On Hikmet, Hill Stations, and a Colonial Hangover (Ch. 14)
Beloved readers,
First and foremost, accept my sincere apologies for the delay. Though I've been busy writing this past month, regrettably, none of it was fit for the pages of Ink-uilab (yet). Initially, I envisioned this chapter to encapsulate two fascinating topics, hill-stations, musical films (or filmy music - take your pick), each adorned with their share of poetic waxing. However, I seem to have exhausted the email size limit with just the former. So, consider this as a raincheck for the latter, to be discussed in a future chapter...
Watching me scramble to meet these arbitrary monthly deadlines must be amusing. To keep me trapped in this chronological hamster wheel, do subscribe if you haven't yet!
Without further ado, let’s set off. In this chapter, we begin in Wellington ascend the heights of India's colonial hill stations, investigating their enduring allure, and then descend into the intoxicating depths of Nâzım Hikmet's evocative verse,
An Indian-Connection
Envision our delighted astonishment when, during a recent road-trip through New Zealand, we found ourselves in the heart of Khandallah. Nestled amidst hills and valleys, this quaint neighbourhood located to the northeast of Wellington seemed like an unexpected echo from another world. This wouldn't have stirred any interest, but for us in the car, the name instantly stirred nostalgia for the hill station of Khandala - a archetypal summer retreat for Mumbai's residents.
Khandala permeates the Indian popular consciousness, immortalised in the playful Bollywood tune, Aati Kya Khandala (trans. will you come to Khandala?) from the film Ghulam (1998) starring a young Aamir Khan and Rani Mukherjee.
Our curiosity, naturally, was ignited. Could there be a tangible thread linking this Khandallah across the globe to Khandala we visited frequently in our youth?
The origins of the name can be traced back to a homestead christened 'Khandallah Homestead,' erected in 1884. The popular theory is that the homestead owes its name to the nostalgia of a former veterinary surgeon that served in the Bombay Light Cavalry. Captain Edward Battersbee, who settled in New Zealand on his Raj-alloted parcel of land, gave his homestead, and hence the suburb, its Indian moniker due to his previous stationing in India.
The Indian connection, however, isn't as clear-cut as one might wish. Despite numerous sources suggesting that Battersbee named the neighbourhood after his time stationed in India, the specifics remain shrouded in uncertainty. Numerous accounts, rather confusingly, propose that the Khandallah in question might be Khandela, located in the arid terrains of Rajasthan and not the verdant landscapes of Maharashtra's Khandala.
I’ve spent an embarrassingly long time researching the history of a random Kiwi suburb and the military career of Captain Battersbee. I'm inclined to believe that Battersbee's homestead was named after Khandallah in Maharashtra, not Rajasthan. Why? Well, several reasons.
The Bombay Light Cavalry, in which Battersbee served, was raised in Maharashtra, making it likely that he was familiar with the Khandala there.
The colonial fame of Khandallah as a hill station, a place of retreat and relaxation, aligns with the atmosphere one would want their homestead to embody. On the other hand, Khandela, Rajasthan, known for its hot summers, scanty rainfall, chilly winter season, and generally dry air, is not a likely candidate.
The physical resemblance between Khandala, Maharashtra, nestled coolly on a hill with numerous waterfalls, and Khandallah, Wellington, is striking.
With these points in consideration, it's more than plausible that many Kiwi blogs on Wellington's cool Indian connection may contain a minor factual error. I am currently awaiting some notes from the New Zealand National Archival on Captain Edward Battersbee’s career to see if that offers us more clarity on this puzzle.
It appears that the lingering memories of the Raj cast their shadows far and wide. The Indian influence permeates the entire suburb, reflected in the streets' names, which were changed at some point in the 1920s. This enchanting tale of intertwined historic nomenclature is illustrated in this architectural assessment of the Wellington suburb: “The block bounded by Ganges Road, Everest Street, Cashmere Avenue, Agra Crescent … Privacy fences and hedging conceal roomy, contemporary houses mixed in with early twentieth century homes along Simla Crescent. Kim Street, Kohima Drive, Jalna Avenue, and Baroda Street are all steep, thin roads that wind up the western valley for 300 metres or less before dead-ending, often into private driveways.”
What, pray tell, is a hill station?
