There are some family trips where you remember the hotel.
Some where you remember the food.
Some where you remember the destination.
And then there are trips where the main memory is a completely stupid joke that nobody outside the car would understand.
For us, it was khadda and gaddha.
It was around 2010. We had decided to drive to Mussoorie with my chacha, chachi, my two cousins, another cousin and me.
We hired a car and a driver and set off from Delhi.
And somewhere on that mountain road, we started noticing the potholes.
There were small potholes.
Khaddas.
Then there were bigger potholes.
Gaddhas.
I don’t remember who said it first.
I don’t remember why it became funny.
But once it started, there was no stopping it.
Every few minutes:
“Khadda.”
“Gaddha.”
“Arre, yeh toh gaddha hai!”
At some point the entire journey had apparently become an advanced academic course in pothole classification.
Nobody outside that car would have understood why we were laughing.
We didn’t care.
We were having fun.
And, as I would eventually learn, some of the best family memories are built around jokes that are completely unfunny to everyone else.
The mountain Maggi that wasn’t actually very good
At some point along the way, we stopped for Maggi.
Because apparently there is a law governing mountain travel in India:
If there is a mountain, there must be Maggi.
The Maggi was soupy.
It was also, if I’m being honest, not particularly good.
But the view was.
And this is where travel changes your standards.
Give me a great view and a bowl of mediocre Maggi and I will happily declare that I have had an authentic mountain experience.
There was something lovely about stopping there together.
No fancy restaurant.
No carefully curated travel itinerary.
Just a roadside Maggi point, a few plastic or metal utensils, mountains in the distance and our family sitting around eating noodles.
Looking at the photographs now, I can see how ordinary it all was.
And perhaps that is exactly why I love them.
We weren’t trying to create memories.
We were just having lunch.
Finally, Mussoorie
We reached Mussoorie and immediately encountered another classic travel problem:
We couldn’t find the property.
After some searching, I suggested a place.
I had stayed there earlier with friends.
I knew the property.
It had a family suite with two bedrooms and, importantly, enough room for all of us.
So that became our home for the next two days.
It was a good suite. Big rooms, enough space, and the comfortable feeling of having finally solved the problem of where seven people were going to sleep.
We unpacked.
We settled in.
And then, like most families on holiday, we started doing what families do best:
Absolutely nothing particularly useful.
Getting ready.
Eating.
Laughing.
Taking photographs.
Taking more photographs because the first photographs apparently weren’t enough.
Taking photographs in mirrors.
Taking photographs on stairs.
Taking photographs with people who weren’t ready.
Taking photographs while brushing your teeth.
The digital camera had arrived, and we were determined to document civilisation.
Looking at these photographs now, the whole thing feels wonderfully unfiltered.
Nobody was posing for Instagram.
There was no Instagram.
Thank God.
Kempty Falls: because democracy had spoken
I wasn’t particularly keen on going to Kempty Falls.
Everyone else wanted to go.
So I went.
This is one of the great compromises of family travel.
You don’t necessarily go where you want to go.
You go where the majority has decided to go and then tell yourself that you were interested all along.
Kempty Falls was crowded.
Very crowded.
There were people everywhere.
The waterfall itself was beautiful, but the experience was less peaceful mountain retreat and more the entire population has received the same WhatsApp forward about this waterfall.
Still, we had fun.
We rented clothes.
And not glamorous, well-fitted clothes designed for photographs.
We got what I remember as something resembling full pajama sets.
There is a special kind of dignity involved in wearing rented clothes at a crowded waterfall while trying to look like you’re having the time of your life.
We were.
The photographs prove it.
Some are blurry.
Some have water droplets all over the lens.
Some have people cut off at strange angles.
One looks as though the camera itself had given up.
They’re perfect.
We also discovered that tourist destinations come with optional activities
At some point, we took a trolley up to another part of Mussoorie.
I don’t remember exactly what the attraction was called now.
What I do remember is going uphill, looking at the mountains, and eventually discovering rifle shooting.
Naturally, we tried it.
Because nothing says peaceful mountain holiday quite like a family standing around taking turns shooting at targets.
