Introducing Siat Khnam; a unique and very interesting way of gambling, where money is won by betting on the number of arrows that will hit the target. Held every afternoon in Shillong, India, the event is a great way to unwind a day, and maybe earn a few bucks on the way. More interesting are the shooters, most of whom are either old men, drunkards or jobless persons. Out of the numerous arrows shot, only a few make it to the target, while the rest turn out to be sources of amusement for the jobless crowd.

 

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Romancing the monsoons: In Shillong

Related Articles: The Kaziranga Grasslands

The mighty Brahmaputra River is like an ocean; surrounded in the myths and legends. But more than anything else, it is life itself, in all of its glory. Ever moving and blood red in color, it is the giver of life, and in all its fury, the destroyer of all mighty things. Taken at Dibrugarh, Assam, this photo shows a fishermen trying his luck on just another day, hoping to catch life out of this river.

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Dibrugarh : River songs from the land of tea.

Old Man River : An article on the mighty Brahmaputra by Dianne Winter.

A Folk Song and a River.

This photo was taken at Majuli Island, Assam. A magical land, where time is of no relevance, and hours seem small. Here, the setting sun talks about the coming darkness and silence of the night; of beautiful dreams and long nights.

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Related Posts :~ Majuli Of Love

We realize that there is a need for us to post more often – to keep you engaged, and to keep you happy. In this regard, we have started a “Photo Of The Day” posts section. Here, we will try our best to present you with a picture from Northeast India everyday; a picture that tells you a story, a picture that showcases life in Northeast India.

Hope all of you enjoy this section.

P.S – do not expect 366 photographs this year. and don’t ask why?

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This photo was taken early morning at Hayuliang, Arunachal Pradesh. Here, in the backdrop of the very east of the mighty Himalayas, a local guy takes his usual early morning stroll. Winter is present in the air, the peaks covered with snow and an air of purity surrounds.

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We kept walking, following our instincts, and after two hours of clueless-roaming around, we found one of the expedition guides waiting for the three of us lost souls. We were relieved to see his familiar face, and so was he to see us. It was quite a momentous moment – to know that we were going to be alive. I felt a deep respect for the forest. That a man is nothing in front of its mightiness.

But we still had a long way to go, and it was already quite late. It was on this next phase of our walk, that we came across a sweet little surprise. Somewhere nearby in the river-bed, we spotted something quite huge and mammal-like moving. We went a little closer, only to realize that is was a Red Giant Flying Squirrel that was crawling away from us. The porter asked me whether he should go and catch the cute-looking animal. The opportunity to see this exotic animal up-close was quite tempting and so, I gave my nod to the porter.  It was amazing to see the porter run after this wild animal – like the hunter instincts within him had been awakened. I looked at him with wonder, hoping and praying to God that all he does is just catch the squirrel and not kill it. It did not take much time for the expert porter to catch the animal, and upon doing so, the first thing he asked me, was whether he should kill the squirrel. I was shocked to hear his hunting-induced words. Being a wildlife enthusiast, killing this exotic animal seemed outside the limit of things that I do. I boldly told the porter to not kill the squirrel and gave him a good lecture on why it is important to save the wildlife and forests. It seemed to me that he did appreciate my concern for wildlife and the environment, and I could sense a little enthusiasm towards wildlife rising in the mind of the tribal.

The squirrel was huge. It looked exotic, had big claws, a long furry tail and a majestic glider that enables it to glide high up in the forest canopy. On closer inspection, we found that it was injured and bleeding. It was not being able to walk properly. I did not want to leave the hurt animal in the middle of this wild forest, as I was sure that it would fall prey to any of the many predators that roam the Namdapha jungle. In the rule of the jungle, an easy catch is always an easy catch.  I cajoled the porter into carrying the squirrel back to the camp, where we were headed to.  Surprisingly he agreed. And to tell you, there are a very few people in the world who will be up for the challenge of carrying in bare hands, a alive Giant Flying Squirrel for five hours, whilst battling a terrain as rough and difficult as Namdapha. We had rivers to cross, muddy-slippery mountains to climb, leeches were sucking on us, and yet, the porter never gave up. His hands were bleeding from the many cuts made by the menacing nails of the squirrel. I respect such a man – of determination like a unshakable rock. After five more hours of rain-forest trekking, of which three hours was in total darkness, we arrived at Deban, the main camp of the National Park. It felt glorious, to have survived the jungle. We had started our trek at 9 A.M and we reached at 9 P.M. Twelve hours of experiencing the thrilling intensity of life. Thankfully, the squirrel had made it. We handed it over to the officials of the forest department, and they promised to take good care of him. Hopefully, this lucky squirrel is alive and happily nibbling at some juicy piece of wood. And a deep thank-you to the porter, without whom, this story wouldn’t be possible.

