Around India in 80 Trains (28 page)

My neighbour dug between the packets of peanut candy at the top of her basket and brought out a lacquered fan that she used to waft the warm body odour of the man in front straight across my face. Fighting back an already growing sense of carsickness, I craned my neck out of the window when a ‘pooooooooooooooooonk’ rang out from above, accompanied by a ‘clack-clack, clack-clack, clack-clack’. From between the gangly tree trunks, the train emerged and snaked its way past, a long cheer accompanying the clatter, before vanishing together into a tunnel. Once the train had passed, cyclists remounted their saddles and wobbled off before the lorries had even restarted their engines.

For the next two hours, the train popped in and out of the hillside until it picked up speed and rattled ahead, leaving us to crawl up the remainder of the hill alone. Passepartout leant forward and pulled out his earphones.

‘Do you know why cows are holy?’

I could sense that this was going to be some kind of trick question to prove my lack of knowledge and therefore, unworthiness of calling myself a Hindu. What the heck, it had to be more fun than staring out of a window.

‘I’m pretty sure that it’s because if a mother dies, the only way a baby can be fed is with cows’ milk. And because cows can be used to pull carts and their dung provides fuel. An animal of all-round benefits, so you don’t harm it.’

‘Did you know that as recently as the 18
^th
century, cows were eaten by Hindus?’

‘No, I did not.’

‘Yeah, well they were.’

‘You know that there is no set text that defines every Hindu’s philosophy? Pluralism is a concept embraced naturally by this country, and apparently not by you.’

‘It’s called cherry-picking. Just like how Christians will follow a book that condones cutting pregnant women’s bellies open, ripping their unborn babies out and bashing their heads on rocks. They just ignore those bits.’

During the last half hour of the journey, the curves tightened until the bus began to spiral up the hillside, struggling past a crushed Fiat and a burnt-out Ambassador, slipping back then lurching forward over rocks and ditches. I had thrown up my stash of antiemetics back in Ahmedabad, so there was nothing for it but to slump out of the window. High altitude brought a new cleanliness to the air and I closed my eyes. Suddenly I felt a hand on my wrist. The geisha was pressing her fingers against my skin. With the other hand she fished out a ball of peanut candy for me to suck and gestured for me to shut my eyes and breathe. She was applying acupressure to my wrist to alleviate my nausea—and it worked.

Towards the peak, scarves, shawls and balaclavas began to emerge from bags. The geisha snapped on a pair of earmuffs as the bus gave one last growl, shuddered and then stopped—all its wheels intact. We had arrived in Shimla.

A driveway flanked by pine trees reaching out to touch each other’s tips, curled up and around the corner, and down it came one golden and four black retrievers, sneezing in excitement. Thunder, Sambo, Rambo, Cinders and Tara, the golden girl, gambolled around their owner, Kanwar Ratanjit Singh of Kapurthala, whom we had come to visit. The Kanwar was the owner of Chapslee House, a bastion of Victorian architecture, partially hidden by clay pots of nasturtiums and dog daisies and creepers knitting their way across the brickwork. Dressed in sports gear, with a fine crop of silver hair, the Kanwar wound his way through the tangle of tongues and tails and welcomed us across the lawn. He owned a moustache that must have been combed and set around a pair of heated rollers at bedtime. Extending both arms, he led us along a patchwork of paving stones to the main entrance, where the dogs hovered in dismay knowing the house was off limits to their muddy paws.

The Kanwar was the grandson of Raja Charanjit Singh of Kapurthala, whose nephew, Maharaja Jagatjit Singh, had ruled the Kapurthala principality from 1896 to 1950. In 1938 the Raja had bought the house for
`
66,000 to use as his summer residence: it had been built in 1830 by a Briton, Dr Blake, then rented by Lord Auckland, the governor general of the East India Company. Auckland had lived next door in Auckland House, but used Chapslee as the Secretaries Lodge, where the British declared their first ill-fated war on Afghanistan in 1842, both issuing and signing the Simla Manifesto within its mud walls. Chapslee was now partly used as a hotel, managed by the Kanwar.

Adjusting the pleats of a pair of 18
^th
-century velvet curtains, which came from the Doge’s Palace in Venice, the Kanwar led us into a hallway that resembled a hunting lodge. Gazelle and deer antlers spiralled out from the walls like giant coat hooks, between an arsenal of swords, daggers and axes fixed to the wallpaper, which, over time, had absorbed moisture from the walls and begun to ripple and crease like used wrapping paper. Gold silk cushions shone like caramel on matching sofas, and the smell of old velvet and mahogany hung in the air. Upstairs, the bedsteads gleamed, ink-wells sat on desks and lace-edged duvets were tucked into place. At the back of the house was a library available for guests. I was in awe of the Kanwar’s home. It looked frozen in time and I was scared to tread my Adidas across his carpets. I knelt down to examine the cases of books that the Kanwar had numbered by hand, including
A History of Amersham
, while he rubbed a bridge table with his arm until it shone. He glanced up.

‘I had to do that as they had begun to go wandering.’

Skidding across the cedar-wood floors, we followed the Kanwar into the dining room which was hung with an 18
^th
-century tapestry from Bruges, next to which stood an Italian candelabrum, sprouting more branches than a Christmas tree, and a glass case containing a collection of at least 100 silver spoons, including one that his grandfather had brought back from George VI’s coronation. Running his finger around the rim of a jardinière from Multan, then inspecting the tip, he looked up.

