In the valley where I have lived for most part of my life. Things have changed rather dramatically over the past decade. It has moved forward so fast that it has left behind many of the unique things for which it was known almost the world over. It was known for its fragrant Basmati rice, for its orchards of luscious red lichis, for its sylvan charms, for its tranquility, it salubrious weather and for its thick forests.
For years and years, these things made all Doonites (as people of Doon valley are called) very proud of their little town called Dehradun. But suddenly, one fine day , the town had to be forcibly expanded, stretched beyond its limits in many ways. It was made the interim capital of a new State and thus could no longer remain in its tranquil shell. It had to grow up, overnight, and take the pressure of a fast increasing population, deforestation, hectic construction, industrialisation and many sea changes.
In this struggle, little Doon lost its Basmati rice fields, its lichi orchards, most of its old bungalows with their sprawling gardens and also its soothing and pleasant weather besides many other charms. The old-timers kept feeling bad, they tried raising their voice against all these changes but things kept moving forward, robbing our valley of all its tranquility and happiness.
People still come and look for the haven which they had heard Doon was. Perhaps all of them are not aware of how much the town has changed. And if it is their first visit, one cannot blame them for going around looking for Basmati rice which the entire colony can get the scent of when it cooks in your kitchen-they look surprised when you tell them that the lichis have all gone and the tree-lined avenues are a thing of the past. Doon lives now only in our memories. This new city in which we now live is a stranger to us ad perhaps we too are strangers for it. People who are comfortable with it are those who came in after it began its journey on “the path of progress”. They do not compare it with the old town as they have not seen it. They do not remember its monsoon mists, the abundant trees all over the valley , the four o’ clock rain which always came down in the evening after a couple of warm days — they have not known the days when there were no traffic signals and people could just drive happily without any traffic jams, they have not seen the pollution-free streets and the exquisite lawns. So, they are comfortable.Its like any other city they may have lived in earlier. lucky them. They do not feel the pain of having lost a beloved town which people used to think of as a heavenly place .Where canals flowed and gurgled cooling the breeze, where life was slow-paced and there was always time to visit friends and loved ones, where commerce was not an important factor in life and where watching the clouds was a favourite pastime.
Doonites miss all this and talk about it with each other. However, gradually they too have perhaps stopped getting time to do this. The rush and tumble of the city does not give them even some moments to remember the lovely days they spent here.
But I cannot forget that lovely town where I grew up, where I cycled to school on Eucalyptus scented roads, where the East Canal was not just the name of a road but a living, flowing canal of crystal clear water, where people walked about the entire day, where a Tonga or two could be seen even in the 90s and where there were no huge Malls and Multiplexes, no traffic lights and no noise, not many big buildings and almost no summers. I miss the flowing Rispana and Bindal rivers. I miss the quiet lanes. I miss my Dehra of “grey heads and green hedges”.
As Ruskin Bond always says “Dehra Dun has gone from being a sleepy town in the foothills of the Himalayas to being a sleepless city.”
He has seen the Dehra Dun of the 40s which was even more beautiful than the one I have seen. But as he says “Dear old Dehra: I may stop loving you, but I won’t stop loving the days that I loved you.”