“Shit. Look at all these hotels!" Our eyes skimmed along the row of small tearooms outside the station, all of which claimed to be top quality hotels. In India, the word ‘hotel’ doesn’t really mean anything. A man pushing around his roadside bhelpuri cart also seems to think that it’s okay to call his establishment a hotel. And here in NJP, someone had the gall to name his dump, The Hilton. With a moniker like that, how could we go anywhere else?
Covered in grime and smoke graffiti, the tearoom hadn’t been cleaned since the builders left.
“Kya chahiye?" The waiter was at our heels, demanding the order before we had even set down our backpacks.
“Can you get us the menu first?”
“Huh.” He rolled his eyes and slapped the laminated sheets on the table. Asking for the menu was perhaps too gauche for The Hilton.
Besides us, their only other customer was a dark-skinned lady. Next to her feet was a huge silver steel trunk that looked exactly like the ones magicians use to perform their vanishing acts. She also had a small white embroidered handkerchief, which she kept bringing up to her face every few seconds to dab around the eyes. She was crying very softly while sipping her hot tea.
“What’s going on with her?” I wondered aloud once we had realized that The Hilton was only prompt in taking the order, but not in getting the food to the table. “I guess she is waiting for someone?”
“Sure… or maybe… she time-travelled here by mistake.”
“Hmm… the trunk looks suspicious.”
“So does her heavy silk sari and those arms full of bangles.”
“A classic Hitchcock scenario: two people out on a holiday spot an unusual woman.”
“They end up following her on a whim…”
“And then bam! One of them gets killed.”
“Exactly.”
“So, do you reckon we should follow her?” River asked, seriously.
“What? No! I was just saying -”
“Oh come on, let’s follow her.”
“Shut up! No!”
River hounded me with his stupid plan till our breakfast arrived, after which he forgot all about the woman. He had ordered for a chai with milk and sugar that he got without the milk or the sugar. I had asked for a black coffee, that I received with an extra serving of milk and a trail of sugar crystals. But we were so hungry that we scoffed down everything without a complaint. In the meantime, a shroud of grey saturated clouds had taken over the sky. As they dispersed into soft cold drops, the power went out. Soon we were surrounded by the sounds of distant thunder and the gentle crackling of raindrops on the asbestos sheet above our heads. Rimjhim, rimjhim, they tinkled like little bells falling from the sky.
* * *
This intense but short bout of rain was our cue to get going. We had to reach Darjeeling by nightfall and it was already noon. The simplest way to travel in this region is to take a sharedjeep. They are cheap, fast and slightly life-threatening, but never boring. In New Jalpaiguri, it took us less than five minutes to find a ride. Our luggage was immediately chucked onto the iron carrier on top of the vehicle and secured with a thick coir rope. Then we were asked to wait for a few minutes till the driver had found enough passengers to fill up the seats. Since River and I didn’t know any better, we thought it would be a good idea to sit right at the back to be as far away from everyone else as possible. Obviously, it was a shit idea. For the next four hours, we were flung from one side to the other without enough space to even expand our lungs. The vehicle was so stuffed that the driver’s sidekick, a tiny Gurkha man seated beside us, had to use the window to get in and out of the jeep.
The situation improved slightly after we’d traversed the busy streets of the town and moved onto the hills. The drive from Jalpaiguri to Darjeeling benefits greatly from the steepness of the incline. The changes in the weather are almost tangible as there is no time for acclimatization. One moment we were sweating like meat on a roasting spit and the next, clouds were settling on our shoulders. However, instead of enjoying these eccentricities of nature, most people in the jeep spent the journey puking out of the window. The two honeymooners in the front seat were in such a bad state that they probably tasted of vomit for days to come.
