Special Lassi

by Amrita Chatterjee

  This man was by far the most fascinating thing about the lake. I could hardly tell when he was talking to us and when he was talking to himself. He was like a little stray animal, scurrying from one tourist to another, spewing gibberish and collecting trash. If Gollum had an Indian cousin, this man would’ve been it. River and I were quite intrigued by his eccentric personality and his naked gnarled feet, but we also felt sorry for him. He must’ve been in his 80s and yet was doing such tricky physical work. Every time he bent over the edge of the pier with his stick, I was afraid that he was going to face-plant right into the water. We struck up a conversation with him and he told us that he saw himself as more of a priest than the maintenance guy. Buddhism, Hinduism, he had it all under his belt. He even proceeded to give us an extraordinary lecture on his version of the unified theory of all religions. When the lecture turned into demands for a holy donation, we decided to bail on him as well as Khecheopalri.

  With the sunset, the steady stream of tourists also dried up. We were the only two people still hanging around the nearby nunnery, filled with nuns who had tonsured their heads. Strangely, these nuns had none of that beatific glow that monks seem to have and their humble saffron robes made them look more pitiful than austere. It was as though they were trying desperately to turn into men. I also detected a hint of hostility in their glances towards us, which discouraged me from going inside the hall. There were two white women sitting among the nuns, one of whom was probably studying to become a nun herself. The other one was aged and propped up in an armchair in the corner, looking over everyone else. In the fading sunlight coming in through a window right behind her head, her milky white hair took on an eerie glow. Her hand was dangling from the armrest and I noticed that she was wearing several pearl bracelets. When we saw her wrinkled, vacant face, both River and I had the same thought: “Jesus! What’s Miss Havisham doing here?”

  As usual, when dinnertime arrived, our souls became a little heavy. In Sikkim, food was a constant source of worry. We never knew whether we were going to get a meal or not. And even if we did, whether it would be edible or not. Here at Khecheopalri, our hostel was a small family-run establishment and we agreed to eat whatever the lady of the house had decided to cook. It turned out to be the usual fare of vegetable chow mein macerated in tomato ketchup.

  “Are you two students?” The boy who had given us the room, brought us the food and he didn’t look like he wanted to leave.

  “Well, we just finished university,” I replied with my mouth full.

  “Oh, okay. I ask because I’m also a student. I’m studying in Delhi; just came back home for the summer holidays.”

  “That’s nice.”

  “So, are you here to see Phala?” he asked us cautiously.

  “Phala? What is that?”

  “Phala is my uncle’s name. He lives near the monastery on top of this hill right there. All white people come here looking for him because he gives them some stupid spiritual advice and takes all their money. He says that he used to be the Dalai Lama’s cook; who knows if that’s the truth? I thought that maybe your white friend wanted to meet him.”

  “What? No. We came to see the lake. But your uncle Phala sounds quite interesting.”

  “Oh yes, he is very interesting. He has this tea shop near the gompa where he tricks people into talking to him.”

  It suddenly occurred to me that it might be fun to go see this Mr Phala, so I asked River.

  “Of course. Let’s do it.”

  “Oh NO! I was trying to warn you against seeing him!” the boy started laughing at us. He seemed a bit worried about his future because he wasn’t studying to be a doctor or an engineer. In India, if you’re not studying to be one of those two, you are pretty much fucked.

  “By the way, can we also get some beer to go with the noodles?” River had quickly developed a taste for the toxic HIT.

  “Sorry, we don’t have any alcohol.”

  I simply couldn’t believe that someone in Sikkim was a teetotaller; he was surely lying. When the boy saw the disbelief on my face, he started laughing again.

  “I know we are famous for our drinking but my father doesn’t drink anymore and he doesn’t allow us to keep it in the house.”

  “Why is that? Was he an alcoholic?”

  “Everybody here is an alcoholic. My father used to drink 24 bottles of beer in one day. All the guides and porters who take people trekking have a secret inner jacket of XXX to keep them warm.”

  “XXX? What is that?”

  “Rum! X stands for the strength. Triple X means mind-bending quality.”

  Where’s Phala?

  The rain was pelting down when we left the hostel the next day to go see Phala and the rustic Khecheopalri Gompa on top of the ridge. Thanks to all that sludge plus my dysfunctional limbs, I must’ve slipped at least half a dozen times while going up. I told River to go ahead once again, so I could continue at my snail’s pace. At the top, beyond a small and unexpected human settlement, stood our destination. River was standing outside its gate looking very confused.

  “Is this the monastery?” I scrunched up my face at the structure that was still in its cement and concrete underwear.

  “I guess so.”

  The building had a plain wooden gate. A frail plank bolted it from the outside but it was not locked. We removed the plank and went in to find no one except the swirling fumes of Tibetan incense that was burning at the altar. I had become so used to seeing elaborate prayer halls and gompas teeming with monks that I didn’t know what to make of this place. There were no murals, no Buddhas encrusted with jewels, no fancy bells or trumpets and yet, I could instantly sense the pulsating flow of energy that all places of worship seem to possess. In such moments, I begin to think that perhaps, prayers do actually work. They may not make all our wishes come true, but they certainly transform a piece of land or a set of four walls into a reservoir of positivity. In fact, one of the reasons why Hindus and Buddhists don’t go into temples with their shoes on, is to allow the body to absorb all this energy.

