The Roar of the Car Rally and Then Silence Forever
Today, a memory came rushing back. I’ve been passionate about driving since childhood. I used to try sneaking behind the wheel, hoping nobody noticed. I must’ve been around 12 or 13 at the time, but for some reason, I felt like I could drive without any lessons. And one day, I did just that. Seeing no one around, I grabbed the keys and slowly moved the car forward, making a turn. Looking back, I know I shouldn’t have done it, and I wouldn’t recommend it to anyone, but my confidence skyrocketed. I never had to formally learn to drive after that, which is often the case in small towns. Most boys there seem to be born knowing how to ride bikes and drive cars, as if they’re Abhimanyu from the Mahabharata. But my town was even more special. My fascination with driving came from the legendary rally drivers of Japan, Kenya, Europe, and America who visited my hometown, Paonta Sahib, every year.
This was in the 1980s, when the "Himalayan Car Rally" first started in India. The rally passed through my town, Paonta Sahib, in Himachal Pradesh. For the older folks, they’ll know how big of an event this was for us. The memories of that rally are so vivid that I feel like I can still hear the roar of those cars without silencers from my window. Oh, the excitement! Those cars were incredible, especially for the time. We weren’t used to seeing such advanced cars on Indian roads. And the stickers, lights, and sounds made the whole atmosphere feel magical. We’d wait all year for this spectacle.
The rally lasted six or seven days, and the special part was that it would leave from Delhi in the evening and reach Paonta by early morning, stopping at our family friend Baveja Uncle’s petrol station. This Indian Oil pump was where the cars refueled, and most of the drivers would grab breakfast and change their tires. Each car would stop for about 15-30 minutes, turning the station into a mini carnival of rally drivers. Since Baveja Uncle was a close family friend, my childhood friend Mayank and I would head there early in the morning to soak up the experience.
I can still picture it clearly—cars arriving with all their lights blazing, even in broad daylight, making thunderous noises. Without silencers, the sound would change the entire atmosphere. The cars had colorful stickers from various brands, their numbers neatly displayed, along with the drivers’ names. Even their blood types were written near the bonnet, as well as the name of the navigator sitting beside them. Peeking inside the car was like looking into an aircraft cockpit. Cars like the Mitsubishi Starion, Mazda, Toyota Celica, Audi, Nissan 200SX, and Lada Riva competed alongside our own Maruti Gypsy and Jonga. Watching those cars made us feel like we were in another world. The scene was filled with mechanics, drivers, crowds, cameramen, and photographers. Back then, you’d mostly see the cameras in the hands of foreigners.
Rally legends like Japan’s Kenjiro Shinozuka, Kenya’s Jayant Shah, and India’s own Nikhil Taneja participated. But the most special name to us was Colonel Kulbir Singh Chauhan, from our own town of Nahan in Sirmaur. We lovingly called him "Mattu Uncle." When he’d arrive in his Gypsy, everyone’s faces would light up. He had many relatives in Paonta who came to see him. I remember one elderly relative holding his face in his hands and tearfully saying, “Why do you do this? Please drive safely.” Mattu Uncle just smiled. That scene hit me deeply, making me realize how tough and dangerous this sport was. Anything could happen to the car or the driver at any moment, but the world doesn’t stop for fear.
The rally would last until around noon. Cars would keep coming, then move on from Paonta, passing through Sataun and onto Renuka Ji. After the cars left, there’d be a sudden silence, like the calm after a storm. Sometimes, a car would show up much later than the others, and we’d laugh. Either the driver was incredibly slow, or he’d lost his way and arrived late. Either way, he’d become the subject of jokes.
We had three main spots where we enjoyed the rally—the petrol station in Paonta, Rajban where the cars briefly stopped to log their time, and Sataun. The real test for the drivers began after Sataun, heading toward Renuka Ji. The roads were terrible—a landslide-prone mountain on one side and a deep valley leading straight to the river on the other. They said this was one of the most dangerous stretches of the Himalayan Rally route. You could see the cars kicking up dust as they sped through the valleys, their sounds echoing sharply.
After that, we’d wait until 8:30 p.m. for the news on Doordarshan to catch updates on the rally. They’d give us two or three minutes of coverage, which was enough for us. We’d watch with pride, recognizing the drivers we’d met that very morning. They were still wearing the same t-shirts and sunglasses. Rally participants would stay overnight at Holiday Home in Shimla, and my dad would sometimes make trunk calls to check if everything was going smoothly. Even though we had no real role in the rally, knowing the updates felt like a big deal in our small town.
When the rally returned, it didn’t stop in Paonta but headed straight to Dehradun, on its way to Ranikhet, Nainital, and then Delhi. The cars would leave early in the morning while most people were still asleep, but we night owls wouldn’t miss it. We could see the lights of the cars from our home as they drove along the Shivalik hills toward Dehradun. The sound of the engines made the atmosphere even more exciting.
One morning, something unexpected happened. While we were watching the cars pass, we suddenly heard the sound of one near our house. This was strange because the route didn’t pass directly by our house. We lived in Devi Nagar, but the road to Dehradun was further away. It turned out the driver had gotten lost. We stood there, waiting for him to return, as the road ahead was blocked. Soon enough, he came back and stopped when he saw us. “Dehradun?” he asked. We told him, “Take a left ahead.” He thanked us, but we cheekily offered, “How about some breakfast?” He smiled, shook his head, and drove off. “At least have a sandwich,” we joked, but it was still the happiest moment for us, being the only ones on a quiet morning, sharing a conversation with a rally driver. We even noted down his competitor number.
