adventure – Ankahi. Unsaid.

I bought this booklet from a street vendor walking The Mall outside the Naini Tal Club sometime in the winter of 1978 or 79 (I prefer the usage Naini Tal instead of Nainital). This booklet, together with a set of four colour slides, cost eight rupees. Printed in 1914 (111 years back), in Cawnpore (Kanpur), this 28 page booklet about St. John-in-the-Wilderness Church in Naini Tal continues to be a treat, probably one of the first collectibles I acquired unknowingly. Accidently pulling it out of the shelf today, triggered a chain of thoughts about my one-time-favourite pahad or what people call as hill-station (which sounds so impersonal and bechara).

I don’t have any pictures from that trip. This picture of the church is not my picture. Our family’s Kodak Box 120 format camera was an expensive hobby those days, thus picture postcards were all one could afford over and above one roll of film, its processing and prints. I acquired a 35mm film format camera much later.

Those days the way up to the elegant stone structure church was from behind the Talli Tal (तल्ली ताल) over a kuccha or a mule trail through thick Banj (Oak), Deodar and Cheed (Pine) trees. Even at peak noon very little sunlight filtered down to the path. It would feel colder under the foliage. The hills behind the church were an untended jungle, completely covered with trees and very few locals had their houses up there. The trail up to Kilbari and snow view ridge was infamous for bear attacks. One would go up only on clear sunny days, more to look at the shimmering, blue, kidney-bean-shaped Naini Lake from the top and not so much for the Himalayas which lay perpetually hidden by the clouds. Only a few people came to Naini Tal in winters. There was no direct bus from Delhi, one had to board the Naini Tal bound bus either at Haldwani or Kathgodam. Some of these buses reached Nainital via Bhimtal. Sighting mule-trains, bringing essentials from the plains, was common sight enroute.

The soothing bells of Naina Devi temple enticed even atheists and lazy city boys like us to line up for prasad on a freezing winter morning when even the Sun took leave off work. The Mall was a peaceful place. I miss that bansuri wala who played painful yet magical notes leaning on the stone wall. Sitting on a bench by the placid lake had a calming effect unlike any ‘substance’. Locals used to smile more often and were helpful to visitors. Tourists respected the hills and hill folks (pahad and pahadis). Mules had the right of way over Marutis or Marshalls. No one ogled at hand-holding lovers strolling on serene Thandi Sadak which was pedestrian only. The soothing scent of flaming red Buransh (rhododendron) and the pine needles is what we missed when back home.

The skating rink and the football ground reverberated with the laughter and excitement of children and the young ones. The elderly sun-bathed or sulked depending which team they were backing. Thankfully Nanak restaurant had still not debuted with its golgappas and chicken tikka. Those days we drank endless glasses of hot and sweet tea without ever thinking of Old Monk. A late evening show at Capitol cinema was all that one needed to get a high and entertain oneself. During sunny afternoons we watched shining Cadillacs parked outside the most expensive hotel in Naini Tal, The Metropole. Some of the Chauffeurs of those guzzlers looked as handsome as Bollywood actors. A decade later I had the opportunity to stay in that hotel when I almost spoiled their three-tiered German Pipe Organ with a pedalboard. Despite that they offered us excellent tea in the well-provided tea lounge.

Naini Tal was all that I had dreamed of when in Delhi and Naini Tal was where I wanted to own a small cottage with my own small library ‘all for myself’ – just like the White House Cottage my friend Bipin Pande owned on higher slopes. His father owned a shop next to the Ghoda stand. Bipin was the one who took me to (NTMC) Nainital Mountaineering Club and stoked my passion for mountaineering. I wonder where Bipin is now !!! The last time I met him was in Jipti camp during the Kailash-Manasarovar Yatra. Pahad nostalgia will kill me sooner than later. And now Mary Hopkins is killing me with her husky voice singing ‘those were the days my friend we thought they’ll never end…’, the song, btw, was produced by another great – Paul McCartney. Mary Hopkins too belonged to mountains.

Coming back to the booklet and the St. John-in-the-Wilderness church. In the booklet put together by Mrs I. D’O Elliott – she tells us that it is an Anglican church and one of the oldest buildings in Naini Tal. The site for the church was earmarked in 1844 by Bishop Daniel Wilson. Its cornerstone was laid in October 1846. Captain Young, an executive engineer with the Company, made its design plans and had it constructed at the cost of Rs 15,000 raised from private subscriptions. Built in a Gothic style, it was inaugurated on 2 April 1848. A memorial in the church commemorates those killed in the 1880 landslip. There have been many landslips (landslides) since then when parts of the church building have been damaged. The once famous Sookha Tal (Dry Lake), which was behind the church, has since been lost. Similarly, no records are available to dig out more information about Mrs I. D’O Elliott. Rest in Peace Ma’am, your booklet is precious and useful.

