Saturday, February 27, 2010
I am Al-Kahira, the comparer of nonsense and flowers,
I am grateful for my stupidity, admitted easily, yet I am concerned with specific details of style as I sit here in rags.
By circumstance not by choice this shrub has blossomed: by choice not by circumstance this life has been kept plain.
I make an effort and found stuff to ignore, leaving rusty strings unstruck.
I neglect the spectacular and overlook the apparently important with deliberation.
I waited aeons for the reversal of my interests: Now life has become the joke
and the sweetness and hilarity of my own thoughts have turned into a
point of fascination for me.
No matter what anyone tells you: I don't belong to any creed or sect, culture or race, not any period of history.
My only qualification is the age of my soul: I own three hillside palaces of quiet predawn moon sound.
Humiliation is my clothing that I wear to sit and bark with the dogs. I disconnect like dusk and most likely no one will bring flowers to my grave.
I am ardent without deed and I am information zero, unimportant iridescent: Grand Palace of Mercy.
Till now I stayed in one place not avoiding you: now that the traditions are beginning to dissolve, I put on my wintercoat and walk away. Business done.
My contemporaries have declared society to be the central item and are discussing things of importance as I'm speaking to you now.
As my mother taught me to, I keep to myself a lot.
I am the lover of trees, found worthy of loneliness.
I could be the postman, the milkman, the sick person, the transvestite,
It takes 1, 2 recognize 1...
I am the unknown dervish.
- From Al Gromer Khan's Space Hotel
Wednesday, June 10, 2009
Imagine the time the particle you are returns where it came from: the family darling comes home. Wine, without being contained in cups, is handed around. A red glint appears in the granite outcrop, and suddenly the whole cliff turns to rubies
Part of a load not rightly balanced, I spring loose in sleep from the cross of time and space, this waiting room. Knowing conscious decisions and personal memory are far too small a place to live, every human being streams at night into the loving nowhere...
Today, like every other day, we wake up empty and frightened. Don't rush to study or read - take down a musical instrument. Let the beauty we love be what we do. There are hundreds of ways to kneel and kiss the ground.
In a mirror you see yourself, not the state of the mirror; the flute-player's breath makes music, not the flute. When you eventually see through the veil to how things really are, you'll shout: This is certainly not like we thought it was...
This world isn't a courtroom anymore. The time of judging who's drunk and who's sober, who's right or wrong, that's over. This caravan is led instead by a great delight - the simple joy that sits with us now. That is the grace.
Each being has a unique way of seeing, knowing, and saying that knowledge. What seems right to you is wrong for someone else, your poison is another's honey. Did you come here to unite or to sever, to love or to judge?
A great mutual embrace is always happening between what is eternal and what dies, between essence and accident. The rules are different for every case, but remember: The way you make love is the way god will be with you.
Lalla, you've wandered searching for your love so long, wearying yourself with efforts beyond your strength. Now at last, inside the walls of this body-house, inside the heart-shrine, you've finally discovered where it's always lived.
I didn't trust it but I drank it anyway, this wine of my own poetry. And it gave me the daring to take hold of the darkness and tear it down and cut it into little pieces. Look at this glowing day - what could be more beautiful or more sacred?
Keep walking... don't try to see through the distance - that's not for human beings. Move, but not the way fear makes you move. Turn as the earth and moon turn, circling what they love. Whatever circles comes from the centre.
Be friends with your burning. Burn up your thinking and your forms of expression. Those who pay attention to ways of behaving and talking are one sort - lovers who burn are another. The love religion has no code or doctrine - only god.
Some nights, stay up till dawn as the moon sometimes does for the sun. Be a full bucket, full of the dark way of the world, pouring yourself into light... an ecstatic seed planted anywhere on earth is proof of our loving.
- Mawlānā Jalāl ad-Dīn Muḥammad Rūmī
Sunday, January 25, 2009
A PLACE OF ARRIVALS AND DEPARTURES
I was leaving Fort Cochin. I was to take a boat jetty out of the island towards Cochin City. I stood on the edge of the island on a 6 O clock shade of warm sunlight as the bulk carriers sailed busy towards the Persian Gulf. Amongst the mumblings of a language of the salty malabar, I stood and looked at the ocean trying to find a moment that I can take back with me. Couldn’t find anything. Instead, I saw the slow end of a hard day. A day of loading and unloading, a day of fishing and selling, a day of everyday people going back home, in a boat, from one island to another. it was a usual day in an unusual place. There were no evening train rush, no traffic, no signals, no cafes, no bars. Yet, it ended, with the same tiredness. It was a strange feeling. I didn’t know what I was expecting. The little boat anchored as I got in it, I looked back at the island to bid a quiet goodbye, uncertain at that moment if I would ever come back. The sun was setting, mechanically, as the orange rays silhouetted the Chinese fishing nets, now still after a day of gambling. The air was humid and heavy. I could see the Dutch mansions wrapped in palms, the five hundred year old bastions, the Jewish synagogue, the quiet roads tucked back in time, the old cemetery, the rosewood room where I stayed and the faces of people, strange, yet so familiar. I guess, that was it, the moment I was looking for. In a place of arrivals and departures, in a place that felt timeless, in Gods own country.
Saturday, September 28, 2002
I was leaving Fort Cochin. I was to take a boat jetty out of the island towards Cochin City. I stood on the edge of the island on a 6 O clock shade of warm sunlight as the bulk carriers sailed busy towards the Persian Gulf. Amongst the mumblings of a language of the salty malabar, I stood and looked at the ocean trying to find a moment that I can take back with me. Couldn’t find anything. Instead, I saw the slow end of a hard day. A day of loading and unloading, a day of fishing and selling, a day of everyday people going back home, in a boat, from one island to another. it was a usual day in an unusual place. There were no evening train rush, no traffic, no signals, no cafes, no bars. Yet, it ended, with the same tiredness. It was a strange feeling. I didn’t know what I was expecting. The little boat anchored as I got in it, I looked back at the island to bid a quiet goodbye, uncertain at that moment if I would ever come back. The sun was setting, mechanically, as the orange rays silhouetted the Chinese fishing nets, now still after a day of gambling. The air was humid and heavy. I could see the Dutch mansions wrapped in palms, the five hundred year old bastions, the Jewish synagogue, the quiet roads tucked back in time, the old cemetery, the rosewood room where I stayed and the faces of people, strange, yet so familiar. I guess, that was it, the moment I was looking for. In a place of arrivals and departures, in a place that felt timeless, in Gods own country.
