Christmas Cheer In Simla.
Christmas cheer in Simla.
Simla in its heady days saw many a plays of Shakespeare’s, being performed, enacted, applauded, lived on stage. The once summer capital of India , under the English. Has its own distinct Christmas charm, it turns pure as snow, with crystal icicles hanging like jingle bells on the pines, that line the meandrous hilly boulevards of this historical Himalayan hill station. The English were always discovering, experimenting, with new ways to implement laws on expanding and strengthening the empire that prided on the fact, of the sun never setting down on it. Elizabeth Tudor in the sixteen hundreds set standards that were followed over the years, in letter and spirit, fervor and a joie de verve to keep stamping its distinct style on a world, waking to new realities, new beginnings. Simla was the style icon, of the English. From the heat and dust of the planes, to the crisp mountain air, the English traveled in style, dressed in style, lived in style, after all style is the man. The mall road of Simla was designed like a miniature Piccadilly Circus where the who’s who of the rulers of India converged on summer evenings, walking hand in hand with their ladies, in order of merit to the crown, smiling, nodding, graciously at each other, as if enjoying the evening walk in mountainous London . The English learnt from the French the true meaning of déjà vu, and where ever they went, they tried to build replicas of prevalent English architecture of the times, so that they could always feel at home, in control, forward looking. Simla was their best example at replicating, why else would they plant a tulip tree, brought from the coffee plantations of the Indies , in the very English garden of the Vice regal lodge, the summer house of the Viceroy of India, the Marquis of Lansdowne more than two hundred years ago. Times changed, power shifted, the Government of India took over, the new order of merit set in, edifices of power, left to the calamity of age, struggled against nature and neglect for survival, some survived, some crumbled, as the English would have said without a whimper, but the snow capped blue Himalayan ranges remain, looking down majestically, as resplendent as ever.
The English chose Simla for many reasons, basking in the glory of waterloo, they were looking at the high mountain passes, thinking of making a road across, linking continents, countries, civilizations. They were in a race with other countries, playing a great game of controlling territories, as if the world was a chess board.
This Christmas I chose Simla as the annual family holiday destination for entirely different reasons. Born in independent India , a Hindu by belief, I came first in contact with Santa in primary School, where our Big Mams robust husband would dress up like him, and we as children would chase him getting sweets and goodies in return. I am not an anglophile; I belong to humble origins, and like normal middle class Indians dream big, for my family, friends, and country. The Mumbai attacks in ways had shaken the core beliefs of families in the body politic, across the length and breath of India . Both my sons would question me, why the terrorists attacked Mumbai, the Oberois, and the Taj, and killed hundreds of innocent? Why do both Pakistan and India blame each other? And if there is a war, who will win? I had no immediate answers, and thought it best to head for Simla, also known as the queen of the hills, imagining pure white snow, and crystal icicle jingle bells.
The Oberois Cecil is where the common man of India’s entrepreneurial dream began in 1922, and that man was Sardar Mohan Singh Oberoi, who with grit, vision, charm and élan, rose from the ranks, to lead India’s fight back into the new world. We had booked lodgings for Christmas Eve at the Cecil. The doors opened, and we walked into polished wood splendor, addressed by name, welcomed with folded hands, warm smiles, as if the Viceroys family had walked in, Christmas cheer and a sense of déjà vu started setting in. I am sure, M /S Oberoi had planed on that to happen, while working for 50 rupees a month, in this very hotel he now owned, welcoming the crown princes of the continent, he must have wowed, that one day he will welcome his fellow common brethren, making them feel like kings, who because of their native ness, color, and shoddy manners were prohibited from entering the mall., during the rule of the English. The English sensibility of decorum, decree, and disposition has been the hall mark of the English architecture and hospitality. It has kept them a notch above others, far from the madding crowd.
