Minor Mishaps in Mussoorie

* I have realised there may be confusion about Landour/Mussoorie. Landour is the highest part of Mussoorie; a separate village.

This is the story of a Julie-and-Michael Landour day, and a series of minor misfortunes, as previously told to my dear cousin Joan. It reminds me that, time and again, I lose all grace when my energy is low – it is my pattern to be overcome, and one for which India gives constant practice.

Landour from Char Dukan

We had decided to walk into Mussoorie, to buy some books and to have a travel shirt made by the ‘excellent tailor’, though I suddenly felt very tired, uneasy in the stomach. We pushed against these tedious signs and set off, anyway. Mussoorie is downhill from here, and after the forested part, the narrow bazaar road is full of traffic. At about halfway, just near the Landour Clocktower, we took a quieter short cut our friend Bramesh had shown us. But soon we made a wrong turn, and then the fog came in, blotting out the whole town below, so we couldn’t even get our bearings by looking down to Mall Rd.

We walked a long way. Much of it was steeply uphill. Feeling unwell, I began to whine and gripe, wasting even more energy. It’s harder to breathe too, in the fog; we weren’t used to the slightly higher altitude, and hadn’t developed ‘mountain legs’ (or even ‘slope legs’). We asked directions and were told yes, go this way; but of course, Indian directions are always in the affirmative, and any of these roads will lead to the Mall Rd – eventually. “Mall Rd via Perth”, I sarcastically complained to Michael.

Mall Road Mussoorie

Finally, sweating heavily despite the cold air, confused and bedraggled (me, M is never bedraggled), we did arrive at a recognizable corner near the Picture Palace. I rallied a little when we bought a DVD of Amir Khan’s “3 Idiots” from a street stall, a small incident of retail therapy that helped me drag myself uphill again to the other end of Mall Rd, where the bookshop is. It was shut. On a week day. Disappointed (a mild word for my state of emotion), we searched for and found the recommended tailor, who had no suitable cloth. “Of course”, I muttered darkly.

By this time I needed to go to the toilet (or ‘washroom’ as the euphemism has it), but as newcomers it’s very hard to find that, even in a largish town. We went into a café, where M ordered a cup of tea. I couldn’t face having anything at all. I was directed by the waiter to a door along a small corridor, where a chest freezer blocked the passage. Squeezing past it on tiptoe, holding my breath, I was afraid of the embarrassment of becoming stuck. The toilet was a dark room with no light, but in a moment of inspired panic I found the electricity switch, outside. And then there was no water, so the toilet wouldn’t flush. ‘Oh well,’ I thought, feeling pleased at being so tough and pragmatic, ‘that’s their problem. I’ll just wash my hands’, and coated them with soap. There was no water in the tap, either! Finally, this made me grin. What else can you do? I’ve been in far worse (horrendously worse) ‘washroom’ situations in India, before. So I sidled back past the chest freezer, feeling embarrassed but brazen (because we always attract attention), past a holidaying family from the Punjab who were eating cream cakes, and washed my hands over the gutter, with bottled water. Michael had finished his tea and was now eating delicious handmade chocolates. He deserved it, too, having gotten me this far.

Char Dukan

We set off again, bought a few necessities ( mandarins and a bottle of Indian Sula wine), and found a taxi to return up the hill. ‘The hill’ is actually a mountainside. About halfway up, a commotion occurred ahead on the road. A descending truck was stuck on negotiating a corner, blocking all upward traffic. I was almost in despair! I’ve walked up this road several times, but today I drooped with exhaustion. The driver said he knew another way, that would leave us with only a short walk to Char Dukan, the little square near Wolf’s Burn, where we are staying. I was suspicious. There are very few alternative roads on this ‘hill’. And sure enough, the walk that was “not far” was shorter, but so very steep that it was rarely used. We climbed resignedly, until the simple café square of Char Dukan appeared. To my grateful eyes it was blessed, aglow with welcome, as if I’d sighted an oasis after days in the desert. One day I may learn to make less heavy going of things, we trust.

The Sula wine was very nice indeed!

Landour

Michael entering Domo’s for a cold coffee on the road from Landour to Wolf’s Burn

Char Dukan