When I mentioned to a friend (who had just returned from a trip to Mussoorie) that I was headed there the following weekend, she insisted on lending me a book she’d bought during her trip. This was Mussoorie & Landour: Days of Wine & Roses,…Read More

When I mentioned to a friend (who had just returned from a trip to Mussoorie) that I was headed there the following weekend, she insisted on lending me a book she’d bought during her trip. This was Mussoorie & Landour: Days of Wine & Roses, by Ruskin Bond and Ganesh Saili.

Ruskin Bond, arguably India’s best-loved writer in English, has been a resident of Landour (an adjacent town, higher than Mussoorie and contiguous with it) for many years. So has Ganesh Saili, who has been a friend of Bond’s for the past 30 years. They come together in this book to talk about Mussoorie and Landour.

Mussoorie & Landour: Days of Wine & Roses (published by Roli Books, 2010) consists of nine chapters. The first seven are by (one assumes) both Bond and Saili—though, since it isn’t mentioned who’s written what, it could well be that only Bond did the writing while Saili took the many, many photographs that embellish the book.

The chapters alternate between factual and anecdotal, beginning with ‘The Mussoorie I Know’, which is very obviously Ruskin Bond—his writing is distinctive here, as he talks about daily life in Landour, the people he knows, the natural beauty around, and his own interactions with both nature and people. It’s an enjoyable, informal little chapter about the town.

That informality and chattiness is repeated in other chapters, especially ‘Up At the Top’ and ‘Looking for John Lang’ (the latter about the Australian-born novelist and barrister John Lang, who lived the last years of his life in Mussoorie and is buried here). To an extent, the informal, somewhat gossipy feel also permeates two other chapters, ‘Tales the Tombstones Tell’ and ‘Tales of a Hill Station’—the latter includes this delicious quotation:

‘The famous traveller Lowell Thomas, visiting Mussoorie in 1926, wrote: "There is a hotel in Mussoorie (the Savoy) where they ring a bell just before dawn so that the pious may say their prayers and the impious, get back to their own beds"’.

The two remaining chapters by Bond (and/or Saili?) are the ones that describe the history of Mussoorie and Landour. Chapter 2, ‘Birth of a Hill Station’, is about how Mussoorie came into being (after the British defended it against invading Nepalese forces in the early 1800s—the first building here was a small hut erected in 1823). There’s more, about how Mussoorie grew, how its buildings and businesses arose (and fell!), and the people who made this town their home. Chapter 5, ‘The Schools Today’ is all about Mussoorie’s several old and very prestigious boarding schools: their histories and their current state.

Whereas the more informal chapters are fun to read, Chapter 2 and 5 are, in comparison, fairly dull—especially the one on schools, which would be interesting only if you wanted to know when each school was set up, under which head master/head mistress, with how many students, when it was expanded, when it shifted to a particular building, and so on: very boring.

Besides these seven chapters, there are two additional chapters, ‘The Himalayan Club’ and ‘A Mussoorie Miscellany’, which are neither by Bond nor Saili: they’re a reproduction of selected writings of John Lang (who was also Charles Dickens’s correspondent in this part of the world). Lang’s writings are full of deliciously juicy anecdotes, ranging from the crimes committed, the scandals, and the unfortunate accidents that occurred here back in the mid-1800s.

Mussoorie & Landour: Days of Wine & Roses isn’t the book if you want a guide to the sights to see around here, but it’s a great book to get a feel of why Mussoorie was once known as the ‘Queen of the Hills’. There’s loads of history here, both factual and anecdotal, personal and impersonal—and that, unfortunately, is where the book does stumble, a bit. The style of writing varies so much from the friendly and approachable to the boringly factual, that it almost feels, when you’re moving on from one chapter to the next, that you’ve switched books. That’s a feeling that’s accentuated by the facts that get repeated, sometimes with changes, in various parts of the book. How Mussoorie was established is repeated a couple of times; the story of Landour—how it began as a convalescence centre, then progressed to what it is today—is also repeated.

Somehow, I got the impression that nobody had edited this book, and that the authors themselves had probably not bothered to even browse through each other’s writing (or had forgotten what they’d written earlier, and not even done a re-read?). For example, in the chapter, ‘Tales of a Hill Station’, an account of Gun Hill specifies that the firing of the gun was discontinued after an episode in which the ‘shot’ (a ball of moist grass and cotton waste) landed in the lap of a lady who was on her way down to the plains. Three chapters further in the book, in ‘Looking for John Lang’, we’re told that the firing of the gun was discontinued after the shot landed in the lap of a lady who had been snoozing through the sermon at St Thomas’s Church. What are we to believe?

Then there’s this incredible statement in ‘The Schools Today’: "In 1888 Mr T.H. Garlah started a school in Willow Lodge but moved in 1898 to The Dingle, and later, in 1905, moved again to the present site Woodlands, which is why the school is now known by that name. T.H. Garlah is still proprietor and principal of the institution…". Considering the book was published in 2010, that puts Mr Garlah’s age at about 150 years, keeping in mind that he must’ve been at least 20 years old when he established the school. Hmm.

Despite those hiccups (and the occasional typo), this is mostly an engrossing, informative book. It has lots of photos, both current as well as old ones (including a lot of wonderful old pictures of Mussoorie in its heyday—ladies in rickshaws; local townspeople in Landour; numerous scenes of different parts of the two towns). All of it is packed into a fairly compact book, which I read easily over the course of the three evenings we spent in Mussoorie. A rewarding way to spend the time.

