But that wasn’t the only reason to travel. In April 2026, with my wife and two‑year‑old daughter, the real push was Bengaluru’s scorching summer. When Bengaluru forgot to be Bengalooring, we decided it was time to head somewhere cooler. After much debate—Shimla, Dharamshala, the usual suspects—I put forward Dalhousie. My wife had never even heard of it. Within days of her Googling frenzy, everything was set, and soon we were boarding a Bengaluru–Amritsar flight, chasing the promise of mountain air.
Chaotic Start
We landed in Amritsar at 10:45 a.m. from Bengaluru, expecting our pre‑booked cab to be ready by 11:30. But there was no sign of the cabbie. Calls to the service provider brought the same refrain: “In 15 minutes, sir.” Every 15 minutes, we called again, and every time the answer was identical.
Meanwhile, my two‑year‑old daughter began throwing baby tantrums, my patience wore thin, and my temper flared—but nothing changed. The promised 11:30 pickup stretched endlessly until, finally, at 2 p.m., the cabbie arrived, hands folded, apologizing that he had been stuck at a farmer’s rally in the city.
Dalhousie was still more than 200 kilometers away, and I knew I’d be spending the next four to five hours with this man. So I swallowed my anger, reminded myself that the journey had only just begun, and decided not to let the first leg spoil the mood of the adventure.
Chennai XPress in Punjab
Wheatfields—unsurprisingly, and in typical Punjab style—were the first to welcome us the moment we hit the road to Dalhousie. The endless golden canvas stretched farther than my eyes could measure, shimmering in the sun like a painter’s masterpiece.
Because the city was caught up in a protest rally, our driver took us on a detour: bypassing Amritsar and heading straight through Batala, Gurdaspur, Pathankot, and finally towards Dalhousie. The roads were alive with Punjab’s icons—Bada tractors lumbering along, trucks flaunting Canadian flags on their backs, SUVs with oversized wheels and alloy bling, and Royal Enfield Bullets gleaming with silver rims. It was exactly the Punjab I had seen in movies (and yes, I know, my observations may sound cliché).
By the time we crossed Gurdaspur, hunger staged its own protest. I asked our driver—whose name, believe it or not, was Kapil Dev—to stop at a good restaurant. Perhaps sensing we were from South India, he pulled up at a place called Chennai XPress. My wife looked at me, and without saying a word, I knew what she was thinking: Did we really travel all the way from Bengaluru to eat South Indian food? In the land of butter chicken, naan, and lassi?
To make matters worse, it turned out to be vegetarian. Something neither of us (and probably not even our toddler) had signed up for. But with hunger peaking at 3 p.m. and no other options in sight, we surrendered to the vegetarian thali. Sometimes, travel serves you irony on a steel plate.
To our surprise, the vegetarian thali turned out to be one of the best North Indian meals we’d ever had. The kadai paneer, dal makhani, rotis, jeera rice, mixed vegetables—each dish was delicious and soulful. I hate to admit this as a self‑proclaimed connoisseur of non‑veg food, but truth be told, it was outstanding.
As we walked back to the cab, my wife offered a theory: “It’s Punjab. They grow the best wheat in the country, so of course the rotis taste divine.” I agreed, but the question lingered—how did everything else taste so good too? Perhaps hunger has a way of turning any food into heaven.
Back in the car, the three of us slipped into a deep, contented sleep while Kapil Dev, our driver, marched on towards Dalhousie.
Into the Hills
While we slept, Kapil Dev had already crossed Pathankot. A sharp left turn after Jandwal jolted me awake. “From here, the hills begin,” he announced. For a boy who once learned in a South Indian classroom that Himachal means hilly area, the road ahead proved my geography lessons right. Narrow roads curled along the mountains, valleys opened up on one side, and towering peaks rose on the other. I gazed at it all with childlike wonder, the cool breeze brushing my face like a welcome note.
“We are still in Punjab, sir,” Kapil Dev added, catching our Malayalam conversation. Punjab has mountains? I stared at him in disbelief. He smiled and explained: most of the journey is still in Punjab, and only about 35 kilometers after the state border lies Dalhousie. I gulped down this crisp geography tidbit, trusting the local man while enjoying the twists and turns of Punjab’s hills.
Dalhousie had been seeing afternoon showers for the past few days—an unlikely April climate. Rain could dampen the trip, but I welcomed the coolness it promised. As my thoughts wandered, drizzle began to patter on the windshield, and a signboard appeared: Punjab–Himachal Pradesh Border. My heart leapt. Dalhousie was close.
