Eventually, he stopped outside a simple five-storeyed building, lit up with neon lights, that looked more like a hospital than a hotel.
“Come, come, very safe room!”
He took us right up to the fifth floor and as we clambered up after him with our hefty backpacks, I lost the will to go anywhere else. We bargained with the manager till he dropped the price to 400 a night. The man in the suit did not leave until we’d committed to a room. I’m sure he was waiting to take his commission like a good old tout. However, before leaving, he shook River’s hand at least a dozen times, told us that he lived right across the street and that if we wanted to do some sightseeing then we could just take his car and go.
I tried to clarify what he meant by that; were we supposed to rent it or what? But he just repeated the same ridiculous sentence, “if you need my car, just take it and go! Okay? Just. Take. It. And. Go!” River and I stared at each other. Maybe it was a local custom in Namchi; if you make money off a tourist, you give them a free ride. Unfortunately, we didn’t get to hijack his car, because in our two-day stay, we never saw him again.
After dumping our bags, we headed back to the plaza for dinner. There were a few restaurants with nice balcony views of the town. The wrought iron streetlights along the flowerbeds were straight out of Victorian England and the fountains had coloured lights under them. This was the pretend Namchi; it had nothing to do with the real one where we were staying. To our despair, most of the restaurants refused to let us in because they were closing. I checked the time; it was just eight in the evening! We had to beg one lady to sell us some dinner, which consisted of leftover noodles and scrapes of overcooked chicken. My only treat was the special Tibetan beer made from barley. It was slightly sweeter than the usual Carlsberg, but more refreshing. With our last morsel, the whole town was sealed and bolted except the ubiquitous liquor shops. It wasn’t even ten yet, so we gave in to the temptation and bought more alcohol. I got severely drunk and have no idea how River got me back to the room. The next morning, we had to deal with the same goddamn scenario. Even at nine, there was no place to have breakfast. Everything was still closed except the liquor shops! They were arguably the hardest working men in all of Sikkim. With no food in sight, we resorted to drinking beer again. An hour later, when a tiny café rolled up its shutters, we pounced on it like wolves. Between the two of us, we probably scoffed down about half a dozen eggs.
The rest of the day was then dedicated to checking out the humongous, 41 metre high statue of Guru Rinpoche, known as Samdruptse. Guru Rinpoche, or Lord Padmasambhava, is highly revered all over Sikkim, Tibet and Bhutan because he brought Buddhism to these places. Samdruptse is situated on the outskirts of Namchi and we had to hire a private taxi to get there. A short drive later, we walked up a short muddy slope with columns of rhododendrons and prayer flags on both sides. It was an impressive entrance, but when the statue finally appeared from behind the trees, I was disappointed to see that there was nothing life-changing about it. A stoic Guru Rinpoche was sitting on top of the hill while the cheeky mist played around his head.
A few Indian families were lounging on the circular wooden platform underneath the statue, with their kids making as much noise as possible.
The truth is, I hate gigantic statues. I hate them because they always look terrible up close. You can’t really appreciate their beauty, because the proportions are fucked up. You’re either standing under the statue’s crotch and staring up its chin, or your neck is painfully bent all the way back while you try to somehow guess what the entire thing must look like. According to books, about 15 million dollars were spent on building the statue, so it would be cruel to write off Samdruptse as a waste of resources. But at the same time, I found it difficult to justify its existence.
With nothing else to do, we succumbed to compulsive photography and amassed a collection of grainy, stunted pictures of the structure from every angle possible. That’s another annoying thing about giants – they do not photograph well. Up close, I could see the paint peeling off at several places and the gold of the dorje in Guru Rinpoche’s hand was turning into dull yellow. In a place like Sikkim, where it rains like the tropics, the upkeep of this statue would be a nightmare.
“Good luck, government!”
