The Rest House
The Daranghati Rest House appears suddenly and cinematically at the top of the hill. It's roof is rusted tin and its outer-walls a pale yellow. Shayam Lal, the chowkidaar, takes the keys out from his leather jacket, two sizes too big for his slight frame. We enter, not hoping for a Hilton but praying desperately for a clean bed and loo.
The rest house was built in 1914, though the small wood inscription says 1913 1914, no dash in between. It also says that the structure is 2x2, which could be a reference to the two bathrooms attached to the two rooms or to the two smaller rooms attached to the bigger ones. The Rest House has a kitchen, approximately the size that you would find in a good sized New Delhi apartment. Attached to the kitchen is a small dining room, overlooking the back of the house. The rest-house must have been comfortable, cozy and also pretty, until it fell into the hands of the Public Works Department, post-Independence. There are broad-sweeps of that architectural affliction native to India and specialized in by the goverment functionaries called, "Sarkaariyat". It seems like there were many enthusiastic upkeep projects that came and went like the winds in these parts- hasty and destructive. The wide balcony spans the width of the house and is framed by an iron grill that seems very seventies in its design. Now rusted orange circles with chipped white paint remain. It looks like there was also glass at some point shielding one from the cold , but not anymore. There are instead pelmets made of plywood with hooks for curtain-rods. Curtains, pelmets and iron grills were perhaps the first fast assault of sarkaariyat. Both rooms have working fire-places, a blessing after 5:00 P.M for most of the year, I am told by Shayam Lal. One of the the rooms is designated a living room and the other a bed-room. The floor boards are bare in the living-room. In the bed-room they are also broken. "There were carpets here in old days. All across the two rooms", says Shayam Lal with a flourish of his hands. The living room houses an incongruous mix of two standard issue cheap plastic chairs, a round plastic table and two beautiful lounging leather and wood chairs, the only remaining furniture from 1914. Shayam Lal, tells me that these were lying derelict and were restored recently with a re-inforced back made of "taat" or used gunny sacks. I ask him about the rest of the furniture. He says, it was all stolen one by one- some by the villagers, some by the sahabs. In the bedroom there are two rudimentary "takhats" joined together to make a double-bed. This is the only furniture here. "These beds you see", Shayam Lal says, "I got made two years ago. I spent my own money. Rs. 1500/- for both." "The PWD should have paid for it", I comment. "The officer sahab told me to get it made and said that he would reimburse me later. Then he got transferred to some other place. I went to the head office in Sarahan to ask for the payment...but you know how it is!". The broken floor boards have left gaping holes and mindless visitors have thrown trash in them. Some of the window panes are broken. "One time we had some students here. They broke a lot of the glass." I ask if he has reported this and asked for the windows to be fixed. Shayam Lal does not reply. I get my answer. The walls have smears. Places where achievements were noted, romances declared, anger at the world spitted out. Someone, I am guessing Shayam Lal, has painstakingly rubbed it off the walls.
The bathroom in comparison is sparkling clean. The white tiles on the floor and walls are again just plain white, not a design or detail to take it away from sarkariness. The faucets and shower head are new and shining. There is a brand new Crompton Greaves water heater mounted on the wall, some of its plastic wrapping still sticking to it. Something is amiss and I soon find out what. There is no running water in the rest-house. "Never has been", says Shayam Lal. "Not even when they put this geyser up on the wall?" I ask. "Never means never. This bathroom was renovated last year...or was it the year before?" Shayam Lal is trying to zone in on the date but its hard to keep track of days here in Daranghati, 12 kilometers from last village, Mashnoo (Population 990, said the board there). "It was a beautiful bathroom earlier." Shayam Lal continues, "Right here, a tub so big that an entire man could lie down in it". I could see it with my minds eye, the bath-tub, the sloping roof, the tiny back door with the glass window, the curtains, the view of the hills in the back. I am worried now about my time here though. I ask him what we should do for water while we are here. "There is a "chashma", a spring on the other side of this hillock, a little ways down. I can fetch you water from there. Luckily we got three feet of snow and some rain this year, so there's water in there. Its been getting less and less every year though." We come back into the bedroom. I look up at the high ceiling. Its beautiful. I guess neither the government workers nor juvenile delinquents could reach the ceiling. The wood is warm and shining. Perfectly preserved.
