Chapter 1
Journey to the Hills
I was in Allahabad when my mother told me that my father was finally returning to India after completing his deputation in Nigeria. During his absence, we had been living with my grandparents in Allahabad, and though the house was full of affection and care, I missed my father deeply. The thought that our family would once again be together filled me with excitement.
Soon another piece of news followed. My father had been posted to a place called Udhampur in Jammu and Kashmir. The announcement transformed the entire atmosphere at home. Conversations erupted instantly—when would we leave, how would the luggage be transported, would we all travel together, or would Father go ahead first and call us later? Every room in the house echoed with plans and speculation.
For me, the transfer felt like the beginning of an adventure. Life in Allahabad had become predictable, and the idea of moving to a distant hill station thrilled me. I imagined snow-covered mountains, winding roads, new schools, new friends, and unfamiliar surroundings. More than anything else, however, I eagerly awaited the gifts Father would bring from abroad. In those days, foreign goods were rare treasures in India, and anything from overseas carried an irresistible charm.
The long-awaited day finally arrived. From early morning, I remained near the gate, determined to be the first person to welcome him home. His flight was delayed, which worried everyone in the family, but the moment the taxi finally stopped outside our house and my father stepped out, a wave of joy swept through the household. Suitcases were carried inside, hugs and greetings filled the air, and after paying the taxi driver, the family gathered around Father, eager to hear the story behind the delayed flight.
The delay, he explained, had occurred during his connecting flight through Rome. The unexpected halt had given him some time to see parts of the city. That immediately reminded me of the famous story my Grade IV teacher had narrated about Romulus and Remus—the twin brothers raised by a she-wolf on the banks of the River Tiber, who later founded Rome. I excitedly asked Father whether he had seen the statue of the she-wolf feeding the two children, which stood at a prominent place in the city.
After asking about my studies and health, Father finally opened his suitcase. Like any curious child, I had already been circling it, fascinated by its modern locking system, far more sophisticated than the ordinary suitcases I had seen before. After much fidgeting, I somehow managed to open it.
“I have brought something special for you,” Father said with a smile.
It was a calculator.
I stared at it in amazement. Calculators were almost unheard of in India then, and to me it seemed nothing short of magical. Numbers that once required long mental calculations appeared instantly on the tiny display. I pressed the buttons repeatedly, delighted beyond words. The suitcase held many more fascinating things—clothes, cosmetics, electronic items, and other foreign goods—but the calculator became my prized possession.
Very soon, the discussions shifted towards our move to Udhampur.
“It is a beautiful hill station,” Father assured my mother. “About two hours from Jammu on the road to Srinagar. I have served there before. It is peaceful and pleasant.”
The plan was finalized. Our luggage would travel separately by truck, while we would go by train to Jammu and then continue onward by Army transit bus.
The next few days were consumed by packing. Crockery was wrapped carefully in newspapers; cardboard sheets were placed between plates; fragile bowls were cushioned with bubble sheets. Old clothes were stuffed into empty spaces inside the boxes to protect delicate items during transport. I packed my toys personally, making sure not a single old toy was left behind. The scooter was wrapped in hessian cloth, naphthalene balls were tucked between winter clothes, and additional wooden boxes were prepared for the endless extra belongings that mysteriously accumulated during every transfer.
The entire exercise felt like a grand operation. Inventories were made for insurance purposes, locks were changed, and my school transfer certificate was carefully secured. While helping my mother fold clothes, move cartons, and discard unwanted items, I suddenly realized how many socks, handkerchiefs, and clothes I actually owned—most of which I could never locate when needed. It was my first real understanding of what shifting homes truly meant.
A week later, we sat inside a first-class coupe of an Indian train, preparing to leave Allahabad. My grandparents and aunt had accompanied us to the railway station. As the train slowly pulled away, I watched their waving hands until they disappeared into the distance. Soon the city vanished altogether, replaced by endless fields and moving trees outside the window.
Resting my head against the window bars, I tried to look as far ahead as possible, imagining our future life in Udhampur—the house we would live in, the school I would attend, the teachers I would meet, and the friends I would make.
Evening descended gradually. The setting sun glowed orange against the horizon while flocks of birds returned home in dark silhouettes. As darkness spread outside, the train lights came on inside the compartment, and the glass panes reflected our own little world within the cabin.
My younger brother sat happily with his milk bottle, swaying gently with the movement of the train as though he were still in his cradle. Soon Mother instructed me to climb to the upper berth prepared with an open holdall stuffed with soft clothes. After some time, dinner was handed to me in a tiffin box—vegetable curry, rotis, and mango pickle packed from home. Balancing the tiffin on the swaying berth without spilling anything became an adventure in itself. Even drinking water from the bottle required careful coordination to ensure it went into my mouth and not my nose.
Later, I discovered the small reading lamp fitted beside the berth and felt delighted when it lit up at the flick of a switch. I opened my Phantom comic and continued reading until sleep quietly overtook me.
The next morning, I awoke to the shrill voices of tea vendors outside the window. The train had halted at Aligarh station. A vendor handed us steaming tea in baked clay tumblers through the window bars. The aroma of wet earth mixed with cardamom tea created a fragrance I still remember vividly. The tea tasted perfect, especially in the cool morning air.
My younger brother found another source of entertainment. After finishing the tea, he would throw the empty clay cups from the moving train and laugh gleefully as they shattered on the tracks like tiny grenades.
By afternoon we were nearing Delhi, where we had to change trains. I bombarded Father with endless questions about railway tracks, emergency chains, train speed, and signaling systems. Soon the Red Fort appeared in the distance, followed by the Yamuna bridge, over which the train thundered noisily. Massive buildings began appearing outside the windows, and before long we rolled into Delhi station.
