The Sky Falls Down

 Part 1: The Dresden Diaries

9-year old Freidrich looked out of the window and up at the sinister dark clouds gathering over the city. It was midday but it did not feel that way. In the distance he could see a plume of black smoke rising into the blanket of grey cumulus. It seemed like the earth was offering clouds to the sky, which then blanketed the city. It was getting warmer as the clock ticked along but with temperatures just a tad above 0◦C, Freidrich still had a lot to do to convince himself to take his un-gloved palm out of his jacket pocket and extend it outside the open window. The darkness hanging about the town, accentuated by the reluctance of the Sun to peek beyond the cloud cover may have been ominous to the residents but the serenity of the sombre sky and the calmness of the cumulonimbus covering the city attracted Friedrich even more. His father’s job as a fire-fighter and the numerous stories he had heard at bedtime, had perhaps made him more appreciative of rainfall than the average citizen. Friedrich poked his face out of the window and immediately recoiled into the warmth of the room as the harsh, glacial gust of chilly wind reddened his cheeks. He looked around furtively to ascertain whether his adventurous digression had caught the attention of his mother. To his surprise he saw that she was not in the room. Getting down from the window sill, Freidrich hobbled over to the dining room and saw his mother leaning against the back door, being comforted by Frau Hermann, the next door neighbour. Cognizant of the fact that something was not right, Freidrich edged closer to the door through the dimly lit room until he could catch some of the words they were speaking.

“. . .  there was a second group after midnight. They are saying that no one who went to douse the fires survived.”

 Sounds of stifled sobbing, which Friedrich identified as his mother’s continued.

“Herr Hermann is saying that we must leave Dresden immediately. What happened last night was not the end. Yesterday it was the British and soon it will be the Americans. You should come with us. Quickly pack everything and get Friedrich and Marlene.”

Friedrich stood rooted to the spot, hardly being able to process the words. It could not be true what he was hearing. His father had told him a story when he went to bed last night. He had just gone to douse a fire and he would be back like every other time. Friedrich wanted to run from the dining room and out through the front door, look up at the burgeoning dark clouds and feel the first droplets of rain fall on his cheek and slide down through his jacket uncomfortably tickling him all the way down to his tummy. The words of his father rang clear in his ears as if he was standing beside him –

“Freidrich do you know why it rains?”

“No father! Why does it rain?”

“You can think of it as God helping me – helping us, son. It is him dousing the fires that we light. The rain douses that and cools everything down”

His train of thought was broken by his mother shaking him by his shoulders. As he looked up into her teary eyes, she suddenly looked a lot older to Friedrich. As she enveloped him in her arms and tried, albeit unsuccessfully, to control her tears Friedrich looked past the dining table and out through the back door.

It has started to drizzle. Suddenly, an urge to cry overwhelmed Friedrich and as hard as he tried to not, a sadness welled up inside him, slowly eating away at his insides and rising through his body, making its way slowly but surely to his lachrymal glands, leaving behind a void that seemed infinite.

As if from a world away, he could hear his mother’s supressed sobs but he was jolted back to reality by the uncomfortable tingling of her tears trickling down his neck through the defences of the many layers that he wore.

“Go up and get your sister Friedrich. We need to get away”, whispered his mother in his ears. Those were the last words he ever heard.

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Although aerial bombing was a commonly used tactic during WW2, the bombing of Dresden using high-explosive bombs and incendiaries in February 1945 drew widespread condemnation for what seemed to be a sadist manoeuvre aimed at civilians. Two bombings separated by 3 hours on the night of the 13^th decimated Freidrichstadt and the bombings on the morning of the 14^th reduced Atmarkt to a pile to rubble and ash. Under the impact of more than 2500 T of bombs within a few hours, the city of Dresden lost more than 25000 civilians and 12000 dwellings. 3 months later the German High Command surrendered bringing an end to the War in Europe

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Part 2: The Basque Book

Juan looked up at the sky and sighed to himself. The setting sun had washed the sky in beautiful bright hues of orange, yellow and red and Juan could almost imagine the colours being devoured by the seemingly calm blue Bay. He missed the days of going down to Mundaka and staring at the vastness of the sea, of the waves lashing gently against the rocky coast and gradually the cerulean sky turning from a peachy pink to an ochre overwhelming the horizon. He would watch astonished as the amber and tangerine colours streaked across the evening sky and the vermilion of the setting sun dissipated slowly but surely into the aquamarine sea. The darkness would descend immediately, converting the sea to a prussian hue and the sky to plum purple slowly transitioning into dull grey and finally pitch black with just the solitary shining moon shining still.

“Senor Navarro”

Juan was jolted back to the present by the familiar voice. He turned around and looking over the numerous heads in the crowded marketplace, tried to locate the source of the mellifluous voice. Making his way past a few women haggling over some potatoes with a harried vendor, Juan found the object of his search.

“Yes Senora! How can I be of assistance?”, Juan inquired of the beautiful young lady buying tumblers.

“There is a rumour about town Juan that you are always ready to provide assistance to all young women. Is this true?”, she taunted, smirking.

Juan’s cheeks flushed a colour that would have put the evening sky to shame. He looked away from her and murmured,” I help everyone but for some, the desire is more”.

“Excuse me? I cannot hear you over this din Juan. Can you speak up?”, she urged. Juan, grudgingly turned to face her and immediately regretted his decision as the grin on her face informed him of the colour of his cheeks. He lowered his gaze, urging his cheeks to prevent embarrassing him in front of the woman he desired. As he stood there and shuffled his feet, hoping the market would dissolve around him so that he could grab her hand and run away, his heart leapt up suddenly and sank immediately into what felt like the deep recess of the Biscay – he never knew that the warmth of someone’s fingers entangling his own could have such an impact.

 “I do not know your name Senora”, he murmured as he was literally pulled through the crowded market-place. Not getting any response other than a knowing smile, he urged, “I know nothing about you in fact, except that you come to Guernica every Monday.”

“Do you feel safe going with someone you barely know?”, he added slyly after a pause.

Her head rocked back as peals of laughter reverberated through the empty alley into which she had led him. Her haunting laugh seemed to bounce off the stucco walls towering over the paved lane. In that moment, Juan made a mental note to himself, he had fallen irreversibly in love.

“At least tell me your name Senora”, he almost huffed and puffed as he ran to keep up with her.

They had come to the end of the alley where a huge commotion distracted them. A huge crowd of people was running helter-skelter, a raucous cacophony reaching a pitiful crescendo. In the distance a plume of black smoke rose up behind the skyline disappearing into the blood red sky. Before Juan could make head or tail of what was happening, an ear-splitting sound forced him to wring his hand free and cover his ears. He looked up towards the tangerine laced sky trying to make out the source of the hellish sound. Before he realised what was happening, he was thrown backwards and his body hit the pavement hard. A streaking heat erupted from his left hand and he yelled in excruciating pain as stones and rubble fell all around him. Amidst the smoke-screen of dust, his watery eyes could make out as a huge fire consuming the scene in front of him leaving behind only charred remnants, beyond recognition.

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The Basque city of Guernica was bombed in multiple air-raids in the evening of 26^th April 1937 by Spanish nationalists with support of the German Luftwaffe and the Italian Regia Aeronautica decimating more than three-fourths of the city and killing around 300 people. By 19^th June Bilbao, the biggest Basque city and capital of Biscay province had fallen to the nationalists. The Civil War would last for another 2 years almost

Pablo Picasso, then living in Paris in exile, moved by the bombing of the city painted his famous ‘Guernica’ in 35 days starting from 1^st May 1937. It is housed in the Reina Sofia in Madrid today.

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Part 3: The History of Herat

“We shall not leave behind the legacy and teachings of our forefathers to lick the boots of the Red Villains”, asserted Ayyub vehemently, fingers pointed up at the sky. His baggy tomban flapped about helplessly in the cool breeze as he held his pose for impact. Hearing none of the applause he had expected, he continued,” We may have been pushed back but we will never be pushed out of our father’s lands”. The crowd, sombre and seemingly somnolent till then, was energized by the jibe directed at their lands and burst into a round of raucous cheering. Rather pleased by the turn of good fortune, Ayyub adjusted his printed skull cap and continued loudly over the sound of the large green flags flapping in the strong, gusty wind, “The way of life which we have lived for so many years and that which has sustained our forefathers shall sustain us too just as their lands will sustain us”. The clapping and cheering of the fifty people who had gathered there on a warm, windy day in March was quickly drowned by the whistling wind and the flapping festoons. Ismail, left to be by himself for a few hours as his father contributed to the decibels in front of the Jami Masjid, wandered around the Darb-e-Khosh Square staring up inquisitively at the tall minarets and huge domes that adorned the skyline beyond the general humdrum of the food carts and jewellery stores. The Square, usually busy, had been silent since the 15^th. Ayyub’s voice got fainter and fainter till he became like a footnote – present but ignored, and Ismail revelled in the sound of just the breeze whistling past the deserted city square. He looked up at the cloudless cyan-coloured sky that stretched right from the mundane earthy architecture on his left to the equally pale and uninteresting structures to his right. The vast expanse amazed him.

