Kasauli in Monsoon – Pictures, Musings, and Attack of the Ravens

It’s been 12 years since I first visited Kasauli, in monsoon, no less. I was just a year into my first job. A writer. Writing felt like power. Power over words, over thoughts and people’s minds. Power I often found difficult to wield. And would be reminded by my bosses to not get carried away. I was also new to the world of travel; this was only my third trip as an adult. I was so enamoured by what I saw that my first reaction—which was more like a reflex action back then—was, naturally, to paint the sky using words rather than ink the paper.

What is about to follow is a classic case of “What I could.” instead of “Whether or not I should.” Which is just another way of saying I got carried away writing my first ever travelogue. I am not that person anymore. Looking back, even my writings have evolved, or so I hope. But it’s good to look back. Just sometimes.

Kasauli in Monsoon – The Misty Wonder

It’s true, when it comes to travelling for pleasure, we Indians have always had a fancy for quantification. We are always measuring.

“Wahan kya hai?” In English which translates to “What’s there to see?”

But actually meaning “You’re wasting your time!”

Even when this trip was in conception, the baby was declared to be born with a disability. Kasauli, a quaint little hill station in the Solan District of the Indian state of Himachal Pradesh, as it was laid down upon us countless number of times, was just not a child you’d like to be a proud parent to. Shimla, Manali, and the likes were the popular ones, delivering the goods, scoring well. Immaculate in their beauty, no doubt, but bustling with more footfalls than the natural order can afford to bear on its chest.

Granted, that time is not always at our leisure. And that, in our super-fast-paced lives we’ve gotten so accustomed to human company that no matter where we go it finds us. Moving outside the crowd to back in its lap again, such is the irony. But if quietude is what you seek then take a left towards Kasauli, instead of going straight towards Shimla. And you’ll know the things you’ve not known before. See the sights you’ve not seen before. Come across a valley flourishing amidst the sheet of clouds. As if God himself put forth to hide it from the exploits of more waiting-to-be-parents, waiting to turn this virgin piece of strip into a moolah-making chaperone.

For here, the ravens roam about and caw as if they own the very air. The cottoned clouds bequeath their thrones to come down to mingle with the commoners, whispering sweet nothings. Here, the tender rustles and playful chirps weave a sense of calming duality, where you feel altogether content, and yet are impregnated with a keen desire to go places, conquer it all. And here, at this misty wonder, you just be. Closer to earth, closer to yourself. If only you’ll give nature a chance to sing its melody, and have ears to listen to the wonders that go beyond.

The Attack of the Ravens

Ravens can remember human faces. They can hold grudges against us. Hell, they can even plan for the future. And boy, I wish I knew this before I let out a guffaw mocking a raven for what I thought was a very funny-sounding caw. I went on to regret that. The raven in question had “obviously” taken it rather personally. And had “obviously” circulated the information, along with my picture, among its kin. How else would I have explained to my friends the sudden animosity from the ravens I found myself at the receiving end of? A “possible” bounty had been put on my head. There is no other explanation for it. For why, out of nowhere, and too many times to ignore, a raven would fly threateningly close to my head, I would trip, and the rest of them would burst out cawing.

Ravens are vengeful creatures inspired by Alfred Hitchcock’s and Edgar Allen Poe’s works. They are not to be trifled with or insulted under any circumstances, least of all laughed at. I learned it the hard way. Now you don’t have to.