Three generations of the family have travelled on this road.
The day is a gift from the gods: blue sky, shining as though freshly painted for inspection, thin banners of cirrus hoisted in welcome, bagpipe music from the band rehearsing on the parade ground below.
“A road for walking,” says my husband. “When did you last walk down this road?” I ask. “Hardly ever. We were kids. We took the short-cuts through the forest.”
At the tea stall near the Jhoola Devi shrine, the tea vendor shares the legend: The forest, abounding in wild animals, was dangerous for village cattle. The mother goddess appeared in a shepherd’s dream. Dig here, she said. Her idol was found at that very spot. Thousands of bells, offered as thanksgiving, adorn the temple’s perimeter fence.
Our seven-year-old becomes anxious. “Are the wild animals still there?”
The man smiles. “They don’t go for humans.” Then pointing to Wendy, our Labrador, he says, “Take care of her. She looks well-fed.”
The boy’s eyes become saucers. Years later, when his own reminiscences have joined the stream of family lore, he will say: I had to look out for the dog.
Built by the British in 1868, the cantonment occupies two ridges. On Ranikhet ridge sprawls the Kumaon Regimental Centre, mother ship to one of the most decorated infantry regiments of the Indian Army. (Its roll of honour includes the first Param Vir Chakra.) At 6,942 feet, the Chaubatia ridge is higher. Winding through dense woodlands of pine, deodar and oak, a five-kilometre road connects the two ridges. Secluded and shaded in daytime, it is unlit at night. Silence prevails, as if there are signs everywhere: Quiet please! But sounds of the jungle’s pulsing life filter through. The wind sighing in the leaves, cicadas singing in the undergrowth, a woodpecker hugging a tree trunk, knocking softly on it. Tok-tok. A kafal-pako bird calls out in the jungle. Occasionally, an Army truck labours uphill. The growl of its engine lingers in the air. In contrast, downhill traffic glides noiselessly.
There is a rustle in the bushes. The boy collars Wendy. After a moment, we hear the tinkle of a cowbell, and he slowly relaxes his grip.
madhavi
“The animals come out only after sunset,” my husband says. He points to a shallow stream running below a stone bridge. “Once we saw a big black cat sitting over there.”
“A panther?” A tide of excitement rises in the boy’s voice. “How many times did you see panthers?”
“Two or three, but pug marks many times. Once just outside the kitchen.’
A bend in the road brings us to the very edge of the ridge. Below lie gentle valleys covered with terraced fields. Dominating the horizon is the fabled view — preserved in family albums and home movie reels — of the shining peaks. Neelkanth, Nanda Devi, Trishul, Nanda Ghunti.
Saving the Government apple orchard en route for the return trip, we continue the climb. The road is narrower now, meant only for a single vehicle. White walls flank it. Even the tree trunks are painted. The road ends abruptly at a green gate. Beyond lies a gravelled drive, a gabled bungalow dreaming in the sun. There is a portico and a formal garden: sweet peas on string frameworks, stiff rows of dahlias, beds of nasturtiums. All neat and orderly. White butterflies flit. A gardener deadheads the roses.
The family is away, he says politely. When he hears that my husband had lived in this very bungalow as a child, in time-honoured manner he offers us tea.
It is a homecoming.
Madhavi Mahadevan has published two collections of short stories, Paltan Tales and Doppelganger. Her debut novel, The Kaunteyas, came out in 2016 and she has also published two books for children.