We go back into the kitchen (also tiled white with brand new water heater, sink and faucet). There are a few plates and a cardboard box of chilli powder lying there. Nothing else. Shayam Lal has met many curious people like me. "We had a gas cylinder and stove here, but people would use it indiscriminately, dirty up the kitchen and leave it all for me to clean. Also, once the cylinder finished, I would have to go back to Sarahan to file a requisition, then the gas agency asks for Rs. 50 extra to haul it up here. It was too much of a hassle, so now I cook up there in the hut on a wood chulha". We walk through the kitchen into the back of the house. This is also the servant's entrance. A little up on the hillock is Shayam Lal's kitchen and further off a few other bigger similar looking structures. "Who lives there?" I ask. "Those? Those are the old servant quarters and beyond them the stables for Gora Sahab's horses." No one lives there but the roofs have been changed from slates to tin. The walls are still made of slate-stone.
Our tour is done. Shayam Lal asks us if we have brought supplies. "I would be happy to make you dinner but I don't have anything right now." I tell him not to worry on account of us. We have bread, butter and Maggi noodles. He scoffs at me. "Maggi? Bread? You plan to eat that for the next few days? You call that 'khana'? Tonight you eat Maggi and tomorrow I will send a local guy with you. Drive down to the village on the other side and get some atta, chawal, daal and sabzi. I will make you real food."
The claws of Sarkariness haven't reached his heart. I am grateful.
Wednesday, May 19, 2010
Saturday, May 15, 2010
Shayam Lal: Full Time Cook, Full Time Chowkidar
The evening we arrived here cold and tired from the long trip, the rest house looked like a piece of heaven. To be honest, anything with four walls and a roof would look appealing after the journey, the last long leg of which had us mostly white faced and chewing knuckles. A friend of a friend had loaned us his Maruti 800 and never a better vehicle was made for these hills, but more on that another time.
As we pulled up the drive way, a wiry oldish man stood up from his perch a little above on the hillock. I told Manu to confidently approach him and ask him to open a room for us. We did not have a reservation and I wasn’t going back down the road we came, even if it meant trying fake authoritative instructions and failing that shameless groveling at the man’s feet. The man, chowkidar of the rest house, was perhaps more used to phonies like me than I gave him credit for. He said he’s open the guest house but there was no food, so we’ll have to make arrangement for that. Fine by us. Quick introductions were made and Shayam Lal, the chowkidar brought a bunch of keys and asked us to follow him.
As we entered I thought I heard a baby cry. I asked if there was someone else staying there. “No” came a brisk reply. Again in a minute, there it was ,the unmistakable sound of a baby crying. By now we were inside the roofed structure and Shayam Lal was busy unlocking doors and opening windows. It looked like a small place and there was no one around. But then again, there it was- the baby. “Great” I thought," I’ve landed myself into one of those haunted rest houses on a secluded hill where I will most likely get killed before reel two of my life begins” I asked again, “Is there someone else here because I hear a baby crying”. Shayam Lal smiled, for the first time revealing his crooked yellow teeth and twinkling eyes. “It isn’t a baby…it’s a lamb”. He opened the door to the living room and there it was-A tiny black lamb, shivering, hiding under a plastic chair and calling out to its mother.
“I wasn’t expecting any guests and one of the village women left it here for me to watch. It is windy and cold outside so I brought him in here. She’ll be back soon to take it away. The women from the village go down hill every day these days to pluck mehandi leaves. Did you know the going rate for Mehandi these days is Rs.55 a kilo?”