Sandruptse’s only redeeming feature was its backside, which had long black locks of cement flowing down in waves that merged with the ever-flowering lotus at the bottom. There was also a flight of stairs here, which led up to a viewing ledge. Again, I couldn’t understand why the viewing ledge had been constructed behind the statue. I made my way up there anyway and relaxed in the shade of nearby trees, while River circumambulated the thing a couple of times.
“So, are you ready to leave?” I asked him when he finally joined me at the ledge.
“Uh sure. I was just trying to get a glimpse of the Shiva statue on the other hill, but it’s so foggy, I can’t see a thing.”
“What? There’s another giant statue around here somewhere?” “Yeah, right there. On the opposite side, on top of Solophok hill.”
“Really? Well, I’ll be damned!”
* * *
While trying to get back to town, we never found a taxi and had to walk all the way. Thankfully, the road was very similar to the one we had travelled by the previous day. The same velvety tea gardens and a thick cover of branches above our heads blocked out the sunlight completely. We could tell that the sun was still up only around the hairpin bends, where the light managed to trickle in through the leaves like precious fairy dust, making it quite an impressionistic stroll.
At one point, we diverted from the main road, opting for a shortcut through Namchi’s Rock Garden. It had absolutely no rocks except the stone steps running down the centre and the funny little sculptures of dinosaurs that looked as benign as cows. When we reached the bottom of the garden, we found ourselves back on the road. Here, I registered a sharp pain in my knees. I’d been thumping away on my heels so far – a common mistake when going downhill – and all the impact had gone straight to my joints. For a change, River was in pain as well, so we stopped next to a big boulder on the roadside to rest.
It was late afternoon, yet a lot of jeeps and private cars zoomed past us, all heading up to Samdruptse. Funnily enough, most of them slowed down for a few seconds to stare at River before driving on. I don’t know what came over him, but suddenly, he started waving at them. This made people so happy that they shoved their torsos out of the windows to wave back and then went away grinning like idiots. I challenged River that if he managed to elicit a wave from every passing vehicle then I would buy him a beer. He did so well that I had to buy him two!
Slowly but surely, Namchi appeared in front of us. We rushed back to the room and got stoned to combat our exhaustion. Someone in the next room was playing a guitar and singing along; I could hear him faintly from my bed. Oh, how I missed music then. Before starting the journey, I had arrogantly vowed to stay away from all forms of electronic entertainment – computers, internet, televisions, phones and the most evil invention of all, the iPod. But this evening, as we were stuck in Namchi with no source of amusement, it was hard to rationalize such a dumb oath. Regrettably, River had chosen to do the same. I found out about it only after we were already on the road. When I did, I thought to myself, praise be to Allah, for he must’ve surely ordained our friendship in the fiery desert of stupidity.
Mellowed by the weed, I was slowly drifting off to sleep when River sprang out of his bed and started rummaging through his backpack. He pulled out his Dictaphone and played me the recording of a religious procession that he had seen in Kolkata.
“Why are we listening to this?” I complained as I was getting a headache from the loud, clashing drums and awful singing.
“Because it’s interesting! I’ve never seen anything like it anywhere else. All the lights, the idols, the little popping firecrackers and the men! Oh god, the men! Tell me something, why do all Indian men dance like this?”
&n
bsp; To demonstrate, River hopped from one end of the room to the other while shaking his head vigorously, flailing his arms around and thrusting his hips back and forth like a humping giraffe. This was his best imitation of an Indian man lost in religious ecstasy, dancing away to the drumbeats for the Devi. I had no reply. Why do Indian men dance like this? Indeed, why do they?
One-street Town
After spending two dull nights in Namchi, we picked Yuksom – a small town in Western Sikkim – as our next destination. Once again, there was no direct jeep service between the two towns and we had to first make our way to Jorethang, the transportation hub of southern Sikkim. The jeep stand in Jorethang was enormous to say the least. It had several floors, all connected by circular ramps like the ones built in underground parking lots. In fact, I think they built the parking lot first, then realized, hey, why do we need a proper stand at all? Let’s also chuck the passengers in here and save the money that would’ve been otherwise wasted on unnecessary frills like seats, air conditioning, lights and vending machines.
