PART 5: Tsomgo: A Sense of Perspective
June 5
Written at The Marigold, Gangtok
5:10 AM
There she is: Kanchendzhonga, her golden summit uncrowned and still obscured by clouds, towering above her neighbours, making them look like puny hills. She weaves her own spellbinding magic, a magic so powerful that it makes me immobile and rooted where I stand. I insult her by gazing at her through the cheap binoculars I've hastily borrowed from the Bengali kid from the family that stays next door. It's the best I can do; and I keep on staring until the weather gods decide to end the vision by dispatching their favorite handymen: thick, dark clouds that serve as a poignant reminder as to how fickle life in the mountains can be. Sigh. I have a long day ahead.
Later.
It's eight in the morning and our driver still hasn't shown up. A short walk to the travel agent follows, who informs us that he's on the lookout for the other passengers who will share our Jeep. Uh Huh. Our fellow travelers arrive soon; horror of horrors, a Punjabi family that inexplicably converses in Bangla and a Bihari newlywed couple who're all over each other. I quickly make for the front seat and wait apprehensively for the driver to start.
The journey begins well; I ransack the driver's dashboard compartment and fish out some Nepali folk music that's actually very pleasant. My fellow NITKians nod in approval; this is some good music. The Bihari doesn't think so, and murmurs noises of dissent to Seal, trying unsuccessfully to find a fellow comrade-at-arms. After fifteen minutes, the Bihari in him cannot bear it any longer and he surreptitiously passes on a tape across the car. It changes many hands across the Punjabi family and finally lands up with me. I turn the tape over and almost pass out: In bold, red letters printed across the cover, I see a semi-naked Priyanka Chopra and the titles blaring out Aitraaz.I quietly ease the tape and bury it beneath the others presumably waiting in line to be played.
The Bihari will have none of it. 'Kyon, play karo na, yeh Nepali mujik ko hum log kaise sun sakte hain?' I panic. Though I'm warmly dressed, I've sadly forgotten to pack a few wads of cotton. The threat of listening to Aitraaz looms nearer, until I realize there's no escape. I reluctantly slide it into the deck and experience the most horrific aural assault in the past few years. When we stop for our first break at this village called Rongli, I stagger out, nauseated and sick, after having shaken my head every which way to avoid the sudden shrieks and the weird 'Ooh Aah, Let me Touch you Baby', which puzzlingly appeared thrice in a male, female and the now obligatory remix version. The roads weren't that great either; I'm on the hunt for a barf bag. Seal experiences a brainwave and comes back laden with a pile of Laungs . Apparently, constantly munching on them relieves one of altitude sickness. Thank God for home remedies. Break over, I occupy the back seat only to realize that there isn't enough legroom for someone half my size, making me huddle in a weird Houdini-like contortionist's pose. If this isn't enough, the Punjabi passes on a tape to the driver who plays it without any second thoughts. Crash!Boom!Bang!. The bone-jarring intro to 'Dhoom Machale' shocks my brain out of its skull. I steel myself for a testy journey.
Th four-wheel drive eats up the many hairpins and blind turns without any semblance of fuss; our Nepali driver is amazingly competent and never seems to use the brake, preferring to stick to solely the accelerator to speed up or slow down. While we engineers marvel at his dexterity, the Punjabi starts shitting bricks for no reason at all. Holding the jeep's side hand-grips like a kid that clutches stubbornly onto its Mother's Pallu, he starts muttering incoherently about things like 'danger' and our collective precious lives. His wife is visibly red-faced and even his kids cringe in embarassment. Turns out Pappa isn't such a hero after all. Our man is not bothered; for the remainder of the trip, he's in his own world, mumbling 'Jai Mata Di' aloud every few seconds.
Meanwhile, 'Dhoom' having been duly endured and packed, I settle down to enjoy my drive. The deciduous trees of the lower heights have slowly given way to the conifers, which envelope the steep slopes in waves. Soon, the conifer line dies down and is replaced by hardy shrubbery and rocky outcrops, a tell-tale sign of rapidly-increasing altitude. We are passing through one of India's most spectacular and other-worldly landscapes, comparable in its barren splendor to only the Greater Himalayas in Ladakh and Kashmir. An hour later, having passed by the camps of many of the army's elite mountain brigades and the very unique 'Babaji ka Mandir', we reach Lake Tsomgo (pronounced Tchongu), at an altitude of 13,500 feet.
