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 

The Starting Line

Aastha Sheikh was the only 9-year old in her class never to have seen Ellis Bridge. All her friends talked about the wonderful view from atop their fathers’ shoulders, staring down in awe at the serpentine river weaving its way through the heart of the city and up in amazement at the wonderfully illuminated bridge. They would speak of families walking along the pedestrian paths on the edges, laughing and smiling with kids on laps, kids on shoulders and kids on their backs slurping on an ice-cream or struggling with a fluffy candy floss. They would giggle and suddenly dive into hushed tones and burst out laughing, reminiscing about young couples walking hand in hand, engrossed in the view- some of each other and some of the manmade wonder above the natural one. They would speak wide-eyed about the groups of friends cutting birthday cakes on the famous bridge overlooking the Sabarmati and wistfully hope that someday soon they would be able to convince their parents to give them the same freedoms. Aastha listened mute to all these stories and true to her name, believed that one day she would see this great miracle too.

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As her father brought the vehicle around, Aastha’s face lit up with an unadulterated joy that only a kid can show. She nearly jumped out of the arms of her mother, who for some reason did not seem happy at all. Perhaps she did not take too kindly to being woken up at 4 am in the morning but young Aastha who had been put to sleep early last night, had no sleep and only hope in her eyes as she finally managed to wrestle her way out of the reluctant arms of her mother and made a beeline for the vehicle. Her father got out of the driver’s seat and waited as Aastha’s little feet made the fifteen feet journey an arduous one. He knelt down and with a smile greeted his only daughter and then lifting her up in his arms stood up facing his wife. As Aastha looked at the vehicle in awe- a vehicle which she knew her father drove but had never seen, her parents carried out a hurried conversation in hushed tones. She realised from the tone of her mother’s voice that she was not happy about something but too happy to care about what, she let it slide away from her mind.

Minutes later, young Aastha could not believe that she was in a car, at 4 am in the morning, wide awake and with permission. As she let the cool October morning breeze hit her face and ruffle her hair , she felt something she rarely felt – a feeling that she couldn’t quite define but a feeling that had sporadically engulfed her when her father had taken her to Sarkhej Roza the first time. It was only a few minutes from their house but the sheer size of the lush green hills, the old and enticing remains of gates and palaces and her father’s encouraging look telling her to run as much as she wanted to made wave after wave of the feeling lash over her, making her feel as if she was miles away from dirty little Sarkhej. She had ran about to her heart’s content that day, her father barely managing to keep up. As they climbed down the outer wall that evening Aastha peacefully sleeping on her father’s shoulder, her arms wrapped around his neck and her drool all over his shirt, her father knew that his daughter was not one to be tied down.

As memories of that wonderful day came flooding back into her mind, Aastha looked towards her father driving the car and then back out at the empty streets and flickering streetlamps casting temporary shadows on the strays that looked up sleepily at the vehicle that rushed past . She suddenly felt very brave and special, sure that none of her classmates had ever seen Ahmedabad at 4am. As the vehicle took a turn and continued along a beautiful road , Aastha saw to her amazement that on her side of the road there was no longer buildings and concrete but instead a huge chasm , across which was visible a skyline silhouetted against the early morning sky of Ahmedabad. At the gradually lightening sky with a deft stroke of orange here and a slight dash of yellow there against a canvas of a purplish-black shaped by fluffy and bulbous silver-lined clouds stretching across the vast expanse, Aastha stared and stared unable to contain her excitement on seeing a sky that changed colour so quickly . Her father smiled as he changed the gear, perhaps for the first time during this time of the day although every day at this time he had been exactly here for the past 12 years. He looked at his watch and hoped that he would be on time.

Five minutes later Aastha did not know where to look- at the huge structure in front of her that stretched across the river below, the reflection of which in the still waters presented a beautiful scene of illumination against the dark reflection of sky , at the water itself, guarded by high stepped walls on either side and protected by the many sentinels hung over it at generous distances bridging the gap that it created or at her father who escorted her down a flight of steps and lifted her atop a raised platform , smiled at her and urged her to stay put and did what any clueless 9-year old would- sit and stare.  She looked at his retreating back up the flight of steps, knowing fully well where he was going- back to the vehicle.

Aastha looked on in awe at the troika of a dark canvas gradually sprouting lighter shades, with a sudden leak of reddish hues and silhouetted skyline of a vibrant multi-cultural city still cloaked in the black of the night, a still, silent, powerful, ever-moving serpent, weaving its way across the city and the illuminated man-made engineering marvels slung across the lifeline connecting the city and completing the canvas. She was so engrossed in the scene that she almost missed what her father had brought her there for. She would have missed it had it not been for her father waving frantically from down below with a huge bucket in one hand and a broom in the other, pointing excitedly at the skyline behind him and quite extraordinarly following the line of vision of his outstretched broom Aastha saw a chrome ball rising above the minarets,kalasas ,amalakas and highrises. As the Sun rose above the city it gradually threw off the dark shroud the city had wrapped itself in and the canvas changed from a purplish-black to a soothing light blue bordered by white cumulonimbus. Aastha watched in wonder as the Sun illuminated the city and the artificial illumination on Ellis Bridge paled in comparison.

Having cleaned the stretch designated to him, as he had done for the past 12 years Ahmed Sheikh returned to where he had left his daughter. Not seeing her there, he kept the bucket and broom there and ran down the steps looking left and right as he covered two steps at a time. His heart racing, thinking now about his wife’s reprimanding, Ahmed rushed along the river not knowing where to look. He knew shouting was futile and huffing and puffing, just about to collapse Ahmed, saw to his amazement a 9-year old girl running on the platform above his head towards Ellis Bridge. Taken aback but still thankful that he had spotted her, he rushed along trying to find the next flight of stairs. By the time he found it, Aastha had reached the bridge. Climbing two steps at a time and knowing full well that his body might collapse any moment, Ahmed continued spurred on only by his love for his daughter. Finally having caught up with her, he fell down to his knees, famished and ashen-faced, his shirt soaking wet on an October morning and his face grimy already. He looked up at his daughter who excitedly pointed to the reason why her father had run so much. Still trying to gather breath, he looked up at a sight which even in that state, he had to behold.