“What do you find so interesting in the sky?”, inquired an innocent voice. Turning around, Ismail saw a young girl, not much younger than him dressed in a bright red ikat dress and matching ikat trousers. She looked like something right out of a storybook to Ismail. Perched on an empty bench outside a shuttered shop on an empty street, she looked questioningly at Ismail and repeated her question earnestly. Supressing a smile, Ismail replied, “Well it is huge and it hides so much. There is much beyond what we can see from here you know”, he said matter-of-factly.

“No, no I don’t. What do you mean we cannot see?”, inquired the girl staring disbelievingly at Ismail with her large curious eyes.

“Don’t you go to school, young one? Haven’t you heard of Sputnik?”, taunted Ismail.

“Girls don’t go to school”, replied the girl pompously. “That’s only for the boys. That’s what baba always says.”

Aghast at the revelation and indignant by her confidence Ismail blurted out, “Where is your baba? What are you doing here all alone?”

“I am not alone. My ammi is there inside the bazaar trying to find some open shops so that she can cook some food. We have not eaten anything since yesterday. My baba is near the Jami Masjid. He is the one speaking”

“Listen little one. You must go to school. You are like my younger sister Ruhi and she used to go to school every day till they started making new rooms for girls in our school last year. Since then she is at home but ammi says that the rooms will be made by next year and she can go again. She is smarter than me – that Ruhi. Don’t tell her I said that, okay?”

“Ismail!”, rang out his father’s voice like a chilling bullet through the silence. Ismail smiled at the girl and turned around and ran back towards the Square where his father waited for him impatiently.

“Come quickly son. We have heard that more people have come in tanks to join us in our fight. We must greet them”, he urged.

“Will they reopen Ruhi’s school?”, asked Ismail, eyes wide with excitement as he came to a standstill.

“What nonsense Ismail! Who’s telling you such lies?”, his father asked coldly, rapping him on his knuckles.

Ismail looked back over his shoulder slowly at the deserted street, at the shuttered shops and at the lonely girl in red sitting on a stranded bench and the betrayal hit him hard. He had never felt real sadness before, the sadness of being lied to by someone trusted. The gut-wrenching truth of the situation washed over him and overwhelmed him and in a moment, everything he had taken for granted vanished into nothingness, just like that.

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On 20^th March 1979, Herat, one of the largest cities in Afghanistan was bombed by Soviet bombers soon after Communist government-backed military troops strolled into the city in disguised tanks to quell the insurgence led by civilians with religious and agrarian interests. Mass graves were dug to bury the dead in the ruins of Herat. Mixed-gender classes -one of the causes of the uprising continues to be scarce in Afghanistan 41 years hence.

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Apple Of The Earth

As I sighed to myself and compelled myself to get up and amble towards the kitchen, my mind inadvertently started to think of the permutations that I could churn up in the kitchen. I trotted around the tiny kitchen and switched on the exhaust fan before glancing around carelessly at the ingredients available- a pointless exercise considering that my mind had already decided on what to make. Again, sighing to myself, I delved into the wicker basket with my right hand and conjured, as if my magic, 3 potatoes and with my left hand fetched the chopping board. Humming the tune from “Five hundred miles away from home”, I poured water into an aluminium bowl and ran my fingers all along the inside of the bowl to rub off any dirt before throwing away the water. Refilling the bowl, this time I closed the tap and reached for the cylindrical polycarbonate container of rice. As I unscrewed the lid, a waft of summer suddenly hit my nose.

I had been cooking this rice for over a year now, yet the sweet fragrance of mango blossoms that inevitably filled the small kitchen every time I opened the container, would easily transport me years and light years into the past away from the hustling and bustling, never-sleeping metropolis of Mumbai to the always sleepy and cosy city of Calcutta. It would take me back to the numerous summers spent stealing mangoes from the neighbour’s trees and the many cuts and bruises all over my body – all incurred for a few heavenly slurps of the ripened nectar or a few crunches of the sliced green mango, nicely marinated in chili powder. I wrestled my mind away from the sunny skies and the tangy feeling in my mouth overpowering my nervous system and ordering the eyes to shut and the face to wrinkle momentarily and forced it to return to the dingy room. As I measured out the accurately named Ambemohar rice into the water-filled bowl, my mind couldn’t help but wander back to the carefree summers spent, what seemed aeons ago.

Nine spoonfuls later, I washed the rice in the water, before steeping it in half a bowlful of water. Done preparing the rice, I shifted my concentration to the potatoes and was immediately transported back to the narrow alleys and bylanes of old Calcutta where windows are too close for comfort and yet it comforted the soul to look through the wooden slats and iron grills at the rows of terraces all interlinked to each other – some decorated with potted plants and others bearing the last remaining vestiges of erstwhile pigeon feeders. 

As my father hobbled into the typical old Calcuttan kitchen, his balance hindered by the heavy jute bag filled with vegetables and fruits, I rushed to help him and through the corner of my eyes I could see that age was catching up with him fast and yet an adamant man, he refused to hire a cook even with my mother bedridden after an operation. An inquiring glance from me alerted him to the need for lunch and before I could follow up my questioning look with any words, he announced the menu for lunch. Frankly speaking I was disappointed. Having heard a lot about his cooking prowess during his days living alone in Kanpur and Mumbai before marriage, the stories having never been transformed into reality often left me utterly frustrated at having missed out on discovering this aspect of my father. Seeing that no one had given my mother an off-day in the last twenty years, fate had rather cruelly decided to take things in her hands and relieve my mother of all duties for a month in the summer of 2010. Frankly speaking, once I got over the shock of seeing her bedridden, I was rather excited at what my father would be cooking but his decision today did everything to dampen my excitement.

As I peeled the potatoes from muscle memory, my lips curled into a smile thinking back to the time my father told me that this dish would not be possible without the Persian, the Japanese and the Chinese. 

Dismissing his comments as the ranting of a madman, I concentrated on stocking the refrigerator with the vegetables. Seeing my lack of interest yet unperturbed by it, he asked, “Have you never wondered why the English call it potato and the Gujaratis call it batata but we call it aloo?”

“Why ?”

“Well most of the world calls it that – the Spanish, the English, the South Americans. The French have a extravagant name for it but that’s the French- always jazzing up the language. Anyway, the original Caribbean word was ‘batata’ which became ‘potato’ in English and ‘patata’ in Spain and through the Portuguese and Spanish traders who frequented the west coast of India, ‘batata’ and its various spellings and pronunciations became popular. What’s weird is that why do some North Indians and Bengalis call it ‘aloo’? It’s a misnomer that has stuck proving that sometimes mistakes do live forever. ‘Alu’ is the Farsi word for plums and the usage can be seen even today in ‘Alu Bukhara’ (the common plum) and ‘Zard-alu’ (apricot). In the 1800s a British ambassador to Iran, Sir John Malcolm presented the Nadir with potatoes recently discovered from the European’s expeditions of the far west. The Iranians misunderstood the offering to be a variety of plum and called it ‘Melkom alu’, an abomination further perpetrated through Asia Minor right up to Kandahar and along the Gangetic Plain till the river empties itself into the Bay of Bengal. The Afghanis still call it ‘kach-alu’ and we of course prefer to call it just ‘aloo’”

“What about the Iranians? Do they still remember Malcolm every-time they eat a potato?”

“Well funny story there is that the good thing that the Iranians have done is to move on from the misnomer. The bad thing is they use a calque”

“A calque?”

“A linguistic carbon-copy if you will. From the French nonetheless. An Iranian ‘Sheb-zamin-i’ to counter the French ‘pomme de terre’ literally meaning ‘apple of the earth’”

Both of us burst into hysterical laughter, almost falling over in our attempts to gather a semblance of balance and sanity. I gathered myself and sighed a couple of times to flush out the laughter before asking, “We covered everyone from the Caribbean to the Iranian but I don’t understand how the Japanese fit into this.”

“Without the Japanese there wouldn’t be a rickshaw to take me to the market. They invented the rickshaw in the 1800s you see and that’s why today I can go to the market and return with a week’s worth of vegetables. In fact, even the word ‘rickshaw’ is rooted in Japanese.”

“I can’t believe this. This connection is way too far-fetched”

“It’s the truth son.”

“Well, what about the Chinese then? How are they connected to all this?”

“Well who do you think introduced the rickshaw to Calcutta? It was the migrant Chinese workers in the Kidderpore dock who were the first pullers of the rickshaw. They came here to start tea businesses but worked at the docks to earn enough seed money for the business and in the process, gave Calcutta not only a vibrant Chinatown but also rickshaws”

As I washed the peeled potatoes and drained the brownish water, I wondered back to the summers which were much simpler than this one – when stories were made and stories were told. Lighting the gas, I placed the bowl of rice on one burner and the wok on the other burner. Lining the walls well with mustard oil, I let it collect in a pool in the trough and happy with the quantity, allowed it to heat up. I placed two peeled potatoes inside the rice bowl and taking out an egg from the refrigerator, dropped it into the water too. Returning to the remaining potato, I starting to chop it very finely and once done, soaked it in salted water for a couple of minutes. By this time the bubbles on the surface of the mustard oil had subsided and I drained the chopped potatoes and drying them with a napkin, released them slowly down the side of the wok into the heated oil. As the aluminium bowl bubbled away to its heart’s content on my left, the mustard oil hissed and fizzed before letting out a wisp of smoke. Quickly taking a ladle, I turned over the potato pieces to ensure they brown evenly all over. Slowly but steadily all the pieces were fried, strained and plated just in time for the rice to boil down to its last few puddles of water. Scooping up the egg and the potatoes, I plunged the egg in a bowl of ice-cold water and mashed the potatoes with the back of my spoon. Content with the cooked rice, I turned off the gas lest the rice starts to become sticky.

