LEAVING ON A JET PLANE

Tomorrow sometimes never comes.  It does of course, the day turns into night, the night into day and all that daily turning overs and passing ins and outs but the tomorrow one plans to sit down and commit oneself one to writing somehow seems more elusive than will-o-wisp, almost within grasp and yet, damn! flitting away. 

I hope that reads profound but the fact is quite prosaic! After every bit of travelling and every new experience it involves, it seems just done to put it into black and white with coloured photographs. But for some reason or the other, that didn't seem to happen in the past two months. The places visited and the people met began to acquire sepia tones........

Soon after the Darjeeling and Kalimpong visits, the next was of course the road much travelled and much loved, back to Shillong for Dasein (Dusshera),to familiar feelings and the all encircling warmth of unconditional love.The best flight is always the early morning one when traces of the night still lingers in the air and when the first dazzling rays of the sun hits one as the plane soars into the sky. Suddenly it is all bright and the body and mind, wracked by sleep deprivation and overdose of caffeine, comes awake with a jolt. Its an amazing sight outside the window- the deep azure blue at the top gradually peters to a lush tinge of aqua blue which gives way to a fairy land of clouds glowing with golden glow from the morning sun. I fail to get a seat on the left side, so I miss my regular darshan of The Himalayan  range that to me always seemed as if it got up early too just to say hello to me. Soon its the rivers and green hills of Guwahati....

 

 

Driving to Shillong from the Guwahati airport is now a pleasure. The widening and addition of lanes to the national highway that seemed to be going on forever is now nearing close and, it is not only a really smooth drive up but takes much less time too. That is of course until you hit Mawlai and then no fervent prayers can spare you from getting caught up in a traffic jam. You just sit back and resign to adding at least a minimum 30 to 40 minutes before you reach your destination. While everything is familiar and so comforting like all Indian hill stations, Shillong seems to be declining daily - too many houses, mostly concrete monstrosities, overload of vehicles,too many shops opening up (do they actually get footfalls?), too many people.But before you know its time to leave and however much you tell yourself that it is for a short time only, there is always sorrow, especially when you leave Bara Pani behind.

It's just a day in Delhi and off to Nainital. Its the first Kumaon Literary Festival and there's a panel discussion on documenting food heritage to participate in. An early morning train and a drive up from Kathgodam, the range of green all around is dazzling as is the bright sun. As we pass the famous Naini Lake, there's a mini procession of young chaps in bright local costumes walking alongside; they seem like high school boys returning home from some event. 

 

      

But as we drive higher up and as the looming hills come closer, the top of the hills look bare and brown making a rather sad picture. Every minute of the drive up, our driver, an elderly Sikh, had been chatting non stop and bragging about how Nainital unlike the other hill stations had remained green,verdant and tra la la. When one points out the barren hill stops he has a quick answer to that too - its the season, winter is arriving he says as if that explains everything.  Considering his verbal strength and stamina, one thought it prudent to mutter a disbelieving sure, sure!

We check into the hotel,which we are told is located at the highest spot in the town. As the sun weakens and the sky turns darker, it hits one bang - Nainital in October end is cold, quite quite cold once the sun goes down and yours sincerely doesn't have the requisite heavy warm clothing. Like an idiot one had thought that if the Shillong weather had been one light jacket/sweater kind then there was no way Nainital could be any colder. Hah! But then all hill girls know that the trick is in layering so one cut quite a figure in multi-coloured multi-layers! The evening by the fireside in the bar with the right company and right spirits and menu is a cosy moment. Soon its sleep time and then bang! It's like someone has stuck a megaphone into your ears and is blaring away in the highest decibels ever. Almost leaping out of the bed and totally disoriented while the audio assault continued unabated, it took some minutes to figure out that it was still quite dark outside, and the cacophonous noise violating the early morning was coming from a holy place nearby where for some unbelievable reasons someone had decided that Nainital and its denizens needed to be violently jolted awake even before the sun arose and that too, with the most discordant bhajan ever. It really surprised me that the hill dwellers turn a deaf ear to all that.