Saturday, September 28, 2002
ON JAZZ
The stairs were carpeted red that lead into a dark low tunnel ending with a cheap yellow light on top of a cold door. There was a faint heartbeat of a base guitar as I pulled open the door, slightly, mid way. An old black man in his early 60's peeped out to see. There was a dark room behind him filled with people I couldn’t see. He was wearing a dark caudroy shirt, had an old hat on, john lee hooker style, which must be as old as his age. "Wha you got sonn" he said loudly, "hold on a sec". Door shut. It opened after a few moments and the old black man came outside. "Say I hope you don’t mind, shows goin onn (he gave a brief chuckle then serious again) a twentyfiver entry (his breath smelled of whiskey) a fifteen for the show and a ten for the bar (yellow eyes, wrinkled smile)". I pulled out the money to give him "say I think you wanna wait a little, its about to get over, next ones at eleven" I turned back. Opened the door to the street. It was 10:15 in the evening, its was snowing, its was Christmas eve, I was alone in New York City and I had 45 minutes to go. Realizing that I was stone sober, I walked across the street and found a warm bar with ladies in late 20s with red Santa hats and men with glasses half empty or half full. A classic East Village bar or so it seemed. Woody old place. "I guess I can do a tap or two and get a little buzzy before I hit back to the club" I thought to myself. Got my coat off, hung it on the rack and walked inside. Big tits came to me. "hi sweetheart, can I help you". Brooklyn Pilsner, thank you. I sat on a wooden bench close to the bar, it felt warm. I looked around to see couples doing dinner, group of men talking and shouting, ladies rubbing elbows and a recorded NFL match on the TV screen. It was a great beer, crispy and smooth, i lit a smoke. one down and another one, it was time to go. I walked back towards the club. Windy New York evening, I reached the cold door again. Got the money out, pulled open the door, pushed it on the table the old black man sat on, he looked back and pointed me to a table in the center. There were all kinds of people around me, from all ages and backgrounds. I saw a young man on a stool by the bar, cross legged, one hand on a saxophone on his lap, sipping a drink. This could be Mr. Coltrane, I smiled to myself. The waitress walked to me, she said nothing. I said "a jim beam please, straight up, no ice". A grand piano stood on the left taking almost three fourths of the stage. Big, black and quiet. There was all red. Red walls, red carpeted stage draped in red velvet. Photographs of famous jazz artists hung on the walls. All those who have performed there. I took a deep breath. This was the legendary jazz venue of 1930's new york. This was the Village Vanguard. Something stirred inside me, kind of like the feeling of being inside of a cathedral seen through the other side of a zoom lens. The walls vibrated with the sound of a passing subway train and the lights dimmed. The show was about to start. A hand behind me passed a small glass on the single stool table and I heard a whisper in my ears "jim-beam-a-up". Thin man on a bass, old man on the piano, young man on the tenor and another on the sax. Hours of sweat, rhythm, close and intimate moments of solos and climaxes. There were no candles on the tables, no champagnes, no merry christmas... just music and me. I thought this night would never end. I thought I could go on, till morning.. forever. The show ended, people applauded and the bar closed. I walked back many blocks in the snow with music in my ears, with the emotion of just coming out of a basement, the place where it all started.. the old black man's music, his expression. Jazz came to America in chains, they say. I hailed a cab, 14th and 6th.. and outside stood New York, cold, dark and alive.
The stairs were carpeted red that lead into a dark low tunnel ending with a cheap yellow light on top of a cold door. There was a faint heartbeat of a base guitar as I pulled open the door, slightly, mid way. An old black man in his early 60's peeped out to see. There was a dark room behind him filled with people I couldn’t see. He was wearing a dark caudroy shirt, had an old hat on, john lee hooker style, which must be as old as his age. "Wha you got sonn" he said loudly, "hold on a sec". Door shut. It opened after a few moments and the old black man came outside. "Say I hope you don’t mind, shows goin onn (he gave a brief chuckle then serious again) a twentyfiver entry (his breath smelled of whiskey) a fifteen for the show and a ten for the bar (yellow eyes, wrinkled smile)". I pulled out the money to give him "say I think you wanna wait a little, its about to get over, next ones at eleven" I turned back. Opened the door to the street. It was 10:15 in the evening, its was snowing, its was Christmas eve, I was alone in New York City and I had 45 minutes to go. Realizing that I was stone sober, I walked across the street and found a warm bar with ladies in late 20s with red Santa hats and men with glasses half empty or half full. A classic East Village bar or so it seemed. Woody old place. "I guess I can do a tap or two and get a little buzzy before I hit back to the club" I thought to myself. Got my coat off, hung it on the rack and walked inside. Big tits came to me. "hi sweetheart, can I help you". Brooklyn Pilsner, thank you. I sat on a wooden bench close to the bar, it felt warm. I looked around to see couples doing dinner, group of men talking and shouting, ladies rubbing elbows and a recorded NFL match on the TV screen. It was a great beer, crispy and smooth, i lit a smoke. one down and another one, it was time to go. I walked back towards the club. Windy New York evening, I reached the cold door again. Got the money out, pulled open the door, pushed it on the table the old black man sat on, he looked back and pointed me to a table in the center. There were all kinds of people around me, from all ages and backgrounds. I saw a young man on a stool by the bar, cross legged, one hand on a saxophone on his lap, sipping a drink. This could be Mr. Coltrane, I smiled to myself. The waitress walked to me, she said nothing. I said "a jim beam please, straight up, no ice". A grand piano stood on the left taking almost three fourths of the stage. Big, black and quiet. There was all red. Red walls, red carpeted stage draped in red velvet. Photographs of famous jazz artists hung on the walls. All those who have performed there. I took a deep breath. This was the legendary jazz venue of 1930's new york. This was the Village Vanguard. Something stirred inside me, kind of like the feeling of being inside of a cathedral seen through the other side of a zoom lens. The walls vibrated with the sound of a passing subway train and the lights dimmed. The show was about to start. A hand behind me passed a small glass on the single stool table and I heard a whisper in my ears "jim-beam-a-up". Thin man on a bass, old man on the piano, young man on the tenor and another on the sax. Hours of sweat, rhythm, close and intimate moments of solos and climaxes. There were no candles on the tables, no champagnes, no merry christmas... just music and me. I thought this night would never end. I thought I could go on, till morning.. forever. The show ended, people applauded and the bar closed. I walked back many blocks in the snow with music in my ears, with the emotion of just coming out of a basement, the place where it all started.. the old black man's music, his expression. Jazz came to America in chains, they say. I hailed a cab, 14th and 6th.. and outside stood New York, cold, dark and alive.
Wednesday, January 08, 2003, New York City. Copyright 2009 Tushar P.Gupte
ON TRAVEL
Life tastes the richer when youre road-worn feet.
No water that stagnates is fit to drink
For only that which flows is truly sweet.
no lion that spurns the hunt could catch its prey,
No arrow unreleased could earn a score.
A sun that hung immobile in the sky
Would soon be a universal bore.
Sandals mere firewood in its native grove,
Gold is but dust, unmined within the lode.
Things that are stationary have little worth:
They only gain their value on the road.
-- Ibn Battutah, a 13th Century Moroccan Traveler
SIKKIM, A JOURNEY
Rice and Rain
He held the singing bowl on his palm, and as he might have done it a thousand times, struck it with a thick wooden stick, circling it behind its rim. The sound reverberated through the emptiness within the brass bowl, and rose from a soft hum, higher in pitch the longer he circled it. “You have a nice collection here”, I said to him, my eyes still gazing the bowl. “Yes, it’s a very old shop”, he said, as he looked around the place in agreement. A group of European tourists walked about its narrow aisles, staring intently at the handicrafts, miniature thankas, and copper statues of Buddha, Tara as much of the Tibetan Buddhist pantheon lay in display. “I’ll stop by some other time, thank you”, as I looked out to a slate blue sky. It announced the end of the day in mountain India, as it did on chowrasta, the tourist center of Darjeeling. Teenage couples of the mission schools walked about hand in hand, local boys stood about in groups dressed in American baseball caps and sports shoes, while an occasional guitar strummed along in a distance. I was struck by a majestic picture of a Lepcha on a book simply called “Himalaya”, in oxford bookstore. It was a collection of a photographer’s work for the past 20 years that he spent photographing life in these great mountains. He wrote in the introduction –
“During my pilgrimages and encounters, I finally dissolved into these Himalaya. Under their tutelage, this high mountain world, this gigantic barrier of rock and snow that I had thought of as a vast, hostile, impassable wall revealed itself... to be a place of passage.”
