Yesterday I was in Sikkim, and It was Beautiful…

Yesterday I was in Sikkim, and it was beautiful…

The mountain roads from Bagdogra to Gangtok ran parallel to the Teesta, narrowed and muddied with silt, yet playful in the few rapids. In Gangtok, the road mirrored the cheerful bustle of the capital city. M.G. Road was kept free for pedestrians only, who walked down the cobbled road going from one shop to the other. The colourful display of flowers in the centre of the road along the entire stretch, the inviting whiff from the bakeries and bright painted doors of the restaurants make it one of the most charming tourist spots. 

The traffic on the city roads seemed to follow the rules which ought to be obvious yet are oblivious in the metros- no honking, strict adherence to the traffic lights and sticking to lanes. The traffic cops were seen managing efficiently the fair share of traffic that Gangtok gets from the tourists. Sikkim uses AI Traffic Management System to enforce traffic discipline that detects violations, validates documents and issues eChallans immediately. They have long been enforcing odd-even vehicle rule for both public and private vehicles in Gangtok, restricting the number of taxi and tourist permits and utilising real time drones to monitor traffic flow, preventing bottlenecks and assisting emergency vehicles in navigating congestion.

As the road curved out of the city and into the higher terrains, unspoken rules seemed to follow. Sikkim restricts personal vehicles at certain places, ensuring local drivers and guides with permits to lead the tourists. The road, the car and the driver were one entity, travelling together. Steady speed, no unnecessary overtaking. The witty signboards of BRO offered a humourous twist to the often treacherous trails- Driving is Risky after Whiskey and Be careful on my Curves. 

Road from Lachung to Zero Point

Yesterday I was in Sikkim, and it was beautiful…

The drivers in Sikkim had two Lords of the Roads- one was the Dog. No dog in Sikkim moved out of the way for the cars. The cars had to go around them. No complaints, no fuss. Every car in Sikkim had a sticker- Be Kind to Animals. It is not an imposition; it is the natural way of cohabitation and respect for all forms of life. 

The second was Lord Alto. We were unfamiliar with the joke that had its origin in a viral reel from a car rally in Atal Setu of Manali and found this rather amusing- the underdog, 800 cc Alto has been found to be able to traverse every possible road and terrain. While most of the vehicles of the mountain roads were SUVs, sighting of an Alto between the heavyweights was not surprising for the drivers in Sikkim who hailed this vehicle, Lord Alto!

Be Kind to Animals and hail Lord Alto

Yesterday I was in Sikkim, and it was beautiful…

The foliage changed with height. During our visit in March, the rhododendrons, the state tree of Sikkim were just starting to cover the valley in a crimson hue. The Orchidarium in Gangtok was a one-of-a-kind museum with greenhouse providing a glimpse into hundreds of variants of orchid. The Yumthang valley was still bare, and the yaks were grazing in the lower levels. Soon the valley would be covered in a sea of purple primulas. Every house, big-small, old-new, finished-unfinished, along the way had a small garden or potted plants on narrow terraces, gleaming with multitudes of colours. 

On the way to Zero Point from Lachung, the cold desert appeared starkly bare and ominous after the cheerful vegetation of the rest of the state. Yet, the view of the snow-capped conifers in the distance was deliciously reminiscent of a dense chocolate cake with frosting! They say that the trees shed their snow all together one day, and that marks the onset of Summer in Sikkim. 

Rhododendrons

North Sikkim enroute Zero Point

Yesterday I was in Sikkim, and it was beautiful…

In Gangtok, and at several other small towns that we passed, school children of all ages were seen walking back from schools in groups. Rosy cheeks, pigtailed hair, a sleeveless sweater or a light jacket as a part of their uniforms with backpacks. As we spotted some older students in uniforms, we were surprised to learn that in Sikkim, even colleges had uniforms to ensure a level of discipline and equality. 

The motif of The Four Harmonious Friends comprising of an elephant, a monkey, a rabbit and a bird can be found across the state as sculptures, engravings and paintings. A story from the Jataka Tales, it emphasizes that different people coexist while helping each other, putting the needs of others before self.

The Four Harmonious Friends

Yesterday I was in Sikkim, and it was beautiful…

Most of our Sikkim trivia was based on the conversations with our driver-cum-guide, Sanjay. He had his own travel company, had been driving tourists around for almost 9 years, had vast knowledge and immense pride for his home. For 6 months a year, he drove around tourists and for the remaining 6 months, mainly during the monsoon and winter months, he took it easy at home, catching up on his exercise, movies and sleep. Life was happy. Here, the drivers are given free entry to tourist places when they first open like the Orchidarium, the ropeways and the bird parks. This allows them to gain first-hand knowledge that they can impart to the tourists. While nowhere do the shop owners follow you around and insist that you buy things, the guides have to take the tourists to the state owned handicraft museum in Gangtok to showcase and promote their wares. 

Yesterday I was in Sikkim, and it was beautiful…

Leaves, green, brown and golden lined the roads. At almost every 500m, we came across dustbins. The flowers of Sikkim, red, crimson, pink, violet, yellow, orange and white were only to be appreciated on the trees and shrubs. Nobody is allowed to throw trash on the Sikkim roads. Nobody is allowed to pluck flowers. Nobody is allowed to feed monkeys on roadside. Plastic bottles are not allowed in North Sikkim. Anybody witnessing littering or plucking flowers can take a photograph and report to the concerned authorities ensuring a fine. 