The first half of the first three days of the Kumaon Literary Festival was at Dhanachuli and the last two days at Abbotsford, a heritage resort at Nainital which is a small drive away. Ours is the first panel discussion of the morning. But after the rude awakening, one is more angry than inspired.Thankfully, on the way up the winding little path from the room to the dining hall for breakfast its a lovely sight to see a young girl swinging away, chirpy and chattering, amidst the blaze of colourful flowers every which way. The bright sun is up in the sky again and all the shivering of the night before seem distant.

documenting food heritage panel discussion goes off well, even if I say so! Food seems to be quite the binding force. 

Continuing the food story, that evening we are lucky to be be at dinner at the Boat Club where the Uttarakhandi Food Festival hosted by the State Department of Tourism, Uttarakhand is on. Its typical Uttarakhandi cuisine. Being in the Kumaon region, one understands that the menu tilts towards traditional dishes of the region and everything is so wholesome and tasty.There's bhatt dal which initially reminded one of small rajma (red kidney beans) but this is much smaller and black.  Recipe reconstructionist and author Shiv Shankar Maitra tells me its actually black bean; the way it is cooked is superb. The raita with radish is quite addictive and finally one has to stop heaping it on the plate.  

The next afternoon is back to Delhi again and this time I am particular to start no conversation whatsoever with the driver, there is no way one is going to put up with non stop chattering once again. When leaving any place, especially a hill station, isn't there that one spot on the drive down that seems quite lonely and so far away from home....

It goes without saying that the weddings in India are no small affairs. When it comes to family and friends, there are weddings one has to be at whatever the location. So there we were on way to Pune, my first visit to the city and quite kicked up about it. One had somehow or the other always heard good things about the city and so the intention was to club the wedding, catching up with old friends and taking in the sights and sounds of the city. Someone up there must have been saying, honey isn't that too ambitious a plan for a couple of days? It was, because the first thing that welcomed us was a massive traffic jam. In Pune too I muttered and the driver gave one a look that said, from under which bush have you crawled out?   

Every time there is a traffic jam why is that there are some people who insist on directing the traffic and before you attribute any good intentions and Samaritan qualities to them, remember its inevitably to make way for the car they are in, which naturally means a car or two getting into the wrong way and ensuring that the jam continues for much longer. And so it was as we left the airport. Once we manage to make our way and hit the road towards the hotel, at quite a distance from the city, one liked the fact that the streets of Pune are broad and above all quite clean with a lot of greenery around. One also liked that many walls were painted brightly with pretty images and slogans encouraging cleanliness and growing of trees and plants.

In between the wedding festivities, we did manage to take sometime out.There were two specific destinations - the Osho Ashram and Chitle Bandhu Mithaiwale from which we were told one could get the best bakarwadi, the delicious Maharashtrian snack as well as the famous Pune Shrewsbury biscuits. And of course the plan was also to look out for any Natural ice cream stall. One didn't know that entry to the Ashram was now a no no and so one had to be content with taking a look outside and picking up stuff at the bookstore. The huge black gates remained shut while a couple of figures in flowing robes walked in and out. One snuck a mobile picture from the store of the road beyond the gate and that was the end of the much looked forward to visit that came a cropper.

 

Thankfully, the Natural ice cream more than made up. Even as we sampled several flavours- loved them all- couldn't help but notice that a building nearby looked for some strange reason like a big cheese that had been devoured overnight by rodents leaving huge holes around.   

The Chitle Bandhu Mithaiwale was another story. When we got there, it was shut. Apparently it was post lunch break and the shop would reopen after some time.What piqued my curiosity was that there were a handful of people hanging around waiting for it to open. It was nearing the opening time by then and before one could say Jack .a sort of queue started forming outside the shop. There was no question of going back, one had to see what the store was all about. It was quite an arrangement inside, one gets a token number and you walk a designated path and everyone on that path headed for bakarwadi counter and so did we. The Shrewsbury biscuits were at the next counter. And before I knew it one was at the payment counter, which meant that I could not turn back for the chiklis and would have to pay, get out and take another token and reenter. Fortunately, the husband was still inside and managed to pick them up. Was it worth the trouble? At the rate of earning Bakarwadi lovers ire, I have to say one was never enamoured of it but the chiklis more than made up for it.

