To get lost in the forest!

I was in a trance dreaming of the gigantic Himalayas, the prosperous green valleys high and low, the water flowing from the narrow streams and making its way through the rocks and down the hills. That’s when my watch struck 4pm and I woke up from my nap to a cacophony of street vendors in the bazaar; the distant clamor of voices, street vendors…

Before long, I reached Dehradun ISBT and boarded a local bus to Mussoorie (a fascinating little town in the central Himalayas). Colorful Tibetan prayer flags were strung on the doors of the shops, on the trees and everywhere on the road. The bus moved uphill, picking up locals from different places. The locals rely on these buses for their daily trips and the frequency of these buses is not that great.

I arrived at Picture Palace Road early in the morning. In the market there were about 10 taxis, a bus and few tourists. Mussoorie has definitely changed over the years, clamorous and deafening horn sounds, very expensive shops, shops selling antiques and hotel agents mis-marketing it.

I witnessed two Mussoorie during my trip; that of restaurants, hostels, large and small hotels, spas, noisy tourists. The other Mussoorie; I’ll call it my Mussoorie, old churches, long walks, millennial cemeteries, a community of writers, retirees, little shops full of collectibles and antiques (most run by Tibetans), locals and people from all walks of life who protect the true charm of this beautiful valley.

I crossed the path of the mall and filled my lungs with the soft breeze that blew in the valley. After touring the Bazaar, I walked down to the road and saw a small isolated hotel on the side of a hill, away from the hubbub of the mall street.

I chose a small but decent studio, the Emerald Heights Hotel, the perfect retreat for a solo traveler. It is a budget hotel with friendly staff always willing to help you. Although all hotels in Mussoorie are safe for solo female travelers, I find this one safer than any other hotel. It is located on a small hill on the back road of Camel which is a quiet and serene place to save yourself from the crowd.

This room offered an exceptional view from the window. I could see the mountains from my bed, nothing more could I ask for.

I decided to rest for a day and move to Landour at dawn. August offered me rain, lots of it, and mist, a thick layer of mist over all the mountains (Just thinking about misty hills excites me and makes me fall even more in love with these mountains). I have always believed that August is the month of romance and the month of solitude, in the hills. After sitting in the room, I forbade a leisurely walk from Camel’s Back road to Mall road across Kulri Bazaar. What a stillness in the air, beautiful, thank God!

Since it was low season, there weren’t many tourists in the valley, which was certainly a very good thing.

By now I was hungry as a bear and could eat almost anything, so I gobbled down some dimsums and a peach drink at Domas, and they are delicious. Domas is a great place to stay. This is an authentic Tibetan hotel and restaurant. Dimsum is something you will get anywhere when you live among the Himalayan people. I stayed in the bazaar for a while to see the mist moving from one direction to another, covering the entire mall road with a semi-transparent white sheet. It began to drizzle with cold winds that gave goosebumps. I walked back to Camel’s Back, in the comfort of my room.

I got to the hotel room and sank into the fluffy bed, looking at the enchanted mountains through the glass window, but the mist didn’t allow me to see much. It started to rain, and I started to see the raindrops fall on the frame, I was completely engrossed in the sound of the rain and the smell of damp mountains that made me write this piece:

The heat grows from the dense cold fog
Call of barbets disguises isolation
Majesty of the sun obscured by the cloudy dawn
The glow of the bonfire dims and dies
Rampant raindrops fall freely on my forehead
Red velvet moths emerge from the rain when the first rain falls
The drops on the wings of the butterfly reflect a turquoise hue
A snail takes refuge under a fresh fallen leaf
It creeps into my journal leaving a trail of the first rains.

Some noises broke the spell, in the oak tree in front of my balcony there was a gang of langurs (they are a group of Old World monkeys), some sitting on the canopy and others gracefully hopping from one branch to another, feasting on the pears. These gray creatures with silky fur looked extremely elegant after bathing in rainwater.

Right in front of my room, there was an abandoned house where a dog and his family resided. The pups kept barking at night and only allowed me to fall asleep. It was a terribly dark night, there was no moon in the sky; It rained all night, and I could clearly see the lighting through the window.

Knock Knock – The room attendant knocked, bringing a cup of coffee that he had ordered while he was half asleep.

6 in the morning after having a cup of sweet coffee (sugar overdose), and bathing, I decided to take a walk to the cemetery; the sky was clear at the time. The path was damp, the grass on the slopes sodden, and the cedar foliage washed with rainwater. There were countless dewdrops on dry tree twigs and leaves, falling on my head to infinity. The green mound to my right was blessed with some white wildflowers with yellow centers, dripping down, making the hillside look like a broad yellow and white sheet.

