KOCHI: Long journeys can unwind the soul. Or so I’d heard. Yet, I couldn’t shake off the scepticism that hung like a dark cloud about our upcoming 20-hour journey to Mukteshwar in Nainital. However, with gentle persuasion from my husband, we packed our bags and set off.
Our flight landed on time in Delhi and we headed straight to Anand Vihar Bus Terminal. An hour later, our taxi stopped outside Kashmere Gate Bus Terminal. My husband and I exchanged looks, realising the mistake. Our bus was about to depart, and the next one to Haldwani wasn’t until very late in the night. We leapt into another cab and pleaded with the driver to get us to Anand Vihar Terminal in 15 minutes. With a pan-stained grin, he said “Delhi hai, ji” — a nod to the impossibility of what we had asked given the traffic.
Negotiating in broken Hindi with the bus conductor over the phone, we tried to get more time, but the conductor cut the line with a curt, “We’re leaving in 15 minutes.” Hearing this, our cab driver sped up, promising to get us there on time. Miraculously, we reached in 14 minutes, just as the bus was about to leave. Bags in tow, we dashed in, catching a smirk from the conductor as the bus began its journey to Haldwani.
By 7.30pm, we reached Haldwani and rang our pre-booked cab driver, who assured us he’d arrive in 15 minutes. True to “Indian Standard Time,” it took him over an hour. The trio of us — an irate me, my trying-to-stay-calm husband, and our hungry seven-year-old daughter — fended off mosquitoes, dusted bags, and put on happy-family-on-tour faces as we waited.
Finally, our driver arrived and we made the winding ride up to Mukteshwar. Close to midnight, we reached our homestay, ManPraSo, where Pavan, the caretaker, welcomed us with hot rotis and sabzi. Famished, we ate heartily before collapsing into bed, too exhausted to even peel off our sweaters.
I awoke the next morning to the gentle chirping of birds. Stepping onto the balcony, I spotted a swift perched on the windowsill, soon joined by a couple of parrots. My husband, ever the bird enthusiast, later pointed out parrots, Rufous-bellied woodpeckers, swallows, grey treepies, bulbuls, mynahs, and laughing thrushes.
With the rustling branches of oak, peach, pine, and apple trees, vibrant flowers, and the scent of parathas and paneer curry wafting through the air, a sense of calm settled over us. I slipped into a yogic trance. Later, during a video call, our friend Maneesh, who once lived in Mukteshwar, pointed across to a nearby hill, mentioning that Jim Corbett had once hunted a notorious man-eating tiger there. Inspired, we took a short trek to Chauli ki Jali, a cliff known for its breathtaking views. On the way, we stopped at a Shiva temple and marvelled at carefully stacked cairns. Curious, I asked a girl balancing stones about the tradition. She explained it was a prayer; balancing the stones would make her wish come true.
At the cliff’s edge, we were met with a stunning skyscape. Sipping nimbu-paani, we watched the area fill with other visitors. Pavan, our host, suggested a nature walk. All of us agreed with enthusiasm. We stepped away from the crowd to enjoy a very quiet walk amidst pines, oaks, deodars and saal trees. We picked up a couple of dry pine cones from the ground as mementoes and basked in the forest air.
Our next stop was Kilmora, a community initiative by Kumaon Grameen Udyog, where local women create hand-knitted crafts that support a school and hospital. Chutneys, jams, soaps, and oils filled the shelves. After a hearty thali meal, we visited the ancient Kapileshwar Temple, trekking along the river. The place was one of the most serene spaces where one could sit and collect thoughts. I did. Like the river, happiness and sadness trickled by till the sun went down.
The next day at Bhalugaad, we walked up the trail of a dry river. There was no waterfall. But even when the river lay dry, nature was not bereft of life. We saw pools of water here and there, inhabited by shoals of tiny fishes. A free pedicure as I wiggled my toes in the water. Across the river, women gathered fruit in orchards, their saris tucked up as they climbed the trees, and children gathered peaches, plums and other fruits.
On the Ranikhet Express back to Delhi, bound for our flight home, I thought of the women we’d seen, balancing firewood on their heads as they descended the hills. In them, I saw Mukteshwar draped in bright saris and balancing itself on life’s eternal terrains, navigating between modern times and traditional living.