The Pune trip was sadly short but driving from and to the airport  one passed many housing societies, established and some still coming up and they all seem to have all imported names like most metropolis in India. There was Citrine, Royal Towers, a Swan Lake too and Pride Panorama and a Deron Heights, which for some strange reason sounded very daraona! What is this obsession for bidesi names for desi houses?

BILLOWING PRAYERS  ON WAY TO

KALIMPONG

                                   

Watching Tibetan prayers flags waving in the wind is like watching poetry come alive. At least that's what it seems to me. When the winds rustle through the rows of multi-coloured flags with prayers written on them, I imagine mantras being released into the world so that all negativity are blown away. It's like a silent but powerful collective humming (please don't go into the semantics of how humming can be silent!) of Om Shanti Om, peace be to the world. No religion, no caste, no creed, no nationality just one humanity and the prayer flags that pray for the well being of all.  

Driving out of Darjeeling towards Kalimpong,I pray frantically that the rainy weather gives way to at least some sunshine. We are driving down a road that we took almost two decades ago and would everything seem familiar? The driver mentions that there is a huge park called Mamata Park (naturally because it was inaugurated by West Bengal Chief Minister Mamata Banerjee!) along the way and would we be interested in seeing it. Why not,we chorus desultorily because when the weather is tilting constantly towards grey how does it harm to check out a park. We have to take a little detour and initially seem to have taken the wrong turn which, doesn't help the mood within the vehicle.

Then suddenly it is there, unexpected and quite beautiful. What I liked best is that far from tampering with the natural beauty of the place, all efforts have been made to accentuate it without any ugly eye sore of additions.The naturally rising gradient of the hilly park has been left as it is, what has been added are small narrow paths paved with stones that look like they have always been there,a gazebo or two that blend in and a tree house like structure, all wood and rough, like a viewpoint. All that up to a point, and beyond that the trees reach up to the skies and its forested areas and climb further up.There's a path that says the river is about 2km away further up, but a local gentleman says it would not be advisable to do the short trek because of the inclement weather. Indeed it does look all mysterious and somewhat sinister too as if a wicked witch dwells beyond the rows of tree. We turn back leaving the prayer flags whistling a sonorous tune..............

 

Soon we are passing through tea gardens and tiny little bazaars at some intersections on the narrow road rolling sharply down to Teesta Bazaar. There's something about tea gardens that look so inviting during the day time especially if the sun is up and bright;one is tempted to run through the gaps between the bushes, maybe sing along. But at night especially if it is moonlit, its not so inviting when you move your eyes along the bushes that look like little creatures standing in a row. It's almost as if a scowling gnome will emerge and bark at you.

 

 

Every time one drove down from Darjeeling to Kalimpong, I always had to stop at Triveni viewpoint for one of nature's most beautiful sight of which I never ever tire. As you stand up at the viewpoint and look down, what unfolds is the confluences of three rivers-Teesta, Rangit (also known as Great Rangit) and Little Rangit.Teesta  takes birth from the Tso Lhamo lake in North Sikkim while(Great) Rangit begins from the lower (Mount) Kanchenjunga in the Singalala region of Darjeeling,as does little Rangit. he two rivers- Teesta and (Great) Rangit can clearly be identified by their different hues. It is a sight that one can gaze on endlessly while at the same time admiring the hills rising on either side.  

Will the weather play spoilsport or will we able to take in the amazing coming together of the rivers? Yippee! We are lucky. And it is just as I had remembered- nature at her magnificence best. This time however,there was a strong haze and the distinct colours of the two rivers seemed to have turned into a common non decrepit shade, thanks to the rains. To add to the happiness quotient are the small stalls at the viewpoint selling among others what the locals call tittora, which is nothing but sour tamarind, de-seeded and cooked into a thick mass, flattened, cut into little rectangles and treated either with either red chili powder and salt and dried or a combination of chili powder and sugar and dried.Before you bite into it, brace yourself for a a very sharp taste that results and, depending on your taste buds you either fall in love with it forever or take a strong dislike to it. The daughter and I binge, the husband makes an amusing scowl.

