The first draft of the first half. Gangtok story

Gangtok

To watch we wander, wander adrift many miles of mountains, across the coast of rivers, many shades of earth. Thus travelling along, I wandered over the might of Brahmaputra thrice in 24 hours, as if to get lost, as if to find that something again, which lurking in some quarters awaits a disclosure …

It was rain, rain for so many days. Shoes were wet; socks were smelly, bed cold, mind desolate. A call comes, like a ray traversing the giant cloud up above, come to Gangtok, and come to happiness. Come see the mountains again, which for so long has bound your heart, come see from above, the world spread beneath and around you, as you like to see it. The flatness of plains in its vastness transcends the vision of human, confines him to his limited surroundings, come to hills to see what more exists surrounding the surrounding that is yours. And with that bags are packed, checklists made, and without a start suddenly the river starts flowing, and I am travelling again.

Arriving at places which are agreed to be beautiful is an easy job, they arrive ready to be pleased, and search for trivial traces of beauty and become blatant nature lovers all of a sudden. The search in the mind of such is for an orgasm, never for the foreplay, never for the course preceding the waterfall; and hence, Niagara shall always be famous. The journey is continued beyond, for more to enjoy, more to engulf. Is there any thinking at all? Does a wanderer ever stop to wonder?

“Abhi nahi aana sajana
Mohe thoda marne de
Intezar karne de
Abhi nahin aana sajana””

Such is the pleasure of waiting, she sang. Such is the pleasure of waiting, I look out through the window, my cheek pressed to the glass, cold, going blue. I see blankness sweeping across, across the great plain that is my homeland, across many bodies, covered, bare, sleeping snuggling. Nothing to see, so many things to see. My eyes search, a trace of limit, a hint of a shape, and my mind projects one in to it. I fall asleep suddenly, all content.

“Bhejiyo sandesha
Aap nahin aana
Thode door rahke
Mohe tarsana
Abhi to mein chahun, sari sari raat jagana
Abhi nahi anna sajana”

And there across times, came her dreams, why then go to places where people go, and get lost in the numbers, why not traverse to an unknown quarter of the world where nobody seeks any trace of you, where the songs can be written in the sheer lack of company, where the remembrance shall become strong enough to actually assume a face, where a life can be lived with sheer memory.

Ruk ruk aana
Dheere dheere chalna
Bhoolna dagaria, raste badalna
Nahi abhi mohe,garwa nahi hey lagna

The song is strong again, going on and on, every note is being remembered, every note is being repeated. Her pursed lips are uttering them again, the desire, the height is building. The fall is the necessary becoming of my emotions now, with a plunge, I shall splatter my whole self all across the face of the rock.

2.

There then, I see the hills from the car. I see the road, wild flowers, and sharp turns. Hey! Where to you go road? Where to do you take me? And with a sudden turn, the car stops, a woman is waving. She wants to go some place. Let her sit. Shift in your seat. And she looks out of the window, careful not to look my way. The car starts again, crawling up the spine, and we all sway in our seats. As if the hill wants to mix every emotion within us by shaking us violently. I forget love, hate. I remember nothing, afresh as after a bout of vomiting.

The car stops again, the woman slowly gets off, swings her bag, and begins to climb her way up. I swing my neck out of the car to grab a last look, a woman passing, getting lost in the world, like so many unknown, slowly climbing, mixing with the faceless. For how many days shall I remember her face? She played songs all the while she was travelling. Loudly. I liked few of those. Never could tell her. Now the thoughts shall get lost too. The car climbs a steep curve, and suddenly, I behold Gangtok.

Where to now? Slowly, I begin to look around. People with umbrellas, people with bags. People with their families, women with their men. All are looking for a place to stay; all are scared of being fooled. All appear stern, and pretend to be experienced travel organizers. A penny to be saved, few memories to be made. Most of them have come here because the Bakshis went to Shimla last year, and the Roys always raved about the Tiger Hill. Now, we have the serene monasteries, the simple hill people, the beautiful Nepali, and the easy going Bhutanese. Been there done that.

He comes slowly towards me, smiling, and asks me if I would care for a room. Says, his place is mostly empty, the room will be cheap. No window though, but with Hot water, and local food. Whatever, I say, and start following him, singing the lines in my head. Abhi na jagaoh
Bane raho sapna
Abhi san-mukh na lawo mukh apna
Abhi to mein chahun, aass lagaye rakhna.

