Special Lassi

by Amrita Chatterjee

  In the years following the Buddha’s death, as his followers renounced worldly luxuries, including vanity in the form of clothing, they began making their own robes with pieces of discarded cloth collected from rubbish heaps and cremation grounds. Then they treated these scraps with natural dyes like turmeric and saffron, which led to the phenomenon of saffron robes. However, the dominance of maroon in the Tibetan monks’ uniform is widely attributed to the fact that maroon dye was available quite cheaply in Tibet.

  From the elaborate murals of the monastery, we went straight to the tin shed elegance of Mr Money’s fabulous roll shop.

  “Okkayyyy. Two egg rolls, my friends?” he welcomed us with his usual warm smile. We had graduated from being tourists to regulars in just three days.

  “Yes, please. We are starving.”

  “Going to Observatory today?”

  “Why?”

  “Very good view. See, no cloud now.” Mani pointed his spatula at the sky.

  “Fine, we’ll go see what magical views it has to offer during the day. But wait a minute, who is that?”

  Right across the chowrasta, a large gold statue caught my eye as it glittered boldly in the sun.

  “That is great Nepali poet, Bhanubhakta Acharya. He wrote the Ramayana, you see,” Mani said matter-of-factly.

  “Did he?” I laughed but the joke was lost on River. On the way to the Observatory Hill, I tried to explain to him how none of the Indian epics were written by humans. They all emerged from Lord Bramha’s belly or Lord Vishnu’s nostril or some similarly divine black hole.

  Mani’s weather forecasting skills weren’t very reliable. The mischievous clouds from Tiger Hill had followed us all the way here and the only thing visible now was the compound full of small Hindu temples.

  We climbed the short flight of stairs to be greeted by lines and lines of Buddhist prayer flags. Like a host of guarding angels, they fluttered serenely in the gentle early afternoon breeze, keeping an eye on the monkeys and the pile of fruits offered at the shrines. The priests called out to us like hawkers, offering their special brand of puja that might fulfil our deepest desires. We ignored them all and stuck to sightseeing for the next hour.

  At ten, the day was still young, but the busy morning had drained our enthusiasm and we didn’t feel like doing anything else. There wasn’t much left to do in Darjeeling anyway. On the way back to the hostel, while River was busy spending a mini fortune at one of the tea boutiques, I asked him what he thought about moving on to Sikkim.

  “When?”

  “Umm… today?”

  “You mean now?”

  “Yeah, why not? Let’s do it!”

  “Well, okay then. But wait, let me pack all this tea.”

  Gang on the Hilltop

  “Excuse me, when is the next jeep for Pelling?”

  “Pelling? No jeep to Pelling today.”

  “Why not?”

  “Why not? We don’t feel like it.”

  “What do you mean you don’t feel like it?”

  “We don’t feel like it, the driver doesn’t want to go to Pelling today, so no jeep.”

  “Tomorrow then?”

  “We will have to see how the driver feels.”

  “What do you mean you’ll have to see how the driver feels?” “We mean we will see how the driver feels. Now please go away.”

  This was my absurd little exchange with the man at Darjeeling’s jeep stand. As if rain, hailstorm, strikes, landslides, terrorist attacks, earthquakes, volcanic ash and nuclear meltdowns weren’t enough reasons to stall public transportation, now the driver’s feelings had also made the list. We had hardly settled on Pelling as our first destination in Sikkim when this happened. Consequently, we had to rethink our already non-existent itinerary.

  Our other options were either the border town of Jorethang or the capital city of Gangtok. Fortunately, we didn’t have to take the final decision; a jeep driver did, by claiming to be the last person heading towards Gangtok for the day. He even offered us the front row and I promptly occupied the window seat, hogging the panoramic view while River was stuck in the middle with his gangly legs scrunched up on either side of the gear stick. This proved to be quite dangerous, because every time the driver had to switch gears, he almost rammed the stick right into River’s groin.

  Darjeeling and its sun gradually dissolved into the fog. School children riding home in the back of open trucks waved at us as we crossed paths. Since River was busy stressing over the errant gear stick, I began a conversation with the driver who was all dressed up in an AC/DC t-shirt.