Years ago, a 16-year old had scoffed at the simplicity of a plate of steaming hot rice, with dollops of Jharna ghee , a pinch of salt, some mashed potatoes, a solitary boiled egg, some salt, a green chilly and a bunch of crispy fried potato sticks but as the 16-year old devoured perhaps the simplest of all culinary delights from the Bengali’s cookbook, sitting beside his mother and father , chatting away about history and linguistics and the city he had perhaps realised that even the simplest of dishes can have a beautiful story and for sure, can make an astounding one. 10 years later a 26-year old realises that in the toughest of times, in the darkest of days a plate of piping hot rice eaten with equally hot mashed potatoes and a boiled egg, topped with spoonful of Jharna ghee, a sprinkle of salt and a solitary green chilly and finally garnished with crunchy rice stick can really warm the heart and make it feel like home even five hundred miles from it.

This story was first published by Birdhouse Poetrywatch in August 2020 and can be found here :  https://birdhousepoetrywatch.wordpress.com/2020/08/12/apple-of-the-earth/

The Announcement

Pramod sat down on his bed and bending down, began to tie his shoelaces. Done with one, he furtively cast a quick glance towards the narrow corridor lined with utensils and plastic storage bins filled with clothes, trying to spot his wife who was packing his food in the tiny kitchen. He was unable to see her but courtesy his ten years’ worth of experience from marital bliss, the pitch of the clanking and thumping of vessels convinced him that she was not in the best of mood. Sighing to himself and resigning to his fate of hearing the choicest of cuss words when he would break the news to her, he stood up and patted down his trousers. Manoeuvring his movements carefully so as not to step on any of the food-filled vessels lining the wall or upsetting any pile of carefully segregated clothes along the bed, Pramod made his way from past the barely visible television and stacked shelves beside it towards the kitchen. Sensing his heart beating faster in anticipation of what was to come, Pramod wrapped his arms around his wife, who shook her head in apparent displeasure and made a weak attempt to escape his loving clutches. Realizing that now is a good time as any, Pramod picked up the packed tiffin carrier with his left hand and without removing his arms, whispered in his wife’s ear,” I have to do a double shift today so I will see you again early tomorrow morning, okay?”. Having said that, Pramod quickly removed his arms and turning away with the tiffin carrier in one hand hustled away through the corridor and straight out the door. The clanging sound behind him told him that he had upset a few vessels on the floor on his way out but weighing the pros and cons of turning back, he sped down the stairs and was out in no time. He quickly made his way past the local tea shop and convenience stores, smiling and waving to the known faces still seated there and before taking the turn that would take him beyond earshot and eyesight from his balcony, he looked up and smiled meekly at his wife standing there. It was difficult to make out from this far, but it seemed like she was smiling.

Preparing himself mentally for a verbal onslaught the next day morning, Pramod quickly made his way past the closed and dilapidated Bharatmata cinema hall. Glancing at his watch he reckoned he could catch the 2:38 local which would surely be late by 4 minutes, perfectly timed to ensure he reached CST on time. He wished he had left his sweater at home as the afternoon was unnaturally hot for November. He huffed and puffed past throngs of people on the Currey Road bridge, making it down on to the platform just in time for the train to chug in to the station. Relatively empty, the carriage rattled along for 5 more stations, finally shuddering to a screeching halt at CST and depositing a multitude of people onto its hallowed platform. Pramod looked at his watch once again and beamed to himself at the perfection of his punctuality. He had exactly 4 minutes left to make his way to his work-station, 2 minutes more than what he would need. Having navigated his way through the group of people rushing to change trains or catch other means of transport to make their way to their workplaces, Pramod made his way into the office and was immediately greeted by the smiling faces of the outgoing shift-operators. Having signed in his name in the large register, Pramod offloaded his hand bag and tiffin carrier onto his seat and proceeded to gulp down some water from the cooler. In some time, his shift-mates made their way into the office and after having exchanged pleasantries and sexist comments about each other’s marital crises, they settled in to their chairs and started their days.

Pramod would often remark to his family that his job was mind-numbingly boring and if not for the tag of being a central governmental employee- the holy grail of economic opportunities for the Indian middle class- he would have easily left this job for something more engaging. He also often complained to his work-mates how a laid-back job as this was all he had wanted since his school days and how the only blot on his otherwise perfect life was the tiny apartment to which he had to return to everyday. If he was being honest with himself, perhaps he would confess someday that what he truly enjoyed was the vast Victorian Gothic structure of the station, which was infinitely less claustrophobic compared to his 1 BHK room in Ganesh Galli and the office which was bigger than his bedroom but by no means, a comfortable one for five people and yet afforded more comfort to Pramod than did his tiny room which he shared with his wife and two children. Having been at this job for the past 14 years, from the days of Victoria Terminus to the days when people still remembered it as VT Station, Pramod’s job was as predictable as it could get. Announcing the arrivals and departures of trains, which left and arrived as scheduled day after day, month after month and year after year could hardly be called an exciting job. The only excitement in the job was when lost people asked to make announcements for their families or when new trains set off for the first time after being announced in union budgets a couple of years earlier. In fact, the job was so precedented that Pramod could even predict how many minutes each train would be late by. The surprise would be if a train, in fact, was not late and arrived earlier than Pramod’s prediction. Perhaps by virtue of having a job that supported it, Pramod was a creature of habit and rarely deviated from his daily routine of grabbing a cup of hot steaming milk tea with Ravi from the AH Wheeler, discussing cricket and politics, often politics in cricket and sometimes cricket in politics with Mahmud from the suburban ticket counter just before the sun went down and taking a walk from Platform 1 to 14 and back with Carvalho, a ticket-checker right after completing his dinner. Having just got back from a round of intense discussions on whether Yuvraj and Sehwag were Sourav’s greatest finds ever, especially post their incredible performance versus England in the ongoing series and whether Ganguly himself should get into politics or not now that he had announced his retirement post the series win versus Australia a few days back, Pramod once again sighed, wishing he had travelled to Nagpur to watch Ganguly bat one last time. Cursing his ill-luck for not planning ahead of time, he slumped into the chair and looked up at the wall-clock. It was 8:40 pm, which meant that Shubham had just announced the departure of Howrah Mail via Nagpur and left for Pancham Puriwala for dinner. The Nagercoil-Mumbai Express would be late as usual by 20 minutes which gave Pramod around 20 minutes to gulp down his dinner and then start with the announcements for the Devagiri Express. He decided to make an announcement before retreating to the back of the room to gorge on the curry and flatbreads prepared by his wife.

Having cleaned up his tiffin containers, Pramod burped loudly and washed his hands at the basin before checking the wall clock once again. As the hands ticked to close in on 9:10pm, Pramod announced the last call for Devagiri and the arrival of Nagercoil-Mumbai Express. He took out his Nokia 5500 and dialled Carvalho’s number. After a few rings, the well-known jaunty voice answered from the other end. Having informed him that his dinner was done and decided that as soon as Shubham would return he would step out for his customary walk, Pramod disconnected and looked at the screen in front of him trying to prioritize his announcements.  As the Devagiri Express chugged out of the station, Pramod’s voice boomed across the atrium for all passengers of Hussain Sagar Express to proceed towards Platform 9 and of Gitanjali Express to proceed towards Platform 18. As he repeated the announcement again, he stared impatiently alternately at the wall-clock and his wrist-watch cursing Shubham for delaying his walk with Carvalho. Finally, after 4 repetitions, unable to contain his frustration any further he dialled Shubham’s number. With every unacknowledged ring, Pramod could feel his patience wearing thinner and his blood pressure rising higher. Preparing a list of abuses that he would hurl at the novice as soon as he came in through that door, Pramod dialled Carvalho’s number to tell him that he would be delayed. Before he could finish dialling, a loud sound reverberated throughout the atrium and Pramod watched shocked as cement and peeled off paint rained down beyond the glass windows in front of him and the station disappeared in a large cloud of amorphous dust.

