You can paddle a boat, row it or blaze a trail on a kayak across Ram Taal and Lakshman Taal, which are separated by a bridge. You can rappel down rocks, or jumar or clamber up them. Or, you can trace the zigzag trekking route up the hill.

I planned on doing it all.

The Internet, after all, was my friend, philosopher and Google, pointing to Saat Taal on a “weekend drive from Delhi” search. I set out at midnight and hit the first bend leading up to the lake district at 6am. An hour later, I was at Ram Taal, sipping tea under a tree on the bank and watching people with firmer resolve living my plan. At any other place, guilt would have set in. But at Saat Taal, sloth seemed neither deadly nor a sin. In fact, I’d even vote in favour of renaming the place in Uttarakhand, some 23km from Nainital, sloth taal.

The waterfall — an island of white in a sea of green

Yes, there are lakes, hills and trails, but Saat Taal induces nothing but a yawn. And I was on the nth yawn when I realised that nature was dimming the lights to signal the end of Friday’s show. So I rose in slow motion and proceeded to the jeep that waited to drive me up the hill to my tented accommodation.

After a four-course meal at the wood cabin that was the dining area, I decided on a stroll, picking the trail lined brightest with glow-worms. At the end of it was a meadow. I lay there, letting the dew drench me until sleep and the cold turned my thoughts to my tent. I followed on their tail and drifted into a fitful slumber, dreaming of waking up to a sunny morning and boating and trekking all day.

I woke up to a sunny morning, dreading that I’d have to live my dream. In a place like Saat Taal, it seemed like sacrilege. Prakash, the manager, preached the benefits of breathing the clean morning air, and in my daze, I picked up my camera and rolled downhill to help my budding health-streak blossom. In the process, I narrowly missed a boy, who, after the initial shock, introduced himself as Kumar, on his way to Bhimtal to sell gladioli blossoms.

Kayaking across Ram Taal and Lakshman Taal

“Where are you from?” he asked me as we began our downhill journey together.

“Delhi.”

“That’s where these flowers will go,” he beamed. “Where are you headed?”

“The lakes, maybe.”

“I’ll take you around,” he chirped. “Just let me hand over these flowers to someone in the market.”

We reached the market in 10 minutes, and a minute after that Kumar had loaded his stock on to a friend’s three-wheeler and requested him to drop us off at the dam. Sadly, the waterfalls, Hanuman Taal and Bharat Taal had to be walked to.

Kumar, on his way to Bhimtal to sell gladioli blossoms

Saat Taal’s lakes are fed by underground springs but not all springs are equal. So while Ram Taal remains expansive throughout the year and Hanuman Taal manages to brim its banks, Bharat Taal stays mostly dry.

What were the stories behind naming these lakes so? I asked Kumar as I sat on a semi-submerged rock in the lake. “They were all here,” he said with a finality that prevented me from requesting him to elaborate. Then we headed off to the waterfall.

I heard it a good 10 minutes before I reached it. The waterfall, too, is the result of an underground stream surfacing. In a sea of green, the waterfall was an island of white, its wedding veil-like waters rustling over rocks softened by layers of moss.

It was nearing noon; time to head back. I was pleased with the distance we had covered: all of 4km.

Once at the solitary tea shop next to the dam, however, Kumar politely took his leave, and I was once more left to my devices.

The wilderness camp where the author stayed

I decided to beach myself at the closest lake — once named Garud Taal but now called ‘haunted lake’ since it reportedly claims at least one person annually. The woods set a brooding prelude to the pool of souls — the ground was soft with dead leaves, the sun gave it a miss, and it did not seem a tourist’s haunt. Which was perfect because I had forgotten to bring a towel.

I swam to wash away my lethargy and made up for it by stealing a quick siesta. I woke up depressed with the thought that my last day at Saat Taal would soon be over.

I returned to the tea stall to drown my sorrows. What else is there to see? I asked the shopkeeper.

“Nothing,” he said. “We have only five lakes. Two dried up years ago.”

Perhaps even nature knew seven was a tall order to cover in a day, or two. She decided to give us less, so we could appreciate her more. And, perhaps, sloth taal would not be a bad idea — now that ‘Saat’ is a confirmed misnomer.

Which is your favourite lakeside getaway? Tell t2@abp.in