It had been two days since I reached this queen of hill stations, six days since I left Mumbai. I decided to take the train not to save on the travel expense, but more to the feeling of relief in knowing that I was moving farther and farther from the middle-class Mumbai life. The train passed through all those places I’ve only read in books. Allahabad passed by silently, Bengal was in the rain. Dark skinned women with blouseless white saris, lotuses blooming on puddles, family of ducks, fields of rice as far as the eye can see, and that monochrome light of the monsoon morning. I had a place in my mind, a remote monastery high above the clouds, deep in the Himalayas. This place that existed in my mind was all it took for me to take this trip, hoping that maybe I will reach there.
I reached back to my hotel after walking uphill on misty jeep-roads, passing small beer bars with baby blue curtains. The hotel owner was an ex-British army solider of the infamous Gorkha regiment, now retiring in his own country with his family in a quieter part of Darjeeling town. A large panoramic photograph titled “The World from Mount Everest” hung behind his restaurant’s counter, immensely beautiful in its splendor. Route maps of the Eastern Himalayas stuck on the walls; along side a list of Sherpas contact information for organized trekking tours. The restaurant had a small library with books being donated by travelers who stayed there. There were a group of trekkers discussing the weather that was particularly to this time of year when the visibility of the surrounding mountains is hampered due to dense fog and rain clouds.
“On a cloudless day, you can see the Kanchenjunga and Mount Everest from the same spot.” said one German traveler, “I’ve heard you can also see Gantok town lit up in the night from here”, with everyone giving that nod of agreement with the sadness of the moment.
The weather was the same since the time I left Siliguri, a small town of North Bengal from where one can take share jeeps to Sikkim and Darjeeling district. I was dropped off to Siliguri by a senior colonel of the Indian Air force who I met in the train. We didn’t speak to each other until we were getting close to New Jalpaiguri station. I started by asking him. “Are you from Siliguri?” “No.” he said, as he started to mention his observation regarding the lack of civic sense and manners in the general Indian public, “As you can see, we didn’t speak to each other all the time that we were in this compartment. I noticed you came into the compartment this morning. Instead of saying Hello, since you are the one who is supposed to greet to the person already present before you, and not the other way around, you just took off your shoes and climbed the upper birth, getting ready to sleep!” He opened a pack of biscuits and made an offer to me, “I saw you opened a packet of biscuits and ate it without offering it to those around you”. He continued, “I used to take the effort to show civic sense nonetheless, but over the years I have noticed I got none in retaliation, only rude indifference, since then I stopped to care about it.” “Thank you” I said as I took a biscuit from him, “I guess I’m jaded too. Nobody does that in Mumbai.” I didn’t feel good saying that. “How do you think this can change?” I said, ashamed about the scolding I just got. “Television is a powerful medium...” The train had moving into the station by now, and the conversation had to end. We got off the train and as I was moving away, he called me and offered to give me a ride to Siliguri bus stand. I didn’t know he was in the armed forces till I saw a uniformed personnel take his luggage and the convoy waiting for him outside the station. Had we not spoken, he would have been a sardar someplace from Delhi or Jallandhar who I could care less about, and to him, I would have been a typical Indian with no manners or civic sense, who he could care less about. I went to sleep in a small hotel in a quiet lane behind the bus stand thinking about our conversation. I woke up at 6 in morning with the hotel boy on my door,
“Hot water!”
I remembered the guy who I met at the Garuda Guest House in Pelling warning me about it. He showed me a couple of bites on his legs, and he was naturally annoyed. Leeches are a huge problem during monsoon in Sikkim; this was clearly warned in various guide books I had referred. The area around Lake Kechopalri was supposed to have been infested by them. Before I left Pelling, I had worn double socks, packed with a mixture of salt and lime paste between them and had my trekking boots on. The use of lime to get rid of leeches is an old remedy. I had read about Ibn Battutah mentioning it during his travel in Bengal during the 14th century. I was prepared. I had to hire a jeep to take me to the lake as it rained quiet a lot in the morning making my trek to the place difficult.
Himalayas are a place of legends. One such legend tells of this sacred lake the lepchas deeply revere. It is said that the lake remains so tranquil and quiet, surrounded by high mountains on all sides, that it has scared energy around that spot. Lepchas believe that a bird clears up dead leaves from its surface every morning before sunrise, as if to maintain its stillness and clarity. When I reached Kechopalri, I couldn’t begin to question that belief. There was not a leaf on the surface. The water was motionless, not a ripple, not a sound. Tall prayer flags were placed all around the lake, on one side was a walkway past rows of prayer wheels to a wooden patio facing the lake. The caretaker of the lake pointed to my shoes and made signs to remove them. I was alone, again. The driver of the jeep stood along with the caretaker as I took my shoes off, including my socks, and walked on the wet wooden patio towards the lake. A part of me was freaking out, trying to step carefully on the wooden planks. It only required a glance at this lake to stop worrying about leeches, there was indeed a sense of tranquility here. I closed my eyes and breathed in and out a few times. The stillness of the water seemed to still my mind. I stood there for a long time. Tranquility, if this is what there is to attain, then let it be like it is on the surface of this lake.
There were silk cloths tied around the fence as a sign of offering. I was carrying with me a long cotton cloth mainly to wipe my face or to shoo away annoying mountain flies that seem to come out of nowhere during the treks. I tied the cloth I had around the wooden fence, bowed once, took a deep breath again and turned back to the jeep. I checked to see, there were no leeches on my legs.
“The Bengali tourists come to Kechopalri and get disappointed always.” The jeep driver, a 24 year old boy, told me as he started the car. “They come to the lake and ask – What, no boating? - You cheating. Come all the way and see what? Nothing? Nonsense.” We laughed one the way back. I could imagine people coming to Kechopalri with cameras, posing at the lake, taking turns, wearing sun glasses and hats. Indians on vacation expect sight-seeing to be mixed with some form of entertainment, such as boating at the lake. Just the sight is never enough. There has to be food stalls, gift shops, clothes stores to shop for the women and kids, cigarette & tea stalls for the men, it’s all a necessary part of the experience. Sikkim offers no such entertainment; hence not a lot of Indians come to this place as often.
We drove through roads that were never once straight, always bending, always turning. I watched thoughtless the mountains rising up towards the sky, steep, verticals, I saw a rainbow amongst the low lying rain clouds, sun rays scattered in places on the green and deep valley below, the cool breeze, the white river, the terraced farms, houses on the mountain sides, hamlets in far distances. People with polite smiles, their humble yet shy nature that would warm your heart, touch your soul. I saw a life that is being lived by so many people, here in this land that has not a kilometer of straight road. The young boys and girls, eager to move out of this mountain life, eager to learn and make a living doing what they truly love. Knowing that they are far away from the economic development the rest of India is experiencing. Knowing that their Sikkim would also help them realize their dreams, their ambitions. And maybe someday, they too would be able to take a vacation by themselves to experience a world that is beyond their own.
Ride to Jorethang
Legend tells of a mysterious animal that lives high in the snow, elusive and rare. Not many people have seen it; but far too many have spoken of it. Tibetan elders tell tales of this animal to children during bedtime, describing its white fur that glows faint in the moonlight and its long furry tail. But then again, not much is known about the snow leopard. I was disappointed to know that there were a couple held in captivity at the Darjeeling Zoo. More so for the death of the mystery that had surrounded this animal for centuries, now for people to see and throw peanuts at. I was in two minds weather or not to go to see it myself, adding up to the list of the day’s camera-touting tourist from some far off place. But I went there anyways. And there it was. Held in a large fenced cage, oblivious of anyone’s presence. I saw a group of loud tourists from Kolkata scurry their way into the zoo, when I slipped out of the gate. I decided to wash this day down with a Dansberg beer and a thukpa at a roadside restaurant near the post office. Restless now to get to Sikkim in a share jeep, that would go to Jorethang, and then another one that would take me to Pelling.
