As a tourist in Nainital, contentment despite conformity

For the young, adventurous bibliophile that I used to be, Jim Corbett books were a perfect escape. After spending a night tracking and hunting man-eaters in the dense forests of North India, I often retired home with Mr. Corbett to his snug little cottage in Nainital. Nainital, thus, was a place of rest, recovery, and reflection for my young mind. So, when the adults in the family, which to my disbelief includes me now, decided on a trip to Uttarakhand, an overnight stopover at Nainital was agreed upon, and it felt, of course, like a journey back home.

 

So, we left horn-blaring, traffic-overrun, and smoke-smothered Delhi roads for the overcrowded, survival-oriented Delhi railway station on a cool April morning to catch an early train to Kathgodam. The retreating landscape carried with it my lingering troubles as the train hurtled forward to its destination. I arrived at Kathgodam refreshed and mentally primed to savour the place.

 

We made our way up meandering roads and mountain paths that folded on themselves. The towns slowly gave way to villages and forests of pine, rhododendron, deodar, and many other trees that I couldn’t name. Sunlight filtered through the leaves and drew patterns on the road. The treacherous hillside spoke of monsoon landslides, and military-built bridges conveyed the hardship of the land. But the distant slopes were rich in crops and vegetables growing in abundance.

 

Soon we entered Nainital town limits. The small roads narrowed further and were overhung by old buildings with sloping roofs. The town bus stand boasted of people and cows alike.

 

Slowly, the Naini Tal came into view. The lake sparkled in the afternoon sun, and a cool air from the Kumaon Hills came down to greet us in welcome. We were swiftly ushered forward by the police. The entry of vehicles was restricted and had to be pre-booked. The holiday crowds must have started to pull in, so that several restrictions were in place.

 

We wove through the roads, eager to find our hotel. Famished by the long travel, a warm meal was just what was required. Our quaint little hotel, balanced on the hillside and appearing modest for all its purposes, served such excellent meals that we as a group still fondly recall the said gastronomic pleasure to this day.

 

We soon set out to explore the city. The Naini Tal is a tectonic lake with emerald waters surrounded by seven hills. On its surface, several tourist boats floated in multicoloured spots adorning the lake. We set out walking against the flow of the tourist crowd, hoping to find the soul of the place. Soon we found a relatively deserted area with steps leading down to the lake. A few feet away, native boys were feeding the fish with fresh, store-bought bread. Carp fish swam up to greet us, expecting rewards. They appeared indignant upon learning of the lack of food in our hands. After a heartfelt apology to the carp for the absence of tributes, we slowly moved on.

 

A small crowd seemed to have gathered ahead. Apparently, a small landslide last night had blocked the path, and people were precariously balancing on the fallen rocks to cross to the other side. After a brief discussion among ourselves, we decided to take the same risks as the local population. Such landslides were very common, and the locals seemed to take it in stride. The unstable hills of the Himalayas were often a gamble for the people who lived there. In all my travels, I am often left in awe at the unassuming courage and unbroken spirit of our people against all such odds. A superficial introspection would reveal the real extent to which the responsibility of regulating this fragile balance between civilisation and Mother Nature seemed to be flagrantly violated everywhere in our hill stations. Studded on all sides of the Nainital were flimsy buildings stacked on top of each other. A faint tremor would suffice to send them all tumbling down to a watery grave.

 

Walking along the dirt path with such heavy ruminations, the gong of a temple bell stirred me back to reality. In front of us stood the Naina Devi temple, decked in evening lights, looking picturesque in its location and deeply spiritual in its bearing. Unknowingly, we had taken the lesser-known route to the temple. Stepping out of our shoes onto the cold marble floors, we entered the temple. After paying our respects to Shree Maa Naina Devi, we lingered on the temple premises. Set against the backdrop of the lake, the temple radiated tranquillity. In silence, the deity listened to the prayers with divine insight. The black Shiv linga, bathed in devotion by a multitude of hands, glowed in the evening light. The world seemed to stall for time here before the play of life once again demanded its earnest participation.

 

As many other temples, the road outside lined with multitude of shops made for a curious walk. A few children played football in the distance. Next to the temple stood a gurudwara, which we were not about to skip. With borrowed scarves, we covered our heads and prostrated ourselves at the sanctum. Like at all gurudwaras, we savoured the transcendent welcome, goodwill, and feeling of kinship.

 

Soon we reached the government-operated boat point in the lake. People were calling out their fares for the different boat rides. Paddling seemed like too much work, so arowboat was determined to be the best choice. We strapped on the ill-fitting life jackets. The orange jackets themselves were approaching their end days and, ironically, seemed to be dearly holding onto their lives.

 

We set out on our rowboat with a boatman carrying a careworn face. He regaled us with stories of the lake of myths, deaths, and intrigues. He talked of hardships and divine benevolence. He offered unsolicited advice to the couple in the paddleboat nearby. The lake carried the rhythm in his words. The man and the lake were so intimately intertwined- the fate of one in the palms of the other.

 

After our sojourn on the lake, we made our way to the Mall Road. The sun had set by now. The brilliantly lit road, thronging tourists, and rushing cycle rickshaws made the Mall Road vibrant and energetic. We explored local shops, bought the obligatory souvenirs, and enjoyed the street food.

 

With the darkness creeping up, the cold slowly made its presence known. The clear night sky adorned with a million stars was mirrored by the hillside, radiant with a thousand lights. Their reflections floated gently on the Naini Tal.

 

The town slowly went through its nightly rituals before settling down. We made our way back to the hotel. The itinerary called for an early start the next day. But we all felt a deep reluctance to part ways with Nainital, even for sleep. We sat on the hotel rooftop, where it overlooked the lake and the adjoining hills. There was no need for words. It was a companionable silence with the town of Nainital.

 

Looking back, the banality of the holiday destination that is Nainital didn't take anything away from the deep fulfilment that it offered. My only regret is that I had to sacrifice my Corbett-themed inclinations for my travel companions.

 

To this day, the journey to explore rural Uttarakhand holds a special place in my heart. It all began in Nainital, and as they say, it was indeed well begun and half done.

 

The writer is a pathologist based in Wayanad, Kerala. 

Tourism