Pramod, slightly disoriented at the sudden departure from daily routine, got up from his chair and walked across the room to the door. His initial suspicion was that there had been an accident which had caused the loud sound but something inside him was telling him that an accident could not literally send ripples through the century-old structure, vibrations strong enough to bring down rubble. As he opened the door, the silenced halo of the air-conditioned office was unapologetically broken by the screaming of people, the sound of running feet, of scampering children, of falling bags and falling bodies punctuated only by the ringing sound of what sounded like gunfire. Pramod had heard the sound of bullets leaving the barrels of guns and seen them do so only on screens previously and for a minute, he simply did not understand what was happening. His mind blanked out and his legs grew roots into the tiles he stood on as in front of him, the cloud of dust gradually cleared but only to reveal a cloud of darkness, which had descended onto the station. Pramod could not believe his eyes as a men, women and children threw aside their belongings and rushed helter-skelter trampling fallen bodies and fallen luggage. In the far end of the station, perhaps near platforms 15 and 16 a fire raged brightly and smoke billowed out engulfing the stores and stalls in the vicinity and enrobing the arches and pillars as it rose towards the central dome and out through the great windows. In the distance Pramod could see bodies crumple as they knew not where to run, as if my magic but turning his gaze further eastwards, he saw, to his horror, what seemed like two men carrying machine guns and firing at will. As shots rang out and echoed across the great hall, blood splattered across the floor and the pillars as bullets pierced through tissues and nerves. As the figures of the gunmen got more prominent, Pramod realized that they were heavily armed and approaching towards the west exit. His dazed existence was shattered by a father who brushed past him with his daughter in his arms, who was crying aloud, urging her to be silent so that they could escape unseen and unheard. As Pramod, struggled to keep his balance his eyes met those of an old lady, presumably fallen in the stampede that had ensued post the blast - lying on the ground, croaking something inaudible and extending out her hand as if asking for help. Stunned and unable to think straight Pramod gathered his balance and reached out his had to locate the door to his office and having grabbed it, pulled himself inside, closed the door and steadily made his way to the end of the room to get a better view of what was happening. As he made his way past Shubham’s bag lying on the chair – a horrible thought crept into his mind and with that a fear – a fear so dark that it rapidly crept into the deepest confines of his mind making his hands and feet tremble. On a cold November night, Pramod began to sweat profusely as he saw the scene of absolute carnage in front of him.

Amidst the backdrop of a raging fire and a thick black smoke that raged through the stationary carriages and covered most of the eastern extremes of the station, emerging slowly but surely through the cloud of rubble and dust that still hung in the air – were two men clad in black spurting fire from their machine guns. In front of them people ran wherever they could – mothers with their children in tow, men with their wives struggling to run in saris, youngsters returning from tuition classes, vegetable sellers and hawkers returning home after a busy day, college-goers out for a fun evening coffee, office-goers rushing home to be with their family. The unlucky fell as the metal hit their bodies and spluttered blood all over the adjacent bodies and pillars. The floor was by now red – the clear streams of blood muddied only by thousands and thousands of footprints. As the two gunmen neared the office, Pramod realized his only chance to stay alive lay in playing dead and bending down so as not to be visible to the gunmen through the glass windows, he made his way to the switchboard and switched off the lights. Just as he was about to switch off the lights, he saw a woman get down from the stranded suburban carriage on Platform 1 and run towards the central exit. An involuntary “No” escaped his mouth as the woman barely made it a hundred feet before her head swung wildly back, pushed back and almost off its cervical spinal support by the momentum of a bullet that pierced her cranium, as blood spilled forth in an aerosol, momentarily freezing her in mid-air before her body collapsed in a heap to her right. Stunned, Pramod moved his finger which was on the switch just enough to pull it down and plunge the room into darkness and sank down into the dark floor himself. Burying his head into his hands, Pramod contemplated his position. His brain urged him to stay put- a safe place where surely no one would find him and he could sit out this ordeal and yet in his mind he simply could not throw out the image of the woman’s body crumpling in front of him and an involuntary soft “No” exiting his mouth. The more he tried to convince himself that staying safe and silent was the best chance he had to survive and go back to his family – the more the images in his mind became blurred – his wife frying fish and teaching their son English simultaneously as Pramod looked on with his daughter tugging at his trousers to come and play slowly dissolved into a large pond as Pramod dived in, urging on his brother to follow suit and finally pulling him by the legs into the pond, the pond gave way to the vast blue night sky as Pramod and his wife, sitting on the terrace, looked up at the fireworks across the night sky and Pramod took her in his arms and kissed her whispering “Happy Diwali”, the smoke of crackers engulfed the terrace altogether as the two kids squealed and screamed in joy at the sprinkling light that burst forth from the crackers and soon the memory blurred only to refocus on Pramod, tears streaming down his cheeks, staring down at the face of his new-born baby and the nurse in scrubs telling him that it was a girl. As he opened his eyes, he felt a wetness on his eyes. Brushing aside the droplets of water, Pramod poked his head up over the desk and re-analysed the situation yet again. He realized that his point of vantage and the options available to him could be instrumental in saving many – many like his wife and children.

Nothing could have prepared Pramod for a situation like this and yet in his mind, he was clear on what was to be done. He picked up his microphone from his desk and dislodged it from its stand. He switched off his screen lest the light from it attract attention and, arms and feet still trembling but resolve now much firmer, sat down on the chair, pushed away from the desk, with the microphone in his hand. From here, he had a clear view of Platform 1 and that was sufficient for his plan to work. With an eye on the gunmen who were slowly but surely approaching the western main exit, eliminating anyone who crossed their path ruthlessly and to Pramod’s utter disgust, shooting at the bodies lying on the floor irrespective of the sex or age- Pramod began to announce on the public announcement system,” Please use the side exit on Platform 1 to leave the station premises or the south-eastern exit towards the police station. Please do not use the main exit on the western side and avoid the central hall.” The gun-men looked up and about to identify the source of the sound and discussed something amongst themselves. From his vantage point, Pramod could see that many people who had taken refuge in the carriages had already heeded the voice which they had come to know for years now, travelling daily on the suburban trains, and were making their way carefully towards the north-western exist on Platform 1. He hoped that people who were alive in the far end of the station would not come this way but would instead make their way through the south-eastern exit towards St. George’s Street. As he repeated the announcement again and again, he kept an eye on the gunmen who continued conversing amongst themselves and taking the occasional shot at a moving body. As more and more people made their way out through the suggested exits, Pramod, slightly enthused added to his earlier announcement urging people to not enter the station premises because there were gunmen inside. As he looked at his watch and wiped off the beads of sweat forming on his forehead, Pramod wished the police would get here faster.

An eerie silence had descended across the station- a silence unknown to Pramod in all his time working here. An unknown feeling boiled over inside of him – it was a mixture of multiple feelings – a combination perhaps not felt before – of anger – a frothing red anger threatening to boil over and consume everything, of sadness – a cowering yellow breaking down the resolve repeatedly and yet pulling itself back, re-composing itself again and again and of fear – an unknown billowing black void right in the centre of the body consuming all and then spitting it all out again. Despite the unique concoction he continued his announcements, keeping an eye on the movements of the gunmen who had by this time shot at multiple dogs who had also made these premises their home, much like Pramod, and also on the people steadily making their way out through the side exits. Every bullet now fired seemed also to pierce Pramod, seemed to hit him and make him jump up in pain and further strengthen his resolve to continue. As Pramod continued his announcements, he wondered where the police were and what was taking them so long. The watch on his hand suggested it had been an hour now that Pramod had held fort, although without a doubt it had felt much longer. As the two gunmen made their way past Platform 2 and towards the western exit leading towards Cama Hospital and St. Xavier’s College, a young boy who had been lying the ground, suddenly got up and made a dash for it towards the side exit of Platform 1. Pramod shook his head in anticipation for another body to fall before his eyes as the gunmen took aim and let free a barrage of bullets in the boy’s direction. Somehow the boy, taking cover behind pillars and posts, managed to avoid the hail of bullets as they razed past the structures he hid behind and with a final dash, with the name of his God on his lips, he made for the exit and before the two gunmen could come around the bend to get a clear shot at him he was out. Pramod, would have rejoiced the small victory, had the hail of bullets that just missed the boy, had shattered the glass window of his office and rained down glass in front of him. Although he shielded himself from the broken glass and in truth, was placed far enough from the window to get hurt, Pramod now realized he did not have a window protecting him from the gunmen and perhaps they had already seen him. Hoping against hope that they hadn’t he quickly ducked onto the floor, located a relatively clean patch and sat in silence hoping his position had not been given away by the shattering glass.

To Pramod, even his breathing seemed loud now as the footsteps of the two gunmen edged ever-closer. A round of machine gun fire froze Pramod to his very veins as his insides trembled. With great restrain, he stayed on the ground and did not move an inch, as he heard muffled voices outside. The gunmen were conversing and it did not seem like a language Pramod knew. As the footsteps grew spaced out and ever so sudden, Pramod realized that they were patrolling the area, waiting for victims. Pramod, increasingly, began to feel that the sound of his breathing would give him away and his paranoia started to induce images in his mind that he could have done without at this moment. As voices rang out again, Pramod strained his ears, trying to pick up something but alas, he could not understand the language. Another round of fire followed by a dog’s whimper almost made him spit out expletives. As the tension grew thicker, the silence interspersed only by the footsteps and the mind-numbing sound of gunshots being fired and the maniacal laughter following it – Pramod knew that death would be instead and bloody if he was found now. There would be nothing to keep the two bloodthirsty animals from shredding his body with bullet holes and mutilating it beyond recognition especially if they also realized that he was the one making the announcements. As thoughts of his mutilated body, his wife breaking down, his children wearing white clothes and his parents crying profusely over his dead body raced through his mind, Pramod’s consciousness was jerked back to reality by the sound of footsteps receding into the distance- the sound fading away slowly. With a tiny bubble of transparent hope rising through the red, yellow and black coursing through his mind and body Pramod raised his head a tiny bit and then his body to peer through the glass-less window into the station premises to see if the gunmen had really left. Seeing no sign of any movement anywhere, he began to feel around on the floor for his phone and having located it quickly rifled through the call-log to see it his family or Carvalho or Shubham had called him back. He saw twelve missed calls from his wife.