Through the caged structure that was Ellis Bridge, the sun played hide-and-seek as it ascended the limitless sky, its light skidding off the metal and disseminating into multiple rays in all directions. As he looked on in wonder, the sun continued to rise up and while doing so, bathed the bridge in a warm haze of October sunshine and as the sound of crows crowing and dogs barking aggregated with the gradually increasing sounds of horns honking, gears clunking and the occasional train whistle in the distance, Ahmed realised why his daughter had run- to take in the true essence of an urban sunrise.

Aastha Sheikh was the only 28-year old among the competitors to have seen the sun rise through Ellis Bridge. Being mute since birth, she however could not tell anyone how beautiful it was but the daughter of the municipal garbage collector remembered how she had run that day to watch the scene in time. As she looked up at the track in front of her in New Delhi, Aastha Sheikh knew what awaited her at the end of a hundred metres, just like she knew that October day, 19 years ago. As the gun was fired and all the athletes took off, Ahmed Sheikh, municipal garbage collector of Ahmedabad City, standing in the stands knew that just like that day in October, 19 years ago, Aastha had again left everything in her wake.

The Living City

“The end justifies the means”, they say but if there is one entity that wakes up every day to prove them wrong and goes to sleep knowing it has succeeded, it has to be Kolkata. Unlike your other corporate cities, Kolkata sleeps and goes to bed early too and definitely on Sunday afternoons. By 10 pm the roads bear a deserted look and transportation is hard to get and yet it is perhaps only in this city that you can still walk home safely- for this is precisely what this city embodies and personifies – the journey more than the destination.

You may be wondering why I called the city an entity. Anyone who has stayed in this city will be able to tell you that Kolkata or Calcutta (as some of us still prefer) is nothing less than an emotional living organism. Much like your average Bengali girl, the city is moody – sometimes the rains cheerfully cascading off the lush green foliage and old buildings and sometimes lashing gloomily against the concrete jungle and black umbrellas. The rapidly expanding city sometimes burns under the ferocious glare of the enraged sun and yet it is the same sun which smiles down mildly on Sunday mornings, touching the feet of the lazy citizen devouring the newspaper. There exists within this macrocosm a city which exists for everyone – for the bibliophile who believes in the journey of discovering the book more than actually finding it , there can be nothing more satisfying and more romantic than walking through the cobbled roads of College Street , popping in and out of every shop, feeling century old second-hand yellowing books in their own hands, perhaps enjoying an enriching conversation with the old shopkeepers over a steaming cup of cutting chai or a cooling gulp of Paramount sherbet. That is not to say that the city does not have the Starmarks and the Oxfords and Crosswords – it does and they too have embedded themselves into the rich versatility and diversity that this city is. At the end of the day, no matter whatever complains you have about the city, you cannot say that it is not accepting for Kolkata will not suck you in instantly into a vortex of revelry and celebration, nor will it ignore you and let you be but the city will slowly entice you and seduce you into discovering it, into delving into the city and in doing so it will compel you to listen to your heart and discover yourself.

Kolkata is like every Bengali girl, an amalgam of opposites. For every narrow, winding, heavily branched North Calcutta bylane you have a 4 or 6-lane avenue or overpass. For every Dacres Lane, MNM Row or Camac Street serving thousands every day with the best in street food, locally reinvented global favourites from Chinese delicacies to Maharashtrian and Gujarati favourites, from Lebanese rolls to kathi rolls, from Mughal influences to South Indian strongholds, from Punjabi dhabas to pice hotels there are fine dining experiences and multi-star restaurants that are not so pocket friendly. For every slow and unreliable, yet soothing and romantic tram ride there is a metro that rushes beneath the city every 5 minutes. For every sleepy Sunday afternoon there is a city wide awake, decked up and crowded during Durga Puja. For every report that lambasts the squalor and dirt of the city that has seen famines and floods, wars and embargoes there are citizens and tourists who can’t stop raving about the City of Joy. For every Nandan, Navina, Star and Mitra there is an Inox and a Cinemax. For every Rabindrasangeet and Nazrulgeeti function in makeshift temporary constructions under poorly lighted shamianas, there is the heady dash of jazz in Trincas and rock and roll in Someplace Else. For every connoisseur of everything fine and coarse in life, there is something in Kolkata. The city will never leave you disappointed. If versatility and diversity could be a city , I have no doubts that it would be Calcutta for few or no other cities can boast of having a Turkish settlement, a vibrant Parsi community, an Armenian church, a Bangal-Ghoti rivalry, the largest cricket stadium and the second largest football stadium in the world, the house of the Bard and a market selling just lard,  British era museums and art galleries, hand-pulled rickshaws and an underground metro, a Gujarati business community and a Marwari real estate one, a Punjabi locality having dhabas and gurudwaras, Protestant churches and mazhars, masjids and Catholic churches, a tremendously Calcuttan Chinese area in Tangra and an Anglo-Indian one in Bow Barracks, one of Asia’s largest artisan communities in Kumortuli, one of the country’s largest goldsmith communities in Bowbazaar and one of the subcontinent’s largest red light area too. Kolkata is the home to one of the oldest footballing rivalries and the newest football champions. It is the one place where even test cricket brings alive the stadium. Having said what I have, I must however also present the disclaimer that Kolkata is an acquired taste. It is not for the fast-paced, in-and-out personalities, nor is it for the précis loving character who reads only the reviews but doesn’t watch the movies, who reads just the summary and not the book. Kolkata is not for you if you are not in sync with your senses, it is not for the unemotional robot who refuses to feel for Kolkata is not merely a city to visit, not merely a metro to live in but it is a feeling, a sensation to be felt, to be inhaled and to be submerged in.