Halfway through, to distract us from the inharmonious sounds of retching, the driver switched on his stereo and the familiar strains of Rabindra Sangeet lulled us to sleep. Aami chini go chini tomaae... o go bideshini... I know you, I know you, I know you, O maiden from a distant land. The beauty of Rabindranath’s poetry was touching as always, but the song was also a reminder of our horrible loss. In 2004, Tagore’s Nobel Prize medal was stolen from the Shantiniketan museum, right under the government’s nose and it is yet to be found. Whoever did the deed was surely a special kind of thief, most likely a monomaniac or an idiot, who couldn’t get into the lockers of the truly wealthy people in the country.
I opened my eyes just as we crossed the threshold of Darjeeling. The narrow road grew wider and more colourful. Little shops popped up by the roadside selling hand-knit sweaters, shawls and raincoats. The clock tower arrived soon after and at ten past five, we were finally at the lower jeep stand in Darjeeling. The little Gurkha man wasted no time in unceremoniously offloading our bags from the jeep’s roof. River’s ginormous backpack fell to the ground like a meteor; next to it, mine fell like a lump of feathers. After almost three days of travelling, I was more than ready to just dissolve into a warm bed. But the moment we picked up our bags, the Gurkha looked down and asked, “Where staying? You know place?”
“Uh… not really.”
He nodded and pointed his finger towards some buildings on top of a nearby hill. “All hotels there. Enjoy climbing!”
The engine’s roar, as it moved away from us, immediately took on a sinister undertone. I looked up gloomily at the long, narrow flight of stairs that we were supposed to climb. For the first time, my limbs registered the amount of manual labour that I had willingly signed up for in the coming weeks. I glanced at River to suggest that maybe we should take a cab, but he had already started walking. So I had no other choice but to brace my diaphragm against the onslaught of gravity. The staircase was not only long and gloomy, but also uneven and a tad slippery. I ended up falling a couple of times. River was a little concerned about my frequent tumbles during the first few days, but after I’d proven to him that my bones were made of steel, he stopped caring.
Once on top, we checked the prices at a couple of youth hostels and settled for the cheapest room because that was our only criterion. The rooms were spartan, but the foyer downstairs opened into a small balcony with an unending view of the mountains. The café, attached to an open kitchen, was covered in football memorabilia and notes that held promises and recollections of travellers from across the globe. The owner of the hostel was a sweet old man who was always hanging around the front gate. He had a bad leg and couldn’t walk properly, but still insisted on shambling up the hill every evening with his carved mahogany stick, a tweed golf cap on his head and a snazzy bow tie around the collar.
A 16-year-old boy ushered us into our room that had a wooden sliding door, that wouldn’t slide. It also had wooden floorboards that refused to remain on the floor.
“Wow, this room is really…” I fumbled for an appropriate word.
“Orange?” River stated the obvious.
The walls were painted in the brightest shade of orange available. A white vase on top of the rickety side table was filled with plastic flowers and was the only piece of decoration in the room.
“You like it?” the boy asked brusquely. He didn’t look remotely interested in our answer.
“Sure, it’s alright. Can we get some hot water for a bath?”
“Okay, you get one bucket only.”
“In a day?”
“Yes.”
“That’s fine. I can make do with one bucket.”
At this, he smiled cheekily and added, “one bucket for the two of you. Water is very precious in Darjeeling
. Please don’t waste. No washing clothes here. And come down to reception; you have to sign register.” He finished his command.
“Yes, sir.”
A few minutes later, the boy was waiting for us with a huge hardbound book. River went first and entered his passport number, visa details, etc. When it was my turn, I scribbled my name and left the visa and passport columns blank. I was the only person on the entire page who had done this. A quick glance through the previous pages revealed that I was the first Indian to be staying here in a long, long time.
“Oho! Why so slow? Finish, I have to go.” The boy glared at me impatiently as I handed the register back to him.
“Go where? What about our water?”
“Water is up. I go to play football. Don’t ask anything before seven.” He thumped his chest and I noticed that he was wearing an Arsenal jersey.
“Football? Here in the hills?”
“Yes, we play on the road.”
“But what if the ball falls down a cliff?”