‘All brought back during my grandfather’s travels.’

I looked down at the rugs. ‘Where are these dhurries from?’ I asked.

His moustache twitched at the ends.

‘It is a major insult to call them that. These two are Persian and Afghan carpets and they are each about 125 years old. Dhurries are made from cotton, these are wool. But not silk. Silk is normally used for hanging.’

He trailed off as a white-gloved orderly arrived carrying a gold tray on which lay a folded piece of paper notifying the Kanwar of the arrival of hotel guests. He opened up the chit, then waved it in the air.

‘What time are they coming? How are they coming? Where are they coming from?’ He put the note in his pocket and waved off the boy, who reversed around an 18
^th
-century piano, then fled.

Showing us into the conservatory, the Kanwar gestured to where a spread of pakoras, cake and home-baked cheese straws lay next to a floral tea cosy. It reminded me of post-Christmas shopping at Fortnum & Mason.

‘When my grandfather died, what was left of the estate became a major financial burden for me. It was very difficult to maintain and I needed to generate some income. Funnily enough it was one of your Britishers who gave me the inspiration to open this place as a hotel in 1976. The Duke of Bedford wrote a book called
The Book of Snobs
, where he described the ridicule he faced from the rest of the nobility when he opened Woburn Abbey to the public, even building a funfair on the grounds. But he stuck it out and look what happened.’

The Kanwar lifted the tea cosy and filled a delicate cup that barely withstood my grip.

‘He became the pioneer of the stately home industry. It was a turning point in Britain—and for me. It gave me some gumption and showed me what to do. But I am very selective about who stays.’

Summers in Shimla were still de rigueur and the original Mall road was dotted with hotels that catered to families on ice-cream-and-pizza holidays and streams of students shopping for mufflers. However, British visitors still felt the pull towards the Kanwar and his home.

‘We are the kind of thing that Europeans look forward to—food in particular.’ He paused to mop drops of tea quivering on his moustache. ‘Good asparagus and anchovies. I once had a theatre owner from Bath who said that ours was the best bread and butter pudding she had ever had. Apple crumble too.’

A waiter slid a fresh plate of cheese straws onto the table, swept a napkin across my crumb-covered knees and disappeared without a sound.

‘Today nobody wants European cuisine. My food was very famous, but one must move with the times. My grandfather served very traditional food and that’s what I serve too. I specialise in various forms of mutton, particularly pulao. Grandfather’s table was known as the best in northern India so I do like to keep up that tradition. My family legacy and tradition are more important than what I do personally.’

My index finger was now stuck in the cup handle and I politely declined a refill in silent panic as he held the lid of the teapot in place and drew another perfect arc into his own cup. As he did so I noticed a pair of pearl and ruby rings that would have looked more at home on a Tudor than the athlete in a tracksuit. He allowed one side of his mouth to release the first smile of the afternoon.

‘I am very sorry to say my rings are of no value at all, they’re worn for good luck. I was told that I would never retain any money, and it’s very true, mind you, that I never could. Whatever came in just went. Then a family friend told me that if I wear a pearl, I will retain at least some of the money and it worked.’ He turned over his hand and squinted at the ruby, which gleamed like a summer cherry. ‘This one is so that no harm comes to me. I don’t mean to sound superstitious, as I’m not, but at the same time I can be.’

In England, Chapslee House would have been fixed with a blue plaque, the rooms cordoned off with an assault course of ropes, and hung with signs urging visitors not to touch the displays. Instead, the Kanwar took pride in living among the luxury collection of his family’s holiday souvenirs, welcoming guests into a rare preservation of grandeur.

As we got up to leave, he stopped in front of a photograph of Lord Minto, the Indian Viceroy, with his wife. He chuckled. ‘People ask why I keep the pictures, and there are two reasons: one is for the frames, which are lovely; and the second is for the size of her waist. It’s tiny.’

Overfed and watered, we began to thank the Kanwar for giving up his morning as he gestured towards the dining room.

‘Come, my boys have prepared lunch.’

The following morning we traced the Mall downhill and arrived in the middle of Stratford town centre, outside Anne Hathaway’s cottage. At least it might have been, were it not for the Nokia and Godrej adverts nailed to the gables. Clinging to their colonial remnants, Shimla’s wonky hotels, shops and restaurants thrived behind the Mock Tudor façades, while honeymooners and families dawdled around the streets haggling over handicrafts or basking in the sun on benches. But from afar the stepped hillside of lower Shimla looked little different from a Rio favela. Not an inch of land was visible through the patchwork quilt of corrugated iron roofs and stacked buildings jostling for space. This was the Croydon to Chapslee’s Kensington.

Having already bought our train tickets at the tourist office, we ambled down towards the station for the 10:30am departure to Kalka. Train number 45 was already on the platform, wobbling around as passengers climbed on board. As we began to move I poked my head out of the window and suffered a vicious bout of train envy as a red-velvet-seated train pulled into the station. The Shivalik Deluxe Express, a living room on wheels, left Kalka at around 5:30am and was the organised traveller’s dream. Fitted with reversible cushioned seats, wall-to-wall carpeting and offering breakfast, the train made ours feel like the EasyJet equivalent.

I soon settled as the train began to clatter its way down the hillside. Red flowers laced the trees like fairy lights and sunshine poured in between the branches, warming the tops of my arms and cheeks as I leant out to get a view of the Himalayan peaks.

‘Ma’am you will become dark.’