ONCE UPON A TIME IN THE DOON, page 8
The officers appointed to the Service between 1867 and 1905 were trained initially in France and Germany, then in the later years, almost exclusively in England. This practice was to continue despite the Imperial Forest College being established in the neighbouring Chandbagh estate in 1914. Only in 1926 did the onus of training foresters shift in its entirety to FRI. Since its inception, each of the Institutes branches—silviculture, botany, entomology, chemistry and utilisation added tremendously to the knowledge and development of Indian forests. During the Second World War, the utilisation section in particular, played a key role when the use of secondary timber and economy in the employment of wood and other forest produce became a vital necessity.
FRI's history apart, the 1,000-acre campus is even today a virtual environmental delight—the perfect example of the wild, green earth! As a child, I have vivid memories of a large enclosure that housed a number of spotted deer, or chital as they are more commonly known. Over the years, some 2,000 sample plots under exotic species like eucalyptus, poplars, tropical pines, acacias, bamboo and a host of others have provided data for compiling yield and volume tables for over 120 tree species while other studies have helped gain a better understanding of forest ecology. In 1991, FRI was given the status of a Deemed University by the Government of India.
As Dehra Dun started to emerge as the home of major Institutions in the country, the game of musical chairs continued; the Imperial Forest College moved to FRI in 1935 and Chandbagh, along with additional grounds acquired from the descendants of Colonel Skinner's estate, was handed over to the Indian Public Schools Society to set up the Doon School within the 69-acre environs. Sometimes called 'the Eton of India', Doon School has developed its own characteristic style and ethos over the years.
Satish Ranjan Das, the founder of the Doon School, was one of pre-Independence India's eminent barristers and a member of the Executive Council of the Viceroy. His mission was to constitute India's first public school in an era when 'Chief's Colleges' were the ultimate school experience. The Doon School was meant to provide the youth of the country with an opportunity to get an all-round education, based on an adaptation of the English public school system on India's tradition-enriched soil. Like the IMA, the creation of The Doon School was mainly due to the zeal of a group of nationalists in the pre-Independence period, primarily to produce a new generation of leaders who could guide the nation after Independence.
The school's first Headmaster was a science teacher from Eton, Arthur E. Foot, who had never visited India until then. One of his first actions after accepting the position offered to him was to recruit J.A.K. Martyn from Harrow as his deputy. From its very inception, The Doon School set itself the highest possible standards, which aimed at getting recognised among the ten best schools in the world. In a letter to a parent, another master from that era, Jack Gibson (who subsequently was the principal of the National Defence Academy and Mayo College) encapsulated the school's mission when he wrote: '...each boy... must train himself to think clearly so that he will be willing to come to conclusions that may be different from what he has expected and may point to something different from what we were brought up to believe to be the accepted order. He must train his body to undergo hardships and be prepared for unexpected discomforts, and above all, he must awaken and sharpen his sympathies for and understanding of people outside his own class and circle.'
Amidst the sylvan surroundings of The Doon School, five hundred-odd Doscos are divided into different houses— Hyderabad, Jaipur, Kashmir, Tata and the latter-day addition, Oberoi House. For most of us who had the privilege of studying there, The Doon School years are even more memorable because of the time spent on mid-term breaks and weekends in the foothills of the Himalayas, or in exploring the river valleys of two of the greatest rivers that hem the Doon Valley from two flanks—the Ganga and the Jamuna.
Over the years, the Doon School has produced a Prime Minister, various Chief Ministers and other notable personalities across a diverse variety of professions.
The Doon Valley is today dotted with schools and educational institutions, each with a fairly impressive history of its own. Among them, RIMC (Rashtriya Indian Military College) is perhaps, one of the oldest. Established in 1922 as the Prince of Wales Royal Military College, it was to be the nursery for Indian cadets who were to be sent to Sandhurst for further training. Spread across 134 acres of lush green countryside, it is not far from their arch rivals, The Doon School, against whom generations of Rimcollians have earned their spurs on the playing fields of the two institutions.