The drizzle followed us right into Dalhousie, and in the last ten kilometers, darkness spread across the hills. Just as a Himachal Pradesh Road Transport Corporation bus rumbled past, its taillights revealed Dalhousie’s main junction. Behind it, our hotel—Mountain View—stood gleaming, its lights cutting through the mist like a warm welcome.
I stepped out of the cab and instantly pulled on my hoodie. From 34 degrees in Bengaluru to 14 degrees in Dalhousie—the contrast was sharp, and we were delighted. Check‑in was swift, and soon we were being escorted to our room. On the way, a staff member pointed toward the garden area and said with a smile, “Tomorrow morning, look beyond the railing.”
It was a cryptic promise, something to chew on through the night.
Morning in Dalhousie
An early flight and the long drive from Amritsar had guaranteed us a deep sleep, so we woke up fresh. “What’s today’s plan?” I asked my better half—the default tour coordinator thanks to her formidable internet‑searching skills.
“Nothing major,” she said, before quickly outlining tomorrow’s trip to Khajjiar, the so‑called Mini Switzerland of India. “Today we explore Dalhousie—two churches, Subhash Chowk for the mandatory ‘I Love Dalhousie’ photo, Panchpula waterfall, lunch at Kwality Restaurant, and a marathon through Gandhi Chowk market. But we need to finish before afternoon rain sets in.”
“Get set, go then,” I said, and we headed down to the hotel restaurant for breakfast. On the way, I remembered the staff’s cryptic words from last night: look beyond the railing in the morning.
And there it was. From the garden, the granite‑colored peaks of the Dhauladhar Range stood in the foreground, while far behind, the snow‑capped Pir Panjal mountains separated Jammu and Kashmir from the rest of India. Below them, the lush valleys of Chamba spread out like a green quilt. It was mesmerizing. Small houses and hotels dotted the slopes, nibbling at the view, but who was I to judge? I sighed, took a few photographs, and finally turned toward the restaurant—aptly named The Kettle House.
The restaurant featured an extensive collection of kettles—different sizes, materials, and designs—built into the walls. It gave the space a quirky, old‑world charm that matched the hotel’s century‑old history. Curious, I asked the restaurant in charge about the idea behind it. He explained that the kettle is a universal symbol of hospitality, warmth, and “tea time”—a tradition deeply woven into the colonial‑era hill station culture of Dalhousie.
We tucked into a scrumptious breakfast that offered both North Indian and South Indian dishes, fueling ourselves quickly for Day One’s adventures.
Exploring Dalhousie
We hired a local taxi and headed first to St. Francis Church, built in 1894. With its intricate stonework, traditional slate roof, and vibrant stained‑glass windows, the church carried the rustic charm of a bygone era. After a few peaceful minutes inside, we crossed the road to Subhash Chowk.
As we walked toward Netaji Subhash Chandra Bose’s statue, I wondered: What’s his connection to Dalhousie? The answer, as our driver explained, was deeply personal. In 1937, Bose spent seven months here recovering from tuberculosis, staying at Kynance, the private residence of his friend Dr. Dharmvir. The house still stands, though access is limited since it remains private property.
After some time around the bronze statue—Netaji in full military uniform—and the mandatory selfie at the “I Love Dalhousie” hoarding, we drove to Panchpula Waterfall, about 3–4 km away. The stone‑paved path was lined with sellers hawking colorful clothes, pahadi‑style Maggi noodles, steaming gulab jamuns, teas, and fridge magnets. We climbed past them to the falls.
To be honest, coming from Thrissur, where Athirapilly waterfall is practically in our backyard, Panchpula felt modest. But I reminded myself: this isn’t about comparison, it’s about collecting memories. Being the first visitors that morning, we enjoyed the pristine splash of clear hill water. A tea shop nearby offered warmth, and on the way back, we couldn’t resist the hot, syrupy gulab jamuns.
Our next stop was St. John’s Church, the oldest in Dalhousie, built in 1863. A classic Victorian structure of grey stone and wood, it even houses a library with rare books and photographs about the town’s history. Unfortunately, just as we settled into its quiet charm, the rain returned, cutting short our exploration. We waited, hoping it would pass, but after an hour, hunger won.
