I first heard of Binsar in the Kumaon hills of Uttarakhand over three decades back.
Arun Singh, an erstwhile minister in Rajiv Gandhi’s Council of Ministers and a trusted friend of the late prime minister, had then forsaken worldly pursuits to disappear in its mountainous heights.
Many years later, even at then foreign minister Jaswant Singh’s behest, he didn’t resurface in public life. My curiosity about Binsar heightened with time.
The place had managed to hold this man, a person with experience in varied dimensions of life, for so long a spell. A royal pedigree, corporate accomplishment, political proximity at the highest level – Arun Singh laid claim to these and more. To forsake it all and melt into oblivion had me curious.
Tracing a Recluse
Last week, I finally reached Binsar. The drive from Delhi was long and often tedious.
Upon reaching the destination, I discovered that Arun Singh had moved to the plains I had travelled from. His abode for decades, within the precinct of the Binsar Wildlife Sanctuary, now served as a lodge.
It was, however, easy to appreciate how one could stay captivated by Binsar’s exalting landscape.
Framing the sanctuary are the snowcapped peaks of the Himalayas. Most prominent among them is Nanda Devi, and at a distance, Trishul. At night, the stars thickly carpeting the inky black skies are so mesmerising that one ceases to notice the icy chill of the mountain air. There exist but a dozen or so hospitality facilities and private residences within the precinct of the sanctuary. These are scattered sparingly amid the luxuriant green of the mountainsides.
It would be easy to get lost. It is even easier to want to get lost. Arun Singh’s reclusive decades seemed understandable.
There were others before him as I discovered during my stay that had been seduced by Binsar.
The inn where I put up was originally built in the late nineteenth century as the residence of a commissioner of the region. Sir Henry Ramsey, a cousin of the last British Governor General Lord Dalhousie, was ‘Ram ji sahib’ in local parlance. A legendary administrator in this region, he prided in being referred to as ‘King of the Kumaon’. The lavish estate he built, Binsur Orchard as it was then known, is nestled amid oak and rhododendron trees with commanding views of the surrounding valleys.
Across the hill stands the Mary Budden estate. Erected in 1899, it retains the name of the missionary who built it. It is now run as a resort.
Meandering along the edge of the hill in the direction of the Nanda Devi peak is the Binsar Forest Retreat, once known as Edinpur after Major Edin, an Englishman who had settled here. Beyond that is Nine Furlongs, another lodge formerly known as the Nanda Devi Estate. It was then home to Mukti Dutta, an activist who garnered immense respect among the local populace.
Arun Singh’s cottage, an outhouse in Mukti Dutta’s estate, is part of the hospitality facility now.
The Climb to 'Zero Point' and Back
Locals tout a visit to ‘Zero Point’ as a ‘must do’ in Binsar. This location, one is told, offers glorious views of the snow-clad peaks that surround the sanctuary. Further enquiry revealed that the trek commenced in proximity of Simba Cafe, a hub created for tourists near the meadow where the sixteenth century Bineshwar Mahadev temple is located.
A casual wave in response to my query by an employee at the cafe as to where to commence the trek from got me started in the direction of the surrounding jungle. The wide path I embarked on narrowed as one progressed up the hill. Thicket encroached upon the trail and gradually every step necessitated deliberation.
One briefly stopped at the arched gateway framing the dilapidated boundary wall of Dr Govan’s Estate, itself since given to neglect. This property was built in the nineteenth century by the man whose name it is still known by.
A cow tied near the outhouses mooed in response to my effort at a ‘selfie’ on the terraced landscape overlooking the meadow below.
This respite was followed by attempting the obtuse as the climb became steeper hereon. I trudged through the foliage, waving my cane to clear the path. At points, I’d sink the stick in the ground to assess the firmness of the soil through the layers of dried leaves and bark that carpeted the path. Elsewhere, one heaved over solid rock outcrops that decided both climb and direction.
Somewhere at the back of my mind, as the undergrowth obscured sunlight, lurked fear derived of the innkeeper’s mention of leopards in the forest.
Finally, the endless deodars rose in a frame of blue sky – and a peak was thus defined. I forgot my exhaustion momentarily. A newfound spring launched my stride in the direction of a clearing. Ahead, a family of four hunched around snacks spread on a bench looked up as my shadow slid past them.
“Good afternoon,” a rotund middle-aged lady among them cheerily greeted me. Breathless as I was, I returned her greeting.
I was perplexed since I didn’t recall anyone ahead or behind me on the hour-long trek I just concluded. Voices interrupted my thoughts – and I turned to see another group of four or five youngsters alighting from the viewing station built atop a corner of the clearing. I climbed up the steps wearily to be surrounded by a breathtaking view of the snow-clad Himalayas.
The crackle of voices from beneath distracted me and my gaze returned to immediate proximity. A dozen tourists of varied ages, conversing animatedly in Bengali, were approaching the staircase to the pavilion from a path to my immediate right. A closer look revealed the path that wound gently up the hill along a slope even a baby could have sauntered along.
My puzzled sensibilities at the end of what had for me been a treadmill test were drowned in this cacophony that surrounded me now.
