Searching for virtue in abject laziness? Or looking for the antithesis of the much-touted adventure-filled holiday? Or simply wanting to hone your skill of doing nothing?
Come to Kasauli. Bring with you that fat, brick-heavy novel you always wanted to read. You aren't the novel reading type? Doesn't matter. For, you can't leave your sense appendages behind — I mean your nose, ears, eyes and all — can you? For, here in the Himalayan foothills in Himachal Pradesh, atop the Panchmunda ridge at 5,900 feet, you'll pick up aromas of blooming flowers like charming strangers befriending you. And the rhythmic ko-kooo-ko, ko-kooo-ko of an elusive bird from the safety of a thickly endowed pine, and unknowingly you lend your voice to it as well, ko-kooo-ko. And if your eye-lids do not grow heavy and droop off in mid-morning as you slouch in the shade of the cedar after a gratifying breakfast, you can see the cloud crawling up the hill from the valley far below, in slow motion. It engulfs you, making everything around translucent, Daliesque, and you and the pine and the rhododendron are all contained in one engulfing warp.
The cloud moves further up the hill, removing the veil behind its trail. The old oak and the horse chestnut look as refreshed as the rest of the trees covering the hills. Closer to you, a happy bunch of flaming wild roses and the golden yellow flowers of Century — the one-of-a-kind cacti, beam at you. The cheer has spread across the hillside dotted with zinnias and morning glory.
Artistic rendezvous
At the garden of the 100-year-old British-bungalow-turned-hotel, I meet Manpreet. She is an artist from South Delhi and comes up to Kasauli "as often as I can and for as long as I can." She has set up her easel at the edge of the garden overlooking the hills, busy on her canvas right from the morning.
"Why Kasauli?" I ask her. "Show me another place with such pristine views, and flowers, and so tranquil, where I can spend hours painting without being gawked at or bothered by a multitude of locals or tourists," and then with a mischievous twirl of her lips, added, "except by some writer-of-sort from Bangalore." We both burst out laughing. The hills are coming anew on her canvas. Then a drop of water falls on her arm and she looks up alarmingly at the sky. Another drop. And then another. We both scamper into the shed of the front porch, she deftly carrying the easel and the canvas, me, her rainbow palette, paint bottles and brushes.
The drizzle makes the hills defuse and slowly blur off. Even the mighty oak beyond the garden is shrouded. Just outside the porch where we have taken shelter, tiny drops of water cling on to the needle-sharp petals of the pink bottlebrush flowers. A light wind carries with it a faint, sweet odour and sprinkles shards of rain on my face. I zip up my jacket and shove my hands in the furry depth of its pockets.
The sun comes out in the afternoon. I plant myself in the garden of the hotel, behold the hills and the trees now shining as if just paint-coated. I soak in the orange rays of the reclining sun while devouring onion pakodas and masala chai, though scones and Darjeeling tea would have been more in place to the Raj era character of the setting. I work out in my mind the difficult choice of which walk to take after the snack — the Upper Mall Road or the Lower Mall Road? Now, these are the two main arteries that have branched out of a petite three-some of the chowk, the bazaar and the church that more or less form the hub of Kasauli. The Lower Mall Road is shaded by tall trees and snakes downhill beside expansive compounds of Victorian bungalows. The Upper Mall Road is much open on the northern side with views reaching up to the snow-clad Himalayan peaks on a clear day.
By the time I finish the last pakoda, I decide not to take any walk. Instead, stay put in the garden and watch the sun go down beyond the western hills. The sky is shedding off much of its blue for streaks of vermillion. The fold of the hills are going easy on the contrasts of light and shade. Chaman Lal, the waiter, comes up to clean up the table and reads my mind like reading some newspaper headline. "Evenings very good to watch from here, Saab," he says and points to the north-easterly direction, "Soon, lights of Simla can be seen, there."
"How far is Simla?" I ask. "Some 77 km from here, by the hill road, but actually very near as the bird flies." He stoops closer to my ears and asks in a softened voice, "More pakodas and masala chai, Saab?"
