If this perhaps was a song;
moving clouds
hide and unhide
the sight of songbirds
lapping over the clouds
a pair, red and yellow
disappear and reappear
twittering across a vast expanse
they vanish in a moment
what do i follow
the clouds, the birds or my wandering thought
i stand transfixed
my ears following their song
my eyes staring at the tree
my feet rooted to the soil
at precisely this moment, I feel like carbon
The next day we went to the Reshi river. It was a meandering river passing through the valley between two mountains. We drove downstream on a rugged road, laden with pebbles and stones. The surrounding landscape turned brown as bulldozers and JCBs dug out sand from what seemed to be construction operations. The weather turned hotter and the sun shone mercilessly on our backs. We spent some time walking on the river bank, following the rocks and stones in the water. Great acupuncture. The chilled water flowing through the river was a welcome relief for our feet. The sound of the gurgling water and the sunny sky filled with cotton candy like clouds reminded me of a Ghibli countryside. After spending some time by the river, we walked back upstream to find our car. We found a signboard that said "Welcome to Sikkim." Taking a picture near border signboards is one of the few guilty pleasures of mine. It's practically stupid. It's similar to taking pictures near railway station signs where you're on a long trip by train from the South to the North. Just stepping on the platforms in different cities to prove you've been there. I remember running to a Haldiram's in the Nagpur station on my train to Delhi. Something about buying at the place of origin. Silly, but fun. What's worse, I've taken pictures at imaginary borders where there were no signboards even. Maybe it proves the point that these are simply made up!
Driving uphill, we reentered the forest and breathed the fresh air away from the dusty bank. Kriti spotted a red signboard on the way and we realised it was a small cave temple dedicated to Shiva. Temples in mountains are usually situated atop a steep incline and Sukhraj ji warned us that the steps would be arduous. We were confident that we would be able to climb. We were not mistaken. The steep climb energised us, and the pathway was beautiful. It was a stone staircase littered with fallen yellow leaves and the rising steps laced with green moss. The air was rich, and it made it easier. A small bust of Shiva and many stone Nagas lined the altar of the cave temple. It was housed underneath a huge rock. It was silent except for the rustling of dry leaves and the occasional ring of brass bells. After that short pit stop, we drove back into Pedong town. The sleepy town was as empty.
Sukhraj ji suggested we find a place for lunch near the Pedong Bazaar. We walked the quiet streets which were strange for a noontime on a weekday. There were a few students loitering around on their way back from school. There were no restaurants and we walked around in circles. Walking through the silent alleyways was strangely comforting though. We finally found a small cafe, by a corner and asked if there was lunch. A friendly woman welcomed us into the restaurant and said she would prepare us anything that we asked for. She asked us if we had tried the local cuisine yet, and offered to whip us some of the favourites quickly. We had tried some thukpa and different types of bread, but not a breakfast item that was popular around the North East. It was called Falay, and is a type of fried dish, where the dough is stuffed with minced chicken or a vegetarian mixture and fried in oil. It reminded me of stuffed pooris or more closely, empanadas. It was extremely tasty and fulfilling. The owner's little son was around after school, and playing with his yo yo. A young adolescent couple walked in and ordered milkshakes. It was a small town and everyone seemed to know each other. The woman offered us a complimentary lime soda to finish our meal, and we heartily thanked her, having enjoyed our meal, amidst a friendly setting.
We walked a bit further and saw the Pedong Church. It's funny how both of us being atheists, love visiting religious places. We sat inside the empty and quiet church for some time. I find churches equally calming as monasteries. Two women, seated on the bench nearby, spoke over the silence, bickering about problems at home. They seemed to be in charge of cleaning the campus. The sound of children in the nearby playground drifted into the church. A group of young boys playing football. As we exited they snickered at us, acting shy. "Hmph, boys." Kriti sighed.
Rain took over the next day, and the weather became magical overnight. It was drizzling in the morning and the mountains were hidden behind a haze of clouds. We were supposed to go to a waterfall, but were doubtful if we could make the trek. Since trekking in the rain is even more thrilling and enjoyable, we left soon, making a mental note to buy a pair of raincoats on the way. From the moment we left the homestay, I could not stop looking out the car window and marvel at the splendour unfolding in front of my eyes. Clouds drifted in and out of the giant mountain crevices. Like a vast green ocean with foamy waves. We stopped by a view point, with a series of semicircular series of steps perched on top of a mound leading to a park gate. I climbed over to the furthest step and stared at the abyss, taking it all in. A tear slipped through my eye. I had to hold the gate to re-centre myself. I cupped my mouth with my hands, speechless. Such moments, remind me why I love travelling.