Rain, Roads, and the KL Car
Google Maps suggested Kwality Restaurant was nearby, but the directions were vague. After fifteen minutes of fumbling, I decided to step out with our umbrella and search, leaving my wife and daughter in the church for some peace.
As I wandered through Gandhi Chowk, the Dalhousie post office caught my eye. The thought struck me—what better souvenir than a letter sent from Dalhousie to our home in Bengaluru? Just then, a grey Hyundai i10 rolled past and parked ahead. Nothing unusual about the car, except its number plate: KL‑35, Pala, Kottayam. A Kerala registration here in Dalhousie! My heart leapt. This just made my day, and I decided to say hi to whoever was inside. But as I walked closer, another detail caught my attention—the ARMY sticker on the windshield. Was this an officer posted in Dalhousie? Or someone who had driven all the way from Kerala to see the hills? Questions piled up, but before I could get near, the car moved on, leaving me with curiosity and a smile.
Moments later, I spotted the board: Kwality Restaurant. Mission accomplished. It was only a few meters from St. John’s Church. I hurried back, gathered my wife and daughter, and led them to lunch—sharing my plan to post a letter from the Dalhousie post office and the story of the KL‑35 car with its ARMY sticker along the way.
Lunch That Spoiled the Plan
Located at bustling Gandhi Chowk, Kwality Restaurant retains an old‑world charm with its wooden interiors, while adding a touch of modernity. The rain outside nudged us toward something warm, and the menu offered a temptation I couldn’t resist: Himachal Special Apple Tea. One sip and the comforting, aromatic infusion seemed to bottle the essence of Himachal’s famous apple orchards. A perfect start.
Knowing my infamous ability to pick the worst item on any menu, my wife wisely took charge. She ordered Himachali Dahi Chicken with butter roti and a chicken biryani. The Dahi Chicken was soulful—a yogurt‑based curry with a tangy profile, thin gravy, and the unmistakable touch of mustard oil. Paired with butter roti, it was heavenly, even for our two‑year‑old, who still believes everything is spicy.
Butter chicken seemed to be the restaurant’s star dish, but we skipped it. After all, we were heading back to Punjab soon, and that’s where butter chicken truly belongs.
We planned to explore Gandhi Chowk market after lunch, but the heavy downpour showed no signs of easing. With stomachs full and the weather app confirming more rain, we retreated to the hotel, cocooned under thick blankets. The rain never stopped, and we only sneaked out later for dinner.
Day 2: Khajjiar and Snow at Dainkund
Day Two was when the real exploration began. First stop: Khajjiar, the “Mini Switzerland of India,” just 25 kilometers away. Vicky, our cab driver, greeted us with a smile. “It rained all night, but if you’re lucky, Khajjiar will be clear,” he said. Fingers crossed, prayers whispered, we set off.
The drive was quick, filled with Vicky’s stories—Dalhousie’s geography, the history of its churches, Tibetan families who once lived here in abundance, and even tales of black bears spotted on his routes. He spoke of five‑foot snowfalls in December, of winter clothes packed away only to be pulled out again when the rains returned.
At Khajjiar, the rain paused. One glance and I understood the nickname—Mini Switzerland of India. At 6,500 feet, the emerald‑green meadow framed by pine forests looked straight out of a Swiss postcard. In winter, the entire green turns white, and I could only imagine how breathtaking that must be. My daughter found her perfect playground, running free across the grass. Adventure sports—zorbing, paragliding, horseback riding—were on offer, but with rain looming and a toddler in tow, we chose the simpler joy of blissful walks.
After wandering the meadows, we ended up at Kwality Restaurant again—not the one at Gandhi Chowk, but right in the heart of Khajjiar. Without a second thought, I ordered the apple tea. One sip, and the aromatic warmth captured Himachal’s orchards in my mouth. As the rain resumed outside, I patted my wife’s back. Coming here first was the right call.
Next stop: Dainkund Peak, the highest point in Dalhousie. Vicky’s words lit up my imagination—snowfall in April! My mind replayed lines from Rishad Saam Mehta’s book. But Vicky cautioned: “With a two‑year‑old, don’t attempt the final trek.” Fine, I sighed. “Take us as far as possible.”
The winding road uphill soon revealed patches of snow. Rocks and roadside edges turned white, and Vicky grinned—“Snow in April, sir!” For us, it was pure joy. Rolling down the window, I touched the icy flakes, realizing how cold it truly was. We stopped a kilometer short of the peak, where cars were parked, and drivers were warned of danger ahead.
