In allowing myself to be enticed to the hills during an especially sultry summer, I do what I call the name-check: if more than five random people in a row recognise the name of my proposed destination, it does not bode well for my fond visions of verdant solitude. I worry that this destination might be an overcrowded Mussoorie or Nainital masquerading in the guise of an undiscovered haven. While my name-check for Mashobra yields a comforting zero for five, I still have my misgivings when I learn that it sits a mere 25 minutes’ drive from Shimla.
It is a few minutes away from the diesel-soaked charms of the ageing queen of the mountains that I finally allow myself to relax. The infested hillsides, the giddy honeymooners, the bustling summer flea markets with photographers vying to robe you in true chintzy glory before positioning you just-so against a mountain backdrop — all that is receding and we hurtle away (actually gingerly wind our way around narrow mountain paths) toward the unknown. Perhaps my fond ambitions of picking fruit off a tree and drinking alpine water from a gurgling brook (and petting a quivering fawn, as my droll photographer-fellow traveller suggests) will be realised after all.
Whatever the expectations I may have had from Mashobra, I had not realised that the one thing to stand out the most and what I would be most unexpectedly thankful for, would be the utter and complete silence.
Five minutes out of Mashobra (our destination was actually Koti Dhar, a small hamlet boasting a population all of 150) we hit an unmetalled road and realise that the little blink-and-miss-it pathway leading left onto a shelf of terraced fields is where we have journeyed eight hours from the white-hot plains of Delhi to be. We see no one there; no people, and no traffic — which is possibly a good thing because the road is so narrow I can scarce see how two midsize vehicles could travel abreast. And when we finally turn into the house that is to be our home for the next day, we see — unobstructed — the fragmented view that has shivered in and out of sight all through our drive, and it is truly lovely.
In my cynical smoke-shrivelled heart, I am aware that it is hard to wax poetic about one skyline of hills over another, but bear with me for a moment. From the balcony of Forest Hill Villas I see far north into the Himalayan range, squinting into the late afternoon sun, and can discern in the distance, mountains that I know are snow-capped. The valleys are contoured in fields of clover and mustard, dotted with dwarf apple trees and immediately around me are towering pines and deodars…and it is so beautifully quiet.
One can feast upon this view from several corners of this three-levelled house. I recline on the sofa, one hand lazily channel surfing while counting peaks; I gargle mouthwash in my luxurious Jacuzzi-fitted first floor bathroom, all the time following the undulations of land with one languorous eye; and even consider the mountains upside-down for three heart-stopping minutes as I do a shirshasana on my balcony.
The house is luxuriously appointed and manages to tread the line between homestay and hotel with such finesse that I am pleasantly muddled at the end of the day. We are left to cook for ourselves here. The kitchen is stocked with supplies to last the two of us a good while — there is even a bottle of fruit wine (sold by the dozen all along the road to Mashobra, the flavours range from the intriguing — rhododendron — to the frankly frightening — pineapple strawberry) to go with our dinner. The retainer, smiling Sundar, makes himself busy wiping counters, straightening cushions and offers to do the needful, but we refuse. There is something incredibly relaxing about pottering through this house, hearing the tea kettle go off, and I think to myself quite solemnly that I could wake up to this sylvan silence for many days to come.
The next morning, a little disinclined to toast our bread and poach our eggs, we set off to the legendary Oberoi Wildflower Hall. We can barely see the spires over the thickly canopied summit towering over our heads, and look forward to a leisurely winding road up to it, but Sundar sets us off on a path that cuts a near-vertical climb just a few steps from the house. We dip and curve through the trees towards a breakfast set high above the road overlooking Kufri and Chail just three kilometer 3 kilometres to the north. Over eggs, toast and a sumptuous cold spread, we soak in the sun, faced away from the building, a little disappointed that the structure is entirely modern (Lord Kitchener’s home was renovated in the 1920s and this later structure was razed to the ground in 1993 in a freak electrical fire), devoid of even the faux frills and fripperies of modern interpretations of Victorian architecture. The view, however, is worth far more than the punishing climb. All we hear is the clink of silverware, the dulcet tones of our lovely hostess and the waves of silence coming in from over the valleys below.
