The ‘smart’ city of Shimla, which lives under clear blue skies, tells its (rather sad) story of transformation. It now has ribs made of steel
Misty air is full of fragrance. Whispering deodars, cedars and oaks form a vibrant canopy. Dry cones fallen from tall pine trees add to my mystic beauty. The red Rhododendrons (Buransh) found in abundance ameliorate my beauty. Icicles that get formed on rain-soaked sliding red tin roofs are like stars twinkling in the sky. I am ‘Elysium Hill’— the romantic small town in the foothills of the mighty Himalayas.
Most days are chilly and foggy, filled with the mild warmth of the Sun. There are quaint landmarks in every nook and corner. Cut-stone structures, timber framed walls (dhajjis), English cottages, grey slate roofs, aesthetically-drawn cornices—I am an architectural marvel.
My legacy is rich. My existence is divided into two—pre-independence and post-independence. Both eras have been eventful, but I must admit that the past was more charming and graceful. Now it’s all steel and concrete. Never mind. Change is consistent, constant.
I served as the summer retreat for the British. I was the ‘Jewel of the East’. The British used to travel thousands of miles from Calcutta to Shimla in convoys of bullock carts, camels and horses to reach my cool climbs. My journey began around 200 years ago when the first pucca house came up—it was the residence of a well-known British civil servant, Charles Pratt Kennedy.
Raaja Bhasin, a young historian, has many memories of my glorious past. “After Independence, the demographics changed. Earlier, there were only the elites and their servants. Gradually, a large middle class appeared. However, the elements of post-colonial hangover continue to linger,” he tells me.
The town has undergone mountain-sized changes. I am now a ‘Smart City’. Though modern engineering has altered the façade of buildings and architecture has brought in new elements, but the steel fly-ways, pedestrian bridges and concrete structures for slope stability are eyesores. Bricks have replaced the local cut stones and dhajji walls that once graced my looks.
My essence has changed, probably to cater to the changing tastes of locals and tourists, but I am still a hit with them. When the plains become unbearable, they visit me to witness some of the most magical sunsets. They live in pretty cottages overlooking the snow-capped mountains. They love to visit the Christ Church which is forever drowned in layers of fog. My highest peak hosts a sacred temple. The statue of Lord Hanuman—at a height of 8,000 feet above sea level, it is the tallest in the world—overlooks the town. Troops of monkeys accompany the tourists for some prasad.
My north-western fringe is an amazing vantage point to get a bird’s eye view of the town. Seeped in colonial charm, it is the highest point in terms of altitude. There is a colonial-era house —the residence of the viceroy who lived here in 1836. There is an all-girls college, a school and a residential locality as well. But the greenery is slowly disappearing and the trees are gradually vanishing. After all, concrete is the way to make me look smart. I am ‘smart’ now. Smart, but not stern. I am happy. The mushrooming laughter clubs frequented by senior citizens and retired government servants are proof.
Sometimes, I miss the old me. I miss the charm of the old Mall Road. I have been a witness to British viceroys, governor generals, elegant gori mems and Anglo-Indian men and women romancing or strolling on the Mall Road under the clean and clear blue skies. The Mall Road now resembles a mini metro city. Some reminiscences of the past still exist—like the Indian Coffee House, but the shiny bright lights from the modern era establishments have eclipsed it.
During the hey-days of the British Raj—when I was declared as the summer capital of India in 1864—tarmac of the Mall road used to be washed every morning with the help of mashkis—bags made of goat skin carrying water.
This is unthinkable now. I am unable to source enough drinking water these days. During peak summers, I find it hard to quench the thirst of residents. The summer guests complain of water scarcity, yet they don’t stop visiting me again and again. They are very kind. They litter though, despite the hefty fine and the signboards, which is not nice. They should not forget that I am home to colonial heritage and a witness to some momentous events that shaped India’s pre-independence history—including a peace treaty being signed by two Prime Ministers in 1972.
Those were different times. In the good old days, President Dr Rajendra Prasad would walk through the main artery of the town. He would avoid going by car so as to not disturb the pedestrians walking on the Mall Road. But, now, VIP vehicles buzz through the banned areas.
Change is welcome, but not always. Old buildings are being pulled down to make way for the new. The two-storey wooden cottages are gone. High-rise buildings have replaced them. Mindless development and the ruthless cutting of mountains have changed something.
This monsoon was disastrous. The terrifying lightning and thundering left the natives petrified. Many woke up hallucinating about deodars falling over their heads, mudslides washing their homes or landslides burying them in the soil. Sadly, these were not hallucinations. This actually happened.
Climate change is showing its impact, but human-induced disasters are overshadowing natural forces. I am dying a slow death. But for now, my inherited spirit of bouncing back is still intact. I am all set to welcome tourists in the winters when the red sloppy roofs will turn white. These whites have been featured in many films.
Many prominent personalities, some famous, and some not so famous, have studied here. They include the former President of Pakistan Mohammed Zia-ul-Haq, British military officer Reginald Dyer, the former vice-president of India, Hamid Ansari and former army chief Bipin Rawat.
Many from the fields of literature, theatre, art, cinema and television have a deep connection with me. They include Nirmal Verma, his elder brother Ram Kumar, Rudyard Kipling, Rabindranath Tagore, J Swaminathan, K L Saigal, Prem Chopra, Manohar Singh, Master Madam, Anupam Kher, Amrita Shergil, Vijay Kashyap, Krishan Khanna (painter) and Krishna Sobti.
I end my story with a special story. A popular newspaper from this region, which used to be published from Lahore, temporarily shifted its base here after the partition. The iconic building is now being converted into a city museum. It is in the news these days for good reasons to turn into a major tourist attraction.
[DISCLAIMER: The following stories in this issue are a work of fiction inspired by the state of news media today and are meant for reaction purposes only.]