Special Lassi

by Amrita Chatterjee

  The moment we reached Jorethang, we immediately transferred to another jeep heading to Siliguri. The journey took a lot longer than expected due to a landslide on the way. I could already sense the heatwave of the plains. The long wait forced us to start drinking in the middle of the day, because there was nothing else to do, at least not as enjoyable. River got so drunk that he passed out completely and I continued to talk utter rubbish to this poor boy beside me.

  “Is that a khukuri in your pants?” I inquired innocently, but his shocked face indicated a different answer altogether.

  “Sorry, never mind.”

  Married Without Children

  So there we were, in the middle of some road in Siliguri, slightly disoriented because of the heat and dodgy liquor. The people, the traffic, the cows, the noise, everything in Siliguri was a crude departure from Sikkim. We could still see the mountains on the horizon but they were not inviting us anymore; they simply teased us with memories of the past few weeks. While we were wondering what to do, a rickshaw man quietly pedalled up to us and convinced me to hop on.

  Rickshaws are becoming an increasingly rare sight in India, at least in the big cities. So when I saw him, I got really excited. But River? Not so much. He was worried about where we would stow our huge backpacks and how long it would take to get to a hotel. I ignored the call of reason and climbed in; River had no choice but to follow.

  “Cholbo didi?”

  “Hain, cholo! Let’s go!”

  And we were off into the crowded hub.

  I’d been certain that River would change his mind once we got into the rickshaw, but sadly, that didn’t happen.

  “I’m sorry, I just don’t get it. What’s so great about going this slow?”

  We were right in the middle of the road with cars and motorbikes zooming past us. So relatively, we appeared to be going even slower than we actually were.

  “Well, that’s the whole point. Don’t you feel so cool and laidback just cruising along like this? Watching all these people run around as though the world is going to end?”

  “Uh, no. I just feel silly.”

  “Oh, stop grumbling. We might be able to find some special lassi here.”

  “Really? Alright!”

  That changed River’s perspective on everything. When we stopped at a red light and I saw a young man’s vacant face through a gloomy car window, I felt inordinately smug in my airy chariot.

  “Didi, aami aapnake shob theke bhalo hotel e niye jacchi, thik aache? Sister, I’m taking you to the finest hotel in the city, don’t you worry.” The rickshaw driver-cum-tout flashed his perfect set of yellow teeth at me and then turned away. Soon, he came to a stop outside an impressive building, which looked well beyond our budget.

  “Didi, Hotel Cinderella! Very beauty.”

  “Yes, I can see that’.’

  The tall glass walls of Cinderella loomed above us. With a castle like this, she didn’t require a prince charming. Even the thought of stepping down from the rickshaw and walking into its plush lobby was hilarious. We would probably be thrown out before reaching the reception desk. I thanked the rickshaw man for setting such high standards, gave him a good tip and then we promptly went elsewhere. Every single building in the vicinity was a hotel and we quickly found a room that was cheap and cozy. But just when we were about to settle in, we were asked to go down to the reception to answer a few questions.

  The manager was sitting behind the counter with a pen and register. His first query was, “what is your relationship?”

  “What do you mean? We are friends,” River answered casually. I had a feeling that this was not what the manager wanted to hear.

  “I see. I’m sorry, we can’t allow you to stay here.”

  “Why not?”

  “It is our hotel policy.”

  “What kind of policy is that?”

  “This is a family place.”

  “So? Do we look like nudists or arsonists?”

  “I’m sorry, but we don’t allow all this sleeping together.”

  “This is a joke, right? Can I sleep in the bathroom? Or on this couch in the reception? Would that be okay?”

  I wanted to laugh because I knew that River’s outrage was not going to get us anywhere.

  “Madam, you are Indian. Please understand the situation and explain it to your friend.” He rolled his eyes at the end.

  “Okay, okay. We’ll leave.”

  River was fuming as I dragged him out, but we were asked the same question again at the next hotel. Before River could begin his swearing, I boldly claimed that we were married.