3.

Rooms are meant to be people’s privet places, yet they require windows looking out. The doors leading in should have been enough, yet, close places soon start to smell stale, and people even though are devoted admirers of their own reflection flinch at every possibility of being left alone. Window we need to survive, window we need to thrive. And we close them to stamp the authority of our privacy; privacy to most people is nothing more than an authority to exercise. No window though is there in my room. The walls are painted in the strangest shade of blue, the colour of the sea, the emptiness of a vast scope, confining.

Now, I am settled in this room, my cell for the next few days, where I shall spin my new webs and dangle upside down only to look at myself, over and over again. I am such a narcissist, I thought. But then, when she was in front of my eyes, only my eyes carried her reflection. Now, in the reflection of my eyes, I only see myself gazing. Where has she gone?

She is lost again, after five years of separation; there we collided again a few days back, now she is gone again.

Hills are a very good space to understand the extent of human vision. You may stand at a steep fall and see valleys spread miles beyond, and then again, you can stand in a gorge, just to imagine your lonely cosy place. But, happiness is in none of them. It is yet elusive,

4.

The sky is dark again. Like home, much rain. It flies in the air here, clouds getting lodged in your sweater. Her hair is flying in the wind. Should we rush to find a shelter? Before that, rain comes, drenched wet, shivering we are, hold each other to find warmth, necessity of an embrace can arise in so many situations. Her kajal was splattered now, she looked all fussed, but somehow she smiled. Her wet frail frame, the wind water, her wet shawl all clinging to her. Only her smile left her to reach me. I felt it, like warmth, like warm honey on skin, trickling down your back... Irresistible.

Where do you stand man, when you stand right in between what you have known to be freedom, and what you have known to be pleasure? Where do you stand man when you want to stand right in the middle of everything without ever inclining this way or that? Where do you stand man, when you think you are in love with two women at the same time? Where do you stand man, when you know your lover bears no face but ample characteristics vested on a shapeless floating body?

5.

My cell phone is no longer working, I have come to Yumthang. They call it the valley of flowers. If they do not, they should. I stand on this rock now, about three feet high from the ground, I am staring straight at the valley of Teesta, many people are flocking the shores like seagulls, and many people are eating like hippos. Few people are posing like peacocks. As I stand, I can see many a face, all nameless, soon to be forgotten, pathetic blighted creatures that came here to enjoy. And all they do now is capture images, images as a proof that they have enjoyed. Pathetic, I think.

She is with me now, we spent the last night at the cold beds of Lachong, our bodies hot, by wines red, Sailo... It is for women, my driver had said, it for a woman, I thought. Wine rushes to her face, she blushes, her hands shake, her defence is week. If a kiss in a rain is women’s fantasy, then a night with her in a hill station cold bed under three layers of blanket is a man’s. Wine surely makes fantasy come true.

She stands in the valley now, she wears a purple something that women wear, with a green scarf. Her hair flies in the thin mountain air. Her eyes hidden in glass, she walks to the river, I see her, a small object from my vantage, moving slowly towards the river. She meets the flow with the palm of her hand. Her hand was around me when I knew such flow yesterday night. My body suddenly shakes.

6.

Lachong, Lachong, Lachong. Lachong of small houses on the hill, Lachong of four feet snow in the winter, Lachong of thumba, the local drink, Lachong of the Bhutanese woman who will call me sir no matter how much I protest against being addressed so. Lachong, the town of residential hotels, Lachong, where I knew a new river.

Where is the snow, I ask Tarzan, a curiously named driver, stern looking yet jolly, always saying their women are much beautiful than ours. I never disagree, I never can. She is sitting in the car now, the window is hers by the right of first to be there. Tarzan looks at her...Katau, I think, he says.

Off, off, off to katau. Morning rum mixed in tea, morning sun rays reflected on snow. Morning beauty serving tea, morning kisses lying on the snow.

Katau is seen, we kissed in katau, we kissed in Yumthang. We have kissed in Gangtok, I tell her, and we have kissed in my dream. Her body shakes as she bends down laughing; my hands seek interest in her bosom.