Pramod frantically got up and dialled his wife’s number but unable to connect through, he stepped out of his cabin hoping to get a better connection on the platform. As he opened the door, a waft of putrid odour hit his nostrils. Unable to identify the uncommon smell, he gingerly stepped forward and poked his head around the corner such that the balustrade came into view on his right and Platform 1 and the foot over-bridge on his left. Seeing no movement, he stepped forward. For a man who had just been through the ordeal that he had been through, the sight that lay in front of him should have been enough to drive him to tears but it simply numbed his senses. A piercing sound reverberated in his ears and his mind lost control of his legs as the feet, all too well-versed with the premises walked about amidst the unknown blood-stained floors and strewn bags and gears that punctuated the mortals, some lying immobile and bloodied and some whimpering and struggling in pain, trying to cling on to the little wisps of life and make their way to the light at the end of the tunnel. Pramod hobbled across the station, his shoes adding to the bloodied prints on the tiled floor, as he indiscriminately walked through splattered pools of blood and past people he did not know and now would never beyond their obituaries. As Pramod walked through what seemed to him like a circle of hell, the devastation and absolute shock which gripped him, clenched his heart and soul like a cold copper corset, making even breathing difficult in the air laden with putrid odours that rose from the bloodied wounds of the perspiring alive and the dead bodies. As he coughed and grabbed his chest trying to breathe, he became cognizant of two things simultaneously – a vibration in his trouser pocket and a familiar black coat lying in a few feet to his right. As he pushed his left hand into his left pocket to extract the phone he stumbled towards the black coat urging his mind that it was a common coat worn by all checkers. Subconsciously, Pramod received the call on his cell phone and raised it to his ear as he reached the coat and lifted it from the ground. On the phone he could hear static and a muffled voice mumbling something in-comprehensively while his mind wondered why the coat was so wet. As the voice started to clear out, he looked down and to his horror, saw blood dripping from the black coat onto the floor and streaming down his palm and along his radius and ulna, gradually diffusing through his light blue sleeve. Dropping the coat and taking a step back almost in fear, he looked down once again beyond the coat at the owner lying beneath just as a clear but teary voice crackled through the phone, “Hello? Are you there? Are you alive?” Pramod’s worst fears, darker and denser than before seemed to well up from the depths of his intestines as he stared at the bearded face- the same face but not those playful naughty eyes that always make stupid jokes and sexual innuendos- of Carvalho. As he looked at the empty eyes staring up at him, the hopelessness that he had kept inside so long overpowered his control and burst forth in a belching motion and Pramod could only avert his face to ensure his regurgitation did not soil Carvalho in death. The voice on the phone faded out after a few teary repetitions as Pramod, with vomit-soiled trousers and a blood-soaked right sleeve was carried away by two constables.

Pramod did not remember how he returned home the next day- someone must have dropped him off. He did not remember the teary hug of his wife, the confused stares of his children or the looks on the faces of his neighbours but in the coming days his wife narrated and re-narrated the story of her night and morning of uncertainty and the look on the faces of the neighbours as Pramod returned home – the looks reserved only for a man who had defied death and returned. Neither did he remember the next few days – they all were a haze of the mundane, interrupted only by sudden apparitions of bloody faces, of ringing gunshots, of blood dripping from a coat and two armed men nor did he remember what the newscasters screamed from their stations over the next few days. He remembered very less of his life till after a week he decided to go back to his job. His wife decided to accompany him and although it did nothing to lay the dark fears deep inside raring to poke their heads out to rest, he knew no amount of resistance could de-motivate her. As he boarded the 2:38 pm local from Currey Road as usual, the crowd in the carriage presented no suggestion of the ordeal the city had undergone barely a week back. The usual five stations and 15 minutes later he stepped down on the same Platform 1, barren a week ago but crowded and brimming over with people now. The familiar sounds of booming announcements over the public announcement system, of trains screeching to a halt or shuddering to life, of people clamouring to get past one another and chatting about the weather, about sports and politics, of hawkers attracting customers and of thousands of footsteps going about their ways. His body gave an involuntary shudder as he began his walk down to his work-station. His wife grabbed his hand and guided him through the multitude of people that he used to traverse quite confidently once. As he reached his office, to his shock he saw a crowd of people outside the gate – an anomaly basis his experience in his many years of service. He and his wife made his way through the crowd and into the room, which is when his boss stepped forward and started clapping. As the other employees joined in, a surprised Pramod was pulled aside by his boss and he announced to the room – “Our hero, guys!”

Embarrassed, Pramod muttered thanks which nobody heard before his boss wheeled him outside and turning towards the crowd outside said,” All of you have been coming every-day to meet Pramod. Well this is him and this is his wife”. Shocked, Pramod looked up at the faces of the few people who had gathered there. As an announcement rang out for the passengers of the Konark Express in the atrium, a middle-aged man stepped forward and hugged Pramod and whispered in his ear,” My daughter could return home alive because of you Pramod. I do not know how to thank you but truly I am indebted to you forever”. Pramod, still hugging the man, tried his best to keep his eyes from welling up and looked away from the crowd towards the platform and realized he was looking at the same place where the young woman had been shot down on the 26^th in front of his eyes. As they disengaged, he saw a group of 3 friends, probably college-going, running towards the platform and as his gaze followed them, they successfully boarded the train chugging out and celebrated inside by breaking into a jig as the announcement of the Kalyan local having left the station rang out through the atrium.

Druk Diaries

In the winter of 2018 as we traversed the breadth of Sikkim, indulging ourselves amidst light snowfall in Zuluk and heavy snowfall in Ravangla seeds of intent for our next trip had already begun sprouting in the inner confines of our mind. After much deliberation and discussion throughout 2019, we finally decided to explore similar mountainous terrain but beyond Indian borders and settled on Bhutan.

Known officially as the Kingdom of Bhutan, the Dzongkha endonym for the country half as large as the Indian state of West Bengal and only one-eighth the size of the state of Maharashtra, is Druk-yul meaning ‘Land of the Thunder Dragon’ – a reference to the Drukpa school of Vajarayana Buddhism that is predominant in the country. With only 1.1% of its total area under water, the country is land-locked on all sides by Tibet, China and the Indian states of Sikkim, West Bengal, Assam and Arunachal Pradesh. From India the only entrance by road is through the state of West Bengal. Although Bhutan does have an airport in Paro, we preferred to take the road to Bhutan for two reasons – one, the Kanchankanya Express which departs from Sealdah station of North Kolkata passes through the beautiful tea gardens of North Bengal and the Dooar hill forests post Siliguri Junction station which affords the inquisitive nature-loving traveller the opportunity to gaze at a rich variety of flora and fauna from the comfortable confines of the train coaches and two, economically a train journey is at least 10 times as cheap as a flight journey from Calcutta Airport to Paro Airport.

Having boarded the Kanchankanya Express (13149) from Sealdah at 8:30pm on the 21^st of January 2020, we called it a night after a sumptuous feast of home-made fried rice, chilly chicken and chocolate cake, only to wake up the next morning to deers sprinting alongside the train, squirrels playing hide-and-seek amidst the fern trees and wild grass and the sunlight trying to find its way in through the thick foliage of oak and pine trees. Split into numerous rays by the tall standing trees the rays illuminated the sparkling waters of the Teesta and the Torsa, children going to school through the trails amidst the thick foliage and rows and rows of tea plantations that stretched till it disappeared into the horizon. The train however was running late by over one and a half hours and reached Hasimara station, our destination at 1:00 pm instead of the scheduled 11:05 am. Alighting from the train, we made our way across the rustic looking station, right out of a Ruskin Bond classic and met our hired driver waiting outside the station gate.

Jaigaon, the border village on the Indian side of the Bhutan Gate is around 18 km along the National Highway 317A from Hasimara. Already delayed due to the lack of punctuality by Indian Railways, we were now battling a 3pm shutdown deadline of immigration clearance. Although Indian citizens do not need a Visa to visit Bhutan, we do need a permit for each city we visit. From Phuentsholing , which is the border town on the Bhutanese side, immigration permits for both people and vehicles are drawn up for the cities of Thimphu and Paro with the only requisites of permits for people being either a valid Voter ID card or passport, a passport-size photograph and a biometric scan of the two index fingers and facial photograph taken onsite. The process took us about an hour during which time we walked over to Jaigaon and completed our lunch. Having obtained the permits successfully and having been informed about how issuance of permits takes upto 3-4 hours during November-December, we started our journey towards Thimphu, having accepted our good luck. Two overwhelming differences struck us immediately as we crossed the Rinchending Checkpoint – with a population density of less than 20 people/ sq. km., which to put into perspective is one-eighth the population density of Shimla, one-twentieth the population density of India, one-thousandth the population density of Mumbai city, Bhutan is devoid of the quintessential cacophony characteristic of Indian cities dominated by honking horns and revels in the cleanliness of the air and the surroundings . We were largely impressed by the singular impact of a gate that demarcates unique identities in the same landmass, the difference being almost impossible to miss on either side of the Bhutan Gate.