  “Okay, fill this.” I fabricated all the details as I went along, including River’s date of birth, his father’s name and our permanent address in England. It was painfully obvious that I was lying through my teeth. The man couldn’t care less though; he was satisfied by our farcical marriage on paper.

  As always, food was the next priority. River wanted to explore Siliguri; I did not. Therefore, we settled for the nearest cafeteria, which had good food and an even better service. “Welcome my friends, what can I do for you today?” the waiter patted River on the shoulder and bowed down as though he was a genie in a bottle that we had accidently uncorked. The food, however, was excellent and the only area where Siliguri trumps Sikkim. In Bengal, it’s easy to have a feast within any budget. From the poorest slum dwellers to the richest socialites, a good meal may vary in portion and variety, but the basics remain the same: mustard oil, poppy seeds, fresh fish and a mound of rice. I felt so energized after the lunch that I thought, what the hell, let’s just explore Siliguri.

  Taking a walk down Hill Cart road was like scuttling across a boxing ring. Men without helmets whizzed past us on motorbikes while talking on their phones. The women rode side-saddle behind their husbands, with their children wedged in between. We could no longer saunter down the middle of the road, waving at strangers like we had done in the hills.

  “Aha, now I feel like I’m back in India. Look at these cows, I’ve missed them so much.”

  “Oh God!”

  “Hey, I like cows. They have such beautiful eyes. By the way, would you do me a favour? I’m going to kick that cow over there; would you take a picture of us?”

  “What? No!”

  “Why not?”

  “Because… just… no! Are you trying to start a riot? We’ll be in the papers tomorrow – white man kicks a cow and gets stoned to death while his poor widow watches from the sidelines.”

  “Hmph, thik aache,” he expressed his disappointment in fluent Bengali.

  “Cheer up. Oh look! Lychees are in season, yay!”

  I squealed like a four-year-old and ran towards the lychee seller to buy the last bunch in his basket. He sold it to me for 20, which I thought was a solid bargain. But as soon as he pocketed the money, he stood up and darted across the road like a madman. His behaviour was strange, but the lychees smelled so great that I forgot about him instantly.

  “Hmm… these are like manna from heaven. It’s such a shame that you don’t get them in England,” I said while stuffing my face with the soft white flesh of the fruit. The street urchins were back and they wasted no time in hounding us for change. I gave them a share of my lychees instead and they seemed reasonably happy about it. A few minutes later, in which I had already eaten half the bunch, the lychee seller reappeared. This time his basket was laden with fresh, juicy, ruby red lychees. Compared to them, the ones in my hand looked like refrigerated turd. I felt so utterly ripped off. The disappointment must have shown on my face because River laughed out loud, “ooohh, too bad! Now those look like they really did fall from heaven.”

  Our exploration of Siliguri came to an end when a fellow pedestrian directed us to the Iskcon temple as the most exciting thing to see in the city.

  Instead, we drank some delicious fresh coconut water and then called it a night at seven in the evening. We had to get up early anyway to queue up at the railway station for the tatkal tickets.r />
  * * *

  The station wasjust ten minutes away from our hotel, and we were there by seven. The market in the surrounding area was slowly rubbing its eyes open and getting ready for the day. Ideally, we should’ve secured our place in the queue as soon as possible, but the sound of hot oil sputtering in a wok led us off track to a shack wherein lay two benches and a broken table. Early morning news played on the radio while River had tea in a small shot glass and the cook deep-fried our pooris, which is a kind of Indian bread. A plate of five pooris with an unlimited serving of aaloo sabzi, or potato curry, cost us only 10. Sweat trickled down our backs because of the spicy curry and the heat radiating from the stove, but we ate till we were too full to move. After this began the long wait for the tatkal counters to open.

