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#6 Road to Darjeeling - Tea, Trains and Music

swarnamanjari chellapandi

How to make the perfect Tea


A teaspoon of crunchy brown tea leaves. One more, if you prefer it strong. For black tea, just water is enough. For milk tea, I prefer a three is to one ratio, of milk and water. Let the tea leaves simmer in the water as the tea turns a golden yellow colour. The more brown it becomes, the leaves start to burn, and you lose the taste. Turn the stove off and allow it to rest for a bit. If you think it's done, strain the leaves and add some honey to sweeten if you like. Tea tasted in solitude of its sweetness, makes for the perfect tea. Tea with honey deepens the flavour and it can be a bit much for the tastebuds. Chai is the best of both worlds. Milk, sweetness and the flavour of tea. Add enough sugar only to elevate the taste of the tea and not to overpower it. Chai is always good. You can never have too much of chai.


As you travel down South, the proportion of milk increases, and it tastes like tea milkshake. I dislike it. I prefer the tea in the North. I can drink a lot of tea, sometimes as much as five cups a day, when I'm travelling. Warm lemon tea used to be a favourite, during the cold drizzly monsoons in Bangalore. A conversation over a cup of tea over coffee any day. Conversations that I hope will last in my memory for a lifetime.


I remember some cups of tea more than the others. Like the one I had with my father last week. A warm morning, and the first few rays of sunshine reached through the windows. I was sick, and my father got some tea in a flask. It was a good tea. Watery, not too sweet. We spoke about how to keep healthy, spending time at the park, gardening. His oncoming trip to Ajantha. How it got its name, Asintha, meaning thoughtless state. As I neared the end of the beverage, I realised it had become ridiculously sweeter. Without a thought, I swirled it around as if to mix the sugar. I spat out the next sip I took. My father remarked, "This is something you've to learn. Leave out the end of the tea. And, never ever swirl it."


Pedong to Darjeeling


I'm sure we could map our trip by the variety of teas that we had. One of the tastiest was an 'aromatic' tea that our host Prajjwal made. I was feeling nauseous from our car journey and the high altitude. I reached the homestay sick. I didn't want to drink anything that was overpowering for my senses. I asked him what constitutes the aroma of the tea. He assured that it would be mild. It healed everything, and I drank more than two cups everyday. It was apparently a favourite among guests, and someone even nicknamed it a 'very very ayurvedic' tea. Funny thing, it consisted of no tea leaves. Only some mystery spices.


Some good old tea.


The first thing that we did once we reached our homestay in Darjeeling was make some tea. We had broken into a fit of laughter as we reached our hostel. Kriti's astronaut themed metallic suitcase had almost slid down the gutter onto the narrow train track. Sukhraj ji had comically leaped to catch hold of it, and saved it. Before he left, we thanked him for his kindness and patience with us throughout the whole trip. We now had two entire days to explore the tiny town of Darjeeling. Rebecca, our host welcomed us with a wide smile on her face. "Oh, women travellers!" she exclaimed with joy. She had placed some homemade chocolates at the welcome desk. The room was divided into two compartments and the walls panelled with wood. It opened into the common balcony that overlooked the narrow street and onto the hills. One could see the view of the entire town, with the majestic Kanchenjunga on the North Eastern side. The peak was not visible during our stay, and if one wants to catch a glimpse, the colder months are a better time. Nevertheless, we felt the careful watch of the mountains as if we were swaddled on its lap.


The balcony.

Water is a scarcity in this overburdened city, she said. Luckily, our hostel had a water source - a spring from the mountains, and yet she advised to use it cautiously. Water tankers made their way up and down the streets amidst the slow moving traffic. The last time I had been to Darjeeling, I was dismayed by the rows of tourist cars lining up to move from one place to another. I had never gotten to experience the place from the eyes of an explorer. I love exploring cities. Taking a walk alone in a city is one of the most rewarding experiences. Cities have so much to offer - observations that are vital for anyone who's curious enough. I also have some rules when it comes to visiting a place for the first time.


The room at sunset.
The room at sunset.

One, take a walk. Better if it's at sunrise or sunset.

Go to the grocery or any nearby shops. Buy some fruits.

Visit an art gallery if there is one. Go gallery hopping if there are many.

Bookstores, cafes and any religious places of worship are a must see.

