Wild Strawberries

Wild Strawberries

‘McLeodgunj ,Dharamsala : the abode of the Dalai Lama’ in India was our next destination. Linda and I had decided to drive up there with our two other friends Anil and Peter. Linda and her cousin brother Peter had been traveling through various parts of Asia and each year in Autumn they set out to cover more areas in the subcontinent. I had met Linda at a haiku conference in Japan and we had been corresponding for some time now. It was always fun traveling with Linda and Peter they were willing to try anything. Indian cuisine had them drooling. While in India, Linda always wore traditional salwar kameez and had a duppatta. With her dark hair in a plait, and with her dark eyes she could pass of as an Indian except for her startling blue eyes. Peter had a beard and he too was dark haired. He wore his hair in a close cropped military style. He loved kurtas and wore them with his jeans. They could mix easily with the crowd. Anil had a yen for travel and his business partners allowed him an occasional weekend break to indulge his wander lust. He was a ‘pukka sahib’ and was more of a finicky foreigner than Linda and Peter. We had often taken Anil’s jeep on short trips and when he came to know that Linda and Peter wanted to spend just a weekend in Dharamsala he jumped at the opportunity and asked if he could join us. He even agreed to share a room with Peter.

It was on a Friday afternoon that we set off in Anil’s jeep and drove through the foothills of the Shivalik which had many round river stones embedded in loose mud. By evening as the sun shone on slate we made it up to Kangra where we had to meet one of Anil’s family friends who was delighted to offer us tea and pakoras which Peter and Linda loved. After tea followed by dinner we drove up to the place where we would be spending the night. Linda and I shared a room, Peter shared the other one with Anil. Tired after our long drive up from Chandigarh we quickly went to bed. Linda fell asleep almost immediately while I sat listening to the crack of lightening, the peals of thunder and then the rain drumming on the tin roof of the verandah. I don’t know when I slept but I awoke to a glorious morning. From our room we could look down onto the rice fields which were flooded with last night’s rain. Beyond them were the freshly washed hills on which slate glistened like silver.

After breakfast, in which Peter and Linda had puree bhaji and Anil and I had a continental breakfast we drove up towards McLeodgunj. The place made famous five decades earlier by the Dalai Lama and his refugees from Tibet. As we drove up the winding road through the tall deodar and pine trees we glimpsed the snow clad majesty of the Dhauladhar mountains which had Peter clicking a lot of film and also video recording. Most of the way we were totally silent. Each one of us was lost in a reverie of our own.

En route to McLeodGunj we stopped at this famous church of St. John in the Wilderness and as we walked down a path to the church, Peter slowly panning the area from every angle Linda said, “This is very special for Peter, you know his great grandfather had served in India and had died here.

We were surprised and I asked, “In Dharamshala?”

“No”, she said “he died in Ambala while his great grandmother was here in Dharamshala”.

“How did he die?”, asked Anil.

“He was killed by dacoits when he was bringing up the money and mail up to Shimla in the summer of 1852”, said Peter. “He was on horse back and was looted and then stabbed near Kalka. My grandmother never got to see his body as they had to bury him quickly because of the heat. She was six months pregnant at that time. My great grandmother also died here”

Linda said, “Peter hopes to be able to find his great grandfather’s grave and pay homage to him.”

With saddened hearts we walked down to the church. We could hear loud Indian rap music coming from a radio. There were some electricians and plumbers fixing the church roof. We walked past the bell on which was written, “Soldiers of Christ arise, put on your armour, dated: July 1905”. The bell was now housed in a wire cage locked against vandals. Inside the church there were now plastic chairs and ugly wooden pews. It smelt dingy, damp, and looked grimy. The tall slim windows on the sides which once had beautiful stained glass now had unsightly translucent bathroom glass. Only the two large stained glass windows behind the altar remained reasonably intact. On the left of the transept an old organ made by the Estey Organ Company of London stood,now with its innards gone it was just a husk of the magnificent instrument it once must have been.

Just above it and to its left was a brass plaque dedicated to Major Henry Duncan Minchton who died in an accident on the 3rd of June, 1927. The plaque had been a tribute from his brother officers of the 1st KCO Gorkha Rifles. Slowly after taking off their shoes - Peter and Linda walked up to the altar taking in all the details and recording it all. In the left corner behind the altar there was an old priests’ chair. The reredo was covered over with cloth. While they explored and filmed the church, Anil and I spoke to the South Indian priest now in charge of the place. He explained that he had tried to get funds to repair the church and also to refurbish the organ. There seemed to be no funds available. We signed the visitors’ book and put some money in the donation box and walked out into the sunshine.

We went over to the grave of James Bruce the 8th Earl of Elgin who died on 20th November, 1863. Peter was dismayed to see the lichen covered graves which remained untended. At some places the inlaid brass letters had been removed and the names were hardly decipherable. After filming some more as we were walking back to the car Peter gave an astonished cry and called out, “Hey come and see this! It is my great grandmother’s grave.” And we saw a grave which had marked on it “Henrietta Isabella, beloved wife of Edmond Kitson, Lt. & Assistant Adjutant General, posted at Umballa. Born - Died - “

Peter and Linda were amazed. Peter took many still photographs and was quite emotional as he thought that now he had seen the church where his ancestors had worshipped. He determined to find his great grandfathers grave also. He filmed his great grandmother’s grave from many angles.

We went back to ask the Indian padre where we could get the old records of the church. He said, “They are all housed in Amritsar now. You will have to get permission from the Bishop there to see them.”

In a somber mood we drove to McLeodGunj. The colour and the noise of the Tibetan market, the souvenir shops on both sides of the road, the bags, bangles, beads and bracelets which Linda loved had us entranced. We drove up to the BhagsuNath temple and then turned around and drove back stopping to buy some trinkets which Linda and I wanted for our friends. We paid for these and returned happily to the car, then drove up to the Dalai Lama’s residence. Tibetan prayer flags fluttered against the dappled shadows of the mountains. As we stopped at the Dhauladhar hotel for a cup of tea, Peter told us something about his great grandparents lives’ in India. It seems his great grandmother had been a very keen gardener. She used to grow many plants, flowers and was particularly known for her strawberries which she made into preserves.

Just above the bustle of the Kotwali Bazaar we also took in the Kangra museum and then we started on our return journey down to the plains with Peter filming all the time. Although Peter was disappointed that he could not access the church records he didn’t show it. On our drive back to Chandigarh Peter continued describing how his great grandparents and parents had inherited many beautiful Indian artifacts and they even had a painting of his great grandfather in uniform.

“So you know what he looked like?”, asked Anil.

“Oh, yes”, said Peter. “When I get home to Scotland I will send you a picture.”

On our return to Chandigarh I suggested, “Peter, why don’t you get your still photographs developed here? We can get to see some of the places we have been to.”

He readily agreed and we gave them for developing to a friend in whose studio we also had our portraits taken. We got the photographs back and sat sifting through them when suddenly Peter shouted, “Oh my God!” We went over to see what had startled him so much. With trembling hands he held out the photographs of his great grandmother’s grave. In each of those pictures we could clearly see a young officer who knelt close to the foot of the grave and in one of them he stood looking straight out at us. It was Peter’s great grandfather but that was not all. Around the grave there were brilliant red wild strawberries. When we reviewed the video film none of these things could be seen.

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