The ride to Jorethang went downhill through steep curves passing tea plantations with women with baskets working on the estates. The way was covered in dense fog that slowly cleared towards the plains where the day temperature was hotter than the mountains. I bought ticket to the next jeep to Pelling, for which I was to wait until all the seats were occupied. We passed the inter-state border check post over looking the whitewaters of the Rangit River. A Dutch girl got off to get her permit stamped at the border; I walked about over the bridge to see the Rangit for the first time. I placed my daypack on the floor of the bridge, stretched to ease my legs when I heard him; it was an unmistakably French accent. “Why are you leaving your bag like that? I have to take this shot, I’m on assignment”. “What? You have a problem with my bag?”, he was in his early 30s, holding a Polaroid camera, red in his face. “Yeah I’m not your teacher, don’t keep the bag over there like that.” He went about taking frantic pictures of the bridge, everything he could find. He didn’t seem to be a professional, let alone someone who might have never traveled beyond Western Europe before. The jeep was ready to leave and I rushed towards getting back. An older woman was sitting in another jeep with a large “tourist” board placed on the front of it. She was busy applying make up looking at the rear view mirror while the man “on assignment” tired to take pictures of his companion. “Funny guy”, I thought to myself. I could picture this woman in a Parisian café with coffee and cigarette, talking about her going to Le Himalayas to bask in its existentialist sun, while he staring at her with blank eyes having no idea what ever that she was talking about, thinking that maybe he should go with her anyways and leave his leaky wall plumbing for another day. I didn’t like him, and I was to see him again during my travel.
We finally crossed into Sikkim, moving into lush rainforests fresh with new rain, streams passing over the roads with hundreds of large and small waterfalls. Bamboos and oak dotted the misty way, as the jeep went uphill past deep gorges with endless mountains expanding towards the horizon.
The ride to Jorethang went downhill through steep curves passing tea plantations with women with baskets working on the estates. The way was covered in dense fog that slowly cleared towards the plains where the day temperature was hotter than the mountains. I bought ticket to the next jeep to Pelling, for which I was to wait until all the seats were occupied. We passed the inter-state border check post over looking the whitewaters of the Rangit River. A Dutch girl got off to get her permit stamped at the border; I walked about over the bridge to see the Rangit for the first time. I placed my daypack on the floor of the bridge, stretched to ease my legs when I heard him; it was an unmistakably French accent. “Why are you leaving your bag like that? I have to take this shot, I’m on assignment”. “What? You have a problem with my bag?”, he was in his early 30s, holding a Polaroid camera, red in his face. “Yeah I’m not your teacher, don’t keep the bag over there like that.” He went about taking frantic pictures of the bridge, everything he could find. He didn’t seem to be a professional, let alone someone who might have never traveled beyond Western Europe before. The jeep was ready to leave and I rushed towards getting back. An older woman was sitting in another jeep with a large “tourist” board placed on the front of it. She was busy applying make up looking at the rear view mirror while the man “on assignment” tired to take pictures of his companion. “Funny guy”, I thought to myself. I could picture this woman in a Parisian café with coffee and cigarette, talking about her going to Le Himalayas to bask in its existentialist sun, while he staring at her with blank eyes having no idea what ever that she was talking about, thinking that maybe he should go with her anyways and leave his leaky wall plumbing for another day. I didn’t like him, and I was to see him again during my travel.
We finally crossed into Sikkim, moving into lush rainforests fresh with new rain, streams passing over the roads with hundreds of large and small waterfalls. Bamboos and oak dotted the misty way, as the jeep went uphill past deep gorges with endless mountains expanding towards the horizon.
Floors of Pemayangtse
“How long since the weather has been like this?” I asked him as he ordered his dinner at the small restaurant of the family run hotel. “You know Eendia, anything can happen in Eendia,” he said as he raised his hands over his head. “Mountain weather.” I said looking at the back of the guidebook where I was trying to scribble a fuzzy plan of my travel. “Yeah, Mountain weather” he paused for some time “its been like this since a few days now, we’re all hoping that it all gets better soon.” He was from Israel. His girlfriend was having fever, as he later told me. He was hoping that she gets better too. “My best wishes to her”, I said as I moved down to my room. It was early evening but it already felt like midnight. Pelling was surrounded with dense fog, shrill sounds of insects seem to be coming from distant trees, “Who are they?” I kept asking myself, strangely curious, least disturbing. The room was clean, with a common veranda, a single table laid out with garden chairs. I rolled out the sleeping bag, took a shower, changed my clothes and started reading, the Path of Fire and Light by Swami Rama. I took this book with me, as a guide perhaps, or as a companion.
“One must understand what is vayu – its qualities and attributes. The word has no equivalent in the English language, so it must be defined at some length. Vayu literally means, “that which flows.” It is the agent of all motion. Without this medium, no motion can be manifested and one cannot express anything. In breathing exercises, it is this that one seeks to control..
The power went out. Pitch darkness surrounded the room, with only the sense of the mute fog outside the window. I checked my watch. It was 8 pm. I slipped inside the sleeping bag and waited for sleep to come. I was looking back at the journey that seemed so long. I was far away from the local trains running crowded at this moment in Bombay. Far away from everything that comes with a city life. I went to sleep with thoughts of the ride back from Darjeeling, thanking to that which has brought me this far.
I woke up to bright sunlight coming into the room through the window. I rushed out to the veranda in excitement. Crystal clear morning. The air was fresh; I took many deep breaths as I looked around. Behind the wisps of clouds in the distance I could see a small clearing. Amongst the clouds there was a mountain, clad white in snow. I had no doubt; this must be Kanchendzonga. I grabbed my camera, and aimed to take a shot when I sensed someone behind me. “This is nothing.” He must’ve been the same age as me, his accent was strange, I couldn’t place it. “You should wait till the clouds clear up, maybe you could see the whole range.” I guess I could wait for that. We ordered some lemon tea and omelets and sat on the table near the veranda. “You’re traveling alone?” he asked as he took a sip, “Yes, alone”, this wasn’t the first time I was asked this question. “Well, I’m heading to Kechopalri now, hope to see you around” as he put forward his hand. “Good to meet you have a safe trip.” I got out of the hotel near the bus stand and asked a jeep driver for directions to Pemayangtse monastery. It was an hour and half walk up through tall coniferous forests with giant ferns. The forest was alive with sounds of birds I never heard before. Sunlight washed the valley below. I would stop to the mesmerizing sound of a songbird at a distance or the sound of a gurgling stream passing through windy bamboos. I couldn’t recall the last time I had ever experienced a morning like this.
Pemayangtse - The Sublime Perfect Lotus - was established in the 1705 by Lhatsun Chempo, one of the revered Lamas to have performed the coronation of the first Chogyal (religious monarch) of Sikkim. Originally it was established as a high-class monastery for the Tsa-Sang (pure monks). Local stories tell about the miracles performed by various llamas that lived there. There was one who could tell the future, another who could read the mind. One who could bring back people from dead; another one who could be at different places at the same time.