Flowers of Sikkim

Yesterday I was in Sikkim, and it was beautiful…

Flowers were not the only entities adding colours to Sikkim’s palette. The prayer flags lined the roads, houses, vehicles, bridges, mountain passes and monasteries. The five colours symbolize the natural elements- white for wind, yellow for earth, green for water, blue for sky and red for fire… billow in unison, singing in the wind. 

We sometimes passed a group of white prayer flags on tall bamboos in rows. These were 108 flags erected in memory of the departed souls. Our car once stopped on the road, allowing a procession to pass. This is followed everywhere in Sikkim when a village carries its dead, upright in a small cuboid box, for his final journey.

Yumthang Valley

Prayer flags across the valley

Yesterday I was in Sikkim, and it was beautiful…

Om Mani Padme Hum, the deep, meditative chant echoed in the very air of Sikkim. The day’s journey would begin with this prayer. The monasteries were clean and quiet, silently expecting the same from the tourists. The monks playing cricket and dancing to popular songs was a jolly sight. In Enchay monastery, you could offer anything to the deities which included the usual fresh water, butter lamps, incense, fruits, and foods but we were most surprised to find bottles of Absolute, Old Monk and HIT offered at the altar! It is what you share happily with your heart that matters!

The devotion here goes beyond the traditional religious practices. Devotion is to the holy land itself. For the Bhutia and the Lepcha tribes of Sikkim, Kanchenjunga is the divine God, and no mortal must set foot on its summit. An Austrian team once attempted to conquer the 3^rd highest peak in the world, but they too stopped 10 meters short of the summit to respect the beliefs of the natives.

The game must go on

Buddha Park, Pelling

Yesterday I was in Sikkim, and it was beautiful…

The clean air that we were breathing seemed to clear not only our exhausted lungs but also make unusual space for unending food in our bellies. Momos were best at small, roadside joints run by ever smiling women. They ranged from the usual chicken and cheese momos to mouthwatering pork and jhol momos. Thupkas, while we ate them day in and day out, seemed to always taste good and better than the previous place. Yak cheese or Chhurpi is a delicacy that must be tried. Tibetan specialities of Shyaphale, Bhakthuk and Thenthuk were novel yet comforting in a strange way. Even the smallest of shops provided the essential mountain food Maggi in cute, decorative bowls.  

Thupka 

Momos and more

Yesterday I was in Sikkim, and it was beautiful…

The season changed from day to day and even during the same day. A warm sunny afternoon would give way to a foggy, wet drive through the mist and rain without an ounce of visibility. A day long drive to North Sikkim was followed by a night spent in a fantastic resort but without electricity in the entire town and a group of super helpful staff…and a breathtaking sight of a sky full of stars. A sweaty, hectic hike was rewarded with a blast of chilling wind hitting your face on reaching the top. A road closure due to sudden snowfall led to a serendipitous detour from Nathu La and Changu/Tsongmo to Pelling. A grey day of pouring rain was followed by a crystal clear morning with white wisps of cloud patiently parting to give the best view of the majestic Kanchenjunga. 

Rainy day

A sky full of stars

Yesterday I was in Sikkim and it was beautiful…

The warmth extended beyond the food bowls. Tashi Dalek, the local phrase for namaste or welcome is also the name of one of the oldest hotels in Gangtok. A cup of Irish coffee on the rooftop restaurant of this hotel, a golden sunset and a cool drizzle, Sikkim was like an old friend embracing you. The people here were not only helpful, they took pride in their local culture and enthusiastically shared the knowledge. The police at check points would smile and enquire about your trip while checking the permits. Hotel staff would go out of their way to make sure you get a good view of their Kanchenjunga. 

Football holds an important place in their hearts with Baichung being revered by all. Women here are extremely hard working and are often seen in professions attributed to the XY sex by the tier 1 city folks. Traffic policing, restaurants, road and dam construction and clearing of landslides are handled efficiently by women who are seeing carrying both boulders and babies with the same skill and ease. Life is hard but people are also built harder.

Irish coffee and sunsets

Alpenglow

Yesterday I was in Sikkim and it was beautiful…

Is it strange that I would pray that it remains intact as my yesterday, like a time I have captured inside a snow globe? Can I turn it over in my heart and watch the white snowflakes fall softly and cover the unmistakable tip of the Kanchenjunga, the blue and grey raindrops patter down on a looping road, the golden sun rays falter down a vast valley, the green leaves swing off the tender boughs and the crimson rhododendrons blush gleefully to make me fall for them over and over again? Sikkim may change for the better tomorrow, and I may visit it again, but the Sikkim of my yesterday will be the most beautiful it ever was…

Mount Kanchenjunga

MS

The Rescue

Bhuban was not the studious type but in the past few days his father, Shankar, noticed a big change in him. He would wake up on his own, get dressed, pack his school bag and also eat the drab panta bhaat (fermented rice) for breakfast without a fuss. Shankar just prayed and hoped the boy would continue with this routine henceforth. He was a very gentle father and never ever raised his voice or hand on Bhuvan, no matter what the boy did. He had lost his wife Sabitri in a tragic road accident a couple of years ago. Unable to hide his emotions, Shankar asked the boy, “How is your mastaar-moshai?”

The boy looked surprised and said, “I don’t know.”

“Why? You must be meeting your teacher every day.”

“No, Baba. I go to the school but don’t attend the classes. My friends and I go to the forest area adjoining the school. There we see a big mother elephant feeding her new born calf and after sometime the baby elephant comes walking to us and plays with us.”

“And the mother elephant allows that?”

“Yes. She just keeps a watchful eye on the baby, and if he wanders afar, she blows her trumpet loudly. The baby immediately returns to the mother on hearing the call. It is so much more fun watching this than going to the classroom and listening to mastaar-moshai shouting at us.”