“We get new one.”
“Oh, okay.”
With this, he left and River rolled his eyes in amusement.
“What? You’re not impressed by his jersey?”
“Please!”
I laughed because it’s a well-kept secret; all respectable, as in cool English people, hate football talk.
Getting Down With the Gurkhas
“Do you mind if I unpack here?” River looked up at me apprehensively from the floor where he was sitting cross-legged in the middle of the room.
“Why would I mind if you unpack?”
“Oh, good!” He smiled and immediately got to work. Corpulent steel flasks, an electric kettle, giant bottles of honey, a handpicked collection of exotic spices and tea, thick sketch pads, paints, Dictaphones, camera tripods, extra blankets, inflatable pillows, bulky raincoats, mosquito nets, a plethora of antibiotics and vitamins, silver cutlery – it all came tumbling out of his bottomless bag one after the other. I had to stop watching halfway through because the entire list of contents would have put Pandora to shame.
“What the fuck, River? We will not be abandoning the civilized world at any point during this trip!”
“I know, I know, but still, better safe than sorry, right?”
“We’ll see about that.”
I left him with his prudence and his pile of crap to go have a bath, which was difficult business to say the least. I had to wash myself, my hair, the scrummy t-shirt I’d been wearing since I’d left home and leave half of the water for River. We also found out, a bit too late, that the flush tank wasn’t connected to a water supply pipe and had to be filled mug by mug with cold water from the washbasin tap.
“So, what do we do now?” River was raring to go after his half-bath. I had all the intentions of going out for a walk too, but as soon as I sat down on the soft mattress and it dipped like a hammock, I abandoned ship.
“Uh, let me think,” I said while slowly sinking into the bed. It folded like a bowl of whipped cream sprinkled with detergent. River followed soon after and we woke up only around dinnertime.
Usually in the hills, people like to go to bed early and their idea of nightlife is a freestyle barking match between dogs on empty streets. However, on this Friday, as we wandered down to the public square, also known as the chowrasta in Darjeeling, we discovered that a special event was underway at the huge amphitheatre. On the stage, the band was playing a string of Bollywood disco songs from the 70s, while a big banner in the background firmly stated that it was a ‘Darjeeling Police Department Presentation’. The music was surprisingly good and it did strange things to the gentle, unassuming folks of Darjeeling. Laila O Laila had the men grinding against each other in front of the stage, while the women pulled up their skirts to show some leg on Piya tu ab to aaja. The night was just getting hot and heavy when the MC walked onto the stage, stopped the music and declared that it was time to showcase some local talent.
“Please welcome, the Michael Jackson of Gurkhaland – our very own, Remo Gurung!”
The lights were dimmed. Mr Gurung came onto the stage and began his routine with a cascade of hip thrusts, which shook the very core of the chowrasta. Every time he jerked his pelvis forward, my neck had an equal and opposite reaction. When the performance ended, I didn’t know whether to applaud or to claw my eyes out.
“We ought to be more careful about what we see on this trip.” River seemed just as dizzy as me. Unfortunately, before we could escape to the food stalls, this brother-sister duo pounced on River as though he was a movie star.
“Hiiiiii. What’s your name? What are you doing here?”
They were both unhinged, I’m certain of that, the sister more so than the brother. She asked River a thousand questions, took a few pictures with him and even tried to touch his blonde hair. Her fascination with him was somewhat understandable, but the way she kept kicking and touching her brother was truly bizarre. She even wore a bracelet around her wrist that said ‘Precious’, that happened to be her brother’s name. River finally drew the line when they tried to take him to dinner and we quickly walked off in the other direction.
“This was an interesting night.”
“You bet.”
We concurred and teleported back to our Orange room.