Dane Kennedy’s The Magic Mountains: Hill Stations and the British Raj (here) describes these fascinating places:
Located on peaks that loom like sentinels over heat-shimmering plains, hill stations remain among the most curious monuments to the British colonial presence in India. Their origins can be traced to the effort in the early nineteenth century to establish sanitaria within the subcontinent where European invalids could recover from the heat and disease of the tropics. But hill stations soon assumed an importance that far exceeded their initial therapeutic attraction. To these cloud-enshrouded sanctuaries the British expatriate elite came for seasonal relief not merely from the physical toll of a harsh climate but from the social and psychological toll of an alien culture. Here they established closed communities of their own kind in a setting of their own design. As self-styled guardians of the raj, however, they also sought to supervise their subjects from these commanding heights. Here they established political headquarters and military cantonments, centers of power from whence they issued and executed orders with an Olympian air of omnipotence. Hill stations, in effect, served both as sites of refuge and as sites for surveillance. These were places where the British endeavored at one and the same time to engage with and to disengage from the dominion they ruled. This paradox and its implications for the imperial endeavor give the hill stations their significance.
A notable first-hand account that captures this essence of hill stations is Richard Bentley's 1852 narrative, "Life in Bombay, and Neighbouring Outstations". I stumbled across this source at the YCBA while researching a paper for an ethnography course, and it has slowly become one of my favourite English texts from colonial India:
Owing to the relaxing nature of the climate it is considered essentially necessary for the preservation of health, to take at least one change during the year to one of the charming places of resort situated above the Gháts, and within an easy distance of Bombay. Some fortunate individuals, indeed, there are who contrive to absent themselves during the three seasons, when the weather is pleasanter elsewhere than here; and thus by repairing to Mahabuleshwur for the hot months, Poona for the rains, and Khandalla for October, they carve out for themselves a perfection of climate, and consequent redoubled enjoyment of life, such as the untravelled European can scarcely realise
What does one do at a hill station? Life in these utopian bubbles appears to have been a relentless whirl of social activities reminiscent of upper-middle-class life back home in Britain. This existence was not much different from the English spa towns and seaside resorts. Visitors sought relief from their constant ailments, indulged in leisure activities, and above all, found a community that reflected their social status and cultural norms. As Kennedy describes,
They unpacked and donned their woolens, made their social calls and hosted their "at-homes," exchanged their pleasantries on their promenades along the Mall, and all the while did their best to reinhabit in mind and in manner a world they had left behind.
Hill stations, though sharing core traits, ranged in size, function, and clientele. Mitchell, cited in Kennedy, proposes five categories of hill stations. The ‘official multifunctional hill station’, included such iconic places as Simla, Darjeeling, Naini Tal, and Ootacamund. They functioned as government headquarters alongside being social, recreational, and educational centers for the British. Another category, the ‘private multi-functional hill station’ included:= Kodaikanal, Matheran, and Mussoorie which served the same array of social functions but had no official purpose.
Darjeeling is a quintessential hill station. Nestled amidst the Eastern Himalayas, it was earmarked as a potential summer refuge for British officials during the East India Company's dominion, and its lingering colonial influence remains palpable. Its tale is eloquently chronicled by famed children's writer, Ruskin Bond, the beloved Anglo-Indian writer has set many novels in the hill-strewn Darjeeling landscape.
Consider a revealing vignette drawn from personal accounts - Swarnakumari Devi, the sister of Nobel laureate Rabindranath Tagore, recounts her sojourn in colonial Darjeeling, a place embroidered with quaint English shops and providing magnificent panoramas of the urban sprawl. In a letter to her brother, Devi waxes eloquent about Darjeeling: "At the western end of this slope, there are a few decorative English shops, and we are greeted with an expansive view of the city of Darjeeling and the mountain of Jalapahar in this direction." Excerpt from Between Heaven & Earth: Writings on the Indian Hills, edited by Ruskin Bond and Bulbul Sharma, Speaking Tiger, reprinted in the Scroll.
Shimla, another hill station, occupies a unique space in the annals of colonial India, serving as the summer capital of the colonial administration. As Lord Curzon, the Viceroy of India until 1905, asserted:
Simla is in a peculiar sense not merely the official residence of the Viceroy during the hot weather, but his country home. For here he divests himself if not of the cares of office—this is I fear never possible in India—at least of some of the trappings of State; and amid your beautiful mountains he may almost succeed in mistaking himself for an Anglo-Indian Horace retiring from the noise and smoke of Rome to the peace of the Tiburine hills.