  “So, what are the most famous things to see in Gangtok?”

  “Lot of things, madam. You can go to Changu Lake; do you know about it?”

  “No, we don’t.”

  “Wait, I’ll show you.” He pulled out his smartphone with a touch screen and swiped through some pictures. I wondered what he would think of me if I whipped out my old, battered Nokia phone: its only amazing feature is its torchlight. The lake was just an excuse I guess, because hardly any of it could be seen in the pictures besides the driver’s Zoolander poses. But I browsed through his entire portfolio anyway just to amuse myself. He also had a few snaps of himself hugging his grandmother; those were actually sweet.

  To get to Sikkim from Darjeeling, we had to first go down the hills, cross the river Teesta and then climb back up again. Within a span of a few hours, we felt like we had lived through the four seasons of the year. In Darjeeling, it was wet and balmy; then, halfway down it got dry and slightly warm; at the river crossing deep in the valley, it was sweltering hot and dusty because of the dam-building work. Finally, around Gangtok, it got cold again.

  At the time of crossing the state border, we were in the hot-and-grimy phase. While River presented his tourist permit papers to the officials, the rest of us took a break to stretch out our legs. As I wandered along the street for a few metres, I slowly began to notice that we were surrounded by not one, not two, but about a dozen wine shops. There was such a stark difference between the two states: the West Bengal side had practically nothing except a decrepit tea stall, but the Sikkim side was packed with shops lined with liquor bottles lined from floor to ceiling.

  The so-called ‘wine shops’ are another anomaly in this country, because they hardly ever sell any wine; these shops were no exception. However, I did lose my mind for a bit when I heard that half a litre of potent mountain rum was only 35!

  A litre of gin was 150 and a whole box full of Honey Bee brandy was only 500. I quickly emptied my wallet and bought whatever I could fit into my bag.

  When we piled back into the jeep, the man sitting behind me sniggered at the honey-coloured bottles poking out conspicuously from my daypack.

  “What did you buy?” he asked outright and I started laughing as well.

  “Everything.”

  “Good, good. This is what Sikkim is famous for.”

  “Really? I didn’t know that.”

  “Well, we can’t exactly put it on a poster now, can we?”

  “I know, but you should. I mean, these prices are outrageous! What are you people doing here? Using slave labour?”

  “Actually, Sikkim doesn’t have to pay any tax to the central government and we get a lot of subsidies, so everything is cheaper here.”

  “That’s fantastic!”

  “Hmm, maybe. But I just wish that people would use this opportunity to do something better than making whiskey and beer. Drinking so much is ruining our health and family life.”

  The tax cuts and subsidies were a part of the strategic ploy to persuade Sikkim into becoming a constitutive part of India in 1975. China did not recognize Sikkim as Indian territory until as late as 2003, and even then it was another underhanded ploy to get India to accept the Tibet Autonomous Region as a part of China. But putting aside the fate of Sikkim’s indigenous people, the Lepchas – whose population has reduced significantly in the past 36 years – all the other parties involved have been reaping
the benefits of this merger. The historic pass of Nathu La between Sikkim and Tibet has been opened again as the only overland pass between the two countries. It not only brings in revenue for India and China, but also for other neighbouring countries like Nepal, Bhutan and Bangladesh.

  “My name is Pema, by the way. It’s nice to meet you people.” The man shook our hands somewhat awkwardly.

  “Pema? That’s a good name. Are you Nepali or Sikkimese?” “Sikkimese; well, Lepcha to be precise. I come from Dzongu; maybe you know the place?”

  “I’ve read about it. Isn’t it a protected reserve for Lepcha people?”

  “Yes, that’s right. But I don’t live there anymore. I live in Gangtok now, because I work for WaiWai.”

  “The noodle company? What do you do for them?”

  “I’m a lawyer. I look after their legal stuff.”

  “That sounds like an interesting job.”

  “Well, not really. I studied criminal law in Kolkata and even lived there for several years, but then I decided to move back to Sikkim to help my own people. Unfortunately, there is very little crime in Sikkim, so no cases for a junior lawyer like me.”