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Nearly every Indian town that ever was occupied by the British (including Delhi itself) has a Mall. Mussoorie, too, is home to a Mall. In fact, the Mall is Mussoorie—at least touristy Mussoorie.The Mall is a long stretch that goes all the way from what…Read More

Nearly every Indian town that ever was occupied by the British (including Delhi itself) has a Mall. Mussoorie, too, is home to a Mall. In fact, the Mall is Mussoorie—at least touristy Mussoorie.

The Mall is a long stretch that goes all the way from what is known as Cloud’s End (in the west) to Rockville (in the east)—a ridge that commands a fine view over the Doon Valley below. Officially, though, the Mall is the length of road between Gandhi Chowk (also known as Library Chowk, since its most prominent landmark is the Library) and the Clock Tower, which marks the point where Mussoorie gives way to Landour.

No commercial vehicles are allowed on the Mall, and it’s even off-limits to private vehicles between 5 PM and 11 PM daily. This makes the Mall a great place for a promenade, since private vehicles are generally very few—they’re mostly the cars of those tourists who drive up to Mussoorie, park at a hotel, and then spend their time walking about the town.

The Mall can be covered, on foot, in about an hour’s time. It’s an interesting walk, because it’s quite an assault the senses. There’s loads to see, hear, experience—even taste.

A good bit of the stretch between the Library and Kulri (which is where the Mussoorie Post Office is located) has prettily worked cast iron railings on the valley side of the Mall. There are benches along the way, and what are known as ‘view points’, little pavilions where telescopes have been set up (but can be used only on payment of a fee—nothing seems to be free in commercial Mussoorie!)

The Library, at the western end of the Mall, is a lovely old colonial building (it was constructed in 1843) with a red sloping roof, gables and white-painted wrought iron columns and railings. From here, a stroll west brings you to one of Mussoorie’s most well-known (and well-preserved) attractions, Christ Church. Probably the oldest church in the hills in India, Christ Church was built in 1836 and has some of the best stained glass windows anywhere in India. The church lies about a hundred metres above the Mall, and approximately the same distance above the church is another building that was once part of the church complex, and was built at the same time: the
Kasmanda Palace heritage hotel, once a sanatorium, later a school, later still bought by the royal family of Kasmanda.

From Kasmanda Palace, the Mall stretches on, past rows of roadside stalls selling everything from cut-price clothing (much of it smuggled), to popcorn, instant noodles, and tatty souvenirs. The next major attraction—though not really attractive—is Gun Hill, so named because it once was home to cannon that used to be fired daily at noon to signal the time. The cannon’s long gone, but Gun Hill, by virtue of commanding a good view of the mountains, is highly popular with tourists. This one’s crass commercialism at its worst, so unless you’re ready to be hounded by pesky shopkeepers, photographers, telescope-wallahs, etc, steer clear of Gun Hill.

Gun Hill rises above the Mall, and below it, on the Mall itself, is the Ropeway, the cable car that transports visitors to and from Gun Hill.

Beyond the Ropeway terminus, the Mall—till this point, a fairly level stretch of road—begins to slope up and down as it meanders its way towards Kulri and then on to where Mussoorie finally touches Landour. By the time you get to Kulri, the view downhill is mostly obscured by buildings on both sides of the Mall. Many of these are old buildings, some of which are very pleasingly colonial in style—the State Bank of India building, for instance; or the famous red-and-white façade of the Clark’s Hotel. In the vicinity are other Mussoorie landmarks, like the Methodist Church (built in 1885), a venerable old stone building overlooking the Doon Valley; and the Cambridge Bookstore (not just one of Mussoorie’s oldest shops, but also well-known because the much-loved writer Ruskin Bond comes here every Saturday to sign books and chat with fans who may be around).

The Kulri stretch of the Mall is also the place which is most crowded with restaurants and eateries, including the popular Tibetan restaurant,
Kalsang Friends Corner and
Chick Chocolate, the latter possibly named for a once very famous jazz trumpeter. For those used to the more popular food chains in India, there’s a large Café Coffee Day outlet, a Domino’s, and even a Nirula’s restaurant, all within a stone’s throw of each other.

The last, easternmost stretch of the Mall is a far cry from the relatively open square and the panoramic views around the Library. Past the Picture Palace (Mussoorie’s first electric cinema theatre, established in 1912, when electricity first came to Mussoorie)—which is now a ghastly ‘5D haunted house’ gaming zone—the Mall becomes narrow, hemmed in on both sides by small shops and houses. This is the non-touristy part of town. Just a little beyond Picture Palace is one of Mussoorie’s two cab ranks (the first is below the Library, at the other end of the Mall). From here, a few minutes’ walk brings you to the Clock Tower, which officially marks the eastern end of the Mall. The Clock Tower itself doesn’t exist anymore—it was torn down several years back—but one of Mussoorie’s more popular cafés, the Clock Tower Café, stands here. Beyond, a narrow street winds its precipitous way up to Landour, and the Mall is left behind.