Having lived in the city for 23 years, I obviously feel strongly about this city and what it has given me and most importantly, what it has taken away. I do not believe that a city, any city, is simply the brick and mortar buildings or the metalled roads, the beautiful parks and the majestic monuments. They may comprise the body of the city but the heart of any city lies in the gastronomical delights that it has to offer and the soul of the city lies in the people that make the city what it is- alive. If this is true, then the huge heart that Kolkata has stretches from the alur chop and beguni shacks of North Kolkata to the vada pavs and pau bhajis of Camac Street, from the puchka stalls of across the city to the biriyani outlets competing for space and profits, from the liver and brain kathi rolls of Zeeshan to the dumplings and momos of Tiretta Bazaar, from the halim and nihari of Zakaria Street to the ice-cream on hot brownie of Bon Appetit, from the authentic Ghoti cuisine of 6 Ballygunge Place and Bhojohori Manna to the lip-smacking Dhakai cuisine of Kasturi, from the kasa mangsho of Golbari to the cutlets and kabirajis of Anadi Cabin , from the steak and beer of Olypub to the microbrewery of Beer Republic, from the Fairlawns to the Wise Owls, the Bachchan and Azad Hind Dhabas to the Chillis- Kolkata has place for everyone , be it a global giant or a local David . As far as the soul of the city goes, you can ask any random stranger on the street for directions, chances are that you will be shown eight different routes to your destination and if you’re lucky you may even be informed about what’s best about each route. The city where even a rickshawallah can quote a Nobel laureate, a street food vendor can effectively talk politics and a Taxi driver can hum any song and mouth any dialogue from any film, that city is Kolkata. The city where love letters are still hidden under pillows, where hands are still held on streets, where boat rides and tram rides are romantic and not tedious, where poetry is an everyday truth and every corner, every nook and cranny is brimming over with stories, that city is Kolkata.

Kolkata is not a city that will hit you in your face with its extravagance , neither is it the city which will bowl you over with its grandeur but it is the city which will slowly make you fall in love with it , the old kind of love , the one that lasts. You can travel from the north to the south in under an hour, taking the underground metro and perhaps soon from east to west, under the river, in half an hour too but it is only by walking on the roads of this erstwhile capital of the British Empire that you will realise the enigma that is Kolkata. It is on the most disappointing day of your life , on the saddest day of your life when nothing seems to be going your way , when your famished feet land on the royal roads, when your broken body gives in to the cool breeze, when your spent senses breathe in the green freshness of the foliage , take in the aroma of the street food that wafts in slowly through your walls that your fatigued form will be reinvigorated by the indomitable spirit, the contagious energy of the city that will heal you. Kolkata is an emotion meant to be felt not only analysed, a food meant to be devoured not only digested, a song meant to be memorised to the extent that it flows through your veins, not merely listened to, an enigma that must be enjoyed not decoded.

Kolkata is as sweet as the sweetmeats and cottage cheese delights it is famous for and as tart as the tamarind water, without which it cannot imagine its puchkas. It can give you a high as high as the Shahid Minar or make you feel as low as the underground metro tunnels but rest assured Kolkata will bring you back. The city is as shy as a newlywed bride peeking from behind the betel leaves and as outspoken as the local uncle criticising your haircut. The city is as free as the Maidan and as claustrophobic as New Market, as spontaneous as the Ganga and as difficult as Park Circus 7-point. The city is everything and yet nothing, it is hilarious and serious, it is contented and disheartened – all depending on which pair of perspectives you choose to put on. The city of Feluda, Byomkesh, Kiriti and many more prove that Calcutta is like the mother that welcomes her sons, prodigal or otherwise, with open arms. The city has for centuries welcomed foreigners onto her shores and in her railway stations , embracing the Portuguese and the French, the British and the Chinese, the Marwaris and the Biharis, the Gujaratis and the Tamilians, the Punjabis and the Malyalis, the Parsis and the tourists and making them an integral part of the history and story of the city. The legacy of the great city lies not only in its rich Bangla heritage but in its pan-Indian and global appeal. Kolkata exists in the sounds of the dhaaks that fills up the minds of the Calcuttan living abroad when autumn comes knocking, in the smell of freshly made sweets which waft in through the senses of the Calcuttan living abroad, in the memories and fantasies of Calcuttans across the globe because, my dear , don’t you know that a city like her cannot be caged by brick and mortar, by cement and stone ? 

Homecoming

As she crossed the busy Phoolbagan crossing quickly , her tresses bouncing playfully, bordering her face and invading it , her fingers moving up to deftly place the errants behind her ear and her eyes darting to the platinum watch on her wrist , she looked at ease in this old city despite returning only yesterday. Looking smart in a white shirt , tucked neatly into her black jeans, sprinting across the now dug up , previously bustling, square she glanced over her shoulder towards her left.

A nervous teenager in a printed t-shirt and ankle-length jeans waited below a black stone statue in the centre of the busy Phoolbagan square fiddling away her time twiddling her fingers anxiously glancing furtively over her shoulder. She adjusted the strap of her handbag and crumpled the piece of paper in her hands as she lifted up her wrist regularly to check the time on her Minnie Mouse plastic watch.

The statue had disappeared , giving way to absolute nothing as the old city continued her journey to becoming a modern one. The modern girl's heels clattered onto the century old pavement seeped in history as she hurried towards her destination. As she walked past the street food stalls lining the pavement , her eyes lit up as she recognised the now much older but still as busy puchkawala. She stopped for a second , watching him serve an array of customers clamouring for the delicious snack , smiled to herself and continued walking . As she rounded the bend heading west, she looked up and as if involuntarily her body slowed down. Her eyes picked out a tree to her right , about 50 metres ahead just opposite a confectionery shop.

An old man got up from his usual position on the bench of a tea stall and walked across the road . As he approached the tree opposite the confectionery shop he unstrained his eyes ,now sure that he had seen correctly from the other end of the street. He walked up to the young girl sitting under the gulmohar tree and said, "Excuse me miss but I've been watching you for a long time and you look like a nice girl. Are you waiting for someone ?" The girl looked up at the concerned gentleman, smiled and said, " Yes , I am actually."
"For 40 minutes ?"
"For 3 hours actually", she smiled back. "He'll come", she assured herself.
The bewildered gentleman left but only on her repeated insistence that she was comfortable there. She looked again at her Minnie Mouse plastic watch and looked up hoping it would rain that day.

Slowly she regained her brisk pace, reorienting her senses to the present as she walked past the gulmohar tree, smartly towards her intended destination but her mind was flooded with countless images, all clear yet dissolving into each other. One memory deformed and reformed instantaneously into another one and her mind took an overwhelming swim into a tumultuous onrush of memories, taking her through a plethora of emotions and gamut of feelings. Her face betrayed the tremendous upheaval she was experiencing within her as she maintained a stoic facade.