The mighty forest.

The long way home.

The Giant Red Flying Squirrel. Posing for a snap.

Adorable little fellow.

To have survived.

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Related articles :

Namdapha National Park, an encounter with the mother forest.

Last week was similar. After having faced the dirtiness of the Indian railways for a day, I and some fellow guests of Greener Pastures had arrived at Siliguri. It seemed like any other common Indian town that is following the road to commercialization. But hidden behind the main roads, a huge maze of narrow paths filled with shops that sell everything imaginable, a wonderland of good bargains and shopping opportunity, makes one forget the concrete for once and gives this part of town a reputation of being one of the grandest bazaars of India.

The state of Indian Railways

But I was impatient to leave, to reach the hills that I love so much and to feel that fresh mountain air. So, after a brief stroll, I bid adieu to Siliguri, and embarked on a 4 hour road drive that was going to take me to Gangtok, the capital of the Himalayan state of Sikkim. The road was very hectic, dotted everywhere with traces of civilization, and it was nothing like a wild Himalayan adventure that I was hoping for. But the mountain air did reassure my faith, and being in this Himalayan land made me feel closer to that source of our existence. It was dark when I arrived. The whole mountain landscape of Gangtok is filled with lights during the night – like stars having invaded the valley. For the first time, I saw such a bustling mountain city. It made me think about how mankind’s ingenuity and determination has enabled it to settle so profoundly in this hardest of terrains. Tired after being on road for the past thirty-six hours, I headed for the resort where a room had been pre-booked. Located a few miles away from the hectic town area, the resort is like a perfect luxurious Himalayan escape. The rooms are warm and cozy, with beautiful polished wooden interiors and a balcony with a million dollar view. I noticed that it was not as cold as it should be during the peak of winters. In-fact, the climate has been changing dramatically everywhere I have been to in recent times. And for people with an observing eye, it is not very hard to figure out where the world is headed if something is not done to curb global warming. I overlooked the issue at hand and pretended to enjoy the moment. After a hefty dinner and some much-needed glasses of warm liquor, I went off to sleep.

A balcony with a million dollar view.

Our warm woody rooms.