The next day I packed my bag and started walking down the mall street, asking the locals for the way to Landour. It’s a steep climb, you can hire a taxi: said a man. But I love being on foot through the jungle, so I decided to climb (which I later realized was not a smart move). I started walking up and up, high above the ground; as i was told, it was actually a steep climb. Down in the valleys, the water grows cold I kept singing as I walked towards my destination.

Before long, mist began to form around me and also around the forest. It began to drizzle, and the intense gust of air, which seemed more like a storm, made the climb even more difficult. I decided to take refuge under a small cemented hut for a while. I found myself all wet and alone and in the middle of nowhere, but I had to walk to get to the top of the hill before the sun said, goodbye young lady, it’s time to call it a day.

I started walking again, but I couldn’t see anything because of the fog, I was alone, which scared me a bit (langurs, nothing else scared me). I made my way through the mist and walked almost 6 miles. After walking a little further, I saw a gang of languishes; I got numb and cold. I slowly walked past the languishes and they did not act in response, phew! The Languurs of the hills are not dangerous like the monkeys of the plains, perhaps.

I saw a young Tibetan man on my way up; he carried an iron frame (it was a door frame, I think) for construction work on a well-to-do man’s house, perhaps (a lot, I suppose). I asked him which road I should take to reach Char Dukan, take the one going up, he said, another one was going to Lal Tibba (a small hill station that offers a nice view of the Himalayas view when it is not raining, and the sky it is clear).

I walked another mile and came to Char Dukan. Thank goodness! What a sight for sore eyes. There were barely 15 people in Char Dukan: a policeman resting on the steps of the church entrance – the locals hardly feel the need for policemen in the hills – an old man in a faded green sweater, having his tea, shopkeepers, a taxi driver lazily lying on the bench while waiting for his foreign customers, the nearly 60-year-old church janitor, few foreigners learning Hindi and a lazy black dog.

Landour is the non-commercialized side of Mussoorie, may it remain forever. Not many tourists visit this place, because this place does not have a big market, English restaurants to dine in, or movie theaters to enjoy. But if you just want to take a walk, gaze at the wild flowers, watch the sky change colour, listen to the Himalayan birdsong, gaze at the silhouette of cedar trees during the twilight hours or complete your novel, then this is the place. . where you will witness such harmony and bliss.

I parked in a bank, in the facilities of the Church of San Pablo. I was looking at the beauty of this Methodist church, which was in immaculate condition. Later I went to Anil’s cafe (a famous place among foreign students at Woodstock Language School), and ordered a Maggie’s Veggie and her famously appetizing pizza, after indulging my stomach I moved to Sister’s Bazaar. I asked two locals the way to the Bazaar; They told me that they are going in the same direction so that I can join them. The people of the hills are hospitable and very kind; In a short time, two gentlemen accompanied me.

I asked them if I could get a taxi to drop me off at Picture Palace. There were no taxis in any of the bazaars, but they found one and asked it to drop me off at the bazaar.

So I had 3 more hours to explore Sister’s Bazaar, but there wasn’t much to explore, maybe because of the fog. I walked the lonely road; no soul to see and speak, but what a sight to hold. I didn’t have much to do, and in the hills neither time nor life passes so quickly. Here it is only morning, afternoon, afternoon and night, don’t worry about the hours and minutes.

I was resting on a rain soaked and slightly muddy hillside where I saw a Redstart, a brilliant blue Whistling Thrush and some Hill Mynas preening in a small deep puddle. There is no shortage of water during the monsoon, but I guess they notice this small stream for some personal reason. The puddle was made up of rainwater and also some frequent drops that fell into it through a crack under a huge old oak tree. The birds played, splashed and feasted on some insects, and then spread their wings and flew through the air and then into the sky covered with thick clouds. I watched the birds until they disappeared in the mist.

I had a lot of time, so I started looking for a stream, like the birds; I scoured the entire half acre of hell, but couldn’t find one. I decided to go to Prakash’s Store, no not for the creek but for some homemade cheese, jam and marmalade. I met this gentleman Prakash Ji in the shop and bought his special homemade peanut butter, plum jam, made with Mussoorie plums, a bottle of real strawberry jam and blackcurrant jam.

Later, when I went down to Char Duan, I met Rani, who teaches Hindi to foreigners (one of the Hindi teachers in Landour). A single lady of almost 35 years, who lives with her brother and her sister-in-law. She has the pleasant features of the Tibetans, a calm and content face like most mountain people. Her light brown eyes sparkled in the sun that occasionally peeked out from behind thick clouds.

We sat together and talked for a while, while she waited for her French student. I gave her the blackcurrant jam she had bought at Prakash’s. It was cloudy all over and I couldn’t see the sprawling Himalayas, rendering my camera useless. I promised myself that I would come back here, because of these mountains, this mist, this beauty and this bounty, I will surely come back.

They say: there is no escape once a mountain is in your blood. I agree with the statement.