The Sherpa, walking along the long, narrow ridge, was finally returning
home from the long expedition on the mountain that had left him tired and
weary. His shoulders were drooping, legs had grown weak and his steps fell
wayward. He felt that he had reached Neverland
and there was no way he could return home. After a turn through the last lights
on the valley, he saw the first sight of the hamlet where he belonged. Someone
was lighting up a lantern on their verandah, others were offering evening
prayers. That very sight, created in him a strong disturbance. His heart
skipped a beat in excitement; it was throbbing with joy. The warmth of home was
all he had desired then. But then a thick wave of mist rolled over the ridge
hiding everything from view excepting the silhouette of the Sherpa who marched
along. And out of the mist, suddenly appeared a short, hairy man, a Bon Manchi, who walked at a rapid pace
almost chasing the Sherpa. The mist grew thick and what transpired thereafter
couldn’t be seen .But when the veil lifted, neither the Sherpa nor the Bon Manchi could be seen.
Compelled by some
factors (read budgetary constraints) and spurred by several Darjeeling travelogues
on an unusually dark and misty autumn, I decided on a motorcycle ride to
Darjeeling to relive the place where I had last visited as a kid (one that I
hardly remember).The two days in Darjeeling had left me high and dry, more so
due to my preferences for places that are calm and tranquil, located in the
middle of nowhere. Places, such as
these, haven’t yet been exposed to the cannibalization. It is as if they are
still left in the old ages and where the clock hadn’t turned forwards for a
long, long time. These are the places of innocence and they serve their purpose
well for city dwellers. So, while seated on the high stool at the bar of Joey’s
Pub on the last evening in Darjeeling a though spurred – to spend a day in such
a place. And the next day, I rode
off solo to Tonglu on my motorcycle. And what an experience it was. It beat the
Darjeeling hangover! So much has been debated on the road - its gradient, its
overwhelming boulders, its gigantic switchbacks – that I couldn’t find a newer
adjective to it. So I decided to name it “The
Holy road of Hell”.
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| Erupting Fall Colours |
The rain at Rohini had washed the streets clear, over which the motorcycle hurtled and droned, sweeping and turning as its sides almost grazed the tarmac. I was riding in a valley, on the Rohini road to Darjeeling and watched with apprehension as darker, heavy clouds slipped into the valley from the top of the hill sides. Fresh sprouts of green leaves, terraced cultivation on the hill slopes, undulating tea gardens, blooming mustard fields and rain swept roads belied the fact that it was autumn. But as the cycle climbed higher up the slopes, I realized that the bed of clouds had settled in the valleys below and up here one could even see glimpses of the sun.
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| Rest House at Ton |
You see, travelling in a motorcycle is different from a car. There’s openness as opposed to containment. And that means you can actually touch, experience and see things more closely in a motorcycle. That draft of cold air hitting the face or those gloved hands getting frozen is the real thing which you can’t prevent. You are a part of the environment and your reactions are partially or completely dictated by it; unlike a car where you are always confined to a compartment.
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| Kanchenjunga Range from Tonglu |
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| Tea Plucking in Progress |
At Kurseong, where the road merged into the Hill Cart road, the railway track appeared and continued alongside the path; at times it crisscrossed, reminding me of the tram tracks of Calcutta. Swelling traffic and jams after Sonada, more prominently after Ghoom, meant that we were entering town. And it wasn’t long before I reached the hotel. After a refreshing cup of tea and shower at the hotel, I went out for a long walk to the Chowrasta, with majority of the evening being spent at Joey’s Pub. It was followed by dinner at Glenary’s.
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| The DHR at Ghoom |
The next day remained thoroughly cloudy again and was spent on a visit to Tiger Hill, Batasia Loop and a walk on the mall and buying some souvenirs for the folks back home. Went off to Joey’s Pub yet again and that was when the thought of a motor ride along the Sandakphu route spurred.
