Twenty years ago, Teesta was a sight to behold. Unbridled, roaring, raw energy. As I make my way up the banks of Teesta, past Sevoke, Kalijhora, Durbindhara, I am dismayed. Today’s Teesta lies like a tranquilized tiger in a rangebound cage. It is being utilized for its hydro potential, for the benefit of mankind. River rafting still occurs along Teesta, but on a surface that is bereft of roughs and rapids, more akin to a paddle boat ride on a tranquil lake. Teesta is placid and tired, having given up her fight.
Confluence of Teesta and Rangit
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The hamlet of Kashone (pop. 2,449 distributed between
500 odd families), at an elevation of 4,000 ft., lies near the border of Bengal
and Sikkim. Time stands still here. The only sounds you hear emanate from birds
and crickets. For a city-based soul, it takes time to adjust the ears to the
surrounding sound. The sound of silence. My hideout is the solitary
homestay at Kashone, run by Mangal Bhutia, of a non-descript age and genial disposition.
He’s the sole operator in this five-room outfit, a local version of Reginald
Jeeves.
********
Terraced organic cultivation is prevalent here. An
abundance of millepedes contributes to the preservation of soil fertility. The
produce from the fields, when presented on the table, brings a smile of
contentment. Mangal is a superb self-taught chef, passionate about his craft.
He does not rely on YouTube videos for inspiration. He operates on his gut
feel, mix-and-match approach to concoct delectable fare. On my first evening,
he dished out a wicked chicken curry. Breakfast the next morning was a ramen
dish that left me scrambling for multiple helpings.
I remember lines from a poem in our school curriculum.
`What is
this life if, full of care,
We have no time to stand and stare?
No time
to stand beneath the boughs,
And stare as long as sheep and cows’.
Google validates that William Henry Davies, a Welsh
poet who spent a large part of his life as a tramp or a hobo, wrote these
lines. He titled it `Leisure’. I
am a relentless practitioner of this pursuit since I bade goodbye to a nine to five
routine.
I stare
out at a tall hill across the Rangpo river valley. The green draped hill is
marred by a tanned white, winding gash that cuts its way up the hill. That’s
the road built to carry people to Pakyong airport. The airport, Sikkim’s first,
was built at a cost of INR 600 crores plus. The project was hailed as a
technical triumph of reinforced soil structure engineering. Our Prime Minister
inaugurated this airport for commercial flights in 2018 with fanfare and photo-op.
By 2024, Pakyong airport was declared closed. The primary reason attributed for
the closure was the challenge of weather conditions and visibility issues for
take-off and landing, a fact that was known ab initio to the powers that be.
`Development’ can be tricky, after all!
********
Evening
arrives. Clouds had been gathering since afternoon. The skies burst open in
fury. `Torrential’ would be the word for it, I suppose. Amidst strong wind gusts,
an unstable power distribution grid ensures complete darkness. The evening is
thus a sonic presentation; sitting in pitch darkness in my balcony to hear the rain
fall on the tinned roof. `Listen to the falling rain, listen to it falls…..’.
(Jose Feliciano).
The skies
clear by the break of dawn. Puffs of innocent clouds float across the valley.
Resplendent, dazzling green wherever your eyes go, in shades that a palette
cannot hold.
********
This zone
is home to a varied avian population. It would also be a lepidopterist’s
delight. There is a misconception that butterflies were originally called
`flutterbies’ which, though logical, has no basis. Why split hairs over such
trivialities when you are better off marvelling at the riot of colours that
these little creatures bring?
Verditor Flycatcher 
Red-billed Leiothrix 
Ring butterfly 
Himalayan Bulbul 
Dark-branded Bushbrown 
Common five-ring
********
A meaningful bakery culture flourishes in the region.
The fastest moving items off the shelves are not breads or cakes, but a
whopping range of cookies. They come in myriad shapes, sizes and flavours. The
business is dominated by Muslims. It may be an interesting study to understand
how this industry evolved and spread in the Kalimpong / Darjeeling hills, and
why cookies hold centrestage.
********
Mangal had to drive down to Kalimpong for work at the district
civil court. I joined him on the drive. We passed Deolo on the way. This
hilltop entered the Bengali's conscience in 2012 when a purported secret meeting
occurred between our erstwhile Chief Minister and the promoters of two
now-defunct Ponzi schemes. Word spread and tourists began flocking. Deolo has
transformed from a sleepy, secluded hilltop of 2012. An indiscriminate construction
boom followed, resulting in the existence of at least 60 homestays here now.
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The drive from Teesta Bazar to Dawaipani is an
experience. The 6,500 ft climb begins with gravity-defying gradients and sharp
hairpin bends. Once that is done, the carpeted tea bushes in the surrounding estates
take over. We pass by familiar names for the discerning tea lover; Peshok,
Lopchu, Takdah, Runglee Rungliot. There are also names like Tinchuley,
Lamahatta, Lovers’ Meet View Point along the journey that occupy mind-space in
this social media age. A 20 kms run that should have been completed in an hour
ultimately consumes three, thanks to the traffic chaos caused by these
Instagram stopovers. Setting aside the picture postcard landscape, the
remaining environment is a replica of Kolkata’s Burra Bazar. Ugly, makeshift
houses masquerading as homestays round every corner, temporary stalls offering
momo, thukpa, chow mein and even dosa and phuchka. Eager, screaming batches of
beer-bellied gents in skin-fit tees, women adorned as Christmas trees and kids
engaged in bickering when they find time to take eyes off their screens. At
Tinchuley ladies line up for photo-shoots amidst tea bushes, dressed in `phiran’
(yes, `phiran’, which is Kashmiri), faux gold jewelry and wicker baskets on
their backs to ape tea pluckers.
********
Gujarat is a `dry’ state. I am informed that parched souls
drive to neighbouring Daman or to Mount Abu to quench their thirst. Bihar, too,
is a `dry’ state. It is just a two-hour ride from Kishanganj (in Bihar) to the base
of the north Bengal hills beyond Siliguri. That may explain why one in three
vehicles you see in these hills bear a Bihar registration plate.
********
The last evening at Dawaipani. The sky remains overcast,
though without threat of imminent rain. Balmy 16 degree Celsius weather. From
my sitout, I observe a bonfire party in progress in the lower reaches. Wild
gyrations to the boombox output of `Budtameez Dil’. The alcohol flow helps up
the tempo. Tourists come in all forms. Touche!
********
