Special Lassi

by Amrita Chatterjee

  Just like every other gompa we visited on this trip, even this one was situated on top of a small but torturously steep hill. Despite its size being a fraction of the monastery in Rumtek, Kathol stood out sharply from the surrounding hills due to the generous coats of red, green, blue and yellow paint. The huge gathering outside the prayer hall mainly consisted of old women decked up in their ancient silver jewellery and Tibetan wrap dresses. In this confluence of colour, they all looked sprightly and youthful despite the prune-like wrinkles on their faces.

  At the centre of the prayer hall, a monk was reading from his scriptures into a microphone. The instrument players sat on either side of him, while several others were busy lighting the butter lamps. Interestingly, there was a huge pile of cookies, cakes, packets of crisps and instant noodles right in front of Guru Rinpoche. There were also several bottles of HIT beer lying on the floor. These were the offerings that people had made at the altar. At one point, I even saw a monk open the beer bottle and sprinkle its contents over everyone as though he was purifying the room with it.

  My perception of Buddhism was completely splintered during this trip. I used to think of it as a highly austere way of life, a religion so idealistic that it was beyond the reach of a common man. But people all over the world have co-opted Buddha’s teachings in such interesting ways – mixing it with idol worship, tantric rituals, Confucianism and the summer of love – that it has undoubtedly become the most accessible religion of all. When the chanting came to a sudden stop and the whole hall bowed down in supplication with their skirts, shawls and prayer beads flying around, there was no difference between the simple village folk and the monks. They all reached out to Buddha with the same affectionate cries.

  From the Kathol Gompa, we walked on further to see the Dubdi monastery, which was built in 1701 but is no longer in use. The climb up to this monastery was even more exhausting than the one to Kathol. During the hike, my skin was sauteed to a golden brown and River’s was cooked completely. The only adult we saw at Dubdi was the gardener/caretaker, who was busy sawing some wood in his shed. In his place, two young boys, probably his sons, were running around the 300 year-old monastery as though it was their own private playground. However, the cool, deserted wooden halls allowed us the freedom, for the first time, to study the murals and carvings on the panels without feeling like we were intruding on someone. The kids continued to run around us in circles, which got annoying after a while. At first I thought that they were following us because of River and his blonde hair, but then it dawned on me that these innocent-looking munchkins were actually keeping an eye on us. As soon we went closer to the altar containing Buddha’s ancient statutes, they immediately swooped in and stopped us from touching anything.

  A bit later, we managed to establish a rapport with them and they let us fool around with the instruments that were lying unsupervised in the hall. I couldn’t resist putting the dungchen to my lips and playing a few horrible notes. I expected the kids to snatch the trumpet from me, but they found it funny and started accompanying me on the drums. River joined in as well, turning the afternoon into a jam session for the tone deaf. Sadly, just as I began to play the first solo from Penny Lane, which obviously sounded like a tune only to my own ears, the caretaker screamed from his shed. I didn’t need to understand what he was saying; it was more than obvious that he did not approve of our behaviour. So we quickly put away the instruments and sneaked out of the hall for a long lumbering nap back at the hotel.

  The evening came and went, but we slept right through it – a luxury I miss every single day at work. Then at eight, the moment we rolled our daily spliff, the lights went out and the whole of Yuksom was plunged into darkness. We lit some candles, but the cool breeze snuffed them out one after another. We didn’t bother lighting them up again. As our eyes adjusted to the darkness and the smoke muddled our brains, certain shapes began to emerge from the blank space outside. The black unglued into shades of grey, blue and purple. I saw the branches of some trees and the roof of the house across the street. A jeep rumbled in the distance; we didn’t see its body, but the headlights illuminated different sections of the road as it rolled by our window. The air was so still in our room that every sound from across the town seemed crystal clear: kids bouncing a ball on the street, mothers clanging their pots and pans in the kitchen, old men cracking their unyielding joints. We were connected by spools of sound to everyone in Yuksom and it formed a precarious web hanging by our shaky breaths.