A young girl screamed loudly and clutched the shirt of the boy sitting beside her as the movie got scarier. In the dark hall no one noticed as she buried her face deep into his arms and dug her fingers into his thighs. The dark hall was suddenly alight with a thousand tiny stars as a young girl looked down from the terrace at a boy standing on the lawn below and shouting her name . "Happy birthday " , he managed to scream before the guards accosted him. Her peals of laughter reverberated across the night as she opened her eyes to find herself walking along a lake . Looking down to her right , she saw intertwined fingers and smiled to herself, happy. The darkness of the night was dispelled by the first rays of the sun as she boarded the school bus and out of the corner of her eye saw him jogging strategically parallel to the bus. Soon she was falling and falling past balloons and cards, cakes and patties, dosas and puchkas, letters and texts- oh so many texts . It seemed like she would sink in an ocean of texts but she wriggled right through and fell onto a boat on the Ganges below the Vidyasagar Setu, apparated magically onto Park Street on Christmas Eve and before she could take in the lights and revelry , she was praying silently in St. Peter's Basilica on Christmas Day. She opened her eyes to morning kachouris and jalebis in Balwant Singh's Dhaba and hopelessly running after him across the Maidan. The greenery vanished and old houses cropped up all around as they walked below the starry skies enjoying ice cream. Everything dissolved and in the darkness a girl pleaded desperately, " It doesn't matter that I'm Bangali and you're not. We can fight everyone but only if you're with me . I can't do it alone". She kept falling fast as she heard herself cry out loud screaming "Please!!" over and over again. The screaming would not go away and neither would the sounds of sobbing and they were reaching an intolerable crescendo.

She wiped a tear from the corner of her eyes and adjusted her hair as she stepped into the cafe and located the seat she always used to take and finding it empty , she made her way to it. She composed herself as she sat down and prepared herself for what she had been waiting for . She glanced at her watch and smiled to herself as she realised that as usual she was on time but still too early . She took out her phone and was about to dial a number when the door opened and she looked up expectantly. Her heart skipped a beat as their eyes met across the room and his warm smile seemed to induce a strange nostalgic pull in her. They were the same eyes , the same heartwarming smile that greeted her below the black statue, the same arms that had wrapped themselves around her , the same fingers that had enlaced themselves with her. He walked across the room , only his body reflecting his age , and took the chair opposite her. There was absolute silence as the sounds of clattering cups, clinking glasses, clanking spoons, cookies being crunched, soups being slurped, coffees being gulped down and doors being swung open became too conspicuous for her liking. She decided to break the awkward silence but could not frame the correct words to say . She was struggling with her thoughts when as if from a far off land an old friend whispered something . She looked up puzzled.

"He....hi....hey", managed the boy, his throat parched.

She gathered up all the courage she had and with her heart beating dangerously fast said, " Hey, long time huh ?"

"Yeah, I was surprised you called actually" ,  he said, "Happy but surprised", he added.

" 6 years actually and I was surprised I called you too", she said and both their eyes met and they afforded a chuckle. The mood lightened many folds , she trudged on, " So there's a reason I wanted to meet you. . . "

He looked on expectantly, perhaps spurred on by her affability.

". . . that being that I just can't seemed to get over you . I mean it's been 6 years . It shouldn't be this hard", she added conjuring up every last bit of conviction in her gut.

He placed his hand on hers and began, " I've been thinking the same thing and especially after seeing you like this , you look. . ."

"What I needed and did not have all these years is something which only you can give me", she said cutting him short . She knew exactly what he would say and she had no intention of hearing it again . Removing her hand from under his , she said, " Closure".

Confused he looked at her as she continued , now boosted by how perfectly this was shaping up ," I wanted to meet you with the intention of getting closure because I wanted to move on with my life and I had imagined this to be multiple folds tougher than this but right now there is nothing clearer than my mind and for the first time in many many years , I seem free ."

Looking up to check the confused look on his face , she made a mental note to remind herself how happy she was feeling later on she continued, " Even a few minutes back I was a terrible mess walking down the streets of Calcutta but I just love how this city made me face my worst fears and in the end that was all that mattered . It's not you're fault . It never was . It was mine for thinking that you'd take the path less taken but you know what, thank you"

"For?", he croaked.

" For showing me that if I could love the wrong guy this much , imagine how much I will love the right guy. For showing me the immense love that I'm capable of giving".

As he fumbled about with words , trying to figure out what to say , she got up , pushed the chair in and his eyes following her , walked out into the cool breeze .

The Cashmir Conundrum

Apart from cricket and the extensive railway system,  the biggest legacy and the greatest obsession that we seem to have inherited from the British is undoubtedly Cashmir. Now,  when I say 'obsession' I of course,  do not mean obsession like a mother has for her child but more on the lines of a boss' obsession regarding his indisciplined yet top employee.  Yes when India is not talking about cricket or cursing the government , she is definitely talking about Cashmir and more so in recent times. However,  what most Indians do not know or realise is that Cashmir has experienced Hinduism,  Buddhism,  apparently Christianity too (according to some conspiracy theories),  Sikhism and Islam and the region finds mention in the Puranas apart from tiny dedicated columns in national dailies of course.

Ironically the hotbed of cultural diversity and melting pot of religious beliefs became undone in 1947 when the Hindu Maharajah of a Muslim majority state signed a deal with the Muslim leader of the single largest political party ( which allowed the Maharajah to flee and the leader to become the new democratic leader of the state) of the state to collectively join the Hindu majority Indian Union and use Indian troops to fend off approaching Pakistani forces. For personal political pleasure a Muslim and a Hindu sold off the entire state and their communities- a move for which the state is facing repercussions even today. Almost every day innocent and unhappy youths are ruthlessly murdered or raped or raped after death or killed after rape and the news fails to percolate through to  the country which took moral responsibility for Cashmir in 1947. Cashmir is the spoils of war - three wars to be accurate - and certain bravehearts of the Indian Army being the victors make no qualms about sharing the spoils. In fact the situation has worsened so much over the years that most people from the state and many more from outside want freedom for Cashmir from the Army. This is what presents, what I call,  the Cashmir Conundrum.