The last time I visited the church was sometime in 1993 or 1994 with Rajni, my wife. Till then its exterior, the prayer benches inside, and its large sized beautiful stained-glass windows were all intact. I have those colour negatives tucked safely somewhere (meaning untraceable now). The church keeper and an attendant had opened the main church door for us with a metal key that was nearly 12 inch in length. I wonder if they still hold Sunday Service in the church. I must visit it soon. I miss you Naini Tal.

There is another church by the same name ‘St. John-in-the-Wilderness’, which is a Protestant church dedicated to John the Baptist. It was built in 1852 and is located near Dharamshala, on the way to McLeod Ganj, at Forsyth Gunj. True to its name that church is still in the wilderness with few visiting it.

‘It couldn’t be him. It just can’t be. It must be someone else.’, was my first reaction when a common friend sent me a picture of his flower-decked bier lying outside his house in Jalandhar. I recalled Ashok Gupta reciting a Kafi of Baba Bulleh Shah at Zoji La pass where we saw a holy man being carried for burial.

बुल्ले शाह असां मरणा नाहीं गौर पया कोई होर

“It must be someone else, we ‘the immortals’ don’t die”, Ashok had said.

Years before he had said something similar when we had ‘together’ seen death at close quarters.

It was the month of June. Twenty-ninth read the date in the year 1985. By mid-night the temperature was 12 below zero. On the Tibetan plateau our altitude was 17,300+ feet. We were at the western edge of lake Manasarovar. We kiss-drank its partially frozen surface the next morning. Without gloves our hands were slowly turning blue. Strong easterly winds howled the earlier part of that night. I wonder how we survived that night amid nothingness. Yes, survived brutal cold, hunger, fatigue and the fear. The fear of having lost our way in the Himalayan desert. The fear that no one may come looking for us or consider us dead in that Himalayan moonscape. One more night out in the open would have meant certain death for the three of us. But, but Ashok had said “We can’t die here uninvited”.

That night Ashok Gupta was wearing his trademark white kurta-pyjama, no thermals inside. The hood of his blue wind-cheater protecting his ears and head. Arun Singhal, our other friend was decently clad in a high neck sweater but not enough for that altitude or the open skies where a little more cold could have frozen us. Unless you are a Mongol nomad, a Tibetan herder or a Chinese military jawan you dont fools around Mt Kailash or Ghurla Mandhata ranges carelessly at night. We were not fooling around, we had lost our way.

Five other members of our group were accompanied by a Tibetan yak herder who was transporting our camping equipment. That night we clung to each other in a tight embrace to conserve body-heat, arms locked we jogged in-sync, we created a tight triangle of bodies using our breath to warm our chests and ward off the cold with our back, we pissed on our feet when our toes were freezing. We cursed ourselves but never once thought that we would die that night. The thought of death came only next afternoon when despite all our efforts we were not able to find the trail that would lead us to our campsite. Our batchmates were supposed to leave for the next campsite by noon. None of us had any communication equipment or anyone to guide.

The morning before was the most inviting one which lured us to make multiple mistakes. We decided to shed extra layers and trek leisurely around the undulating Barkha Plains. The day temperature tempted us to slow down our pace, rest more often, fish in streams, stop to photograph each Marmot peeping at us from its hole, admire and lure herd of Tibetan Wild Ass and the colony of white woolly hare. We were in the awe of the beauty, the sheer scale of the Himalayan plains where a hundred aeroplanes could land together. With no clouds and a bright sun that hurt during noon we enjoyed the stark contrast of the blue skies against white Himalayan peaks and stunning granite rocks. That morning, together, we had spotted a Brahminy Duck diving in Mansarovar for its catch. Ashok had said it was a good sign.

My brown corduroys, a wind breaker and a muffler around the neck worked well during the day but at night I was the worst clad. We hadn’t had a morsel since we left last camp and I was reminded of the Brahminy Duck all the time. How many fish it would have devoured that morning? We trudged up and down a dozen hills that evening before the Lords switched off the light in that stunningly beautiful playground for their ilk to sleep.

To reach our Himalayan Eden we traversed four major valley systems connecting India, Nepal, Tibet and China. We trekked over 129 km in 28 days, without a day’s break, crossing two high-altitude mountain passes one of which, Dolma La, was over 18,470 feet, braved treacherous crevices over unstable glaciers, were beaten down by winds and thunder, negotiated and forded near-freezing streams, glacial melts and rivers. We slipped around gorges; skidded off steep gradients; spent sleepless nights with minimal food; braved freezing winds, rain and snow but we survived. We survived our bursting lungs in rarified atmosphere, yes we survived this and dangers of many other climbs and high-altitude treks. Did we survive to die like this?

Sorry, I can’t say my Alvida, not yet.
गौर पया कोई होर
Yes, that must be some else.

Tag: adventure

St. John-in-the-Wilderness Church, Naini Tal

that must be some else…