As we made our way through the winding mountain roads, making our way uphill towards the capital city, rows and rows of hills and mountains presented themselves around the corners ranging from hills adorned with pine forests from the peak to the foothills to gradually unclear green and blue silhouettes plastered against the bright blue skies adorned with a few floating cirrus clouds. A rich splattering of greenery greeted our eyes from all directions as overhanging creepers, grasses, ferns and a variety of shrubs complimented the majestic oaks, pines and cypress. From time to time the car would disappear into the clouds with nothing visible beyond 50 m on either side and a careful drive through the clouds would again warrant a sudden appearance into a clearing that once again presented a green and blue mountainside view punctuated by traditional Bhutanese architectural constructions – white-washed buildings with the typical lotus patterned window arches and sloping wood-shingled roofs that curve up at their end , sometimes in the shape of dragon visages.

Clean roads lined with trees near Takin Reserve in Thimphu

By late evening we reached Thimphu and checked in to our hotel. At a walking distance from our hotel was the Cham Lam Road which housed the national football stadium and several cafes which we explored over the next day and Norzin Lam which housed the main market, a few restaurants, convenience stores, a vibrant handicrafts market and the Textile Museum. At sub-zero temperatures we walked up Drentoen Lam past the Bhutan Postal Corporation and onto Norzin Lam. Having selected a restaurant that was dedicatedly serving Bhutanese cuisine (brug-zas), we gorged on datsi, ribs, red rice, momos and tshoem. Local wines and liquors are dirt-cheap and we wasted no time in gulping down our food with the famous Takin Red Wine and the K5 whiskey. A walk through Thimphu city at night in sub-zero temperatures was a surreal experience not attributed merely to the tremendous traffic discipline on display which warranted a complete absence of any traffic signals of any sort and a system where vehicles did not touch speeds north of 40 kmph and they stopped for pedestrians crossing roads at zebra crossings, but also to the lack of too many people. Largely empty yet entirely safe streets afforded the opportunity to observe normal and natural Thimphu life exist amidst us- mothers running home after a day of hard work with their children strapped to their backs in a cloth quiver, men in the traditional gho catching up over a  glass of traditional rice-wine called ‘aara’ in restaurants, clumps of localites hanging about the footpath here and there discussing the weather and the upcoming AFC Cup football match and women in the traditional kira downing shutters to leave for home.

Thimphu Valley as seen from Kuensel Phodrang

View of Thimphu Valley from Buddha Point

After a good night’s sleep in an artificially heated room in a city shivering under sub-zero temperatures, we set out the next morning amidst muted sunshine, strong winds and pleasantly cold weather to explore Thimphu city. Driving through the Doeboom Lam and past the iconic National Memorial Chorten and the majestic Jigme Dorji Wangchuck National Referral Hospital we were told how medical services in the country were largely government-sponsored in the country resulting in a very low rate of privatisation of medicine sales and almost no private practices in the medical profession in Bhutan. Leaving behind the city perimeter soon, we started to scale the Gaki Lam, again following the clean and beautiful winding roads up through the Kuensel Phodrang nature park, to catch glimpses of the valley below housing the city of Thimphu represented from the top by green, red and silver sloping roofs stretching till mountains appeared on the horizon. The Tashichho Dzong and the King’s quarters were the white and red centrepieces in the maze that was Thimphu from a few thousand feet higher. Looking up, a striking scene met our eyes – something we had missed as we had made our way to Thimphu in the darkness of the night. Above the silhouetted pine forests plastered against the stunningly beautiful aquamarine sky sat the silhouette, unmistakably of the Buddha Shakyamuni. The awe-inspiring sight of the Buddha seated meditating on the trees that make this land overlooking the valley from the southern approach took some time to adjusting to. Finally, after a drive of about an hour and a half we reached the Great Buddha Dordenma, popularly known as Buddha Point. Situated amidst the ruins of an erstwhile palace, the statue is about 169 feet tall and although there is a vehicular access road that leads right to the base of the bronze statue, we preferred to take the 300 odd stairs. As we climbed up the stairs carved out of the rocky mountain, slowly the statue started to appear as if emerging out of the horizon. As we reached the top, the true impact of 51.5 m towering over us pervaded our consciousness as we looked around at humans looking like tiny ants hustling and bustling about in front of the giant Buddha smiling serenely. Adorned by Bodhisattvas on all sides the statue houses a meditation hall in its pedestal which in turn, is home to 1,00,000 8-inch-tall and 25,000 12-inch-tall gilded bronze statues of the Buddha and a giant statue of Avalokitesvara, the God of Compassion.

Statue of Buddha Shakyamuni looking over Thimphu Valley from Kuensel Phodrang

Buddha Dordenma - 169 feet

Descending and hardly expecting a comparable experience we made our way back within the city only to stop by an ‘alive’ heritage museum called ‘Simply Bhutan’ on Genyen Lam. The so-calle museum took us through the traditions of Bhutanese culture from making and offering of ‘aara’- the rice wine to the making of ‘suja’ literally meaning ‘mashed tea’ made from butter, salt, tea leaves and hot water. Not only were we shown the utensils used to make such delicacies but also shown many traditional weapons, equipment and machines that were historically utilised by the largely agrarian people. The guides took us through traditional ways of making houses, different ways to decorate something with a white satin cloth to symbolize different things, the importance of the phallus in Bhutanese culture and the importance of a single letter in a surname which may cause you to be mistaken for a royal. The tour through the single-storied multi-roomed building moved towards culmination with a visit to the studio-cum-shop of the foot sculptor Pema Tshering, whose story and life is a potential inspiration to all and ended with an opportunity to dance the local dance with kira-clad localites to Dzongkha tunes while sipping hot suja with crispy puffed rice.

Pema Tshering's workshop and studio in Simply Bhutan, Thimphu

Back on Norzin Lam to the immigration office to get the permits made for Punakha, Chele La Pass and Ha Valley, we again hunted out a restaurant serving Bhutanese cuisine and gorged on thukpa, maru, red rice and brug-zas styled spaghetti. Post lunch we walked across the road to the Textile Museum next to the handicrafts market and spent a good half-an-hour exploring different weaving styles from the different districts of Bhutan, different ornaments and accessories both traditional and modern, thangka painting styles and video lessons on how to wear the traditional ‘gho’ for men and ‘kira’ for women. Post this, we rushed to the northern extremes of the city to the Tashichho Dzong, the fort cum monastery to watch the Druk-yul flag being lowered at 3:30 pm. A half-hour wait later we were taken inside the administrative and religious headquarters of Thimphu by a guide. As we walked past the huge whitewashed walls beneath the red sloping roofs and traditional wooden cornice of the Dzong, we were shown the Dechencholing Palace on the banks of the river, locally called the Wang Chhu. In-keeping with the traditional architectural rules of Bhutanese culture, the quarters too had white washed walls, shingled-red sloping roof with a decorated wooden cornice with motifs of the Buddhist symbols integral to Bhutanese heritage and windows bearing the iconic trefoil motif locally called horzhing. Climbing the large stone steps of the Dzong, we walked past walls adorned with motifs of deities prevalent in Vajarayana form of Buddhism till we were led into a vast open courtyard which was surrounded on all four sides by the Lhakhang Sarp (the new temple), the now-unused Utse tower, the main Gonkhang (protector temple), a wall with a row of prayer wheels and retiring quarters for the monks. The administrative seat of the King, the Prime Minister, the Finance Minister and the Home Minister lay behind the Utse tower directly opposite to the Lhakhang Sarp, which housed statues of the Buddha, Guru Padmasambhava (called the second Buddha in Bhutan for spreading principles of Vajarayana Buddhism to Bhutan), Zhabdrung Ngawang Namgyal (who unified the various fiefdoms into the single country of Druk-yul), the local deity Gyenyen Jagpa Milen , the God of Compassion and Drukpa Kunley (known as the Divine Mad Man). Just like the Sistine Chapel, the awe-inspiring painting on the ceiling astounded all. Stepping out after offering prayer inside, we buttoned up our jackets as the sun began to dip behind the mountains ensuring the air got colder and the place much chillier than before. The evening and night was spent exploring the cafes, pubs and karaoke bars in and around Cham Lam Road before we retired for the night.

Dechencholing Palace from the Tashichho Dzong

Utse Tower and Administrative Block of Tashichho Dzong in Thimphu

The next day we set our, early in the morning, for Punakha. As we exited the city perimeters and revved up the car to above 60 kmph winding our way through the mountainous terrain, the Himalayan range of Bhutan started to peek out from behind the pre-Himalayan ranges. Being an unnaturally cloudy day, we were denied a full view of the snow-clad peaks however and when we reached Dochula Pass, around 27 km from Thimphu city, the clouds had descended on the 10,200 ft high point obstructing clear view of even the memorial chortens from the meditation caves, just a few feet apart. The Druk Wangyal Khang Zhang Chortens, totalling 108 in number built in 2004 in memory of Bhutanese soldiers who lost their lives but were successful in dislodging and killing Assamese insurgents who were attacking India from Bhutanese territory, presents a panoramic view of the Himalayan range and the meditation caves atop a small hillock but sadly on this day afforded a view of a cloudy sky and intermittent snowfall. The meditation caves for Buddhist monks were atop a snow covered small hillock, home to pine and cypress trees and a small trek through the snow-covered trails led to numerous such caves, adorned with the symbols of the dragon. Completing our brunch in the adjacent 60^th Café, we reset our compasses for Punakha.