“So, I take you and your friends to school every morning across the Teesta River for you to do all this? How will you go to the next level if you do not attend the classes.”

Mother and child
 Picture courtesy Internet

“Baba, let us go to school quickly. My friends must be waiting for you.”

Shankar started walking with Bhuban in tow. They reached the spot where his fishing boat was kept ready by his assistant Rehmat. The five school boys were taken to the other side of a fast-flowing river by the two fishermen. After the children went towards the school, the duo tied the boat to the trunk of a big tree nearby and waited for the current in the tide to subside a bit before going out to catch fish. It was not safe to go fishing at this time.

The boys reached the school. They went to their classroom, dropped their bags on the benches there, and rushed out to the nearby forest to meet their friend Shombhu, a name they had coined for the little pachyderm. The boys had brought their tiffin boxes with them and opened the same after reaching a clear spot where they all sat in a semi-circle. Shombhu saw the five friends and started walking towards them. He went to each one of them, stopped there, raised his trunk gently and then placed it before the children as if saying, “Give!”. The boys would put a little food on his trunk which would be immediately devoured in one go. Since this was a daily affair, the mama elephant stood nearby and watched the kids at play.

Suddenly, a roaring sound came from the forest and the mother was immediately on an alert mode. She turned towards the direction from where the roar came. The boys, too, heard the noise and stood up to run, leaving their tiffin boxes on the ground. The only person who seemed oblivious of the lurking danger was Shombhu who quickly went from box to box to gobble up the remaining food. Meanwhile, the mother elephant started moving towards the deep end of the forest to make sure the predator did not dare come near her baby. She trumpeted loudly a number of times, signalling to her own herd, who were somewhere close, to come to her aid. As the mama elephant moved, the boys also panicked and started running towards the river even though they knew very well that Royal Bengal tigers were good swimmers too. There was no other direction they could think of to escape.

The herd

Seeing the kids run, Shombhu also started following them, thinking this was a part of a game they were playing with him. With no sign of his mother, he too was enjoying the unobstructed run. Bhuban and his friends ran faster than ever and some of their slippers fell off their feet. But with a possible tiger on your back, saving your life was far more important than some ordinary slippers. After running for some time, they reached the riverfront and then looked behind for the first time. They did not see any tiger coming but a few minutes later saw Shombhu appear. He came close to the boys and joined them in their laughter by shaking his head rapidly from side to side.

One of the boys, Litton, decided to go to the water and wet his feet. The other boys followed. Watching the boys jumping and splashing water on each other, Shombhu, went towards them to join the fun. He, too, liked the cold water overflowing on to the shore kissing his ‘tiny’ jumbo feet. Frolicking in the running water was so much more fun than his usual bathing place in a small pond where his mother took him daily. The fun time at the waterfront changed when Shombhu heard his mother trumpeting repeatedly. The baby did not know which way to go and mistakenly started walking towards the deeper end of the water. The boys started shouting at him, “Come back… come back you fool. The river is too deep and you will get lost! Your mama is calling you and you need to come ashore.”

Shombhu kept moving and suddenly found himself floating in the water. He realised that that he could swim. He felt happy at this newly acquired skill. He started venturing deeper and farther from the shore where the current was even faster. He soon realised that he was no longer swimming. He was getting carried away involuntarily. Bhuban saw his father and Rehmat Chacha sitting under a tree, smoking bidi. He shouted… “Baba, help… come quickly. Shombhu is getting carried away in the river.” Shankar heard his son’s cry and looked in the direction Bhuban was pointing. Shankar saw a small trunk jutting from the water and knew the danger the baby elephant was in. He quickly opened the rope tied to the boat and with Rehmat’s help, pushed it into the water. The duo jumped in and started rowing the boat as fast as they could. While rowing towards the baby, they shouted to their fellow fishermen in the vicinity to come to their aid. Some of them responded and Bhuban could now see at least three boats going towards Shombhu who was trying his best to keep his trunk above the water surface while being dragged downstream. By now the mother elephant, too, had come to the river front and realised what was happening. She rushed into the water and started swimming quickly towards her baby.

The three boats with two fishermen in each took almost half an hour to reach close to Shombhu after rowing at a pace they had never done before. They approached Shombhu from three sides and threw their nets over him. These nets were meant to catch small fish in the river but they were all handmade and reasonably strong but not strong enough to hold an elephant. However, the nets slowed Shombu greatly and the boatmen locked his free flow. One fisherman from each boat jumped into the river and started lifting Shumbu atop Shankar’s boat. The baby elephant weighed a lot and despite their best efforts, they were able to lift him a little and then he would splash down. Then a miracle happened. They found Shombhu getting lifted from under the water on his own. Soon the fishermen realised that the mother had arrived and she was standing beneath Shombhu, who was now dragged up onto Shankar’s boat. Shankar freed the baby from the nets and was happy to see Shombhu opening his eyes and breathing. The boats returned ashore where the children were anxiously waiting for their friend. By now the entire school had come to know about the rescue act and crowded along the riverfront. They cheered aloud as Shombhu got off the boat and soon after his mother walked out of the water. The mother went to the baby and all could feel the emotions the giant mama was going through as she kept rubbing her trunk over the baby’s back over and over again as the calf nestled against his mother.