It was empty when I reached there. There was not a soul in sight. As I circumvented the white walled architectural gem, I reached the square facing the entrance to the monastery. I heard voices of children, young boys maybe, reciting verses in Tibetan from a building at the far right. A young llama seemed to have noticed this visitor. He walked to the monastery and opened the door. Standing quietly, he bowed with of gesture of invitation. It was dark inside, it felt darker still due to the bright sunlight outside. He walked about, checked some cloth on the rack nearby and walked away backwards, facing the three large idols at a distance. The statue of Buddha was to the left, Guru Padmasambhava, (the second reincarnation of Buddha) in the middle, and another manifestation of the Guru, to the right. Seven bowls of water lay in front of each, meant for thirsty souls that pass by. I was thirsty too, but I didn’t know if these souls were that of a living person, or those who have died and are on their way to their source. I looked for the bottle of water I had carried in my small bag and took a few sips. What might have happened here? Who made these idols? Who painted these walls? Every part of its walls told a story, through mesmerizing murals of myths and legends of a time gone by. Entering this place felt like I was entering the 18th Century. I had only to check myself, with the t-shirt and track pants and my backpack, to know that I was in the 21st. Two ornate seats, must have been for the head llamas, lay at the center close to the Guru. Besides them lay smaller red benches, with seating a little higher than the floor. They were all covered with richly embroidered pillows. Large drums stood near the high seats and a pair of cymbals behind it. I walked about the hall, imagining what it might be to witness a prayer ceremony in those times. There was a gateway to the left leading on to a wooden stairway. There was another hall, smaller in size than the one below, with more idols. They maybe those great monks who lived here, I thought to myself. I stood there, taking in the air, the light that came through the windows. Another hall lay besides this one, quieter still. Rows of scriptures lay wrapped in red cloth, with a large idol of Buddha amongst them. I felt a sense of calm I had not felt before; I let it sink into me. I sat on the floor opposite the Buddha’s idol, looking around the place. The floor seemed to relax my legs, as if to soak in all these days and nights of travel, I felt deeply comforted. I started to felt like I was in a familiar place, that which you come back to after years of living abroad. I sat there motionless for a long time, letting loose of myself as it relaxed every part of my body. But my mind was making me restless. I wanted to check the time, tell my self when I should head back for lunch, plan for the next day, next week. It was then I realized that my mind was being restless, in this ancient tranquility. I wasn’t used to this.
“One must understand what is vayu – its qualities and attributes. The word has no equivalent in the English language, so it must be defined at some length. Vayu literally means, “that which flows.” It is the agent of all motion. Without this medium, no motion can be manifested and one cannot express anything. In breathing exercises, it is this that one seeks to control..
The power went out. Pitch darkness surrounded the room, with only the sense of the mute fog outside the window. I checked my watch. It was 8 pm. I slipped inside the sleeping bag and waited for sleep to come. I was looking back at the journey that seemed so long. I was far away from the local trains running crowded at this moment in Bombay. Far away from everything that comes with a city life. I went to sleep with thoughts of the ride back from Darjeeling, thanking to that which has brought me this far.
I woke up to bright sunlight coming into the room through the window. I rushed out to the veranda in excitement. Crystal clear morning. The air was fresh; I took many deep breaths as I looked around. Behind the wisps of clouds in the distance I could see a small clearing. Amongst the clouds there was a mountain, clad white in snow. I had no doubt; this must be Kanchendzonga. I grabbed my camera, and aimed to take a shot when I sensed someone behind me. “This is nothing.” He must’ve been the same age as me, his accent was strange, I couldn’t place it. “You should wait till the clouds clear up, maybe you could see the whole range.” I guess I could wait for that. We ordered some lemon tea and omelets and sat on the table near the veranda. “You’re traveling alone?” he asked as he took a sip, “Yes, alone”, this wasn’t the first time I was asked this question. “Well, I’m heading to Kechopalri now, hope to see you around” as he put forward his hand. “Good to meet you have a safe trip.” I got out of the hotel near the bus stand and asked a jeep driver for directions to Pemayangtse monastery. It was an hour and half walk up through tall coniferous forests with giant ferns. The forest was alive with sounds of birds I never heard before. Sunlight washed the valley below. I would stop to the mesmerizing sound of a songbird at a distance or the sound of a gurgling stream passing through windy bamboos. I couldn’t recall the last time I had ever experienced a morning like this.
Pemayangtse - The Sublime Perfect Lotus - was established in the 1705 by Lhatsun Chempo, one of the revered Lamas to have performed the coronation of the first Chogyal (religious monarch) of Sikkim. Originally it was established as a high-class monastery for the Tsa-Sang (pure monks). Local stories tell about the miracles performed by various llamas that lived there. There was one who could tell the future, another who could read the mind. One who could bring back people from dead; another one who could be at different places at the same time.
It was empty when I reached there. There was not a soul in sight. As I circumvented the white walled architectural gem, I reached the square facing the entrance to the monastery. I heard voices of children, young boys maybe, reciting verses in Tibetan from a building at the far right. A young llama seemed to have noticed this visitor. He walked to the monastery and opened the door. Standing quietly, he bowed with of gesture of invitation. It was dark inside, it felt darker still due to the bright sunlight outside. He walked about, checked some cloth on the rack nearby and walked away backwards, facing the three large idols at a distance. The statue of Buddha was to the left, Guru Padmasambhava, (the second reincarnation of Buddha) in the middle, and another manifestation of the Guru, to the right. Seven bowls of water lay in front of each, meant for thirsty souls that pass by. I was thirsty too, but I didn’t know if these souls were that of a living person, or those who have died and are on their way to their source. I looked for the bottle of water I had carried in my small bag and took a few sips. What might have happened here? Who made these idols? Who painted these walls? Every part of its walls told a story, through mesmerizing murals of myths and legends of a time gone by. Entering this place felt like I was entering the 18th Century. I had only to check myself, with the t-shirt and track pants and my backpack, to know that I was in the 21st. Two ornate seats, must have been for the head llamas, lay at the center close to the Guru. Besides them lay smaller red benches, with seating a little higher than the floor. They were all covered with richly embroidered pillows. Large drums stood near the high seats and a pair of cymbals behind it. I walked about the hall, imagining what it might be to witness a prayer ceremony in those times. There was a gateway to the left leading on to a wooden stairway. There was another hall, smaller in size than the one below, with more idols. They maybe those great monks who lived here, I thought to myself. I stood there, taking in the air, the light that came through the windows. Another hall lay besides this one, quieter still. Rows of scriptures lay wrapped in red cloth, with a large idol of Buddha amongst them. I felt a sense of calm I had not felt before; I let it sink into me. I sat on the floor opposite the Buddha’s idol, looking around the place. The floor seemed to relax my legs, as if to soak in all these days and nights of travel, I felt deeply comforted. I started to felt like I was in a familiar place, that which you come back to after years of living abroad. I sat there motionless for a long time, letting loose of myself as it relaxed every part of my body. But my mind was making me restless. I wanted to check the time, tell my self when I should head back for lunch, plan for the next day, next week. It was then I realized that my mind was being restless, in this ancient tranquility. I wasn’t used to this.
A Meeting Place
Lhatsun Chempo, the revered monk of Sikkim, traveled from the Kham province of Western Tibet. Not knowing how to pass these deep mountains, legend tells that he flew over the mountains, then reaching a place where he could find mountain passes. He came to a place where he awaited the other two monks who he was to meet; one was to come from southwest, the other from the east. The place they met was then called as the “meeting place of the three llamas” or Yuksom. They were to meet at that place to coronate a young man who they would throne as the first Chogyal (King) of Sikkim. I sat some distance away from three stone thrones. This was a place where the llamas had coroneted a King, in a place so humble in its setting so as to defy all assumptions of a coronation. Behind the seats stood a 400-year-old pine, a sole surviving witness to that ceremony.
A Nepalese schoolteacher joined me for a chat, the classroom, I realized, was close by. “How did he know he was to meet the other two llamas in this place?”. He smiled with a silent nod, it seemed like he might have heard this question many times before, and also from those little monks who come to school from distant villages. We sat silently for some time looking at the stone throne. Numerous sounds of birds filled the morning sky, a playful breeze passed through trees with light murmur, child’s laughter at a distance - things such as these were everyday moments in a place like this, I thought to myself.
