Earth Day

April 22nd 2024

Earth Day
 
Today, for once

Become a story teller
And weave tales of Nature
Of belonging, loss and recovery
For stories change people. 

Become an activist.
There was a time when
The Great Wheel turned itself
From ashes to ashes.  
No longer.  We know that.
So, don’t wait for a call up. 

Become a minimalist
Where less is more.
And we only buy what we need
Remember that old man with glasses, a pocket watch 
and wisdom?
Consume less.  And measure the change.  

Become a gardener
With native flowers and vegetables 
In your garden, cuboid balcony or sunny terrace
And watch the bees, beetles, moths and frogs with awe
For, we are losing them faster than tigers and deer
There’s a great hidden extinction we can undo.  Now.  

Become a child of the Earth
Not a rampaging invader
And if GDP says: buy-use-repeat
We have a counter: air-water-soil
For these, there is no Plan B.    

Become the positive energy
So others feel charged up, not let down.
Paint a future that is beyond us in time
But never beyond us in vision.
It is ours to make. 

Today, for once
And for the rest of our life 

The Town that Trekkers Forgot

 Well, I don't really love Rimbick; it is, after all, just another little town on the road to nowhere.

...on the road to nowhere?  No, not really.  It is on the road to somewhere - to Sandakphu, that is.

So, what is Sandakphu?  It's a little settlement at 12,000 feet from where you see four of the world's five highest peaks -  Everest, Kanchenjunga, Makalu and Lhotse (mist, clouds, fog may intervene and, when they do - forget peaks - you cannot see the guy in front).   

A section of our species, who are certified Nuts & Cuckoo but are euphemistically called trekkers with their own funny language and diction, walk all the way up over 2-3 days, hang out for a bit and then walk back.  

This, incidentally, was the route of the first successful expedition to Kanchenjunga in 1955 and when those blokes returned, Tenzing Norgay - the man himself - felicitated them at Sandakphu.  Tenzing incidentally was an uncle of our charming host, about whom I shall say more later. 

So, back to Rimbick.  

Rimbick is now forgotten, a town in misty memory of those who traverse these parts and trek to Sandakphu.  The reason: a road.  

Yup, that's the road.  

Until not so long ago, the old road to Sandakphu wasn't metalled; it was a bumpy, unpaved, back-breaking, bouncy four-wheel drive journey in smoky Land Rovers  which, if they do have shock absorbers, have stored them carefully away for a un-rainy day.  It took hours and, when you returned, you needed a massage and a psychotherapist.

   

So,  tourists stayed out. 

Trekkers either walked along that road or drove to Rimbick from the plains, stayed the night there and began their walk, via another route the next morning reaching Sandakphu the next day.  

Then someone invented selfies.  

Then development (whatever that is) happened: another road, via Kala Pokhri was metalled all the way to Sandakphu, good news for that nauseous sub-sect of Homo sapiens who will cram themselves into a Bolero or a Land Rover  for hours to take a selfie with a I-did-it victory sign and then crowd around munching plastic  (if you are one of them, don't an opinion form. Reform.).

So, here is a Land Rover and two selfie-munching tourists: 

And what did the Land Rover say? Abhik na jao chodkar, ke dil abhi bhara nahi...

Ignore all puns, however tormented you might be.  That's us, by the way - good, honest trekkers. 

We were to reach Sandakphu via Kala Pokhri and return via Rimbick, unlike most folks who do an up-down on the same road.  Normal is boring.

Bad weather at Sandakphu - snow, ice and fog - meant that we skipped that and returned with an extra night to spare.

Which meant two nights in Rimbick.  

Which means that you'd have to endure this photo blog. 

Which means more coffee (or, well, something else a tad stronger).  

That us at Kala Pokhri, since you never believe what I say....That guy on the extreme right (of the photo, not his political leaning), well, he liked our company.  Most people do.  

Photos with captions follow, from our walks in and outside town.....

A cobbler's neat little store and a tailor who has so much business that he isn't quite visible at 7 pm (he's somewhere there, we heard deep breathing).  When did you last see these?