In the afternoon we continue our journey to our next homestay, less than five minutes by road, a quaint cottage named Violet Hill which we happened to have passed on our way to Wildflower Hall. Violet Hill sits in solitude on eight acres of hill, entirely obscured from casual view by a quirk of location and several judicious architectural choices. In fact, from the lawn, where we sip tall glasses of freshly made iced ginger fizz in the company of our gracious host Prabhdip Singh, we could easily believe that we were the only civilisation for miles around. Singh is touchingly proud of his home — with reason.
Violet Hill, named after the owner’s childhood haunt in Shimla, is a literal manifestation of every 9-to-5 proletarian’s vision of a cottage in the hills. He shows us around his home littered with original art, vast bouquets of flowers from the lovingly tended garden and the pièce de résistance, a cosy reading room attached to the master bedroom. Later, while eating homemade double fudge ice cream laden with walnuts, I wonder whether he would notice if I decamped with his chef.
Singh points out the sights from where we sit — Shaali Peak, the highest in the range, and the Punjab governor’s official residence formerly known as Dane’s Folly. In the evening, we drive around the area, up to the President’s retreat, down to the village of Mashobra and through what are reputed to be some of the thickest oak and pine forests in the world. We are told that the area is slowly but surely in the process of being ‘discovered’, the air quotes hanging heavy in the air like a death knell.
It certainly seems like it — there is some construction going on around us, and the silence that I am beginning to fetishise might not survive long. Already the who’s who of Delhi’s elite power players have begun earmarking their plots for posterity. (Singh is known to have politely declined Sonia Gandhi’s request for a portion of Violet Hill.) I have nightmare visions of Shimla creeping up the hills — indeed Dane’s Folly is called so because Mr. Dane believed that Shimla would extend up to where he had built his house. He may yet have the last laugh in a few decades, but for now I can (and did) grab a sandwich and an apple, walk down the path and less than a few yards from civilization, turn and disappear into the woods only to sink down into the fragrant grass in silent release where the road cannot see me if I cannot see the road.
Deepak Sanan and Dhanu Swadi’s Inayat is our last stop on the trip. We are shown to a cheery window-lined annexe done in sunshine shades after a simple but hearty lunch that includes fresh peas from the garden. We are, indeed, living off the land, I learn later from Dhanu, who points out the vegetable patch (that boasts spicy rocket leaves, tender and sweet snap peas, cauliflowers and budding tomato plants among others), compost pit, solar panels and rainwater harvesting tanks. The house and annexe were both built using ecologically friendly, recycled wood, and the architect incorporated quirky details like cementing trios of wine bottles into the wall to catch the sunlight in intriguing shades. The highlight of the stay is the lively free-ranging conversation that lasts through teatime and dinner, and we stay on past our bedtimes listening to nightjars calling in the woods around.
Dhanu tells us that the double rainbow we had seen earlier in the evening was the first this year. It has rained heavily, and we hope the next morning brings our first real sight of the snow-lined peaks. We also learn that for me to have fulfilled my ambitions of harvesting wild berries by the basketful, I would have to return after the monsoon, when wild strawberries, other local fruit and a certain seven-pointed leaf would be in season, butterflies in tow. The early chill of winter brings with it blazing sunsets and the thaw of spring, the birdlife.
The next morning, for the first time in living memory, I wake up at the crack of dawn without the aid of an alarm clock, and realise in tandem two things: one, I could get used to this and two, I shouldn’t, because this is the day I must leave. As we drive through faded Shimla on our way to catch the six o’clock to Delhi, I wonder what changes the years will bring this lovely hamlet, and realise that perhaps the very nature of my sojourn might hasten the demise of its quietude. Then once again, two thoughts hit me: one, perhaps my cynicism is misplaced, and the people of this region will be wiser this time round and, two, do I have a week off to return in September?