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Mussoorie—named for a local plant, called mansur (Cororiana nepalensis)—was originally two settlements. On the east was Landour, established in 1827 as a convalescence centre for British soldiers. On the west, at a lower altitude, was Mussoorie itself, where the first huts had been built in…Read More

Mussoorie—named for a local plant, called mansur (Cororiana nepalensis)—was originally two settlements. On the east was Landour, established in 1827 as a convalescence centre for British soldiers. On the west, at a lower altitude, was Mussoorie itself, where the first huts had been built in the early 1800s by British officers trying to hold this area against invading Gurkha troops. By the late 19th century, Mussoorie had become something like a mini Simla: officers and their families, grass widows, and lovelorn young soldiers turned up every year between April and October to escape the heat of the plains. There was pig-sticking and gambling, theatre and scandal, gossip aplenty.

Today, while Landour still retains much of its original old-fashioned charm, Mussoorie has suffered the ravages of generations of Indian tourists. Most of the best-maintained and loveliest colonial buildings, like Woodstock School, Wynberg-Allen School, the Indian Administrative Services (IAS) Academy building and Kapurthala House (one of the residences of the ex-royal family of the former princely state of Kapurthala), are privately owned and therefore out of bounds for casual visitors.

Sightseeing: Some of the best-maintained buildings that you can visit in Mussoorie and Landour are the churches, including Mussoorie’s oldest, Christ Church; St Paul’s; and the Methodist Church. The Mall, Mussoorie’s main artery (and busiest area), is often crowded and even dirty, but if you scout around, you’ll see some lovely old buildings here—look out for the wonderful old Library, the State Bank Building, and the Clark’s Hotel building, all of them important landmarks in Mussoorie’s past.

Sadly, some of the more popular sights in Mussoorie—like Gun Hill, and (slightly outside town) Kempty Falls, are overridden by people who want everything to be an amusement park and have no time for either history or natural beauty. One very historic sight, Park Estate—the home and laboratory of Sir George Everest, the Surveyor-General after whom the mountain is named—lies about 6 km from Mussoorie. While the area itself is scenic, the building is in a frightful state.

Getting around: When talking of transportation, there are two important considerations to keep in mind in Mussoorie and Landour.
Firstly, the heights. The two contiguous towns sprawl across the hillsides, with roads and paths climbing steeply up and down. If you’re not very fit or have problems with mobility, this can be a real obstacle.
Secondly, the fact that no commercial motorised vehicles are allowed on the Mall, and that the Mall is even closed to private motorised vehicles between 5 PM and 11 PM everyday (the rest of the day, private cars can travel on the Mall after paying a fee of Rs 100).

Although motorised vehicles are scarce on the Mall, horses (almost wholly as a tourist attraction) are available for rides, as are rickshaws. For trips further afield, you can hire a taxi from the cab ranks at the two ends of the Mall: one is just below Library Chowk (also known as Gandhi Chowk) at the western end of the Mall, while the other is next to Picture Palace, near the eastern end of the Mall.

Even if you have your own vehicle, it’s better not to attempt to use it to visit Landour: trips to Landour landmarks like Chaar Dukaan, St Paul’s and Sisters Bazaar necessitate going through the very narrow and precipitously steep alleys of Landour Bazaar. For Landour, hire a cab, or walk, if you’re ready for the steep climb.

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The Chinese fishing nets at Fort Kochi in the Kerala city of Kochi (aka Cochin) are one of the tourist attractions that draw visitors in their hundreds, cameras at the ready, to observe what's now a rather lame performance. Whilst they were once a major…Read More

The Chinese fishing nets at Fort Kochi in the Kerala city of Kochi (aka Cochin) are one of the tourist attractions that draw visitors in their hundreds, cameras at the ready, to observe what's now a rather lame performance. Whilst they were once a major source of fish for the local fish market, there seem to be rather slim pickings these days – though that might be because the fishermen are dipping the nets in and out of the water in order to maximise the tips from tourists.

On our first visit to Kochi 8 or 9 years back, we were with an organised tour and obediently gathered round to watch the fishermen do their stuff. This time we were alone, just my husband and I, and we didn't feel the need to put them through their paces though I was still intending to get plenty of photos.

The Chinese fishing nets are unusual in being a land-based form of sea fishing situated on wooden jetties stretching over the sea. Rather than casting lines from the coast or sailing off in a boat and dropping nets, the traditional Kerala way of fishing used large land-based nets which are dipped into the water, left for a while and then raised, trapping the fish in the large net. Four long bamboo poles are joined together at their tops and the nets are attached to the bottom to give a large, square netted area. The four are joined to at a fifth longer pole which is weighted with rocks and has ropes attached to it and is used to raise or lower the nets.

It's not clear why these are known as Chinese fishing nets but it's assumed that the technique was imported to India by a Chinese explorer called Zheng He but there seems to be little proof of the origin.

Each fishing net has around half a dozen men to work it – or these days, to collect the tips from the tourists. That might sound scathing but this is one of those sights that's worth parting with some cash to get a full understanding of what's going on. Yes, it can be a bit cheesy – or maybe I should say 'fishy' – but it's still worth seeing and getting some photos. We visited out of the main tourist season and escaped the nagging of the fishermen, easily brushing off those who tried to lure us to a fishing performance by telling them that we'd been before. I was actually just as interested to take a walk around the seafront fish stalls, many of them selling fish so fresh they were still gasping and seafood so fresh it was still moving.

We had to meet our driver a few minutes later so we couldn't take advantage of the offers of fabulous fish and shellfish but we gathered that nobody actually expected us to just buy raw fish. If we wanted to buy, they would take us to a nearby café to get the food cooked. I wish we had taken advantage of this as we subsequently went to an absolutely awful street-side restaurant and missed the chance to have something potentially really good.

