Hideaway homes

The Ramgarh Bungalows in Kumaon let you play proprietor without actually investing in real estate, marvels Bharati Motwani.

Sometimes I wonder why I come to Neemrana,” exclaimed an irate Dilliwalla when the bearer failed to produce biscuits to go with his tea, up at one of their “non”-hotels at Ramgarh in the Kumaon hills. And therein lies a contretemps far more piquant than is at once apparent.

Firstly, there is the pathological propensity of Dilliwallahs (I use the term loosely) for owning land everywhere — a house in the hills, another in Goa, in addition to their farmhouse on the outskirts of Delhi.

An ocean view, a log fire, a fruit orchard, all these must at once be bought and made over in the image of something out of a design magazine, given a pretentious name, showed off to a few friends and then left to lie unloved as its owners move on to their next acquisition. For much money and small attention spans are the hallmark of the north Indian arriviste.

And so it has come to pass that there are almost as many locked and shuttered Dilliwalla-owned houses in the Kumaon hills as there are owned by locals. And many more that sport little hand-painted “plots for sale” placards. Every steep and fallow slope is up for grabs, though building those retaining walls to keep your house from sliding right off… well, what are those deep pockets for?

And then there is the vexatious issue of what to do with a house you only find time to visit for a week every alternate year, what with all the other vacations that need must be taken to Greece and Alaska.

And then what of the blocked pipes, the scorpion nest, the water shortages, the pervading damp, the termite infestations, the leaking roof and the thieving caretaker — who probably sleeps in your bed or worse, and on your expensive linen? Or quite likely rents it out to tourists on the side?

Which is why Neemrana. Firstly, as they like telling you, they’re non-hotels. Which means they are exactly what you set out to acquire in the first place. They are small, houses really, just two or three suites at the most, which, in effect, means that most of the times you are likely to have the place to yourself.

And even when you don’t, you will still have your own private stone-flagged verandah overlooking the garden and the view beyond. Or you could invite friends and preside memsahib-like over the whole house. Every year if you like. At a fraction of the cost of your Himalayan land-grab exercise. And at a fraction of the cost to the environment and to local ambience.

Each of the six Neemrana properties in Kumaon is that dream house in the hills minus the pesky, waking realities. They’re old and atmospheric, built on those fabulous vantage-points the British always bagged and of which none remain any more. With their thick stone walls and sooty fireplaces, they have that sepia-stained romance that’s impossible to replicate.

Here, you may sit in a cane chair on the stone verandah, deep in your rum-pani, watching the dusk turn purple, just as the Collector sahib did 150 years ago. Or wrap yourself up in a book and a soft blanket on the window seat of a chintz-draped bay window with the afternoon sun streaming in. The couches are faded, the floors cracked in places, the old white-washed walls bulge, the rafters creak conversationally at night, and everything is simply lovely and exactly as it should be...

And precisely because sometimes they will run out of biscuits to go with the tea, and the little shop down the hill that keeps biscuits is closed, or someone will have forgotten to pay the cable TV subscription so there’s nothing but Doordarshan; and because the newspaper only comes once every three days when someone goes down to Bhowali for supplies; for precisely these reasons you are effectively shielded from the honking hordes that overrun the hill-stations of the north, turning them into polluted piles of damp tenements.

For precisely these reasons you are assured of your mountain view and of your misty, pine-scented silence. For, on the coat-tails of the biscuits would sneak in a world of decay.

Ramgarh was never a hill-station but had a smattering of English cottages, the odd distillery and orchards, and a Dak Bungalow — those classic colonial markers that some of us who had a parent in government service might remember from a childhood when the family packed their bedrolls and tagged along on official tours of inspection — or daure.

Three of the Neemrana houses are 19th century structures built of heavy stone blocks that keep the insides cosy in the cold. Their painted tin roofs rest on heavy wood beams and the fireplaces never smoke — an art that only the English ever got right. (It begs thinking though, why across Indian villages, kitchens never had chimneys for their chulhas. And why everyone chose to sit around in sooty, smoke-filled rooms with streaming eyes and blackened lungs.)

The other three houses are new, built with a view to views and to merge with nary a crease into the hills. All six houses are furnished in the Neemrana style, with kilims from Kashmir, razais from Rajasthan and plunder from palaces. All of them with that unerring eye for colour and style and light that is at once elegant and friendly.

By accident, or by artful design, at the Ramgarh Bungalows it’s easy to unconsciously slip into proprietary mode. It’s there in the way you consult with the maali on what saplings you should take back to plant in your house in Delhi. Or walk into the kitchen to confabulate with the cook on the dinner menu. Or stir in some spices into a bubbling pot of the homemade preserves that they make in the fruit season. Here, at Neemrana, it’s easy to see how you don’t need to own something to make it your own.

At night the darkness is deep and restful on the eyes, with none of the grimy orange light pollution of the hill-stations. The moon, when it’s out, is polished silver, bright enough to see by. You can lie awake at night listening to a dog chorus three hills away, listening to your tummy, listening to the huge kamikaze beetles hurl themselves against a lighted window and wonder about their suicidal ways (for there is time for such wondering).

And then, the next morning, experience epiphanies about the circle of life and death, even suicidal deaths, when you see the early birds breakfast on the armoured carcasses. Your own breakfast is freshly squeezed juice and desi organic eggs with bright yolks as yellow as the calendula flowers in the vase.

Lunch is cold gazpacho followed by roast chicken with potatoes, and shepherd’s pie. For afters, there’s peach pie smelling of cinnamon. When you wake from your afternoon snooze, there’s a cup of Darjeeling’s finest — though sometimes there are no biscuits.