Coolies carried our luggage as we hurried across crowded platforms toward the Jammu-bound train. The vibrations caused by passing trains made the platform itself tremble beneath my feet. On a nearby track stood a giant steam engine. Curious, I took my younger brother close to show him its enormous wheels. Suddenly, the engine released a deafening whistle. My brother was so frightened that he burst into tears and wet himself. Even I was badly shaken, and we quietly returned to our parents.
Soon we boarded the next train. Since this journey was mostly during daylight, I spent nearly the entire time glued to the window. The scenery gradually changed. Rivers, bridges, green fields, and distant mountains appeared one after another. Whenever the train curved sharply, we could see the engine far ahead pulling the long line of bogies behind it. Each sight filled us with excitement.
As we approached Punjab and later Madhopur near Pathankot, the landscape became increasingly beautiful. Rivers widened, stations became smaller, and the air grew cooler. People now wore shawls, jackets, and woollen caps. The train crossed enormous bridges suspended high above flowing waters, and when we threw clay tumblers from the windows, they took so long to hit the river below that the train had often crossed the bridge before the splash appeared.
Occasionally, the train plunged into tunnels, surrounding us with sudden darkness and roaring echoes, only to burst moments later into dazzling sunlight that forced our eyes shut briefly.
Finally, Jammu appeared in the distance.
The station bustled with Army personnel carrying black steel trunks and holdalls, rushing to board outgoing trains. After disembarking, we boarded an Army transit bus and drove through the broad roads of Jammu city toward the transit camp. The camp looked exceptionally neat and beautiful, almost like a tourist resort. That evening I met several children travelling onward to different destinations—Akhnur, Srinagar, and Udhampur. Instantly, I felt a special bond with those heading to Udhampur, as though we already belonged to the same place.
The next morning, we began the final leg of our journey.
I secured a window seat in the bus as we left Jammu behind. Dewdrops sparkled on roadside leaves while the early morning sun rose slowly over the horizon. After crossing the Tawi River and passing the famous Karan Singh Palace road, the city faded behind us. Soon there were hills everywhere.
As the bus twisted along mountain roads, the sharp bends first thrilled me and later made me slightly nauseous. The coolness in the air increased steadily as we climbed higher. At Nandini Tunnel, the bus halted briefly near a row of small roadside stalls famous for paneer pakodas. We enjoyed the hot snacks while gazing at the deep valleys below.
Further ahead lay Jhajjarkotli, a beautiful picnic spot where shallow streams flowed over rocks while schoolchildren and tourists splashed happily in the water. From there onward, the road climbed relentlessly through hills and deep gorges.
At one point, I saw the distant Vaishno Devi hills rising majestically across the mountains.
Soon barbed-wire fencing and military areas began appearing along the road. We were approaching Udhampur.
My excitement returned instantly. Sitting upright, I stared eagerly through the window as we entered the Military Police barrier at Garhi. Small roadside shops lined the narrow roads, catering mainly to Army families. We crossed the famous Chopra Shop area before finally reaching the Army transit camp. From there another vehicle took us uphill to the Engineers’ Mess guest accommodation where we would stay temporarily until allotted a permanent house.
The journey had finally ended.
Ironically, my younger brother refused to get down from the vehicle. Accustomed to the large house we had occupied in Allahabad, he was horrified by the small guest room and began protesting loudly. After much persuasion from Mother, who assured him that we would soon receive a proper house, he reluctantly agreed.
That night, exhausted after the long rail and road journey, we ate dinner quietly in the room and fell asleep almost immediately.
The next morning, I stepped outside into the crisp mountain air. Dewdrops glistened on the grass while the rising sun illuminated the distant Vaishno Devi hills in shades of crimson and gold. The air was cool, pure, and completely different from the dusty plains I had known before. Birds chirped softly in the stillness of dawn.
Everything around me felt new—new surroundings, new school, new friends, and a completely new life waiting to unfold.
Curious, I wandered uphill toward a badminton court from where much of the cantonment was visible. Children wearing navy-blue school uniforms stood waiting for their school bus near the park. Watching them, I imagined myself soon becoming part of that routine.
Later that day, Father informed me that admission to the local Central School—Kendriya Vidyalaya—would require an entrance test. The news shocked me. I had already passed Class VIII at St. Joseph’s College in Allahabad, and my transfer certificate clearly mentioned my promotion to Class IX. I could not understand why another test was necessary.
Nevertheless, intensive preparations began immediately. Father coached me in Mathematics while Mother revised the remaining subjects with me. After several days of hard work, I appeared for the test and passed with good marks. Though some students scored higher, I secured admission because my father had undergone the maximum number of transfers in recent years, a criterion given special consideration in Kendriya Vidyalayas.
Another complication soon emerged—I was slightly underage. Until formal approval arrived from the Kendriya Vidyalaya Sangathan headquarters in New Delhi, I was permitted to attend classes unofficially. For several weeks, my name was absent during attendance, making me feel like an uninvited guest at someone else’s celebration.
Soon came the excitement of purchasing new books, a new school bag, and a completely new navy-blue uniform, so different from the sky-blue uniform of my previous school in Allahabad. Riding pillion on Father’s scooter through the bustling book market of Udhampur, I felt thrilled by the beginning of this new chapter in life.
That evening, I met a few boys in the park—Sampat, Bhushan, and Gajbir. Though slightly senior to me, they invited me to join them for badminton. They were disciplined and serious, while I was carefree, adventurous, and always eager for excitement. Still, friendships had begun to form.
Sunday passed quickly.
The next morning would be my first day in a new school, in a new town, amidst new people. As night fell over the hills of Udhampur, I lay awake wondering what awaited me at dawn.