As well as the fish market, there are numerous people with or without small stalls or trolleys trying to sell all sorts of things. I bought a collapsible hat for a friend who burns easily because our driver insisted this was his friend and we didn't have the heart to not take something whilst we were passing the time whilst we waited for our driver. The area around the fishing nets should be good for a bit of people watching but does require an ability to avoid too much discussion with people who are trying to sell you things you don't really want.   Close

In the early 14th century, the Delhi Sultan Alauddin Khalji constructed a walled city that he named Siri. Siri’s fortifications (some of which can still be seen, and lend their name to the area known as Siri Fort) were built mainly to keep out Timur…Read More

In the early 14th century, the Delhi Sultan Alauddin Khalji constructed a walled city that he named Siri. Siri’s fortifications (some of which can still be seen, and lend their name to the area known as Siri Fort) were built mainly to keep out Timur and his invading armies. To provide water to the large settlement of Siri, Alauddin Khalji got a huge watertank created. This, named after the Sultan, was called the Hauz-e-Alai (‘hauz’ meaning ‘tank’ or ‘pool’).

As the decades passed by, the capital shifted (Delhi’s Sultans were notorious for creating new cities, often with each successive ruler building his own fortified city as a means of demonstrating his sovereignty). The population of Siri thinned, and the hauz gradually silted up. Fortunately for the hauz, in the 1350s, Delhi came under the rule of the Sultan Firozshah Tughlaq, a man renowned today as a major constructor and conservator – he built many monuments, and repaired a large number (including the Qutb Minar), during his reign. Firozshah Tughlaq took a great deal of interest in Alauddin Khalji’s old hauz, and gave it a new lease of life by having it excavated anew, adding channels, and desilting the tank. The tank was now named the ‘Hauz Khas’, the ‘royal tank’.

Firozshah Tughlaq’s fascination with Hauz Khas did not end at that. He built a sprawling madrasa complex around the tank – an institution of higher education that attracted scholars from as far as Baghdad. And he built his own tomb as part of the complex.

Today, the Hauz Khas complex is protected by the Archaeological Survey of India, and is one of Delhi’s most important historical sites. It makes for a very rewarding walk (and free, too! – no entry fee is charged). Plus, the stretch leading into the Hauz Khas historical area, known as Hauz Khas Village, is one of Delhi’s poshest places to shop, dine, groove, and be seen.

This is a very small and restricted area, and the only people allowed to drive into the village are those who actually live in the village. All visitors must park in the car park outside, and then walk in. Thankfully, Hauz Khas Village is a small area, so you don’t need to walk more than about a couple of hundred metres to get to any place within the village. Do note, though, that this means that there’s a lot of vertical expansion, with many of the shops and restaurants here being built two or three (or even more) storeys above ground – and invariably without lifts. Be ready to climb stairs.

Hauz Khas has some fancy designer shops that sell clothing, jewellery, and accessories; there are also art galleries (the Delhi Art Gallery has a particularly fine collection), furniture and lifestyle stores, and a couple of delightful old shops that specialise in old paintings and posters – from 19th century etchings of India to old movie posters and lobby cards, both of Indian cinema and Hollywood.

Then, of course, there are the eateries of Hauz Khas Village. The village has no dearth of places to eat, and just about every popular cuisine in Delhi – Italian, French, fusion,
South Indian, Punjabi and North Indian, Oriental, and Mediterranean – is represented here. There are cafés, bistros, takeaway places – even a
tea room. None are really budget places, but many are fairly affordable. Try and go early (about 12.30 or 1 for lunch, around 8 for dinner) if you want to avoid the fashionable crowds that descend on the area for late meals.

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While we were eating at the Ahdoo’s Restaurant in Srinagar, we happened to overhear a conversation at a neighbouring table. A family of tourists—almost certainly from somewhere in North India—were trying to make guesses about what a wazwaan was. Someone suggested it was a Kashmiri…Read More

While we were eating at the Ahdoo’s Restaurant in Srinagar, we happened to overhear a conversation at a neighbouring table. A family of tourists—almost certainly from somewhere in North India—were trying to make guesses about what a wazwaan was. Someone suggested it was a Kashmiri thali (a fixed meal, everything served together in one large platter, per individual). Someone else said no, it was the name given to Kashmiri cuisine per se.

Not really. A wazwaan is the name given to a Kashmiri feast—and not just any feast, but the feast, the trotting out of all of Kashmir’s best foods. The occasions for a wazwaan can be varied: a wedding, an engagement, any other major celebration.

When my family lived in Srinagar for 3 years (I was 12 years old when we left), we were once invited to our landlord’s home for a wazwaan: his wife’s younger sister was getting engaged. The hosts lived upstairs; we lived on the ground floor below them. For two days, beginning at dawn, preparations were underway in our huge backyard—it was the only place large enough to accommodate the waza (the head chef), his platoon of commis, and their many cauldrons. Five large sheep were decapitated (ceremonially, using the ‘halaal’ method to render them pure for consumption by the Muslim family). About 20 chickens were slaughtered. The sheep were skinned and hung on the bare peach trees of our yard. Spices were ground and fried; the meat was pounded by hand in mortar and pestle, kilos of rice were cleaned and picked, and all day long on the second day—the day of the feast—we were surrounded by the aromas of Muslim Kashmiri food.

