A Slightly Off-Key Beginning

Has it ever happened to you that a trip feels unreal right from the start? A strange sensation in your stomach—an uneasiness about whether you’ll be able to live up to what you’ve already romanticised about a place. If yes, then you’ll probably relate to this trip of mine.

I was on a solo backpacking trip to Uttarakhand—my first time travelling out of state almost alone. I was unusually nervous about Mussoorie, with a persistent gut feeling that after the amazing four days in Rishikesh, it simply wouldn’t be able to outdo it.

Hesitantly, I said goodbye to the serene Ganges of the city—a place that became pivotal to the collaboration between Indian classical maestro Pt. Ravi Shankar and Western rock sensation The Beatles, giving birth to the iconic “East meets West” phrase—and headed off toward the chaos of Dehra.

I caught a bus from Rishikesh to Dehradun around 8:30–9 AM, already irritated after getting fleeced by a rickshaw driver for a distance barely worth mentioning. I reached Dehradun’s Central Bus Stand around 11 AM. Lugging around a massive rucksack, a hiking stick, and a neck pillow dangling from the side, I was an easy target yet again. Thankfully, a Rapido bike taxi saved me from further negotiation fatigue.

At the bus stand, an extremely frustrating sight awaited me. The lack of basic civic sense was glaring—something as simple as a single queue could have restored order, but disorder, it seems, has quietly become a habit we wear like a badge. To make matters worse, the lethargic pace of the ticket clerks (as usual) tested everyone’s patience. I managed to save a few minutes by sharing an AC bus ticket with a good-natured stranger; the AC queue, unsurprisingly, was shorter.

If you’re willing to spend an hour waiting in line, by all means, come at peak hours. Otherwise, I’d strongly recommend reaching early—around 7–8 AM—and grabbing the first bus you see. Voilà, you’re at Mall Road by mid-morning.

I reached Mussoorie around 4 PM, feeling miserable thanks to the relentless zig-zag roads. But the moment I stepped out of the bus, I was greeted by the tranquil mountain breeze of the misty “Queen of the Hills.” It struck me, almost instinctively, that this was the landscape I had encountered in the novels of Ruskin Bond and Agatha Christie.

I was expecting friendly locals, colonial architecture, and a quiet amalgamation of nature and heritage. But my expectations fell flat the moment I took my first few steps towards the centre of the hill station to find my hostel: reckless teenagers driving rashly to prove their masculinity, disobeying police officers just to grab attention.

The streets were packed with people clicking photos of everything in sight, often littering the same spaces moments later. Everyone wanted a picture with the dilapidated yet majestic Mussoorie Library (established in 1843, the oldest in the state), but no one seemed interested in stepping inside and breathing in the essence of the books.Something inside me whispered, “You are half a century too late to witness the quintessential soul of this Arcadia.” These days, the charm of Mussoorie often takes a backseat to the obsession with perfect Instagram shots, leaving little space for anyone to truly notice their surroundings.

With these thoughts infecting my mind with melancholy, I continued navigating my way to my hostel, ‘GoStops’ (two of these are present in the hills—one at Mall Road and the other at Library Chowk; I stayed at the latter). After asking a few shop owners and fiddling with Google Maps for about 45 minutes—since no one answered the call at the reception—I finally reached with the help of a trio of school kids.

It was a two-storey building with an outhouse, a parking lot, a terrace, and a breathtaking common room (the best part of the hostel), situated 25 steps below the parking lot. I loved the sensor-based door lock—it reminded me of a similar project I had built in my second year as an EC engineer. The receptionist was quite friendly, with a smile contagious enough to lift the mood. I was handed the digital key, and as good as the location, building, and tech were, the dormitory itself was, frankly, mediocre at best.

Six bunk beds, all a bit untidy. Dusty floors. Lockers whose keys didn’t work. A bathroom with a subtle but pungent smell. By evening, exhausted and unfed since morning, I ordered the overpriced bagel with scrambled eggs and cream cheese along with a can of Diet Coke—too tired to drag myself uphill. Besides, the view from the common room, the valley covered in clouds, was to die for. Surprisingly, the bagel was excellent, so much so that I ordered it again the very next day. After the long journey and a great meal, it was time for some well-earned rest. And what better than indulging in an existential crisis with Dostoevsky’s White Nights—our nameless hero yearning for companionship in the ever-confused and slightly exasperating Nastenka.

Later that evening, I received a notification about game night at 8 PM. I thought it might be a good way to meet fellow travellers, but July being off-season, I was the only guest at the hostel. The receptionist—whose name I learned only on my last day, Gauri Mishra—suggested board games instead. That’s what we did.

Since the common room’s light had fused, I brought the games near reception. Pawan (an in-house helper cum electrician) and I started with chess, with Gauri as our lone audience—an extremely obsessed Gomez fan (annoying at times, as she kept blasting songs by an artist I’ve never warmed up to). Since Pawan didn’t really know chess, we switched to Jenga. Midway, he had to check the source issue in the common area, so Gauri replaced him. We continued, giggling nervously in our fierce competitiveness during what was supposed to be a friendly match. A light-hearted banter also broke out over who had better music taste.

Eventually, we moved back to the common room for foosball. She annihilated me 3–0. In my defence, it was my first time playing. The cheeky remarks followed naturally. I diverted my attention to a local who occasionally dropped by the hostel—a phenomenal chess player. After an intense hour-long duel, I managed to beat him, and he really was damn good.

Completely exhausted—both physically and mentally—I finally retreated to my dorm, bid farewell to my newfound acquaintances, and drifted into sleep with Porcupine Tree’s Russia on Ice playing on loop.