Let us assume the possible scenarios which can happen now.  The first scenario is something I call the 'Diffusion Dilemma '.  Remember those middle school science classes ? No?  Well,  you must be acquainted with your ex-girlfriend getting a new boyfriend once you leave her but you not getting a new girlfriend ? It's something similar. Diffusion is the phenomenon of anything moving from a place of greater concentration to a place of lower concentration.  Now imagine the Indian army moving out of Cashmir but it remaining a part of India,  it will not take long for foreign forces to rush in to secure their hold over Cashmir simply because a)they had been waiting for this moment since 1947 and b)the territorial location of the area makes it of paramount importance with regard to trade, tourism and defence strategy. The moment the number or concentration of Indian soldiers decrease in the area,  new soldiers from across the border will rush in to take their place. Being an optimist, you might say that maybe the new soldiers will be better humans and the common people will be treated better but being a realist,  I'll say that's not going to happen - the situation being similar to a blind man suddenly being able to see , the soldiers from across the border will perhaps enjoy the spoils of war even more,  having been denied for so long,  trying to make up for lost time. Also, once foreign troops occupy Cashmir there will inevitably be another war which would result in more death,  more loss and more destruction. One small attempt at making a few lives better will have a cataclysmic domino effect that will eventually cost more to kill more.

If you're happy the way the first scenario shapes up then please don't read further but if it pains you and hurts you then the second scenario is unfortunately, not going to make things better. This,  I call,  the 'Plebiscite Problem' . Let us assume the people of Cashmir hold a vote to decide whether they want to continue to be a part of India or not, the general feeling in the state gives the impression that the result of such a vote will result in the state seeking independence from India. Provided that India agrees to this then by a plebiscite , Cashmir will become a new independent country surrounded by India (on whose troops it was so far dependent but will no longer avail),  Pakistan (who have been thrice denied control over what they consider rightfully theirs) and China( the world's most populated country and the third largest army). Cashmir meanwhile will have no army and no resources . It doesn't take a PhD scholar to realise what's going to happen next. The last time something like this happened,  about 30,000 people died in Cashmir and that was in 1947. The blood has not stopped flowing since,  the screams have not died out since,  the silence has becoming overbearing and the anger palpable.  Are we really going to subject a dying man to crucifixion? Are we really that heartless?

The third and final scenario is of course the 'Static Solution' . Nothing changes. The army remains. The people remain.  Instead of a quick death in a war,  they die a slow painful death,  watching their furureless sons being stoned and assaulted, watching their never-to-be married or employed daughters being raped and molested, watching their wives wallowing in sorrow and despair,  drowning themselves in tears of helplessness. Cashmir remains. India remains.  Ignorant yet interested. Proud yet perfunctory. Pakistan remains. Waiting. The Army remains. Cursed yet coveted. Needed yet neglected. Far away from their lives yet abused by the saved lives. Armed and antagonized yet helpless and harassed . Humanity remains. Them humanists shouting slogans and painting posters. They wait for retribution . Retribution which they think will come from being miles away from ground zero.  Retribution which they think will come in the safe comfort of their living rooms on  Facebook walls and Twitter handles. The truth is no one cares enough.  After a few days the dust will settle and the news agencies will lose interest, the students will find a new wrong to protest against and Cashmir will diffuse to the cobwebbed backrooms of our minds. The screams of the people will be heard No more. Shah Jahan called Cashmir the Paradise on Earth but perhaps the people will prefer Paradise now over Earth. Perhaps they have had enough. Perhaps not.

Hope is a dangerous thing because it's an addiction but when everywhere else is inky black,  you wait in the darkness for that single ray of hope to pierce the overwhelming silence, the overbearing darkness and the sound of shattering will set you free but till then you're a prisoner to unseen forces, unheard silences.

The Legacy of LalitaDi

The legacy of a person is left behind more in the lives touched and souls guided than the paperwork stacked and literature concluded. Professor Lalitagauri Ray is an unique example of someone who leaves behind a legacy of both.

Lalitadi, as she is commonly referred to as by colleagues, juniors and seniors alike is a known and revered face in the main campus of Jadavpur University,  Kolkata.  Having stepped into the campus for the first time in 1975, then to pursue a B. Tech in Food Technology and Biochemical Engineering,  she was carried into the campus for the last time on 30th March, 2016 having spent most of the intermediate time enriching the very campus she loved. She loved the campus , the department and the university so much that she waited patiently for 17 years from 1980 to 1997 to join the department in a teaching capacity.

In the 17 years between obtaining a Masters and joining as a teacher, she achieved an unparalled body of research that is quite simply put the stuff of legends. In those 17 years she also struck a lifelong friendship with soon to be Dr. Uma Ghosh, who would go on to be her colleague. Inseparable like Juno's swans,  the two defied age and strutted the campus from the Dean's office to canteen, enveloping everyone around them in their bubble of laughter and camaradiere.

Lalitadi, true to her epithet guided numerous students like an elder sister through their research work, laboratory experiments,  doctorate and post-doctorate researches and in the process not only changed lives as a teacher and guardian angel but also touched lives through her ever smiling countenance,  her selfless helping nature and her calmness in situations of crisis. Her legendary work ethic and equally famous smile impressed one and all who stepped through the doors of the department that she made her own.

Although our association with ma'am extends back only 3 short years, yet within this time the impact ma'am has had on us is tremendous. From her detailed explanations and hands-on training in the laboratory to her extremely well-planned out class lectures , which made the subjects easy to comprehend and analyse, from her incredible reserve of energy which compelled her,  despite not being the quickest,  to reach all her classes on time to her motherly nature which allowed her to personally pay attention to each students' problems- LGR Ma'am,  as we knew her,  was indispensable to us and the department.  Such was her universality that wherever we are asked about our department and we say "Food Technology And Biochemical Engineering " , we usually get the reply, "Oh,  Lalitadi's department? ". Everyone knew and loved ma'am and finding a fault in her would be akin to finding a hay-coloured needle in a haystack.

A connoisseur of everything Bengali,  Ma'am epitomised Jadavpur University - Inherently Bangali yet universal. A great admirer of Bengali theatre and history,  she preferred exploration of Bengal's past and heritage before soaking in the essence of foreign lands. She loved the quintessential Bangali evening snack - Muri (puffed rice) with beguni ( eggplant slices soaked in batter and deep-fried) , alur chop ( flattened spheres of batter and potato,  also deep fried) and piyanji ( sliced onion soaked in batter and deep fried) - so much so that she would often take a detour on her way home even at 9pm to make a stop at Shyambazar on her way home from Jadavpur , to buy her favourites from her preferred shop. She was an excellent singer and always supported the arts in the department,  ensuring personally that all the students got lunch during practise sessions for the cultural program for the reunion. She was also responsible for bringing excellent elocutionist Bratati Bandopadhyay as a special performer in the same cultural program.