That evening, we went upstairs and were quickly segregated. Papa was ushered into the large hall where the rest of the men were seated. My mum, my sister and I were taken into the ladies’ hall and seated. And seated, not at tables, but at dastarkhaans, long white runner-like sheets laid out on a floor completely covered with carpets.Dastarkhaans are similar to dining tables in that your plate sits on it; you are seated opposite to, and beside, fellow diners; and condiments—in the case of a wazwaan, lots of plain yoghurt, a chutney made of walnuts, and a relish of tomatoes and raw onions—are placed on it. And all your food is served right there.

The traditional Kashmiri way of eating at a wazwaan is from a taraami: a very large platter, on a raised base (like a cake plate) is placed in such a way as to serve as a common dinner plate for four people. The taraami comes heaped with cooked rice, and the wait staff (the waza’s assistants) serve four portions of each dish, onto the heap of rice—with each portion set a little aside from the others. You eat with your fingers, making sure you don’t touch the portions of your neighbours. Since mum, my sister and I weren’t Kashmiris and might have felt odd sharing a taraami with a stranger, we were given actual dinner plates, each heaped with rice. I don’t remember exactly how that feast proceeded. I do know that my father later discovered that the traditional wazwaan consists of about 36 dishes—and that we all agreed that yes, there could well have been 36 courses served up on our platefuls of rice.

I do remember, though, that there was meat. Lots and lots and lots of it. The waza’s assistants would whisk past behind us, leaning over to deftly ladle gravy and meat over our shoulders, onto the plate or taraami. I do know we ate rista (very fine meatballs in a spicy gravy), roganjosh (meat in a red curry); aab gosht (meat cooked in milk, with a few mild, fragrant spices); tabakmaaz (ribs, simmered in a mutton stock and then deep-fried to a crackly crisp); and many, many more dishes. I remember a fashionable and obviously wealthy Kashmiri lady sitting next to us, probably watching us struggle to consume all we’d been served—and I remember her smile as she pushed forward a large bowl of yoghurt, saying: "Have some of this. It helps digest the meat. And don’t eat the rice. It’s only meant to wipe your hands on between different types of meat". I remember thinking back later on that meal and trying to recall any vegetarian dishes. Even the spinach, I remembered, had tiny meatballs in it. (I eventually did remember two vegetarian dishes in all that flood of meat: kidney beans cooked in a tomato and onion gravy; and chaaman, known throughout India as paneer). That was it. If you weren’t a meat-eater, a wazwaan would leave you fairly hungry. Papa—a couple of days later—was chatting with our landlord and happened to comment on the large amount of meat. The gentleman then shared a secret: that the consumption of meat is calculated at the rate of 1.5 (yes, one and a half!) kilos of meat per diner.

That wazwaan, like all traditional wazwaans, ended with the pièce de resistance: the gushtaba. This is a large meatball, about the size of a grapefruit, made by pounding—for hours—mutton, fat, and mild spices, especially cardamom. Once the meat paste is as fine as silk, it’s moulded into large meatballs and cooked in a yoghurt gravy. A good gushtaba is the sign of a great waza—and so, while the waza’s assistants serve the rest of the meal, the waza himself serves the gushtaba.

That, therefore, is what a wazwaan is about. As a dessert, you may be served firni, a rice pudding made from ground rice cooked in lightly sweetened thickened milk. And, as a grand finale, you’ll certainly get kehwa, the local Kashmiri green tea that’s brewed with cardamom and cassia bark (and, for an occasion grand enough to merit a wazwaan, probably with a generous garnish of almond slivers and a few threads of Kashmir saffron in each cup.)

You’re unlikely to find yourself being treated to a regular wazwaan unless you happen to be a very special guest at a household that’s hosting one. But you can get a taste of some of the stars of a traditional wazwaan, like a rista, gushtaba, tabakmaaz or roganjosh in several restaurants in Srinagar (I recommend Ahdoo’s). Don’t miss the opportunity.

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While Lutyens, Baker and their retinue of architects, town planners, contractors and builders were creating the area that was to house the governmental structures of New Delhi, they also had to keep in mind the fact that a large number of British (and Westernised Indian)…Read More

While Lutyens, Baker and their retinue of architects, town planners, contractors and builders were creating the area that was to house the governmental structures of New Delhi, they also had to keep in mind the fact that a large number of British (and Westernised Indian) officials would be moving to this new city. For them, accommodation was already being built—many bungalows that still form Lutyens’s Delhi, for example—but a commercial complex befitting their status would be appropriate too. For a high official to live in New Delhi and have to go to Chandni Chowk to shop would have been inconvenient. And Chandni Chowk and its environs, while the ultimate in exotica, were bereft of much that was fashionable.

What resulted, therefore, was Connaught Place.

The Delhi Town Committee’s Chief Architect, WH Nicholls, was the man who came up with the idea of creating an arcade that would function as a commercial hub for New Delhi. Modelled on the Royal Crescent in Bath (in England), this would be a set of colonnaded buildings, all double-storeyed. The ground floor would house commercial establishments, such as shops, restaurants and cinemas; the first floor would be given over to residences. The land—between Old and New Delhi—for this commercial centre was acquired in 1928; by then Nicholls had left, so his successor, RT Russell (who designed many of the most important residential buildings in Lutyens’s Delhi) was given the task of designing this complex.