Next morning, I woke up to a majestic view of the Himalayas. And I thought – I can stare at this view all my life. The cool morning air in the Himalayas is as fresh as that scent of a lemon. I made myself a cup of coffee and sat down in the balcony. The sun had come out, blessing the freezing and fragile children of the valley with that warmth of a mother. I sat there for as long as it took for my body to suck enough warmth and then, heated up – I was ready and excited for a day of exploring. And after some breakfast and a little itinerary planning with the guests, I rode off. The first stop was Hanuman-tok. Located at the top of a hill, a temple exists, devoted to Lord Hanuman. The place is very simple and not at all extravagant from the outside, but inside the confines of the temple, Hindu Gods and Goddesses are depicted very elaborately. The sun had disappeared by the time, and the temperature had suddenly dropped – bringing along with it, a wave of chilliness. Next was Ganesh-tok, another temple located at the top of a hill, dedicated to the Hindu God Ganesha. Not much interested to climb the stairs that lead to the temple, I decided to hang around and explore, while my guests went up to the temple. At the base of the temple, some mini-stalls are present which sell pretty looking crafts at reasonable rates. There are also a few shops that rent you traditional cloths to wear for a memorable photograph. Many tourists were busy having their photo taken, and the elegant costumes somehow seemed to suit them perfectly. By now, the clouds had taken over even the faintest bit of the blue sky, and it seemed that there was no hope for the sun to return. Enjoying the coldness, I headed off to Banjhakri Falls, located little further away from the town. The visit turned out to be a rather pleasant surprise – as the government has developed the land around the waterfall and has turned it to a shamanism based theme park. The paths leading to the waterfall are like a page out of a Japanese novel; with beautiful structures and Buddhist dragons welcoming you at regular intervals. Sculptures of indigenous shamanistic tribes are scattered around the park, and a very vivid variety of floral species bloom in the gardens upon which monks come to relax and meditate. The waterfall does not fall from much of a height, but is picturesque. But it is the near the entrance of the park, where lies a true hidden jewel – a fast-food shop that sells the best of vegetarian momos you will ever find anywhere in the world. And for a die-hard meat-eater like me, all I could do was think about how much I loved the food, while it melted away in my mouth. After a hefty meal that can be considered to be at par with gluttony, I shamelessly left the park and drove towards the town to indulge in a cable car ride. Crossing the mountains while in air, the view of the town and its surrounding valleys look spectacular. The ride lasted for about half an hour, and by then, it was late afternoon. Exhausted by the drive on these mountain roads, I decided to hit the upscale market area, called M G Marg. Cars are not allowed in the market, and the whole street has been developed into a tourist friendly zone – with ambient music being played in speakers, a ban on smoking and cute green colored benches where people come to sit and socialize. The streets are filled with – branded showrooms, restaurants that make you feel hungry all over again, good and cheap liquor, bazaars, clubs playing the latest of music and what not. Fashionable good-looking men and women walk the footpaths; some wearing western clothing and some with beautiful traditional attires. After a brief shopping spree and waiting for the sun to set, I went back to the resort. The night was spent relaxing, and after a few drinks, sleep came quite easily.

Hindu depictions at Hanuman-tok

Our guests posing in traditional Sikkimese attires.

Banjhakri Falls

Toys and monks

Amazing Landscapes

At a monastery

View of Gangtok town from the cable car

M G Marg

The next day, I woke up to the same amazing view. The plan for the day was to drive till the border that India shares with China, to a place called Nathula Pass, which is at a height of 14,000 ft. It took about 2 hours of driving to reach the snow line, and the way ahead only looked higher. It felt wonderful to see snow after having spent a year in the hot plains of India. We were all very delighted. To me, snow has a lot of metaphorical meanings. It is of the white of blissful dreams, as pure as a new-born baby, and it falls from the heavens. Looking at all the snow that surrounded me took me to a state of trance – something like day dreaming, only to be woken up by the arrival of a large beautiful frozen lake. It felt magical to be around this frozen lake, in a frozen snow-covered world, somewhere in the mistiness of the Himalayas. Near to the lake, a few shops exist that sell some hot noodles and tea. Visitors can also indulge in a Yak ride and wear rodeo styled hats while doing so. After a bit of ‘literally’ chilling out by the lake, I was on my way to the border. The landscape is very rugged in these parts, and the only people who live here are men of the Indian army. After about an hour’s journey from the lake, I had finally reached the border line.