  The Indian railway is a gigantic monster, with each of its tentacles crawling over at least 100 miles. But still, the tickets for summertime travel on any goddamn route get sold out weeks in advance. The only way to secure a seat at a short notice is through the tatkal quota, wherein ten percent of all tickets on each train are reserved for emergency purposes. These tickets are then sold on a first-come-first-serve basis a day before the date of departure. Siliguri station was full of homeless-looking men, sprawled on the grimy granite floor with their duffel bags stuffed under their heads. Mosquitoes buzzed all around them, but they slept on as if dead to the world. Maybe they were.

  Each counter in front of us had a cryptic message hanging over the window, written in bright red paint. One said ‘same day train tickets’, the next said, ‘another day cancellations’, then there was the ‘general arakshan’ counter, which was followed by the ‘special arakshan’ and two more types of arakshan that I didn’t understand at all. When we searched for an upright, ambulatory man to help us figure out their meanings, the only person we saw was a porter, sitting on his haunches in a corner of the hall. He was wearing the iconic coolie uniform – a red kurta and dirty white pyjamas. As I approached him for information, he sucked on his beedi and scratched his balls.

  “Bhaiya, yeh tatkal ticket kaunse counter pe milegi?” Which is the counter for the tatkal tickets?

  “Koi faida nahin.” It’s of no use. He smiled at me condescendingly and went back to sucking on his beedi as though his days were made of 72 hours.

  We found the right queue, but when the counter granted us a turn, the man behind the glass had the same attitude. He looked at me as though I’djust asked him for tickets of a sleazy skin flick rather than the holy land of Benares.

  “No tickets to Varanasi, everything is booked. There is a waiting list of 50 even in tatkal.”

  “Oh no. Would it make a difference if we came again tomorrow?”

  “Come every day; who am I to stop you?”

  Dark, uncertain clouds cast their net over Siliguri as we left the station. Our only other option was to take an overnight bus to Patna and then take a train or another bus to Varanasi. I asked River what he wanted to do, but he was just as confused. I thought about the German lady in Pelling and all the great things she had said about Varanasi. Then I thought about the Argentinian backpacker in the dorm and his adventures in Nepal.

  “You know what? I don’t feel like wasting time in Patna. Why don’t we just go to Nepal? Screw Varanasi.”

  “I wish I could, but I’m worried about the two-month rule. What if they don’t let me back into India?”

  “Of course they will, or we’ll bribe someone. We’ll cross the border illegally, we’ll figure something out!”

  “Uh, I don’t know. I don’t want to end up in a jail in Nepal. Something tells me it would be worse than India.”

  “Okay, research. Let’s go find a computer now!”

  Speedy Immigration

  It took us a record time of ten minutes to decide that we were indeed going to Nepal. Within the next hour, we managed to have a bath, pack our stuff and return to the crowded Hill Cart road. In the name of research, we basically looked at pictures of Nepal’s prisons till I fortuitously stumbled upon an anonymous comment on some travel website. It said that the trick to bypass the two-month rule was to avoid getting in and out of the country by air. Officers at the land crossings were supposedly much more relaxed about the whole thing. Call it a giant leap of faith or utter foolishness (I’ll never know the difference), but we allowed ourselves to trust this stranger’s words and took the plunge.

  Darjeeling! Mirik! Gangtok! Jorethang! The drivers at the jeep stand were screaming out the names of their destinations, but no one was rooting for the Nepal border. After a bit of hustling, the owner of a rusty old military jeep agreed to take us to the border crossing at Kakarvitta. But since we were the only two passengers, we had to pay a little more than we usually did.

  Our driver had intentions of scamming us right from the beginning, but it took us a long time to realize this. During the drive, he was the epitome of charm and an expert on local history. When we were passing by Naxalbari, he stopped the jeep for a minute to point out the exact spot where the famous socialist revolt had broken out in the late 1960s.

  The Naxalite movement was the Indian version of the People’s War, where university students and the rural population came together for the first and last time to take out class enemies and bring about a revolution. The movement failed to take off in India and over the years, our leftist mixed economy has continued its slow but steady metamorphosis into full-fledged capitalism. On a particularly Kafkaesque night, I saw a BMW pull over for a limbless beggar only to give him a two-rupee coin.