Dochula Pass Memorial Chorten on a cloudy day

Meditation Caves trail in Dochula Pass

Snowfall in Dochula Pass

A further 42 km away lay our next destination- Chimi Lhakhang. Having crossed into Punakha district after nearly an hour, we could sense the more rustic nature of this district as compared to Thimphu. Traditional houses with motifs of the phallus, the dragon, the tiger, lion or the mythical Garuda on the white-washed walls lined the road and the valley below. Soon departing from the metalled road near Lobesa, we descended into an unmetalled trail through the village of Sopsokha towards the hallowed Chimi Lhakhang, built in 1499 by Ngawang Choegyel, the step-cousin of the Divine Mad Man who had built a stupa here. The monastery, highly regarded globally by many as the one to visit to seek blessings to beget children, is positioned atop a hill and requires a steep but short trek to reach it. A bodhi tree, born of the sapling of the original Bodhi tree in Gaya, greets visitors at the entrance of the Lhakhang. As we walked past the tree we came face to face with the original chorten built by Drukpa Kunley who had subdued a demoness there, and hearing the story moved on to the door that led us to within the central courtyard. A giant prayer wheel welcomed us inside the courtyard lined with study rooms for monks and a butter lamp lighting station at the centre. Opening our shoes, we stepped inside the monastery and were shown statues of Drukpa Kunley, his dog Sachi, Ngawang Namgyal, Buddha Sakyamuni , the God of Compassion, the God of Long Life, the local deity Chhoekim and Ngawang Choegyel, the builder of the Lhakhang. The walls of the monastery were adorned with thangkas and motifs depicting the colourful life of the Divine Mad Man who actively discouraged celibacy as a way of life and stressed on the importance of a healthy sexual life in attainment of nirvana. His methods were unprecedented and divergent from teachings of other lamas and the 10-inch wooden phallus brought by him from Tibet, is till date used in the monastery to bless women who seek blessings to have children. The monastery also maintains a book recording details of all couples who were blessed with children post their visit to Chimi Lhakhang. The view from the top of the hill is also astounding, offering a wide panorama of the Punakha Chhu running through the Punakha valley dotted with settlements across and the Punakha Dzong in the distance standing at the confluence of the Mo Chhu and the Pho Chhu. The overwhelming belief in the ability of the phallus to ward off evil spirits was very evident especially in Punakha as almost all houses either had the motif drawn on the walls, or the symbol hung on the doors.

Bodhi Tree at entrance of Chimmi Lhakhang

Traversing the narrow trail again, we found ourselves on the highway and racing towards the Punakha Dzong. The Dzong itself, offered nothing new, being the administrative and religious headquarters of the district but the wooden cantilever bridge over the Mo Chhu that connected the Punakha-Thimphu Highway to the Punakha Dzong offered a stunning vista of crystal clear waters gliding peacefully over a bed of rocks, a stunningly clean home for a large school of fish who were fed rice and biscuits by the monks and passers-by from atop the bridge. The river seemed to have disappeared amidst two mountains in the north and on the south, it was adorned by the Dzong on one bank and the city centre on the other, before meeting up with the Pho Chhu to form the Punakha Chhu and run down the valley, sustaining lives and replenishing them all throughout its length. Walking through the roofed cantilever bridge, we passed through the Dzong before hiking up a beautiful path lined on both sides by cypress and oak trees. As monks in the traditional red walked up and down the serene and silent path, the green of the abundant foliage and the grey of the concrete was well complemented by the bright reddish shade of the monks’ adornments and their lips, which was turned so by addiction to betel nut leaves with Doma areca nut. This was a commonality they shared with the locals as we realised later during our visit to the Kuruthang market area. The serene path led us to a dusty, narrow trail which was open on one side to the river gurgling away beneath us and the other crested by the rocky face of the mountain overlooking the Punakha valley. A short while later, we emerged at the entrance of a magnificent engineering marvel – the 520 feet long Punakha suspension bridge adorned with colourful prayer flags all along its length, swinging gently from side to side and all the while serving utility of connecting the Dzong to the villages of Shengana, Samdingkha and Wanghkha. Unlike the cantilever bridge, this bridge is supported only by cables anchored to cement blocks on the banks, which allows the wooden planked bridge the opportunity to gurgle your insides by swinging a little too much in strong winds. The colourful accumulation of flags fluttering away gloriously lends some amount of relaxation to the mind of the traveller suffering from a turgid stomach. Having been left astounded by the panoramic views afforded form the central drooping truss of the bridge, we made it back to the Dzong as the sun began to dip and then to Kuruthang market to gorge on momos in a local shop. The night was spent in the hotel a few miles away atop a hill, looking down magnanimously on the magnificently beautiful Punakha valley with the silver sparkling Punakha Chhu running through it, with a delicious platter of momos, paa, datsi, dumplings and a nutty gravy preparation of pork that left us licking our fingers. As accompaniments we had a fennel seeds based liquor, a local apple cider and aara to kick things off as per tradition.

Punakha Dzong and Punakha Cantilever Bridge across the Mo Chhu

Monks walking on serene access Road to Punakha Suspension Bridge from Punakha Dzong

Monk walking towards Punakha Dzong while chewing betel nut leaves and areca nut

Punakha Suspension Bridge across the Pho Chhu

The next day we woke up to peek outside form our cottage windows and a scene right out of a childhood painting brought back the nostalgia of all those lazy Sunday afternoons of lying around with a drawing book and a few pastel colours immediately. The tall pines and the overarching branches framed a scene of the broad, slithering serpentine, glistening Punakha Chhu dissecting the settlements of green and red shingled sloping roofs in the valley cordoned off by lush green mountains from all sides preceding silhouetted mountains in the distance , all in lightening shades of blue till the last mountain almost becomes miscible with the sky blue hue of the morning sky awaiting the sun to slowly creep upwards from behind the last range on the horizon to take centre-stage on a clear day. On the sloping ranges, as far as the eyes stretched, lied distinctive triangular green shapes, shaking feverishly in the wind blowing across the valley – even the vast expanse of pine forests unable to prevent the wind from blowing through them and jingling their branches and leaves as if in acknowledgement of the shivering cold the wind brought with it. To wake up to such a scene has such an impact on the mind as cannot be properly explained by mere words but it is safe to assume that there would be few other scenes as enchanting to wake up to as this in the world. As we left behind our point of vantage and become a part of this scene, making our way back through the same road that we travelled yesterday, there was a distinct difference to yesterday that made our hearts soar in anticipation. It was a clearer day will no clouds and that presented us with an opportunity to experience, along the way, an uninterrupted view of the snow-capped peaks of Masang Gang, Kulha Gangri and Gangkhar Puensum in the distance.

Punakha Valley as seen from the verandah of the cottages in Zangdoh Pelri Hotel

Clear waters of the Paro Chhu

The drive back through Dochula and Thimphu towards Paro, was rapidly completed before noon and having feasted on bathup and suja for breakfast before leaving Punakha, we were well-filled till evening. The landscape changed rapidly as we crossed Thimphu and started our journey towards Paro- the lush green or white snow was replaced by different shades of brown – from the sandy yellowish to the dark sienna as the we seemed to have been transported somehow magically to a Ladakh-like landscape so very different from what we had experienced over the last few days. The awe-inspiring nature of the landscape did not fade away as the high rocky faces reached up into the bright blue cloudless skies from the Paro Chhu. Along the only stretch of the highway from Thimphu to Paro where the river falls on the right-hand side of the highway, lies the very old Tachog Lakhang.  Built in 1420 by Thangton Gyalpo, this is one of the oldest monasteries in Bhutan. A dusty trail leads down from the highway towards an old and dilapidated iron suspension bridge adorned with colourful prayer flags strung all along the length of the truss and an adjacent newer looking suspension bridge made of the parts of the same bridge which too was adorned with colourful prayer flags fluttering away gayly in the strong winds blowing along the river and as per local tradition, disseminating the good luck from the flags across the area. Crossing the bridge to the other side, we went down to the rocks straddling the cool waters of the Paro Chhu and freshened up before embarking on the climb to the Lhakhang. The climb was steep and in places quite dangerous and the strong winds did nothing to help us. In fact, the winds were so strong at times that we stopped in our tracks and stood still lest the wind push us back once we tried to move ahead. Finally, though we succeeded in reaching the Lhakhang which had wuite a few apple and orange trees in the inner courtyard. With rooms for the monks on the lower storey, the unwalled upper storey housed only the temple. With the permission of the monk, we stepped inside to be welcomed by huge thangkas telling the story of Guru Padmasambhava and Ngawang Namgyal. The statues of all 3 adorned the monastery. The small monastery had a special charm in a dusty yellow landscape overlooking the clear waters of the Paro Chhu.  

