This isn’t just a blog post—it’s something way more personal. I wrote about this town to revive, relive, and bring back the gentle, fading memories of my teenage years, from when I was eleven to sixteen.
After thirty-eight long years, I have returned to a place I once called mine. Thirty-eight years—an entire lifetime in itself. The world has turned many times over, and time has shed its old skin more than once. Yet somehow, memories here remain untouched, asleep beneath the dust of years, as though waiting silently for my return.
I stepped off the bus onto Mall Road. Below, a small valley stretched quietly into the distance. There,
nestled among trees and shadows, I saw a small house—faint, almost forgotten. That was where Ateeq Ahmed lived. The washerman’s son. He and I had shared a bench in Class V. That modest house belonged to him. I wonder if he still lives there. Perhaps not. Perhaps he, too, has drifted like the rest of us.
And yet, in all these thirty-eight years, his thought has occasionally crossed the surface of my mind—light as a feather, brief as a sigh. Strange, isn’t it? Some faces cling to us, not for their greatness or drama, but for something subtler—a presence, an impression, a thread we never fully see, but somehow never let go of. This is how the old memories linger about and we are unaware of it.
I stood there for a while, not quite in the present, not wholly in the past. Then I walked on, toward the guest house arranged by my friend. The room is quiet, nestled among the solemn
company of deodars, kaafal, and pine trees. Here, the mountains keep their silence, and memory breathes more freely, as though time itself pauses to listen.
I quickly tossed my bags into the guest house room and decided to take a stroll towards the Jagati Mount bungalow where we lived for seven years. I took the same road called ‘Thandi Sadak.’ After walking about 3 km, I finally arrived at the entrance of our home. It’s a building from the British era known as Jagati Mount.
There were three bedrooms and two spacious drawing rooms. I notice that this building has been bought by someone, and it has lost its old vintage charm and the originality from the British era.
There was one of the small round parlor in the house, which used to be my favorite as a child.
There used to be an old-fashioned fireplace right here. Now, it seems to have lost its old charm since the new owner decided to spruce it up. In the winter, it would roar to life. All five of us siblings, along with our dear mom, would huddle around it, with a pot of lentils always bubbling away, and we’d savor the soup to keep warm. Those memories are rushing back to me. I’m caught up in the past. A moment that can never come back. Every year, we’d get at least a foot of snow in Ranikhet. This fireplace symbolizes our family’s close bond, as sitting around it and chatting was so delightful, just like I remember. We used to host parties here with the folks from the nearby bungalow, who were my dad’s colleagues. I can still remember Chef Paniram and Peon Lalit. Tears are welling up in my eyes, and I can’t find the words to express how all those days are flashing before me.
Today, I walk alone on the quiet roads of Ranikhet. I am searching for that boy—perhaps twelve or fourteen years old—wearing slippers, the one who had just eaten parathas lovingly made by his mother and wandered into the forest along tiny foot trails, chasing his dreamlike childhood world.
He walks slowly, watching the grass, the leaves, the tree trunks, the patterns on petals. Then he pauses—he’s plucking unripe kaafal fruits from a tree. His hand suddenly brushes against a hairy creeper. He recoils, muttering under his breath, wondering why God ever created such creatures.
Evening has descended, cloaking the world in a soft hush.
I step out from behind the lifeless Kafal tree, which used to stand in this field in those days, holding my homemade cricket bat and hockey — a small reminder of my childhood. In front of my house is a wide-open field, and I walk into it again, looking for fun, looking for memories.
Around me gather familiar faces — my brothers, sisters, and neighbors: Shildi, Vijda, Kundan, and Bimal.
Together, we take to the ground as if time had never moved. Yet my eyes wander beyond the game. I search still…
I search for that boy —
The boy who walks alone along the silent roads of Jhula Devi’s temple,
the silent roads of Mall Road,
as if tracing the steps of forgotten dreams.
I search for him, not because he is lost,
but because a part of me still walks beside him. I can feel him, but can’t see him.
