The heart yearns. To go places, to see things, and to delve in knowledge worth delving.
But sometimes, you can’t do more than you can. Sometimes you have to bow your head and accept: Life’s a game of cards, and you got the Joker. It’s all part of the larger truth.
And it will make you mad. You could either let it kill you, or let it motivate you to thrive through the madness.
And I choose the latter.
Amazing how man’s thirst to conquer the gods led him to the aircraft. Once a phenomenon, is now so commonplace that people resort to cotton buds, ear plugs, and constant whining about the noise.
It’s weird, flying.
It was weird to sit in an airplane, typing away on mobile — while I longed for the familiar pen and paper. It was weird to write, when I had prepared to read.
But the weirdest thing: I didn’t feel any stress, awkwardness, or discomfort. Not even mild irritation. Which was good, because I get irritated, a lot. Around unmanageable kids, in particular.
But what did I feel?
I heard a mild hum ringing throughout the craft. I felt a morsel of sound reverberating through to the end of my spine. My eyes grew groggy — was it the flight or something in the water I drank?
Every new sensation, every breath made me wonder: Could I stand the cold? After all, our destination was snow. And then I looked at the people in my group, those who carried one-year-olds without the least worry about their immunity and teeth chattering, and I realised: I could make it safe.
A monotonous voice announced something neither I nor she understood. Something lit up over my head. It was the “fasten your seatbelt” sign. Someone said something about a landing. The air hostess continued her impassive narrative into what looked like a telephone receiver.
We were about 10 minutes behind schedule, I heard. It’s the 21st century; air traffic is a valid excuse.
For some, the experience was one of a lifetime. It showed too. Kids shouting, restless toddlers trying to evade their parents’ grasp, teenagers gulping, and a few bold faces skimming through newspapers that flashed, “Egyptian aircraft hijacked.”
I mused at the cabin crew. For them, it’s a job. Just another day, just another flight, with just another bunch of fliers. People ogling at them, taking photos without the courtesy to ask first, pointing fingers, and passing lewd comments were all part of the job profile.
What’s not part of the profile, however, is understanding smiles, good afternoons, and sincere thank yous. They aren’t used to it. They don’t even expect humaneness from the countless so-called humans they serve all day, every day. And that’s the saddest part of their job. You can’t blame them for throwing a nonplussed look at you when you smile and greet them good morning.
And then, I felt it. The rumbling had grown louder, so loud that it rang through the craft, and even within my ears. I peered past my co-passenger — who disgraced the window seat playing solitaire on her phone — and saw, looming near, winding sand lakes that, in a while, became tiny squares of brown and green.
With another shudder, the plane shook. From outside, the sun streamed into my face, lighting up the aircraft with a natural glow that all the fluorescent bulbs could never achieve.
With a final thud, we touched down. And I reached down to pick up my phone from the floor.
A chasm had formed,
Between their oak doors
A ripple had cleaved
The unwavering partnership
He was in his room —
She in hers.
He donned black.
She adored ivory.
His was blackberry —
Hers iPhone silver.
A contrast of sorts,
And a battle of wits—
The House of Cards
I didn’t know I’d cross the border and go shopping in Nepal until I did. It was one of those “pleasant surprise” moments. When my co-traveller told me we’d be visiting the Nepal border, I assumed we’d get just a glimpse of the border gate. I imagined soldiers with rifles as long as my arm, guarding the gate. I even pictured their predicament: Tourists begging for permission to click away, some sneaking their cameras trying to be clever, and some staring at them, unabashed.
And yet, like so many times in this trip, surprises awaited me. There was a gate, sure. And there were a few soldiers. But they didn’t stand tall and handsome. Instead, they sat in a small shack, overseeing tourists who enter.
We had to undergo some procedures, yes. Like submitting an identity proof. But I hadn’t anticipated it to be so simple to walk into another country. But that day, for the second time in a three days, my dream of crossing an international border came true. I’m not complaining. It’s a good thing that India and Nepal are pals.
But photos are not allowed, they warned us. And so, we crossed the border — in special vehicles available there. Not sure who managed those, but the drivers weren’t Indian. They allowed seven people in one van, and drove us for about one kilometre past the border gate. I’d have liked to cross that distance on foot, but the authorities forbade us. Don’t know why though, there were some great little shack shops on the way.
As we travelled, I couldn’t help but think of those movies in which kidnappers stuff people into a vehicle, and drive through unknown terrains. It felt like that. The seven of us huddled congested, and the road needed to see some decent tar.
About ten minutes later, we stopped, and got down at what looked like a deserted shopping area. The weather was chilly, and I gaped at the countless shops loaded with goods. It looked so peaceful, yet felt so wrong; only a handful of people hung around. I hate going shopping back home because the streets always overflowed with people carrying purchases they don’t need.
But here, though, I grew curious. I wanted to go through all the shops, look around, and see what’s new in Nepal. We had a half hour to explore.
Most of the shops sold woolen clothes fit for the climate, some sold leather garments and boots. Some displayed candy with funny-looking labels. Beads of every colour and bags of every shade hung in some stores. And, sure enough, steaming food for the weary soul.
