Grime, grub and the great forgetting

Nainital was finally within reach. After months of Delhi's relentless clutter, I was quite desperate to step away-to unclog the lungs, unhook the mind, and remember what real air felt like.

- RENÉE RANCHAN

I had been longing for Nainital: the lake, the mountains, the Kumaoni cuisine, the promise of a gentler rhythm...so my husband and I boarded the train to the hill station with the naïve optimism of people who believe they will see the world through a bay window-a wide, sweeping Himalayan panorama worthy of a travel brochure.

What we got instead was a pane so thickly layered with coagulated grime that it resembled an archaeological specimen. The only "view" was a murky blur, and every now and then, the ghostly outline of a discarded chips packet stuck to the outside like a malevolent decal. Romance, as they say, died quietly in Coach C.

The journey itself was a catalogue of all that we Indians excel at: littering with a flourish, eating with gusto, and treating the landscape as though it were a communal dustbin. Plastic bottles rolled under seats as though auditioning for a ballet. Empty packets floated along the tracks like urban tumbleweed. One feels a certain patriotic sting-we are, undeniably, a nation of litterbugs, and we execute that role with unfailing enthusiasm!

When the train, at long last, chugged into the Kathgodam station, the ordeal began. Taxi drivers descended upon us like a wellorganised cavalry regiment, each quoting a fare with the studied confidence of someone quoting scripture. One man claimed he would take us to Nainital in "record time", which, judging by the vehicle, meant the record might be set by gravity rather than horsepower. Nevertheless, we chose one, bundled ourselves in, and surrendered to the ascent.