My chachi tried it.
I tried it.
There are photographs.
Therefore, it happened.
There was also a sunset.
And this is one of those strange things about travel: a day can contain completely ridiculous moments and then suddenly become quiet.
One minute you’re laughing and posing with a rifle.
The next you’re standing somewhere above the town, watching the light disappear behind the mountains.
The clouds start changing colour.
The hills become silhouettes.
Everyone becomes slightly quieter.
And you remember that you came to the mountains in the first place because they make you stop.
Even if only for a few minutes.
Mornings were mine
I have always been an early riser.
Apparently, even holidays don’t cure this condition.
One of my cousins was awake early too.
While everyone else was sleeping, we got up and went out.
There was something about Mussoorie in those early hours that felt completely different from the crowded places we had visited during the day.
The mountains were quiet.
The air was cold.
The clouds sat low over the hills.
And somewhere in all of that, I had a cup of coffee.
I have photographs from that morning.
And one of them is probably one of my favourites from the entire trip.
It isn’t particularly spectacular.
It is simply me sitting with coffee, mountains behind me and the morning happening slowly.
At the time, I probably didn’t think much of it.
Now I look at it and think:
How lovely that we used to have mornings like this without needing to call them “slow mornings.”
We just woke up early.
We had coffee.
We looked at the mountains.
That was enough.
The mountains, before we became very good at photographing them
There are several photographs from that trip of the mountains.
Some are slightly hazy.
Some are overexposed.
Some have clouds covering half the view.
One has me standing in front of the mountains in a denim jacket, looking very pleased with myself.
And I think the mountains were partly responsible for that confidence.
There is something about being surrounded by hills that makes you feel briefly larger and smaller at the same time.
Larger because the world suddenly seems enormous.
Smaller because you realise how enormous it actually is.
We looked at the views.
We took photographs.
We probably said things like “Wow.”
And then went back to arguing about something completely unimportant.
That was the rhythm of the trip.
Beauty.
Then nonsense.
Beauty.
Then nonsense again.
Haridwar on the way back
On our way back, we stopped in Haridwar.
We visited a few temples.
We spent some time around the Ganga.
And eventually, we took a dip.
The water was cold.
Very cold.
Chachi, on the other hand, seemed to be enjoying herself enormously.
Some people approach the Ganga with great seriousness.
Chachi appeared to approach it with enthusiasm.
I remember the cold more than anything.
And the feeling of being there together.
After two days in the mountains, we were now standing beside the Ganga, doing something that felt both completely ordinary and deeply Indian at the same time.
The trip was coming to an end.
We would get back into the car.
The potholes would return.
Perhaps the khaddas and gaddhas would get one final mention.
And then we would go home.
We had no idea how important that trip would eventually become.
My chacha
My chacha was one of those people who simply took care of me.
There was nothing particularly dramatic about it.
He just did.
He was one of the people in the family whose presence you took for granted because you assumed it would always be there.
Looking at these photographs now, I see him everywhere.
At the Maggi stop.
At the restaurant.
Travelling with us.
Standing with the family.
Laughing.
Waiting.
Just being part of the trip.
At the time, I didn’t think:
I should remember this.
Why would I?
He was my chacha.
He was supposed to be there.
And then came 2021
During COVID, I also got infected around the same time as my chacha.
He called me.
I remember his voice.
And I remember what he said:
“Sammy, darati kyun rehti hai yaar?”
Why are you always so scared, Sammy?
That was my chacha.
It wasn’t a profound conversation.
It wasn’t some great final speech.
It was just him talking to me the way he always did.
And that is precisely why I remember it.
Because when someone dies unexpectedly, you don’t necessarily remember the grand things they said.
You remember their voice.
Their expressions.
The way they called your name.
The stupid joke.
The ordinary conversation.
The way they made you feel safe.
His COVID infection became very severe during the 2021 wave.
He passed away.
And even now, some part of me finds that difficult to believe.
He had been there.
Then he wasn’t.
And because it was COVID, even saying goodbye became complicated.
People couldn’t gather normally.
People couldn’t come to the cremation the way families traditionally do.
There was no proper coming together.
