The lows of our high ways in the hills

Raaja Bhasin

IN the late 1960s and early 1970s, the tightly coiled single-lane Kalka-Shimla road was widened and became a functional and comfortable two-lane highway. It retained practically all its beauty and reinforced the saying that ‘much of the destination was in the journey’. Often enough, I would travel with my father on his Lambretta scooter to Chandigarh. En route, we would stop at one of those ‘Rest a While’sites created by removing a wide curve along the old highway’s ledges. We’d sit with our aloo-paranthas or sandwiches. Daddy would have tea from his flask and I had my cold drink.

When we travelled as a family in a car, we found that the highway had also made us family. Halfway along the journey, Solan had the two stalwart hotel-restaurants — Khalsa and Green. We’d stop at one or the other. Further ahead, at Jabli, there was a blind man who would come down from his village with a platter of pedas. He trusted you enough to place the money on his plate. Invariably, everyone left a little more.

Like Greeks bearing gifts, then came the great and grand four-lane highway that was to transform our lives with speed and comfort. It has. Only not in the way that was planned.

Over the years, many of my friends said the moment they entered Himachal, they felt a sense of calm. The green and beauty of the hills came as a welcome salve. Year after year, they returned and, needless to say, did their bit for the local economy. That has changed. As one said, “It seems I have driven through a war-zone, not to the Himalayan foothills. With all these half-demolished buildings and debris and the rubbish that is Shimla, I’m not coming here again.” He and several others have taken their holidays and substantial business to other places.

When Covid-19 arrived, it hammered the state’s hospitality industry. The result was that only those establishments with deep pockets or access to long-term credit came out of the mess. Several workers returned to their villages and farms. This backbone of the economy had barely surfaced when it has now been hit by floods and landslides. From the big to the small, no one has been spared. The shops and places that run on tourist income are empty. The only places where business seems to be close to usual are those that depend on locals — like the Indian

Coffee House or the vegetable market.

English is full of phrases that give a wonderful escape route. One of these is, ‘An act of God’. It allows us to shun responsibility and pass on the blame — in this case, nature in all its awesome, raw power. God may have acted, but has been ably assisted by the venality of man.

The earthquake of 1905 with its epicentre in Kangra was 7.8 on the Richter scale. That took some 20,000 lives at a time when the population was scanty. If something like that decides to rear its subterranean head again, we can multiply that figure several times over.

Going further back in time, if one drives down the valley of the Sutlej from the direction of Shimla, near Sunni, it seems that a giant has taken a huge bite off the hillside. This ‘bite’ was the result of an immense landslide that dammed the Sutlej for over 40 days in 1762. A little trickle was all that escaped this mass of debris. Downstream lay the town of old Bilaspur. Fearing and preparing for a deluge, Raja Devi Chand had men stationed with guns at distances of one kos (about 3.5 km). As a warning, they were to fire the moment the dam burst. Upstream, the town of Rampur was partially submerged; when the expected explosion of water took place, the palace at Bilaspur was swept away though the town and its people remained largely unharmed. Today, the scar of that event is still visible. While the clock cannot be turned back, the wounds of these weeks will be with Himachal for a long time to come. Forget the colonisers, we have colonised ourselves and this so-called development is a dog’s breakfast.

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