Kalimpong calls

Kalimpong is one of those places that remains in your mind’s eye long after you’ve left it behind. We were tired of those ‘popular holiday destinations’ where one invariable meets people from the same neighbourhood- where bapi occupies the opposite hotel room, and you bump into all the kakus and kakimas you thought you’d left behind. So we decided to head away from Kalimpong’s core and occupy a place called Morgan House.

Ivy covered, with French windows, entering into Mogan House was like entering into another world altogether. Built by a wealthy Jute merchant for his wife, the house had greyed with age, its wood covered with a veil of creepers. The drawing room’s French windows opened onto a terrace garden- the first broad step conventionally picture perfect with cane chairs on a carpet of green, vibrant canna and bougainvillea dotting the thick hedge. It looks like one of those embossed silk pictures that people frame for their drawing rooms.

But, it was when I stepped out off the quaint picture that I discovered the ‘secret garden’…moss covered steps led into a fragrant wilderness of Azaleas, the flower laden bushes so tall that one could get lost in them. It was here that I learnt a scented secret- the fresh, moist fragrance of Azaleas is so delicate that one can only smell it early in the morning; it seems to evaporate as soon as the sun becomes stronger. So I would make it a point to enter ‘my’ garden as soon as I woke up, and inhale lungfuls of air moist with dew- one of my strongest memories of the place is still an olfactory one.

If you want to spend time with yourself, head for Kalimpong. Enter Morgan House’s second lawn, covered with tiny wild buds (you do feel bad about your posterior squashing them) and sitting under a tree so over laden with white flowers that it droops like the weeping willow, get ready to listen to the sound of silence. With the mountains in front, robed in blue haze, and nobody around, the place is a perfect cocoon- you can actually cut off connections with the madding world.

One of the reasons why the mountains make for great getaways is that there’s a small surprise waiting for you at every turn- tiny mauve flowers peeping out of crevices in the hill side or the sun streaming down on a wooden outhouse covered with yellow flowers, such that you can see the veins of each translucent petal. A little kingfisher on a telephone line- bobbing its rear at you before flying away…a flash of blue and then it’s gone. Most of all- butterflies, I’d forgotten what they looked like and there they were, flitting around taking their own presence for granted.

I tasted the best cup of tea I’ve ever while at Morgan House- they beat Darjeeling at brewing Darjeeling tea. Picture this- a large old fashioned dining room with two walls of glass, and outside you can see…nothing. The clouds have touched down, you’re told by the caretaker as he serves you piping hot aloo ka paratha and tea. Speak of a ‘getaway’ and this is the picture that comes to my mind- deliciously warm inside, with a white candy-floss blanket enveloping you.

Sight-seeing? Horticulture, Buddhist temples, scenic beauty, scenic beauty and more scenic beauty. If you’re a nature lover- feast your eyes. I stored the images in my minds eye as greedily as the camel stores food in its hump. And sure enough, I’ve been starved for greenery ever since. We visited every horticultural garden and nursery there was in the place. The giant blue cacti had my eyeballs popping out of their sockets. Towering above 6 footers, they made people of my humble height seem like Tom Thumbs and Thumbeinas. What had the popped out eyeballs rolling was the price of these giants- 3 and a half to four lakhs each for the smaller ones!

Off to an orchid nursery after that, where each hothouse, apart from its heady fragrance was splashed with myriad colours. It’s here that the actual meaning of ‘exotic beauty’ begins to dawn on a person. The work on the whole is a veritable family business, with the women folk sitting with tub fulls of orchid bulbs, the men folk tending the flowers, and tomato cheeked, semi-clothed children sunning themselves near their mothers.

Ever seen flowers that look like the hands of a Bharatnatyam dancer? They’re Birds of Paradise and are the stuff dreams are made of. The Birds of Paradise nursery was a most interesting one- not least so because of the presence of a toilet, which accounted the disappearing of members of our group from time to time. But by far the best nursery I visited was memorable not so much for the plants grown in it, but because of the sheer beauty of its view. It was in a lady’s garden, and bang in the middle of the lawn the green houses ended to reveal two garden benches, and a tiny cane table set against the backdrop of a panoramic view of the mountains. It was one of those moments when you forget to breathe.

We rode to the place on horseback- my chattering teeth providing ample background music- though a veil of fog which parted at every step to reveal a wee bit more of what we were entering into and closed over the path we had left behind. And suddenly, hanging above me, I would find clumps of fluffy pink flowers, peeping through the veil. I wasn’t supposed to touch them tough- flowers of ill omen, they were used for witch craft said my mounted guide. And suddenly, a window opened into the life of the hills- I got a peep into a world in which beauty could supposedly be mangled into evil. I didn’t protest too much though- with only a horse for support and this man guiding it, I thought it best not to voice my doubts about this ‘fact’.

Buddhist temples are a must-see in Kalimpong. So off we trudged to a hill top temple, huffing and puffing up the steep climb. But if any climb’s worth it, this was the one. Rolling my palm against the prayer wheels to set them spinning, I climbed down the hillside to watch a thousand prayer flags fluttering in the breeze. The sanctum sanctorum of the temple though is cordoned off with walls of glass. Sticking my nose against the glass, I looked into a bubble of silence- a gargantuan idol of the Buddha stared peacefully ahead while a thousand lighted lamps burned at his feet…the peace was almost tangible.

Don’t forget to visit the Graham’s Homes while in the hill station. Its church is a splendid structure, on one side of which your senses get assailed with the heady smell of roses in full bloom. Enter the other side and you’ll have the distinct feeling of having shut the door on one olfactory sensation and opened the door to another- the smell of pine just pervades the air, almost a living presence in the place.