Happy Shombhu thanking his saviors
Picture courtesy Internet

The happy children returned home in Shankar’s boat. Next day they were back in the forest area playing with Shombhu. Bhuban had seen reels of Ganapati festival being celebrated and he told his friends that they should also celebrate the festival in the school. They hatched an immediate plan and after a while when the bell rang for midday meal, all the school kids came out of their classes. They saw Shombhu with lots of garlands round his neck, sitting near the entrance of the school gate. The teachers also saw the sight and allowed the children to skip the remaining classes to enjoy the impromptu festival organised by Bhuban and friends. The local purohit was also called in and the villagers gathered with fruits and sweets and served them to Shombhu who ate them all. A local DJ happily joined the fun and started playing loud music. The kids danced madly to the beat while Shombhu sat sweetly enjoying the attention and loads of good food. At the end of it the boys led Shombhu back to his mother who was waiting at the edge of the forest.

Later in the evening, Shankar and Bhuban went back to their own home across the river. They found the postman waiting for them with a letter and asked Shankar to sign his register. The postman explained that this was a special post for Shankar and not an ordinary letter. After the postman left, Shankar opened the envelope and found a letter from National Insurance stating that they had settled the accidental death of Sabitri Devi. Shankar found a cheque with Rs 10,00,000 (ten lakhs) attached to the letter. He hugged Bhuban tight, kissed him and they both went to the altar where a few pictures and idols of gods and goddesses were kept in their home. Both said short silent prayers and kept talking into the night recalling the good times they had before Bhuban’s mother’s sudden and untimely demise.

Next day, Shankar went to a photography shop in the nearby town. Later, when Bhuban came home, he showed him a framed picture of Shombhu with garlands, dressed as Lord Ganapati placed on the elevated asana there. Bhuban put his hands in the air and shouted, “Gonopoti Bappa Moriya!”

SS

NB. This is a fictitious story woven around a real-life rescue of a baby elephant in the Teesta recently by five fishermen in Jalpaiguri District of West Bengal.

Conversations with My Youth

August 24, 2031, The Ghost of My Youth Past

“Do you miss me?”

I smile faintly. Turn the volume up of the Recap Playlist as I continue driving down the familiar road. Avril Lavigne’s ‘Complicated’ fades into the background as the voice of RJ 2014 takes over. 

“Do you miss the days you were riding the red scooty instead of this four-wheeled seat belt equipped vehicle?”

“A little. Sometimes.”

“And what about the days when you could bunk the classes without applying for leave a month in advance?”

“I don’t need to now.”

“You didn’t need to then either. You did it anyway. What about your gang? Are they still as crazy?”

“When we meet once a year, yes. For that night.” My gaze lingers on my phone propped up on the holder on the windshield. Seven familiar faces grin back at me from India Gate, eyes crinkled, arms over each other’s shoulders. The hair is all black, messed up by the wind that day.

“Does JK come for the reunions?

I nod with a smirk, knowing very well she knows the answer.

“Do you regret saying no to him?”

“No.”

“How come?”

“He’s happy. I’m happy. We are both happy meeting each other when we do.”

“What about Shalini? Are you guys finally talking to each other?”

“Of course! You really think we would hold that grudge for so long? She is coming to India next month.”

“Do you miss me?”

I sigh, tap my screen for the next track. 

The drums start playing the familiar tune.

Those were the best days of my life.

 

July 20, 2026, The Ghost of My Youth Present

“Does it hurt?”

What kind of a question is that? Ya, of course it does. I just got beaten up with a lathi for the first time in my life!

“What were you thinking? I told you, don’t go, there could be trouble.”

I look up incredulously at the blatant untruth.

“No, you did not. You said, I must go. What has happened, what is happening, it’s all wrong. If we don’t do anything now, this will keep happening. Take your camera and microphone. Somebody must report the truth.”

“I was just being supportive. Since obviously you have not told your parents, I thought it would be good to stand by you. I most definitely did not ask you to go to the frontline and keep recording like an idiot.”

“Bah! I must have been crazy to listen to you. Now stop pestering, I have no signal on my phone. I need to find my friends, find internet service, edit and upload the videos ASAP. Then I have to clean up and come back.”

“Come back?”

“Yes! This is just the beginning. You’ve done the damage. You dragged me here in the first place. You better not back out now. Just come with me.”

“Oh great! Now it’s my fault?”

“Ya, you and all your other ‘spirit friends’. How else do you think this crowd gathered

here?”

“Fine. Do as you please. You’ll regret it.”

“No, I won’t. And neither will you.” I wink, scramble up on my feet, brush the dust off my torn jeans and plug in the wired earphones.

Kuch kar guzarne ko, khoon chala, khoon chala…

 

October 4, 2005, The Ghost of My Youth Future

“Do you recognize me?”

I look up from my desk. I need to finish my homework so that I can go down to play with my friends.

“No. Who let you in?”

“No one needs to. I am you, but few years down the line.”

Brilliant. I have been making up games and playing alone for far too long to get upset or scared. 

“Ok. So, when is J.K. Rowling releasing the final book?”

“Tsk! Child. You meet your future self and this is the question you choose to ask? Don’t you want to know what you will become when you grow up?”

“No, but since you mention it, I already know that I will become an author.”

“Ha! Right, we’ll see. Do you want to know who you will vote for when you become eligible?”

“No, that was your job. It’s not my time yet. I do not even know the candidates now. What is the point of knowing at this stage? Good for you that you’ve got it all figured out.”

“Figured out? No, I haven’t. That is why I need to tell you. So that you don’t make any mistakes.”

“Nah! Not fair. Not interested. But what else have you got? How many mistakes do I make in my final mathematics examination? Can you tell me the questions?”