Between 1929 and 1934, construction proceeded on the commercial complex. It was named after the Duke of Connaught (who was uncle to King George V, and who had visited Delhi in 1921). Certain changes were made over time to the design of the complex. For example, the seven radial roads that fan out like the spokes of a wheel from the centre of the complex were originally supposed to be covered by archways. This idea was eventually dropped. What remains today is a vast circular area, consisting of two concentric circles of white-painted buildings, which form three distinct sections: the Inner Circle, the Middle Circle, and the Outer Circle (they’re actually officially and popularly known as that too). Between the concentric circles run major roads, which intersect with minor radial roads after every block of buildings.

The first shops—a gentlemen’s tailors, a toyshop, bookshops—began opening in Connaught Place in 1935. In 1932, Connaught Place’s first cinema (Regal, then also a venue for ballet and theatre performances, and concerts) had opened, to be followed a year later by another cinema, Plaza. By the end of the decade, more cinemas: Odeon, Rivoli and the Indian Talkie House—had opened. (Nearly all of these still exist, although they’ve been taken over by big companies and turned into multiplex cinemas).

In the large open space in its centre, Connaught Place originally had the aptly-named Central Park. This is still around, and is occasionally used for concerts and performances of dance and music. More well-known is Palika Bazaar, also in the centre. This is an underground marketplace, crowded with small shops that primarily deal in electronics and DVDs, especially of Indian cinema.

Till a couple of decades ago, Connaught Place was the hub of Delhi’s shopping and restaurants. Today, ever since more malls and markets (Khan Market, Greater Kailash, etc) have mushroomed, the number of people coming to Connaught Place—or CP, as it’s universally known—has fallen. You’ll still find the old restaurants here (including ones dating back to the 40s); you’ll still come across delightful finds in the old bookshops; and Palika Bazaar is the place to go if you’re looking for the DVD of an obscure Hindi film. Plus, there are vendors who sell odds and ends (especially very cheap clothing) in the shelter of the arcades.

Even if you don’t care to come to CP to shop or dine out, it’s worth a visit just for a feel of how so many elements come together in this one space. The white-painted Georgian arcades, with their very colonial arches, are delightfully old world; the plush new office buildings towering behind them are very modern. Thrown into this cocktail is everything from cinema to food (roadside stalls, KFC, Pizza Hut, and CP’s oldest restaurants)—to books, handicrafts, souvenirs, banks, airlines, travel agents, and more. It’s quite an experience.

Note: The official name of Connaught Place is now Rajiv Chowk, after India’s late prime minister, Rajiv Gandhi. Except for the Delhi Metro (for which the hub is the Rajiv Chowk Metro Station), nobody really refers to it as anything but CP or Connaught Place.

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S is for SpicesKerala is the spice state of India, benefiting from lots of sun and rain and a superb climate for things to grow. We visited a spice garden near Munnar and even small towns have spice shops, with the larger cities groaning under…Read More

S is for Spices

Kerala is the spice state of India, benefiting from lots of sun and rain and a superb climate for things to grow. We visited a spice garden near Munnar and even small towns have spice shops, with the larger cities groaning under the weight of little packets of chillies, cardamoms, pepper, cinnamon and spice mixes like garam masala.

T is for Thekkady

Thekkady is another high altitude town and the jumping off point for the Periyar wildlife park, lake and tiger reserve. We didn't see any of these – I think our driver was stressed about us being put in a crazy hotel over an hour's drive from the town and he wanted to get there before it got dark (because he didn't know where he was going). There are some fabulous luxury hotels, lots of elephant-things to do and plenty of shops. But that's about it.

U is for Unionisation

I already mentioned under G that the communists have run Kerala for many years and consequently a lot of the workers are in unions. One Kashmiri shop keeper told us about his uncle who came to visit and refused to ever return after being royally ripped off by the porterage charges at the airport. He told us that in Kerala you can't haggle about prices for services as much as elsewhere because drivers, porters, dhobiwalas, etc have formed unions and won't undercut each other. We certainly found that a lot of tuk tuk drivers weren't open for negotiation – if you wouldn't pay their price, they wouldn't take you. Fortunately not all were so inflexible but it's good to know roughly what you should pay and then stick to your guns, even if it means having to ask 2 or 3 drivers before you get one that'll take your price.

V is for Vasco da Gama

St Francis Church in Cochin is also known as the Vasco da Gama church. I was surprised to learn that I could see Vasco da Gama's tomb because I had a sneaky suspicion I'd seen it before – in Lisbon. Sure enough, poor old Vasco was buried in St Francis, the oldest church in India after he die in 1524 on his third trip to India. Then a few years later his body was taken back to Lisbon and put in a beautiful tomb in the church next to the Jeronimos Monastery.

W is for Water

There's a lot of water in Kerala – the coast, the backwaters with their islands of reclaimed lands, waterfalls throughout the mountains and rather a lot of rain.

X is for Ex-pat houses

Throughout the mountains we saw lots of enormous fancy houses, often set in large garden plots. Very rarely was there much evidence that anyone actually lived there. We asked Beena in Cochin what this was all about and she explained that most of these houses were built with money sent back to the families by relatives working in the Gulf. She told us that if you build a big house with your money, you can pretty much guarantee good marriage offers for all your daughters. It seems a shame that the best houses are mostly just for show. Ironically, you see similar behaviour in the countryside of Portugal where relatives go to Brazil and send back money to build big villas. In contrast to the grandeur of the ex-pat houses, I saw one little house, not much bigger than a garage with a neatly painted little sign that said 'Lal Bhawan'. My Hindi is pretty poor but I'm pretty sure that means 'precious palace'.