“Have you been teaching here for a while?”
“Four years” he looked at me. “We are on rotation, the government provides text books, a couple of blank note books, that’s all.”
“That’s all?”
“Yes, the children have no money to buy themselves pencils even, let along notebooks, and now the government wants us to replace pencils with ball point pens”.
“What about slate? Isn’t it better to use chalk and slate, no need to buy new notebooks or new pens, wouldn’t that be easier to learn with, and perhaps easier to afford?” The thought of notebooks and ballpoint pens didn’t make sense to me, especially when it was expensive for the children’s families to afford it.
“Humm”, he nodded. “There are some foreigners who come here, they donate books and pencils to the school, so it’s been good for the school so far.”
Yuksom is where the famous Dzongri trail starts. Every year brings thousands of western European trekkers who travel all this way to “do” the Himalayas. Away from its history, Yuksom was a trekker’s town.
I had reached there by afternoon, where the jeep dropped me under a large map on the street side that chalked the trekking route and of places in and around. There were a couple of travelers, but the place seemed empty. I returned back to the room I had rented earlier in the morning. I unpacked, changed my clothes, rolled out the sleeping bag and lay myself on the bed. The bed looked out to a window to the vast mountains beyond. Wisps of rain clouds were passing low; deep green trees covered the mountainsides, with distant waterfalls amongst them. The air was crisp, fresh and fulfilling. I lay there for a long time thinking of the school children of this mountain town. What might be their dreams? their desires that are yet to be imagined, harder still, to be realized?
Night had fallen when I woke up. I heard voices on the street below; I looked out of the window to see a group of middle-aged men talking loudly in a familiar language. They were speaking Marathi. They were all wearing similar t-shirts that looked like they were a part of an organized group, perhaps a mountaineering camp. I walked out of my room for a shower to the common bathroom on the floor, and since there was no one on the floor, I pretended it to be my own. The house owner was climbing up the stairs; I asked him who these people were. “Oh, they are from Poona” I should have guessed. “The are the part of the Kanchendzonga Conservation Group, they come here every year, there is a meeting here tomorrow morning, people from all over the world have come for it. As a hotel owner, I am also required to become a member, had dinner?” “No, not yet.” I took a hot shower, a luxury in a place like this, and went back to my room. The electricity had gone. I light a small candle on the desk near the bed and read a little. After an hour or so, I picked up my pocket torch and headed down the street to get something to eat. There was a big group of mostly western travelers in one of the restaurants including that “man on assignment”. I wasn’t up for socializing with them, so I picked a quieter place to eat nearby. A blonde man in his mid-30s was the only one there. “Hi. Good evening” he said as I walked in.
“Mind if I sit here?”
“Nope, please go ahead.”
“Thanks”, I placed an order for some steamed momo’s and a thukpa.
“Pretty loud on the other side, isn’t it?”, I couldn’t help but smile on that thought.
“I just can’t get into these traveler conversations” he pulled a cigarette, “do you mind if I smoke?”,
“no, go ahead.”
“They are always talking about the same things.” he spoke with a thick French accent, “You’ve been here for a while?“
“This morning. Seems like you just got in”. He had his backpack near by.
”Oh yes, I was living at Pemeyangste for two months. A friend and I were shooting the festival all this while. He’s gone back to New York, now that’s the shoot’s over. And now I’m waiting to head to Dzongri tomorrow morning, I guess my vacation is about started.”
“Phang Labsol”
”Yes. it was incredible. Where you there for it?”
“I missed it by a couple of days, I didn’t know the dates.”
“It was incredible. We were allowed a rare entry into the monastery as the monks practiced the warrior dance, so we planned out the shots as they practiced. I felt blessed. There is something about Pemeyangste that I have never felt elsewhere, I don’t know, there is this energy… umm.. I cannot explain…”
”So what kind of film are you shooting?”
“It’s a documentary on Phang Labsol, I have been meaning to do it for years.”
“I’d love to see it”
”It would be hard to have it aired on Indian television, I don’t know if they would care to show it. I have planned a screening in New York this December though. I’m very anxious for that day. I hope it comes out well, New York is tough audience to please.”
“You know, I haven’t seen nor heard of many films on Sikkim.”
”Well, Satyajit Ray has a documentary called “Sikkim”, he said with a smile.
“Really?”
”Yes, can you imagine what that might be! I’ve been hunting for it since years. I’ve heard there are only a few copies of it. One of it is in the University of Pennsylvania, another one with the last queen of Sikkim, who happens to be living in Washington DC, by the way. This time when I go back to the US, I’ll be looking out for it. What it would be to see Sikkim through Ray’s eyes!”
“Wow, that must be something else”
“You are married?” he looked at the ring in my hand.
“Yes.” I couldn’t help but smile.
”Well, where is she?”
”San Francisco”
”Long distance, I just got dumped by my girlfriend. We lived-in together sometime in the East Village. She’s Japanese-American.” He smiled. There was something familiar about him. He looked like a rugged French version of John Saxon in Enter the Dragon. I felt strange about this conversation here in the Himalayas. Yet, I was glad we spoke.
We walked back after dinner, talking about films, about New York City, Pemeyangste, about Sikkim and its people. The electricity had not come in yet, I wanted to walk him to his hotel since I had the torch with me, but somehow I didn’t. He didn’t need it, I thought to myself. We wished each other goodnight outside my hotel.
A Nepalese schoolteacher joined me for a chat, the classroom, I realized, was close by. “How did he know he was to meet the other two llamas in this place?”. He smiled with a silent nod, it seemed like he might have heard this question many times before, and also from those little monks who come to school from distant villages. We sat silently for some time looking at the stone throne. Numerous sounds of birds filled the morning sky, a playful breeze passed through trees with light murmur, child’s laughter at a distance - things such as these were everyday moments in a place like this, I thought to myself.
“Have you been teaching here for a while?”
“Four years” he looked at me. “We are on rotation, the government provides text books, a couple of blank note books, that’s all.”
“That’s all?”
“Yes, the children have no money to buy themselves pencils even, let along notebooks, and now the government wants us to replace pencils with ball point pens”.
“What about slate? Isn’t it better to use chalk and slate, no need to buy new notebooks or new pens, wouldn’t that be easier to learn with, and perhaps easier to afford?” The thought of notebooks and ballpoint pens didn’t make sense to me, especially when it was expensive for the children’s families to afford it.
“Humm”, he nodded. “There are some foreigners who come here, they donate books and pencils to the school, so it’s been good for the school so far.”
Yuksom is where the famous Dzongri trail starts. Every year brings thousands of western European trekkers who travel all this way to “do” the Himalayas. Away from its history, Yuksom was a trekker’s town.
I had reached there by afternoon, where the jeep dropped me under a large map on the street side that chalked the trekking route and of places in and around. There were a couple of travelers, but the place seemed empty. I returned back to the room I had rented earlier in the morning. I unpacked, changed my clothes, rolled out the sleeping bag and lay myself on the bed. The bed looked out to a window to the vast mountains beyond. Wisps of rain clouds were passing low; deep green trees covered the mountainsides, with distant waterfalls amongst them. The air was crisp, fresh and fulfilling. I lay there for a long time thinking of the school children of this mountain town. What might be their dreams? their desires that are yet to be imagined, harder still, to be realized?