Oberois has maintained that sense, with propriety and over the years, the Indians are now a notch above others, from with in the madding crowd. The lobby, with its mocha leather chairs, plush carpets, empty ash stands from yonder, smoking now banned in public places, European windows, English settees, silk drapes, hot coca smell, brass paper stands, and men and women quietly working with dignity, houses young Indian executives, and business mangers, discussing mergers and global business trends, in far away England once called a nation of shopkeepers. We changed into walking shoes, and walked up the hill, past the museum, past the Chief Justices house, towards the Vice regal lodge, a grey lime stone Tudor mansion, from where the fate of un-divided India was decided every day. Re-christened as the Indian institute of advanced studies, in independent India by the philosopher President Radhakrishan, it is home to scholars, researching, and spreading education, all over India . In a group, guided by the guide, we enter to the greetings of silent portraits, lost in time, ghostly, of kings and princess, and Indian leaders, and thinkers, who carved out an India and a Pakistan for freedoms and democracy’s sake with the best abilities at hand. We saw the infamous round table, on which many a conferences were held, and the Radcliff line dividing India was drawn, by virtue of which, millions including the Father of the nation lost their lives, got dispossessed, mainly because, some leaders of the times, could not value a relationship more than their egos. Walking back to the mall, my younger son was enthused by the character in the group, who sat on the Viceroys chair, when pointed out, his other friends, said for them he was the Viceroy of India, I thought to myself, those who had dare not walk on the mall, today are sitting on the Viceroys chair, fruits of freedom, should always be valued, question is do we no the value of our freedom? The mall over the years has become a little Chandni Chowk the old Delhi market, and this Christmas Eve, compared to the previous, was almost deserted, people of the plains preferring to stay indoors. Walking up to the ridge, I tried to gaze into the darkness, towards the mountains, wondering like Kipling, searching like Kim, for new horizons, new vistas. The ancient Christ church was, abuzz with people, coming in and out, preparing for the midnight mass, each one of us made a silent prayer to Santa, for well being and many more holidays, and much to the relief of the boys walked back to the Cecil. The teak wood paneled atrium, was lit up by hundreds of hanging lamps, it gave a warm glow of welcome, black ornate polished sofas, Sal wood polished side tables, the walnut polished piano, the central table on which, a Christmas tree, with stars and frills, the wood and glass bar, the Victorian era gas lamps emanating yellow and golden light, twinkling, shinning, waiting for people with cheerful and excitable staff. The dinning room was full of chatter, batter, aromas, breads, curries, goulash, soups, salads and dressings, and creams and cakes. being a vegetarian by choice, I am not much of a foodie, but I love the bubbly, served in tall wine glasses, golden and silvery, airy, fizzy, tangy, bouncy, full bodied, and chilled, and it couldn’t have been delivered better, sparkling the night, which was cold at the poles, holy in homes, silent in revered hearts. Mohan Singh Oberoi, dared to dream, and eighty six years hence his fellow country men lived that dream.
Next morning under the window sill the mountain song bird serenades to the distant peaks, as the sun rose, spreading red, over slanting roofs, waiting for the first snow. After a perfect send off by the most gallant host, huffing and puffing the steep climb of the Jakhu hill, I came back to the three questions, why was the Oberois Trident, and Taj Mumbai attacked? Simple, the powers of death and destruction fear the entrepreneur’s ability to full fill his aspirations, imagine what India would be like, if a hundred Oberois dared to dream in hundred different fields. Then why does Pakistan and India blame each other after every terror strike? Because leaders during the round table conference and leaders now, did not then, and do not now, had and now have the courage to face the reality, which is humans hate to be segregated by fences and boundaries, if the Germans could unite for a permanent solution so can we, for human nature is the same all over. And are we going to win the war? I pray that we both win the war, the war against global warming, stealing Simla off its winter snow, the war against plastic, threatening the greens of the hills, the war against global melt down, keeping the traveler away from the cash registers, and the war against global terror, scaring the common man into submission. My boys don’t care for the answers, frolicking, running, up to the famous temple of Hanuman the monkey god, guarded by the truant monkeys of Simla, my wife thinks I should give up the bubbly lest one day I myself become effervescent, Me looking at Simla, from the Jakhu temple tops can only think of the times, manners and Shakespeare, friends and fellow country men I quote, o that this blossom could be kept from cankers.
Cheers and a happy New Year.
