The cantonment town of Uttarakhand has a serene beauty guarded by strict military rules
“Pull on your mask properly, and stand until allowed to enter,” commands a stern voice from behind a human entrance. After hours of driving on Uttarakhand’s less popular roads, including long, secluded expanses of endless forests, I let my guard down a bit and allowed my oxygen-starved system to draw in a lung of mountain air. The military checkpost at the entrance to Lansdowne, however, throws me out of it. Like most of India’s cantonment towns, martial law rules the roost, making it a bitter mix: a regimented but timeless place that otherwise could not be preserved.
Cantonment towns are the perfect antidote to hill station sights. Being a barely assisted tourism, they are a boon for conservation. Lansdowne is no different, and like the rest, was built for military purposes. It was founded and named after Lord Lansdowne, the then Viceroy of India in 1887, and the 1st Battalion of the Garhwal Rifles was moved there from Almora in the same year. Lansdowne was the only major city after Almora in the 1870s, a fact that I find difficult considering that it is one of the quietest hill stations to date.
In the list of popular names ranging from Shimla in the west to Mussoorie and Nainital and Darjeeling in the east, Lansdowne hardly makes a guest appearance. It is higher than other cantonment towns like Ranikhet and Dalhousie, but somehow, despite its checklist being complete with a war memorial, a parade ground and a regimental museum named after Victoria Cross award winner Darwan Singh Negi, Lansdowne is an introvert. Seems like the one who sits quietly on the corner bench. In a long walk spanning its many ridges, I attempt to dissect this ambiguity.
quiet picturesque
Leaving behind the cluster of budget hotels that mark the entrance to the city and reemerging among the general shops in the tiny main market, I spiral down the empty stretches of Lansdowne. The tarmac-lined paths are serene, surrounded by dense oak and rhododendron bushes, their bark brimming with inflorescences of monsoon moss and rich in gray lichens dotted with colorful, wild mushrooms.
My bare face breaks through a film of haze like Lansdowne, busting the myth of packed hill stations, and I pick one of the many forks in the lower mall that leads to St. Mary’s Church. Standing on the ridge since 1896, it fell into disuse when India became independent, but has since been beautifully restored by the Garhwal Rifles. Surrounded by chains and borders, the church is closed in the afternoon, and a handful of cafe guests try and take the best selfie they can. They are disappointed that they cannot move in, but this is the cost of the cantonment towns in return for the gift of their protection. Up the ridge, I continue past the Tip-n-Top point, which is more popular than most of the city’s must-sees. A little further is a temple that most goes to, the one I skirt quietly; There are a series of temples in and around Lansdowne, but I have already found mine.
My shrine is the unmarked spot where I stand and look down at the rain-soaked expanse of lush green valleys, the monsoon sun shining like a yellow coin through a screen of gray clouds floating in front of it . That’s where I turn, and start my way down. I do a short loop, passing by Bhulla Tal, a small lake that has been confiscated by boating enthusiasts, and head to a pit at a nearby dining area for a late lunch. I’m stopping These are all hotspots, and it is not really the rain or the pandemic that has disrupted the tourist traffic here. It’s just a calm breeze for cantonment life and its rules – from tourists, who have limited options to stay and explore, to locals who need a range of permits to repair the house, all at one price. Will have to pay But we were in debt anyway when it came to mountains.
Born and raised in the Himalayas, the author writes on all things culture, ecology, sustainability and so on.
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