Rain returned, pushing us back to the car. “Whoever came today is lucky,” Vicky said. We agreed, and to celebrate the unusual snow in April, I asked him to stop for a hot cup of chai and pahadi Maggi.
He chose a roadside tea shop perched on the edge of the hills. Mist blurred the backdrop, chairs lined up picture‑perfect for Instagram reels. I placed my steaming chai on the table, waiting for the moment when vapors rose and the mist cleared. But before the shot came, the downpour began again.
By 3 p.m., we were back at the hotel—wet, hungry, and happy.
Flight Cancelled, Plans Rewritten
Our return flight from Amritsar was cancelled. We were supposed to fly out at 4 p.m., so the final day was meant to be nothing more than a road trip back from Dalhousie. Instead, the airline offered us an alternative: Amritsar to Mumbai at 10:30 p.m., then Mumbai to Bengaluru at 2:30 a.m. We’d reach home early morning—sleep ruined, but with a bonus day to explore.
We quickly sketched a plan: leave the hotel after breakfast, reach Amritsar by 1:30, visit the Golden Temple, enjoy a proper Punjabi meal at a dhaba, witness the Beating Retreat Ceremony at the Attari‑Wagah border, and then return to the airport. Is it possible? I wondered.
The office of Prince Travels, our cab provider, was right across the road. “Definitely possible, sir. Leave as early as you can,” they confirmed. With the plan sorted, we headed to Brew Bakes Café for momos, sandwiches, cappuccino, and my favorite—apple tea. As I sipped, I spotted the KL‑35 car again at the adjacent bus stand. Should I finally go say hi? Or focus on the steaming tea? I chose the tea. By the time I finished, the car had vanished once more.
By 5:30, we realized we had missed one thing over the past two days: the Gandhi Chowk market. The post office is situated here. Could I still send a letter from the Dalhousie post office to Bengaluru? With the rain settled and skies clear, we decided to try.
We reached Gandhi Chowk at 5:45, but the post office was closed. A little disappointed, we explored the market instead. It wasn’t large—just a narrow street along the hillside, lined with shops selling clothes, chappals, gaming studios, and food. At the far end, one shop caught my eye: Himachali Siddu.
I had no idea what it was, but Gemini AI told us it’s a traditional fermented, steamed bread from Himachal’s mountains. So we tried it. The shopkeeper steamed the half-moon-shaped “giant gujiya,” poured ghee over it, and served it with spicy green chutney and garlic‑red chili chutney. Inside was a paste of walnuts, poppy seeds, and peanuts.
For me, it tasted bland. But apparently, Siddu was the “energy bar” of nomadic shepherds and farmers. The cliché that nutritious food doesn't taste great fits perfectly here. Wait—did I just find the worst Siddu in Dalhousie?
Golden Temple and Dhaba Detour
The final morning greeted us with clear sunlight—the kind that had been hiding ever since we arrived in Dalhousie. The mountains behind the hotel garden now looked sharper, almost HD‑like. Not the perfect day to leave, I thought.
After a quick breakfast, our cab driver, Rajkumar, arrived. Within a few twists and turns, we were asleep again, lulled by his steady pace and constant honking. By 11:30, we reached Gurdaspur, stopping at a McDonald’s (mainly for its cleaner washrooms), and by 1 p.m., we rolled into Amritsar.
The city was a blur of cycle rickshaws, half‑sized battery autos, buses, taxis, and people everywhere. The heat didn’t help. We parked near the Golden Temple at 1:30, and Rajkumar advised us to take one of those “half autos” through the narrow lanes. At first, I wondered why, but soon realized that the streets were so narrow that barely two motorcycles could pass. The wafer‑thin gaps were calculated with precision.
We reached one of the gates of Sri Harmandir Sahib, the Golden Temple. As we stepped onto the marble walkway, the sanctum shimmered in its golden hue, devotional songs floating in the background. The pond, the parikrama, the faces of devotees—all radiated humility and divinity. Just a few walls away, Amritsar was chaos, but here it was serenity. I marveled at how the marble stayed cool despite the scorching sun.
The queue for darshan was enormous—Rajkumar had warned us it could take six hours, and the sight confirmed it. We lingered a while longer, then headed back to the car.