Ma'am often scolded us for making noise and not being serious but she also assured us that a scolding in a heated moment did not amount to a grudge in the corner of a teacher's mind . She also made sure that the students she reprimanded the most also got taken care of the most.  A teacher beyond comparison and a person,  whose life is a story of inspiration - Lalitadi symbolises the 'good' that will always win in the end,  she symbolises the resolve to fight for our dreams no matter how difficult they seem to be,  she symbolises the glue that holds together a family and the life that makes many many others better.

Her sudden demise has left the campus that knew her so well,  sisterless and heartbroken,  it has left the people who knew her shell-shocked and numb and the students and teachers who were touched by her mourning and grieving. Lalitadi definitely had much more to give and yet her untimely death robs not only JU but also the city and the world of an exemplary human being above all.

The extra cup of tea that will greet UG Ma'am, the silence on the other side of the extension 2994 that will haunt RC Ma'am, the empty chair in the Biochemical Laboratory that will taunt PB Ma'am and the closed door to her empty room that will welcome DH Sir and the many ways the department will be rendered hollow by her absence will perhaps not be felt by us as much but in due time the reverberations will be heard,  loud and clear - the emptiness being shattered into a million tiny pieces by the selfish laugh of the Almighty as the enigmatic smile of Lalitadi charms him too.

The Mahabharata- Decoded.

The Mahabharata , dictated by Ved Vyas and written by the elephant-headed Hindu God Ganesha is widely regarded and generally accepted as the story of Bharata and his descendants , which again is believed to be an euphemism for India and India's children.  Note that till the Oscar nominated Mother India changed perceptions,  India or Bharata was considered to be a man but then again considering that India is a land of duality where every truth is an exception to an existing truth , the term India emanates from the river Indus which is again considered to be a woman.

Keeping in mind this existence of inherent duality and closely going through the epic, one realises that the 18-day War of Kurukshetra that the Pandavas and the Kauravas fought was in reality a fallacy. Considering that this battle is held up in Indian history and mythology (the two freely interchangeable of course in India) as the ultimate Dharmayudh , the conclusion of which symbolises the victory of Dharma and not necessarily good over evil (according to conventional definitions) , my assertion that the very war was a fallacy tends to ruffle a few feathers,  if not more and anger a few Bhakts, if not all. Before you break down my house and burn my effigy let me at least justify my statement.  The Kurukshetra War was basically a battle between brothers for control over Hastinapur and by default the entire Kuru empire but if we transcend the basics, it was much more.  Sticking to the basics for now,  like I said,  the Kurukshetra War was a battle between brothers for control of an empire to which both believed they had complete stake but the truth was that neither the Pandavas nor the Kauravas had the slightest right to the throne of Hastinapur.  To understand this we must crawl back a few generations to the birth of the very teller of this story,  Ved Vyas.  Ved Vyas,  also known as Dwaipayana was born on an island, as his name suggests,  out of wedlock,  to Satyabati (who would go on to marry Shantanu later and mother the Kuru empire)  and a travelling ascetic Parashar. So herein lies that great duality of India again,  in a country which looks down on children born out of wedlock,  the most revered text was elocuted by an illegitimate child.

The matter gets murkier when the same Satyabati marries Shantanu,  great-grandfather of the Pandavas and the Kauravas and the marriage of the king and the fisherman's daughter not only mocks today's Khap panchayats for labelling intercaste marriages as unIndian and unnatural but also becomes the inter-caste fountain from which the Kuru dynasty flows. The marriage of Satyabati and Shantanu would however not have been possible without the sacrifice of Debabrata, Shantanu's only living son from his ill-fated marriage with Ganga and the only pure-blood Kuru son of Shantanu.  Debabrata, as we all know , vowed never to marry or father a child and always protect the occupant of Hastinapur's throne.  He earned the sobriquet Bhisma and the power to die when be wanted by his immutable vow. In due time Satyabati gave birth to two sons - Chitrangada and Vichitraveerja.  Chintrangada,  the elder son,  died young and the last remaining pure-blood Kuru who could contribute to the progression of his progeny without breaking a terrible oath,  Vichitraveerja, in a terrible anti-climax turned out to be impotent.  It is here that the story of Mahabharata would have ended had it not been for the guile of Bhisma,  who picked up two princesses from their Swayamvara and bought them to Hastinapur as his step-brother's wives. However Vichitraveerja could not stand up to the occasion and the throne of Hastinapur lived in constant fear of loneliness till Satyabati thought of her illegitimate son Ved Vyas and like a true-blue twelfth man Ved Vyas entered the arena in place of the unsuccessful  Vichitraveerja and fathered Dhrithrarashtra and Pandu with Amba and Ambalika, the two wives of Vichitraveerja. The progeny luckily continued but at what cost?

The cost of blood. The bloodline of Bharata was lost forever in this scheme to hide the king's disability from the public eye.  Consider this, neither Pandu nor Dhritrarashtra had an ounce of royal Kuru blood in them and hence neither did their children.  The only true descendant of Bharata remained Bhisma but blinded by his devotion to his past he forgot to look into the future.  Bhisma defended the throne of Hastinapur in the battle of Kurukshetra but not the son of Hastinapur because indeed Duryodhana,  the king in power at Hastinapur during the war was as much a foreigner as Yudhisthira, the attacker or for that matter also Shishupala. So this brings us back to the statement which I was defending for so long.  The Kurukshetra War was a fallacy because the war which was supposedly about brothers fighting to stake their rightful claim to the throne of Hastinapur involved neither brothers,  in the truest sense of the term,  nor any rightful stakeholders to the royal throne of Hastinapur.  Considering that the Kauravas were conceived in earthen pots of Dhritrarashtra and Gandhari and the Pandavas conceived by Kunti and Madri without Pandu's involvement,  neither were the Pandavas and Kauravas related from their fathers' side nor from their mothers' hence debunking the accepted theory that they were brothers, I rest my case that the war was a fallacy.

Having said that, let us consider for a tiny moment the fact that if anyone,  at all,  knew or could have worked out all of this,  it would have had to be Bhishma.  Having known that the Kurukshetra war was a lie,  a fallacy,  why did the educated and wise Bhisma allow such a bloody massacre culminating in the death of family and friends and almost the Kuru dynasty? The duality of India is such that,  to uphold a promise made to his blood father, Bhisma had to protect a foreigner on the throne of Hastinapur.  He made a conscious choice to honour his promise more than his hubris,  to honour his word more than his blood.