 

Where we are staying is a hotel perched on a hill, close to the army centre and better still the golf course, undulating greens spreading away into the distance.  Unfortunately, the heritage wing and the original building of the premise is already occupied and we, not very happily trudge up to the top floor, with its own huge private sitting area. However, once we get there, I realise that's its a better location with its huge glass windows opening out on a 360 degree view. And with the red moon slated to appear the next night one couldn't have asked for better. It was another moment of delight to discover that one of the potted plants on the huge verandah of the hotel was where a perfectly built bird's nest rested among the tiny branches!

    

 

 

 

 

 

 

By then the weather was bright and beautiful and I knew that one would able to view the Kanchenjunga range again in the morning, though from Kalimpong the view is not as close and breathtaking as that from Darjeeling. 

Incidentally, the meaning of Kalimpong depends on whether you are a Nepali or Gorkhali, the dominant population there, a Lepcha or a Bhutanese (Bhote/Bhutia as the locals say). The Nepalis says it comes from Kali or black and Pong of spurs,the Lepchas say its actually Kalenpung or 'ridges where we play' and the Bhutias say it comes from Kalim or the king's minister and his stronghold. Naturally, each claim that their version is the correct one! History wise in the early 1700s the Bhutanese overtook the region and Kalimpong became the headquarters of the Bhutanese government, the legacy still living today in the Bhutanese Queen Mother's place in Kalimpong. The region was once a strong component of the legendary Silk Route. 

However, once you go into the main market of Kalimpong, rows and rows of shops lining the main road and haphazardly sprawling all around, it seems hard to be believe that there could be anything Silk Route about it. The traffic is chaotic, the noise beyond belief and it is enough to give anyone a headache within half an hour. Compounding the situation, the Gurung community seem to be having some major meeting or get together or something of the sort going on right in the heart of the town and there are hundreds of Gurungs dressed in their traditional best strutting around and it is easy to make out that several of them have come in from the interior areas and the occasion is an opportunity to check out the stores and ignore all traffic and pedestrian rules. It didn't end there, adding a Kafkaesque touch were the white, green and yellow streamers of the GJMM (Gorkha Janmukti Morcha) strung all over the market like a huge canopy. Try saying GJMM in Nepali and those ignorant of the political party can end tripping badly.The 'G' in Nepali is pronounced as 'g' as in god, the 'J' as  the 'j' in jaunty and the two 'M's as 'm' in the Indian name Mamata. Don't despair if you end up hearing the two 'M's as mama, akin to momo!The streamers because apparently GJMM supremo Bimal Gurung was scheduled to address a mammoth public meeting in a couple of days. Considering that he is also a Gurung and was obviously the chief speaker at the Gurung get together, he was smartly killing two birds with one stone! Did someone in the party think that individual gatherings of the different Nepali communities, like the Gurung were doing, did not augur a united front especially when the Lepchas had supposedly been recently singled out by the West Bengal Chief Minister for some special treatment and financial endowments - because there were posters all over the town declaring:

 "Bhotia, Lepcha, Nepali    

  Hami sabhai Gorkhali"

(Bhotia, Lepcha, Nepali

We all are Gorkhali)

If I was a Bhotia or Lepcha I wouldn't like that at all! And to be told that you are a Nepali and thereby a Gorkhali is rather like stating the obvious because if you are a Nepali you are a Gorkhali and vice versa.

We were in the market area because I wanted to eat at Gompus, the hotel and its restaurant and bar which seem to have been there forever right in the heart of the town. The hotel that opened in the early 1900s can in fact said to be bang in the middle of the market and like all old eating joints in hill stations it seems to have remained there decor wise. It did amaze me that after nearly two decades it looked just like it did before. But who cares when it can turn out, like it did then and has been doing forever, delicious momos, thukpas and its finger licking chili pork. Its quite impressive to see that the pork in the chili pork come into perfectly squared, wafer thin slices of almost equal dimensions.