“I don’t remember all these trivial details. It really does not matter. Alright fine, the final book of Harry Potter will be released in 2007 and you will get it on the first day. I will tell you this though… do not read the books ‘The Diary of a Young Girl’, ‘1984’, ‘A Thousand Splendid Suns’, ‘I Am Malala’…”

“Stop! Stop! What are you talking about? What books are these? I have already read Anne Frank’s Diary, but I don’t have the others.”

“Some are yet to be written…”

“I am not going to remember these names.”

“Oh, you will. Just don’t read them, okay? They will ban them eventually but just don’t read them before that.”

“Oooo! So you have read them?”

“Yes…but…”

“Then I can’t really change that, can I? And why shouldn’t I? Do I have to be a certain age before I am allowed to?” I giggle.

“I am trying to help you. Listen to me.”

“Sure. I won’t. Are you done?”

“You’ve already memorized the names, haven’t you? You will do exactly what you are told not to, won’t you?” 

“Aah, but you already know that. After all, you are me. Bye!”

I turn around and leave. That went exactly as it should have. I smile and walk away from my old room. I hear my old CD player behind the closed door.

We don’t need no education. We don’t need no thought control.

MS

Magic of the Hands

 Year: 2076 AD

After having served almost four glorious decades in various government departments and thereafter having lived a happy life with his family, it was time for Roopchand to depart. He was placed in a completely India made rocket and the take off was perfect. As he passed the earth’s troposphere, he opened his eyes and looked down once last time at the planet that he had tried to make better in his illustrious career. Sorry, it cannot be a planet, maybe a country or better a state that was his own and having worked in over seventy-five departments, he was assured of an unchallenged entry through the Pearly Gates. All his credentials had been vetted well in advance and he was embraced by His Holiness St. Peter who had a huge key dangling from his waist as he said, “Welcome Son. We look forward to you spending time in heaven in complete peace. No work, no worries, just rest in peace as they say there.”

After a good night’s sleep, Roop headed straight to the Heavenly Dining Hall. It was the cleanest place he had ever seen and decorated beautifully with flowers and shrubs on the outside. He picked up the tab on the table and selected a continental breakfast for himself. In no time three tiny spacecrafts landed on his table, dropped three plates with food and flew back to a place that possibly was the kitchen. Roop loved his food and was delighted when he took the first bite of the hotdog. He just could not hide the joy of eating the freshly made, delicious food with its gentle aroma. He next started eating the club sandwich. He had eaten this many a times at some of the top restaurants but none could match the taste of this sandwich. He could see the layers of fresh chicken, cheese, lettuce and tomato with a fine touch of mustard sauce. Roop felt full but he remembered what his mother had told him years ago of not wasting a morsel of the food that has been served. So, he now drew the plate with the apple pancake. One little bite and Roop’s head was completely blown off, “Is this for real?” he exclaimed.

Roop returned to his room overlooking a beautiful lake which was the biggest that he had ever seen. It stretched from east to west and north to south, much beyond his eyes could reach. The breeze blew gently and the birds sang melodiously. He fell asleep. Having worked hard all his life, he deserved a good sleep now and the Gods made sure that he got his dues in his afterlife. It was dusk by the time he woke up. He stretched a bit and then headed towards the dining hall once more for an early dinner. He looked at the menu which was unending. He picked a few of his past favourites and in no time the space-carts came flying towards him. Roop was amused and his happiness knew no bounds when the dishes were laid before him. He had ordered for multiple Mughlai dishes like paya soup, haleem and special chicken. He also got crispy tandoori rotis and by the time he finished his meal, his stomach felt overstuffed but he still asked for a malai firni that was served in a burnt-clay bowl. He burped aloud to the amusement of the other residents who were enjoying dinner. His fingers were all oily and no matter how much liquid soap he applied and rinsed, the oil and the aroma remained. For once Roop did not mind it for he had eaten the best possible dinner ever.

After a long walk around the lake, Roop hit the bed and slept like a baby. He was afraid that having overeaten the day before, he may have an upset stomach. Nothing of that happened, and in the morning, he once again felt the urge to eat some wholesome breakfast. During his work life, he had been the most honest man and eaten frugal meals. He remained slim and trim, something that helped him work energetically that won him kudos from people across the country. He realised that having now got a passage to heaven, he had to make up for all the difficult times he had faced earlier. This for him, was party-time and he accepted gleefully with outstretched hands. He once again walked into the dining room and placed his order of some Irani food. He wondered who was cooking these wonderful meals in Heaven’s kitchens. He made an attempt to enter the sanctum sanctorum but the Swiss Guards stationed there made it clear, “Sir, Einfahrt verboten!” Although Roop did not know Swiss German language, the crossed spears and the expression on the faces of the two tall guards when translated in plain English could only mean, “No Entry!” Roop did not wish to get into any confrontation here for he knew well that a transfer from heaven was something he was not really keen on. He raised his hands upwards in surrender and said, “Rest in Peace,” a phrase the residents of heaven would often chant.

Roop’s breakfast arrived and he now got busy eating one dish after another. There was keema-pav, kheema ghotala pav, bun-maska, caramel custard and sweet Irani masala chai. Each of these were finger-licking and lip-smacking, and our man was happy to be up above the world so high. As he had done the day earlier, Roop went back for his long afternoon siesta and woke up once again in the evening. Before going to the dining hall, he checked his weight on the scale. In one and a half days he had added a couple of kilos and now he felt like sending this news to his doctor on Planet Earth who always cribbed about him being underweight. Roop had turned from an angry-man to a hungry-man in a matter of a couple of days. He landed at the dining room but found the carte de menu missing. There was a screen at the serving counter with Ramyeon written in multiple languages. He asked some other people there and they clarified that this was the usual food in this kitchen. Roop was disappointed and went to St. Peter’s office and knocked.