  Obviously, it didn’t take us very long to admire the cement and after a mere ten minutes, we were out looking for Phala’s teashop. We couldn’t find him either and instead, ended up having some breakfast at Sonam’s Homestay, owned by Sonam, of course. I was a bit iffy about it at first because we had to go all the way into the kitchen to eat.

  But thank god I went in because it was one of the most thoughtfully arranged kitchens I’ve ever seen. The floor and the walls were covered with a smooth coating of mud plaster. In the pantry, all the fresh vegetables had been stacked on the counter and sorted into neat rows according to their colour. Bundles of red carrots gave way to brown potatoes, then came green leafy cabbages, sacks of yellow rice and finally, dry red chillies. Even the glasses, cups and plates on the wooden rack over the counter were immaculately colour-coordinated. There was a huge window in the middle of the wall facing east, which filled the house with soft, clean sunshine.

  Sonam greeted us with a big smile and asked us to step into the inner cooking area. In there, his gorgeous wife was toiling away over a mud furnace. The vegetables boiling over the wood fire smelled excellent. I could not wait to try out the food; I knew it would be special. The moment we sat down on the low wooden stools, Sonam’s wife handed us cups of tea. I couldn’t help but wish that we had spent the night here instead of the scrummy hostel down at the lake.

  “Mera kitchen achcha laga aapko?" You like my kitchen? Sonam looked at me pointedly and then let out a short burst of self satisfied laughter. His Hindi had a slight accent.

  “Yeah, it’s really nice. Do you cook over this fire everyday?”

  “We have to. It’s very difficult to get a gas connection here. The government allots two trees per year to each family, so we make do with that.”

  “Just two? And you’re also running this homestay on that?”

  “Yes, it’s not easy. Even for those two trees we have to fill up so many forms and pl
ant another ten trees somewhere else first. Then the officers come and check and mark the trees that we can cut down – that, too, in their presence. It’s such a headache. In Sikkim, you kill a man, throw him down the hill and nothing will happen, but if you cut a tree, oh ho ho, that’s it, you’ll be in jail for the rest of your life.”

  “And how do you manage to get all these other supplies to this forsaken hill?”

  “Oh, sometimes I walk, sometimes I fly.”

  “What?”

  “Haha, only joking.” His deadpan humour had gone right over my head.

  “I used to be a porter when I was younger. But I saved up enough money over the years to retire and start this homestay. It was my childhood dream to become an entrepreneur one day.” “Well, looks like you are living your dream now.”

  “Mostly yes, but need to make more money.”

  When we asked him about the monastery and why it was only half built, he embarked on another lengthy tale.

  “Oh, that. Well, some years ago, the state ministers came to Khecheopalri, did their inspection and selected this big piece of land to build the monastery on. They also gave a lot of money for it, but then the stupid forest department came in and told people not to cut any trees. So all the work stopped and the money is just lying around without any use. It’s the same story with the lake. The money from the tourists’ tickets is supposed to go into a medical emergency fund. If anyone gets hurt while walking around the lake, then that money will be used to take them to the hospital, etc. But the path is so easy, that no accident ever happens. Again, no use for the money. I advised them to make the area a little rougher so that more people can fall down and the money is put to some use. Otherwise it will just keep accumulating and then the villagers will start fighting over it.”

  Ridiculous as his suggestion was, I could see the point he was trying to make. “Yeah, that’s true. Maybe they can give some of that money to the poor homeless man who cleans the lake.”

  “What? Are you feeling sorry for him? Please don’t! He’s a complete rascal. He’s minting a fortune at the lake. He only pretends to be homeless to gain the tourists’ sympathy. He is paid a very good salary and on top of that, he pockets all the donations that people make at the lake. Three years ago, he didn’t even have a house; now he is going to buy a car. All of us in Khecheopalri are dying to get his job, but the nunnery has decided that the rotation will take place only after five years. I’m in line as well; I would love to work at the lake.”

  A few minutes later, two kids came running into the kitchen and jumped into Sonam’s lap. One of them had a headful of tiny golden curls and clear blue eyes.

  “Who is this?”

  “Oh, forgot to tell you about the Israeli family that is staying with us; this is their boy. And that one is my youngest son.”

  As soon as he said this, a gruff caveman-like grunt was heard in the kitchen. The Israeli boy’s father had also joined us. He looked at us curiously, spoke to his son in Hebrew and then went out again. He had a very peculiar demeanour.

  “So how many children do you have?” This time River asked the question. Sonam hesitated for a second and then replied in slightly broken English.

  “Five. My big son… eh… student, going be engineer. Second one is in the monk school. He study there for eight years, then I will train him to become businessman. Other three very small, still eating mud, haha.”

  “That’s nice.” River remarked politely. He had been left out of the conversation so far and I promised to translate all the jokes later. But at the moment, I wanted to know more about the monk school.