The battle of Kurukshetra might have been a fallacy but by no means are the lessons learnt from it anything but absolutely essential. The concept of honouring words above blood is observed even today in Indian culture when fathers honour childhood promises and marry off their reluctant daughters to the sons of their childhood friends. It is observed when different members of the same family contest elections representing different political parties.  It is observed when mothers and mother-in-laws support brutal rape of daughters and wives by moneylenders in exchange for the money lent. The battle of Kurukshetra might have been a fallacy but it's legacy lives on in every micropore of Indian society. Such is the duality of India and hence it's story,  that if the battle of Kurukshetra was indeed a Dharmayudh then whose Dharma was it that won or lost?  Was Yudhishthira's Dharma the better Dharma ? That Dharma which convinced him to kill his teacher with his words? That Dharma which convinced him to gamble away his family?  That Dharma which taught him to be a silent audience to his wife's public humiliation?  Or was Bhisma's Dharma the better Dharma? That Dharma which convinced him to be a silent bystander to an avoidable war? That Dharma which did not touch the righteous soul when a lady was being disrobed in his presence?  That Dharma which accepted Satyabati but not Karna ? Or was it Duryodhana's Dharma that won the Dharmayudh?  That Dharma which caused him to order the public rape of Draupadi?  That Dharma which convinced a young boy to poison his brother? That Dharma which allowed him to trick , trap and kill a teenager? Considering the duality of India,  it might just be possible that no-one's Dharma won the Dharmayudh.

The truth is that in a system so complicated that perhaps only we Indians can comprehend it, the concept of 'always' does not exist.  No one is always right or always wrong,  nothing is forever and truth in itself is relative.  The theory of Relativity may have been propounded centuries later but the concept was very much prevalent in both the Mahabharata and the Bhagavada Gita. The Dharma that won the Dharmayudh is not any individual's Dharma but the Dharma of relativity - everyone's Dharma and at the same time no one's. The very fact that a war that was a fallacy provides lessons that shape Indian society and culture even today,  is a recognition of the  duality of India.

Here is something to blow your mind even further. Years and years after the Kurukshetra War, which led to widespread annihilation and which was fought to justify the Dharma of Bhishma by brothers for an undeserved seat of power, another war ravaged the same subcontinent- a war which left the subcontinent gasping for breath out of trains sent across the border packed with dead bodies and raped bodies,  a war which was fought due to the 'moral' silence of a Mahatma by brothers for an undeserved seat of power.  The duality of Bharat was established again in 1947 - the duality of two brothers fighting for their own Dharmas - India and Pakistan.

The Hidden Doe

As I sit down to write what I intend to be a good enough send-off to one of my favourite portrayals of a literary character, I am lost for words. With fingers casting long shadows on my keyboard, a thousand childhood memories come flooding back into my memory, breaking the dam of deliberate barrier to nostalgia. I think of the long sunny afternoons spent lazily lying down across my bed with a book in hand, I think of re-watching the cinematic version of the same again and again on television and yet amidst all the pictures and images, the silent memories and lasting graphics only one word comes floating through, stamping its authority across the length and breadth of my mind – “Always”.

Born miles away from London and Hogwarts, in a city that the erstwhile residents of the British capital made their own, I grew up under the influence of a British schoolmaster much like most of my generation.  Professor Severus Snape was as important a figure in my life during my formative years as was anyone else and his importance cannot be discounted merely on the basis of his absence from the City of Joy on a continued basis. Maybe I did not learn much of Potions or Defense Against the Dark Arts (although I admit I am not bad at either of these two subjects and they mean as much to me as does Chemistry or Karate) from Professor Snape and maybe I did not like him the most in the beginning but slowly, yet surely I realized that no one has perhaps taught me as much has Professor Snape during my teenage years.

From teaching me that life is downright unfair and the best thing to do is to not stop and complain but trudge on (“Well it may have escaped your notice but life isn’t fair”) to teaching how wrong judging a book by its cover can be, from teaching me that heroes don’t need to be flashy or prominent but the real heroes are the ones in the most unlikeliest of places to teaching me about true love, from teaching me that every criminal no matter how big the crime deserves a chance at redemption to teaching me all I know about ultimate devotion to a cause- a devotion so powerful that in the end it consumes you, Professor Snape has been instrumental in making me what I am today.

When on a cold winter’s morning in February in 1946, the man who would go on to define Professor Snape on screen was born, little did he know that 19 years later a lady would be born who in 1995 would go on to immortalize his sallow skin, his large, hooked nose and yellow, uneven teeth, his cold, black eyes which end up saying so much. The “overgrown bat” had been immortalized and in 2001 I gasped with the world as he gave a name and face to my imagination, a perfect finishing touch to the character I hated.

Alan Rickman may have done a lot of other movies and played a lot of other characters on screen or on stage but to me and perhaps many others he will “always” be Severus Snape, Professor Snape because Mr. Rickman personified the quintessential antagonist in a non-quintessential way and revolutionized the way I thought and the way I looked at the universe. He hammered in through actions and merely one world, the true power of true love – something which Bollywood actors have been trying to sing and dance about for nearly 6 decades now. He made me hate him because he was Snape and Snape was him and yet he made me adore his devotion to his cause, to his redemptive cause , he made me fall in love with his quiet disposition , his silent work-till-you-die attitude from the darkness ,from behind the scenes while controlling the scene in the movie. He was someone who did not need to attract attention, his appearance demanded it. As much as I loved Harry and Hermione and Ron and the rest, the only Slytherin who made all the difference and yet never let Dumbledore “reveal the best of” him touched my heart.

As I received the news of the demise of Mr. Rickman earlier today, my first reaction was a momentary pause of disbelief followed by a never-ending avalanche of old memories, each memory laced with the lasting image of Alan Rickman collapsing against the wall of the Shrieking Shack and the words of JK Rowling rushed out from the depths of the dark abyss and hit my numb mind and left it rattled:

“Look...at...me..." he whispered. The green eyes found the black, but after a second, something in the depths of the dark pair seemed to vanish, leaving them fixed, blank, and empty. The hand holding Harry thudded to the floor, and Snape moved no more.” 