According to several surveys, Sikkim is the least populated state in India, but I found that hard to believe when I saw the crowd at Jorethang. We were forced to rudely elbow our way through the throng to find the departure point for Yuksom. But, of course, the last service had already left. I had resigned myself to the probability of spending the night at Jorethang when we came across this group of men who also wanted to go to Yuksom. We immediately got together and hired a private taxi. The price per person worked out to be slightly higher, but it was definitely better than being stuck in a city whose only raison d’etre is to take people to other cities.
The group we were travelling with seemed decent enough in the beginning and I got a little too pally with one of them. Once we had settled into the back seat of the SUV, this man got up on his knees and turned around completely to speak to us.
“So, you are travelling across the Himalayas? Oh, how very nice! Where do you live? Where did you study? Is this your first time in Sikkim? Oh, you must go to Khecheopalri Lake! It’s in middle of nowhere and surrounded by a dense forest. You know what people say about that lake? They say that it has such holy powers, that if a leaf falls on it, the birds swoop in and take it away. Really! Or, why don’t you join us on the Goecha La trek? We might just spot a yeti. You will think about it? What is there to think about? Okay, okay, you can let me know a little later.”
The only highlight of this drive was the 15 minute break we spent next to a stunning waterfall; well, it was stunning to me. We humans seem to have an unconditional love for waterfalls. It doesn’t matter if it’s the Niagara or the two-feet tall motor-run plastic spurt in the living room, they’re all just as fascinating. However, I found out later that compared to the other truly spectacular waterfalls of Sikkim, what I was looking at was just a glorified water dump. It had several rocks breaking its fall and the water swirled lazily at every little step before continuing downwards. River wandered off to take some videos, while I spent the break breathing in deeply and smiling to myself like a simpleminded village belle.
Our excellent group of men, on the other hand, had actually trekked up to the very top of the waterfall. I was impressed by their energy. The last thing I wanted to do at such a serene locale was to go for a strenuous hike. The short man who had been badgering us was the first one to reach the top and the first to come back down. He looked quite happy about it, but his friends were definitely not pleased. They gave him the cold shoulder all the way to Yuksom.
River nudged me at around five and got down from the jeep at a sleepy little crossroad. I got off as well, thinking that this must be another loo break. It wasn’t; we were standing in Yuksom, the entire 300 metres of it. Yuksom used to be the capital of Sikkim under the rule of the Chogyals, so I had assumed that it would be more populated. I know of several remote Mongolian villages that are bigger than Yuksom.
“Man, Sikkim is like bag of M&Ms; every time you put your hand in, a new colour comes out!”
“Yeah, but I’m liking this colour.” River turned to inspect the street and I was happy to note that unlike Namchi, there were no tacky plazas with fountains in this town. Also, in place of the usual city noises, loud Tibetan chants greeted us from somewhere over the hills. I got really excited at the prospect of attending another prayer service at a monastery. We quickly grabbed our bags and took off in the direction opposite to where these men were going. They tried to convince us to stay at the same hotel as them, but I’d had enough of that short man. I was just about to congratulate myself on getting away from them so easily when we realized that the only other cheap hotel was a mere 15 steps away. But oh well, 15 steps away was better than none at all.
It was in Yuksom that the ugly side of backpacking reared its head for the first time. The day of reckoning had arrived; the laundry was waiting. I embraced the chore as soon as possible. In fact, by the time we were in Haridwar, I’d even started enjoying the whole process. But River? Not so much.
He alternated between horror and pain every time he had to tackle his pile of dirty clothes. Within an hour of checking into the room, I was flipping my wet shirts on the washing line in the balcony, but River continued to procrastinate by making his special tea and rolling the perfect joint. He also lit some incense, which complemented the strong scent of wild flowers in the garden below us.