“Come in son, what can I do for you?”

“Father, for the last two days, I had been enjoying some finger licking food. But this evening, all has changed. The other folks told me that there was some food festival for two days and hence the spread was so big. Now it is back to normal with bland food that will be served for all meals.”

“Son, what you have heard is correct. Let me see what all you had during the food festival …. Hmmm… you seemed to have enjoyed some wonderful stuff, a few of my personal favourites as well. So let me share the inside story about our special chefs who made the magic happen.”

“The breakfast on Day One was made by Rusi Yardegardi, a Parsi, who once owned Café Mondegar at Colaba, Mumbai. In the 1990s he was also credited with having asked Mario Miranda, the famous cartoonist, to do the sketches on the walls of the café that has been serving the best continental breakfast since 1932. It is a must go place for all locals of the city and the travellers across the globe. People would go in with great expectations and come out even more delighted for you will not find this food anywhere else.

“The dinner on Day One was made by none other than the legendary chef, Abdul Kareem who founded Noor Mohammadi Restaurant at Mohammad Ali Road, Mumbai in 1923. Since then, the place has been frequented by people of all strata for the best Mughlai food. Even celebrities walk in like commoners and enjoy the food. You remember the special chicken you had? That recipe called Sanju Baba Chicken was given by none other than film star Sanjay Dutt. The famous painter, Maqbool Fida Hussain, would go there often early in the mornings and had presented the owner with a sketch that is kept for all to see.”

Courtesy: Internet

“Finally, the breakfast you ate today was from Olympia Restaurant on Colaba once again and the chef who made the delicacies was Abdul Rahim Sulaiman. The restaurant has been serving people since 1918. Their signature dishes with their super-soft pavs and bun-maska are some things I ask people coming from Mumbai to pack for me on their way to heaven.”

“Now, Roop, since you closed these heritage eating places in Mumbai on grounds of hygiene and other shortcomings, we had these three legendary chefs downgraded from heaven to hell. We had invited them here just for the two days of Heavenly Food Festival. They now make the food in Hell’s Kitchen. The last of one such person is still around. He is Bablu, the famous phoochkawala from Kolkata. He is there in the kitchen right now. You can go there quickly before his phoochkas get over and he goes back to hell.”

Roop bolted to the kitchen where he got the remaining phoochkas or pani-puris as he called them. Most of the leftovers were broken but he enjoyed them and drank a couple of small bowls of the liquid kept in the big clay pot. Roop asked Bablu, “What is the secret of the secret behind the tasty phoochkas you serve?” Bablu raised his hands and said, “It is bherry simple, Saar. Bas inn haathon ka kamaal hai! (It is just magic of these hands). The phoochakas taste so good because I use my fingers while putting the mashed potatoes and chickpeas in the little crispy balls after giving them a gentle poke with my thumb and then dip them gently in the flavoured water in this pot before serving them in these katoris made from sal leaves. Business was good till one day a Corporation guy came and raised hue and cry over hygiene and asked me to wash my hands with liquid soap after every serving or use disposable gloves. The moment I started doing it, my customers missed the original taste and slowly dumped me. The magic of the hands was lost. In Hell’s Kitchen, I am once again serving freely.”

“Hmmm... the magic was truly in the hands. Got it Bablu. See you soon.”

Roop could not sleep that night. Next morning, he forced his way into the heavenly kitchen. The Swiss guards quickly overpowered him and he was taken to St. Peter who immediately issued him his seventy-sixth transfer order. Like his previous experiences, Roop accepted his transfer smilingly and moved on.

SS

Disclaimer: The blog is just for laughs with no intent to disrespect or hurt the sensitivities of anyone.

The Deluge

Three conversations set in a village at Nuwakot, Nepal, two days after the deluge of 26^th August, 2026.

1. Mother and Son

Ma, when is Pa coming back?

Don’t know son.

Tomorrow is our PTA. My teacher wants both of you to attend.

I know Binod.

Last time he was upset with my bad scores. This time I want him to listen to all the good things my teacher has to say about me.

That is so good. You have really done well this term, Binod.

You look worried, Ma.

No, I am not.

I can see it in your eyes, Ma.

Stop talking, Binod. Just leave me alone.

Are you worried about the floods?

Yes, I am.

I heard from my friends that a lot of people are missing.

Yes, they are.

So, you think Pa is also missing?

Don’t ask so many questions, Binod.

My Pa will come back. He is the best sherpa in the whole world.

I know.

He is my Tiger Father, the real Sher-Pa.

Yes, he is.

He always ensures the safety of the travellers and never takes any chances.

Hmmm… I know all of it Binod.

During the last earthquake, he brought the full group travelling to Mansarovar back to the safety of the plains even though it had caused so much destruction.

He sure is a hero in this countryside and your super hero.

I am eagerly waiting to see him smile at the PTA tomorrow.

………………….............

2. Two Friends

Two young boys are sitting atop a tree, talking and watching the water gushing by.

Ganesh, we are saved.

Agree with you, Bimal.

The water has saved us. I am sure there will be no PTA tomorrow.

No way. We saw the river water entering the school yesterday. There is no way the it would have receded so fast.

The Gods have saved us indeed.

Ya. Just think of how our teachers would have put us to shame before our parents.

I am so happy. My report card is red all over. Except art and sports, I failed in all other subjects.