Iron suspension bridge built by Thangton Gyalpo across the Paro Chhu near the Tachog Lhakhang

Atop the hill housing the Tachog Lhakhang

Orange tree at Tachog Lhakhang

Stalactite and stalagmite formations at subzero temperatures in Paro

As we resumed our journey towards Paro, a strange feeling of contentment filled our minds for having been able to see one of Bhutan’s oldest cultural heritages. The landscape continued to be the same till Paro as we followed the river right into the heart of the Paro valley. Having reached the picturesque Paro valley by midday we checked-in to our homestay a little away from the main town and returned to the Rinpung Dzong on the east banks of the Paro Chhu. Again, with no interest to explore the interiors of a similar fortress-cum-monastery we decided to follow a trail of rock-cut stairs that led from the Dzong right down to the Nyamai Zam Cantilever Footbridge across the Paro Chhu and then walk along Lower Olathang right into the heart of the market area of Paro city. It turned out to be a great decision as the tall white stone walls and stairs of the Dzong, which appeared in quite a few scenes in 1993 Keanu Reeves starrer Little Buddha, were a perfect foil to the amber falling leaves and dry and naked branches of the cypress and oak trees that lined both banks of the river revealing the city behind through a porous curtain of branches and twigs. The city lied nestled in the valley of mountains strutting behind linking the fast darkening sky to the houses getting lighted up, readied to face the night. Strong, cold winds ensured we kept our jackets buttoned and gloves on as we walked down chatting and laughing and through the front garden and onto the bridge. By the time we reached the city, darkness and a harsh cold had draped the city completely and we relived our Thimphu experience once again albeit this time slightly punctuated by many more tourists and multiple Indian eateries. The traffic discipline was as in Thimphu and we wasted no time in popping in and out of a few curio and handicrafts shops, picking up things from here and there before stopping for a dinner of maru, datsi and a chilly-based preparation of chicken. Post-dinner we returned to our homestay and called it a night.

Rinpung Dzong on the banks of the Paro Chhu

Paro Valley as seen from the Rinpung Dzong

One of the things that we had eagerly awaited since planning this trip had been the trek up to the Tiger Nest Monastery. We set out early the next morning and drove up for about an hour before stopping at a roadside shop for noodles and suja. A further 10 minutes’ drive later we were at the base of the trek. Built in 1692 by Gyalse Tenzin Rabgye to immortalise the meditation cave of Guru Padmasambhava, the man credited with introducing Vajarayana school of Buddhism to Bhutan, the Taktsang Temple , meaning ‘Temple of the Tiger Lair’ , known commonly as the Tiger’s Nest Monastery in English and the Guru Mtshan Brygyad Lhakhang (Temple of the Guru with 8 Names, in reference to the eight forms of Guru Padmasambhava during his lifetime) in Dzongkha, is not only an architectural and engineering marvel positioned as precariously as it is on a cliff at a height of over 10,000 feet overlooking the Paro valley but also a spiritually uplifting place. The mystical marvel can be spotted as tiny white speck on a vertical cliff from the base point and as one traverses the dusty trail through the forest of blue pines, redwoods, pines, oaks, cypress and hemlock trees apart from the variety of ground flora and creepers and shrubs, for nearly an hour, a clearing decorated with the colourful prayer flags presents an opportunity to get a clearer view of the white complex. A further half hour climb through rocky terrain leads to a cafeteria which is about halfway to the monastery itself. Post this begins a trail, not as dusty and dry but one that is more green and muddy. About half an hour through this trail along the very edge of the cliff leads us to face an astonishingly beautiful vista of the red and gold roofed white monastery positioned precariously on a blackish brown cliff, looking over miles and miles of mountains filled with pine forests till in the distance as if a galaxy away the forests give way to snow-capped peaks of the Lower Himalayas, against the bright blue afternoon sky. As we stood here admiring the sight that was in front of us and the difficult trek that we had just completed, ahead of us lay around 700 man-made stairs that would lead us from one mountain to the next through a frozen waterfall. As we descended around 500 stairs we witnessed falling water freezing after falling halfway down the rocky face and flying chunks of ice being brought down by gravity. Traversing this uniquely dangerous 10 feet stretch, we had to ascend another 200 stairs to finally reach the gates of the monastery. The trek took about 3 hours to complete but what waited for us inside ensured that it was all worth it. Inside the monastery lies 9 temples, which houses huge gilded bronze deities of not only Guru Padmasambhava and all his 8 forms but also yab-yum statues of Guru Padmasambhava, his two wives – one Indian and one Tibetan, other deities worshipped in Vajarayana form of Buddhism including the God of Compassion, the God of Wealth and the God of Long Life, Langchen Pelkyi Singye, a disciple of Guru Padmasambhava, Tenzin Rabgye, the builder of the temple and Dorje Legpa, the local deity. The spiritually enlightening and highly interesting guided tour of all but one of the temples ended with lighting butter lamps and ruminating on the impact of the Bengali tantric Shakti DasMahaVidya movement on the Mahayana school of Buddhism which ultimately culminated in the Vajarayana school of Buddhism with effectively marries the tantric rituals and deities into the Buddhist school of thought. As we sat outside the monastery and energised ourselves for the descent by consuming chocolates and biscuits, we were transported through the surreal experience of the preserved heritage of so many centuries to a time much before us and contemplated on how despite the many situations that could have diverted history towards non-existence, we stood witness to the success of a few people that had changed the lives of many. The innumerable links and connections between the cultures that we considered so different, between religions so far apart in their outlooks and beliefs and between people who though geographically adjacent are culturally divergent astounded us and drove us to the realisation that all of us exist because we are connected to each other in some way or the other and in the bigger scheme of things perhaps humanity is the biggest culture, religion and heritage that we inherit and leave behind. With thoughts bordering on philosophical, we began the descent and all the while wondered astounded of how difficult the ascent seemed while descending.

Pine forest through which one must trek to Tiger Nest Monastery

Frozen waterfall encountered during trek upto Tiger Nest Monastery

View of Tiger Nest Monastery from clearing near cafeteria

Tiger Nest Monastery

The next day we undertook a perilous drive through ice-covered roads and snow-covered foliage towards Chele-La Pass. Located at a height of about 13,000 ft, around 35 km from Paro, the Chele La Pass connects Paro and Bondey to the valley of Haa, which is a further 26 km from it. The setting for the first feature film shot entirely in Bhutan, ‘Travellers and Magicians’, the Pass is accessed by narrow winding roads with sharp turns and thick green cover of foliage that is at this time of the year completely white-washed by frequent snowfall. The drive was not without incident as expected as it skidded on ice thrice during the turns and was stuck for lack of friction on the icy road once. An ingenuous solution involved improving the friction between the tires and the road by placing some broken branches and leafy twigs beneath the tires, post which accelerating the car ensured it could move ahead. Despite the intermediate difficulties, we managed to reach the Pass by midday and the snow-covered roads and tops provided ample scope to not only have a snowball-fight in jest but also to experience the pure joy of standing in knee-deep snow. Walking on the soft snow and leaving behind footprints in the freshly deposited snow amidst the ceaseless fluttering of the white flags hoisted in memory of the deceased, while chilly winds raged at speeds greater than 30mps will remain an unforgettable experience to recount at many addas over chai and coffee in times to come. In the far distance framed against the ominous grey cumulonimbus laden darkening sky lay the snow-capped peaks of Jomolhari of the Dongkya range and Jitchu Drayke of the Himalayan range. After a bone-chilling and feet freezing time spent playing about in the snow and lying back on the snow, clutching the stomach to stop it from paining from laughing so hard and ultimately sighing loudly and lying down staring up at the dark blue sky with greyish tinges contrasted by the pure white of the snow caps in the distance, we finally made our way back to the car and drove down 25kms to the rustic, largely empty and tremendously windy Haa Valley. A trekking trail also existed but for lack of time, we decided not to explore it. The last part of the evening was spent exploring the remaining curio shops and handicrafts market in Paro before we completed our dinner and with a sigh of knowing that all good things come to an end, switched off the lights for the night.

Prayer flags fluttering away on a windy day enroute Chele La Pass

Chele La Pass - Mt. Jomolhari visible in the distance under cloud cover

Fun with snow at Chele La Pass

Weather Station in Chele La Pass

Haa Valley 

A drive back to Hasimara the next morning took almost 6 hours. We snacked on the way at a roadside eatery near Chapcha and followed the Wang Chhu back towards Phuentsholing. As soon as we crossed the Bhutan Gate back into India, the cacophony of noises pervaded the peaceful halo that seemed to have engulfed us and we were once again transported to reality as the blaring of horns, which seemed to have been magically removed from our lives for a week, snatched away the remnants of the peace that the Kingdom of the Thunder Dragon had created. Back in India, we lunched in Jaigaon before reaching Hasimara by 3:30pm, in time to catch the 13150 KanchanKanya Express which would arrive in Hasimara at 4:30pm. The return journey was spent largely reminiscing and ruminating about the beauty and cleanliness of the land from the lap of the Himalayas. The experiences we had will hopefully last a lifetime. If not, we can always go back once again.

Mountain dog fast asleep on the Punakha Wooden Cantilever Bridge