I am on the Mall Road; this city
has an amazing capacity to live with people.
The road is busy as ever –
hawkers, rickshaws and cars take up all the space. I prefer to walk down the
road. I have no qualms about the honking horns or the excited restaurant/hotel
bearers who think that this is my first time to Naini and want me to sample
their dishes or choose their luxurious rooms for stay.
This is my first time.
I am in awe of Nainital.
*
No one is watching me scribbling
on my notepad. Luckily, I am not famous.
The lake is calm green and poke
marked with boats – colored boats, multi-shaped boats, and beautiful boats. The
air is yet to be corroded with smoke for the morning is still young. I take a
long deep breath and feel the chill rushing from my lungs to my spine.
My ginger tea is yet to come. I
have missed that glass of tea so much – how it used to bring life to cold stiff
fingers.
The tea comes without ginger and
thankfully without sugar too. I ask for ginger and pepper separately.
There is an old beggar on the
road. She is draped with rough, patched wool blanket. Her eyes plead silently
with passersby on the road. She stands nonchalant, nonexistent on the busy
road, in the busy city.
A girl, young and attractive
passes the old beggar and halts to adjust her red kurta. The beggar-woman is
asking for money. The girl looks incessantly at the woman while taking small
bites from her chocolate. On an impulse, she hands her chocolate to the old
lady.
The cool mountain air gushes into
her hair, as I realize that I’ve emptied my cup. Our eyes meet. She has
contagious laughter in her eyes. I do not look away, unabashed; I keep drinking
in her beauty until she turns around and walks back. I’ll keep looking at her
until she disappears on the mall.
*
I meet a black mutt near the
flats. Is he a mutt? I am not sure, a hybrid perhaps, certainly not unheard of
in these parts.
He is looking at me with his dark
black eyes. Should I run, I suppress the urge. Does he read my mind? He starts
walking with me along the edge of the flats to the mosque.
The mosque is pearl white, of
marble, stands tall overlooking the vast expanse of flats. I wonder when it was
erected. It has been there since my first memories of Naini. I make a mental
note to study about it.
I pause for a moment to take in
the grandiose of the view of the lake and the hills converging from both sides
on the other end. There is nothing yonder only sky – cloudless, limitless. I
wonder if the end of the earth looks like this.
The mutt is bored of wagging its
tail. He barks his disappointment at me once and returns. I am the last
standing Pandava.
I feel out of breath as I climb
the university road. I do not belong to the mountains, not anymore. I keep
walking, not allowing myself to look sideways. The road gets steeper as I climb
higher to the high court and then to the sleepy hollow.
*
The girls’ school road through
Bhotia market has remained same through all these years. That aroma of momos
and chowmein is still intoxicating.
I wonder why they are not calling
me to their shops as they always do. Do I not look like a tourist anymore? Or
perhaps because of that notepad that I carry, nobody travels alone and with a
pad in hand.
I must be a lunatic, amongst the
honeymooners, momos, bright colored shawls and cheap electronics.
*
Ma used to call it lovers lane,
it’s actually known as thandi sarak. It is cold alright, the shades of the hill
trees and lake side vegetation leaves only small patches of sunlight.
I observe a tall, old banyan tree
and an accompanying peepul. There is a kaner, seesum and assorted patches of
pine.
It’s a rainbow of green and brown
– as many shades as can be. There’s also a lot of wild growth. I do not know
their names. There are no flowers except for a wild white one – a tiny dot in
the sea of green.
There are no other colors on the
hill, what has happened to the rhododendrons, the wild dahlias?
The birds are chirruping from
somewhere. I can’t see them. I feel culpable for having disturbed their
terrain.
As I sit down to observe some of
the wilderness, someone rings the bell in a distant temple. There is no noise,
only calm, composed breaths of nature.
A black mynah has come down. It
has a golden beak. I have never seen this species before. Another one, no, a
couple has come down – fluffy, dirty golden-brown with shining feathers. I make
yet another promise – to learn more Himalayan ornithology.