(Source: speech to the Simla Municipal Committee, 6 April 1899, Simla Municipal Proceedings, vol. 10, 1899, HPSA)Kennedy, in his exploration of Matheran, observes how this hill station, merely fifty-four miles from Bombay, became a haven for the city's affluent. By the 1880s, it wasn't just British residents enjoying the idyllic hill retreat, but a growing number of Indian businessmen and professionals as well. Among them was Bombay's leading industrialist, J.N. Tata, who had weekend homes here and in other hill stations like Panchgani and Ootacamund. This transformation was not merely demographic but social and civic as well. Matheran's character was shaped by Indian contributions, from Framjee Mehta's local biweekly newspaper, Sir Bomanji Dhunjibhoy's racecourse, Damodhar Gordhandass's library, Byramjee Jeejeebhoy's hospital, to Sir Adamji Peerbhoy's light rail to the station. By the 1930s, Matheran had undergone a thorough Indianisation, symbolised by its entirely Indian municipal board.
Indian hill stations remind me of the Soviet Spa resorts - the sanatoriums.
These were retreats that promised healthful respite to workers, an entitlement enshrined in the Labour Code of the Russian Soviet Federative Socialist Republic. The Labour Code, in its assurance of an annual two-week leave for all workers, recommended these breaks be spent at a sanatorium for their restorative benefits. At their peak in 1990, the sanatoriums of USSR could accommodate a staggering 50,000 guests simultaneously.
The weird melancholia I’ve always associated with Soviet sanatoria is captured in phenomenal photographs by Michal Solarski. Some of them have been featured in The Guardian.
The hill station and sanatorium are vestiges of colonial and communist pasts that have endured, with many Soviet spa resorts still welcoming guests, much as Indian hill stations continue to captivate tourists and locals alike. Kennedy, in his exploration of Matheran, observes how this hill station, merely fifty-four miles from Bombay, became a haven for the city's affluent. By the 1880s, it wasn't just British residents enjoying the idyllic hill retreat, but a growing number of Indian businessmen and professionals as well. Among them was Bombay's leading industrialist, J.N. Tata, who had weekend homes here and in other hill stations like Panchgani and Ootacamund. This transformation was not merely demographic but social and civic as well. Matheran's character was shaped by Indian contributions, from Framjee Mehta's local biweekly newspaper, Sir Bomanji Dhunjibhoy's racecourse, Damodhar Gordhandass's library, Byramjee Jeejeebhoy's hospital, to Sir Adamji Peerbhoy's light rail to the station. By the 1930s, Matheran had undergone a thorough Indianisation, symbolised by its entirely Indian municipal board.
While Indian hill stations present a far cry from the brutalist architecture and state-mandated leisure of the sanatoriums, their shared roots in offering a retreat from the daily grind is undeniable. Kennedy further examines guidebooks marketing hill stations to Indians, revealing parallels with the idyllic vision sold by both the British and Soviet sanatoriums:
One author gives a testimonial to his rapid recovery from bouts of diarrhea and cholera in the salubrious environment of Matheran. Another informs his readers that "whenever I wanted to recoup my health" he escaped to Mahabaleshwar. These guidebooks also praised the hill stations for the psychic relief they provided. Matheran was described as a place where a person "can forget all the troubles and responsibilities of his every-day life and plunge himself headlong into the delightful heaven of the peace of Nature.
Today, these hill stations continue their age-old tradition of offering respite from the stifling heat of the plains, a communion with nature, and an escape from the whirlwind of daily life. Their colonial legacy still resonates, with pastimes like boating on the lakes, promenades to sanctioned view-points, and social gatherings at the malls. Intriguingly, societal conventions appear more flexible here. This is exemplified in Bharati Mukherjee's 'The Tiger's Daughter,' where young Indian women from Calcutta daringly participate in a beauty contest at a Darjeeling hotel – an act they wouldn't dare contemplate back home.
Is it even an ink-uilab chapter if the cinematic genius of Ray’s films are not mentioned? The audacious escapade in Mukherjee's depiction of Darjeeling reminds me of Ray's masterpiece, Aranyer Din Ratri (trans. Days and Nights in the Forest). Ray's film is a carnivalesque exploration of a quatro of city sophisticates venturing into the wilderness of Bengal for a weekend, featuring a radiant Sharmila Tagore and a solemn Soumitra Chatterjee. A particular scene in this movie, Memory Game, comes to mind - a marvel of cinematography and acting. As I write this, I realize there is a near-identical scene (with more STEM-y names) in Wes Anderson’s latest Asteroid City. Was Anderson tipping his hat to Ray, or was it just an uncanny resemblance? As per a recent Vogue film review, Anderson’s eclectic array of inspirations does seem to nod towards Ray’s cinematic gem: “Anderson has always thrived in the liminal spaces between farce and tragedy, just as he has when mixing an eclectic range of cinematic and theatrical references … you’ll find nods to everything from Close Encounters of the Third Kind and the three witches of Macbeth (when Woodrow’s three sisters bury their mother’s ashes in a Tupperware bowl) to Satyajit Ray’s sweeping Aranyer Din Ratri (when the brainiacs play a memory game, trying to recall the names of esoteric famous people in a certain order).”