Vikramjit
30/12/08
Chandigarh .
Simla in its heady days saw many a plays of Shakespeare’s, being performed, enacted, applauded, lived on stage. The once summer capital of India , under the English. Has its own distinct Christmas charm, it turns pure as snow, with crystal icicles hanging like jingle bells on the pines, that line the meandrous hilly boulevards of this historical Himalayan hill station. The English were always discovering, experimenting, with new ways to implement laws on expanding and strengthening the empire that prided on the fact, of the sun never setting down on it. Elizabeth Tudor in the sixteen hundreds set standards that were followed over the years, in letter and spirit, fervor and a joie de verve to keep stamping its distinct style on a world, waking to new realities, new beginnings. Simla was the style icon, of the English. From the heat and dust of the planes, to the crisp mountain air, the English traveled in style, dressed in style, lived in style, after all style is the man. The mall road of Simla was designed like a miniature Piccadilly Circus where the who’s who of the rulers of India converged on summer evenings, walking hand in hand with their ladies, in order of merit to the crown, smiling, nodding, graciously at each other, as if enjoying the evening walk in mountainous London . The English learnt from the French the true meaning of déjà vu, and where ever they went, they tried to build replicas of prevalent English architecture of the times, so that they could always feel at home, in control, forward looking. Simla was their best example at replicating, why else would they plant a tulip tree, brought from the coffee plantations of the Indies , in the very English garden of the Vice regal lodge, the summer house of the Viceroy of India, the Marquis of Lansdowne more than two hundred years ago. Times changed, power shifted, the Government of India took over, the new order of merit set in, edifices of power, left to the calamity of age, struggled against nature and neglect for survival, some survived, some crumbled, as the English would have said without a whimper, but the snow capped blue Himalayan ranges remain, looking down majestically, as resplendent as ever.
The English chose Simla for many reasons, basking in the glory of waterloo, they were looking at the high mountain passes, thinking of making a road across, linking continents, countries, civilizations. They were in a race with other countries, playing a great game of controlling territories, as if the world was a chess board.
This Christmas I chose Simla as the annual family holiday destination for entirely different reasons. Born in independent India , a Hindu by belief, I came first in contact with Santa in primary School, where our Big Mams robust husband would dress up like him, and we as children would chase him getting sweets and goodies in return. I am not an anglophile; I belong to humble origins, and like normal middle class Indians dream big, for my family, friends, and country. The Mumbai attacks in ways had shaken the core beliefs of families in the body politic, across the length and breath of India . Both my sons would question me, why the terrorists attacked Mumbai, the Oberois, and the Taj, and killed hundreds of innocent? Why do both Pakistan and India blame each other? And if there is a war, who will win? I had no immediate answers, and thought it best to head for Simla, also known as the queen of the hills, imagining pure white snow, and crystal icicle jingle bells.
The Oberois Cecil is where the common man of India’s entrepreneurial dream began in 1922, and that man was Sardar Mohan Singh Oberoi, who with grit, vision, charm and élan, rose from the ranks, to lead India’s fight back into the new world. We had booked lodgings for Christmas Eve at the Cecil. The doors opened, and we walked into polished wood splendor, addressed by name, welcomed with folded hands, warm smiles, as if the Viceroys family had walked in, Christmas cheer and a sense of déjà vu started setting in. I am sure, M /S Oberoi had planed on that to happen, while working for 50 rupees a month, in this very hotel he now owned, welcoming the crown princes of the continent, he must have wowed, that one day he will welcome his fellow common brethren, making them feel like kings, who because of their native ness, color, and shoddy manners were prohibited from entering the mall., during the rule of the English. The English sensibility of decorum, decree, and disposition has been the hall mark of the English architecture and hospitality. It has kept them a notch above others, far from the madding crowd.