While at the RIMC, the boys are known as cadets and the institution grooms them right from the start to don the mantle of India's future military leaders. Most Rimcollians make their way to the National Defence Academy in Khadakwasala en route to the IMA / Air Force Academy / Naval Academy, from where they get commissioned into the Services. General K.S. Thimayya, one of India's most dedicated and respected soldiers, was the first to achieve a four star ranking; counting the Pakistan Armed Forces, seven other Rimcollians have so far had the distinction of becoming Chiefs of their respective Arms. Lt General P.S. Bhagat won the Victoria Cross while Major Som Nath Sharma was the first Indian to get the coveted Param Vir Chakra in November 1947 in Kashmir.
Among the laws that govern human behaviour, institutions are identified with a social purpose that transcends the individual, often forming the bedrock on which national dreams are built. It is unlikely that any other city or region in the country would have had such a far-reaching impact on the rest of the nation and even our immediate surrounding countries. FRI, RIMC, IMA and The Doon School have each played a major role in the development of free India, as have the many other institutions based in Doon. The little Valley that nestles in the lap of the Himalayas and the Shivalik mountains can certainly hold its head extremely high!
A Journey into a New Life
Florence Pandhi
ctober 29th 1968. London-Delhi-Mussoorie. The most exciting journey of my life. A journey that brought me five thousand miles from the regularity of the West, with all its creature comfort, paid annual holidays, Utopian social security, predictable life-style, insular habits, and an ambient temperature just above freezing. A journey whose last lap on terra firma began at what appeared to be a broken down, bombed-out airport called Palam at Delhi. The discomfort was enormous. English winter clothes of wool, nylon and leather are not de rigeur apparel in temperatures soaring into the nineties. I made my way down the gangway of the plane onto the tarmac airstrip. It was a Turkish bath, enveloping me in steam. In the dark, I struggled over mounds of gravel and grey sand with the signs of newly constructed buildings looming ahead. My hand baggage weighed a tonne. I felt ridiculously incongruous in my attire as I entered the arrival lounge. Construction material lay everywhere, as passengers stumbled towards a makeshift customs counter.
Bedlam prevailed. Separated by a rope, hordes of clamouring, wildly gesticulating, anxious, deliriously happy and indescribably noisy people made their presence known. They clung to improvised barriers, trying to squeeze themselves through the customs-check point. Then, by sheer force of numbers, they poured through to mingle with delighted passengers. Such determination! There was an avalanche of joyous relatives, tears, hugs, shaky limbs ably assisted by young bucks, howling babies, children dancing around, and all of it resounding with a babble of incomprehensible tongues.
Pandemonium reigned and no one cared. Customs officers blithely ignored the flood of intruders. Quickly, I was surrounded by a group of Indians who had more of an idea who I was, rather than the other way around. An old man leaning on his stick, middle-aged ladies with their heads covered, and shy, fragile little girls with enormous eyes pressed against me, embracing me and smiling in welcome. Helpless and bewildered, I found myself being swept along with the noise and heat, having lost my independence, towards my new life.
We seemed to be enveloped in a murky darkness. Outside of the airport, the road lamps gave a weary pale yellow light. A couple of large, ugly cars, later to be known as Ambassadors, were to be our chariots to the Maidens Hotel in the centre of Delhi. Each car was packed beyond belief, as relatives piled in on top of each other. Whoever was destined to be the driver, could not possibly attempt to use the rear view mirror, as his vision was blocked with heads and torsos of a gabbling mass. Slowly, we inched forward into a lawless terrain. Vehicles of every description crowded around us, each one desperate to fill up the space in front of our car bonnet. The head-lamps of the car blinked weakly like candle light in a breeze, sensing the direction rather than illuminating the road.
Out of nowhere, we found ourselves in the midst of a brilliantly lit, hued like a rainbow, straggling, dancing, utterly deafening procession of people, blocking the road in gay abandon. The trombonists vied with the trumpets, the drummers with the singer, all bent on creating total anarchy, as they wended their way along the road. A magnificently caparisoned horse carried two spangled and garlanded figures. Unable to inch forward, it stood statue-like, whilst the gargantuan brass band screeched its cacophony into the night sky. The sound thundered and heaved, as male dancers of all ages whirled around with bundles of currency notes held high. I hugged my ears to protect them against this auditory exhibitionism. What, in heaven's name was I witnessing? A wedding party. A far cry from the traditionally nervous English groom, twisting his fingers, hunting for the ring, and clammily praying in the church vestibule, that his tardy bride-to-be would not at the very last minute, jilt him at the altar!