 

Hurrying through the market it was a pleasant surprise to see stacks of avocado at every vegetable and fruit stall and at more than half the rate it was sold  in Delhi. Did it grow in the region? Yep, apparently it did and in profusion.What was it called locally? Famphal! Ah it must be a distortion of Farm Phal(fruit) or farm fruit or rather fruit from the farm, yours sincerely said to which the store keeper retorted acidly 'it is Famphal and not Phal from the farm. You think I don't know that!' So be it, Amen! After that I didn't bother asking the local name for tree tomatoes, which seemed to doing pretty well in the region. 

While the market seemed like a nightmare, I liked the fact that some of the houses close to it didn't let it affect them a wee bit and instead chose to dress themselves up in their colourful best. It certainly was balm to the eyes.

 

Instead I got the husband and the daughter to on a wild goose chase, or rather go looking for orchid nurseries. During my earlier visits, I would always take out time to go visit a couple of orchid nurseries, whose products were all exported, and gape at the exquisite beauties. Did I know the exact locations, asked the husband. Not exactly but the general area, I said confidently. Wrong thing to say if you go to a place after nearly two decades and above all, without doing your homework properly. After nearly an hour of driving up and down and asking every second soul we met in the darkening evening, no orchid nursery appeared anywhere. Someone vaguely pointed to a big beautiful cottage in the distance saying, ah that could be the place because I believe they have something to do with orchids. He was right in a way - after walking in through the open gate, with the daughter following repeating all the while, are you sure this is the place, do you think you should just enter like that, while the husband refused to get out of the vehicle - and announcing loudly, hello anyone around, a man walked out and said politely, this is private property, this is my house. In for a penny, in for a pound, if you have made a fool of yourself, why not go the whole hog? So I did ask him if he had anything to do with orchids and what had happened to the beautiful orchid farms.The gentleman was gentlemanly enough to explain that yes he did have something to do with orchids - tada, yippie - but for several, several years orchid nurseries did not export full grown orchids.It was small little plantings that were exported and if I had in the past delighted at the stunning orchids growing in profusion, it must have been somebody's private passion or something of that sort.

After the orchid ordeal I decided to rein in my past expertise of Kalimpong till the next day which was a Sunday. But before that Sunday morning saw me up rather early for someone on a holiday because I still had that half done matter with Mount Kanchenjunga. Would there be a sighting in the morning. Yes, yes and yes...distant, looking quite small but definitely yes in all its snowy grandeur. 

On a chirpy note we took off for Delo Point, the best place in town to get a sweeping view of the mountains and the rolling hills below. At a distance of about 8 to 10 kms from the town, Delo Point or Deleo as some call it, as we remembered was a totally undeveloped spot with a half constructed building,even the road leading to it needed complete work over. Interestingly, the place was also referred to as Panja's Folly, after the attempt by the late politician, who as tourism minister sought to build a tourist resort. For whatever reason it was left incomplete and became an eye sore for decades. As we drove towards it, climbing up gradually, the sky was a soothing blue, wispy white clouds cavorted around and the valleys and villages on either side looked like like lazily basking in the sun. It was therefore a pleasant surprise that at least one spot in the town had undergone a change for the better and how! It was well maintained, green all over with blooming flowers and above all, boasted a eco resort called what else but Deleo Cliff Eco Resort.The usual touristy trappings were beginning to manifest with tiny stalls selling glitzy souvenirs and renting out local costumes for posing for the I've-been-there photographs.Incidentally, for all such snaps in local costume photographers in almost all hill stations seem to think that if you are a female kitted out in one of the local costumes, you must at all cost carry a little conical cane basket stuffed with the ugliest of artificial flowers. Is there a crash course for such photographers where the importance of the cane basket with artificial flowers is stressed as the most important highlight of the picture? Also while everything about Delo point was beautiful, I just couldn't fathom why on earth was there pop Punjabi music blaring out when distance wise, culture, community and etc etc wise there is no similarity between Punjab and Kalimpong. Besides, going from Delhi one could have certainly done without the blood, gut and whatever pumping music.    