Darjeeling was highly touristy. Shops and modern outlets have found their way everywhere. And whereas the town was always throbbing with energy, its soul had apparently gone missing. And out of all observations, the scores of tourists and rows of vehicles that thronged the streets of Darjeeling stood out. Well, that was apart from the choking smoke of the vehicles and houses that looked to be heaped upon each other. But, Darjeeling was nostalgia. An addiction. Darjeeling, much like Calcutta, even after its multitude of shortcomings, grows on you over time. Like the moment, when the sun broke through the clouds on a hill dotted with coloured roof houses. Or the undulating tea gardens a little further away. Or a patch of pines on a hill top, where you could go for a picnic. And how can I escape without mentioning the fragrant tea, poached eggs, sausages and toasts in the balcony of Keventer’s or Chicken Sizzlers at legendary Glenary’s. Some of its Victorian era buildings or the still reminiscent “faux” colonialism stood out even after 68 years of Independence.
As I went off to sleep that day, it was only good thoughts of Darjeeling that I had with me.
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| Darjeeling Town |
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| Along the Singalila Ridge |
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| Tea Gardens near Mirik |
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| Striking a Camp fire at Tumling |
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| Young Monk at Ghoom Monastery |
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| At Ghoom War Memorial |
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| Tea Gardens near Mirik |
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| Fully Loaded! |
As I finally left the town on yet another foggy and wet morning after a last cup of tea and toasts at Keventer’s, there were strong impressions that Darjeeling left on me. And so, the motorcycle screamed down the road from where I could see patches of sunlight that lit up the valleys only to be replaced again by long spells of cloud. The cold cut sharply, right through the gloves and the nose tip had frozen by then. At Lepchajagat the darkness was so thick that cars had their fog lamps on. Manebhanjan was reached within the hour, where, after another cup of tea the uphill ride commenced.
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| Kanchenjunga Range from Tonglu |
The road was metalled till Chitrey and swung steeply upwards, over which the motorcycle leaned brilliantly at the hairpins and pulled through effortlessly. But it was the journey from Chitrey to Tonglu that proved to be exceptional. A mere 9 km ride took more than 2.5 hrs. A couple of times it fell down – the second time being more severe when it had proved impossible for me to make it stand. For a moment I wanted to return, but help arrived in the form of a descending Land Rover driver. He helped me to make it stand and from there on there wasn’t an instance that went awry. Shortly before and after Lameydhura I managed to engage the 2nd gear for short stretches of 200 ft. And this was on a ride, where at times even the first gear prompted questions of being underpowered. The motorcycle, while in motion, felt wobbly and unbalanced over the loose boulders that a simple touch would have toppled it. But overall I was impressed with the cycle.
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| Forests in the Singalila Ridge |
By the time I reached Tonglu, the mist had rolled back in with impunity, causing unnecessary delay in finding the home stay, where, after a hot meal of rice, dal, omelette and beans curry I sat on the chairs laid out on the verandah and wondered “what to do” and observed the fight between the mist and the sun for a while and reflected upon the ride.
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| Mt. Jannu ( also known as Kumbhakarna) |
In the late afternoon hours as the cold started to peak, the urge to buy some cigarettes and certainly to escape the gripping cold got over me. And I went for a short downhill walk to Tumling along a path that cut through an open ridge over which the wind was always howling. The clouds and thick mist felt sad and lonely. Dense junipers and trees had grown wild and the rhododendron bushes had turned brown due to the autumn. The valleys on either side were bucketed with clouds. And the sun appeared to be almost non-existent in the dense mist above. The forests that extended from the hill sides were red, brown, yellow and green. A folk of sheep was returning back home from the pasture lands. All of these represented Tumling, which until a few years ago had only a trekkers hut and a solitary homestay. But today boasts of quite a few houses.
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| The Toy Train Engine |
The commercial break at Tumling was prolonged further by a long conversation with another trekker, which finally ended in lighting up a camp fire with glasses of Thumba (local beer made from bamboo root and stems to keep the body warm).The wind along the ridge remained ferocious and kept rising and it thwarted all attempts to lit up the fire initially. But later it relented and a big fire was lit, around which a dozen or so folks, most unknown to each other, sat over glasses of Thumba. And as the flames flickered wild and high, stories of ghosts in the mountain, shadows moving along ridges, foot prints of snow leopards, mythical birds, of treacherous snow, of the Kanchenjunga massif and its glaciers and crevasses lit up a story like, enchanting evening. By the time the glasses had been wiped clear and the session had ended, the wind had lost its force and it had turned pitch dark.
