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.