  “Well, hang in there. I’m sure in a few years, the Sikkimese will catch up with the rest of the world and become equally bad.”

  “That will be good for me financially, but I don’t want it to happen. We are peaceful, nature-loving people. The Kanchenjunga is like our father and the Teesta is our mother; we Lepchas worship these two things like god.”

  “So Lepchas are Buddhists or…?”

  “Yes, mostly, but I like to think of myself as a spiritual person rather than a religious one. Buddha said that man suffers because man desires and that is what religion is all about these days. People doing puja, people praying, ‘give me more money, more sons, bigger car, bigger house’, you know what I mean? Ultimately it doesn’t matter whether you’re religious or spiritual or an atheist, because there are three things in life that nobody can change – birth, death and marriage.”

  “Marriage? Really? Are you married?”

  “Haha, no not yet. See what I mean?”

  Once we reached Gangtok, Pema advised us not to take a taxi since the city centre was just 15 minutes away. He even gave us his card, saying that he would be happy to take us out for drinks the next evening. Sadly, we ran out of roaches later at night and had to use his card to roll up a joint, so we didn’t get to see him again.

  At the time though, we thanked him for the tip and began the short walk in high spirits. In spite of the annoying backpack, the first 15 minutes went by rather quickly, but after that, time suddenly came down on all fours and began to crawl, eventually coming to a standstill. Our short walk turned out to be an expedition from hell. The staircase in Darjeeling paled in comparison to this. I almost threw up halfway and had to sit down for a few minutes to clam my dizzy head. The gradient of every street in Gangtok is about 90 degrees, so we thought twice before saying no to a taxi in the next few days.

  By the time we found a decent hotel, even my backpack was soaked in sweat. I had a quick shower and we went down for dinner to the small café on the ground floor, which wasn’t too shabby. Psychedelic lights hung from the ceiling, some 70s rock was playing on the stereo, a few trippy paintings hung on the wall and the staff seemed quite chilled out – a bit too chilled out actually. I’m sure I saw one boy lighting up a spliff under the table as we walked in.

  While we were waiting for the food, the manager came up to our table and sat down next to River.

  “Hello friends, can I write down your details? My name is Buddha, nice to meet you.” For some reason, I instantly found his face repulsive. He looked like a thug and was reeking of alcohol; talk about a misnomer.

  “All you angrez, why you have this skin disease? It makes you look old,” he commented on River’s freckles. River simply laughed it off. But I was quite offended; why would anyone say such things to their guests? He went a step further when our food arrived. I had barely tasted my khichadi when he said to me, “oh, do you really need to eat all that?” I just stared back at him, my jaw wide open. This man was ridiculous!

  “And why are you drinking this stupid tea? You have to try our world famous beer, HIT. Aye, get them two beers!” he ordered his staff. “Do you know what HIT stands for?”

  River shook his head and I didn’t respond at all.

  “Aye, you,” he addressed me, “you look Indian. You understand me, then explain it to your friend, okay? HIT means hamri izzat tholigayo, understand? Hahahahaha.”

  Despite my extreme aversion to this person, I had to laugh. River asked me to translate, but how could I? My dignity was fucked? My reputation went humpty dumpty? There could be so many, equally lame translations and yet nothing would convey the hilarity of the original phrase.

  Tibetology

  I had gone to sleep with a mild sore throat, but I woke up the next day with a porcupine stuck down my throat. The sun filtered into our room and I could see the fine dust particles floating in the air even without my glasses. The streets of Gangtok were already busy. Trails of jeeps, painted in maroon and bright yellow, were spread out like ribbons all over the undulating hills surrounding the city. They were all probably heading out to other more picturesque parts of Sikkim.

  Soon, we were outside as well, taking in our first fill of the city. The town centre took me by surprise as it was so pretty and European. It had a cobblestone plaza with freshly painted benches, fountains and a footpath flanked by flowerpots. We had walked past this plaza last night but I was so blitzed, I hadn’t noticed a thing. We also wound up in a very European bakery, having coffee and croissants for breakfast. This was the last thing I had expected from Sikkim.