Night had fallen when I woke up. I heard voices on the street below; I looked out of the window to see a group of middle-aged men talking loudly in a familiar language. They were speaking Marathi. They were all wearing similar t-shirts that looked like they were a part of an organized group, perhaps a mountaineering camp. I walked out of my room for a shower to the common bathroom on the floor, and since there was no one on the floor, I pretended it to be my own. The house owner was climbing up the stairs; I asked him who these people were. “Oh, they are from Poona” I should have guessed. “The are the part of the Kanchendzonga Conservation Group, they come here every year, there is a meeting here tomorrow morning, people from all over the world have come for it. As a hotel owner, I am also required to become a member, had dinner?” “No, not yet.” I took a hot shower, a luxury in a place like this, and went back to my room. The electricity had gone. I light a small candle on the desk near the bed and read a little. After an hour or so, I picked up my pocket torch and headed down the street to get something to eat. There was a big group of mostly western travelers in one of the restaurants including that “man on assignment”. I wasn’t up for socializing with them, so I picked a quieter place to eat nearby. A blonde man in his mid-30s was the only one there. “Hi. Good evening” he said as I walked in.
“Mind if I sit here?”
“Nope, please go ahead.”
“Thanks”, I placed an order for some steamed momo’s and a thukpa.
“Pretty loud on the other side, isn’t it?”, I couldn’t help but smile on that thought.
“I just can’t get into these traveler conversations” he pulled a cigarette, “do you mind if I smoke?”,
“no, go ahead.”
“They are always talking about the same things.” he spoke with a thick French accent, “You’ve been here for a while?“
“This morning. Seems like you just got in”. He had his backpack near by.
”Oh yes, I was living at Pemeyangste for two months. A friend and I were shooting the festival all this while. He’s gone back to New York, now that’s the shoot’s over. And now I’m waiting to head to Dzongri tomorrow morning, I guess my vacation is about started.”
“Phang Labsol”
”Yes. it was incredible. Where you there for it?”
“I missed it by a couple of days, I didn’t know the dates.”
“It was incredible. We were allowed a rare entry into the monastery as the monks practiced the warrior dance, so we planned out the shots as they practiced. I felt blessed. There is something about Pemeyangste that I have never felt elsewhere, I don’t know, there is this energy… umm.. I cannot explain…”
”So what kind of film are you shooting?”
“It’s a documentary on Phang Labsol, I have been meaning to do it for years.”
“I’d love to see it”
”It would be hard to have it aired on Indian television, I don’t know if they would care to show it. I have planned a screening in New York this December though. I’m very anxious for that day. I hope it comes out well, New York is tough audience to please.”
“You know, I haven’t seen nor heard of many films on Sikkim.”
”Well, Satyajit Ray has a documentary called “Sikkim”, he said with a smile.
“Really?”
”Yes, can you imagine what that might be! I’ve been hunting for it since years. I’ve heard there are only a few copies of it. One of it is in the University of Pennsylvania, another one with the last queen of Sikkim, who happens to be living in Washington DC, by the way. This time when I go back to the US, I’ll be looking out for it. What it would be to see Sikkim through Ray’s eyes!”
“Wow, that must be something else”
“You are married?” he looked at the ring in my hand.
“Yes.” I couldn’t help but smile.
”Well, where is she?”
”San Francisco”
”Long distance, I just got dumped by my girlfriend. We lived-in together sometime in the East Village. She’s Japanese-American.” He smiled. There was something familiar about him. He looked like a rugged French version of John Saxon in Enter the Dragon. I felt strange about this conversation here in the Himalayas. Yet, I was glad we spoke.
We walked back after dinner, talking about films, about New York City, Pemeyangste, about Sikkim and its people. The electricity had not come in yet, I wanted to walk him to his hotel since I had the torch with me, but somehow I didn’t. He didn’t need it, I thought to myself. We wished each other goodnight outside my hotel.
Kechopalri
“Watch out for those damn leeches, they’re all over the place, before you know it, they’re crawling over your legs looking for blood to suck out of your body…”
I remembered the guy who I met at the Garuda Guest House in Pelling warning me about it. He showed me a couple of bites on his legs, and he was naturally annoyed. Leeches are a huge problem during monsoon in Sikkim; this was clearly warned in various guide books I had referred. The area around Lake Kechopalri was supposed to have been infested by them. Before I left Pelling, I had worn double socks, packed with a mixture of salt and lime paste between them and had my trekking boots on. The use of lime to get rid of leeches is an old remedy. I had read about Ibn Battutah mentioning it during his travel in Bengal during the 14th century. I was prepared. I had to hire a jeep to take me to the lake as it rained quiet a lot in the morning making my trek to the place difficult.
Himalayas are a place of legends. One such legend tells of this sacred lake the lepchas deeply revere. It is said that the lake remains so tranquil and quiet, surrounded by high mountains on all sides, that it has scared energy around that spot. Lepchas believe that a bird clears up dead leaves from its surface every morning before sunrise, as if to maintain its stillness and clarity. When I reached Kechopalri, I couldn’t begin to question that belief. There was not a leaf on the surface. The water was motionless, not a ripple, not a sound. Tall prayer flags were placed all around the lake, on one side was a walkway past rows of prayer wheels to a wooden patio facing the lake. The caretaker of the lake pointed to my shoes and made signs to remove them. I was alone, again. The driver of the jeep stood along with the caretaker as I took my shoes off, including my socks, and walked on the wet wooden patio towards the lake. A part of me was freaking out, trying to step carefully on the wooden planks. It only required a glance at this lake to stop worrying about leeches, there was indeed a sense of tranquility here. I closed my eyes and breathed in and out a few times. The stillness of the water seemed to still my mind. I stood there for a long time. Tranquility, if this is what there is to attain, then let it be like it is on the surface of this lake.
There were silk cloths tied around the fence as a sign of offering. I was carrying with me a long cotton cloth mainly to wipe my face or to shoo away annoying mountain flies that seem to come out of nowhere during the treks. I tied the cloth I had around the wooden fence, bowed once, took a deep breath again and turned back to the jeep. I checked to see, there were no leeches on my legs.
“The Bengali tourists come to Kechopalri and get disappointed always.” The jeep driver, a 24 year old boy, told me as he started the car. “They come to the lake and ask – What, no boating? - You cheating. Come all the way and see what? Nothing? Nonsense.” We laughed one the way back. I could imagine people coming to Kechopalri with cameras, posing at the lake, taking turns, wearing sun glasses and hats. Indians on vacation expect sight-seeing to be mixed with some form of entertainment, such as boating at the lake. Just the sight is never enough. There has to be food stalls, gift shops, clothes stores to shop for the women and kids, cigarette & tea stalls for the men, it’s all a necessary part of the experience. Sikkim offers no such entertainment; hence not a lot of Indians come to this place as often.
We drove through roads that were never once straight, always bending, always turning. I watched thoughtless the mountains rising up towards the sky, steep, verticals, I saw a rainbow amongst the low lying rain clouds, sun rays scattered in places on the green and deep valley below, the cool breeze, the white river, the terraced farms, houses on the mountain sides, hamlets in far distances. People with polite smiles, their humble yet shy nature that would warm your heart, touch your soul. I saw a life that is being lived by so many people, here in this land that has not a kilometer of straight road. The young boys and girls, eager to move out of this mountain life, eager to learn and make a living doing what they truly love. Knowing that they are far away from the economic development the rest of India is experiencing. Knowing that their Sikkim would also help them realize their dreams, their ambitions. And maybe someday, they too would be able to take a vacation by themselves to experience a world that is beyond their own.