There is nothing fancy or extravagant at the border.  A heavily barbed fence separates the two most populous countries of the world from each other and on each side there is an army post which is heavily guarded by men who wear their military uniform with elegance and pride. For the first time I was standing at an international border, next to fences beyond which I am not allowed to go and truthfully, it felt as if I am not free, as if the world is not actually one but pieces of scattered and divided planets, glued together by methods of ‘dirty’ diplomacy. But I am a believer of a “one-world concept”, I hope of a world without borders, gunpowder and where men and women roam around freely, and so, the fences did not manage to impress me much. The Indian side of the border had a lot of tourists, but the Chinese side had none. The Indian tourists were all busy clicking pictures and sipping hot tea that is served at the border canteen. But I was in a mood for some socializing with these neighboring foreigners. And so, along with a friend, I tried to talk with a guard of the other side, but he did not understand a word I said, not English nor Hindi. And moreover, the Chinese guards did not seem amused by the Indians. They had a mean and angry look which I did not like. My friend on his quest to communicate with this strange foreigner had started using his hands to show recognizable signs. He managed to tell the guard that one side is China and on the other is India, to which the guard’s reply was that both the sides are Chinese and India does not exist.  It was a joke thrown straight at our faces, and we were very much angered by the crude remark. We responded by shouting mean things about China, only to calm down after realizing that the guard understood nothing of what we said. We decided to play it smart and instead, offered the guard a bar of chocolate. Surprisingly, he stretched his arm across the “fences” and took our gift. We asked for a Chinese cigarette in exchange, and he quietly took one out of his pocket to give us. We smoked the foreign cigarette in front of the guard, while he eagerly waited to hear our judgment on the cigarettes of his country. And though the smoke was quite strong and good, we let the guard know that we did not like it at all and that China produces bad cigarettes. He got quite furious by our remark and uttered some words at us which I did not understand and did not give a damn about. It was a score well settled and the Indian in me was quite proud about it. He probably appreciated the friendly game of dishonoring each other’s country, and by the end, we were taking photographs together with fences between us.  Tired by the freezing temperature, I decided to head for the canteen, and drank some life saving hot glasses of tea. It had become quite late by then and the weather had also started to get a bit dicey. It was time to leave this snowy paradise and go back to Gangtok, but before I left, I played around in the snow for the last time and threw some ice balls at friends and strangers alike.

High mountain roads

Blue house in a snowy world

The frozen lake

Army bunkers

China behind us

A moment of bliss and joy

I slept through the return journey, and later, on the comfortable bed of the hotel room, only to wake up once it was night. The plan for this last night of the Sikkim trip was to go to the casino which is located at the only five-star hotel of Gangtok. The casino is not very huge, but is well designed and has a good ambience. Pretty looking girls are at your service, and you can order unlimited alcohol and food. I played a bit of poker and roulette, but it was not a lucky night for me. By the end of the night, I had just won a few hundred dollars, and being not much of a gambler myself, I was quite contented with my winnings and looked forward to a peaceful sleep. I had to wake up early the coming morning to catch a train that was going to take me away from these mountains and back to the plains of Assam.  The trip had gone well and everybody was happy. Sikkim is indeed a small little paradise; tucked between Bhutan, Nepal, China and India, and sweetly influenced by all of them.

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Vienna, 1978. My uncle Jimmy and his wife Marion are on holiday and dancing at a club when an elderly American gentleman, mid-waltz, taps him on the shoulder. He points to Marion’s dhara (Khasi silk costume) and asks “Are you from Shillong?”

“Yes,” replies Jimmy.

“How’s Wahingdoh?”

My uncle almost keels over.

Wahingdoh, is Uncle Jimmy’s family neighborhood. Turns out, the American gentleman, a veteran soldier, had attended a number of raucous parties in Jimmy’s grandmother’s house, which then, in the parlance of our times, was “party central”. He was one of thousands of troops who visited Shilling during the Second World War years.

From the spring of 1942, when Japan attacked Burma and ousted the British, this sleepy little town was transformed into a bustling convalescence base for soldiers on the Burma front. The then capital of Assam (which included Meghalaya, Mizoram and Nagaland), Shillong was chosen for its mild weather, general prettiness and its relative accessibility from Guwahati. It was also not without any military standing, being the headquarters of some Gurkha units as well as the Assam Regiment (famous for stalling the Japanese army at Kharasom and Jessami in March 1944, giving the Allies vital time to reinforce their defences at Kohima, which led to the first major defeat of the Japanese army in the war). Until this time, however, the region was untouched by war, that dreadful catastrophe was taking place faraway, elsewhere in the world. Yet unlike the ravages that Nagaland suffered, the war came to Shillong in a strange and hedonistic form – as a time of incessant fun and dawn-break revelry. Shillong, people say, was the only place on earth sad to see the war end. Soldiers headed there for much-needed rest and relaxation, to recover from months at the front or bouts of malaria and black water fever; the seriously wounded were treated at Dimapur and Jorhat. The British set up make-shift camps near Nongrim Hills while the Americans (far more well-paid than their Allies) hired bungalows all over town. There was plenty to keep them busy – dances at Shillong Club, Kelsalls, and Pine Wood, movies at Kelvin and Garrison cinema halls, swimming at Crinoline Falls, among other things. Singer Dame Vera Lynn, fondly known as the “Forces Sweetheart” visited in 1944, while English football and cricketing legend Dennis Compton played with the troops at Polo Ground. More special, however, was the interaction between the troops and the locals. Bah Harvey Diengdoh, an eighty-eight-year-old writer and musician, sits in his sun-drenched living room speaking to me of his elder brother, Osborne, a member of the Royal Army Medical Corp. “He had two Scottish soldier friends. They’d all get merry in the evenings and sing Bonny Banks of Loch Lomond.” And for good measure he belts out the chorus:

