When you look down from there, to a sheet of golden lights, you wonder about the million lives who live in the nuclei of those shimmering dots. And about the billion dreams each such life sees with open eyes every day. And about this one single dream of one single life that came true that day to see rejoice in the eyes of someone you love being there with you feeling tiny soft cold raindrops brush past her, as she strolls in the beautiful wet roads with an umbrella in her hand, in the alluring monsoon Mussoorie.
Past a two day long multi-parametric analysis on the web a month back, the venue for my Mum's surprise pre-birthday trip was frozen. A heritage stay in Mussoorie it was going to be. A week back the to and fro bus tickets were booked. All set, it was as planned and as free as it was supposed to be. I will always remember watching Mom almost jump with surprise when I broke the news after a delicious dinner one day. Then a couple of days back the Media shrieked mercilessly of ruthless rains in the state of Uttarakhand. 'Beware' they said. But rains always brought back beautiful childhood memories to me. And it indeed did transform Mussoorie to a beautiful solemn haven unlike the rustle-bustle of blind tourism that defames the erstwhile British escape in the scorching summer heat.
The transit city was Dehradun, a place with seemingly similar roads and shops and houses and billboards and dhabas and malls to the ones in the plains, yet with a freshness in the non polluted air that made you stretch your arms and inhale till it filled you with instant placidity. A taxi ride later, we reached the bus 'adda' for Mussoorie. The ride till Mussoorie was like driving through lazy fogy clouds. On the canvas of my imagination, I drew proud peaks, elegant valleys, box shaped houses set onto feeble man-made steps, distant mysterious temples all hidden exotically under the blanket of this mist.
Mussoorie, in it's first impression, with clouds heavy upon us and the rains more than possessive, was secluded. Taxi drivers who smelled of weed and local liqour swarmed around, which interestingly didn't stop them from charging outrageously for a ride lasting few minutes. The slopes were strict and it took a few seconds to reorient balance and sense of gravity. We reached Padmini Niwas for our weekend long retreat to be. The place was beautiful, more so with the woodwork, antiquity, an aura about the place with flattered you with subtle royalty. Still early morning, with hot paranthas and pickle and tea, the sound of raindrops smashing against tiny pebbles on the pathway, the absolute silence beautifully corrupted by distant chirruping of a young bird being your partner in admiration of this natural celebration of monsoon rains.
The mall road had a living breathing life of it's own. A line of shops extended to 'infinity and beyond' selling everything you could bargain for at 2005.5 meters above sea level. Apparels, ice-cream, snacks, electronics, toys, antiques, cosmetics, footwear, medicines, bhutta vendors, and suddenly it almost seemed like slicing layer by layer of a 'mall' unwrapping the shops decorating them linearly beside the road keeping just enough space for cars to virtually battle through a swarm of gentlemen and ladies with colorful umbrellas trying to seep through the crevices of the traffic. From modest stays to colossal hotels built like a mountain upon a mountain, from square-tabled restaurants to the fully glass-ed 'Mall road view' ones, from the roadside 'extra-adrak' tea vendor to Cafe Coffee Day, from Desi 'bhutta' to Exotic continential, the wide spectrum of travelers and tourists injected the monetary fuel to keep an unexpected beast of an economy alive and moving.
The quintessential soul sister of Mussoorie was Kempty falls. Equally commercialized beehive of shops and stores selling outrageously useless stuff at times. For a family, the fall's base was well designed - carved almost like a swimming pool, though with a strong gush of chilling cold water that smashed against your shoulders. The impact of water fall expels excessive mist in the air, which when coupled with the breeze reminds you of December winter in Delhi. An endless set of stairs were to be climbed to and fro. The cab took us to two temples, the first one a modern built Indian one, and the second one was a serene Buddhist temple with a humble looking priest.
As the night drew close, like an almost conspiracy, the crowd kept growing thicker in direct proportion. I saw relief on faces of few who seemed to consider themselves pardoned from the 'wrath of the rains'. Others, majorly children, ran around frantically looking up at the sky tasting the rain drops with a prejudice-less delight. We grabbed boiled and grilled sweet corn sold alongside the roads, and walked on across the stretch. It was then when suddenly while taking a turn, you'd catch sight of the magnificent shimmering lights of Dehradun city below. Phantom clouds swam above the city like delicious cream over coffee. I wished a digital photograph could do justice to the dark scenery that lay ahead, but I knew it wouldn't so I asked myself and Mum and Aunt to capture this indescribable spectacle in their memories.
Finally it was time to close the Mussoorie chapter, and as we retreated to our hotel after dinner in one of the 'Mall road view' restaurants, our minds were elated but our legs cursed in an almost Punjabi manner. I exclaimed that such is a day's worth of spending physical and mental effort exploring and discovering something new like little children. That night as I played back snippets of memories of that day - the bus ride, misty fogy roads, beautiful sightings, delicious bhutta, jalebis, cab ride till Kempty, reading about Prayer wheels in Buddha temple, and suddenly it was a pleasant sinking sensation of giving in to sleep. I slept like a piece of log.
We packed and moved out early morning next day and boarded a bus back to Doon. While Mussoorie was a tiny self-sustaining ecosystem, Doon was a monster of a city in scale, and hence the dilemma of how to spend the last few hours of this trip. Upon recommended, we were escorted to the Forest Research Institute, and this was the second time all three of us almost jumped. The word 'magnificent' is an understatement for the architecture, the green cover, and especially the Dhanaulti mountains in the backdrop almost like an oil painting. We moved through museums experiencing rich studies on timber, forests, insects, herbs and happened to pity the University Chancellor due to some reason so silly the laughter persisted for a long time. It was an ideal place to sit down under a tree all day and think about life and it's ecstasy. But this was not that day, and so we left for ISBT, where our Volvo for Delhi awaited us. The way back home was one of reflection, and it reminded me of how the best of things are sometimes most simple and effortless.
Like this small escapade hopefully as a mark of a new beautiful beginning of endless experiential journeys. Happy Birthday Mum :-)