  “Wow, Darjeeling is a dump compared to this place.” I couldn’t help but compare the two towns, so similar in geography, yet so different in spirit.

  “I know, so unexpected.”

  “I still like Darjeeling better though; it has more character. Gangtok seems a bit generic. You know what I mean?”

  “Maybe, but I’m loving this Americano.” River took a big sip and slumped back into his chair. He had decided to go off tea for a few days. I was nursing a hot chocolate instead to soothe my throat.

  “Do you remember what Groucho Marx once said?” I remarked after some time.

  “He said, ‘I’m leaving, because the weather is too good. I hate London when it’s not raining.’ That’s what character is all about.”

  “Even if it’s miserable? I don’t understand this.”

  “But that’s the point, you see. What would be the purpose of art in a perfect world? Besides, we’ve spent more money on the breakfast here than we did on an entire day’s meal in Darjeeling.”

  “Hmm, now that is true,” River agreed.

  Our schedule for the day was pretty straightforward – roll a spliff, ride the cable car to the Tibetology centre and then explore the local bars in the evening. The first half went alright. We had to climb a million steps again to get to the boarding point for the ropeway. But since the steps ran through a huge park filled with prayer flags, lush trees and terrific views of the valley, it didn’t suck that much. The person handing out the tickets for the ride freaked us out slightly because he kept staring into our eyes. He knows, shit he knows, look somewhere else, don’t smile like an idiot, stand up straight, stop swaying! River and I were momentarily overcome by the stoner paranoia beast but the man simply led us to the edge of the cliff where we had to step inside the metal box that would take us to the other side. The ride lasted for a mere five minutes, but was thoroughly enjoyable. In fact, any activity that involves floating in the air can never be boring. If birds could appreciate The Velvet Underground, I’d give up being human in a heartbeat.

  After disembarking from the cable car, we immediately set off for some museum-ing, the age-old holiday ritual. A short walk through another wooded hillside brought us directly to the Namgyal Institute of Tibetology. We paid a small entry f
ee and were asked to take off our shoes outside because the varnished wooden floor had just been polished. I could see the cleaners coolly skating over the wood with two pieces of cloth attached to their feet. In their wake, the floor gleamed a beautiful amber under the yellow spotlights.

  The first and the most impressive exhibits in the museum were the enormous thangkas hanging on the walls. Each silk painting had been done by hand and put together with immense care. To me, Tibetan Buddhist art is somewhat more intriguing than its Hindu counterpart for two reasons: firstly, it’s more visceral. There is ample depiction of death, torture, sex and bestiality in these paintings, along with the usual bodhisattvas. Some of the mandalas and Wheel of Life drawings are so graphic that they can make people squirm. These include demons burning in hell, werewolves tearing through the flesh of nubile young women and gods that look suspiciously like vampires. Apparently, these paintings are used as educational tools for young monks and I could see exactly why.

  Secondly, since Buddhism and Hinduism share a lot of common themes, it’s more charming to see – at least for a cultural Hindu like me – the staples of our mythology combined with a very Chinese aesthetic. For example, all the wrathful deities – or dharmapalas, as they are referred to in Buddhism – are usually depicted with multiple hands and bluish or black skin, which instantly brings to mind the Indian goddess Kali. However, they are also invariably engulfed in plumes of fire and smoke, painted in the iconic Chinese cursive cloud style.

  Moving on from the thangkas, the next items of interest were the ancient bowls and other implements made of human skulls and bones used in tantric rituals. Locked away inside the glass case, they looked more sinister than holy. Right next to them was a collection of ancient scrolls: brown, fragile bundles of paper, thousands of years old, some found in caves around Sikkim and some brought from India, Tibet or China by travelling monks. There was also an intriguing statue of a male deity with his female consort grinding away on his lap. This erotic nature of ancient religions never fails to amaze me. It’s as unsettling to see women in India fervently kiss and touch the Shiva Lingam, which is figuratively Lord Shiva’s phallus, as it is to come across elaborate penises painted outside the houses in Bhutan. All in all, it was an interesting afternoon, a world away from the benign version of Buddhism that I was aware of.