Grew up, left heart behind

Chander Mohan 

S PATU, or Subathu, is a small village-town in the Shimla Hills. A poor cousin of Kasauli, its only claim to fame has been the Gorkha Training Centre there. 

When we were in school, our vacation in the hot months were spent there. It was the summer home of my maternal grandparents, where Pitaji spent his time reading while Maaji tended to the house and the flowers.

There was no electricity in those days, no flush system in bathrooms and certainly no form of entertainment. Our daily excitement was to run 20 minutes to the bus stand to get a copy of The Tribune and the dak for Pitaji. 

Kingston Lodge was where we stayed through our summer break,  year after year. My parents eventually also bought a beautiful English-style house there, which blossomed with zinnias, roses, geraniums and such large dahlias that they are difficult to forget even today. 

But at that young age, all this was something we did not have an eye for and hence failed to appreciate its beauty. Occasionally, from a spot called do bumbe (two taps), we would, on a clear day, look longingly at the faraway twinkling lights of Shimla. But that city would have to wait. 

Spatu had nothing to offer to us, city kids. There was a small shop near the bus stand which sold lemon soda. At other times, we would run to the parade ground to watch the impressive march, but there was no interaction with military families. 

That is not to say there were no civilians around. Our granduncle, the venerable Prof GD Sondhi, and grandaunt Leela were one such family living in Spatu. We dreaded being invited to their house for a meal, the table was so cluttered one didn’t know how to handle the cutlery or the crockery.

Then there were Mr and Mrs Gardner who lived in a beautiful bungalow at the edge of a hill and Dr Khan who  we, as children, suspected had only one injection for all ailments!

Gradually electricity came, washrooms became modern and every night at 9, the family would gather to listen to the news on a transistor. Very occasionally, we would also catch Amin Sayani’s golden voice on Binaca Geetmala. 

And suddenly it all came to an end. The young ones flew away. The grandparents became too old to travel and gradually died. The houses got sold and we lost our connection with Spatu. 

Or so we thought. But Spatu never really left us because it shaped our childhood. We never valued it then, but now my cousins and I realise just how significant our time spent there was. Our love for the hills, outdoors, and nature was unknowingly ingrained during our days there. 

I have never visited the town since,  but while travelling to Shimla and crossing Dharampur, the gaze automatically turns left to the winding road that leads to Spatu, hoping on a clear day to catch a glimpse of the roof of the first military barrack there.

In Jalandhar, I have a harsingar tree outside my bedroom. They say it was brought to earth by Lord Krishna. I claim no knowledge of such heavenly things, but I recollect from years gone by how its flower carpet emits a heavenly sweet fragrance. And yes, it reminds me of Spatu.