“Really? I did not know that”, I said.
I would listen to many more stories and theories from Shayam Lal in the next few days.
--------------------------------------------------------
“India never really got its freedom” Shayam Lal declares one morning as he hands us steaming glasses of tea on the steps of the guest house.
“No?” I say rhetorically. I know this will be a long conversation so I turn the chair towards him. Shayam Lal tucks his tray under his arm and stands crossing his legs like his namesake God.
“For many years I worked at the rest house in Sarahan. It’s a bigger, better guest house than this one and that’s the one where the important people come. The Governors, Chief Ministers, Collectors. I was a cook. A cook with no training. All the cooks are supposed to go to the training centre in Mashobra but I never went. I learned everything on the job and no one ever found out that I wasn’t trained.” He smiled his impish smile.
“This one time the collector’s family came for a holiday. The day they arrived the collector’s Missus called me and asked me what all I could make so I told her anything you ask. She said she wanted Choley Bhaturey for breakfast and she wanted the cholas to be dark brown like in the hotels. I thought to myself, $#%&, how do I go about this? We don't get the kind of spices you people get in the plains. Anyways, I figured something out and next day when I served them breakfast, she was stunned! It was just as she expected. The Governer’s entourage had demands like Shahi Paneer, something I had never made. We would get calls from Shimla even before these big government officers arrived, telling us to make this and that, all new fangled stuff. When these groups arrived we were expected to be on our feet all the time. There were times when we would get no sleep. We’d work through the night and they would start asking for stuff again at dawn.
It was hell. I asked for a transfer to this place. My eyes had started watering all the time The smoke in the kitchen, the constant chopping of onions that’s what did it, I know. Even when I wasn’t cooking my eyes would water. When the man who came to drop me here asked me if I was sure I wanted to stay, I said yes and to this date I like being here more than the big rest house in Sarahan. I tell you the British, the white people, they are more considerate. I wish they had stayed.”
--------------------------------------------------
The evening we arrived here cold and tired from the long trip, the rest house looked like a piece of heaven. To be honest, anything with four walls and a roof would look appealing after the journey, the last long leg of which had us mostly white faced and chewing knuckles. A friend of a friend had loaned us his Maruti 800 and never a better vehicle was made for these hills, but more on that another time.
As we pulled up the drive way, a wiry oldish man stood up from his perch a little above on the hillock. I told Manu to confidently approach him and ask him to open a room for us. We did not have a reservation and I wasn’t going back down the road we came, even if it meant trying fake authoritative instructions and failing that shameless groveling at the man’s feet. The man, chowkidar of the rest house, was perhaps more used to phonies like me than I gave him credit for. He said he’s open the guest house but there was no food, so we’ll have to make arrangement for that. Fine by us. Quick introductions were made and Shayam Lal, the chowkidar brought a bunch of keys and asked us to follow him.
As we entered I thought I heard a baby cry. I asked if there was someone else staying there. “No” came a brisk reply. Again in a minute, there it was ,the unmistakable sound of a baby crying. By now we were inside the roofed structure and Shayam Lal was busy unlocking doors and opening windows. It looked like a small place and there was no one around. But then again, there it was- the baby. “Great” I thought," I’ve landed myself into one of those haunted rest houses on a secluded hill where I will most likely get killed before reel two of my life begins” I asked again, “Is there someone else here because I hear a baby crying”. Shayam Lal smiled, for the first time revealing his crooked yellow teeth and twinkling eyes. “It isn’t a baby…it’s a lamb”. He opened the door to the living room and there it was-A tiny black lamb, shivering, hiding under a plastic chair and calling out to its mother.
“I wasn’t expecting any guests and one of the village women left it here for me to watch. It is windy and cold outside so I brought him in here. She’ll be back soon to take it away. The women from the village go down hill every day these days to pluck mehandi leaves. Did you know the going rate for Mehandi these days is Rs.55 a kilo?”