  

After the orchid nurseries that seemed to have mutated, sorry transformed into something else, another must do in my Kalimpong itenerary was to visit the Himalayan handmade paper factory, which I was told was a cottage industry affair but had some pretty unusual and stunning products. So it was again quite a task locating the paper factory,with the husband growing madder with every growing second and the daughter's mood gauge turning blacker than black. Let's say we finally got there - I'm more than amazed that all locals that met on the way seemed to have no clue whatsoever of such a factory in the neighbourhood - and lets say being Sunday it was naturally shut! But the young lady who came out was courteous enough not only to apologise for the shut factory (I don't know why she had to apologise and the more I told her that, the more sorry's she uttered) but also told me about the second one in town which hopefully could be open.The husband and daughter did what sensible people do, they took off on their own and let me go on a mad hatter chase.

Kalimpong handmade paper was what I wanted and Kalimpong handmade paper I would get come what may. For once the direction given by the young lady was bang on right down to the colour of the house and guess what-yep shut again! But summoning all my hilly-billy genes I banged at the door and hollered like hell. A man opened the door, quite surprised, I don't know whether at seeing a total stranger at his doorstep or at his own half clad state. He did however, escort me inside and very kindly took me around the factory, called Ganjong Paper Factory and patiently displayed all the products they turn out and boy, were they beautiful. It felt so good to clutch my huge bundle and lug up the countless stairs and somewhat of a climb up to the car!

 

 

 

 

As we are leaving the next day, we take a long walk up to the army golf greens, down the other way and back again, not because we wanted to but because the road led back to the greens again from a different side.We walk towards the market area again and on the way I see kids, of the goat variety, and their moms and dads frolicking around among the tall wild grass, while the shepherd watches indulgently.Somehow I couldn't help remembering that very soon everyone would end up at the dining table and that's was a depressing thought. I feel quite pious that I don't eat mutton in anyway.The surroundings are all enveloped in a light haze as the sun loses its tempo in the late afternoon.  

 

We stop for tea at the outdoor sitting of an old hotel and at the next table are Buddhists monks, a nun and two Lamas. For the next hour or so I can't seem to be taking my eyes off from the table. Clad in their traditional habits, the three present an amusing picture -the lady nun is chattering non-stop while the other two gent nod their heads vigorously in agreement and sometimes, put in a word or two as if telling the lady please carry on. It was not so much the chattering as the consumption that had me riveted. he three seem to have ordered everything offered on the menu and please believe me, that's no exaggeration. Between pouring endless cups of tea, the three polish off their plates with amazing speed and miraculously, the nun  keeps both the tempo, eating and chattering going great guns. I'm not sure they would like to be photographed, so I put the camera on the table in front of me and click surreptitiously.There must be some reason why they are eating so much, is it a special treat? Years of conditioning, make that Indian conditioning, makes one think that those who have shunned the materialistic world and its way of life are usually not expected to be seen at such eateries. But then who wrote the rules and why? So bon appetit indeed!

For once like the karva chauth moon I'm looking forward to the rise, wanting to know just how does a red moon look and will it be visible from Kalimpong. On the way  back to the hotel I can already see the moon high above the hills, though a full one it doesn't look either red or different in any other way. Instead, like everything else around it looks hazy. Not one to give up, I park myself next to a huge window in the private sitting outside our rooms and then I could have cried with frustration. No, not at the moon but at myself for being the inept photographer that I am. Just to clarify the moon was not red, but it certainly played a merry game with me. For some strange reason there seemed to be two moons up there, one partially covering the other. I gave up.

 

The next morning it was the long drive to Bagdogra airport and back home to Delhi and the daily routine. Thankfully, the Teesta River accompanied us a long way as if to give us a ceremonial send off. If felt good, like a friend walking along your car for quite a while and repeatedly saying, come back soon!