Y is for Yes

If someone asks you if you want to go to Kerala – well that's the answer "Yes, of course"

Z is for ZigZags

Yes, another tenuous one but the mountains do have a lot of hair-pin bends.
So that's your lot. What are you waiting for? Kerala is one of the least hasslesome states of India, the people are friendly but not pushy, the food is excellent and inexpensive and the scenery is spectacular. There aren't too many states where you can spend time on the beach, time on a converted rice-barge floating around on the backwaters, and get to high altitude and see fabulous mountains and hang out with elephants.
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H is for Hill StationsThroughout India when the weather gets hot, those who can afford to head for the hills. With altitude comes respite from the heat and for Kerala the most famous of the Hill Stations is Munnar though Wikipedia lists 16 different Kerala…Read More

H is for Hill Stations

Throughout India when the weather gets hot, those who can afford to head for the hills. With altitude comes respite from the heat and for Kerala the most famous of the Hill Stations is Munnar though Wikipedia lists 16 different Kerala Hill Stations. Munnar is the least overtly 'British' hill station that we've visited and it's not actually a terribly attractive place. However it does have lots of great scenery, some interesting and some ridiculously bizarre attractions and it's certainly a lot cooler than down by the sea.

I is for Irritating Sales People

OK, it's fair to say that this applies to most of India and not just Kerala. There is little more annoying that being followed round a shop by someone trying to be helpful but most of the time just stating the 'bleedin' obvious'. If your eye should glance a moment to long in one direction, they'll be there telling you what it is, whether you're interested or not. I always feel like they think I'm going to shop lift. The fact that you express absolutely no interest and sometimes even state explicitly that you don't care what the price is you wouldn't give house room to the ugly macramé elephant will not come between the irritating sales person and his or her determination to sell you things that you don't want.

J is for Jewtown

Jewtown is the district of Kochi in the direct vicinity of the Paradesi Synagogue, an area which was once inhabited by the wealthy, historic Jewish community but is now mostly filled with shops run or owned by Kashmiri traders. The Paradesi Jews are a dying community with no prospect to make it beyond the middle of the 21st century because they've been so exclusive about not marrying outside their community and the only remaining woman of child bearing age refuses to wed her cousins. We were there on a Friday, the worst possible day if you want to see the Synagogue because it's closed but the best day to do a bit of shopping because nobody goes there when the Synagogue isn't open. We spent a lovely few hours eating, drinking and chatting to the most relaxed bunch of low-hassle shop keepers in the sub-continent. I have a weakness for Kashmiris and their stores because they always have the best stock and as a rule are utterly charming.

K is for Kathikali

If you only take away one piece of advice from this review let it be this – life is too short and too precious to watch Kathikali dancing. It's the most ridiculous form of dance I've seen anywhere in the world and also the most boring (though the Catalan 'Sardana' comes close). We went to a demonstration the first time we went to Kerala and vowed never to do it again. Our driver – the man who bullied us into Ayurvedic massage - worked out very quickly that whilst we were probably the most laid-back and amenable clients he'd ever had, when we said 'NO KATHIKALI' we meant it.

L is for the Lack of Beggars

I know, bizarre, but we didn't see a single beggar in Kerala. It might be something to do with the state having the highest level of education and literacy anywhere in India and a pretty good level of income, and no doubt being on the coast with direct flights to the Middle East means a lot of money comes into the state from families sending a son or two to the Gulf to earn money.

M is for moustaches

Every good Keralan man has a moustache. To be more precise, every good Keralan man has the SAME moustache. It's an excellent bushy thing that goes all across the top of the lip and droops a bit down either side.

N is for the Nilgiri Tahr

The Nilgiri Tahr is a goat that lives in Eravikulam National Park, quite possibly the lamest national park in India and they have some pretty daft one. Despite the park being massive, you're only allowed to walk along one piece of tarmac path which is about half a mile long. So we waited over an hour to get the bus from the ticket office to the park, paid ten times more than the locals, walked half a mile, saw a goat, walked back, waited an hour for another bus and then went back to Munnar. The goat was nice enough – I suspect it was fed in the same spot every day to ensure people got to see one – and it must have been a deaf goat to put up with dozens of Indians shouting "Oy, look! It's a goat, let's shout at it".

O is for Orange Pekoe

The mountainsides of Kerala are coated in tea bushes which look like fuzzy green corduroy. We visited the Kolukkumalai tea estate and were shown around the factory which produces the highest altitude organic tea in the world. The standard quality grade is known as BOP or Broken Orange Pekoe. OK, it's a tenuous 'O is for' but it's the only one I could think of.

P is for Pancakes

Beena's husband at the homestay in Cochin makes the most fabulous Kerala pancakes. We had them on the rice barge we stayed on on the backwaters but didn't realise just how wonderful they could be. Sudi's fresh hot pancakes stuffed with sweet coconut paste were so good that I ate four – I think my husband ate six. If there had been more I think we'd have eaten those too.

Q is for Quiet Places

In a very loud country, it's hard to find quiet places and the most typical sound is that of car horns blaring. We stayed in four different place in Kerala and every one was quiet and peaceful. I slept like a log.

