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!