O ye’ll tak’ the high road, and I’ll tak’ the low road

And I’ll be in Scotland afore ye

For me and my true love will ne-er meet again

On the bonnie, bonnie banks o’ Loch Lomon’

Shillong today

The Lush Greenery

George Richmond, a retired tea planter, remembers how he’d hitch rides with American soldiers on his way home from school. “They’d drop us right to our doorstep and give us candy. They were very generous.” Ruth Pariat Mehta, Uncle Jimmy’s sister, recalls sitting outside their house in Wahingdoh and cheekily calling out to soldiers on the road – “Ei chico, gimme one pie.” My late grandfather, a keen sportsperson himself, used to tell of how a Khasi football player, tired of always acceding headers to the taller Tommys, took his revenge by pulling down his opponent’s shorts while they both jumped for the ball. (He was subsequently chased around the field.)

Despite this taking place over sixty years ago, the legacy of the war lingers on in Shillong in the most unusual ways. In the nar aeroplane (metal used to create landing strips in theNortheast jungles) that lines the footpaths of houses, the helmets used as flower pots, the

ghost stories that haunt the corridors of Loreto Convent and St Edmund’s (schools used as military hospitals), the children that carry traces of “foreign” blood in their blue eyes and freckled faces, in faded photographs that hang above fireplaces, and stories that people cradle and pass on. The war years still resound in Shillong. And none louder than in the drone of a Willy’s engine.

In 1942, after the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbour and America’s subsequent entry into the war, the US Army’s Quarter Master Corp. sanctioned the order for a “field” car, a light, 4-wheel-drive, multi-purpose, all-terrain vehicle that could traverse rough, unpaved territory. Combining elements from various pre-war prototypes, a standard vehicle was designed by Willy’s Overland, which only Ford was capable of manufacturing in the thousands. General Purpose Willy’s (GPWs) were shipped across the world to all the arenas of war – Africa, Europe, the Pacific and Burma. My quest to understand the appeal behind these vehicles first takes me to Kolkata, fitting perhaps as this was the place from where jeeps were sent to the Northeast. Mr Uday Bhan Singh is co-founder of “Jeep Thrills”, a group that brings together jeep-lovers from across the country and the world. He lives in a rambling old place in Howrah, which has half a jeep installed in the first floor wall of his house. It hangs over his porch like a surreal yet proud trophy. He has designed his life, he tells me, around doing what he loves – restoring Second World War jeeps. “I was brought up amongst cars. We had a bus transport company. My father and uncle owned ’45-model GPWs. But of all the cars we had – Rolls Royce, Cadillac, Chevrolet, Chrysler – I always fancied the jeeps. Of course,” he adds with a smile, “there was a ban on the others. We weren’t allowed to touch them but jeeps were rough, tough. You could jump and play in them.” He uses the word “freedom” and I think we may have brushed the core of why these vehicles are loved.

