The call of Chail
Rooma Mehra

IT is said that Chail is the royal revenge of a heartbroken king, the Maharaja of Patiala, who on being banned from entering Shimla by Lord Curzon developed Chail. And what a revenge! Chail is a green paradise. While Shimla breathes like an asthmatic under brick, concrete and inconsiderate tourists, Chail looks up into the blue heavens, its green arms easily enfolding the skies, without man-made obstacles blocking the way.

After being drawn to Chail (for the third consecutive year) with the same intensity and passion with which the crowds and concrete of Shimla repel me, I felt I could empathise whole-heartedly with the angry king and I acknowledge Chail as a befitting revenge to Shimla. I hope the soul of the Maharaja finally rests in peace.

Here one is surrounded by green and if one avoids the Palace with its inevitable crowds, and sticks to a log hut as well as untrodden paths, the experience of living God’s warm forests is complete.

Lying on the back, one sees the blues of the skies interrupted only by the whites of its clouds and the greens of the leaves of the trees. My sister, her five-year-old son and I all became "Heidi" with a vengeance: lying on the grass of "our paradise point" and yoddling with the clouds as Heidi and Peter would on the snowy Alps, reading shapes and animals in the clouds as they floated by in the sky above. (Thankfully, not many tourists seem to have discovered this point, maybe the steep climb turns them off. Anyway, good for us).

Then, there is the "Paradise-point-ledge," which little Saif and I choose to watch the "lonely hut". Lonely hut… because across the yawning valley from the ledge, there is a solitary hut. Its lonely occupant was a sad old gentleman. We were drawn to the lonely hut the first time by wind-mixed snatches of the most tragic of old melodies from Hindi films of the Talat Mehmood/Mukesh era. The source of the songs was uncovered, when listening to the melodies from the ledge, where they could be heard best, I suddenly noticed somebody with a bucket of washed clothes, appearing from what seemed like the backside of a tree… till my straining eye made out a tiny hut nestled between this tree and the tree behind, and the non-green specks of the hut suddenly came into focus.

We built a story, about a broken-hearted recluse, rejected by his muse, writing poetry and listening to songs, hidden from the prying eyes of the world.

This year, not hearing any song or sound from the lonely hut, the three of us were more than a little upset. (Why, we watched the dear old soul and heard his music so often, that he was almost family. Needless to say, if we had ever been caught prying like this, he would have shunted us away with his ferocious-looking walking stick, which always leaned against the front door). The old recluse had looked very old and bent on our last visit. Was he all right? Or had he finally merged with his surroundings? We were so worried that we ventured down and across the valley, till we were standing against the "lonely hut". But it was completely deserted, with no sign of life. It was as silent as the wood of the tree hiding it. I guessed the weary old one had merged with the ambience of his well-loved nature. We hoped he had finally found peace.

We went to brood on the banks of our favourite Sadhopul stream. Saif picked up some stones and pelted them at us (he disapproved of our sitting in the middle of the stream). We sat on a boulder in the middle of the shallow stream, thinking about the old man who did not see a happy ending. The waters swirling round our feet and legs were soothing.

Chail is full of the friendliest of dhabas that serve the yummiest of food at incredible rates. I remembered the first time we entered this dhaba where we now know the entire staff. The little boy there went out of his way to arrange, without our even asking him, milk for Saif and our usual khana. This time a hungry truck driver posted himself on his haunches on one of the benches. He never lifted his head from his plate piled up in the shape of the Himalayas except to demand chapatti at an even interval of every two minutes. On his thirtieth or so uttering, Saif opened his mouth in the form of the cave behind the Sadhopul. His incredulity, as expected, ended in a suppressed giggle. The truck driver nodded at him kindly, opened his mouth in a half-satisfied smile, shouted "chapatti", and buried himself once again in his plate. He left with a fully satisfied smile directed at Saif.

The day of return came all too soon. We boarded our bus for Kandaghat from the market. This year we travelled the entire way to the tune of Kabhi toh nazar milao and Kudi, kudi which seemed Chail’s two favourite numbers.

Back home, we sang a medley of songs. An eclectic mix of two new songs and sad, old Mukesh songs that seemed to come from far, far away… and Chail beckoned us to its green hills once again.