  “Well, monk school is like normal school, but student must study Buddhism also, for at least eight years. After eight year, there is the uh… a… uh… some special ceremony – I don’t know English name – where the student officially takes up monk life and shaves his head. At that time, he can choose to give up everything or he can say that I will get married or I will drink little bit, whatever he wants. That is the window; if he gives everything up at that time then he is f****d for life. Haha.”

  “I see, interesting. By the way, your English is not that bad.” “Ah, thank you, thank you. I still want to learn more good English!”

  “Why? Are you planning to do something after you learn English?”

  “What will I do in this life? I am already 53. I’ll speak to the devil in English when I go to hell. Haha… so, too much about me, where you two from?”

  We told him a little bit about ourselves and when he heard that I was from Bengal, he shook his head in despair and looked at his roof.

  “You Bengali people! Sikkim is full of Bengali money. You see a nice house on the street, who is the owner? Some Banerjee or Mukherjee. Bengali log maach khaake dimaag lagata hai, hum log daru pee ke dimag kharaab karta hai (Bengali people eat fish and use their brains, whereas we Sikkimese drink alcohol and ruin our brains). Anyway, it’s no use, we will never change. Haha. Your food is almost ready. The sun is also up. Do you want to eat outside?”

  “Okay, yeah, that will be nice.”

  With that, River and I stepped out of the house and sat on a crude dining table under a shady tree. The Israeli man was also seated nearby with his wife and two sons. This time he flashed us a nice friendly smile. Compared to last night’s dodgy noodles, this meal was a lavish feast. First, imagine a generous serving of delicious, gently spiced roasted vegetables. Next to them, a pair of golden fried eggs, crisp on the edges and juicy in the centre. And finally, a stack of warm fluffy pancake hybrids known as Tibetan bread, served with a big helping of creamy homemade butter. And all of this was doused with the heady scent of wood fire smoke. After eating to the point of physical exhaustion and washing it down with another cup of tea, we lay back in our chairs and stared at the branches overhead as they swayed with the light breeze.

  “Hey, can I ask you something?” River straightened his back and looked at me thoughtfully.

  “I’ve noticed that Indians have a very strong sense of ownership over their children. This Sonam guy said at one point that he was going to train his son to become a businessman? What does that even mean?”

  “Well, education is expensive. And when you’ve seen a life of poverty, you start thinking of your kids as an investment fund, as your ticket to comfort and security. But it’s definitely changing. You must come back to India ten years from now; I’m sure you’ll be surprised.”

  “Hmm, we’ll see about that.”

  “Okay! Time to leave. How much do we owe you Sonam?” We went back into the kitchen to say goodbye.

  “Thousand rupees,” He replied without batting an eyelid. River’s head snapped up, and his face was a hilarious mixture of shock, outrage, terror and bewilderment. He had already pulled out his wallet but it remained in his hand, firmly shut. A thousand rupees was our average expense for an entire day; did this meal really cost that much? I sensed the turmoil in River’s head, should I just suck it up and. pay or should. I put up a fight? But before things could get any more awkward, Sonam started laughing and we let out a collective sigh of relief.

  “Only joking, 100 please.”

  “Each?”

  “No, no, total.”

  With the bill paid and the teacups empty, we were ready to wrap things up at Khecheopalri. But there was this one question that lingered in our minds. “By the way Sonam, do you know anyone here by the name of Phala?”

  “Phala? Of course, he is my father.”

  “Really? Can we meet him?”

  “Oh no, he is in deep meditation now. He will be back after a few weeks.”

  “Back from where?”

  “I mean back into his body.”

  We waited for Sonam’s face to betray dues of another deadpan joke, but nothing happened; he didn’t even smile. Maybe there was a grain of truth in all these legends of Phala. Maybe he had cooked for the Dalai Lama and learned to levitate in return. Sadly, we didn’t have the time to hang around and confirm the separation between his
body and soul; as the rest of Sikkim was waiting to be defiled.

  Kanchenjunga? Frick Yeah!

  It continued to rain all afternoon. We struggled to find a ride back to Yuksom as trekking was out of the question in such weather. We asked every car and jeep nearby for a lift, but they were either private or full or not going to Yuksom. While wandering around the cluster of primitive wooden shacks next to the lake, we noticed something curious about the shopkeepers in Khecheopalri. They were such believers in the goodness of mankind that they never bothered to actually be present at their shops. After grabbing a pack of biscuits from the counter, I had to hunt down the owner in order to pay for it. I found her several meters ahead, taking a leisurely walk with another shopkeeper; while both of them had left their shops wide open and unattended.

  It continued to rain all afternoon. We struggled to find a ride back to Yuksom as trekking was out of the question in such weather. We asked every car and jeep nearby for a lift, but they were either private or full or not going to Yuksom. While wandering around the cluster of primitive wooden shacks next to the lake, we noticed something curious about the shopkeepers in Khecheopalri. They were such believers in the goodness of mankind that they never bothered to actually be present at their shops. After grabbing a pack of biscuits from the counter, I had to hunt down the owner in order to pay for it. I found her several meters ahead, taking a leisurely walk with another shopkeeper; while both of them had left their shops wide open and unattended.