When Guides Become Nainital's Tourists

Hasty plans, crinkled shirts and over-used down jackets always make for a good holiday. It’s an untold delight to become a customer in your own profession; here is the story of when two guides take a holiday to one of India’s most beaten down tourist destinations—Nainital.

Usually, I spend my precious off days in Kasar Devi, a small ridge hidden in the lower Himalayas; time is spent drinking cups of hot mint tea with friends, sharing stories of quirky travellers we welcome and singing songs for bonfires to come. However, this time, I decided to visit Nainital, a place I spent delightful childhood summers in, untainted by the wisdom of being bored or being judgemental.

Nainital, a hotspot destination for all classes of people has two sides to the lake- Tallital and Mallital. Tallital is where one usually enters from and Mallital sits comfortably close to public grounds called “The Flats” and a mosque at the lake front.

Since Nainital is also a summer home to more than a few governement officials, the roads leading to it are phenomenally good. On the way, I stop for a “malta” (type of orange) under a tarpaulin sheet where a man eeks out a living from home-grown maltas and corn. There is an old cemetery here too, which one can miss in the blink of an eye. Walk around, amidst climbing skullcaps, broken graves and lovingly engraved tombstones for those long gone; one feels an eery magic in the place, guarded by handsome cedar trees.

Upon entering Nainital, I was hesitant. A noisy bustop, dozens of vehicles and people, and crude hotel agents hound us and chaos seems not far from the cities of the plains. I decide to stay at the “Lake and Woods” guest house, perched atop a steep road, just above the Tallital rickshaw stand. Priced at Rs 1500/- a night for a lake view room, this place is for the budget traveller who also likes to soothe her aesthetic sense and keeps away from the gaudiness of other hotels that mark each alternate building in Nainital.

The room is basic and clean. After a hot shower, I decide to walk alongside the famed “Mall Road”, keenly turning a deaf ear to the men offering boat rides on the lake. I want to experience Nainital for what it was before it became a noisy cocoon for summer burnt city people.

Lunch at the “Café de Mall” is average but the impromptu dance of a little girl seems to brighten more than my palate. I spend the evening listening to music and watching the lake front bejewelled in fairy lights as evening sets in. A great thing about Nainital is that Mall Road closes to all traffic after 7pm and one can walk at leisure, without the fear of being run over.

Next morning, the bright sun awakens me and the glittering green waters of the lake pull me out to the town. I begin my day with a ride on the cable car to “Snow View”. At Rs 150/- a person, the cable car and waiting areas surprise me with their cleanliness and punctuality. I am delighted to give in to the giddiness of this fragile ride and watch the boats and yachts turn into ants as I climb higher.

At “Snow View”, the only things of attraction are the old government guest house and a horse named Gulfam. While the guest house reminds me of doll houses (that I never had or played with as a child), Gulfam is a handsome young creature, well trained and well groomed. It’s nice to see people treat their animals well, in a country such as mine. I leave smiling, having fed Gulfam a packetful of biscuits, the stickiness of his tongue still tingling on my hand.

“Snow View” has the usual tourist trappings of gun games, video games, joy rides, binocular views of the Himalayas and shops where you can dress traditionally and pose for photographs, guaranteed to be delivered, printed, “in 20 minutes”.

I have a fascination for animals so my next pit-stop is the zoo. Two Royal Bengal tigers, leopards, a Himalayan black bear, barking deer, pheasants, mountain goats and blue sheep keep me wide-eyed although seeing the unusually small enclosures for the tigers hurts me. Why must we live in mansions and these grand creatures in cages so small that the proud tiger can only speak out a cry of sheer helplessness against the teasing, noisy crowds and its imprisonment. I leave, lest I pick a fight, muttering to myself that I’d rather go back to the wildlife sanctuary I live in, than interact with humans so bereft of humanity. I firmly believe, animals have more character and life than any human.