Eat a meal with people from the place. Have conversations.

Take the public transport. Figure out routes, and map your destinations.

Go shopping!


This time, I followed these rules meticulously. I also added a new one.


Get a haircut at the local salon. It could be one of the best decisions that you take!


Darjeeling is a great place to walk. The traffic moves slowly, giving way to the toy train (the Darjeeling Himalayan Railway) that runs in the town. Locals prefer to walk to schools and workplaces. Shared taxi cabs are available to the city centre at affordable rates.

Walking


View of the mountains at sunrise. Kanchenjunga peaks are supposed to be on the Eastern side.
View of the mountains at sunrise. Kanchenjunga peaks are supposed to be on the Eastern side.

The next couple days went like this. I would wake up early in the morning around 5, and watch the faint sunrise. On the first day, the visibility was high and I'm pretty sure I caught a glimpse of the Kanchenjunga peak even if my phone's camera didn't. Then, Kriti and I would get ready and go to the city centre for a filling breakfast. We took the shared taxis to the town and walked afterward. Google Maps isn't too efficient at mountainous regions, because it grossly underestimates the incline. The distance might be less than a kilometre but you'll have to climb and climb that it takes forever! The steep path wound around streets with houses and walls that were lined with creepers. The architecture in Darjeeling is idiosyncratic. With a style lingering in between British and Tibetan style, roofed houses of experimental shapes, like circular ones added a flair to the city. In between two streets were connecting stairways. The steps reminded me of Japanese and Korean films. City dwellers and their children climbing steps add a strange satisfying visual aesthetic. I tried to imbue the strength and fast paced walking of the locals. Walking alongside us were school children making their way to school holding their mother's hands. As their tiny feet climbed over the staircases, they jumped over the steps and across the cobbled stones on the pathway. Once we reached the market road, it was as if all the small tributaries had joined in to the main river. People were bustling about, and the street was filled with kids walking to the nearby school.


Walking to Glenary's.
Walking to Glenary's.

Just as we were about to reach Glenary's, (a legacy cafe and restaurant) I spotted an old man sitting on the side of the street with a weighing machine. A trade of his choice. A small girl with two pigtails, was walking to school with her brother. She jumped across the coloured stones, stepping on alternately paved ones. On her way was the weighing machine. She immediately jumped on it. The grandfather adorned a half toothed smile. I think she had just begun to learn numbers. She tried to figure out if her weight was a 9 or a 1 or a 0. She stepped off, sang a number song and continued jumping on the way.


The first day, I had the best sandwich I've ever had in Glenary's. The next day I had the best hot chocolate I had ever had at Keventer's.




The colourful street markets.

We spent some time ambling about the street, and visited a bookstore filled with region specific books from Sikkim and Darjeeling. An artistically bound special edition of Siddhartha filled with watercolour paintings and lined with golden foil drew my eyes towards it. I picked it up for Miru, along with a blue diary with a mesmerising image of Krishna for Meenakshi. She had spoken to me about starting a brand with a name describing Krishna for Ayurvedic cosmetic product line. For me, I chose two books about trains and public libraries in Darjeeling. At lunchtime, we went to a restaurant situated on the first floor of a building. We had a quiet lunch gazing outside the window to see the market road filling up with more people as time went by. Another moving wallpaper.


The Darjeeling market was a paradise, as objects of all sorts drew my attention one after another like a sweet candy store attracting a starry eyed kid. Bakers had laid out fresh baked goods and chocolates, clothings shop owners were hanging out fashionable jackets, socks sellers on the streets were arranging their wares, colourful artefacts, masks and patterned carpets were displayed out on the walls of curious looking corner shops. We walked around some more and found a cafe called Nerdvana, a name too perfect that we couldn't resist. A quiet space, it lived upto its name, and we sipped some first flush tea, enjoying some encyclopedia books.


At Cafe Nerdvana.
At Cafe Nerdvana.

Then, a quick hair wash turned stunning haircut brightened up my evening as I questioned if my impulse to cut my hair short was a mistake or a good decision. The nighttime selfies I took under the ambient yellow lights at Glenary's listening to soothing live music revealed the latter.