If yours looks like the Red Sea, mine looks like the Persian Gulf where my scores are stuck forever below pass marks with almost all teachers dropping bombs over my subjects.

I have not shown the report card to my father.

Same here.

The Gods must have listened to our honest prayers. Every day since the term results came out, we have been going to the temple, ringing the bell loudly and also dropping some coins in the box kept there.

Hey look, there is a bus floating away. Is that our school bus?

I cannot make out from here. It is a yellow bus, so has to be a school bus for sure. It could be ours or of some other school. With no buses to pick-up and drop the children back, I am sure the school will not reopen soon.

The water level is not receding.  Should we slowly get down and go home?

No, just stay for some more time. It is fun to see all that is happening. Anyway, tomorrow is going to be a school holiday for sure.

……………………………….

3. The Vidyalaya

A conversation between a teenage son and his father.

Why are you standing at the window since morning?

I am watching the destruction the floods have caused, Nabin.

Dad, thankfully our house is at an elevation and water has not entered here. We have not lost anything.

I have lost everything, Nabin. The school was my life. I had built it with your mother, brick by brick.

I know Dad how you and Ma are feeling now. But think of the positive side. Our lives are saved and we can once again repair and build the school.

Your mother and I used to teach in a government college in Kathmandu. It was a good and stable job for both. We had been married for just over a year and your Ma was carrying you. We came to my parent’s home here in Nuwakot on a vacation and we saw that the children did not have a proper school to go to. We immediately decided that we must do something for the children here. We went back to Kathmandu, resigned from our teaching posts and came here. Fortunately, your grandfather owned some land here and we started our primary section under a tent.

Don’t cry, Dad. I know how much trouble you and Ma have had to go through over the years to create the permanent school building. You initially paid the other teachers and the staff from your savings in the early phase.

Now that things had improved and we had even applied to the authorities to allow us to expand the school to matriculation level, this flood has wiped out everything we had built. In just one big swoop, the school went under the water and the debris. Look down over there Nabin, the water has somewhat receded and you can see the school terrace and the water tanks. The ground floor is still submerged in the debris that the water carried.

I have seen it, Dad. I am sure we will get help to clean up the place soon.

Don’t worry about me, Nabin. Go and talk to your mother who has not spoken a word or eaten a morsel since yesterday. She is completely in shock. It was she who had inspired me to to take the plunge into this school project and that is why when the building got constructed, we named it after her. Manisha Vidyalaya is her baby who has now fallen sick.

Dad, I know all about it but then we are all helpless against the forces of nature. Why it happened on the 26^th of August is for others to find out. For us what matters most is life- the children are all safe and so are the teachers. It was your quick thinking that saved all their lives. You heeded to the disaster warning and immediately asked everyone to evacuate the school. They all fled to the upper regions and then within minutes the floods swept down with ferocity unseen before. Now we will have to build the school afresh. This time Ma and you will not be alone. The villagers have over the years seen your good work and how the school has changed the lives of their children. They too will join in the efforts to clean up and reconstruct.

You are right, Nabin. There is hope. Send out messages to all the parents that we will be starting the school after a week from the terraces of homes in the upper slopes.

…………………………

Epilogue: Nepal: Official records say around 1500 dead, over 6000 reported missing and a trail of unimaginable destruction.

Picture courtesy: Internet

For how long will the wanton destruction of nature by ‘cannonballs’ of development continue? For the answer to this question, I am sharing a few lines taken randomly from an immortal song by Bob Dylan:

How many years can a mountain exist

Before it’s washed to the seas

Yes, ‘n’ how many times must the cannonballs fly

Before they’re forever banned?

The answer my friend, is blowin’ in the winds

The answer is blowin’ in the winds.

SS

Big Gondogol in Old Kolkata

Mr. Ghosh returned from Kolkata on a Saturday afternoon. By evening, he was feeling uneasy and post a light dinner, he spoke to his GP Dr. Dave.

“Daktar saheb, mera pet mein bahut gondogol ho raha hai.” (Doctor, there is some major trouble in my stomach).

The doctor on the other end knew his patient well and his Bhindi (Bengali-Hindi) language even better. He asked Ghosh babu to come to the clinic next morning.

Mr. Ghosh was more than punctual, and along with his wife, reached the clinic even before the staff there had opened the clinic door. The doctor came dot on time and immediately took the patient and his wife to the examination room. He made Mr. Ghosh lie down on the examination table while he started to probe with his stethoscope. Whichever part of the patient’s belly he touched, the man often cried out…

“Oooh…aaah… udi baba… bahut darad hai Daktar saheb.” (It is very painful Doctor)

“Hmmm… Seems something serious. I would like to examine you with an ultrasound machine once before I diagnose and prescribe the next course of action.”

Mrs. Ghosh was very worried. “Sir, I remember the ultrasound machine being used almost regularly during my pregnancy. Why do it for him now?”

“I want to see the inside of his belly to make sure there is nothing serious.”

The lady just nodded her head and agreed to the course proposed by Dr. Dave who pulled the ultrasound machine closer to the bed, applied some gel on Mr. Ghosh’s belly and started moving the probe while looking intensely at the screen.

“Mr. Ghosh, it appears that your stomach and intestines show heavy signs of battering in the last few days. You seem to have gone overboard on gorging such diverse items in such quick succession that I can see the week’s full course ‘mahabhoj’ clearly. Let me recreate the timeline and the menu card while you can confirm if my deductions are correct. I shall skip the details of the few light meals and fruity breakfasts.”

Mrs. Ghosh was quite amazed, “How much technology has advanced. The machine for maternity can also detect gastronomy!”