My next stop is Gurney House, Jim Corbett’s home in Nainital. Lovingly restored and well maintained by a Delhi-based Indian lady, the house proudly shows off Corbett’s trophies, old photographs and even his bed! Visiting Gurney House is a dream come true. A place, hidden so well in the chaos of a tourist town, is truly a well found gem and I’m sure to come back to its sunlit porch and green armchairs, to daydream and shut out the noise around, to imagine it as it was in Corbett’s lifetime.

Noise and I do not sit very well, so I head to Kilbury. A 13km drive from Nainital (above the High Court premises), Kilbury has no “destination” for a tourist, but is a seamless road in the midst of thick forests for the traveller looking for more. The view of the Himalayas from this road is as vibrant, beckoning and mystical as it is from the Binsar Wildlife Sanctuary (considered by many to be the best view of the snow peaks from Kumaon). Kilbury feels like home, in its hidden wisdom, in its call to only a few, in its winding roads leading nowhere. For bikers, this road is sheer heaven; I promise you it can be more rewarding than a motorbike circuit (those F1 like things).

I end my sightseeing activities with boiled gram and instant noodles at a roadside shop which a disabled young man runs with determination and an exuberance worthy of note.

I feel delight at having discovered a book store amidst the shops selling trinkets, gifts and candles. Narain Book Shop is on the main Mall Road and its owner, a quiet old man, seems like a man of a few words. He gives me a knowing smile when I pick up a copy of Himalayan folk tales and strikes a conversation. If you’re good with words and can recognise a photo of Corbett pasted on the wall behind his chair, he might even show you a second edition copy of Corbett’s books—his prized possession in this mania of boating, eating tourists who cannot live anything but the noise of humans, even in Nainital’s quiet hills.

I end my day with dinner at The Machan—nothing worthy of note, but on a budget, the food is passable. As I leave, I smile, remembering my childhood days spent at the Commissioner’s residence, exploring gardens and forests, watching boys play football at St. Joseph’s, being accompanied by the “gunner” to the Tibetan market, walking the dogs on guarded streets.

It’s good to come back as a complete stranger, a grown woman, a traveller. And it helps to have a GoPro and a Desert Storm for company!

Memory Box

What do you do with the things people collect?

That kaleidoscope they emptied together, so full of sounds and suitcases and bees besides all the glittering broken bangles making images come alive

Those leaves she collected to bookmark the stories she read, hoping they would become real around and within her

That laughter out in the garden the wild cherry blossoms brightened and bent toward

That annoying habit of using his one favourite word each month, as he said

I’m going to shove my things into the room

I was bedazzled by the comic timing of it all

I want to eat some grub and buy some tuck for later

I always wish to help my chum with everything he needs.

What do you do with these things? These things that people collect.

The shoe box he used to keep receipts, paper clips and poems written on post-its, hoping to colour up the monotony within.

The old newspapers she used for bookshelves, keeping the botoxed faces downward and the pictures of landscapes facing the books that she held so dear

The stencils she bought and used on everything that had a blank—just so it would cover up the blankness she felt in the 9-5 job

The football matches he screamed during, wondering if he could do that in a glasshouse office

The way she flirted over a pint of beer, making men hate her

Who knew, she had dream catchers to help her sleep every night?

So, what do you do with these things that people collect?

What do you do with the pain of the beauty of quirks

The way he wiped each finger delicately on a tissue while bruised knuckles exhibited a hardiness in the boxing ring

The way she lay for days in bed in crinkly pajamas while the world outside never saw her without a pair of heels

The way he would allow vodka shots to let him dance while any day at the metro he was seen giving in to the crowd, always the last one inside.

The way he obsessed over a bicycle while expensive wines and liquers were what the world would remember him for.

The way he let out cries of pain, singing songs of love, singing songs of despair while all we saw was a man in hiking gear, droning out names of birds and trees.

What do you do with these things that people collect?

What do I do with these things?

When all these people leave or are gone, these things are all I have left.

I can only write about them, reminisce them and push myself.

Tell myself, it’s okay. These things can keep life at bay and smiles up front.

I can wait, leave this poem incomplete.

For someone, something, someday to finish it for the lines I collect.