THOSE WERE THE DAYS..........

 

Memories can be very deceptive. Looking back they seem like warm fuzzy clouds, a place one wants to go back to but can't and what remains inside is an aching never fulfilled. One is not sure then if the memories are exactly as we remember them but have over the years been embellished  with what we want to believe and not what they were really. It's not the memories but ones perception, says the husband. What we remember is what we experienced, its just that our perceptions have changed, he says. Is the perception then the culprit when it comes to memories of Darjeeling and also Kurseong and Kalimpong? I lived briefly in Kurseong and Darjeeling as a newly married woman. I had been to the places umpteenth time before, both for work and recreation and I always longed to go back to relive those memories.Strangely for some reasons or the other our plans to walk down memory lane always went kaput. Once, during December, we were all excited about spending our Christmas holidays in Darjeeling.We rushed to the airport,unfortunately the Delhi fog played bad sport and after a whole day of being in the airport and frantically praying that the gods would brighten up the sky, our prayers went unheard and the fight got cancelled. I actually wept on the way back home.

So when the husband surprised us with tickets this time saying he wanted, in particular, the daughter to see our old haunts it was naturally euphoria time. It was not the right time weather wise, one knew but  one felt hell one was not going to let some little rain play spoilsport. The rain gods however had something else in store. We were going back after nearly two decades and all I could see, with closed eyes and in the mind, was Kanchenjunga standing tall and proud in the horizon looking down from its snow home on the hill station that's rugged and rough but warm and welcoming.There were endless days when had simply got up from the bed in the morning and very soon walked down the steep road to Keventer's below the Planter's Club, parked oneself in the terrace and simply marvelled at the glistening snow peaks all around, when the sky was azure and the sun bright, and gorged on huge breakfasts of cold cuts, crispy bacon, hot sausages and downed endless cups of Darjeeling tea. Soon friends and acquaintances would join in; there would be walks from there, up the Mall and to the Ridge and further beyond the Governor House, where at a particular point we would stand and holler loud so that the beautiful loving couple at the only cottage perched on the hill below would sometimes open the door and wave out.The cottage had not just the best view in town but it was all wood, huge copper pipe going round for heating, huge windows that let the outdoors in and endless flowers and foliage around. I loved that house and I still do.

Wrapped up in those hazy memories we landed at Bagdogra and I was very clear that we would drive straight up to Kurseong and take our first break there. The first disappointment came when the driver said that the route that we would be taking up was not the old Pankhabari road but a new one through Rohini tea estate.  It was like a jolt, what was Rohini and worse couldn't we take the seven sharp hairpins climb up on Pankhabari road. It's in a pathetic state, that road the driver said. One reason for wanting to go up the old route was because my first marital home,never mind if it was official quarters complete with fireplaces, was a little drive away from the entrance to Kurseong. Perched on a ridge, the quarters which was originally a tea garden bungalow had just two bedrooms but each was the size of a football field and came with a dressing room and bathrooms so huge that a family of  four could easily live in. The sitting room with its huge fireplace framed by exquisite old tiles was where we would throw the cushions on the floor and chill out with friends.The dining room was equally monstrously sized with a dining table that could comfortably seat up to 20 people but without a single chair. My first purchase were four dining chairs and after the initial days where just the husband and I would be sitting in one corner for our meals, we gave up and began eating in the bedroom itself. This was a home I wanted my daughter to see. Lets see once if after we reach Kurseong we could drive down to the house, said the husband.

Hardly had we left the plains behind and begun the uphill drive, the skies went frightening black, while ominous angry clouds dashed around madly above, the blinding fog below rolled in below and virtually blackened the breathtaking scenery outside.Then the downpour started, fierce and so relentless. It was a miracle that the vehicle was still moving uphill. The clouds seemed to be very angry and the heavy rains kept playing games with us as we drove up, at one time it would look like the sun had fought valiantly and would appear in its full form any moment but sadly would be covered up again. As we crossed Kurseong market with some respite from the  rains, we passed the toy train. It was still blue, still tiny but somehow - was it the grey weather- it looked aged and tired and far removed from the cute Enid Blyton storybook train that one had in the past hopped in and hopped out of. Is this what they call changing perception?