R is for Roman Catholicism

You can almost always tell the religion of a driver in India by looking at what's dangling off his rear view mirror or sitting on the dashboard. Our driver Shijo asked us on the first morning in his broken English "Madame is Arsey?" - Yes, I thought to myself, perhaps she is but that's not the way to go about getting a good tip. Then the penny dropped – Arsey – RC – Roman Catholic. So not quite so insulting after all. The strange thing about Kerala Roman Catholicism is that even the new churches (we saw one built only a few years ago) have all their icons looking distinctly European. I've seen churches in Tamil Nadu where they've changed the skin colour to make the saints look a little more 'local' but oddly in Kerala they don't seem to do that. And we saw a LOT of churches.
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How to capture a week in Kerala without stretching to the world's longest review? Well it's a tried and tested technique of mine to force myself to stick to an alphabet structure. We were in Kerala - visiting Kochi, Munnar, Thekkady and the backwaters around…Read More

How to capture a week in Kerala without stretching to the world's longest review? Well it's a tried and tested technique of mine to force myself to stick to an alphabet structure. We were in Kerala - visiting Kochi, Munnar, Thekkady and the backwaters around Allepey in November 2011. Here's my A to Z.

A is for Ayurveda

Having an Ayurvedic massage in the hill town of Munnar was one of the most painful and uncomfortable experiences I've had in India – only slightly preferable to diarrhoea or a railway station toilet. However the general principles of Ayurveda are sound – and a lot less reliant on mumbo jumbo, mathematical improbability and faith than its more popular and better known cousin, homeopathy. Ayurveda is an Indian system of traditional herbal and mineral healthcare which is also popular in Sri Lanka. We spent a painful hour being beaten up by an Ayurvedic masseur and masseuse in a small centre and it took me about three days to shake off the aches and pains. It's entirely possible that my chakras were beautifully realigned but I felt like I'd done 9 rounds with Mohammed Ali.

B is for Beena's Homestay

When planning my trips to India – or anywhere else for that matter – I'm quite reliant on the recommendations of the tripadvisor website. The top tip I picked up for accommodation in Kerala's major city Cochin (or Kochi) was Beena's Homestay. Beena and her husband let spotlessly clean but simple rooms in their home, feed you 'til you think you'll burst each evening, and offer a lovely alternative to budget hotels. Yes, of course a full review will follow but for now, let's just say this is the best bargain in southern India and a chance to stay with some of the nicest, kindest people you'll ever meet.

C is for Cardamoms

I adore the taste of cardamoms – I put them in rather a lot of my cooking. They're one of those 'crossover' spices that can be used in sweet or savoury dishes, are ludicrously cheap and grow like weeds all over the hills of Kerala. I'd hazard a guess that most people wouldn't have a clue how they grow but if you go to Kerala you'll be told at least once a day and people will stop and point out cardamom plants by the road side. They grow on plants that look a bit like palms and are found on stringy growths near the base of the stem that look a bit like the aerial roots on orchids. I read somewhere that cardamom is the third most expensive spice in the world but that sounds ridiculous, especially since they grow like weeds all over the Kerala countryside.

D is for driving and drivers

The mountains of Kerala have horribly bad roads. If you ask whether they drive on the right or the left side of the road, the answer is neither; they drive wherever the pot holes are less deep. The tracks through the tea plantations around Munnar are shocking even in a four-wheel drive Jeep. Doing hair pin bends in reverse in a vehicle with the threads sticking out of the sidewalls of the tyres is for the brave or foolish.

E is for Elephants

Elephants are the state animal of Kerala and they have three thousand five hundred wild ones wandering around as well as massively more tamed beasts who work in the logging industry and tourism. We had a short ride in Thekkady and it was by far the best elephant ride I've had due to the lovely Nelly we had (her name was Lakshmi) and mostly due to the type of saddle used in Kerala. Unlike the more popular basket-style frames that are used in the tourists traps of Rajastan where you sit sideways in a metal cage that lurches from side to side, or the strange forward facing metal 'sofa' type seats in Thailand, the Keralans let you sit astride the elephant with a leg down either side and your feet on a metal bar with lots of padding between you and the elephant. It helps to be of above average height as short people and children can slip around if they can't reach the foot bars. Being astride the elephant offers some 'interesting' differences from the other seating types – most notably that when the elephant farts (which they do a lot – high fibre diet and all that) you can feel the entire elephant vibrate.

F is for Fishing and Fish

Kerala is a coastal state and they have the most fabulous fish which is typically presented as a spicy 'Kerala fish fry'. Whilst I normally eat strictly vegetarian food in India to avoid the risk of tummy upsets, I ate fish throughout Kerala, even up in the mountains and on the backwaters and I even had the odd prawn a couple of times on the coast.

Cochin is famous for its use of so-called 'Chinese fishing nets' – an historic form of fishing in which large stretched nets are dipped into the water and then raised out again by the use of counterweights. For a small fee the fisherman are more than happy to demonstrate their highly photogenic technique. The fish market beside the fishing nets offers even more good photo opportunities and a chance to get a really fresh lunch of dinner.

G is for Green and Gods Own Country

Kerala is green, very green. Why? Because it rains all the time up in the mountains and quite often down by the coast as well. It's astonishingly lush. The state slogan is 'God's Own Country' because it's a majority Christian state but in reality most of the time God has to share it with the Communists who until very recently dominated local politics. The Communist Party of India seems to rub along surprisingly well with the Church which is more than can be said in any of the other Communist strongholds or ex-strongholds around the world. My guess is that if you're a Christian and your choice of political parties is a bunch of Hindu or Muslim groups, your enemies enemy might just be your friend.
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