Come to Kasauli. Bring with you that fat, brick-heavy novel you always wanted to read. You aren't the novel reading type? Doesn't matter. For, you can't leave your sense appendages behind — I mean your nose, ears, eyes and all — can you? For, here in the Himalayan foothills in Himachal Pradesh, atop the Panchmunda ridge at 5,900 feet, you'll pick up aromas of blooming flowers like charming strangers befriending you. And the rhythmic ko-kooo-ko, ko-kooo-ko of an elusive bird from the safety of a thickly endowed pine, and unknowingly you lend your voice to it as well, ko-kooo-ko. And if your eye-lids do not grow heavy and droop off in mid-morning as you slouch in the shade of the cedar after a gratifying breakfast, you can see the cloud crawling up the hill from the valley far below, in slow motion. It engulfs you, making everything around translucent, Daliesque, and you and the pine and the rhododendron are all contained in one engulfing warp.
The cloud moves further up the hill, removing the veil behind its trail. The old oak and the horse chestnut look as refreshed as the rest of the trees covering the hills. Closer to you, a happy bunch of flaming wild roses and the golden yellow flowers of Century — the one-of-a-kind cacti, beam at you. The cheer has spread across the hillside dotted with zinnias and morning glory.
Artistic rendezvous
At the garden of the 100-year-old British-bungalow-turned-hotel, I meet Manpreet. She is an artist from South Delhi and comes up to Kasauli "as often as I can and for as long as I can." She has set up her easel at the edge of the garden overlooking the hills, busy on her canvas right from the morning.
"Why Kasauli?" I ask her. "Show me another place with such pristine views, and flowers, and so tranquil, where I can spend hours painting without being gawked at or bothered by a multitude of locals or tourists," and then with a mischievous twirl of her lips, added, "except by some writer-of-sort from Bangalore." We both burst out laughing. The hills are coming anew on her canvas. Then a drop of water falls on her arm and she looks up alarmingly at the sky. Another drop. And then another. We both scamper into the shed of the front porch, she deftly carrying the easel and the canvas, me, her rainbow palette, paint bottles and brushes.
The drizzle makes the hills defuse and slowly blur off. Even the mighty oak beyond the garden is shrouded. Just outside the porch where we have taken shelter, tiny drops of water cling on to the needle-sharp petals of the pink bottlebrush flowers. A light wind carries with it a faint, sweet odour and sprinkles shards of rain on my face. I zip up my jacket and shove my hands in the furry depth of its pockets.
The sun comes out in the afternoon. I plant myself in the garden of the hotel, behold the hills and the trees now shining as if just paint-coated. I soak in the orange rays of the reclining sun while devouring onion pakodas and masala chai, though scones and Darjeeling tea would have been more in place to the Raj era character of the setting. I work out in my mind the difficult choice of which walk to take after the snack — the Upper Mall Road or the Lower Mall Road? Now, these are the two main arteries that have branched out of a petite three-some of the chowk, the bazaar and the church that more or less form the hub of Kasauli. The Lower Mall Road is shaded by tall trees and snakes downhill beside expansive compounds of Victorian bungalows. The Upper Mall Road is much open on the northern side with views reaching up to the snow-clad Himalayan peaks on a clear day.
By the time I finish the last pakoda, I decide not to take any walk. Instead, stay put in the garden and watch the sun go down beyond the western hills. The sky is shedding off much of its blue for streaks of vermillion. The fold of the hills are going easy on the contrasts of light and shade. Chaman Lal, the waiter, comes up to clean up the table and reads my mind like reading some newspaper headline. "Evenings very good to watch from here, Saab," he says and points to the north-easterly direction, "Soon, lights of Simla can be seen, there."
"How far is Simla?" I ask. "Some 77 km from here, by the hill road, but actually very near as the bird flies." He stoops closer to my ears and asks in a softened voice, "More pakodas and masala chai, Saab?"