Mussoorie

As the teacher strikes in the university started become more frequent by the day, vacating my weeks from classes, and the sweltering heat of Indian August began to test my patience, me and my friends decided to flee further north for a cooler climate and to have a break from the hectic everyday of the metropolis.The north of India, with its lush green mountains, cool breezes and clear springwater trickling from the Himalayas had fascinated me for a while already. Thus without much contemplation, our Finnish-British-Scottish expedition decided to head to the small town of Mussoorie in the state of Uttarkhand on the foothills of the Himalayas.

Mussoorie, located some 300km north from Delhi and about 1800m above sealevel, is a town of about 26,000 people laid along the strips of the green mountains of Uttarkhand, where the Himalayan mountain range starts to dominate the horizon and the dusty and smoggy plains of Delhi make way for mist and clouds passing through slowly crumbling colonial era habitations. During the Raj, the town used to be a bustling hill station founded by the British for passing expeditions. Nowadays it serves as a conveniently located weekend retreat for heat-fleeing Delhiites and a romantically secluded haven for honeymooners.

Leaving from Delhi at around 9pm, we reached the town after a harrowing 9-hour bus ride and an equally bumpy taxi ride along the snakey roads up the green hills. After a calming cup of chai we took a first glimpse of the town. The main promenade of Mussoorie, the Mall, with its numerous establishments from Hindu temples to Adidas outlets and its motley people from Kashmiri carpet merchants to Hindu pilgrims carrying Ganges water, serves as an illustrative example of how populous and vast India actually is; even relatively remote corners like this feature vibrant microcosms where history exists seamlessly with the present. 

On the way to Mussoorie. At times, the mist prevented us
from seeing anything but the road.

India's iconic Ambassador cars against a scenic view from the Mussorie promenade.The small blue car  has the text "Knight Rider" written to its windshield - quite admirable confidence amongst the regal Ambassadors.

Near where the taxi left us was a humble, yet homely chai shop run by
 a burly man with equally impressive moustache to match, who mainly
communicated with loud grunts and wheezes.

The taxi stand in the Masonic Lodge building with some political graffiti - AISF stands for All India Students Foundation which is a student union associated with the Communist Party of India. Subtle traces of British history intertwine with modern India.

The bustling streets in this relatively secluded part of the world are unfortunately not solely a result of Indian entrepreneurship. The Mussorie Mall seemed to be mainly a product of the British Raj and thus bears memories from an era of blatant segregation and imperialism. Consider the following piece of Wikipedia trivia:

During the British Raj, signs on the Mall expressly stated: "Indians and Dogs Not Allowed"; racist signs of this type were commonplace in hill stations, which were founded 'by and for' the British.Motilal Nehru, the father of Jawaharlal Nehru, deliberately broke this rule every day whenever he was in Mussoorie, and would pay the fine. 

After settling in a cosy budget hotel and waiting for the seemingly endless rain to stop, we decided to pay a visit to one of the sights of the area, Cloud End, a colonial hunting lodge turned hotel with an allegedly breathtaking view. After another somewhat nauseating taxi ride, we eventually ended up to a quiet wooden bungalow tucked in the thick foresty hills filled with handsome Deodar trees. Due to the low season caused by the monsoon the place seemed virtually deserted with only a handful of labourers working in the garden, someone who seemed to be the manager sitting on the porch and a dog napping in the yard. During our ride up, the mist had again gathered around the hilltops giving the place somewhat of an eerie atmosphere. The interior with its moth-eaten stuffed deer heads and Raj-era photography set on display as if as a sign of subtle veneration only amplified the whispers from the past. If Bollywood would ever decide to film its own Twin Peaks, this would be the setting for it.

A view from the bungalow.

The bungalow hotel was surrounded by impressive
and somewhat haunting forests.

Photos from the early 20th century.
Carriers with early rickshaws and palanquins.

After having admired the views enough, and since we had told our driver that we'd be back in three hours, we decided to kill the remaining time with a trek along the road down the hills, which gave us our first glimpses of rural India. We passed the hotel towards the road and started descending the hills candidly following a couple of schoolboys on their way home. What we thought to be a light stroll with through scenic route ended up being a seemingly endless hike through the misty outskirts. Walking the road, we were met by few passers by every now and then; a woman with shopping bags talking to a mobile phone, a young couple riding a scooter and a northeast-Indian looking family huddled under a large pine tree waiting for the rain to stop. All this made me think of the distances these people must travel on a daily basis. Walking behind the two boys with their backpacks and school uniforms through the pouring bursts of monsoon that kept interrupting our walk made me think how I at their age used to bemoan my 1 km walk to school. Needless to say, I felt slightly embarrassed.

The hills sloping down from the bungalow were spotted with the occasional country house with cornfields and cows. Coming from the constant traffic of Delhi, the surrounding silence broken only by the silent hum of the distant Kemptey falls seemed soothing yet overwhelming at the same time.

A girl with her cows. Some of the pictures of people may be a bit blurry because I have so far taken the photos more or less secretly. I am still a bit unsure how people here react to photos taken from them. I will try to make a habit of asking first, when possible.

People in Delhi keep reminding me that Delhi is not India and that one should try to get out of the city as soon and often as possible to experience the real India, whatever that means. In any case, Mussoorie, albeit somewhat of a random choice for a first stretch outside Delhi, was a true breath of fresh air and gave the needed break from the chaos and heat among which I spend most of my days here while at the same time evoking a thirst for more explorations on the subcontinent.