Inside life

On the outside Mussoorie is overrun by honeymooning hordes and weekenders on a clamorous， kitschy Mall Road. But when the evening chill starts to set in and the tourists pack-up and leave， the spirit of these hills awakens， nourishing itself by spinning literature out of the mists， summoning up ghosts， and clearing weeds from the pathways where history once walked. At sundown， it settles by a fireside in a 19th-century cottage， stares deep into a tumbler of the finest Bourbon， and contemplates the conundrums of the world.

Mussoorie has gathered a community of insiders—writers， artists， believers and royalty. People who keep to themselves， living tucked away in the green folds and wrinkles of these hills. They find ways to decelerate time. They walk rather than drive， share a morbid preoccupation with dead people—reminiscing about French mercenaries， murderous Begums and tracing Anglo-Indian family-trees—Gardners， Skinners， Keelers and Frasers. They speak an English that is light-years away from our Hinglish. Theirs is a world of brollies and bearers. But before you sneer ‘colonial hangover’， wait， there is method to the metachronism.

Lillian Skinner， who lives in her ancestral home in Jharipani， is something of a history book on sturdy mountain legs， and a breathing piece of military history. She is the sister of the late Michael Skinner， the last of the Skinners to command the renowned Skinner’s Horse Regiment. Skinner’s Horse was formed by James Skinner in the early 19th-century， with a group of Jat peasants from the area of Hansi in Haryana. His descendants married Muslims and today there are Skinners in Pakistan， Haryana， Garhwal and Europe. From her mother’s side， Lillian is a Hearsey， a family that once owned all of Moradabad and Dehradun. Lillian has every twig of the family-tree cataloged in her memory； she has been used as a reference library by William Dalrymple（whose wife is a Fraser and her family lived in these parts）. Lillian’s ancestry is mostly Muslim with， as she calls it， just a tadka of a few strands of English DNA.

Ruskin Bond， the resident celebrity at Landour likes to pretend that celebritystatus has ruined his peaceful life with book releases， book-tours， pesky journalists and autograph-hunters. But Rusty is clearly thriving on it all. Photographer Ganesh Saili who is always spoken of in the same breath as Ruskin， photographs Mussoorie as it really is—in its private， unguarded moments. Ganesh documents Mussoorie’s old properties， the Scottish ‘glens’， ‘burns’ and ‘braes’； the churches， English ‘castles’ and lodges， a world that slips away a little every day.

Mussoorie was never a British summer capital. It was instead a summer resort for British families， and hence a lot less officious and racist. Which is why a number of Indian princely families chose to be part of Mussoorie’s fair-weather， floating community. Jind， Kapurthala， Kasmanda， Pratapgarh， Katesar， Baroda， Indore， Rampur all had residences here， besides an Afghan Amir and some Ranas of nepal. This was also the time when two worlds were rapidly moving apart. Europeans had， for 300 years， assimilated themselves into India， often adopting Indian dress， habits and wives. But towards the end of the 17th century， imperialist policies and racist legislation brought in by Governor General cornwallis and later Lord Wellesley began to poison the social climate.

But here in Mussoorie， life was still gay and bohemian. It was all about hunting， clubs， masquerade balls， and clandestine affairs. “It was a true melting- pot of the East and West，” says H.R.H. Sukhjit Singh of Kapurthala， who spends part of the year in his chateau above Library Point. Rajmata Prithvi Bir Kaur of Jind， an iconic figure in Mussoorie， points to a collage of black and white photos of handsome men， “My lovers...” she says.“Oh！ You cannot imagine what our lives were like！ We danced， won competitions， we were queens！” She’s still every inch a queen in her green Highland kilt and Kabir， her Lhasa Apso at her feet. Writer Bill Aitken， her long-time companion， smiles indulgently at her exuberance， his eyes the colour of the September sky. Bill is another one of those brilliant minds that Mussoorie has kept entwined in its leafy embrace. Bill has stayed in ashrams， criss-crossed India and written with love and sensitivity about Garhwal， steam- engines and India’s sacred rivers.

Referring to those scandalous times and the all-too-fleshly skeletons in the royal closets， Dinraj Singh of the erstwhile state of Kasmanda says， “We didn’t marry beneath our class—governesses， nurses and suchlikes. It’s only those Punjabis. We Rajputs didn’t go for such things，” he says with profound distaste. The hills are still alive with such tales.

Mussoorie’s most fascinating man would be cultural czar， Martand Mapu Singh. Related to a dozen royals， his house is adrift in portraits of queens and princesses. With an intellect and breadth of experience to flatten everybody in the room， his conversation darts like quicksilver.

H.R.H. Sukhjit Singh lives in a chateau， guarded by stone griffins. As you gaze up at its tall iron gates， barred perhaps against the onslaught of time， you feel an ache at the passing of a world. A world that was gentler and more graceful.