Life lived in the crucible of a hill station is deceptively simple. Within its simplicity is masked a struggle for survival.
A long time ago, I took my blushful bride to trawl Landour bazaar for a warm blanket. Now that was no tall order, not unless you see it unfold. Rummaging through a pile of blankets in a dark, dingy shop, perhaps we had set our hopes too high? I knew a casual acquaintance who ended up selling his house here, all because of a quilt.
‘After hearing my teeth-chattering in a snow storm,’ she complained, adding, ‘he brought home a 10kg cotton quilt and to turn over one had to be a body builder!’ Later, I wasn’t in the least surprised when they sold their mountain home and moved to the warmer climes of Goa.
Chitchatting with the fluffer, our ping-pingwala, on Tehri road, I asked him: ‘Will this quilt be large enough for all of us?’
‘Big enough?’ Twitching his eyebrows, he joked, ‘All of Landour bazaar would fit!’
Ask a dumb question and get a dumber answer!
In the Doon last winter on the lawns of a luxury hotel, I saw exquisite patchwork quilts with vibrant colours that lit up the stall. But a peek at the price tag left me gasping. It would be a bridge too far.
Years ago, fresh out of college, I was helping Ruskin with a pile of manuscripts when he read Jai Ratan’s flawless translation of Ismat Chughtai’s Lihaaf, which was published in Urdu in Lahore in 1942. It had led to much controversy. The quivering shadow of Begum Jan in the throes of delight under her quilt triggered an uproar on publication. The author refused to say sorry. She was dragged to court, where not a single prosecution witness could find one offensive word. Luckily for her, when the magazine hit the stands, it caused not the faintest of ripples. Result? Acquittal.
What would have happened today? Protestors would run riot, ransacking the magazine’s offices, demanding they arrest the Editor.
Meanwhile, back in the small shop, the cloth-merchant Mr Jain said: ‘Bring that one!’ to his much-harried wife. ‘The one we’re using in our bed!’
In a jiffy, she returned, dragging the blanket behind her from their first-floor bedroom to the shop down below. Frayed around the edges, its days of glory were over. Feeling guilty for putting them through so much trouble, I ended up buying it.
‘Perfect for the dog’s bed!’ I consoled my livid bride. But even Bhuri—my epileptic dog—sniffed around it, and walked away in disgust. Life cannot always be a bed of roses.