A few days later, the rally reached Delhi, and that same 8:30 news slot told us who had won. Unfortunately, our lost driver finished near the bottom. The winner was, as always, the unbeatable Kenjiro Shinozuka, with Jayant Shah finishing third. Nikhil Taneja placed fifth, but he was still India’s top driver in the rally that year.
My friend Mayank and I had already decided we’d enter the Himalayan Rally ourselves as soon as we turned 18. We’d figured out how much it would cost and what the rules were. We even practiced by taking our red Gypsy on the dangerous roads from Sataun to Renuka Ji, timing ourselves. We knew that stretch was the real challenge. Sometimes the car would slip, or bounce around, but we kept going fearlessly. We had even picked out our navigator—an engine mechanic who could fix any problems. We handled everything else ourselves and proudly started calling ourselves rally drivers.
But, as often happens in India, the moment something good starts bothering people, they begin protesting. When politics gets involved, things are bound to get ruined. The Himalayan Rally faced the same fate. Local politicians in the states the rally passed through—Delhi, Haryana, Himachal, and Uttar Pradesh (this was before Uttarakhand was formed)—began to raise concerns. There were accidents, including the death of a Swedish driver who was speeding. People started complaining about the noise and pollution. By 1990, the rally had had enough and was discontinued.
People celebrated the end of the rally with fireworks, and maybe some crackers were burst. But our dreams, and the dreams of many others like me, were shattered. I’m not sure how much kids in Sirmaur today know about Colonel Kulbir Singh Chauhan, but I hope they’ve been told about his achievements and collected his stories. I’d like to think so.
As I grew up, my driving was limited to picking up relatives from the railway station or dropping my aunt off at her kitty parties. But Mayank kept the passion alive as long as he could. He even modified his Jeep and participated in a few rallies. His love for driving still burns bright, and he seizes any opportunity to indulge in it.
Since 1990, after the last Himalayan Rally passed through Paonta Sahib, a silence has lingered. Sure, there are still rallies in India, and some of them are of a good standard. But our beloved rally has been gone for a long time, and no one talks about bringing it back.
If you have any memories of the Himalayan Car Rally, do share.
-Vivek Tewari
Here are some important facts about the Himalayan Car Rally:
The Himalayan Car Rally started in 1980, founded by famous rally driver Nazir Hoosein. He was a talented driver himself and wanted India to host international rally competitions. To achieve this, he created the "Himalayan Rally Association," under which this rally was born.
For the first two years, the rally started from Mumbai and went all the way to Narkanda in Himachal Pradesh, covering about 5,500 kilometers over seven days. After two years, the Mumbai-Delhi route was dropped, and for the next eight years, the rally ran from Delhi to Narkanda and back to Delhi. Many drivers were happy with this change, as the Mumbai-Delhi leg was seen as unnecessary and time-consuming.
The rally would last for about six to seven days, passing through Delhi, Moradabad, Ranikhet, Nainital, and then on to Paonta Sahib, Renuka, and Shimla in Himachal Pradesh, before reaching Narkanda and heading back to Delhi. From what I remember, around 1987, the route went from Delhi to Paonta and then to Shimla, with the return journey passing through Ranikhet and Nainital before reaching Delhi. If anyone can confirm this, it would be helpful, but this is the route I recall.
Each year, top drivers from around the world participated in this rally. One of the stars was Kenjiro Shinozuka, one of the best rally drivers globally. Another regular participant was Jayant Shah from Kenya, who was originally from Jamnagar, Gujarat. Shah's name was synonymous with tough competition in the rally.
Kenjiro Shinozuka was the first Japanese driver to win the Paris-Dakar Rally, and also the first Japanese to win a stage in the World Rally Championship (WRC). Jayant Shah was a legendary figure in the Himalayan Rally. From 1982 to 1985, he consistently came in first place. He did not compete in 1986 but returned in 1987 and secured third place. After that, he didn’t compete in the rally again. Shah continued driving until 2020, even at the age of 77, but sadly passed away due to COVID-19 in 2021.
Kenjiro Shinozuka competed in the Himalayan Rally in 1987 and 1988, winning both times. I'm not sure about 1989. He drove a Mitsubishi Starion Turbo and continued racing until 2017. Unfortunately, Shinozuka passed away in March 2024 at the age of 75.
From our region, a beloved local figure, known affectionately as "Mattu Uncle", Colonel Kulbir Singh Chauhan, represented the Regiment of Artillery in the rally. His co-driver was Major Sukhi Singh Sekhon. Colonel Chauhan first participated in the Himalayan Rally in 1985, driving a Jonga. In 1985 and 1986, he finished in fifth place. In 1989, he finished third, and in 1990, he came in second. In all these rallies, he drove a Maruti Gypsy.
These are just a few of the fascinating stories and people connected with the Himalayan Car Rally.
In the 1980s, some cars from the "Himalayan Rally" used to pass through here, crossing the Giri River bridge at Sataun while going from Paonta Sahib to Renuka Ji. Pay attention to the sound of the cars.
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