At the end of it all I am left with 7 books and 8 movies ,numerous memories and not enough words to express my immense gratitude to Severus Rickman for altering my life but instead with an enduring scene of a broken Alan Rickman hugging the dead body of his beloved and a distant voice that says, “Always”.

The first page I turn to while re-reading any Harry Potter book (after Prisoner of Azkaban) is definitely page 394.

Always.

Gone girls

As he ambled out of the Operation Theatre, barely being able to support himself, he felt his phone vibrate ferociously in his pocket for the umpteenth time that evening and knowing, who it was, he did not answer it. Seeing an empty chair, he slumped into it, allowing his tensed body to relax for the first time in hours. There was, however no scope of relaxation for his mind. Tears rolled down his lightly-bearded cheeks as his lachrymal glands succumbed to immense neural torture.

The dam had burst and now his mind raced through his life- flicking through image after image with an uttered word here and a heated argument there, sprinkled with generous does of loving moments and spoonful of disagreements , all garnished in blurred monochrome. Finally it stopped at a singular image, which had first popped into his head when he had returned home to find his wife lying on the bedroom floor in a pool of blood. The image of where it all started.

He still remembered the day he met her very clearly – it was a memory that his brain was not willing to forget. The setting was nothing dramatic. It had been a cool monsoon evening in Kolkata and his eyes had fallen upon her while he had been trying to locate his seat aboard the Delhi-bound Jet Airways flight. She had been seated on the seat adjacent to his and he had continued to take stolen glances at her while shoving his suitcase into the compartment above. Having made himself comfortable he had taken out his cell phone and was searching his pockets for his earphones when she had volunteered, “Lost something?” He had mumbled something inaudible and still embarrassed had vehemently shaken his head, which, as he remembered with a smile on his tear-soaked lips, had caused her to laugh out loud. The ice, having been broken and the earphones forgotten, that had been the beginning of it all.

As his mind reverted back to the present, he realized that it had been the beginning of the end. Five days together in Delhi had made sure that they knew each other too well to be simply acquaintances. On their return to Kolkata, they had exchanged addresses to keep the phone numbers, previously exchanged, company and one thing had led to another and a flight together had translated into frequent coffee breaks and stolen meetings in restaurants and lounges and soon their friendship had blossomed into something more meaningful and both had started to introduce each other to friends and family. He had attended her sister’s wedding and had quite a nice time too, dancing without a care in the world, under the groggy effect of alcohol albeit. She had in turn attended his mother’s funeral and provided ample solace to the grieving son who had been bereaved. Their closeness had become the talk of the lanes and by-lanes around their residences and the topic of hushed conversations in both their offices. These conversations annoyed him- could a man and a woman not be just friends? He had thought that the childish link-ups would have left his back once he had left the four walls of the college building but clearly he had been proved wrong. She, however, knew that she was falling for him and even though she had tried to talk herself out of it , slowly but surely she was losing control over her Platonic feelings.

As he looked at his watch, he realized that it was already a new day. Only two hours back, his life was about as perfect as it could get- a loving wife, two children who jumped onto his the moment he returned home and everything he could have asked for when he had passed out of college. A lot had happened in the two hours, however, that had wrecked his life and perhaps changed it forever. He thought back to how he had rushed home an hour back, ran up the stairs and opened the bedroom door with the sense of foreboding making his heart pound on his chest feverishly. The sight that welcomed him did not help ease the pressure on his heart but having been blessed with a cool head he managed to quickly dial the hospital and then his sister, the former to save his wife and the latter to take the children for the night. Perspiring heavily on a cool monsoon evening, he bandaged his wife’s slit wrist and cleaned the blood from her body and carried her downstairs. Without changing out of his blood-soaked shirt he accompanied his senseless wife into the ambulance and urged the driver to drive faster. In 10 minutes he ambled out of the OT.

His phone vibrated ferociously in his pocket. He sighed and taking it out, switched it off. He already had one uneasy conscience to answer to for now. He sighed again and cleared his parched throat. He was thirsty but neither did he have the strength to get up to quench his thirst nor could he brush away the fact from his mind that the sequence of events that threatened to turn his life into ashes had all started with a glass of water. His mind wandered back to the water-cooler near his cubicle in his office about two hours back when he had been taken aback. She was the last person he had expected in his office in the middle of the day but he suppressed his astonishment at her sudden appearance and proceeded to hear what she had to say. His sudden inability to talk had not been helped by the fact that she had been wearing the same shirt that she had worn when they had first met.

His pulse had quickened gradually, the smile had vanished from his face, his eyebrows had gradually arched into a frown and beads of perspiration had appeared on his forehead with every word that she uttered. He wanted to make her stop but he also wanted to hear the extent of damage that had been caused. When she had finished and sighed, gulping down the water from his glass, he had risen and cursing himself for forgetting his cell-phone at home, walked out of the office before anyone could stop him.

In the car, his mind had been not on the road and the drive home was all a blur now. All that his mind had focused on was the imaginary memory of his wife receiving the call on his cellphone and listening to a female voice exonerating her love for him. She was possessive, he had thought but perhaps she would not do anything rash. His hope had disappeared with time and by the time he had parked his car outside his front door, he had just prayed for her life. Having seen his cell phone on the floor, near the front door his hope had vapourised and he had rushed upstairs. Something had broken inside him as he had run in on his wife lying in a pool of blood.

As he sighed and stared longingly at the doors that opened into the OT, he wished, foolishly, that the doors would swing open and his wife would step out in her favourite sari, majestically sweeping her fingers through the air, showing off her Bengali pride but moments turned into minutes and yet the door remained firmly shut. As he took off his spectacles and allowed the tears to flow freely, he wished he had not forgotten to pack his earphones that day and how he wished he had not forgotten his cellphone today.

About ten kilometres away, she tried to call him again but his cellphone was still switched off. Her hands trembled as she withdrew a pair of earphones from her pocket, the same that had fallen out of his bag on that plane to Delhi, which she had never returned, and clutching them close to her heart she jumped off the bridge into the Ganges.

The doors of the OT swung open and he looked up hopefully, just in time to see the doctor walk slowly towards him.

“Sorry”,Dr.Dutta uttered, placing his hand softly on his shoulder, as he stood up.

He collapsed back onto the chair.