The Keeper
It was late afternoon by the time we reached Tashiding. I bade farewell to the boy who drove the jeep, paid the jeep charges, unloaded my backpack and started to walk towards the houses in the distance. It was a small village, just like so many of them dotted along the mountains. Footprint guide to the Indian Himalayas, for once, made sense. It directed me to a beautiful house that one could stay for a price as low as 100 rupees per day. Asking around, I found the place besides a playing ground with kids playing football. The place was empty. After looking around for the owner of the place, I met a small boy who seemed to have figured what I was there for. He took me up to the room, handed me the keys and without saying a word ran towards the playground.
The room was on the top floor of a house made entirely of wood. Wild, tall bamboos covered the back view. I opened the windows and sat on the large bed for sometime starting out to this beautiful village. I went down stairs for a shower.
I had found a book on Sikkim at Fakirchand bookstore in Khan Market, Delhi. It was more authentic than the rest of the guidebooks since it was written and sold by the Ministry of Tourism in Sikkim. Not perhaps the most interesting publisher, but it gave an overview of the place quiet well. There were hand painted maps of short treks one could take in and around Pelling, one of which was a route to a Monastery Trek. I had to make that pilgrimage, hoping that maybe I would find that place I had in my mind.
According to Buddhist scriptures, Guru Padmasambhava also know as Guru Rimponche, blessed this scared land in the 8th century AD from a place now called as Tashiding. The monastery was built in the 18th century AD by Nagdak Sempa Chemp, one of the three llamas who performed the consecration ceremony of the first king.
I started walking towards the monastery, it was early evening. Wet moss covered the steep walk, smell of fresh rain all around. It was a long walk to the top of the mountain. I reached to see the golden chorten shimmered with the light of the setting sun, the monastery was closed. I guess I would be missing seeing this place from the inside, I thought to myself. I wished if I could see it, after all that long climb. Just being here, in this place was more comforting somehow. There was light playful breeze over bright green blades of grass with tiny flowers. Conifers dotted the edges with the sunlight passing through them. I sat outside the monastery door for some time. There was no one in sight. This place was much bigger, with a lot of monasteries and rooms for people to stay. It was a place of significant importance from the layout. I watched the sun set quietly behind the mountains, the range surrounded all directions. Sounds of birds filled the air. I was about to start walking as there was still a little light enough to see the way, when I was startled by the face of an old man walking briskly towards me, he was so near I didn’t realize when he got here. His face was disfigured completely; he wore thick glasses, with one eye piece blacken out, with ragged clothed and bare feet he stood staring at me. Then he smiled. Walking towards the monastery, he opened the door from the keys in his pocket and waited for me. I bowed to him, his age and his gesture told me that he must have lived in this place for years. I walked inside the room, it was dark, dense air surrounded it. A large idol of Guru Padmasambhava sat majestically at the center. I stood there for some time with my eyes closed, bowed and moved backwards out of the door. I felt deeply humbled by this man, who stood outside looking at me. Thanking him, I walked back with him towards the steps. There was nothing spoken between us, no words exchanged, only the awareness of having mutual respect as two human beings, nothing more, and nothing less.
It was dark when I reached my room, electricity had gone. The sky was starlit bright and sparking, little yellow lights shined softly from the distant villages of the mountains far beyond. I stood at the window of my room looking out to this world for a long time. I ate some dried fruits I had carried. As I lay down on the bed a deep, dreamless sleep took over me.
I left for Pelling in the morning; the next place was the last in the monastery trek I had read about. I checked back into Garuda Guest House in the same room I left, and started to walk towards Sanga Choling.
Sanga-Choling, stood aloof on the mountaintop, above the clouds, with me in it. Bright green grass sparkled with dew outside with moist fog covering everything around. An unforgettable sound of a songbird mesmerized me beyond the clouds, beyond the walls of the monastery.There were two people meditating inside when I reached. They walked outside the moment they heard me talking to the caretaker, as if some strange unspoken language told me that the place is now empty for me to be inside it.
Surrender.
All that is behind me, all that I know, all that I want, all that I need. This was where I was meant to be. At that present moment.
The room was on the top floor of a house made entirely of wood. Wild, tall bamboos covered the back view. I opened the windows and sat on the large bed for sometime starting out to this beautiful village. I went down stairs for a shower.
I had found a book on Sikkim at Fakirchand bookstore in Khan Market, Delhi. It was more authentic than the rest of the guidebooks since it was written and sold by the Ministry of Tourism in Sikkim. Not perhaps the most interesting publisher, but it gave an overview of the place quiet well. There were hand painted maps of short treks one could take in and around Pelling, one of which was a route to a Monastery Trek. I had to make that pilgrimage, hoping that maybe I would find that place I had in my mind.
According to Buddhist scriptures, Guru Padmasambhava also know as Guru Rimponche, blessed this scared land in the 8th century AD from a place now called as Tashiding. The monastery was built in the 18th century AD by Nagdak Sempa Chemp, one of the three llamas who performed the consecration ceremony of the first king.
I started walking towards the monastery, it was early evening. Wet moss covered the steep walk, smell of fresh rain all around. It was a long walk to the top of the mountain. I reached to see the golden chorten shimmered with the light of the setting sun, the monastery was closed. I guess I would be missing seeing this place from the inside, I thought to myself. I wished if I could see it, after all that long climb. Just being here, in this place was more comforting somehow. There was light playful breeze over bright green blades of grass with tiny flowers. Conifers dotted the edges with the sunlight passing through them. I sat outside the monastery door for some time. There was no one in sight. This place was much bigger, with a lot of monasteries and rooms for people to stay. It was a place of significant importance from the layout. I watched the sun set quietly behind the mountains, the range surrounded all directions. Sounds of birds filled the air. I was about to start walking as there was still a little light enough to see the way, when I was startled by the face of an old man walking briskly towards me, he was so near I didn’t realize when he got here. His face was disfigured completely; he wore thick glasses, with one eye piece blacken out, with ragged clothed and bare feet he stood staring at me. Then he smiled. Walking towards the monastery, he opened the door from the keys in his pocket and waited for me. I bowed to him, his age and his gesture told me that he must have lived in this place for years. I walked inside the room, it was dark, dense air surrounded it. A large idol of Guru Padmasambhava sat majestically at the center. I stood there for some time with my eyes closed, bowed and moved backwards out of the door. I felt deeply humbled by this man, who stood outside looking at me. Thanking him, I walked back with him towards the steps. There was nothing spoken between us, no words exchanged, only the awareness of having mutual respect as two human beings, nothing more, and nothing less.
It was dark when I reached my room, electricity had gone. The sky was starlit bright and sparking, little yellow lights shined softly from the distant villages of the mountains far beyond. I stood at the window of my room looking out to this world for a long time. I ate some dried fruits I had carried. As I lay down on the bed a deep, dreamless sleep took over me.
I left for Pelling in the morning; the next place was the last in the monastery trek I had read about. I checked back into Garuda Guest House in the same room I left, and started to walk towards Sanga Choling.
Above the Clouds
Three lamps lay in front of the three deities. It was the silence that I had experienced at Pemayangtse, that familiar silence to which you return to. The flames flickered at intervals, steady at once, restless at the next moment. I sat with my back upright touching the walls, breathing the air that was in that dark room, watching the flames flicker for what seemed like hours. It was nothing special, yet there was, what there was to make of it.
Sanga-Choling, stood aloof on the mountaintop, above the clouds, with me in it. Bright green grass sparkled with dew outside with moist fog covering everything around. An unforgettable sound of a songbird mesmerized me beyond the clouds, beyond the walls of the monastery.There were two people meditating inside when I reached. They walked outside the moment they heard me talking to the caretaker, as if some strange unspoken language told me that the place is now empty for me to be inside it.
Surrender.
All that is behind me, all that I know, all that I want, all that I need. This was where I was meant to be. At that present moment.
Copyright 2009 Tushar P. Gupte
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