If Mr Singh’s house is surrounded by “a graveyard of rusted automobiles” (to quote ArloGuthrie), then Shillong is an actual burial ground. After the war ended in 1945, jeeps, along with other military equipment (often even livestock), were buried in various places in the outskirts of town. The DC gave permission for locals to “cannibalise” this buried treasure and reuse the metal; yet whole vehicles survived, some given away by the troops as gratuity or payment for debts owed. Although there are plenty of post-war and Mahindra jeeps in Shillong, some four original restored GPWs survive in town today. I visit Ashok Lyngdoh, the proud owner of a pristine 1942 model. “Even the siren works,” he tells me, joyfully cranking it up. His house is a veritable museum. On the table lies an American Army plate and meat skewer, on my lap is the helmet of an unknown British soldier. Yes, our love of jeeps is about “freedom”, he says, but not only in the Easy Rider, open road kind of way. It wasn’t even, as I’d believed, so much about masculinity. “What the horse was to the Wild West, the jeep was to the Northeast,” he says. “If you look at connectivity throughout this region up to the war and early 50s, you had no roads. You had one road from Shillong to Guwahati, one up to Mawphlang, and it was jeeps that paved new dirt tracks that eventually became roads.” Apart from providing geographical links, the jeep also served to bring people together in other ways. “It was used as a bus, an ambulance, a taxi. It was used to carry plane sheets, farm produce, and livestock,” explains Ashok. “It’s ironic how an instrument of war, actually became an instrument of peace. It became something that brought about the development of this entire area. And this is perhaps the reason why people here have this strong emotional attachment to the jeep.” There’s a lady, he continues, who, a few days after she was born, was taken in a jeep from Shillong to Nongkrem (where there were no roads). She was named? Jeepsy.

Bah Wendell Passah, who Ashok calls his mentor, elaborates – “The jeeps would travel to and from various marketplaces in the Khasi and Jaintia Hills, bazaars were held every week. Shillong was the centre from where the vehicles would go to Jowai, Dowki, Umroi, Laitlyngkot, Thadlaskein.” It was also fortunate, he says, that there was a dedicated group of civilians who’d trained as mechanics during the war years – “The people of the hills were quick to learn and good with their hands. They later turned drivers and also tended to the jeeps. We have workshops in Shillong with families of mechanics for two-three generations. Not only were jeeps used by our grandparents to travel, they provided us with a livelihood; naturally we feel strongly about them.” And this fondness still runs in their veins. No matter how far away they are from home. Sujan Deb, for example, who lives and works in Aberdeen, Scotland, shops for vehicle parts from junkyards in Shrewsbury, Shropshire and Derbyshire and mails them to Shillong, so he can restore the jeep he owns when he makes his annual two-week visit home. He has a long way to go, considering it has taken Ashok, Wendell and the others almost a decade to restore their GPWs.

Army parade in Polo Ground (Photo courtesy George Richmond)

American army trucks in Polo Ground (Photo courtesy George Richmond)

It’s easy to see why it would take that long and require this kind of dedication. The GPWs are beautiful, intricate machines that infuse the term “multi-purpose” with new meaning – the tyre rims are specially built to be towed on railway tracks, a shovel and axe fit neatly beside the driver’s seat, the head lights can be inverted to illuminate the engine, in case of a flat, the tire tubes could be stuffed with skum (straw) and run for another thirty miles, the dashboard lights are carefully diffused so snipers wouldn’t spot them, the brake wires are carefully enclosed to save them from wear and tear, the Gerricans carried not just petrol but soup and stew, the tires could be lifted and hooked to a rubber belt that would help saw wood or churn laundry. “More than all that,” says Ashok, “they became extensions of the soldiers who slept, shaved, drank, ate and died in these vehicles. My jeep is a memorial to all of them.”

As a special treat, I’m taken on a ride to Jowai, a town two hours away from Shillong, in Daman Bhan’s 1942-model Willy’s. As we hit a traffic-free road winding down the hillside, warm winter sunshine on my back, I realize that sometimes there’s nothing like the wind in your face to lift the weight of history.

Classic and well built jeeps are common in Shillong

 

Shillong of yesteryear's

A game of cricket during the yesteryear's

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A Buddhist Tribal Lady in Western Arunachal Pradesh

Neo Vaisnavite Culture in Majuli Island

Along my travels, I have seen that this sect of Buddhist have prayer flags along with its many other intricacies. These colorful prayer flags are tied or suspended, and it is believed that the wind would carry these prayers to heaven. What a wonderful process; using Gods medium to transport mortal prayers into the kingdom of heaven. Sometimes an entire stretch of a town will be covered with these prayer flags, giving it almost a very fierce magical touch.

