived them of. The first month after retirement, particularly for a workaholic, are the most difficult. He really does not know whether to get up early and dress up for office, or to sleep the sleep of the just after a job well done.

I have seen several of my seniors, soon after their retirement, call out in the morning for their bed tea – not realising that the khalasi/peon/khansama is no longer around. The lady of the house obliges for a few days, serving the newly retired ‘sahib’ tea in bed. This soon wears off and the LOH minces no words in telling the Sahib that he had better come to grips with reality and either do without his morning ‘cuppa’ or learn how to fix it himself.

Then there are others who have an early shave and shower, dress up for office (complete with tie and coat) and then sit around wondering where to go to. For a couple of days they go to their old office on the pretext of finishing some paperwork, but are soon disheartened when they realise that they are no longer welcome there. In fact, the most pathetic sight is that of a retired ‘sahib’ wandering the corridors of his old office, peeping through doors to see if any of his erstwhile juniors is in. He pops into an office, expecting to be offered a seat and a cup of tea, but often gets short shrift. Sorry sight indeed!

The most difficult realisation that hits one right in the eyes post retirement is that now one has to settle one’s own telephone and electricity bills, apply for and obtain a ration card (to serve as one’s ‘proof of address’), buy stamps and post letters. Shopping for vegetables and grocery is another chore. Often, a major task is also driving and maintaining one’s car, particularly the washing and polishing.

Some may find these chores unpleasant and unappealing – a burden from which there is no escape. On the other hand one can think of it as a new post-retirement job. These so called chores or tasks help one pass the day, besides helping the LOH in running the house and the kitchen. I find all this running around an opportunity of meeting new people and making new friends. After three years of retirement, my best acquaintances are my car mechanic and the postman. The lady at the electricity office now greets me with a bright smile and the vegetable seller gives me a discount every time I visit him. What I like best is the way people treat me at my bank, giving me priority service – not because of my position and rank but because of my grey (rapidly turning white) hair.

Now I have time to read the newspaper in detail, try to solve the Times crossword puzzle, update my Facebook page, respond to my emails, and catch a nap in the afternoon. I have time to chat with my children and grandchildren, read books and learn how to fix cocktails. I also have the time and inclination to fix breakfast every now and then, and help my wife clean the dishes whenever our maid gives us the ditch! I have learnt to enjoy comedies on BBC and catch up with the History Channel on Tatasky. I can now recognise the Indian cricket and movie personalities and can even follow the storyline in the soaps that my wife watches every afternoon.

Retirement has brought me peace and tranquility and a greater realisation of how wonderful life is. As I saunter around my little backyard and admire the newly emerging flowers, I find that life is to be taken one sip at a time, like a good scotch – not in a gulp! Enjoy every flavour, savour every sip and appreciate how much better off you are now.

Have a great retired life!

Summer is here

Summer comes slowly to the hills. One doesn't quite know when to discard warm undergarments, remove the electric blanket and put away the quilts. Two days of sweltering sun and then a sudden shower - warm clothing is back on and quilts are out. Don't do that, and end up with a runny nose and your spouse telling you "I told you so!" So - when do you know that winter has gone at last and summer is here to stay - at least for the next three months!

I remember my grandma telling me that we could rid ourselves of woollen underwear after Holi. That was the beginning of summer! Alas, this has not held true for the last several years. Maybe it is the changing climate, but for the last several years  it has always rained on Holi day. This year I thought "Thank God it is bright and sunny today. Summer is here." But the Almighty had other plans. Dark clouds started gathering by noon, and the evening was chilly again. I had to hastily re-don my pullover, the one that I had gleefully discarded that very morning! So .... Holi is definitely not the beginning of summer.

While living in Shimla, I could sense the onset of summer by the wilting of my Narcissus and Daffodils, which had been flowering all through late winter and spring.  It was the only way I could tell for sure that Summer had arrived, as suits, ties and tweed coats could never really be put away there - they were standard wear come summer or winter! The other way of telling summer had really arrived was when guests from the plains - wanted and unwanted - began dropping in to spend a few days or weeks (depending upon how thick-skinned they were). In fact 'Guestfall' was the recognised natural phenomenon between 'Snowfall' and 'Rainfall'.

In Solan, lower than Shimla, so far (fortunately) there has been no 'Guestfall', so  I cannot depend on that phenomenon for knowing when Summer is here. I have no patch of lawn and no daffodils to inform me either. Unlike in Shimla, I cannot see schoolchildren changing into their 'summer' uniforms - so that indicator is also not available to me here. What is available, however, is the sound of the birds. Through late winter and spring, I have been watching and hearing the Himalayan Whistling Thrush - the whistling schoolboy - jumping about near the stream that runs past my house and trilling away merrily. That sound has now given way to the monotonous "tukur-tukur-tukur" of the Great Himalayan Barbet or the Coppersmith. Difficult to spot, perched as they are in the high branches, these yellowish green birds are finally announcing summer is here - I believe them! Hurray for Summer in the hills!

Memories Of A Great Man

MEMORIES OF A GREAT MAN

By

Dr. Pankaj Khullar IFS (Retd.)

Some time ago, when I read news of the sad demise of perhaps the greatest exponent of Hindustani classical music, Pandit Bhimsen Joshi, my brain immediately conjured up an image of the kind, joyful, expressive face and my memory flashed back forty years to that spring day of 1971 when I first came face to face with the legend.