Day two followed the same routine. Walking to breakfast, then some more walking. We took a cab to the Tibetan Refugee centre to purchase some woollen shawls. They have gorgeous patterned rugs and scarves at extremely reasonable prices and handwoven by people living at the centre at an indoor weaving factory with handloom weaving machines. There were tourist buses parked at the entrance, and there was a group already inside the shopping complex. As Kriti and I made our way inside, the shawls for that day were almost sold out. Just as I was about to pick up a black shawl that I was eyeing, a middle aged woman took it. She had another red shawl in her hand and was trying the both out. I strayed close by, hoping that she would keep the black one back. Silently praying she do so, I kept close, until to our surprise she turned around. She asked us which one looked better to help her decide - the red or the black. Without a thought, we immediately said the red one looked brilliant on her, picking up the black one for ourselves as soon as she billed hers and left.


Gladly smiling after a good purchase, we went to the tea estate and bought a few kilos of tea. It was our final evening in Darjeeling, and I made a mental note to bring back souvenirs for my friends. We stopped by some stores that had intrigued us on our way before. Lhasa store, a shop situated by the leftmost road descending from the central traffic signal at the market, was a good find. It was owned by an elderly couple, and I bought some bracelets, pencil cases and a tapestry. To complete my ceramic collection, I bought a miniature plate the size of my palm in a light sky blue colour with small yellow flowers printed on it.


Bustling market square at night.
Bustling market square at night.

Completely fulfilled, in heart, mind, and stomach, we reached the taxi cab stand. There was a long line of school students on their way back from school. Nobody pushed each other and waited patiently for the cabs to arrive. After what seemed forever, the cabs arrived, the line collapsed instantly and everyone rushed to find their seats. Amidst the humdrum, we managed to find space in the last one and squeezed ourselves into the front seat.


The sun set on the side, and our trip had come to an end. Almost.


The Last Supper


Rebecca invited us for some tea upstairs at her home that evening. Her room was restyled like a rooftop glass house that let in a lot of light with a permanent view of the mountains. An iron trellis balcony lined with flowering plants bordered the room. Books and souvenirs from her various travels adorned her walls. I was drawn to a crocheted coaster and a hand painted plate. She narrated the story behind how she had gotten it from a village family whose home she had stayed in Switzerland. They had offered her anything before she left, and she had asked for the plate. Apparently it was a family heirloom, but they parted with it without a second thought. At tea, we spoke about her first job from being an air hostess to working in the British Council. We conversed about documentaries, filmmaking and writing.


While we were having our tea, a shy boy crossed the room. She introduced him to us as her nephew, Nishu. His grandmother, Rebecca's mother had woken him up from his after school nap and asked to get some milk. He sheepishly carried the milk can reluctantly, being disturbed from his sleep. Rebecca said that he played the piano everyday. It was the first thing she woke up to, as sparrows sat on the trellis twittering to him playing the piano. After getting the milk, he sat by the piano, played a couple of notes, and then disappeared. We were wondering why the music had stopped. Rebecca then called him to play it for longer.



He played some pieces he was learning- Clair de Lune by Claude Debussy. It was the perfect evening - sipping tea to good music. I am quite new to classical music but Kriti immediately recognised the pieces and asked him which one each was. Slowly as she started making conversation about music, his shyness evaporated and he transformed into an enthusiastic kid. His aunt suggested we go for dinner at a nearby restaurant that boasted a treehouse. The treehouse was Nishu's and his sister's favourite, she said. We invited him to join us, and his shy cover came on again, and he refused. Just as we were about to leave, he agreed to accompany us. The boy who started chatting while we left the house, did not stop until we made it back again. School and teenage gossip entertained us for the rest of the meal, we nicknamed the Last supper.


The Last Supper?
The Last Supper?

To twinkling yellow lights that encircled the treehouse, the dark sleepy town seemed like a giant that quietly awakened only in the mornings. The bamboo floor, rattled slightly and it felt like we were up in the air amidst clouds. It took me back to my childhood, to the time with my cousin brother with whom I would play in the balcony after school. Nishu's sister had recently left for boarding school and maybe he saw her in us. Somewhere, we had found a semblance of home in each other. After dinner, we bid adieu, and he excitedly offered to see us off before we left the next morning. The night seemed young, and we walked back skipping the rails of the narrow train track in the dark.


I wanted more of Darjeeling and didn't want to leave, just yet.


----Swarna

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