“Really? I did not know that”, I said.
I would listen to many more stories and theories from Shayam Lal in the next few days.
“India never really got its freedom” Shayam Lal declares one morning as he hands us steaming glasses of tea on the steps of the guest house.
“No?” I say rhetorically. I know this will be a long conversation so I turn the chair towards him. Shayam Lal tucks his tray under his arm and stands crossing his legs like his namesake God.
“For many years I worked at the rest house in Sarahan. It’s a bigger, better guest house than this one and that’s the one where the important people come. The Governors, Chief Ministers, Collectors. I was a cook. A cook with no training. All the cooks are supposed to go to the training centre in Mashobra but I never went. I learned everything on the job and no one ever found out that I wasn’t trained.” He smiled his impish smile.
“This one time the collector’s family came for a holiday. The day they arrived the collector’s Missus called me and asked me what all I could make so I told her anything you ask. She said she wanted Choley Bhaturey for breakfast and she wanted the cholas to be dark brown like in the hotels. I thought to myself, $#%&, how do I go about this? We don't get the kind of spices you people get in the plains. Anyways, I figured something out and next day when I served them breakfast, she was stunned! It was just as she expected. The Governer’s entourage had demands like Shahi Paneer, something I had never made. We would get calls from Shimla even before these big government officers arrived, telling us to make this and that, all new fangled stuff. When these groups arrived we were expected to be on our feet all the time. There were times when we would get no sleep. We’d work through the night and they would start asking for stuff again at dawn.
It was hell. I asked for a transfer to this place. My eyes had started watering all the time The smoke in the kitchen, the constant chopping of onions that’s what did it, I know. Even when I wasn’t cooking my eyes would water. When the man who came to drop me here asked me if I was sure I wanted to stay, I said yes and to this date I like being here more than the big rest house in Sarahan. I tell you the British, the white people, they are more considerate. I wish they had stayed.”
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Friday, May 14, 2010
Today We Had Our First Visitors
This place is 12 kilometers from the last "proper" village and there's another 10 kilometers to go on the other side before you find the next one. Usually it takes about three "fade-ins" and "fade-outs" of the sound of a vehicle before it actually pulls up in front of the rest house. Enough time to go in and change into better pants. There is an average of about two vehicles that come by, usually taxis ferrying local people to a temple which is about an hour's hike uphill from here.
Today we had our first city visitors.
We were sitting in the sun, thawing our bones out on the steps of the rest house when we heard the slow guttural sound of the vehicle, heaving itself up hill. Soon enough a big spiffy looking van drove past us and came to a halt a little further away. A few people got off, some got back in. A lot of commotion later the van came back to where we were sitting. One by one two women, a man and a couple of kids came out. By now, we realised we were behaving totally like the locals, staring unabashedly and making no attempt to smile or make conversation. In our defense, the new arrivals did not care to look towards us or smile either. The little girl with the big bag of Hippo chips found me interesting and we had a staring contest for a bit, then she skulked away to whisper in her mom's arms. The ladies went in to inspect the rest house, to which there isn’t much in terms of size so they returned in a few seconds and complained about the wind, which was on the cool side. Soon, they asked the driver to put on some music. "Ahun Ahun" played loud and clear into the distant mountains and came back as "Huan Haun". I am guessing it went all the way to Tibet/China border. There was animated discussion about food and since the chowkidar told them there was nothing to offer at the rest house, the man said there was enough Chundo and Thepla. Everyone got back in the van and ate inside. After they were done, the women stayed inside the van. While I was picking Tshirts off the bushes where I had put them out to dry, the man walked to Manu and started talking to him. He was livid that some ass at the Himachal Tourism office in Sarahan had sent them on a wild goose chase up such a terrible drive and now his over enthusiastic co-travelers had decided to go on a hike and left them here to wait. “How long is the trek anyways?” Manu told him it’s at least two hours, if they climb up to the temple and come back. Our new friend was seething with anger now. The topic moved to us. “How come we are planning to stay overnight?” He was horrified when we told him we had been here a while and planned to stay on for a couple of more days. Thankfully for him, his friends came back soon. They had decided to skip the trek and walked back after about half a kilometer. They were ready to leave but not before telling us that we should have gone to Igloo Resorts in Chitkul instead of this God forsaken place. I imagined myself in a resort type place- Hot bath, room service, multi-speciality cuisine…maybe even a spa.