  An hour later, we somehow disentangled ourselves and went out, groping in the dark, till we were seated under the big, sturdy umbrella that offered the finest food in Yuksom. Encroaching on the only street in town, this restaurant claimed to specialize in chilli chicken and chow mein, which is exactly what I was craving. River, on the other hand, chose some peanut masala with rice. I wondered how he was going to eat dry roasted peanuts with rice, but I didn’t say anything. However, when our food arrived, I realized that River had no idea what he had done.

  “What the hell is this? Isn’t peanut masala like peanut curry? As in chicken masala and chana masala?”

  “Haha, no.”

  “Great, thanks for telling me,” he sulked and demanded the menu again.

  I couldn’t wait for him and attacked my chow mein with the zeal of a bear, fresh out of hibernation. The chicken disappeared quickly but instead of lightening my plate, I felt as though each bite was adding more weight to my fork. I looked around to understand why the air was getting thicker with life forces when everything seemed the same. The waiters were walking around with candles on their serving trays, River was still expecting his food and the few other customers had already left.

  “Psst…” River whispered and I hoped that he had caught onto the strangeness. Instead, he asked, “why is there a dog’s face between your legs?”

  “What?”

  This was not the question I expected to hear, ever. And surely, as I looked down at my crotch in confusion, two big baleful dog eyes stared up at me and the food on my plate. I threw down the cutlery and jumped out of my chair, screaming. River lifted the tablecloth and we found about ten grimy mongrels, two cats and a small pig, huddled underneath with their noses pointing upwards. The stupid waiters behind us were leaning on their elbows and watching the whole thing as though it was primetime television.

  “For fuck’s sake, DO SOMETHING!” I commanded rudely and backed off.

  Only then did a boy come running out with a steel jug in his hand and splashed the dogs with water. As soon as the water touched their bodies, they howled in pain and scampered away into the wilderness like vampires.

  “Very good, very good. You should make a note: next time under dog attack, use water!”

  The same short man who had accompanied us to Yuksom strolled into the restaurant with his mates.

  “Yeah, we will, thanks. How come you all are still here? What happened to your trek? Still planning?”

  He lost his humour when I mentioned the trek and glared at us instead.

  “NO. We didn’t find enough people to form a group. We are going back to Kolkata tomorrow.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry to hear that. Better luck next time!”

  We said goodbye, but the next day, set off on our very own trek. Well, such is life.

  Catch-a-Perry Lake

  Like the Nepali movie in Darjeeling, I suspect that this was River’s idea, but I can’t remember when I agreed to go along. One minute we were lounging in our room, the next, we were out in the streets looking for a trekking map to the legendary Khecheopalri Lake. Our quest for the map was resolved rather quickly when the owner of a local travel company was kind enough to draw one up for us, free of charge. We decided to leave most of our luggage in Yuksom and only take the bare essentials to spend a night at the lake. Around ten, we laced up our shoes, got some pancakes for the road and started walking.

  Along the way, we found dozens of kids on their way to school. The younger ones held hands and swung
their arms together as though they were going to explode with joy. I don’t remember ever being so ecstatic about going to school. Maybe when I was in kindergarten; well, not really. I was probably busy rebelling against potty training at that point.

  Our map indicated a left turn from the school, leading to a narrow trail into the forest. We threw ourselves into the wilderness, hoping to see all sorts of wonderful flora and fauna. According to our cartographer, the first part of the trek required us to descend into the valley, which we were told, would take only an hour. To my horror, I found out that the descent was not a gentle slope that I could just stroll down while thinking about the meaning of life. It was a haphazard stairway consisting of crude stone steps without any railing that could send me hurtling down the cliff if I missed a single step. River pondered over the situation very carefully and said to me, “okay, this is going to be hard. Can you please try not to fall down so much today?”

  I considered giving him the finger but instead of taking offence, I channelled my energies into doing exactly what he had asked me to do. I wasn’t going to let a few slips and tumbles from the past get in the way of my newfound mountaineering aspirations.