Millie's smile lights up the day, but is matched by the little one who is all mischief (and not vegan, for sure).  

And now for some lovely homes and flowers and homes with flowers, which is a delightful obsession with the people of Rimbick.  

Another room with a view....

Nari looks happy and lost.  Sometimes both go together.

We went for a lovely walk on Day 2 to the village past the town on a path that leads, horror of no-horrors, to the Black Forest, so named because.....well, there are different versions, so it doesn't matter.  

Four amongst us, the intrepid quick walkers and a dog that was alpha male with a 56-inch chest, went up into the forest (and returned to tell their tale of riveting rhodendrons and monstrous monastries, of monks and wonks).  The others (me too) walked at the pace of a snail,albeit a snail that had been fed hormones to get going.  

The path to Black Forest was lovely, misty, soft and magical.....

...and the home where we turned back was charming, with an interesting water harvesting system.....

Orchids to die for

And the valley below was engulfed in mist that would lift to give us a view of cardamom, pine and, well, more mist......

Back to Green Hill and the owner, a delightful middle-aged lady whose hospitality team comprises many who were orphaned or are differently-abled.  Stay there when you go.  

The Lady with the Lamp

And here's a tip: if you are a part time kleptomaniac who pockets room keys or collects keychains, give Green Hill a miss.  

Altitude is a given.  This key chain has attitude.  Mind it.

And, before we knew it, it was time to leave this delightful little town, with its sleepy market where I bought a pocket watch-cum-key chain (for all of 450 rupees, no bargaining).  

The watch continues to run a full twenty days later, so don't snigger or shake your head.  

Well, maybe I do love Rimbick.  

Down the Mall

Darjeeling
March 30th

A noisy, bustling, chaotic hill station on normal days.  This is a three-day weekend that promises pandemonium, traffic jams and mayhem, and the only thing I wonder is why I - a certified misanthrope - am here.  But that is a story, not so long, but for another time....

The street markets by the Mall are lively, crowded and filled with the I-want-a-bargain-and-please-can-you-make-me-buy-what-I-will-never-need kind of shoppers, almost all of them from the City of Joy. No one actually says, Make Me An Offer I Cannot Refuse, but this is about as close.  The prices range from the ridiculous (Darjeeling tea at just 500 a kilo? Or is it something else....) to the even more ridiculous, a sweater for 100?  

The stall owners - almost entirely women - have remarkable dignity and forbearance and a couple of them spend their time knitting and crocheting with extraordinary dexterity.  It seems impolite to stare at someone at work, so I take one lady's permission - her fingers move with the lightness of a pianist, even as she chats with me, with an occasional glance at the balaclava that is taking shape.  Is she the last generation of knitter-pianists?  

It is impossible to not admire the tenacity and enterprise of women in the hills.....

In this melee, there are smells too - of mustard oil, for a start, horse dung, agarbathi, unwashed and worn jackets that smell of firewood and perfumes with potency that'd make homeopaths blush and give me a headache.  Add selfies, instagram reels, animated conversations, two arguments and one monk.  

Colour is everywhere, in the flags and the conversations: Nepali, Bengali, Hindi mix in a jumble of words.  

An old house, under the shade of rhodendrons in bloom, reflects on its past with a sigh.  Homes carry history and stories, but today I see no one there to talk to, so I walk ahead. I would have loved to shoot the breeze (and the mist) with an old timer, but those stories must wait for another day.

Ahead is a dignified lady selling corn, fanning it, watching something on her mobile and minding her grandchild with monosyllabic, terse instructions. If she knew Algebra, she'd do that too.  Her grandchild puts out a hand - will I exchange my mobile for some corn?  I know a negotiator when I see one - this little one is destined for Greatness - so, with grandma's nod, I take a photo of them.  

Walk on.

A happy hour in the Oxford Bookstore,- now all of a sprightly 86 years - with its quaint collection of books on Buddhism, Tibet, Himalayas, tea, agitations, a biography of Warren Buffett and self-help (How to win at bridge)  and a book that I will devour on the return flight.