Phalut: Meadowlands of the East

When I opened my eyes I could see soft, diffused light filtering through the tunnel of trees. Flowers that had blossomed the previous night, had fallen on my lap, on my clothes and on the ground that had turned into colours of pink, yellow and blue. Birds chirped in the air and a few cold streaks of light had cut across the pre-dawn sky. A new morning was just getting started. The rustling of leaves in the wind, the moist creepers, smell of the dead camp fire, smoky fog, smell of a brew arising from somewhere and the cold ground and the soaked earth felt unreal. A gust of wind swept through the meadow floor and it brought with it, the invigorating air. The creek that carried some snow from the past night gurgled over pebbles.

Was it a wakeup call? A moment to pause?

A lot of curiosity and questions, which I couldn’t answer, arose in my mind. So, I set out for a small discovery around the place until I reached a couple of empty wooden chairs soaked in the overnight dew almost dripping wet.

It was then that I heard “I rarely have a visitor here and the few who end up at my doors are the ones who have either lost their way in the wilderness or had exhausted themselves in their search”, a voice boomed behind me.

I turned around, searching for who it was that owned his magical land and then saw a Buddhist monk, a lama, standing behind me. He had light, watery and blue eyes that shone in the dawn sun and a face that radiated warmth and energy. His gaze seemed to pierce right through me. He stood there, silent, but the place seemed to resonate with thunder.

I didn’t know which category of visitor I belonged to. But I knew that my journey had reached its completion.

Trekkers hut at Phalut

#1: An Echo of A Journey of the Past

I was a seventeen year old. Had just finished my board exams. Summer had set in the plains with vigour and after the first few days of the exams, life had become dead and boring with nothing to do, nowhere to go.

It was then that dad promised to be a friend. “Pack your bags, we are going for a trek to Sandakphu tomorrow.” he said one day.

Those were beautiful days. And that proved to be a brilliant summer, especially when I think now, looking back. That trip was highly educational. I learnt that in a trekking trail, distance in the mountains are measured in hours. Saw how difficult mountain life was. And it also taught me, how value the most basic things of life because I saw for myself that certain things which we took for granted were luxuries in places like those.

Those days, the Singalila trail was a virgin, deserted meadow, where, flowers blossomed in the summer.

The others walked.I ran. Sprinted.
I remember the routine well. Close all of your thoughts and walk. Walk, and when you got tired you rested with your backpack on a rocky edge, under the shade of a rhododendron tree. And opened a rationed packet of cashews, raisins and dates.

During one of those breaks, a ‘preaching’ dad asked, "Don’t run. Go slow and see those flowers. You won’t get them back home."
Dad and his friends had come to see flowers whereas I found nothing in them. I was instead searching for the mountains that had refused to reveal themselves.

“How old is he, dada? Why do you expect him to be like us?” remarked one of his friends to him. Then they got tangled into a discussion of maturity, age, worries etc. soon after – you know, the types of discussion which we indulge in now – but would give ‘a damn’ about it then.

But that comment was tacky. So, tacky that it had stuck to me like a chewing gum even after all these years. This walk was that walk, only that I grew older by 15 summers - old enough to understand the beauty of those flowers. Apart from that it was a continuum. Of roads and journeys.

On the trekking path to Tumling.

Phalut trekkers hut in the distance.

A man on an early morning walk on the Phalut meadows.

Chauris grazing on the meadows I

Chauris grazing on the meadows II

A Rhododendron in bloom

Near Sabarkum

Village Trail

#2: The Chorten and the playing children

Seated under a leafy shade, a few miles out of Dhotrey, I could hear the slow, ambling steps of Bhim, our guide, gather pace. But, a few yards away from the trail, what caught the attention, was a garden of wild rhododendrons that had grown around a Chorten. I instead motioned Bhim to accompany us to it and as we crossed through the dense undergrowth, we saw a few village children, barely 7 or 8 years old, playing around the chorten.

When they first saw us, some of them stood at attention whereas some giggled, showing a broken tooth. I handed them a few chocolate bars that I was carrying and a conversation had just started between us. But just then the darkening skies had turned into rain. I was a fool not to carry a raincoat. But on seeing me getting drenched in the rain, one of the boys handed me a plastic sheet to hold over my head. Sensing that the rain won’t subside soon, they bid goodbye to us and slipped into the jungle track one by one as the rain seeped through the overhead canopy onto us.

Believe me when I say how much that plastic sheet helped me over the coming days - It is still there in my packed rucksack, now as a memento.

Dhotrey to Phalut

One of the several rhododendrons, bent on a hill top

The ubiquitous noodles

Dinner being prepared

Roosters nibbling in the meadow grass

Thread like trails

Indo-Nepal Border

Playing children

#3: Left and Right Wing Politics at Tonglu

Outside the storm raged and it seemed at times that roof over the head would blow away. And inside the room were two lanterns and their long shadows and yellow light. We sat at the table, nursing our tired legs and drinking pots of tea. But the conversation that raged was a potboiler - the ongoing elections in Bengal and the left and right wing of thoughts.

Here is a snippet.