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| Darjeeling Town |
Armed with a pocket torch, I retraced the path solitarily. Somewhat afraid of Bon Manchis and wild predators that we had discussed only very recently. But then threw away the fears out of my head and instead concentrated on walking briskly. The Thumba proved be an effective antidote to the cold. And at times to reassure that everything was well and fine, I kept looking back at the lights from the hamlet of Tumling. I continued to walk further till I reached a point where it felt strange and lonely. There was complete silence. It was cold, but not windy anymore. Beyond the silhouette of the stunted bushes and an undulating hill was the sky. The clouds had disappeared and instead it was a starlit sky of constellations –the Milky way and God that was a beautiful! I sat on a boulder by the road side and lit up a cigarette and watched the stars above. This place, right in the middle of nowhere remained the unhurried, calmest spot in an otherwise busy journey. This short walk reinforced the belief which I had carried for long. Walking should have been the way to explore this trail. Riding a motorcycle has been a sacrilege of sorts. The barking of a dog somewhere broke the moment of consciousness and reminded me to reach the Tonglu hut; where I came to realize that my absence had ticked off some frayed nerves. A couple of men had gone looking after me and I was severely rebuked for my acts.  |
| Darjeeling Town |
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| Livestock at Tumling |
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| Misty forests near Chitrey |
We woke up to a gorgeous morning with the western face of Kanchenjunga range, high and mighty, right above us. Along the rows of blue hills, somewhere was Goecha La where I had been last year. The Western face of the mountain has two ridges emanating from it. The Southern ridge extends to Talung, Kabru (N & S, Dome) and Kokthang and finally ends in Rathong. The Northern ridge extends to prominent peaks and features, notably the Zemu Peak, Zemu Gap and on towards Simvo, Simvo Saddle,Jongsong, Jongsong La, Nepal Peak, Nepal Gap, Lhonak Peak and Pyramid Peak amongst others. Also visible is Pandim. But its satellite peaks – Jopunu, ThinChenKhang were invisible due to the mist.
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| The Darjeeling Himalayan Railway at Ghoom War Memorial |
The grasses were wet with dew, a rooster crowed, brilliant fall colours had erupted with smell of pines. The helmet, kept on the motorcycle had become wet due to the mist. I have been through roads and place like these a countless number of times, but there is a newness which I feel every time that I can’t hide my smile. This is the great Indian outdoors that is impervious and unknown. The India of steel and glass buildings hasn’t yet found its way into these places. It is away from the daily banter, traffic lights and billboards and the glare of the media, newspapers or TV shows.
Instead, this is the India of highways, hamlets and fields of harvests. People greet. Strangers smile. Here, life breathes in little pauses. It has lesser needs and is a little less hungry. This is the part of our great country, whose stories we have heard from our forefathers, about its rich, immense and endless lands. It hasn’t lost its dense, winter fogs yet. Or the pouring rain. Wild flowers still grow on the road sides and cattle still strays away from their path here. That odd slow moving bullock carts ferry hay. Children still run after a moving car. And we travel for miles till we meet another soul. Roads haven’t found their way yet into the deepest of places. For someone travelling in these places for the first time, it is a shock that such places still exist. Few people know about it. And even fewer travel to these places.
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| Thumba Pitchers and Campfire at Tumling |
Here I had felt that a purpose of the journey had been finally defined and it was time to leave finally, but not long before that arduous ride to Chitrey. Finally at New Jalpaiguri railway station, I loaded the motorcycle on an overnight train and returned back to Calcutta.
So that is where it ends. Here’s hoping for a more substantial journey in the future!
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| Taken from the Hill Cart Road |
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| Ghoom War Memorial Garden |
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| Colours of the Fall |
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| Kanchenjunga Massif |
The commercial break at Tumling was prolonged further by a long conversation with another trekker, which finally ended in lighting up a camp fire with glasses of Thumba (local beer made from bamboo root and stems to keep the body warm).The wind along the ridge remained ferocious and kept rising and it thwarted all attempts to lit up the fire initially. But later it relented and a big fire was lit, around which a dozen or so folks, most unknown to each other, sat over glasses of Thumba. And as the flames flickered wild and high, stories of ghosts in the mountain, shadows moving along ridges, foot prints of snow leopards, mythical birds, of treacherous snow, of the Kanchenjunga massif and its glaciers and crevasses lit up a story like, enchanting evening. By the time the glasses had been wiped clear and the session had ended, the wind had lost its force and it had turned pitch dark.