After a long last gaze at the distant peaks, shrouded in respectable white, I trailed one of these groups to amble down the hill. In the distance, I noticed numerous vehicles awaiting them on a road not too far.
Saving the Lakes of the Kumaon
As one travels down the higher reaches of the Kumaon, lakes that dot the naturally formed troughs amid the lower hills are the region’s prime characteristic.
Naini, Naukuchia, Sukha, Garur... these 'tals' or water bodies are variously named, largely drawing identity from the Hindu epics. Time and development during the colonial period have lent further definition.
I broke journey at Bhimtal on the way back from Binsar.
A little town sits around this lake that is the first along the road from the plains.
Given that the colonial rulers favoured Nainital, Bhimtal has largely grown post-Independence. And has it grown!
The hillsides around the lake are layered with buildings. Shops plaster the approach to the town and away from it. This construction sprawl competes with the vehicular onslaught that Bhimtal, like most other hill stations, faces. Narrow roads that define the town are lined with cars. In the absence of effective mass transit, there is evidently little choice but to resort to one’s own devices.
The National Family Health Survey of 2019-21 records household vehicular ownership in hill states like Uttarakhand and Himachal Pradesh at 12.7 percent and 22.1 percent, respectively, versus a national average of 7.5 percent.
This unplanned densification is severely straining the region’s ecosystem.
India’s colonial masters who identified and built the hill stations evolved a strategy encompassing urban and architectural aspects of development. Post-Independence, successive governments have not been able to keep pace with growth of population and public aspirations.
We have witnessed unmitigated disasters that have caused tremendous damage, occurring at increased frequency over past decades. Be it the calamitous mudslide in 1998 in Pithoragarh, the widespread flooding in 2013 or the recent land subsidence in Joshimath, there is an obvious dissonance between nature and the manner of growth in the region.
The British espoused a model derived of topography and based on hierarchy of function, and often, status. In Simla, the summer capital of the Raj, a street designated as the Mall defined the primary artery in the hill station. Public buildings and points of interaction were located here and, on a clearing, referred to as the Ridge that rose above it. This then variously branched into offshoots along the terrain wherein residential cottages, hostels, and service facilities were located.
A hierarchy of vehicular movement and a classification of usage and density in the present-day context would serve these towns well. More so, given that the landscape is stressed by uncontrolled and chaotic growth.
While walking from Bhimtal to the nine-cornered lake Naukuchia, I shared a road with all manner of vehicular traffic. Commercial outlets, hospitality ventures, and eateries jostled for attention. The fact that walks and trails within hilly terrain could be highlighted for pedestrian delight is evidently beyond the administrative imagination here.
At sunset, I sat appreciating the resplendence of the lake from the terrace of my lodge that sits atop an adjacent hill. Automobiles lined the surrounding roads in serpentine queues. Their lights, reflecting in the dark waters of the lake, laced it akin to a necklace. From the distance I had benefit of, it looked beautiful.
It would be a sad day indeed when hill stations like Bhimtal look better in photographs than on a visit.
In the Plains
The car sloped into the plains at Kathgodam. After negotiating the dense streets of Haldwani, I continued my journey towards Delhi via Rampur and Moradabad.
A break at either of these two places was a tempting preposition. At Rampur, the historic Raza Library was high on my list to visit. The deliberated restoration of a colonial bungalow at Moradabad into a heritage retreat was a point of intrigue. I drove on nonetheless, intent on addressing these indulgences on a future visit.
The excellent highway helped swallow the miles with ease. Towns that had been bottlenecks in the past were now left beneath as elevated bypasses floated over them.
Given approaching twilight, I decided to break journey at Bulandshahr where I stayed overnight at Fort Unchagaon, a heritage property shielded from the rigorous highway by acres of mango orchard.
Over a hundred years old, this building has secret chambers, underground passages, and multi-level terraces that ceaselessly fascinate me as they would anyone with a child-like imagination.
A century back, the living room at the resort could have populated a minor zoo. Taxidermied tigers and leopards shared pride of place with antique furniture.
I’d stare back easily into the large pupils of the big cats here. A day back, however, I was looking over my shoulder for the elusive leopard I was warned about. This, for me, exemplified the mystique of the mountains. The plains, extensively explored and exploited, no longer grant that aura.
Early morning found me a short drive away on the banks of the Ganges.
At places, the riverbank had caved in, its soil having weakened due to illegal sand mining. I walked with deliberation. The river itself was scarcely visible but for a portion lit up to allow for ongoing construction of a bridge to the other side.
Atop an outcrop along the path I followed to my vehicle, a priest readied for morning prayers. The chime of temple bells heralded the onset of a new day. First stirrings of village life evidenced as groups of farmers made their way towards the fields for a day of work.
An hour later, I revved the engine of my vehicle, and with a sense of closure, I headed back to Delhi for a day of work. The highway trailed behind me, a tarmac of memories.
(Rajesh Luthra is an architect in independent practice. Having graduated from Columbia University in New York City, he designs, writes and teaches in New Delhi.)
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