I woke up to the slow chugs of the train as it entered, almost reluctantly, into Haldwani. I had slept for a couple of hours, a fete that sounded impossible to my pre-pandemic self. With the sharp sunlight falling on my face, I sit upright, waiting for Kathgodam, so I could make my way to Nainital and dust the 10 hours of travel off of me.
The drive to the city is cool and scenic, a relief from the soaring temperatures of the plains. The cool breeze almost made up for the motion sickness that came rushing like an old friend as we left the city limits. Serpentine roads with rain clouds looming ahead - Kumaon welcomes me with arms open wide. With the sight of small food trucks selling the perfect hill delight - two-minute maggi - pine trees make their entrance onto the stage. And soon, the wide city roads, the eerily similar sight of traffic only made sweet by the view of a gorgeous lake, make me realise I had entered the city I had been day-dreaming of from my pine-less hometown.
Of history and hope
Perched at an elevation of 2,084 metres above sea level, Nainital is nestled beautifully in the valleys of Kumaon, surrounded by pine and oak trees. The city - which has rightfully earned the epithet of lake city - is engulfed in history and finds its place in old mythological tales. It is believed that Nainital is one of the 64 &lsquoShakti Peeths&rsquo, which were places where the charred body parts of Sati fell. Her left eye fell in this town the Naini lake was formed in the shape of an eye and Naina Devi temple is situated here thus giving Nainital its name - Naina (Eyes) and Tal (lake).
For tourists that throng the city in thousands, the view seems all too familiar. It seemed so to me too, having been here a few times as a toddler, with blurry memories making their way in front of my eyes as our car made its way into the heart of Nainital. My journey, from the wide Mall Road into narrow cobbled lanes, where two cars would barely fit, came to a halt at The Naini Retreat hotel. The heritage resort, erstwhile residence of the Maharaja of Pilibhit, is one of the oldest properties in Nainital situated on the picturesque Ayarpatta Slopes, it provides a breathtaking view of the Naini Lake and the city at large, with its lights twinkling late into the night.
I hobble to my room, a duplex no less, which is far too big for my five-foot frame and realise I am famished - the hairpin bends have gotten to me. I devour the Kumaoni mutton and pahadi raita and walk mindlessly to the deck overlooking the lake, which I am told, is a new addition. There is a nip in the air the view from the deck is splendid at night and the liquor, tastier.
Around the Countryside
Nainital is remarkably famous for its lakes - and like a diligent traveller, I should have set out to explore them the next day. But in my head (which is far too complicated for my own good), I know that I want to see the parts that lie beyond Nainital&rsquos glassy waters. Shashank, the activities manager at the hotel, volunteers to be my companion on this journey. At the crack of dawn, we push off from the hotel on foot, to walk the cobbled trails that abound in plenty around the verdure.
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En route, Shashank, whose face belies his real age, for he is far younger in years than the expanse of his knowledge can expect me to guess, tells me a little about the city and himself. He is an experienced mountaineer and did a two-year training in search and rescue operations in Uttarkashi. As we trot along the path that leads to the Governor&rsquos house, (I&rsquom struggling to keep pace), he reminisces about the Uttarakhand floods of 2013, where he volunteered in the rescue mission. &ldquoI helped retrieve thousands of bodies and stayed there for over two months. For the longest time, my dreams were blank. It took me over six months to get the smell of that place out of my memory. When I first jumped from the plane in Kedarnath and landed at the site, my leg was knee deep in someone&rsquos stomach. The image is hard to forget,&rdquo he says as a shiver runs down my spine. Life on hills is hard - support is hard to come by. This is probably why the most banal houses perched precariously on the edge of a cliff make me sweat buckets, even as I marvel at the architecture that is the fame of the city.
"I helped retrieve thousands of bodies and stayed there for over two months. For the longest time, my dreams were blank. It took me over six months to get the smell of that place out of my memory. When I first jumped from the plane in Kedarnath and landed at the site, my leg was knee deep in someone&rsquos stomach. The image is hard to forget,&rdquo he says as a shiver runs down my spine.
Past the road that leads to the famed All Saints&rsquo and Sherwood convent schools, the Governor&rsquos house is an imposing British-era structure and is set across 200 acres of lush green deodar and oak trees, with a mini-golf course dotting the land. The Raj Bhavan, modelled on Buckingham Palace in England, was built in 1897-99, to serve as the summer residence of the governor of the North-West Province of the British Raj. Manoj Pandey, our affable guide, points at the structure at the entry point and quips, &ldquoThis is where Koi Mil Gaya was shot,&rdquo much to the delight of the kids in our motley group.
The entry to the Raj Bhavan is restricted to a few areas, where one can view the structure preserved in all its glory - wooden staircase decked up with richly upholstered furniture, chandeliers and old artillery hang on walls, telling a tale of time. As I peer from the side into what looks like a dancing room, and a vision from Bridgerton plays in my head. A lone traveller amidst a sea of visitors, I step out of the hall to find my quiet only to find myself in the midst of clouds as they descend on the ground, with a solitary chinar tree swaying softly behind a guard. The building catches the sun at the perfect angle, and I am transported, if only for a brief moment, to a bygone era of royalty.
