Darjeeling into Varanasi

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Upon arrival in this pretty little town, some downtime seemed like a wise thing. We needed to absorb, sight to soul via brain, the wonder of what we had just experienced on our first Himalayan encounter. We also needed to acclimatise to the dulling effects of altitude change. In addition, signs of an incipient cold-attack were pressing. Enter three elderly, good Tibetan men, the hotelier, the general store proprietor and the restauranteur. The one settled us into his top floor, corner suite, englassed at the right angle and heated by a log fire. After some hot Darjeeling tea, he sent us to the general store, where the other good man poured a litre of fresh orange juice each into us, forwarded us post- haste to his Druggist-Chemist ,carrying his own prescription of what we needed, and instructed us go directly to his haberdashery of choice for two woolen, total- body shawls, which we were to wear for the rest of our outdoor time in his ville. Which brings us to the restauranteur, insistent that we partake of deep and large bowls of vegetable and noodle Tibetan soup. All three made the case that the sure cure for what ailed us was regular servings of hot toddy: boiled water, fresh limes, honey, cinammon; and what they refer to as spirituous liquors.

After twenty-four hours or so of this gentle treatment, these wisemen allowed as how, yes, it was a good idea for us to attend the Windamere for tea, high tea, that is. A Wyndermere in any part of the world is usually a place of fine living; think of the ones you may have come upon. This Windamere here, notice the old English spelling, seems to have invented the style. It appears, at the very top of its own little discrete hill, as a landscape painting from the eighteen hundreds, frozen in time. Red, white and blue colours with tasteful trim, wooden walls and beams, main cottage with rambling galleries, out buildings around and about; immaculate grounds, freshly gardened plots, sprightly flowering ground cover, rather than mere grass, sealing off the earth. We are ushered into the Bear's Paw Parlour for Tea; it accomodates ten, we have it alone; fire a glow, brass fern holders, furniture of Morris and mahogany, chair backs canned, petite tables for two with scalloped tops, mirrored French doors adorn one wall. The history of the town is captured in oil paintings and correspondence from notable people through the years, including two from Jehawalal Nehru, the first as a budding nationalist, expressing hope, in 1932, for good relations between the peoples of India and Tibet, emphasis peoples; and the second, as Prime Minister in 1953, reflecting his view that, as two peoples, they remained committed to a deep and lasting relationshipwhich endures to this day. Tea arrives, brewed, or is that steeped; I try it plain and never think of milk or sugar as additives; these were indicatively placed at the far corner of the silver tray anyway. This was tea, tender to the palate, pleasant to the nose, at once refreshing; this is tea one sips and savours. As we depart, unhurried, accepting an offer to "please, do come again", I could not help but reminisce on the cache of Britain Overseas, in an earlier age.

We dozed-off in our logfired room, set our clock to alarm at 4am. This, in the interest of viewing a Himalayan sunrise, assuming the mountains were not socked-in. The driver of the morning was at our door at 4:15am, assuring us that a sunrise was in the cards. So, we were on our way, coffee-less, huge concession on Penelope’s part, to see the sun rise on Tiger Hill, elevation some 8000ft. Rearing up hill in a bouncing minivan, on uneven mountain trails, in the dusk of the four-day morning, is not a serene way to start the day. It did not inspire confidence that our youngman of a driver was mystified when, at the start of the journey up, I reached for the seatbelt straps over my left ear; he was totally agog, he let out a squeal, when I found the plug at seatside and the apparatus clicked-in; seemed like this had never before happened in his presence..There was plain disquiet in me, when we continued to climb and I was sitting properly upright, but could not see the road, although I had a clear view of the moon above. In any event, presently, we went barrel like around a curve, three stone tiger heads zipped by and we were on top of Tiger Hill. It was 4:45am and there were already scores of people there;un-believable. There were three vistas from which we could witness the show, prices differentiated accordingly: super lounge, deluxe lounge and open grounds. We chose deluxe; not in the masses on grounds; but not with the poshes in super either.This got us coffee and tea, on the house, which we accepted with a certain gratefulness; it was cold. Our full- body scarves, plus the hotel blankets we had borrowed for the event, were having a full morning’s work.Except that, having walked through the confines of deluxe, and, then, ambled around the ambience of grounds, we took another beverage and opted for grounds, chilliness be dammed.

