Landour’s forests, silence and slow rhythm gave it a timeless allure. Today, selfie-seekers, blaring SUVs and weekend chaos threaten to drown all of that.
There is no signboard outside the cemetery in Landour. It disappeared some time ago. The white-painted wooden gate, like much of the graveyard, needs upkeep; sticks have been inserted in places to keep strays out.
The Christian burial ground, just a few years younger than the cantonment town the British set up almost 200 years ago, is a testament to the forlorn side of the Raj. Many British soldiers are buried here; young men who fell in a faraway land, not to bullets, but to malaria, cholera, or, for reasons unknown. Like 79299 Private JW Larvin of 19th Royal Hussars who died at 21 in 1920. Or M Curren of the Military Police Corps who passed on at 28 in 1918. Or Private WR Goulding of King's Dragoon Guards, who now lies surrounded by carefree daisies.
The Christian burial ground, just a few years younger than the cantonment town the British set up almost 200 years ago, is a testament to the forlorn side of the Raj. Many British soldiers are buried here; young men who fell in a faraway land, not to bullets, but to malaria, cholera, or, for reasons unknown. Like 79299 Private JW Larvin of 19th Royal Hussars who died at 21 in 1920. Or M Curren of the Military Police Corps who passed on at 28 in 1918. Or Private WR Goulding of King's Dragoon Guards, who now lies surrounded by carefree daisies.