The road was much better here. It was one winding slope that brought a smile on my lips when my walk became more of a trot.
One shop lured me in, in spite of me trying to remain on the surface. I could never resist antiques. But the owner wasn’t there. I was looking for good photographs, but wasn’t sure if the owner would approve.
Nevertheless, I went in and tried to capture all I could — from varying angles. I moved around to experiment with the lighting, took a few steps back to capture whole idols, and even went close to peer into Buddha’s eyes.
And then, all of a sudden, a man entered. Unlike me, he strode into the shop with the authority only an owner could expel. I stumbled within me for a moment, and “Just photographs,” I said, raising my phone. In an instant, he smiled wide, surprising me. With a single nod of the head, he gave me the go signal, and I know I beamed.
I’m still a novice photographer, and so I continued looking for the perfect angle, not sure what I hoped to capture. As for the owner, he grabbed the guitar by the cash counter, took a seat, and began adjusting his tune.
The next moment, he broke into a song, so smooth, so soft, and oh so beautiful. He wasn’t loud, he wasn’t looking for attention. He became an artist playing just for himself. I told him he was good, and he nodded with a smile. I’ll never know if he understood what I said, but I understood: character depends on an individual, not their country.
When I returned from my trip to the Himalayas…
No, not the Himalayas. I just wanted to see how it looked in print. I do sound more holy.
Anyway, when I returned from my trip to Sikkim and West Bengal, the weather was only the second thing people asked me about.
“How was the food?” That was the first question. And I had to take a moment to think. In all those five days, I had never thought much about the food. And then I realised, we didn’t eat much at all.
We travelled instead.
We had breakfast and dinner at the hotels we stayed at. But lunch was often a no-affair.
But from what I saw, West Bengal was abundant in chapatis and naans. They are both flatbreads made from whole wheat flour and self-raising flour. As for the sides, all I could see (and care for) was chicken. It’s the most popular dish that warms you up from within. Apart from that, we saw plenty of lentils. Known as dhal, the protein-rich yellow goodness is always a feast — for the eyes as well.
We stayed two nights each in Gangtok and Darjeeling, and both hotels served the normal stuff we eat at home. Though I have to give a special mention to bread, butter, and jam. Oh, and cereal. That was a part of our breakfast on all of the four days we spent there. It’s yet another one of those things that the westerners left us, that we couldn’t outgrow.
But they also served something to remind us of home. At least until we put it in our mouths. The green gram gravy. One of my favourites. The creamy green grams, mixed with sharp garlic, translucent onions, and indivisible spice — I was all ready devour when my friend exclaimed, “It’s sweet!”
In one heart-stopping moment, the balloon within me deflated. People there add sugar to some of their gravies, and I was unaware.
And then there was poha. Another familiar item. It’s dried and flattened rice grains, which is soaked in water, drained, and cooked in oil with onions, chilies, curry leaves, and a few spices. It wasn’t sugary, and that was a relief.
A local favourite, I hear, is the ladies finger, also called okra. Locals call it bhindi, and fry it with onions, tomatoes, and spice to make a semi gravy. Bhindi masala, they call the dish.
And then (trust me I’ve been dying to write about this ever since I started this post), momos.
I have a friend, who’s from Tibet. Who introduced me to momos in the best possible way: She made beef and chicken momos for all our friends. It was the first time I tried the traditional Nepali dumpling.
So when I heard we’d be going to Darjeeling (which is not far from the Tibet and Nepal border areas) I could only think of momos, and my friend. I pledged to myself I’d eat nothing but momos.
But you know how pledges go, I had to settle for sweet buffets instead.
Nevertheless, I tried momos thrice during the trip. The first in a small place called the “Cafe 14 Thousand.” Why the name, I have no idea. We had to climb about 300 meters of a snow-capped hill in Nathu La pass. And this “cafe” sits halfway through the climb. It was more of a shack, and since we were a few of the early climbers, it had plenty of breathing space. They served coffee and momos.
When I saw the little dumplings stuffed in a glass bottle, for an instant, I became the monster staring at the cookie jar. And I’m not ashamed. We bought one plate, which had about seven to ten momos. I took one look at them, and another of my inner balloons deflated. They were so tiny, with far less stuffing than what’s acceptable. My momo-friend would have disapproved — I did.
I had forgotten on important thing: Though momos were a local favourite, Nathu La pass was a tourist destination. Over one thousand vehicles cross the pass every day, including Sundays. Everything there is commercial. My fried made momos because she wanted to show us why she loved them so much. These sellers make momos because it’s their business.
But the chutney, or the sauce, was superb. It was spicy enough to de-numb my teeth and send some electric heat to by fogged brain.
I did another momo-tasting in a small restaurant in Darjeeling. These momos were bigger than the ones in Cafe 14 Thousand. As for the chutney, it was again a spice-fest, so nothing to complain.
So about the food in Darjeeling, you get familiar food, in unfamiliar flavours. But it sure is worth a try. After all, what’s life without some variety?
As for the most important thing in all of Darjeeling — the tea — I’ll have to write a separate blog post.
The Chaos Within 