I’m walking down this road that my sister and I used to take every day on our way to school. It’s a beautiful path, surrounded by pine, cedar, and baanj trees. You don’t find this kind of eco-friendly vibe in cities. That’s why Ranikhet sticks in my mind. In the rainy season, you can really picture the beauty and warmth of this place. Even now, as a cantonment area, nature is still well-preserved just like it is here.
These kids I see here are like a mirror to my past. I was just like them. I can recall every contour of these rocks that I used to walk on every day to get to school. Now, as I stroll by the old stream close to the school at the end of this path—passing the same trees and stepping over the same stones where we used to catch tadpoles—those memories flood back to me with such vividness.
Every moment feels like a cherished memory captured in time. Those days still drift back to me like a soft breeze from the past—the classroom with its old benches, the familiar faces of our teachers, and that special spot under the tree where we used to gather for Hindi class. This is the very building where I went to school from grades V to VIII. And these are the benches where I had a great time with my awesome teachers while skipping classes. I can still picture the unforgettable faces of Gurunani Sir (Hindi), Manral Sir (Maths), Sati Sir (Social Studies), and Kelton Madam (English). Nowadays, kids carry the fanciest school bags, but we used to bring small aluminum boxes to hold our books. Those were my formative years, and sometimes we even had classes outside. Those days were truly unforgettable, and I still remember my teachers’ faces even now.
I recall climbing that small apricot tree during breaks when I was in grades V to VIII in the building above. I believe I was in grade VIII when I, along with a group of mischievous boys, raided a shop at a fair in Narsingh ground, smashed the window glass in the room where the girls were getting ready for some school play. Those days felt like a deer wandering in the jungle, free to roam and reign. No one to keep us in check..
After 38 years, I step back into the same place. It was a holiday, so the school building is totally quiet. I quietly snick in and sit on the stairs, looking out at the compound, with the prayer ground right in front of me. Then, I peek into the chemistry lab on the ground floor, remembering Sarari sir, who taught us chemistry. I made my way to the first floor, where our biology lab was, where we used to dissect frogs. Finally, on the right side was my classroom, IX to XI. All those memories come rushing back. I see Ashok Sah singing the song “O mere dil ke chain”.
We used to hold prayer in this large front courtyard. There was a guy named Chaudi, which was the nickname we called him, and he was the school monitor who led the morning prayer. Hemant Sir was our music teacher.
The thrill of playing cricket and hockey on the Narsingh ground, the laughter, the tournaments, the spirit of youth—it all comes alive again. I think of dear old friends—Ashok Sah, Hari Singh, Virendra Kashyap, Sajwan, Anil, Himanshu, and Kheem—each one a part of that beautiful chapter. Remember how we used to sneak out of class just to play cricket?
And the thrill of enjoying free tea from Ashok Sah at the Rotary Club canteen. Back then, tea was just 6 paise a glass. It was such a great motivation and a source of joy for us, gathering over tea to chat about the day’s game and our strategies.
And those quiet afternoons spent in the school library, getting lost in storybooks, reading Hindi versions of Shakespeare, and flipping through Chandamama, Nandan, Champak, and Parag—those simple joys still linger in my heart. Some memories don’t fade—they grow fonder with time.
This Mission Inter College was where my older siblings went. It’s located in Sadar Bazar, and I didn’t visit often. My sister and brother still recall the names of teachers like Kelton, Massey, and Paul. They probably have a ton of cherished memories from their time at this college. It is located in the picturesque surroundings of the Himalayas.
Epilogue
I really have to give a shoutout to my dad for letting me have total freedom during my childhood. I could roam around in the deep forests all by myself, exploring the narrow paths in the jungles and searching for kaafal and hinshalu. Nobody ever questioned where I was headed. Sure, it was a bit risky, but it definitely shaped my personality and sparked my love for exploring the jungles and appreciating their beauty.
I remember spending time with the Nepali jungle cutters in their huts, watching them chop down trees while chatting with them and checking out their homes. I would sit there for hours from the age of about 11 to 15. I absolutely loved the scent of pine trees and touching the cedar (deodar) and baanj trees. I was always so excited to gather pine and cedar fruits.
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