The Kurseong Tourist Lodge looked different, there were some changes on the outside but thankfully, the dining rooms with the huge windows overlooking the villages and tea gardens were the same and the view outside despite the inclement weather was still breathtaking.The tourist lodge was a stop-for-tea-and-momos (steamed dumpling stuffed with non vegetarian or vegetarian fillings) every time one travelled up and down and the momos were just as yummy as before.This is a place that holds so much memories, some so intimate that it makes one smile and some hilarious. Like the time when one had gone to Darjeeling for work and on the way back, a a group of us had stopped for tea and momos.One among us, someone tall and well built, was for dressed in Kurta-pyjamas with a shawl draped around and, lets say he looked somewhat impressive whereas the rest of us were bundled up in our jackets and fighting sleep after days of nearly 24-work hours. As we stepped out suddenly a small lot, two-three women and some kids, who looked so out of place there because they had apparently come from the tribal areas of Rajasthan and were totally ill-clad for hill winters. They were there to beg and surrounded us with their incessant demands. While the others tried their best to shoo them off, I very solemnly pointed to our kurta-pyjama-shawl colleague and declared solemnly, 'we are here with the Raja Sahib of Kuchnahipur and please go and ask him for help, we are just ordinary people on his pay roll.'  It took a long time before our friend could get rid of them and jump into the car! The scene outside brought those memories rushing back. As we stepped out to start from Darjeeling, it felt comforting to look above, across the road and see the church where it was, just the way it was but this time with brighter colours.

It would have  been foolish to drive back and head for the Pankhabari road just to see the old home in Kurseong.  Next time, we said and we were on the road again and despite the grey skies and the continuous rain, the colourful houses and the profusion of blooms all around still made one smile. That is one thing I miss in the plains; in the hills however tiny and run down the dwellings they are always spruced up in whatever ways the residents can afford and above all, there are always flowers around, no fancy-shancy containers but discarded tins, pots, bottles, polythene bags and whatever capable of holding plants.The rains made photography difficult but one managed to click one.

The prayers didn't work, the rains poured and Ghoom with its beautiful monastery and ochre robed figures moving around passed in a jiffy. All efforts to capture the outside as we drove by mostly resulted in blurred outcome but never mind....

Somewhere the Batasia Loop, for a long time the highest and now the second highest hill train loop, got left behind leaving one with the image imprinted on my mind or rather heart, of looking down as the tiny toy train courageously huffed and puffed its way through the loop with the garden around and the hills rolling down beyond that, allowing one to see far into the distance on a bright sunny day. It seemed like driving into a world of fog and dark skies.

By the time we reached Darjeeling it was just rains and more rains. We were staying at the Planter's Club for old times sake and what once stood stately looked quite ramshackle and even dying. Perception again? Or maybe sheer negligence and growing decay? It was a sad moment.

The moment we stepped into the club we knew instantly that the days of glory were gone, the polish, spit, shine, the 'koi hai' days were not only over but long buried. It was just falling apart, painfully and achingly. The welcoming party, the service were still there but it was as if the lights had gone out of the club forever. Simply tragic. For old times sake, we kept repeating to keep us going. The structure is there and some spirited renovation will have the club glowing again. Ah! all the buts and ifs and if wishes were horses....

The management had thoughtfully given us two adjacent suites with a connecting door. In fact, it was not for the shabbiness it would be quaintly appealing.The daughter's room had to be accessed by a small flight of stairs, it was more like a big attic room. Every effort had been put in to spruce up the place and it would have seemed churlish to move out to another place. Besides the welcoming group and the service made the ambiance homely. Even before washing up or the first cup of tea, one was desperate to see how Keventer's had fared. Through the grey thick drizzle it looked lonely and forlorn.  But worst was after all the pictures of Darjeeling we had painted for our daughter - the sentinel like Kanchenjunga, sunrise at Tiger Hill where the beauty of the Himalayas hit by the first sun rays leaves one speechless and awed, the walks on the Mall and the ridge, the view of the Peshok Hills from there and so much more - all we had was relentless rain and gloomy fog all around. This was certainly the worst time to visit the hill station. However I was glad that the maple tree in front of the sit out outside our room seemed to thriving in the rain and Ganga didi walked around with her traditional jewellery tending to her chores unperturbed by the weather.  