I had been selected for the Indian Forest Service in 1971, and was directed to report for training at the National Academy of Administration, Mussoorie. Apart from the 20 odd IFS probationers, there were also probationers from the IAS, IPS and Central Services attending the Foundational Course that all fresh entrants to the Civil Services had to undergo. I guess ninety percent of us were fresh out of college, while the remainder had already tried their hands at other jobs before opting to join the civil services. Some were already married, some had kids, but the majority was still single. In fact the Academy was a fine place for intimate friendships and romances to flourish, and many a couple owes their togetherness today to the idyllic environment of Charleville. Even if not culminating in marriage, the bonds formed at LBSNAA were strong and enduring.

Knowing that they would be spending most of their training period with their own service batchmates at their respective professional institutes, almost all the probationers sought to make the most of their stay at Mussoorie. Director Sathe actively encouraged us to interact with people from other services and with members of the opposite sex. This, he told us, would help us develope our social skills, which were an important part of civil service. The politeness, courtesy and friendliness developed then have stood me in good stead during my career of over 37 years. More work has been successfully achieved through personal contacts with friends made at Mussoorie – “the school tie network” - than through official channels.

Much water has flown down the Yamuna since 1971, but I still treasure the time spent at the Academy. The music sessions in the Lounge, the movies in the Library Hall, the games in the Billiard Room under the stairs, the informal dinners on the lawns are all as fresh today in my memory as in the pictures clicked by Mela Ram and Sons. The walks along the Camel’s Back Road, ending invariably with coffee at the Whispering Windows, are unforgettable.  Strolls to Company Garden, Library Point, Kulri and Landour in the company my good friends AP, Rummy, Kutty and Prem were memorable.

Never for a moment should it be concluded that the four months we spent together at the Academy were all play, and no work! Joint Directors Gopalakrishnan and Bagchi, along with Professors Mongia, Sadasivan, Mathur, Sethi et al, kept us busy from 10am to 4 pm with lectures, seminars and tutorials on subjects as diverse as economics, history, sociology, public policy and administration. We were taught how to get along with our bosses and how to manage our juniors. From time to time, we also had guest faculty to talk to us about their respective areas of expertise. And one of these was Pandit Bhimsen Joshi.

It was a warm, drowsy spring afternoon in Mussoorie. About thirty of us were in the lecture hall preparing to endure another boring lecture, this one on music appreciation. Rummy, as was his wont, was busy with his Times crossword, Kutty was doodling away in his notebook and I, if I remember correctly, was writing a letter to my fiancé. Then in walked JD Gopalakrishnan, accompanied by a short, thin, fiftyish, salt-and-peppered haired man who, he said, would talk to us about Indian classical music. Little did we know then that we were being addressed by a virtuoso. How ignorant we were then! Panditji started off with in introduction to the history of Indian classical music, the various ragas and their origins, and some exponents of these. Gradually a few of us started drifting off to sleep. I was too engrossed in my letter to even pay attention to what was going on. And then he offered to demonstrate what classical vocal music was all about!

I distinctly remember him asking whether any of us played the tabla. Wonder of wonders – Gokhale raised his hand. Panditji asked him to get his tablas and accompany him. Gokhale was thrilled. He rushed off to his room and was back within no time. Great man that he was, Panditji let Gokhale accompany him for a few initial notes. (Gokhale never let us forget for the next two months that he played accompaniment to the great performer). Thankfully, after about five minutes, he asked Gokhale to step aside, but not before praising and thanking him. Then he dug out his little tape player, inserted a cassette with recorded sarangi and tabla, and began the most memorable demonstration I have ever had the good fortune to listen to! Although I had no ear for serious classical music at that time, Panditji’s deep baritone gradually began to penetrate my senses and soon a tremor ran through my body and the hair at the nape of my neck literally prickled.

All too soon the allocated ninety minutes of the lecture were over. But so engrossed were we with the performance that we did not want the session to end. We begged Panditji to continue for some more time. Gopalakrishnan, a stickler for time and discipline, agreed for the session to continue if Bhimsenji was amenable. God bless the man, he was! Those who wanted to leave were allowed to do so but about fifteen of us sat on. As news filtered through the campus that Bhimsen Joshi was giving a performance in the lecture hall, people, probationers and faculty alike, started filtering in. Rummy left but Kirti, his wife, rushed in to take his place. The room meant to accommodate about fifty people was soon filled to overflowing and people were lining the corridors too. It was a memorable evening. The lecture was forgotten and Panditji gave us an impromptu performance that all of us who were there remember to this day. There were no accompanying tanpura, harmonium or tabla – just Panditji and his little tape player! We sat enthralled as he ran through the entire gamut of ragas including Shuddha Kalyan, Miyan Ki Todi, Multani, Bhimpalasi, Darbari, Ramkali, and several khayals. Panditji had planned to drive down to Delhi that evening, but he preferred to spend time with a bunch of young, uninformed (but musically inclined) minds and instill in them a lasting love for classical vocal music. If my memory serves me right, we sat in his presence, in that enclosed space, for almost five hours, every minute of it a delight. God only knows how many more uneducated minds he influenced, but I know that I was forever changed that day. Today, as I write this – my homage to the great Master – images of that evening ‘flash upon the inward eye’ in the words of Wordsworth. May God Bless his Soul!