My dream sequence did not last too long. Their big van left us in a cloud of black smoke. The sun had moved. It was time for us to move ourselves a little further down hill where meadows are as clean and green as a golf-course and the big white mountains further out are framed with lush green ones in the foreground. Our visitors forgot to say “bye” to us and we forgot to tell them to look up and walk around to see all this and more. Oh well!
PS: Came back from our walk to pick up a big empty bag of Hippo chips, a yellow bag and assorted wet tissues littered in our sitting area.
This place is 12 kilometers from the last "proper" village and there's another 10 kilometers to go on the other side before you find the next one. Usually it takes about three "fade-ins" and "fade-outs" of the sound of a vehicle before it actually pulls up in front of the rest house. Enough time to go in and change into better pants. There is an average of about two vehicles that come by, usually taxis ferrying local people to a temple which is about an hour's hike uphill from here.
Today we had our first city visitors.
We were sitting in the sun, thawing our bones out on the steps of the rest house when we heard the slow guttural sound of the vehicle, heaving itself up hill. Soon enough a big spiffy looking van drove past us and came to a halt a little further away. A few people got off, some got back in. A lot of commotion later the van came back to where we were sitting. One by one two women, a man and a couple of kids came out. By now, we realised we were behaving totally like the locals, staring unabashedly and making no attempt to smile or make conversation. In our defense, the new arrivals did not care to look towards us or smile either. The little girl with the big bag of Hippo chips found me interesting and we had a staring contest for a bit, then she skulked away to whisper in her mom's arms. The ladies went in to inspect the rest house, to which there isn’t much in terms of size so they returned in a few seconds and complained about the wind, which was on the cool side. Soon, they asked the driver to put on some music. "Ahun Ahun" played loud and clear into the distant mountains and came back as "Huan Haun". I am guessing it went all the way to Tibet/China border. There was animated discussion about food and since the chowkidar told them there was nothing to offer at the rest house, the man said there was enough Chundo and Thepla. Everyone got back in the van and ate inside. After they were done, the women stayed inside the van. While I was picking Tshirts off the bushes where I had put them out to dry, the man walked to Manu and started talking to him. He was livid that some ass at the Himachal Tourism office in Sarahan had sent them on a wild goose chase up such a terrible drive and now his over enthusiastic co-travelers had decided to go on a hike and left them here to wait. “How long is the trek anyways?” Manu told him it’s at least two hours, if they climb up to the temple and come back. Our new friend was seething with anger now. The topic moved to us. “How come we are planning to stay overnight?” He was horrified when we told him we had been here a while and planned to stay on for a couple of more days. Thankfully for him, his friends came back soon. They had decided to skip the trek and walked back after about half a kilometer. They were ready to leave but not before telling us that we should have gone to Igloo Resorts in Chitkul instead of this God forsaken place. I imagined myself in a resort type place- Hot bath, room service, multi-speciality cuisine…maybe even a spa.
My dream sequence did not last too long. Their big van left us in a cloud of black smoke. The sun had moved. It was time for us to move ourselves a little further down hill where meadows are as clean and green as a golf-course and the big white mountains further out are framed with lush green ones in the foreground. Our visitors forgot to say “bye” to us and we forgot to tell them to look up and walk around to see all this and more. Oh well!
PS: Came back from our walk to pick up a big empty bag of Hippo chips, a yellow bag and assorted wet tissues littered in our sitting area.
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