 

There's something about Darjeeling tea that is both classy and comforting. It's like being with an old friend - you know the aroma, you know the taste and yet you always look forward to it. The connoisseurs will throw a fit but I need to add a bit of sugar into my tea and then its heaven. It felt so good, it felt like old times!

 

 Of course, it was crystal clear that we had to go over to a friend's house for dinner and of course, so many others would be there! The Gyaltsen house is rich in old history, priceless artifacts including centuries old huge wall tapestries,books,photographs,antique Wedgwood ceramics,ancient Tibetan stone studded tableware, Thangkas and so much more. As I looked at the young host I couldn't help thinking that after moving out of Darjeeling immediately after school to do his higher studies elsewhere including Oxford University and how, after twelve years of being a high flying lawyer in London and owning homes both in the English capital and Paris, he could pack up and move back home with his wife and little daughter because he was needed at home.Like his name he is calm, collected and contented. But sometimes I suspect he would he happy to sneak out and take off, maybe for a short while and relive his old days.  

Waking up to a dreary grey skies, fog and heavy rains was acutely disappointing, it was like Kanchenjunga had a grouse against us and refused to come out and say hello. But then there was no point in letting the gloomy weather put one down and so armed with umbrellas we headed down to Keventer's for breakfast.The proprietor Robin Jha was not around, his health no longer permitted him to be there first thing in the morning but his son had stepped in dutifully and efficiently to do the managing job. The place like all others looked a little down, it could have  been the weather or the fact that we could not sit on the terrace. But for a place more than hundred years old, Keventer's carried on its tradition unfaltering. It had to be of course the artery clogging breakfast.

After that it was mandatory, as in the past, to walk up the Mall up to the ridge. It broke my heart to see that that new ugly buildings had come up on the right which was earlier open making the Mall seem crowded and closed in. Moving with the times, some might say but it was more ruining with the times! Up at the Ridge attempts had been made to make it more attractive which meant the addition of a giant open TV that streamed non-stop songs and dance numbers relating to Darjeeling both in Hindi and Nepali. It was surreal to see some tourists appropriately clad for rainy weather milling around and some even sitting on the  benches eyes glued to the humongous TV. The clouds, rains and fog meant no sight whatsoever of the hills and snow peaks around. It was however reassuring that Oxford Book was not only surviving but it still had its old board outside that said, 'browers welcome'. This was where I had spent hours and hours browsing around, picking up a book and sitting on a moodah to read it. The walk on the road circling the the Governor's House was also somewhat reassuring as the hills below were thankfully not surrendered to more houses. Better still there were cottages still standing as they were, some almost hidden behind blooming flowers and plants. It helped that the hotels too made efforts to merge into the environs and not stand out like sore thumbs.

 

 

 

 

 

 

The last house (above), a double-storied affair, was where our close friends lived with their two young sons, now strapping handsome young men.Built during the British times it had its bay windows and quirky corners and nooks and the lady of the house with her wonderful aesthetics made it into a beautifully done up home exuding charm and welcome, while the outside was almost covered up by profusion of flowers and plants.The kitchen turned out wonderful meals. Now that seemed to be another past history and the house looked somewhat sad as if pining for its past residents. Perception or over active imagination?