"Somewhere I had heard that Left and Right wing politics had originated sometime during the French revolution. Some were born to create the establishment. Whereas some are born to challenge it.
And whereas the Right Wing - has seemingly been the example to refer to; the Left has been the anarchist who challenged the norm. The revolutionary. The disruptive. But the revolutionary was hungry. He wanted to rise above the multitude and show the world his vision. He was hungry for freedom. He wanted to be heard. And his questions led me to my questions.

• What was correct - Obeying the suppressor with bowed heads or challenging the rule with the fist of freedom?
• Who was 'the man' - Steve Jobs or Bill Gates?
• Who is right - The poster boy or the unrelenting revolutionary?
• And who is better - the organic team of Barcelona or the assimilated galacticos of Real Madrid?
• Who ruled the world - US or the USSR?
• Would you want to be the Mahatma or Netaji? Or Che Guevara and the Imperalists? Socialist or the Capitalist?"

Dear comrades, let me assure you, we never reached a conclusion; but again some discussions never need an ending!

White Rhododendrons

Trekkers Walking Along the trail

Cobbled trails

Cloudy morning at Tonglu

The thread like trail

At Bhikeybhanjan

#4: A Warm Tibetan Home

Now if there is anything called comfort in the form of tea houses, then we had ample comfort for most of the trek. Especially looking back, when the walk was coming to an end. But on the last day we had the lone tea break at Sabarkum (and that was hours ago) and the cold rain added to the longing for a hot cup of tea. And sometime after the forests had ended and we were dripping wet with the rain, the trench like trail, widened to cobbled streets bringing immediate cheer to our minds - this was the prospect of civilization, comfort and the pleasures of good food, clean clothes and warm drink.

A big settlement appeared terraced along the hill sides. Small huts with tiny verandahs, colourful roofs, doors that opened with “Happy Losar” written on them, small gardens, fenced boundaries, cattle and livestock and little square fields of cultivation abounded. The longing for a cup of tea was too evident and we placed the request to our guide so that we could sit down for a while. This place was Upper Srikhola.

We entered the home of a young couple (probably in their twenties). It took them a while to brew the tea, but the salty, buttery tea was a livener. We stayed in their home for may be 20 mins. But their hospitality – having provided their lone bed for us to sit, while they remained standing for the entire time – moved us deeply. Probably, everyday some tourist or the other drops by their house and this must be the normal course of things. But we weren’t accustomed to such hospitality. In a city hotel, you pay thousands to buy that smile and hospitality. This came at the cost of naught.

Singalila Ridge At Tumling

Walking Towards Jhaubari

Steaming Tea

Cattle gazing

Return Path

#5: The Sandakphu and Phalut Meadows
The Sandakphu trek is a tea house trek. The path weaves in and out of small settlements, sometimes veers into Nepal and returns back into India. It climbs up till Tonglu, flattens out and then goes down. And the cycle, kind of repeats. Streams are rare all along the trail, but the scarcity of water peaks between Sandakphu and Phalut. Also, what peaks, is the wind - stand for a while along the barren meadows and you could hear the wind whistling in your ear – dry and cold, and sometimes moist. Inside the beautifully arranged Tibetan hut. For me, the memory of this place will stay on for a long, long time.

The lone forest camp at Sabarkum is a rest house, where we had the most ordinary cup of tea, taste the best. The barbed wires of the border are porous and the Chauris (grazing buffalos) have made both the countries their home. On all days, the mist and cloud rolled with impunity during the afternoon hours. Dark clouds hovered during the evenings and thunderstorms hit every night. At Phalut, sleep was hard to come by for you could hear the howling wind rattle the doors and windows.

When you can’t see the Sleeping Buddha (the Kanchenjunga range), pry deeper into the landscape and villages. What you will see, will never cease to amaze the city dweller. Gentle, undulating meadows that rise and fall, through which the trail cuts like a winding brown thread.

This was the Singalila ridge, so classic and so much clearly evident. The sight of that sole rhododendron bent along the hill side, probably obeying to the wind, was not uncommon. Stone engravings of the Buddhist scripts were on the sides of the track. Buds were blooming into flowers and insects sucked nectar from them. This was not a garden that was planted. It had grown wild and settled down on its own and that is where the beauty lay.

We took the long, unending downhill path from Phalut to Srikhola. After the forest camp of Sabarkum, the track became an unforgivingly knee wobbling stretch. The barren meadowlands had given way to deep, mist filled forests, birds chirped in rhythmic intervals; the sound of our feet gave way to sounds of rustling leaves in the immediate vicinity. The track resembled waist deep military trenches. Leopards aren’t uncommon in these jungles, but they usually hide in the deeper reaches of the forests. And since this was the third consecutive day of walking 20+kms, fatigue hit us very easily forcing us to drag ourselves through the downhill trail.

Sometime later, as we continued our downhill walk, we could hear the sound of a stormy river. Terraced fields, concrete mule tracks and electricity cables appeared. The density of settlements increased and then we could see the beginning of a black topped road. This was transition from the pristine to the normal. It meant fresh food, fruit juices, fragrant tea, clean linen, a good bed, hot water bath and a drink of beer somewhere down the valley. It meant the end of one life and the resumption of another.

Houses of Srikhola Village

Houses of Srikhola Village

Inside the Tibetan Home

Tea Gardens near Mirik

Dooars Forests

Mustard Fields

Srikhola River