No normal goodbye.
Just an awful, surreal period where everyone was trying to understand what was happening while the world itself seemed to have stopped making sense.
The strange cruelty of photographs
I sometimes think photographs are cruel.
Not because they show us what we have lost.
But because they show us how little we knew we were about to lose it.
Look at this photograph.
There he is.
Nothing unusual is happening.
Nobody knows the future.
Nobody is thinking about death.
Nobody is trying to make the moment meaningful.
He is simply there.
And that is what makes the photograph hurt.
Because today, I know something that the people inside that photograph didn’t.
I know that this ordinary day would become extraordinary later.
I didn’t know it was one of our last beautiful memories
When we were driving towards Mussoorie, all we cared about was the road.
Khadda.
Gaddha.
We were eating soupy Maggi.
We couldn’t find our hotel.
We went to Kempty Falls even though I wasn’t particularly interested.
We wore ridiculous rented clothes.
We went up in a trolley.
We shot rifles.
We watched the sunset.
We woke up early.
We drank coffee.
We looked at mountains.
We went to Haridwar.
We took a cold dip in the Ganga.
We laughed.
We came home.
It was just a family holiday.
That’s all we thought it was.
And perhaps that is the most beautiful thing about it.
We didn’t know we were making a memory.
We were simply living it.
If I could go back
I don’t think I would change anything.
I wouldn’t ask for a better hotel.
I wouldn’t ask for a less crowded Kempty Falls.
I wouldn’t ask for better Maggi.
I wouldn’t even ask for fewer potholes.
Okay, perhaps fewer potholes.
But mostly, I would want exactly the same trip.
The same car.
The same family.
The same ridiculous jokes.
The same mountain mornings.
The same coffee.
The same crowded waterfall.
The same rented clothes.
The same Ganga.
And my chacha sitting somewhere nearby, taking care of me without making a big deal of it.
Because that’s the thing about the trips that stay with us.
We think we remember places.
But often, we remember people inside places.
Mussoorie is beautiful.
The mountains are beautiful.
The clouds, the waterfalls, the sunsets—all of it is beautiful.
But when I look at these photographs now, I don’t see Mussoorie first.
I see my family.
I see us before we knew what was coming.
I see my chacha.
And I hear his voice:
“Sammy, darati kyun rehti hai yaar?”
Maybe I was scared.
Maybe I still am.
But if there is one thing I know now, it is that some of the best moments of our lives don’t announce themselves.
They arrive disguised as an ordinary road trip.
A bad bowl of Maggi.
A stupid joke about potholes.
A crowded waterfall.
A cup of coffee at sunrise.
A family laughing in a car.
And someone you love sitting beside you, completely unaware that one day you will give almost anything to have that ordinary day back.
A note if you’re planning a Mussoorie–Haridwar trip
This isn’t an itinerary. There are plenty of those.
If you’re travelling to Mussoorie, leave some room for wandering. The mountain views, early mornings and little roadside stops can sometimes become more memorable than the attractions you planned around.
Kempty Falls is a popular stop and can get extremely crowded, so go expecting a lively tourist experience rather than solitude.
If you’re travelling onward to Haridwar, give yourself time around the Ganga and the temples rather than treating them as quick checklist stops.
And yes, stop for Maggi if you see a good mountain view.
The Maggi doesn’t necessarily have to be good.
The view will do some of the work.
SEO Title: Khadda, Gaddha & the Last Trip with Chacha | A Mussoorie & Haridwar Travel Story
Meta Description: A funny and bittersweet family travel story about a 2010 road trip from Delhi to Mussoorie and Haridwar—potholes, mountain Maggi, Kempty Falls, sunrise coffee, family memories and my chacha.
URL Slug: mussoorie-haridwar-road-trip-chacha
Primary SEO Keywords: Mussoorie travel story, Mussoorie family trip, Haridwar travel story, Mussoorie road trip, Kempty Falls experience
Secondary Keywords: Mussoorie travel experience, Haridwar family trip, things to do in Mussoorie, Mussoorie travel memories, mountain Maggi, Kempty Falls, Ganga Haridwar, family travel stories India