Tsomgo introduces one to a newer sense of scale. I'm made to feel bitingly aware of how puny I actually am, as I stand dwarfed, cradled on all four sides by towering peaks that are made to look even larger by their reflections in the crystal clear waters of this remote mountain lake. The wind suddenly starts to howl out of nowhere, speaking incomprehensible nothings in sibilant whispers. We zip up our jackets right to the top and pull on monkey caps and start tottering all around the place in the bitter cold. I stroll about to a Tibetan shop selling artifacts and curios and buy myself a serene image of the Maitreya Buddha, an almost totemic symbol of Tibetan culture, making a mental note to hang it near my table when I'd move into my hostel room at the end of the month.
We then chance upon a snowbank that seems to have been fashioned into a neat slide after being trod upon throughout the afternoon by the endless streams of the Bengali Undivided Family. At Last. We play in the snow like frenzied schoolkids seeing something new for the first time ever (which is erm...actually true) and make a huge ruckus pelting each other with snowballs before our driver beckons to us. After gazing long and hard at the lake and the surroundings and unsuccessfully searching for The Truth, rumored by many to be floating around here and there in the mountains, waiting to be discovered by idle young men, we are ready to hit the road again.
Our return journey is amazing; I guess most return journeys are, what with that sense of achievement safely ensconced in your heart and a feeling of relief and satisfaction at a journey almost sucessfully completed. We are serenaded into the Sikkimese sunset by a cassette containing Nepali Rock Ballads that our driver pulls out of nowhere. I'm really impressed; the tape contains some superb hooks, chord progressions and melodies, and every song is punctuated and underlined in the middle by an excellent and skilled guitar solo. The four of us start singing along heartily with the chorus, unmindful of the withering glances our fellow passengers shoot at us.
After all, two can play the Antakshari game. *wicked grin*
Written at The Marigold, Gangtok
5:10 AM
There she is: Kanchendzhonga, her golden summit uncrowned and still obscured by clouds, towering above her neighbours, making them look like puny hills. She weaves her own spellbinding magic, a magic so powerful that it makes me immobile and rooted where I stand. I insult her by gazing at her through the cheap binoculars I've hastily borrowed from the Bengali kid from the family that stays next door. It's the best I can do; and I keep on staring until the weather gods decide to end the vision by dispatching their favorite handymen: thick, dark clouds that serve as a poignant reminder as to how fickle life in the mountains can be. Sigh. I have a long day ahead.
Later.
It's eight in the morning and our driver still hasn't shown up. A short walk to the travel agent follows, who informs us that he's on the lookout for the other passengers who will share our Jeep. Uh Huh. Our fellow travelers arrive soon; horror of horrors, a Punjabi family that inexplicably converses in Bangla and a Bihari newlywed couple who're all over each other. I quickly make for the front seat and wait apprehensively for the driver to start.
The journey begins well; I ransack the driver's dashboard compartment and fish out some Nepali folk music that's actually very pleasant. My fellow NITKians nod in approval; this is some good music. The Bihari doesn't think so, and murmurs noises of dissent to Seal, trying unsuccessfully to find a fellow comrade-at-arms. After fifteen minutes, the Bihari in him cannot bear it any longer and he surreptitiously passes on a tape across the car. It changes many hands across the Punjabi family and finally lands up with me. I turn the tape over and almost pass out: In bold, red letters printed across the cover, I see a semi-naked Priyanka Chopra and the titles blaring out Aitraaz.I quietly ease the tape and bury it beneath the others presumably waiting in line to be played.