  I concentrated a hundred percent on the rocks beneath my feet and spread out my toes to get a better hold on the loose stones. The task became easier after a while, but still, I was nowhere close to River’s nonchalant nimbleness. He was practically gliding down the valley while chatting away about how this place reminded him of his favourite movie Koyaanisquatsi. I regained the ability to hear and respond to him only after we had come off the steps onto a nice tarmac road that led us over old broken bridges, blue streams and even a small waterfall. The sun was out in full force by now and combined with the moisture in the air, it made the air quite hot and stuffy. However, compared to the 50 degree heat wave of the plains, this was still pleasant weather. Our easy stroll on the road came to a quick end as we reached the opposite side and started climbing up to Khecheopalri.

  This hike was 20 times worse than the descent. Instead of rocks, we were now scrambling up muddy slopes, covered in green slimy moss. The thick cover of trees protected us from the sunlight, but at the same time, it also prevented the soil from drying. Also, the incline was so steep that I was exhausted within the first 30 minutes while some locals – including septuagenarian men – breezed past us carrying heavy sacks of cement on their backs.

  “Let’s take a break!” I rested against a flat boulder on the trail and gulped down half a litre of water.

  “Hello! You two okay?” We encountered another backpacker who was walking back down from Khecheopalri Lake.

  “Oh yes, fine, she’s just a little…” River trailed off as I glared at him.

  “I’m fine too, there’s just something in my shoe. Anyway, how much further do we have to go?”

  “About three hours more.” The backpacker flashed us a cheery smile and went away.

  I was ready to collapse right there and we had to keep doing this for three more hours? It made me wonder about the sanity of people who go trekking for fun.

  “Okay, go easy on that water; we only have one bottle each.” River stopped me from finishing the entire bottle right away. “Excellent, not only am I going to die of physical exhaustion, but also of soul-parching thirst.”

  “I have this sambuca with me, you can drink this.”

  River pulled out the piss-coloured bottle from his daypack and I could not have been more grateful. That’s exactly what my soul needed in that moment, a stiff drink. My spirits quickly came back to life and the prospect of dying on a secluded Sikkimese hillside didn’t seem so bad.

  “I also have THIS!” He lit up a well-rolled spliff. Its fumes relaxed my sore muscles till I felt light enough to scale the Kanchenjunga.

  When we resumed walking, I couldn’t help but laugh at the popular misconception that all we stoners do is smoke up in a dark room and listen to Bob Marley. That’s such a load of crap. What we’re really up to are things like these: climbing up hills, cycling, running in slow motion, staring at birds while trying to identify the underlying patterns in their movement, collecting leaf samples and discussing why some people turn into criminals. It’s all very serious and meaningful; don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.

  Time certainly flew after that. Trees of bottle green, olive, asparagus and luminous yellow became interesting to me again. It’s a shame that botany and I never really got along. I wish we had though, because instead of just saying, “oh! The hillside was covered with delightful trees”, I could’ve said, “oh! The hills were dotted with oak, deodar and magnolia.” Perhaps they were, but I couldn’t tell one species from another. My ornithology is just as appalling, so I have nothing but vague recollections of the birds circling above our heads. Nevertheless, I still enjoyed listening to their calls, which echoed in the valley the whole time we were trekking. There was also the hypnotic drone of a rogue fly that had taken a special liking to my blood.

  On our second break, we ate some pancakes. The heat had turned the bananas, milk and honey into blobs of caramelly deliciousness. It was a great meal. We looked across the ravine and saw a small building that was right at the base of the hill from where we had started walking. Judging by its size, we had surely come up a long way. After three hours and thirty minutes, River felt sure that we were about to reach the lake. I couldn’t even tell if I was totally awake or not. The weed-induced happy haze was wearing off too, and I was again struggling to keep up with River. So I told him to carry on without me and wait at the top.

