The Masochist’s Guide To The Himalayas

There are some things you can never get used to, no matter how many times you go through them. Hernia tests and enemas leap to mind immediately. Being body searched by security guards at hotels, airports and malls would also figure. But the Delhi summer takes the cake.

So, when I planned a weekend trip out I wanted to go to the coldest place possible in the minimum possible time. Kasauli was my first choice, seeing as I also had a secondary agenda of doing a spot of birding. However, my favourite hotel was booked up (they only have 8 rooms) and it just seemed a pity to stay elsewhere. So I decided to stray from the trodden path and try someplace new. Chail was suggested. They have a palace (the Maharaja of Patiala’s) which was recently converted by the government into a hotel. Sweet.

Of course, being Govt run, they took every step to ensure that it was impossible to make a booking. They have a marketing office in Delhi, some drunken attendant informed me. It was in goddamn Janpath and there was no way I was going all the way to CP to book a room. Then they tell me they offer internet booking, but turns out you need to have a credit card from some moth-eaten bank like Vijaya Bank or something like that.

By now, I found a fellow traveler in George, an old mate of mine (who’s into birding as well) who was only too eager to get out of Delhi. George is one of those guys who lets life happen to him, so making bookings was out of the question anyway.

‘Worse case, we’ll sleep in the car’.

With those reassuring words, we set out to Chail. By road. Because going by air to Shimla would be too wimpy. I was ok with wimpy, to tell you the truth, but masochism runs deep in George Koshy. What the hell, I figured, let’s take the car. Let’s just get out of this fucking place.

We set out at high noon because that’s what 'The Masochist’s Guide To The Himalayas’ recommended. Sun beating down, we floored the accelerator and went past Pragati Maidan, past Murthal, past Karnal headed for the blue hills in the distance. Somewhere along the way we came across this shithole called Zirakpur. I have to tell you about Zirakpur. See, I think Zirakpur is the original blueprint on which they built Vasant Kunj. It is the one spot along the highway when one must keep sharp objects out of sight because you just might be overwhelmed by a desire to kill yourself. It’s like someone took a grey canvas, rubbed some dirt on it and designed various 3 dimensional shapes that suggested that you should immediately consider suicide. That’s Zirakpur. Boggles the mind.







Doing good time, we went past Chandigarh and made it to a decrepit town called Kalka at sunset. Great, we were in the hills and I felt better already. The first sign that you’re in Himachal are the vendors on the side who sell meat pickle. We came across a string of these with colourful signs advertising small hotels and their assortment of vinegar-soaked bottles. Bakra, Murga, Mushroom and there was even a Chana version.

We reached Chail late. Around 10, I think. I tried to keep optimistic even as I counted like, a hundred resorts along the way. This reminded me of Ooty, which, as anyone from Bangalore will tell you is only enjoyable after irresponsible use of drugs. We followed the signs to the Maharajah’s Palace. There’s an interesting story behind it. Maharajah Bhupinder Singh was a monarch who followed the long-instituted tradition of rabid horniness, and as myth would have it, would nail just about anything in a skirt. One of the contents of the skirt in question, happened to be Lord Kitchener’s daughter. Kitchener was the commander-in-chief of the British Army at the time. One thing lead to another and Bhupinder Singh found himself banished from Shimla for life. His ego bruised, he decided to build a summer palace atop an adjoining hill which was even better than Shimla. And that’s how Chail got started.

Sorry sir, we're all booked up. Do you know what time it is? Well, we do have one room…

The Princess fuckin Suite!

They had all this ornate filigree and embroidery stuff going and the place was practically draped in velvet. Anything that could be upholstered in velvet was and there was enough chintz to fill two godowns.

Were they serious? Once we stitched our split sides back together, I said ‘No.’ and asked him to point the way to the bar. If I was going to sleep in the car, may as well get shitfaced first.

The bar’s alright. In an old Victorian kind of way. They probably had tiger heads mounted on the wall before some greedy IAS officer got his grubby hands on them. There’s an old chap with a classic soup-strainer moustache who bows in a dignified manner. He’s the bartender. He was almost too respectable looking. But once we get a step closer, we see he’s not so dignified after all. The old goat was as pickled as the bakra on the highway. That’ll be two rums, please. And fix us another two as a repeat while you’re at it. A half hour later, the two of us walk into the restaurant well braced to find we’re just in time for the last order. There was some kind of meat preparation. And biryani too, I think. A decidedly forgettable experience.

We escape from the Palace around half past midnight. Now we need to get a place to sleep. Down the road, just a couple of hundred yards down, there’s a couple of hotels. Lucky us. We bang the door of the first. No response. The other one is just down the road. It’s called Cedaar. That’s not a typo. It has two a’s in it. The man lets us in. He has some rooms. 1200 a night. We get our bags and its lights out.

4.30 in the a.m., I’m up. Thunder. It’s raining like a bastard outside. I take a look around the room for the first time. Oh boy. I’m saving my exaggeration for later because I’ve got pictures of this place. You take a look and decide for yourself.





They had these ludicrous pictures of little children dressed like church-going old people giving each other the glad eye. The sort you see in dentist’s waiting rooms. I popped two Alka-Seltzers and woke George up. Dude you got to see this place we’ve gone and booked.



The velvet blanket itself deserved a place in the Kitsch Hall Of Fame. What is it with this place and velvet?



Let’s go back to the Palace, they’ve probably got breakfast there. I mean, it’s a hotel. But the Palace is closed until 8 am, a bored government guy tells us. Fuck this. Fuck Chail. Let’s just keep driving and maybe we’ll come across some other town where they’re not crazy for velvet. We head for Kufri, which is even higher up in the mountains. It’s going to be colder, for one thing.



There was the smell of pine in the air and the drive was something else. We kept going for a couple of hours till we hit Kufri. Another place done in by the tourist trade. There was rubbish all around and the whole place smelled like a stable. More horses than people. Not like Cowboys and Indians kind of horses. Just raggedy looking ponies used to take fat Punjabi tourists around the hill and show them pockets of snow. Yes, it snows in Kufri. In the winter. Screw this. Let’s keep driving man. We’d heard there was an Oberoi property around here somewhere. But we were delusional. By this time, I was crazy hungry. I had eaten hardly anything the night before and barely a few hours sleep. I kept having visions of clean cutlery and fried bacon strips beside a bed of sunny-side ups.



Then, out of the blue, it emerged. Wildflower Hall. I swear I heard the Carmina Burana play in my head. It appeared like a hallucination. A Disneyesque faux-Scottish manor with spires and meticulously maintained lawns. You may call it corny but not from where we were sitting.

I think they might have bacon here, I tell George.

Ten minutes later, we’re looking at a plate of scrambled eggs, bacon, toast, marmalade.

Thank you Jesus.

They are not accustomed to walk-ins but they’ll see what they can do for us. Do you have a hiking trails? Yes. Mountain bikes? Yes. We even have archery, Sir. That did it. The hell with roughing it. I’m not leaving this place and its nice people and its nice bacon.

Anybody who’s reading this, just go to the hills. You don’t have to drive down and see Zirakpur en route. Take a flight to Shimla. Get a cab. And go to Wildflower Hall. You will be happy. You will be poorer. But you will be happy.







Their hiking trails aren’t really infested with bears and snow leopards. More of a pleasant walk through pine forests through a picket fence gate and fallen acorns.
With gourmet pizza from the restaurant packed for the trail. We spotted several birds. Well, just two, to tell you the truth. Three, if you count that ugly-ass Egyptian Vulture we saw circling above the lawn.

Just before I dropped George off, he suggested we do Ladakh next. I wonder if they have a Taj there.