The Bihari will have none of it. 'Kyon, play karo na, yeh Nepali mujik ko hum log kaise sun sakte hain?' I panic. Though I'm warmly dressed, I've sadly forgotten to pack a few wads of cotton. The threat of listening to Aitraaz looms nearer, until I realize there's no escape. I reluctantly slide it into the deck and experience the most horrific aural assault in the past few years. When we stop for our first break at this village called Rongli, I stagger out, nauseated and sick, after having shaken my head every which way to avoid the sudden shrieks and the weird 'Ooh Aah, Let me Touch you Baby', which puzzlingly appeared thrice in a male, female and the now obligatory remix version. The roads weren't that great either; I'm on the hunt for a barf bag. Seal experiences a brainwave and comes back laden with a pile of Laungs . Apparently, constantly munching on them relieves one of altitude sickness. Thank God for home remedies. Break over, I occupy the back seat only to realize that there isn't enough legroom for someone half my size, making me huddle in a weird Houdini-like contortionist's pose. If this isn't enough, the Punjabi passes on a tape to the driver who plays it without any second thoughts. Crash!Boom!Bang!. The bone-jarring intro to 'Dhoom Machale' shocks my brain out of its skull. I steel myself for a testy journey.
Th four-wheel drive eats up the many hairpins and blind turns without any semblance of fuss; our Nepali driver is amazingly competent and never seems to use the brake, preferring to stick to solely the accelerator to speed up or slow down. While we engineers marvel at his dexterity, the Punjabi starts shitting bricks for no reason at all. Holding the jeep's side hand-grips like a kid that clutches stubbornly onto its Mother's Pallu, he starts muttering incoherently about things like 'danger' and our collective precious lives. His wife is visibly red-faced and even his kids cringe in embarassment. Turns out Pappa isn't such a hero after all. Our man is not bothered; for the remainder of the trip, he's in his own world, mumbling 'Jai Mata Di' aloud every few seconds.
Meanwhile, 'Dhoom' having been duly endured and packed, I settle down to enjoy my drive. The deciduous trees of the lower heights have slowly given way to the conifers, which envelope the steep slopes in waves. Soon, the conifer line dies down and is replaced by hardy shrubbery and rocky outcrops, a tell-tale sign of rapidly-increasing altitude. We are passing through one of India's most spectacular and other-worldly landscapes, comparable in its barren splendor to only the Greater Himalayas in Ladakh and Kashmir. An hour later, having passed by the camps of many of the army's elite mountain brigades and the very unique 'Babaji ka Mandir', we reach Lake Tsomgo (pronounced Tchongu), at an altitude of 13,500 feet.
Tsomgo introduces one to a newer sense of scale. I'm made to feel bitingly aware of how puny I actually am, as I stand dwarfed, cradled on all four sides by towering peaks that are made to look even larger by their reflections in the crystal clear waters of this remote mountain lake. The wind suddenly starts to howl out of nowhere, speaking incomprehensible nothings in sibilant whispers. We zip up our jackets right to the top and pull on monkey caps and start tottering all around the place in the bitter cold. I stroll about to a Tibetan shop selling artifacts and curios and buy myself a serene image of the Maitreya Buddha, an almost totemic symbol of Tibetan culture, making a mental note to hang it near my table when I'd move into my hostel room at the end of the month.
We then chance upon a snowbank that seems to have been fashioned into a neat slide after being trod upon throughout the afternoon by the endless streams of the Bengali Undivided Family. At Last. We play in the snow like frenzied schoolkids seeing something new for the first time ever (which is erm...actually true) and make a huge ruckus pelting each other with snowballs before our driver beckons to us. After gazing long and hard at the lake and the surroundings and unsuccessfully searching for The Truth, rumored by many to be floating around here and there in the mountains, waiting to be discovered by idle young men, we are ready to hit the road again.
Our return journey is amazing; I guess most return journeys are, what with that sense of achievement safely ensconced in your heart and a feeling of relief and satisfaction at a journey almost sucessfully completed. We are serenaded into the Sikkimese sunset by a cassette containing Nepali Rock Ballads that our driver pulls out of nowhere. I'm really impressed; the tape contains some superb hooks, chord progressions and melodies, and every song is punctuated and underlined in the middle by an excellent and skilled guitar solo. The four of us start singing along heartily with the chorus, unmindful of the withering glances our fellow passengers shoot at us.
After all, two can play the Antakshari game. *wicked grin*