Smelling good is another one of River’s bizarre idiosyncrasies. Candles, flavoured tea, cinnamon, jasmine, he always has a ton of aromatherapy on him. He is also the only boy I know who himself smells like green apples. And even though I had chosen to move around like a quintessential hippie, I was glad that River had thought of bringing along all these useful supplies because they instantly transformed our 100-a-night rooms into cozy little retreats. Perhaps this goes on to show that yes, money can buy you everything, but with a bit of imagination, you won’t need to buy everything.
River pulled two chairs out into the balcony, and the longer we sat there, the more I fell in love with Yuksom. When we were at Rumtek, I had thought that it was the most beautiful spot in the whole wide world. In a way, I still do, but Rumtek is so picture perfect that it doesn’t lend itself to a vision of normal, everyday existence. Yuksom, on the other hand, is much closer to the world we live in now, yet it’s detached enough to become a tranquil second home.
The sun was about to set on the bucolic landscape, but the Tibetan chants kept up their steady pace. Unable to ignore their call, we eventually decided to investigate their source. There was only one road in Yuksom and it stretched right across the valley. The shops and small eateries on the side were nothing more than bamboo shacks that barely held onto the earth. There was no one to give us directions besides the wind, which could change its course at any moment. Nevertheless, we soldiered on even when the road dwindled to a rough trail, leading deep into the woods at the edge of the town.
A little bit of the evening light was still trapped beneath the trees, so we kept going forward till we reached a tiny inconspicuous wooden bridge that stretched over a thin but rugged stream. That was it; we knew we weren’t going any farther. It was the kind of spot where elves might congregate at dawn. The perfectly aligned bridge, the gushing stream underneath, the sound of birds and crickets chattering away into the dark, the archway of leaves twinkling due to fireflies, it all fit together so flawlessly that nature suddenly felt a little unnatural.
* * *
The bridge had satisfied our hearts, but our bodies needed some nourishment, so we barged into the homely diner right in front of our hostel. However, before we could sit down and get comfortable, the owner came rushing out of the kitchen in his striped underpants and vest. “No, no! Not possible, only normal food here!” he informed us frantically.
“Okay, normal is good. We can eat normal. Do you have a menu?” I tried to alleviate his fears as best I could.
“No, no menu, only rice.”
“Only rice? Nothing with the rice? Eggs? Maybe fried rice?”
He gave this a great deal of thought and agreed reluctantly.
“Hmm, okay. That possible, but take time. Lot of time.”
“Sure, we can wait. Go ahead.” I was beginning to feel like a mother encouraging her first born to get up on stage in front of a big audience.
He glanced at us one last time and summoned his wife and children to the kitchen. Together, they embarked upon the stupendous task of cooking, as though we had demanded some pâté de foie gras and crème brûlée.
After a long hungry hour, the fried rice finally appeared on our table. So did the chef de cuisine, who hovered around us throughout the meal, waiting for our final verdict. In my enthusiasm, I shoved a big spoonful of rice into my mouth and then struggled to swallow it. River had the same reaction but we couldn’t just leave the food and walk out since we had forced him to make it for us. So we shut up and did our best to pretend that the dinner was delicious; that we city folks could also enjoy a normal meal.
“By the way, does this chanting go on here every day?” I asked the man to stall the next bite.
“No, only once a month, for two days during full moon.”
“Will it continue tomorrow?”
“Yes, of course it will.”
I was quite pleased with the fact that we had landed in Yuksom exactly on a full moon night. Of course it was just dumb luck, but on the second day, when we woke up to the sounds of thundering drum rolls and elephant calls from the Kathol Wodsal Ling Gompa, I felt the briefest touch of a divine hand. There is only so much we can do to direct the course of our day or our lives, but the things that define us most clearly are usually the ones that simply happened on the way.
Special Lassi Page 7