An Aperitif
A narrative about hill stations wouldn't truly be complete without a serving of Gin and Tonic. I guess you could say, Gin gives you a hangover; a Gin and Tonic gives you a colonial hangover.
The origins of Tonic Water harken back to the colonial pursuits in South America, where the cinchona tree, harboring the malaria-fighting quinine, was discovered. As the British Empire expanded its foothold in India and Sri Lanka, they planted cinchona trees, marking a shrewdly strategic move in their battle against malaria.
Tonic Water was born out of necessity in the mid-19th century, as the British colonists were in dire need of a palatable means to consume quinine. Its bitter taste was mollified with soda and sugar, with gin added to lend a pleasurable note to this medicinal mixture. This refreshing blend soon became a beloved sundowner, enjoyed against the backdrop of slow-setting suns and the tranquil hum of nature.
About 75 years later, Winston Churchill acknowledged the critical role of tonic water by stating that it had saved "more Englishmen’s lives, and minds, than all the doctors in the Empire."
It's fascinating how the mundane task of safeguarding health metamorphosed into a pleasurable ritual. The concern for the health of British soldiers, colonial administrators, and families living in India was of utmost importance for sustaining the grip on the colony. The ability to combat the deadly disease of malaria was a vital aspect of colonial control, leading to the daily consumption of "Indian tonic water." The addition of gin to the tonic, aside from masking its bitter taste, probably also provided a welcome respite from the stresses of colonial administration.
According to Kim Walker and Mark Nesbitt (Just the Tonic: a Natural History of Tonic Water), the Raj was flexible with its cocktail recipes:
In the British Army it seems that whichever spirits were most handy were used, most often brandy, whisky, rum, wine or local spirits. An 1863 report on the army in India and Ceylon records that quinine doses were given daily in arrack, a locally distilled spirit. Rum or ‘grog’ was the preferred Navy tipple for taking a dose.
Let me conclude this section with an enlightening satirical snapshot of the social life of colonial India. Another delightful YCBA find, George Francklin Atkinson's 'Curry And Rice On Forty Plates’ from 1859 is a caricature of the social life of a motley bunch of firangees - judges and magistrates, colonels, millionaires, padre, doctor and their colourful spouses and families. Here’s an excerpt from the nostalgic introduction:
As always, some verses, in parting:
It would only be fair to counteract this colonial hangover with a healthy dose of anti-colonialism. Nâzım Hikmet (1902 - 1963), the Turkish poet, playwright, and filmmaker was a figure whose life was intricately woven with resistance, spending much of his adult life in prison or in exile. Often labelled as the 'Romantic Communist', Hikmet’s life was a relentless struggle against oppressive forces. His lyrical poem autobiography
Considered the first modern Turkish poet, Hikmet’s ability to evoke raw emotion through his verses, coupled with his masterful rhythm and flow, rendered his works universal. I always find myself returning to A Sad State of Freedom (trans. Taner Baybars), and Things I Didn't Know I Loved (1962).
I present to you, One of my personal favourites is Some Advice To Those Who Will Serve Time In Prison (May 1949):
If instead of being hanged by the neck
you’re thrown inside
for not giving up hope
in the world, your country, and people,
if you do ten or fifteen years
apart from the time you have left,
you won’t say,
“Better I had swung from the end of a rope
like a flag”—
you’ll put your foot down and live.
It may not be a pleasure exactly,
but it’s your solemn duty
to live one more day
to spite the enemy.
Part of you may live alone inside,
like a stone at the bottom of a well.
But the other part
must be so caught up
in the flurry of the world
that you shiver there inside
when outside, at forty days’ distance, a leaf moves.
To wait for letters inside,
to sing sad songs,
or to lie awake all night staring at the ceiling
is sweet but dangerous.
Look at your face from shave to shave,
forget your age,
watch out for lice
and for spring nights,
and always remember
to eat every last piece of bread—
also, don’t forget to laugh heartily.
And who knows,
the woman you love may stop loving you.
Don’t say it’s no big thing:
it’s like the snapping of a green branch
to the man inside.
To think of roses and gardens inside is bad,
to think of seas and mountains is good.
Read and write without rest,
and I also advise weaving
and making mirrors.
I mean, it’s not that you can’t pass
ten or fifteen years inside
and more—
you can,
as long as the jewel
on the left side of your chest doesn’t lose its luster!
‘salud
BM
(All errors are my own and a by-product of editing this while parked on a random Bombay street.)