We had side-stepped Shimla deftly, as one would have a rather loud, boorish guest at a party. It was summer, peak tourist season, we were driving back from Gushaini, and in no mood to break the magical spell of the quiet beauty of the Tirthan Valley. Four months later, the region elicits quite the opposite reaction when I hear it has snowed. Soon enough, ensconced in a comfortable armchair, munching on Norwegian salmon sandwiches with my afternoon tea, the temperature set cosily at 22 degrees, I regard the view through the large bay windows of my room at the Wildflower Hall. It is difficult not to feel smug at the choices I have made in life which have contrived together with fate to bring me to this happy situation. It is truly beautiful. There are a couple of large, stately, snow-clad cedars directly outside my window. Flanking it, the forest continues for a bit before dropping gently below to the Mashobra Valley. From left to right are the magnificent snow-peaks of the Srikhand Mahadev range. I see all of this in soft-focus for it has started to snow again, gently. I watch as snowflakes descend, quite without purpose, whimsical in the direction they fall. A few land on my windowsill, perfect little flakes with their perfect little crystals.
Perhaps it is an Indian thing, this feeling of utter disbelief when confronted with the phenomena of snow. How can this thing, hitherto confined to the pages of fairy tales and English poetry grace our hot and dusty land? Our odes are to the monsoons and to spring harvests. This whiteness belongs to another continent. Gone is the noise of the summer. The snow-laden earth absorbs all sound, and exudes a magnificent peace. Even the ugly, tree-less hillsides, which had punctuated the forested ones and had filled me with dismay earlier, are carpeted white. They have become part of the harmonious landscape. I breathe it all in, consciously storing it in my memory, which I know I will awaken upon my return to the city.
The two days that I spend at Wildflower Hall are taken up in this serene contemplation. The hotel in winter encourages it. At 8,250ft (1,000ft more than Shimla) it possibly catches the best snows in the area. I have a room with a view, and if I tire of that I can take my lunch out on the sun-drenched terrace, which affords 180-degree views of the valley and the Shrikhand Mahadev range beyond. For exercise I have a choice between the ice-skating rink, the luxurious heated pool or a walk in the forest. Keeping in mind my bad knee and my bad cough, I go for a walk early one morning. The snow-covered path moves out of the hotel, skirting a ridge above the 600-hectare Seog Catchment Reserve Forest. Once part of the territory of the Ranas of Koti, the British acquired it as a catchment for the water supply to Shimla and planted much of the grand cedar forests one beholds today.
The trail is enchanting. The snow has encrusted the trees, giving them an unearthly sculptural quality. Where the path weaves in the shadow of the forests, the snow is stained the deep blue of the sky. In places a tiny green shrub, which I cannot name, struggles to keep its head above the frost. In places the snow is knee-deep. The chill air stings my low-altitude lungs. Coming downhill I slip and end up with a cold bum. I am still chuckling happily to myself when I return to hot, delicious apple soup on the terrace of the hotel.
The hotel itself has all the charms of an old-world property in the Bavarian Alps. You could be forgiven for mistaking the present building as the Wildflower Hall inhabited by Lord Kitchener, Commander in Chief of the British Indian Army in 1902, so convincing is its architecture and décor. But the original single-storeyed building was torn down by and replaced by a 3-storeyed hotel in 1925, which ran successfully until a fire, an unconvincing accident, burnt it down in 1993. The Oberoi group took over three years later and in 2001 unveiled the new Wildflower Hall, an undoubtedly less draughty version of the old one.
Its modern attractions are many. Topping the list is the Oberoi Spa run by Banyan Tree’s Indonesian masseuses. The aromatic oils and Ria’s pounding and pummelling for over an hour chased away the remnants of Delhistress lurking between my shoulder blades. I followed it up by a steam bath and shower, regretting not having done it in the morning so that I could have plunged into the open-air jacuzzi, which sits on a lip overlooking the valley. But I made up for it by finally learning the Surya Namaskar asans properly from the hotel’s expert yoga instructor.
The feeling of wellness, though, was disturbed by a few mild irritations. Why does luxury mean that Indians should be forced— by the oversight of a toilet shower or plain plastic mug— into using toilet paper? And if a hotel is offering a choice of Darjeeling, Assam or other teas, why should one not expect it fresh and aromatic from the best estates? And yes, the whole wheat bread should have been sliced a little thinner for the salmon sandwich.
But I shouldn’t fuss. I was there for the snow, after all, and it obliged graciously by falling gently with all its healing properties.