Shimla

In the summer of 1958, my father came to Shimla with his sister and nephew and nieces. It was summer and the season of apples. They walked till chhota Shimla and Jackoo hills and so many other places. And of course, they stayed at the Kalibari. Those were the days when rickshaws pulled by men were seen on the mall and the Ridge.

Twenty years later he came with my mother and a group of friends. They stayed at the Kalibari once again and walked all the way to Jackoo hill; my mother was not impressed. It was the year of the floods and they quickly moved to Manali. That was a couple of years before I was born.

Fifty years later, last Sunday, he again went to Shimla. This time I was around and his family was complete. He has been to Shimla when he went to school, he was in Shimla when was young and strong, he now went to Shimla--slightly weak, and very old. It indeed has been a pilgrimage. Bengalis have made similar routine out of Darjeeling and Puri; Shimla is indeed a little strange place for such a feat. I feel that he has also been lucky.

We stayed near the Mall, and in a hotel. Kalibari was visited once and casually. The room was well appointed and pricey. Life indeed had turned a full circle. He had come with a Roliflex in '58, in 1978 he carried a Minolta SRT101, and this time around I used a Canon Powershot. He loved sipping the tea at the Sarkari-tourist-department run cafe on the Ridge and watching children on horseback. We didn't go to Jackoo hill or Chhota Shimla but we went to Fagu, Naldera and Kufri. He did not climb any mountain slope but quietly sat for coffee at Fagu and waited for my mother as she limped and struggled to get out of the tourist bus. They were happy and tired. After a long and a lonely while--I was at peace.