That first night at the Maidens Hotel was one of splendid insomnia. The British Raj in India came alive as if I was reading the books I had devoured in England in preparation for this journey. Could there have been a bigger bathroom anywhere? Its preserved antiquity displayed a tub resting on the paws of a lion, and an incredible piece of Victoriana—a porcelain basin decorated with tiny pink roses, with its matching pitcher. Their surface had millions of miniscule crackles in the glaze that spoke of age. Large brass faucets adorned the tub, allowing warm water to languidly pour into its deep interior.
The adjoining suite had a ceiling that vaulted into infinity. I could humbly visualise a modern English double-storeyed, suburban, semi-detached house being placed, without difficulty, into my cathedral-sized bedroom. From somewhere in the shadowy heights, a long pole descended to suspend, in animation, a ponderously revolving two-bladed fan. Its black arms rotated with dignity, creaking at each revolution, graciously wafting currents of hot, stale air throughout the night. I lay on a giant bed, feeling with each passing hour like the princess and the pea. The mattress resisted me and refused to yield to my need for sleep.
My two non-English speaking companions, my future mother-in-law and her eldest daughter-in-law, tried incomprehensibly to include me in their desultory conversation. They, and the fan droned on through the long hours, joined periodically by a crrr crrr crrr, belonging to a strange new insect world. They felt no need to let the night melt into darkness, so the wan yellow wall lights glowed until dawn took over the sky.
The day came alive in a spectacular crackle of activity. I was now part of a family, who began the daily grind with the noise of ringing telephones, visitors calling, appointments before and after breakfast, endless trays of tea, frantic schedules, plenty of humour, and the ear-shattering volume of conversational Punjabi. Papaji, my eldest brother-in-law to-be, was in volcanic form, setting the pace for us all to follow in the next twenty-four hours.
Anglo-Indian breakfasts in colonial hotels are strange and wondrous. Is this the cuisine that our British Tommies used to crave for? Limp cornflake curls lying in thin, sweet, warm milk; tea served with liberal quantities of hot milk, draped with a congealed skin of protein; and the piece de resistance—cold potato cutlets served with a lurid, sweet, blood red concoction of tomato sauce. By afternoon, gustatory immoderation had seared that memory from my mind. I had been transported to Delhi's ancient walled city and found myself weeping tears of wonder over the victual excesses of sambhar and dosa from a South Indian street-stall. My fair hair and complexion, plus the incongruous sari draped around me, drew enormous attention from street urchins and passers-by. I was the only European to be seen, and to be the cynosure of all eyes was discomforting.
The exodus to Dehra Dun was about to commence. The promised early morning start had receded to late afternoon. The family hung around waiting with patience for the patriarch to announce the moment of departure. I felt strangely disjointed from lack of sleep, kaleidoscopic visuals, and the physical exhaustion of tearing around Delhi behind hyperkinetic relatives. Time had become elastic in the confusion and haste of the day. Punctuality has never been a strong point of mine, but I was to rapidly discover a way of life that demanded schedules and at the same time, ridiculed them with consummate ease.
In the dwindling hours of light, our party of nine crushed into one car, streaked through a dream sequence of travelogue village scenes. Weary oxen winding their way home; camels languidly swaying with their heads held high; octroi posts; and overcrowded cartloads of dusty villagers. I crushed myself against the open car window, choking with exhaust fumes and dust, and all the while, fascinated and hypnotised by the unfolding panorama. Frequently, we stopped the car to allow its occupants to stretch squashed limbs, search for toilet facilities for the women, and partake of refreshments from wayside shops. As dusk fell, the air was heavy with wood smoke, and the only sign of habitation was the occasional glimpse of an oil lamp glowing in a hut near the road.