  Moving on from Naxalbari, we sped past Siliguri’s tea gardens, which produce lower grade tea for the rest of the country. It was a cool afternoon and the road was free of potholes, heavy traffic and red lights.

  “By the way, I also work for a travel agency as a guide. Are you looking for one?”

  “No, we are fine, thanks.”

  “Okay, no problem, but keep my card. You know I also studied at Cambridge?”

  “Really?”

  “Yes, but the Cambridge school in Kalimpong. Haha. It’s a very old school, it still has the same building that the British made, very prestigious.”

  “I’m sure it is.”

  Soon we had to stop at our first checkpoint to get a visa for River. It didn’t seem like the officer there was at work. He was sitting in a chair with his feet up on the desk, wearing nothing but a torn pair of shorts.

  “What?” he asked rudely as we entered the dilapidated office.

  “Visa for Nepal?”

  “Don’t read board outside? This is just the Indian immigration office. Stamp on the passport only after entering Nepal. Here, fill this.”

  He quickly gave us two forms and scowled impatiently as we took more than five seconds to fill them up. He was a boor without a doubt, but admittedly an efficient one. Usually in India, stepping into any government-owned building is a health and safety hazard. I personally never know whether I’ll emerge with my sanity intact or while pulling someone’s hair out. But here, we were done and ready to leave in just under ten minutes. When I handed him my form, he looked it over and then tore it to pieces.

  “You are Indian? Why wasting my time? No need immigration for you.”

  River tried to confirm whether he would have any problems getting back into India, but the man shook his head in amusement like a teacher does at a student who has just asked a particularly stupid question. We didn’t know what to make of it, so we proceeded only to receive the same non-answer from the visa office in Nepal. I figured ambiguity was better than an outright refusal and told River not to worry too much about it.

  When we were crossing over the Mechi river, which hardly had any water in it, the driver pointed towards our right and said,

  “Madam, can you see that rock there? That’s where Nepal officially starts.”

  “What rock?” All I could see was a wide expanse of barren dry land.

  “That one there, in the middle of the river bed.” What he was pointing at was a m
easly stone that you would find next to any road on any street in the world. The unceremonious simplicity of the Nepal border cracked me up. It was nice to see a country not making a big deal about its imaginary boundary.

  The Indian side of Kakarvitta is called Panitanki, which literally means ‘water tank’. Besides jeeps, rickshaws are the other popular means of crossing the border and Panitanki had the longest queue of those with all sorts of sparkly, garish decorations. I was amazed at the effort the rickshaw owners had put into bedazzling their vehicles. They might be making peanuts, but that didn’t stop them from sticking a bunch of plastic flowers onto the handlebar or wrapping braids of colourful beads around the spokes of the front wheel.

  “Okay, we are about to reach. Where are you going in Nepal?”

  That question stumped us. In our excitement over travelling to Nepal, we had forgotten to consider as to where exactly we wanted to go to in Nepal.

  “Uh, we don’t know. Where can we get to from Kakarvitta?” “Anywhere you want. There is a big bus station right across the border. You can get to Kathmandu as well if you don’t mind a long overnight journey.”

  Well, I did mind a long overnight journey, but the possibility of getting to Kathmandu so quickly overpowered my protesting back.

  “By the way, can I just say something? Please don’t mind it,” the driver hesitated and made a great show of his concern for us.

  “Be very careful in Kakarvitta. The other side of the border is full of touts and young boys, who are all drug addicts. They will misguide you and charge you a fortune for nothing. Sadly, I cannot cross the checkpoint with my jeep unless I take a permit, so you will have to go on from there on your own. But if you look at the card I gave you some time ago, you will see the name of our travel agency. Our agency is world famous. You go to them directly and they will sort out everything for you; nothing to worry about. And they will only take a nominal fee, not like the others.” He continued to enlighten us on Kakarvitta’s dangerous thug life and by the time we reached the town, I was convinced that we were stepping into the territory of drug lords and arms smugglers.