Into the clouds with God
When you think of Nainital, images of the people paddling their lazy evenings away, typically spring to mind. A circuitous route on the Nainital-Mukteshwar road, however, led me farther from the lakes and closer to the sky, straight to the temple of Golu, the presiding deity of the area who is said to be an incarnation of Lord Shiva.
Situated in Bhowali&rsquos Ghorakhal, about 30 minutes drive from Nainital, the Ghanti wala mandir sits atop a hill, with large stairs that take you straight to the main sanctorium. The small shops outside sell bells of all sizes - from the ones that&rsquoll fit your palms to some that were almost half my height I walk inside, with two bells in my hand, for I was told Golu devta grants all wishes (and I had a whole list, mind you).
When you think of Nainital, images of the people paddling their lazy evenings away, typically spring to mind. A circuitous route on the Nainital-Mukteshwar road, however, led me farther from the lakes and closer to the sky, straight to the temple of Golu, the presiding deity of the area who is said to be an incarnation of Lord Shiva.
Everything evaporates from my head the minute I lay my eyes on the millions of bells, both large and small, that fluttered in the wind, hanging from every vermillion-stained tree and pillar in sight. It is the same belief that brings people here, pen and paper in hand, writing letters enumerating their sorrows, many a times even their court documents, hoping the God of Justice would grant them this favour. Many whose wishes have been granted often come back, bringing more bells as offerings. Amid the serenity and the quiet, I tie my bells, and sit on the edge of the stairs, with two dogs who, the priest tells me, guard the deities hard at work.
Here's the Tea
I love tea. There is something exotic about watching tea pickers with baskets on their backs, meticulously picking out the leaves, with picturesque hills in the background. In the vicinity of Golu Devta temple is the Shyamkhet Tea Garden, which produces a variety of tea, including organic tea, which is also exported. A narrow gate and a small entry fee later, I enter the garden, take mental pictures of the green expanse, and soon find myself sipping some of the wonderful tea in a cozy cafe on the property. &ldquoIt is the oldest tea estate in Nainital,&rdquo quips a local, egging me to definitely buy some from a shop nearby. I promptly do so. My mother would be happy.
The walk, however, has ignited my appetite, and I feast deliriously on pahadi murgh, with aaloo ke gutke, a boiled potato dish that is a favourite Kumaoni snack and the ever-tasty pahadi raita in Ramgarh. The writer in me watches the terraced farms with glee, for I know many writers before me have come to Ramgarh, Tagore and Mahadevi Verma to name a few, and the latter has often written about her house in Malla Ramgarh in her works. I am all ready for a siesta to get my creative juices flowing, and the sofas lined with glass windows seem tempting, but a bike ride from the resort drags me out of my yawns and onto the road back home.
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As a child, I had travelled to Corbett National Park, and found my second love in the thick trees and elusive tigers of the forest. A 10-minute walk from my resort, down the same memory lane, takes me to Gurney House, the summer abode to famous British hunter, tracker and naturalist, Jim Corbett. People in Kumaon speak of him with a reverence I&rsquove come to adore, and his former residence is one of the few buildings in the city that remains largely unchanged. I quietly enter the property, half-expecting a dog to come pouncing at the uninvited guest. All I find is Ganesh, the caretaker of the property that is currently closed to visitors. &ldquoAbhi band hai guests ke liye, par aap dekh lo thoda sa,&rdquo he smiles and gestures to me to follow him.
It is musty and woody inside the hall - the same nostalgia that old books have permeates the room. I glance at the books the interiors are stacked with Corbett&rsquos personal effects and the many, many horns that hang as trophies on the almost-dilapidated walls. I roam around for a few minutes, engaged in a spirited conversation with Ganesh, who is the second-generation caretaker of the cottage that now belongs to the Dalmia family. I walk out, entrenched deeper in history, with a feeling that I have come closer to the man whose books I&rsquove read and admired all my life.
A reasonable cliche
No matter how much I try to stay away from the regular travel cliches, I find myself drawn to the Mall Road one chilly evening. The road runs parallel to the Naini lake and connects two ends of the town. It is also the prime shopping, food and cultural centre of the city, flushed with the best woollens money can buy. I grab a quirky bag made of hemp stalk, and a few goodies for my sister who&rsquod threatened me with dire consequences lest I return empty-handed.
I grab a quick drink at the Boat House Club which overlooks the lake. Colourful boats dot the blue-green of the Naini tal, where I also spot a few sailing yachts bobbing in the relatively quiet waters. I am surprised to learn that the club hosts an annual regatta, which attracts a lot of fanfare. Maybe I&rsquoll come back for it, or for the cosmopolitan vibrancy that the city boasts of. Maybe I&rsquoll come for the history that I&rsquove carefully bitten into. This &lsquocliche&rsquo hill station has gotten to me.