“You had a huge chunk of steak with veggies and bread roll. This one looks really nice and special.”

“Yes Saar, that was at Mocambo’s on Park Street. I had the steak while my missus had Chicken Pavlograd. This is a dish similar to Chicken a la Kiev but has, in addition to molten butter, cheese and vegetable fillings inside the ball like serving.”

“Hmmm… interesting, indeed.”

“Saar, even more interesting was the Don Giovani’s shop outside Mocambo’s. We expected it to be serving nice Italian pizzas, pastas and macaroni but they had so many specialties displayed outside on the front window that would make any Italian exclaim, mamma mia!”

Dr. Dave smiled and said, “Mogambo khush hua.”

“Mocambo and not Mogambo Saar. This restaurant was opened in 1956 by Shivji Kothari who recruited an Italian chef to give the customers the original Continental taste and the interior décor, done by a German architect, has remained unchanged since then. It was the country’s earliest nightclubs with live bands playing, something that was discontinued since 1970s.”

The doctor probed further, and with eyes widened to their limits, exclaimed, “Special gosht biryani with mutton bhuna is the next speciality inside you Mr. Ghosh!”

“You must try these delicacies at Arsalan, Park Circus. That’s the original place. With the smiling little Md. Irfan opening the door to welcome you and the aroma of the biryani cooked just right for you with the egg and the potato tucked inside every plate, the food here transports you back to the times of Wajid Ali Shah and his famous khansamas who arrived at Calcutta from Lucknow, bringing with them the best of Awadhi cuisines.”

“Mr. Ghosh, there is one lunch which simply stands out. This was quite a combination of Bengali traditional food along with a slightly westernised ending.”

“I know Saar what you are referring to. This was the day we went to College Street. We were feeling hungry and someone knowledgeable recommended us to eat the traditional food at Putiram’s. This is a sweet shop that is over a century old and possibly has not changed in all these years. It is a small shop with some sweets kept in glass showcases in the front and a few ancient wooden table-chairs kept in the back-end where customers can sit and eat. We ate a plate of dal kachori with chholar dal and alu sabzi, topped it with four varieties of their special sweets that ranged from rajbhog, jalbhora, amriti and shorer nadu. It felt very full but then my ginni (wife) said that we have to go to the Indian Coffee House, a place associated with the city’s adda culture since 1942. We went there for a nice cup of hot coffee but could not resist the fluffy butter toast with a sprinkling of sugar on top. Having studied in the college opposite to the place, for her this was sheer nostalgia as was the visit to the Dasgupta Book Store on College Street that started way back in 1886.”

“Mr. Ghosh, after the heavy bombardment at College Street, there seems to be one section of slightly less heavy continental food.”

Picture courtesy: Internet

“Yes, that is our lunch at the famous Tolly Club. One of our friends had invited us there. This is a 220-year-old club, ranked amongst the world’s finest, which was started by Scottish banker William Dixon Chuickshank. It has an eighteen-hole golf course and serves some lovely continental delicacies. We chose the grilled fish and chicken cutlets and more than the food we enjoyed the company of friends amidst the serene nature where birds walk up to your table  freely and the greenery all around fills your soul, something we miss dearly in the cities.”

“Quite impressive Mr. Ghosh. But not as two power packed meals of Bengali maach-bhaat!”

“Yes, Saar. They were the two Mama Barir Adorer Khabar which is difficult to translate but in simple words it means that the maternal uncles pamper their nieces and nephews the most and feed you with love when you go to their homes. The first one was my daughter’s mama bari where mamaji took us to a special place for a huge spread of fish and begun bhaja (aubergine fries), moonger dal with jhuri bhaja (crispy potato fries cut fine), ilish machher tel jhol, chutney and butterscotch ice-cream topped with gulab jamun. As if this was not enough, when we visited my maternal aunt’s place, she made sure we had four different types of fish which included a crispy bhetki fry from Machhali Baba (the latest rage among the Calcuttans), lotya maach (bombay duck), hilsa and rohu and a special delicacy of mocha bhaate (mashed banana flower).”

“Amazing that you ate all of this and so much more. I can additionally see traces of many varieties of sweets, momos, pizzas and dhaba food inside. It is quite surprising that your belly did not explode and you have escaped with just a pain. Now tell me, the week you spent at Kolkata, was it just spent in eating or did you do anything else?”

One afternoon I was humming the song from 1942 A Love Story which goes… Kuchh na kaho, kuchh bhi na kaho. Mrs. Ghosh thought that I was telling her to stay quiet. She got very angry and dragged me to the Word Museum at the National Library to make me realise the importance of written and spoken words. The Museum of Words, also called Shabd Sangrahalay, is spread over nine galleries. A remarkably curated museum with so much to see and learn. There are touch screens to play around with, sound platforms where you get to listen to audio from above, 3D musical visuals and history of the written word over the ages from all across the country. With a huge number of exhibits, this is a must-go-to place. Having seen it all, I have since erased the troublesome swan song of RD from my playlist forever.”

“Ghosh babu, I am going to prescribe you some medicines,” said Dr. Dave as he got down to writing on his letterhead. Mr. and Mrs. Ghosh were worried that the intense and long check-up and ultrasonography would cost them a bomb. Dr. Dave, with a naughty smile, pushed forward the letterhead and attached another short paper with a pin. On it was written…

Dear Mr. and Mrs. Ghosh.

I wish to go with you to Kolkata for a week and taste the food there. I am told that there is much more to the street food and fine dining in the city than you will find anywhere. Attaching a blank cheque for you to buy the tickets for the trip and the hotel stay.

SS