There was one building that I knew lay ahead and where I knew we had to stop for pictures, blistering rain or no rain. The daughter was by now more irritated than amused but what must be done must be done or, as we said but for the building she wouldn't have been there! What was once the main cultural centre of the town and which it is again had been many blue moons ago taken over by the administration during the secessionist movement days. And it was there that the husband and I had met for the first time, both of us in our first jobs, both rookies in career and life. I had always avoided entering the building but on that particular day there had been no option because I had an air ticket and  barely hours to make it to the airport, around three hours away and the blasted bandh had meant no vehicles whatsoever. In desperation one had gone trying to see if any government vehicles were going down. Did I manage to hitch a lift? That's the million dollar question best left unanswered.  
During work trips there was one particular hotel that I preferred, Alice Villa where the atmosphere was homely and the person running it, (late) Hira Pradhan, Hira Daju as we called him, a gem of a person. Even during the worst days of the secessionist movement  when bandhs ranging for as many days as 40 consecutive days drove everyone insane and dried up provisions left people hallucinating for a good meal, he ensured two complete appetising meals.Nothing could stop me from checking out my old home away from home. Yes there were changes, yes a huge concrete annexe had been added, yes the ancient old bar within the dining hall had been done away with and a new had cropped out in a separate room, cold and uninviting and worse the original entry had been changed but the long narrow corridor with rooms on its right was still there and felt like a bit like coming home. I don't know why I always asked for Room No 5 and yes! it was there just the same. And another yes! the quaint planters which always held greens and flowers whatever the season were still there.

 

In a small town its inevitable that you will run into someone you know every yard or so but when you come back after nearly two decades is that possible especially when grim weather persists and only those who have to step out do so? Tell that to the pessimist! Barely a yard away from Alice Villa someone hollers the husband's name and that also leads to him managing to dig out an old lost journalist/photographer friend that I had been dying to get in touch with. He has stopped writing, he only runs a studio but Gideon Lepcha is jut the way he was - a Peter Pan who never seems to age and whose eyes are always twinkling and who seems to be forever smiling.Those days the joke between him and me was every time I asked him how big his baby boy had become he would put his hands together as in a Namaste and then slowly span out his hands to indicate how big the child was. Every time I would ask him why didn't he like other parents indicate the baby's growth from the ground up with one hand and he would laugh and say that he only saw his child horizontal and fast asleep because he would reach home so late and leave so early in the morning.

Old Friends, Gideon Lepcha (Right)

There were two musts for me in Darjeeling -Catherine Villa where we set up home even though for just eleven months, a cosy little cottage up on the hill with stunning views from half windowed kitchen walls that, on a clear day stretched to Peshok Hills and beyond. This was the house where I turned a serious gardener and where we planted several maple saplings that we had carted back from our trip to Sandhakphu. To those not in the know Sandhakphu in Tibetan is said to mean strong winds and where one actually hears the wu wu of fierce winds all the time, where when the sun god smiles down on you one can get a 360 degree view of the Himalayas in Sikkim, Bhutan and Nepal including Everest. This is where on a cloudy day the clouds are below you covering the valleys and where you feel like you are being carried away in a huge ball of cloud. At nights the twinkling lights in the hills of Darjeeling and Sikkim seem like naughty kids playing hide and seek. The second must was the Plant residence, on the hill below the Governor's House, the one with the best view in Darjeeling according to me.

Sometimes I feel it is best to leave the past in the past, clad in its rosy romantic hues. Revisiting it can often be cruel because you realise that the reality now is something else and which brings up the issue of perception again. Catherine Villa is actually a twin cottage joined at the hips with two separate entrances and garden. It's an ancient structure with thick stone walls, red roof and wooden flooring or at least it was. You enter the cottage through the little conservatory or the hot house as everyone called it because it was like a mini green house where the orchids bloomed in abundance and the flowers seemed double their normal size. This was where we had wooden shelves and stands laden with pots holding flowers of every kind. The highlight of my less than a year stay in that villa was the blooming of the black orchid. Okay it wasn't exactly jet black but more like chocolate black and it looked stunning during the day and at night in the bulb light somewhat forbidding, an exotic alien you weren't sure if you could approach. All rooms- three bedrooms and the living and dining room came with fireplaces and there were endless evenings when by the bedroom fireside one hogged countless oranges and roasted apples stuffed with dry fruits.

Would the maple trees be still there? Only one had survived becausse the others were hacked down. It looked lonely but I was glad it had two other trees for company. The flowers were all missing and in their place were some sad looking plants or plain soggy earth. The red on the roof had faded and the thick stone walls looked like leakage had the better of them. The bay window seat had been removed and replaced with of all things a bed! And that too with unattractive sheets.The wooden floors were hidden beneath nondescript runners and the dining room sported a wash basin of all things. And the hot house, it had a stand to keep shoes! To say it broke my heart is an understatement.      

