If you have ever been to Mukteshwar , a small hill town located in the Kumaon Hills, about 50 km from Bhowali, you would really understand how silence can scream. It is not the first time I have been to the hills and experienced the tranquility. But here the silence pierced the ears with hardly any people or shops open or women working in their pastures. Unlike regular hill stations that receive huge crowds of tourists who love to shop in mall streets, visit tiffin-top and pose for photos every 500 meters, this place seems absolutely abnormal to me. But I am also abnormal.
I visited Mukteshwar at the suggestion of a local villager I met on a local bus on my way back from Nainital after spending a night at a friend’s house. It was 2:30 noon and I was waiting for the bus to Ranikhet in Bhowali, completely lost in thought about Naini peak which I hiked early this morning. The small bus written Mukteshwar painted in dark red in Hindi suddenly crossed in front of me and I came to my senses. I remember the words of an elderly local villager with whom I had discussed Mukteshwar. But my plan was to visit Ranikhet with a friend who insisted on the same thing. The bus driver yelled and the word Mukteshwar again hit me hard. I was thinking a lot now in which direction while having my tea and ‘aaloo ki lauje’, a sweet made with potatoes, famous in the area. The bus honked its final horn and the next moment I found myself approaching the bus. Inside the bus, it was almost half full. And we boarded after a brief protest from this friend.
The bus started up. I took the front seat in front of the driver. The driver was an older guy, looking to be in his mid-fifties and wearing a handmade sweater. He didn’t interact much. His eyes were glued to the windshield as he strained to see through the glass in the downpour. He showed no emotions, he just drove. Within 10 minutes we were out of town and pine trees and cedar plantations were spread everywhere and could be seen along the way. After driving for about an hour and a half, the bus stopped at Malla Ramgarh, another tourist spot with few roadside shops.
We leave again in the next 15 minutes and arrive in Khabrar, where some settlers are developing residential properties for sale. After another 30 minutes we reach Kasialekh, a village with mountain views on both sides. From here a path leads to the left that connects to Mukteshwar.
Mukteshwar is the end of the earth with so called resorts and minimal facilities on an uphill slope. Accommodation is expensive everywhere we check. The PWD Guest House requires a reservation at the District Magistrate’s Office in Nainital. Then we arrive at the IVRI PG hostel called Edward Hostel. I was told about it by the caretaker Jagat Singh, from the PWD guest house. At the hostel, Bhatt, the caretaker, had us write the accommodation application and then had it signed by the warden who lived across from the hostel. We waited for this Bengali guard to come out of his residence, but the wife said that he was out and would come after half an hour. We were tired and not sure if we would get the hostel accommodation.
I went back to Bhatt. He offered his help and politely gave us the room costing 60 rupees and dinner at 9 for another 60 rupees for two.
The next day I got up early and began to inspect the place. Mukteshwar was the place he longed for. While taking the walk, I ran into Jagat Singh again. We shared tea while he described the landscape around the Himalayas citing the names of the peaks visible to the naked eye. We had a long discussion from the political situation to the social developments in the Kumaon Hills region. He is the man of knowledge, although the night I met him he was drunk and smelled of alcohol. He apologized for not giving us the place to stay on the last night and gave the reason that a Supreme Court Justice was scheduled to come who never came anyway.
His wife and son also spoke about land prices in Mukteshwar and real estate developers and merchants crazy about buying up land and turning it into tourist resorts. Our Delhi tops the list, of course. The concerns were the same as those of another population of a million rupees who lived in thousands of villages on the hills.
After some discussion I went back to the hostel, we had parantha with aloo ki sabzi and chai and left with our bags. Chauli ki Jali is the place where we sat for quite some time observing the perfect peace and wondering what would happen if all that came true what Jagat Singh and his family talked about about buying land, builders and so called resorts in the area.
As we prepared to catch the bus again at 12 noon from Mukteshwar, I bought an envelope from the post office to write to myself and see when it arrives. It was childish, but something I planned and wanted to do for a long time. The postmaster gave him 2 envelopes that cost one rupee. I stayed with another thinking how to use. But I had nothing to write.
I remember on my return I wrote the very same postcard to Jagat Singh expressing my gratitude while thanking in my mind the unknown villager I met on the bus for recommending peace beyond peace. And now I am waiting for my postcard that I wrote myself from Mukteshwar to arrive. He says: May peace be granted to my hills!