* * *
The next day, just as the world outside was getting translucent, a deep baritone voice trickled in through the cracks of our door, singing, Om bhur bhuva swaha, tat savitur varennyam. I assimilated the chanting into my dream until River asked me what was going on. I turned over on my back and listened to the words more carefully. The mantra was recited over and over for about ten minutes, accompanied by the chirping of birds and the occasional creaking of our beds. The chanting ended with a resounding Om and the thud-thud of heavy footsteps descending the stairs.
“He was offering his morning prayers to Goddess Gayatri.” “And what was he saying? Was that Sanskrit?”
“Yes, he was saying, may the divine light of the Supreme Being illuminate our intellect and lead us along a path of righteousness."
“Hmm.” River stretched and stared at the ceiling thoughtfully.
“I would love to wake up to that voice every day,” he concluded and got out of bed.
On the way from our hostel to the chowrasta, there was a very special shop called Sonam’s Kitchen. It consisted of just three tables, which had spilled out of the tiny floor and annexed half the road.
“Oh come in, come in, welcome to Sonam’s Kitchen.” A pleasant man with prominent Mongoloid features emerged from the actual kitchen on the right and greeted us enthusiastically. We were probably his first customers of the day. This is a great tradition in Indian culture; it is believed that the rest of the day will be good for business if the first customer is satisfied with your service. However, this excuse can also be misused to manipulate people into buying things. “Oh, you are our first customer of the day. Please don’t leave without buying anything; it will bring us bad luck. And look, we are already so poor!”
Nevertheless, the secret to Sonam’s popularity was neither the ambience nor the hospitality; it was the food. Once we had seen the menu, we could not leave without eating. Scrambled eggs and baked beans on toast, hashed browns with bacon or sausage, banana porridge with honey and nuts, pancakes with syrup and strawberries; I had to wonder for a moment whether I was still in India. The other remarkable thing about the menu, besides the food, was this picture at the bottom of the page. It showed a smiling lady with her dog and a little speech bubble over its head, that read, “woof!” Neither of us could make any sense of it, but then we looked up and shockingly, all the walls were covered with photographs of this lady and her dog. When the man came around with our breakfast, he caught us staring at the pictures and said, “You like them? She my wife. She did the whole shop.”
“Really? How nice.” I forced myself to smile. If I were this man, would I let my wife decorate my respectable workplace with pictures of her dog? May
be not, or maybe this is what love does to people.
“Enjoy the food.” He waved cheerily and all was forgotten with the first bite.
The food was beyond reproach and the real stuff coffee that I had ordered was as black and bitter and loaded with caffeine as I had hoped it to be.
“How can you come to Darjeeling and drink coffee?” River remarked, while sniffing at his tea. I ignored him and instead, turned to the little library next to our bench, consisting of books that had been donated by several travellers. It was such an eclectic collection, varying from behavioural psychology to tomes on how to improve one’s sexual prowess, as well as novels in German, Swedish and even Japanese. We ended up spending the entire morning there, browsing and eating toast. Eventually, the man had to request us to leave since a big mob of hungry and angry backpackers had gathered outside the shop. We reluctantly put the books down and embarked on our first stroll around the city.
It was refreshing to see that Darjeeling was unlike so many other dummy towns in India, where the whole economy is geared towards tourists and how to rip them off. Besides the famous vestiges of colonial grandeur like the clock tower, the railway museum, the expensive tea boutiques and estates, there were also plenty of school kids milling about in the market, women busy with their weekly grocery shopping and men returning home from work. Of course, there were also a lot of tourists, mostly from Kolkata, grumbling about all the other tourists around. But still, we didn’t outnumber the local residents.
Although, the benefits of having a thriving local community were cancelled out by the humongous piles of trash everywhere. In Darjeeling, the locals just chuck the garbage into the ravines instead of following any regulated system of waste disposal. Add the recent population explosion to this and you’ve got a town that has clearly outlived its intended purpose, which was to be a sanatorium, a place for relaxation and recuperation. The Darjeeling of yore, the quaint, breezy hill town was only visible around the bends of the steep slopes or through the cracks between the wobbly shacks.
Special Lassi Page 2