Oberois has maintained that sense, with propriety and over the years, the Indians are now a notch above others, from with in the madding crowd. The lobby, with its mocha leather chairs, plush carpets, empty ash stands from yonder, smoking now banned in public places, European windows, English settees, silk drapes, hot coca smell, brass paper stands, and men and women quietly working with dignity, houses young Indian executives, and business mangers, discussing mergers and global business trends, in far away England once called a nation of shopkeepers. We changed into walking shoes, and walked up the hill, past the museum, past the Chief Justices house, towards the Vice regal lodge, a grey lime stone Tudor mansion, from where the fate of un-divided India was decided every day. Re-christened as the Indian institute of advanced studies, in independent India by the philosopher President Radhakrishan, it is home to scholars, researching, and spreading education, all over India . In a group, guided by the guide, we enter to the greetings of silent portraits, lost in time, ghostly, of kings and princess, and Indian leaders, and thinkers, who carved out an India and a Pakistan for freedoms and democracy’s sake with the best abilities at hand. We saw the infamous round table, on which many a conferences were held, and the Radcliff line dividing India was drawn, by virtue of which, millions including the Father of the nation lost their lives, got dispossessed, mainly because, some leaders of the times, could not value a relationship more than their egos. Walking back to the mall, my younger son was enthused by the character in the group, who sat on the Viceroys chair, when pointed out, his other friends, said for them he was the Viceroy of India, I thought to myself, those who had dare not walk on the mall, today are sitting on the Viceroys chair, fruits of freedom, should always be valued, question is do we no the value of our freedom? The mall over the years has become a little Chandni Chowk the old Delhi market, and this Christmas Eve, compared to the previous, was almost deserted, people of the plains preferring to stay indoors. Walking up to the ridge, I tried to gaze into the darkness, towards the mountains, wondering like Kipling, searching like Kim, for new horizons, new vistas. The ancient Christ church was, abuzz with people, coming in and out, preparing for the midnight mass, each one of us made a silent prayer to Santa, for well being and many more holidays, and much to the relief of the boys walked back to the Cecil. The teak wood paneled atrium, was lit up by hundreds of hanging lamps, it gave a warm glow of welcome, black ornate polished sofas, Sal wood polished side tables, the walnut polished piano, the central table on which, a Christmas tree, with stars and frills, the wood and glass bar, the Victorian era gas lamps emanating yellow and golden light, twinkling, shinning, waiting for people with cheerful and excitable staff. The dinning room was full of chatter, batter, aromas, breads, curries, goulash, soups, salads and dressings, and creams and cakes. being a vegetarian by choice, I am not much of a foodie, but I love the bubbly, served in tall wine glasses, golden and silvery, airy, fizzy, tangy, bouncy, full bodied, and chilled, and it couldn’t have been delivered better, sparkling the night, which was cold at the poles, holy in homes, silent in revered hearts. Mohan Singh Oberoi, dared to dream, and eighty six years hence his fellow country men lived that dream.
Next morning under the window sill the mountain song bird serenades to the distant peaks, as the sun rose, spreading red, over slanting roofs, waiting for the first snow. After a perfect send off by the most gallant host, huffing and puffing the steep climb of the Jakhu hill, I came back to the three questions, why was the Oberois Trident, and Taj Mumbai attacked? Simple, the powers of death and destruction fear the entrepreneur’s ability to full fill his aspirations, imagine what India would be like, if a hundred Oberois dared to dream in hundred different fields. Then why does Pakistan and India blame each other after every terror strike? Because leaders during the round table conference and leaders now, did not then, and do not now, had and now have the courage to face the reality, which is humans hate to be segregated by fences and boundaries, if the Germans could unite for a permanent solution so can we, for human nature is the same all over. And are we going to win the war? I pray that we both win the war, the war against global warming, stealing Simla off its winter snow, the war against plastic, threatening the greens of the hills, the war against global melt down, keeping the traveler away from the cash registers, and the war against global terror, scaring the common man into submission. My boys don’t care for the answers, frolicking, running, up to the famous temple of Hanuman the monkey god, guarded by the truant monkeys of Simla, my wife thinks I should give up the bubbly lest one day I myself become effervescent, Me looking at Simla, from the Jakhu temple tops can only think of the times, manners and Shakespeare, friends and fellow country men I quote, o that this blossom could be kept from cankers.
Cheers and a happy New Year.
Vikramjit
30/12/08
Chandigarh .
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