In order to rise-up and give life to each Himalayan day, the sun, rather its forerunning rays, must engage in a skirmish with the mountain ranges and the mist, enveloping everthing; the mountains are clothed in deep green fostered by the departing darkness. Clouds are factored out of this equation. We passed through them on our way up, but they are now below the mountains. From our station among the real people, the terraced mountain mural unfurling before us was of receding horizons: a downslope, a valley, an up uslope, a ridge and the sky, expectant, spread out over all of the east. The sky and the ridge meet in an unbroken line of dusty rose; as the mist and the rays contend, it transpires that, for today, the rays will have ascendancy and the ridge-sky line transfuses: first, to champagne pink; then, to a molten red. And, with silence in space and a hush in the assembled throng, the perfect sphere of a golden sun appears, elevates itself, establishes its very presence, in the majesty of a rolling ball of controlled fire. The day is upon us.

Entranced by the sun's performance, we turn to our gaze northward. The tallest mountain in India, Khangehendzonga,about 25,000ft, and its sister peaks, have responded to the morning sun, their five snow capped peaks eerily in view; they present like a touseled, pure white, silken scarf, resting against sky blue gift wrap. Satiated with what nature has wrought, but hungry for simple sustenance, we leave; and partake of breakfast: Tibetan dumplings, Momos, with a consume soup side and hot chochlate.

Next, we stop at the Saniten Choling Monastery in Ghoom. This is a settlement of Buddhist monks, including forty-five young men in training. We move around the compound, unknowing, not appreciating, until, pinching my courage, I ask a master about a huge brass cylinder. Devotees, one by one, aree going over and cranking it into a spin. The answer: a prayer wheel, fair enough; but, the question got us an informative tour of the compound. The temple is dominated by a huge Buddha. One visits the internals of this house of devotion, walking clockwise.Its walls are adorned with visuals, depicting the life of Buddha, pre, at and post enlightment. These are Tibetan monks, the Dalai Lama is spiritual head of Tibetan Buddhists. Various stupas and shrines around the Temple hold the relics of departed leaders of this monastry; more recent leaders are new manifestations of leaders from earlier times, since their karma had not fully run its course. Lights from the burning of ghee, made from the milk of coconut, honour the dieties from the divine books of Buddhist of beliefs. Symbolicaly, they bring light to the world. Their are four variants of Buddhism; each follower, of the strain this monastery practises, does yoga meditation, seeking nirvana, not just for himherself; but also for others in herhis percieved sphere of influence. This morning, some of the novice monks are learning their chants; others were making pretty decorations from ghee butter for the Tibetan new year, February 28. This is my first exposure to Buddhism, there will be more next week in Sarnath. I go away feeling I have lucked into a basic primer.

Back in Darjeeling, we tour what is referred to as the Bazaar; to us it is simply the area, where townfolk go to shop for provisions and services for the week. What is more interesting is the mix of people sourced from the countries that surround this northern region of West Bengal, India. These countries, indeed, are buffers between India and China. The state of West Bengal has offices that tend oriental development programs. In this very everyday sort of market are people, Indians, whose heritage is derives from Tibet, Nepal, Bhutan or Sikkim, now a territory of India; or people who have either immigrated or are exiled from these countries. This southward migration has grown deep roots in this part of India; the strongest political focus in the area emmanates from people who are Ghurka from Nepal.

Today, we retrace our journey, going down the mountains, by minivan, in a very relaxed fashion, visiting tea plantaions and neighbourhoods, close-up. Tea leaves, to my surprise, come from plants very low to the ground. The best grades of tea are those bound for export. There is vibrant community life in those himalayan hills: schools, health centres, churches, mosques, temples, businesses, army compounds, even kids playing pick-up cricket on ledges of land.

We get back to New Jalpaiguri at 3:00pm for a 5:00pm departure for Varanasi, the holiest of holy and the oldest of old cities. We almost miss our train, standing on the wrong platform to which we had repeatedly been directed. Our resiliency and teamwork saved the day.

We share our compartment with two others for the first time. It is a pleasant experience. A very engaging young man, going off to a new job distant from his homeland of Sikkam. Youth being what it is, he freely and charmingly dispenses all sorts of incorrect information, about arrival times at his and our destinations. Not surprisingly, he misses his stop in the early morning and had to get off the train at the next stop. Our other co-sleeper is a member of the Indian armed forces. He has a full grasp of his country's history and current issues and is ever so courteous; he graciously teaches us phrases in Hindi and Urdu. He ensured that we de-train at the right time and place. Before leaving, I read him the first stanza of a simple poem on India that his demeanour inspired me to commence; he was touched. He was truly a fine gentleman and an officer.

Into Varanasi.


Vernon

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Photos

Darjeeling - Feb. 14, 2006
View from our room in the Bellevue Hotel

Darjeeling - Feb. 14, 2006
Windamere Hotel

Mount Khangehendzonga from Tiger Hill -- Feb. 16, 2006
A touseled white scarf against blue gift wrap

New Jalpaiguri Train Station - Feb. 18, 2006
One never knows who will join you on the train station platform...