By 2:30 we were en route to the Attari‑Wagah border, about 30 km away. The plan: find a dhaba for lunch, reach the border by 4, and witness the Beating Retreat Ceremony at 5. Rajkumar’s honk‑and‑dash driving kept us on schedule.
Around 3:15, Rajkumar stopped at Bhalle Bhalle Dhaba, about 10 km short of the Wagah border. Mission: quick lunch. Scanning the menu, I realized it was pure vegetarian. My dream of asli butter chicken and butter naan was shattered. With no time to hunt for another place, I ordered the Bhalle Bhalle Thali and the Amritsari Kulcha Thali.
The Bhalle Bhalle Thali was a spread—Sarson ka Saag, Dal Makhani, Shahi Paneer, Mix Vegetables, Raita, Makki Roti, Tandoori Roti, and a tall glass of lassi. Sarson ka Saag, the legendary Punjabi dish made from mustard greens, had its bitterness softened with palak. The server insisted I pair it with Makki Roti, a rustic golden flatbread made from maize flour. I tried it, but no—it wasn’t my cup of tea.
Meanwhile, the Dal Makhani, Shahi Paneer, and Tandoori Roti were heavenly. From the other thali, the Amritsari Kulcha and Chole were equally delightful. I hate to admit it, but I was beginning to accept that vegetarian food in this part of the country is genuinely delicious. In fact, it was even better than the thali I’d had at Chennai XPress.
First Kapil Dev had taken us to a vegetarian dhaba on the way to Dalhousie, and now Rajkumar had done the same. Perhaps I should have told them explicitly: I want butter chicken. In any case, the food was excellent, and the lassi cooled us from the inside out.
Borders, Slogans, and Living History
Internet searches had promised that weekday crowds at the Beating Retreat Ceremony would be lighter. But as we reached Attari‑Wagah, four long queues for men and just as many for women proved otherwise. If this was a weekday, I wondered what weekends must look like. By 4:15, the pavilion was already full, and we squeezed into a spot with a view.
Across the gate, Pakistan’s stands looked sparse. Before I could dwell on why, the BSF jawans invited women and children from the Indian gallery to dance on the road leading to the border. Enthusiastic participants seized the chance, grooving to patriotic songs blaring from the speakers.
My focus shifted to the road itself—The Grand Trunk Road. One of Asia’s oldest and longest highways, it stretches 3,655 km from Teknaf in Bangladesh to Kabul in Afghanistan, passing through Kolkata, Varanasi, Agra, Delhi, Ludhiana, and Amritsar before crossing into Lahore. Realizing I had traveled on this historic artery from Amritsar to Attari, I felt like I was journeying through a living history book.
We learned later that the ceremony has been slightly scaled down. The iconic drill and flag‑lowering remain, but the symbolic handshake between Indian and Pakistani commanders is currently suspended due to security protocols. The gates stayed closed throughout. A small disappointment, but the spectacle from our jawans was still a feast for the eyes.
The decibel levels from the speakers were overwhelming—enough to trigger a headache for me—but I reminded myself: this was something many Indians never get to witness. With pride swelling in my chest, we returned to the parking lot and drove back to Amritsar along the Grand Trunk Road, carrying the echoes of slogans and the weight of history.
Epilogue: The Journey Pauses Here
Darkness fell as we sped toward Amritsar. Bengaluru awaited us before the city itself slept, but Rajkumar was determined to drop us at the airport quickly and head back to Dalhousie by midnight. His relentless honk‑and‑dash driving forced me to close my eyes, letting the memories of the past days wash over me.
Did I regret anything? Yes. I never said hi to the probable Malayali in that KL‑35 car, a fleeting connection that slipped away twice. I couldn’t send a letter from the Dalhousie post office—the souvenir I had imagined sealing this trip. And most of all, I missed tasting butter chicken in Punjab, the one dish that had been on my mind since the start.
But regrets are also promises. Promises to return. To chase the KL‑35 car until I find its story (oh, I didn’t notice the registration number). To post that letter from the mountains. To finally savor butter chicken where it belongs.
If you’re still wondering why Dalhousie is named so—it was after Lord Dalhousie, Governor‑General of India from 1848 to 1856. Ironically, he never spent much time in the town that bears his name, preferring Shimla and Chini (modern‑day Kalpa), where he oversaw the construction of the Hindustan‑Tibet Road. Perhaps that’s Dalhousie’s charm—it was never about him, but about the stories we carry away from it.
Comments
Post a Comment