By Shiv Kunal Verma
Genealogy for most of us takes the form of a family tree, with semi-familiar and some better-known names strung out as the branches. Unless you are literally from a Hindu-undivided family or a close-knit Muslim group, many of the names, especially as you travel downwards, could belong to any kid or person on the street. The same I presume would apply to most Christian and other religious communities as well.
Parsi families would perhaps be an exception to that rule, for one can probably count a significant remaining number of the population on each tree.
However, that does not necessarily apply to the place where one was not only born, but also grew up. Even more so if one resided at various times in various parts of Dehradun, which in the 1960s had such a distinct personality of its own that no other place on the planet could match it. With the horse-drawn tonga, the main form of transportation, the spindly creatures would wait at every corner and after having processed the hay they were fed in small bags tied to their fronts, would deposit liberal amounts at the ‘tonga stands’ and the rest on the roads as they clip-clopped with their contraptions to and fro. As a result, most of the places, especially Dalanwala, perennially smelled of horse shit.
My paternal grandfather, who after retiring from the Provincial Services (later renamed the Indian Administrative Service) bought a typical British bungalow on Turner Road and nostalgically named it ‘Patur’ after the village in the Central Provinces where he had inherited ancestral land (Rs 35,000 according to a letter written by my mother to her brother in NYC at the time) from his maternal grandfather. My mom’s family, the Hoons, were ensconced in 38 Inder Road after Partition and in the mid-60s mother would complain to father that a round trip to meet her in-laws in Clement Town cost her one rupee and 8 annas worth of fuel for a round trip!
Having lived in IMA from 1962 to 64 (my father was a platoon commander, a captain then), two different residences in the cantonment and another two in Dalanwala (plus of course with both the grandparents from time to time) almost every tree and road in Dehradun talks to me. St Joseph’s Academy and then The Doon School (where we were known by the sobriquet ‘locals’ which was said with an ever-so-slight snobbish undertone) completed one’s initial growing up cycle.
In the 1980s, though one came to visit the grandparents sporadically, I got reconnected to Dehradun when Ruskin Bond asked me to contribute to a Doon Anthology. As part of the book’s layout, all contributing authors had sketches of their mug shots, and much to my delight, that led to a phone call from Ratna Manucha née Bakshi one evening which started with ‘are you the same person who I met in Shimla in 1971…’ Yes indeed… I had replied. From Doon School I had once or twice searched for her but hadn’t quite succeeded.
Like most river fish that always returns to the stream where it hatched, I too have had the good fortune of returning, be it through the prism of the Indian Military Academy, the Doon School or, later, Welham Boys’ where for the last seven years one conceived and curated the military history movement. Obviously, Dehradun has undergone a major transformation, and the valley today is as much a victim of climate change and over population as is the rest of the country. I’m grateful to the editor for having asked me to contribute regularly to the Garhwal Post and I look forward to contributing to this wonderful newspaper that has over the years kept the umbilical cord with Dehradun intact.
(Shiv Kunal Verma, with his roots in the Doon Valley, is considered to be one of India’s foremost military history writer and film maker. The Garhwal Post will be featuring his weekly column henceforth)