  The trail had been fairly obvious until this point; it just kept winding upwards. But as soon as River and I split, the trail also branched out into two directions and I had no idea which way to go. Five minutes on my own and I was already lost. Luckily enough, I heard some human voices in the vicinity. I followed them to a small hut hidden behind an unruly wall of bushes. A wobbly stone pathway led me right up to the main door where an old man and his son were busy working. The old man was immersed knee deep in a pile of clay, kneading it with water. The young boy beside him was shaping the clay into solid squares of varying sizes.

  When they looked up and noticed me, I waved at them and asked for the directions to the lake in some crude sign language. They understood me immediately and the young man pointed out the right path. I turned to leave, but the sight of sparkling clean water reminded me of just how thirsty I was. Perhaps it hadn’t been such a good idea to drink all that sambuca. I pulled out my empty water bottle to show them that it needed a refill. Again, the old man understood me perfectly and called his wife, who came out with a big steel jug, accompanied by three more children. They were covered in dirt and their hand-me-down clothes were too big for their tiny bodies. The young man was now placing the squares on top of each other to form a small stupa. I asked him if it really was a stupa or something else by saying very eloquently, “hey, Stupa? Stupa?”

  To which he replied, “stupa! Stupa!”

  Refreshed by the water and the company of other human beings, I was once again about to leave when the lady handed me a hot cup of tea. She even took the time to demonstrate how I was supposed to lift the cup up to my lips and slurp down its contents. Already delirious from the drugs, exercise and heat, this unexpected gesture of kindness tipped me over the edge. I became so emotional that I tried to adopt one of her kids. But she refused to give or take anything from me and I had to move on.

  I pushed myself through the last few miles, fuelled by the anticipation of arriving at the mythical, mystical Khecheopalri Lake. Ignoring the gnawing pain in my toes, I put all my energies into imagining its virginal existence in the middle of a dense wooded valley. I heard the silence; I envisioned the play between darkness and light, the shimmering water, the majestic birds swooping in from all sides to pick up the falling leaves. Like Leonardo di Caprio in The Beach, I was going to find my own little piece of paradise, right here in Sikkim.

  As I finally reached the top, the first blow to my imagi
nary heaven came in the form of human settlement. The flat road leading up to the lake was packed with houses and shops; and the dense forest was nowhere to be seen. We came across a hostel sign and River insisted that we secure a room first and then go to the lake. It took us 15 minutes to find someone at the hostel who could help us. I had to go around knocking on random doors till I came across a teenage boy playing video games on his laptop. He finally opened a room for us. Well, room would be an exaggeration; it was more of a broom closet with just about enough space for two single beds. I had to keep myself from collapsing on it or I would’ve never made it to the lake. I did remove my shoes for a bit though, and found out that my socks were soaked in blood. The nail on my middle toe had dug a nasty hole into my index toe. Other than that, surprisingly, I wasn’t feeling too bad overall.

  * * *

  At four, we were staring at the ticket window outside the entrance to the lake. This was the second and an even bigger blow to my vision. After trekking through all that wilderness, we had to stand in queue for a fucking tourist pass along with people who had just gotten off their taxis. Talk about an anti-climax! Then when we got to the water, there was no pristine silence and no birds, majestic or otherwise, picking out leaves from the lake. Instead, an old man dressed in a pair of canary yellow trousers was poking his long wooden stick into the water to pick up packets of biscuits and chips that the disrespectful pilgrims had carelessly tossed into the lake. Perhaps if I had reined in my imagination a bit, the lake might not have failed my expectations so completely, but it was too late now.

  Legend has it that when seen from above, Khecheopalri looks like the footprint of Lord Shiva (to the Hindus) or Goddess Tara (to the Buddhists). However, I refused to fall for any of that bullshit and scale another slippery hill just to see if it was actually true. Instead, I satisfied myself by gazing at the intractable jumble of prayer flags all around the water. Long colourful strings were looped over the trees, the stupas and even the poles planted right in the middle of the lake. We indulged in a bit of ritualistic tomfoolery by throwing coins into the water and making unrealistic wishes. So many people had thrown coins into the lake that the bed was a glittering silver. We lit some incense at an electric blue stupa near the water and the old man in yellow trousers put a bit of bright pink paste on our foreheads.