The highway was frightening, dark and endless. Roaring monsters spewing fumes charged us time and time again. They flashed their headlights in anarchic Morse patterns, alternating beams of brilliant blinding madness with sharp staccatos of pitch darkness. Still, we raced on. Sometimes, high on the crown of the road, and when faced with the colossal onslaught of a death defying diesel mountain, we rushed silently to safety through thick clouds of yellow dust that idled at the sides of the road.
The towns that we passed through wore a deserted, fortified appearance. There were no elegant, well-designed shop windows being viewed at leisure by sauntering promenaders. I only saw wooden boards and rolling shutters, no pavements, and the occasional vague yellow light hanging aimlessly from an isolated concrete pole—the impression was one of barricades and fear. I recalled warehouses in England in neglected parts of cities; the similarity and shabbiness was there. I could not see the swank of commercialism and the brassy lure of neon signs.
A shadowy stop in a gloomy deserted place—retrospect labelled it as Muzzafarnagar—provided us with bottles of ice cold, almond-flavoured milk, that eased our dust filled, parched throats. We continued to rush endlessly into a surrealistic world of darkness, punctuated by noisy, blinding apparitions that bore down on us. Suddenly, the car would lurch in a desperate attempt to avoid a bullock-cart that instantly appeared from nowhere, or had we appeared from nowhere? With the pallid yellow lights of the car, our visibility was confined to a few feet.
There was a shivering realisation that the air was getting cooler. The car began to climb and twist. The lights dipped and flashed, catching boulders, broken trees, and narrow bends. The gears shifted down as we climbed higher, passing through an eerie, unlit tunnel cut into a rock face. We began to zoom down the highway with no impediment. We were entering Dehra Dun; a town that seemed to be as deserted as the ones we had left behind.
I climbed the stairs of the flat somnambulantly. I had never felt so tired in my life, physically and mentally. Who cared where we were—Dehra Dun, Timbuktu, or Alaska? Sleep had become an obsession after two nights without it. A weird night was to follow. The bedroom remained lit, like a football stadium. I wondered about Indian habits. Is it a bad thing to sleep without lights? I feared I would be offending my hosts to mention it, as I lay in wakefulness, my eyes glued to the ceiling. It was a night when the electricity beamed in full glory, and the air was rent with screams at regular intervals! Ghastly screams, the clatter of wooden sticks, followed by more screams. Imagination can be a fearful thing, as I let it wonder. Someone surely had died that night.
Sleepless, but keen as mustard, I rose to face a new day. Enquiries as to who had been done to death brought bemused stares. The night watchman had to keep himself awake, and more importantly, he had to wake the household periodically to ensure his job permanency. No noise, no pay.
My first day in Dehra Dun was crisp and cool, with a sun peeping through roadside trees that lined the main road of the town. Cyclists zig-zagged around the car, vying with horse drawn carts—Tongas—that carried people who seemed to have all the time in the world to get where they were going. The odd car passed by, and the pace of life was leisurely. Passers-by were dressed in their night suits, some cleaning their teeth by the roadside or reading the newspaper. Others sauntered by with aluminium cans filled with fresh milk.
I looked to my right to see a mountain shrouded at its base with mist. To my left, fresh life was emerging, as shopkeepers swept away the dust of the previous day, chatting amiably with their neighbours, unhurried and relaxed. Crisp air, warm sunshine, and cheerful noisy people. Inquisitiveness, kindness, concern and pleasure met me at every turn. Everyone exuded hospitality and interest. That was Dehra Dun at the end of October 1968.
The next lap of our journey appeared treacherous. The dark, intimidating, snaking route to Mussoorie, forced our car through terrain, only meant for an experienced rally driver. My heart dropped in painful jerks, as hairpin bend followed hairpin bend. I watched with backward glances, as Dehra Dun sank gradually below our vision. Its lights winked and blinked, randomly scattered like jewels on black velvet. We flashed past warning signs that insinuated death for all foolish drivers. Gradients increased and the cold bit in alarmingly. My father-in-law to-be exhorted his grandson to drive with more care. He was a man of few words, great caution, and immensely God-fearing. The almighty had brought his precious son back to the land of his birth, and into the love and care of his family. There should not be the slightest mishap on the ultimate stage of the journey.