There are a couple of red
beetles, the ones that used to bring luck in another life, on my jeans. They’ll
accompany me as long as they want. I am lost in their red and black patterns.
*
They have made aeration centers
for the lake, finally some environmental concern; I hope, not too late. They
are pumping air/oxygen into the bottom of lake to preserve life. I would have
loved to go inside that room to observe the working mechanism but the area is
closed. There is a big ‘sarkari’ lock on the gate.
The lake is 27m deep at some
places. I’ll not try boating (it’s mandatory to wear life jackets). Drowning is
one of my worst fears.
But that does not stop me from
rushing down the steps towards the lake. The water is as green as the trees
surrounding it. Does it become white in winters when snow covers the entire
valley?
It’s good that not many people
come to this side of the lake. Behind me, a couple descends the stairs. I turn
around instinctively. They are holding hands, they are not married, they are…
beautiful.
I return to the lake ad observe
the lone yacht. More honeymooners – I laugh to myself, apprehensive of their
love.
*
On mall, there is lone-green
library facing the road. It is named Durga Shah Municipal Library. I walk in
out of curiosity and my love for books. The building looks as old as the
popularity of the town. It reeks of damp pages, cobwebs on history and fresh
moist air from the lake.
I look around to find a few
broken window panes and green-white colored tape fluttering against the air.
The walls are yellow and the floor wooden, part carpeted. The windows of glass
and old teaks are the natural sources of light in the old building. They’ve
divided the building into two halves – reading section furnished with long
tables and chairs and low hanging lights. The walls are lined with old photos
and some paintings – a woman in white sitting alone looking towards the black
trees, waiting perhaps; one of Krishna dancing on the giant snake. The
photographs are of awards won during old plantation drives.
The other section has books lined
up in shelves. There are some really old books on some really old shelves. A
lot of books are tattered. I wonder if they have always been like this. Most of
the books are in Hindi; somehow, this doesn’t surprise me in a town full of
convents.
I quickly scan the books –
Kumauni history, Himalayan history, of flora and fauna, of economy and
development, on the fight for Uttarakhand, of prominent Kumauni people.
I do not find Namita Gokhale’s
titles, not many people have heard of her, even in her hometown. This must be
related to general disinterest in books.
With a fleeting look at the
shelves, I make a mental list of books I want to read – before retirement and
after it. I’ll forget it but I am at ease with my decision to read.
The sun is setting beyond the
hills; I do not want to leave the library. I never do. Reluctantly, I look to
the mall and try to find attractive faces. In a weak moment, I’ll walk out, but
with a promise to return.
*
Twilight is dancing on the lake
water. All the myriad reflections of life are alive. The sun is receding behind
the mountains. There are no more clouds in
the sky. I wish for a starry night. Soon the last boatmen will oar his way
back; his mind will be occupied by his earnings of the day. How much is
sufficient, how much is luxury? In the end, we’ll all be Capitol Cinema –
alone, old, dead.
My favorite bench near the band
house is unoccupied. I scurry my way to it. The gurudwara, the oaks and the
local salesmen stand tall. They have lived lives here, they are living lives
here…
Soon the darkness will descend
and lights will start coming out. There’s a calm, potent power to the black as
it engulfs the valley. I watch as random dots of illumination come up in the
hills. The small homes that were invisible in the day have been caught by the
light – lone, flickering in the mountains of darkness.
The silence of the flats is
accentuated by thinning crowds, only to be broken by the last chiming bells of
the Naini temple.
The clouds have crept in once
again from somewhere. I cling on to my last cup of masala tea for warmth.
Sometime in the night, one of these clouds will walk down the slopes of the
valley and enter our lives. I’ll watch the faintly illuminated lamps of the
mall from my balcony. The gods live somewhere in this valley.
*
The cloud did run down into the
valley at night, making the mall wet and weather foggy, in the morning. I will
not descry sunrise today. Next time, may be, I console myself.
There is a drum floating in the
middle of the lake, white bobbling drum. A bluejay is sitting on it with eyes
fixed on the lake water. He looks determined. He will be my last memory of this
visit to Nainital.