The Lonesome Maple Tree

To go from there to the Plant residence was such a pleasure. The children have long flown the coop, one in India and one in Malaysia but Austin and Shirley have always kept an open home. It comes naturally to them them with their large hearts and wherever they go, they always come back to Darjeeling. I can say that the best part of going to Darjeeling was to meet them. The dining table was overladen, there were people we knew and people we got to know. The huge windows still overlooked the valleys beyond and the greenery thrived everywhere. The old Tibetan dog had turned 16and wouldn't allow Shirley to comb her thick matted hair. The only thing missing was sunny weather because then you can sit on the top floor wooden deck and laze around the whole day and not feel guilty.

In Darjeeling if you go to Keventer's for breakfast it is only given that you go to Glenary's for lunch/high tea or anything.Another old institution reputed for its bakery and bang in the middle of the Mall and with a red telephone booth right in front as you enter it. I have seen that booth, minus the phone of course, provide endless hours of playtime for kids and it felt good to know that it hadn't changed.  The restaurant was closed for renovation and the tea section doubled for both. When you get to Glenary try and snag seating near the windows for the views. What more can I say, it had slow roast pork sandwich. Period!

The drive to Lebong was something we liked, it was actually a case of not the destination (just a helipad) but the way there and the Tibetan Refugee Self Help Centre high above in the hills. Somewhere along the way the drizzle stayed off for some time giving us opportunity to go round the Tibetan Centre again. I know it is highly politically incorrect to say this, but one had been informed once, by some locals obviously, that the dowdy looking state of the place was not so much due to the lack of funds but to ensure that support continued to pour in because if the place was swanky et al the help coming in would dry up! Once you get to the Centre the view around is another enchanting world.

 

 

It was our last night in Darjeeling and the last thing I did before hitting the bed was to appeal to the ones above to please at least give us just one glimpse of the Kanchenjunga before we left. Otherwise, it would feel that it was upset with us for some reason and make us feel unloved. And in the morning there was it was- just a bit seen, still encircled by clouds, but seen all right! It was difficult to stop jumping around with sheer happiness.

The Kanchenjunga glimpse might have been brief but somehow it filled one with joy as if everything was fine with the world. As we headed out for our last breakfast in the town, walking through the Mall with most shops still shut, we heard lilting folk music from the hills.Two young men were, what would be called busking in other worlds,singing accompanied by just very basic wooden sarangis.  But the numbers they sang took you over hills and dales, into the villages tucked away in the Himalayas, skipping over gurgling springs and streams watching butterflies flitting while women washed clothes in the stream.The two were from Jhapa in Nepal bordering Darjeeling and their singing made me feel if these two had got some sort of training and polishing, they would rock the world.
There was another pleasant surprise on the way. Just before the Mall ended, we saw a jean clad figure with a scarf wound tight round the head and covering half the lower face while dark glasses completed the mask effect, what initially seemed like chipping away at the wall. Why would someone so early in the morning be waging a war with the wall.I walked by not paying much attention but it was the daughter who pulled me back saying the figure was a woman and she wasn't chipping away the wall but making a design on the wall. She turned out to be the beautiful Reena Chhetri, a sculptor from the famous Baroda School of Art, and she was sculpting a fish on the wall! Reena who agreed to have picture taken is also a chef who runs a trendy eatery.
 
On our last day we wanted to have breakfast at Mamta, which we were told was run by a Frenchman, married to a local, and who turned out wonderful fare. Unfortunately, it was shut and back we went to Glenary. Stuffed to the gills, it was time to bid adieu to Darjeeling and head out for Kalimpong.

I still can't work out the changed perceptions and ground realities being what they were. But I am glad that our story continues and hopefully will. Nothing captures the feeling and the stories better than what we saw written on the wall outside the Mountain Storytelling Centre - 'Who are we without our stories'. Who indeed? I know our Darjeeling story will continue...............