– Satyakam Ray

Winter is coming. The whole milieu near the Ridge will be white in no time. Birds are coming in at sparing times, just like the sparsely wandering souls on the mall road. The Panipuri Vendor near the mall is struggling to keep his business afloat. The wooden souvenir shop in the lower bazaar is missing its customers. Everything feels empty nowadays. The other day, the racy baby monkey fell off my branch while performing a stunt. Oh god, it was terrible! He will one day learn to jump between mine branches with smooth agility.

One might wonder, Who am I? I am the grand, majestic oak tree on Mall Road, Shimla. I am the survivor of a bygone era and a lone witness to the countless human sentiments, the tribulations of those with unbalanced lives, and the ecstasies of honeymooners over the years. Time flies by! Am I too old now? Who cares? I am the last sentinel ruminating over the past amid an uncertain future. I have seen it all and now recall it vividly.

The 1930s:

The Place for British summer rule – Simla – a getaway from the scorching heat of the north-Indian plains. The place for reveling wandering souls to ease up on the mundane administrative tasks and to have a little bit of fun in the form of dalliance. The mirth of the young British girls searching for a “husband” and the bachelor-friendly “grass-widow” ladies in their mid-forties reminded me of a bygone era of pleasure, arousal, and guilt.

The Not-So-Scandalous Scandal Point

The imperial summer capital or the idyllic abode of the viceroys, where they governed the whole of India, dictating terms for drawing the Durand line demarcating the Afghan border. The economic disparity among the classes was readily apparent. The ignominy of the scandal stands out in my memory. Whether the Maharaja of Patiala, Bhupinder Singh, eloped with the daughter of the British Viceroy, or his father, Rajindra Singh, committed the infamous act, I can’t figure out. However, I have been very close to the famous spot, in a state of standstill, for many decades.

(some 40 years later)

The 1970s:

Well, the lovey-dovey days of Simla were over by then. After the Beatles’ exit from Rishikesh in 1968, the craze for rock metal songs had dwindled slightly. Bollywood replaced the Beatles mania, and Rajesh Khanna, “the superstar,” entered the scene. During the shooting of the movie “Kudrat,” a bunch of guys climbed up my trunks to catch a glimpse of their heartthrob, who was pulling a rickshaw near the Ridge. Though I was a little bit jealous then, one deodar tree was named ‘Paro-Madho’ as per the lead character played by Rajesh Ji.

(some 30 years later)

The 2000s:

Bollywood bonhomie was still in full swing, but another critical topic emerged: the Shimla-Murree corridor project. The discussion of building a corridor was quite intense at the time and gradually faded away. One part of the dream corridor is in Shimla, while the other is in Murree, in the Galyat area of Rawalpindi District, Punjab. Not only did the love for Western Pahari Gosht endure, but customs and lifestyles remained the same in these two areas, despite the partition. Countless Pahari people have taken shelter under my branches, and a mere drawing of the territory cannot separate the cultural similarities between these two parts of the people.

(Some 20 years later)

The Present year, 2020:

Fewer people stroll on the mall road nowadays. I do not know what happened to the tour guide who always proudly pointed me out as one of the oldest trees in the city, much to the tourists’ amusement. I heard he got Covid. The number of college kids taking selfies with me in the background has decreased significantly. Birds residing in my branches are finally at peace. Without the commotion of travelers, I feel kind of aloof and neglected.

I always seek solitude, but when I finally get what I have aspired to for years, I feel desperate.

I hope someone gets under my hood to find respite from the blistering rain, as they used to. I will not forget the warmth and companionship I yearn for in the people who willingly come closer to me. I am more than eager to tell my stories from years ago. Perhaps I can whisper them in my ears as the wind blows by! I hope that someday everything will be normal again.

Old Simla

Old “Simla” is now “Shimla”. But I still stand here on Mall Road with dignity, waiting to witness a more humane side and to share funny anecdoteswith the next generation. Maybe, who can foretell?

Shimla, the place of the British merriment, and a testimony to the ever-changing Indian Socio-politics