The atmosphere only got better. As we drove into the rainforest zone, nobody spoke a word. Kriti had her headphones on, and was absorbed in the landscape outside. The huge brown ferns and the low laying branches brushed across the window panes of the vehicle. The trees were completely lined with lichens, indicating the oxygen rich air. The biodiversity changed as we rose in altitude, and the heart of the forest embraced us.
After an hour of driving through the dense forest floor, the trees cleared up to reveal the mountains. We had to stop. I have a strong rule. I never listen to music when I travel. Maybe, it's hypersensitivity. I've generally never been able to listen to music, because it disturbs me. I borrow this phrase from Jessica in the play Merchant of Venice, and I remember having a long discussion about it during my English Literature class in high school. More specifically, Jessica is hurt by the gentle music, which sounds strange. I prefer observing the sounds in my surrounding, which makes my experience of the environment much richer. In an age where we play white noise on Youtube to fall asleep faster, I think that playing music in a natural landscape is a crime. However, soon enough, I was to be proven wrong for the first time.
I stood looking over the trees in the valley. A pair of sunbirds, one yellow and red, were twittering, following each other through the trees. They perched on separate branches, and added colour to the majestic scenery that acted as a moving wallpaper for their two act play. The clouds moved in harmony with the flow of the mountains. Kriti was still on her headphones. We had not spoken since we entered the forest, except for exchanging some teary eyed glances. We looked at each other and mouthed wow. She took off her headphones and offered them to me. I initially resisted. She said that it was a simple arrangement and not a complex song. Reluctantly I placed the headphones on my ears. It was Beethoven's Symphony. I looked at the moving clouds again. They now moved with the music. I cannot describe that experience in words. It felt like I was within a film. A grand cinematic opening sequence. I was drawn into a moving screensaver. I was touched by something beyond my senses. It was a deep connection to the world and everything around me. It was gentle and tender euphoria.
I removed the headphones and was brought back to the world. Sukhraj ji was waiting in the car, and we still had to make the trek to the waterfall. At the entrance, stood a small boy watching over a bunch of wooden sticks to guide us into the trek. We picked up a pair and asked him how much it cost to rent the walking sticks. He was so shy that he smiled and hid behind the stand. Nearby tourists asked him the cost, and he started giggling even more shyly. Then he pointed to a small sign nearby, that said Rs.10, written crabbily on a piece of white cardboard. I only had a fifty rupee note in my pocket, and asked him to give me the change when we returned back from the trek. We descended down the stone steps, following the sound of the waterfall. Insects chittered amidst the creepers that twirled themselves around the trees. We walked on the path encountering tired tourists panting heavily on their return. They struggled to climb the ascent, kids mostly dragging their feet behind elders who sat along the parapet wall to take frequent breaks. I've seen kids struggle to walk in high altitudes, and I feel so bad for the little ones! When I had gone to Nathu La the previous year, a gateway situated at a staggering 15000 feet, I saw some young kids under 5 crying so much. It might be due to their developing respiratory systems, I hypothesised.
We reached the waterfall in a jiffy. Throughout the trip, Kriti and I had shown to be well exercised with great endurance. We were able to walk long distances on mountain roads, however steep the incline might be. The thundering sound of the waterfall, sent out a chill into the vicinity. We stepped across the smaller rocks and moved closer to the waterfall. We found a huge rock, perfect for sitting at, near the edge of the pond at the bottom of the fall. We took turns to get some pictures clicked. I couldn't worry about getting good pictures because I was trembling while sitting on the rock. The energy of the falling water, rattled my entire body, and I gripped the stone surface tightly. Nevertheless, I managed to get some amazing pictures, owing to Kriti's photography skills irrespective of the subjects. We left immediately as soon as a bunch of reckless men jumped into the fall to take a dip. They screeched and screamed trying to take pictures. "Hmph, Men." Kriti exclaimed, angrily.
We timed our ascent. If we hadn't been interrupted by a bunch of bleating mountain goats, we would've made the 3km trek in less than half an hour. A cold mist settled on our shoulders. It had started drizzling again. On the way back, we stopped by a huge monastery in Lava. Lava is more than an hour's distance from Pedong village and higher in altitude. It is populated by pine trees and the flora and fauna differed from those in Pedong. It was also misty and surreal. The monastery overlooked the mountains and was a bigger than any that we had previously visited. Monks were gardening, chanting and leaving their clothes out to dry. What a place to live. A huge school and a residential complex stood by the side of the prayer hall. The sound of the metallic gong rumbled through the space. A deep droning drum played alongside. It was disconcerting. Disturbing, even. Across the gate, one could see the sprawling town of Lava, with small colourful roofed houses stacked on top of each other. They looked nested within each other's front yards. Kriti recorded this magnificent visual frame. I played it after we got into the car. The stationery video played to the background music of the gong and the drum. They sounded resplendent, like a grand cinematic opening sequence, straight out of a film.
(to be continued)
----Swarna
Comments