What Kalimpong leaves you with is a series of images, not all of them visual. There’s the smell of Azaleas, the steam coming out of an aloo paratha when one breaks it, the orchestra of silence and touch of fog…moist, you can feel the air you breathe. When you descend down the mountain side, you have the youthful Teesta gurgling and running right beside you, a liquid aquamarine blue. It was the chance to live a dream.

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A poacher’s approach

It was during those two decades of the Bodo movement, that Manas became inaccessible to visitors, the state machinery, and finally in 1992, earned the sobriquet of a ‘World Heritage Site in Danger’. Sixteen years later, I was sitting deep inside the jungle at a forest camp, face to face with a very shy old man, who, the others at the camp tell me was a poacher. He is a forest guard now—has a small hut and an old wife. That’s about as much as he has. And he barely survives. His lot, like the lots of others, has not changed much. Sixteen years back, they had poverty and police to deal with. Now, they at least have peace of mind. It’s ten at night, the jungle is alive with all sorts of sounds, there’s a crackling fire flickering on the faces of everybody who huddles close to it. Everybody at the camp has gathered for a little fireside story.

Yet there is one face, which is so different, almost inert in the crowd. Deeply lined, almost stony. The face of an old man, who now vouches his life to protect the same animals he had once killed. He speaks nothing but the Bodo language. And haltingly he describes a typical hunting scene. I talk to him through an interpretor.

‘The only guns we had were country made ones. And we didn’t have jeeps or anything. We hunted on foot. We would be a group of four to five. All of us armed. And we would roam the forest searching for elephant herds, or rhinos, or tigers. Read more »

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They, as usual came, after it was dark

(Names of Bodo characters have been changed for obvious reasons)

The answer came to me in front of a camp fire one evening, when my friend and guide Sunny told me his story.

It’s been a few years since Help Tourism and Sabyasachi Chakraborty had put their respective resources together to transform a lot of what was lost. The same som plantation where Chakraborty and his family had stayed in a camp, now has four thatched huts—Bodo style. Built of bamboo and mud, and raised on stilts, they look pretty fragile from outside. Inside, there’s a double bed, clean sheets, a bed side table, a centre table, carpeted wooden floors, solar powered lights, an attached toilet with a decent shower, tiled floors and a WC that actually flushes. You get warm fresh food at the canteen, run by the local youths. You get warm water for your bath, delivered at your doorstep by the numerous other young men who have taken it to be their sacred duty to build every inch of this so-called resort in the heart of the jungle. “I built the room where you are staying. And the furniture too”, Sunny tells me. There’s a twinkle in his eyes. Read more »

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Darjeeling tourists run for their lives

The agitation over Gorkhaland was ill timed – tourists were enjoying the beauties of Darjeeling and surrounding areas when the indefinite bandh started. Families got stranded and locals seized the opportunity to fleece them in all sorts of ways. It is all right to have peaceful agitations to press for the demands but when it affects the business potentials of a place, it is certainly not acceptable. The impression that tourists are carrying back with them and the media coverage this is getting spells doom for the tourist potentials of Darjeeling.

We have seen the splitting of other states (Bihar into Jharkhand, MP into Chhattisgarh, UP into Uttaranchal) - the separation of West Bengal into Gorkhaland can be expected over a period of time. The reluctance probably stems from the fact that resources will get shared and, the tourist potentials of Darjeeling is something West Bengal would not like to lose – hence the hesitation. However, harassing the tourists and literally putting them into tears is not an acceptable solution.
 

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Search for my Kolkata – Part – I

During my last visit to Kolkata in November 2007, I somehow managed to keep a few days reserved completely to myself. There were no pending social obligations, and no commitments that would have encroached into my very private domain. Therefore, I decided to go on a search for the Kolkata I knew, the city that I felt sounded better in its earlier version of Calcutta.

I had put up with a relative in Salt Lake. The most sought after destination for the nouveau riche, this reclaimed land has crorepatis by the dozens as also the retired professor or the doctor whose son has made England or America his permanent home – the son comes down occasionally while the parents relax with nothing much to do. They have a whole fleet of servants and the elderly couple moves out of the house to go for a stroll in Banabitan early morning, fully protected with mufflers, great coats etcetera. Banabitan is a huge expanse of greenery meant for relaxation – only, throughout the day, it is taken over by young boys and girls on the lookout for seclusion. Elders find it embarrassing to stroll in its grounds for fear of suddenly finding scenes being enacted – scenes that are appropriate in the privacy of the bedrooms, not in the open, behind some shrubs. Anyway, Salt Lake is a piece of Utopia where air-conditioned cars move silently side by side with cycle rickshaws and auto rickshaws. The IT parks are in Sector-5 of this empire and the City Centre has food malls where people spend five thousand rupees just to chill out for an hour or so while there are families who survive on five thousand rupees as monthly budget.

I walked down to Karunamoyee and took a bus to Hatibagan – I wanted to experience the Kolkata of old that, I was told, still existed in the Shambazar-College Street belt with Hatibagan at the centre. The large buildings carried with them the legacies of their ancestors and, in spite of sprawling multiplexes and multi storied buildings mushrooming elsewhere in the city, the sky here in the North is visible to people on the streets. The people, also, carry their distinct identities, the identity of domesticated Bengalis. This is evident in the wares on display on the footpaths on either side of the road. The road is the Cornwallis Street, later renamed as the Bidhan Sarani. I got off the bus at Hatibagan bazaar – the bus fare was five rupees and fifty paise, in Nasik this distance would have costed me at least twelve rupees. Then I stood for a couple of minutes taking in the surrounding sights and wondering which way I should move – yes, I wanted to travel on foot and absorb the magic of a city forgotten. If I took the right turn, I would be going towards Shambazar; if I took the left turn, I would proceed towards College Street. I took the right turn.

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