A Buddhist Town Enroute to Tawang

A Small Monastery at 13,000 ft

Prayer Flags And The Wind

Another aspect that stands out about Tibetan Buddhism is their fascination with colors. Their monasteries and gompas are definitely architectural wonders, but it is their skillful splash of colors that brings these wonders to life. From bright yellow rooftops to very detailed colorful woodwork, it gives a weary mind a moment of calm and stillness. Be it the Roomtek Monastery in Sikkim or the 400 year old Tawang Monastery in Arunachal which is believed to be the second largest monastery in the world. Solace – is the closest word that comes to my mind when I try to pen my feelings in these monasteries.

The majestic door of the Tawang Monastery

At Bomdilla Monastery, Arunachal Pradesh.

At Tawang Monastery

Rumtek Monastery, Sikkim

Maybe because the origin of this religion is from the cradle of the Himalayas, there is an air of secrecy surrounding it and proof of it are their paintings. The patterns of these paintings are passed on from generations to generations, and only they hold the key of its exact meaning and origins. Little that I could comprehend after years of inspection and study is that these paintings have a pattern; they speak of life-cycles, about karma, about salvation or moksha, but they also depict a rather darker edge of their faith, like female Shaktism, Bonn-animism, sympathetic magic, shamanism, Vajrayana mysticism. This maybe because many of the local deities predating the arrival of Buddhism were co opted and made ‘protectors’ of the teachings of the Buddha.

Himalaya

Buddhist Art

Inside the Tawang Monastery

I cannot say that Tibetan Buddhism has transformed me, but it has in a way certainly calm my restless spirit. And the beauty of religion is somewhat like a book without a definite ending, because I believe that at the core of every religion there is a very ‘humane’ endeavor to pursue good and question behavior, and this learning is endless.

A Monk and Lord Buddha

For a lot of people in Assam, Meghalaya is their favorite destination to escape the heat of the plains. Probably because it just takes a couple of hours drive on good roads to reach Shillong and beyond. It took me just 2 hours to escape Assam, and then, all of a sudden, I was around hills. Tender cold breezes made their presence felt and delicate drops from a very slow paced drizzle reassured my faith in God and nature. I felt hopeful; to see trees and not concrete, to see diversity rather than corporate monotony.

The hills were getting higher but at a very pleasant rate. It felt more like being on a plateau. The tender drizzle had given way to a very heavy rainfall; more like a blitzkrieg. But what I did not know was it was just a glimpse of what I was going to experience in the next few days. The rain had literally brought everything to a stop, or at-least slowed down the world around me. The speedometer of all cars had been hit by a drastic drop of velocity. Visibility was minimum or zero. Even the wipers of a car are of no use when hit with so much rain. Instead, the driver had to stop the car and get down to clean the front glass every other time. It always gives me pleasure to watch machines fail and human cells triumph. But I did kind of feel sad to see the driver suffer and get wet. Though the rain Gods had made all effort to disrupt the life of cars, there was still a loophole. It seemed that tobacco was the only cure to get away from the salvage rain. Glass when rubbed with tobacco manages to stay clear in extreme moisture. Luckily we had cigarettes with us and they were all being smoked by the car.

It took a while for the rain to stop but when it did, it was the perfect moment; right before we reached Shillong. We were happy on the prospect of not getting horribly drenched, especially not when you have a heavy bag and have to search endless hours for a hard to get decent accommodation. The hill station was bustling with wonderful people, the roads were busy with vehicles, and yet there was a presence of happiness and freedom. The culture was a mix between modern-christian-tribal. Handsome men and beautiful women walked around town and all fashionably dressed. We managed to find a decent hotel located around the happening market area at a good deal and after dumping our languages, all we could do was lie down on our comfortable beds and take in the feel of this beautiful hilly town we were in. It was about to be night, so we decided to take a tour around the town and be a part of whatever that was happening outside our hotel room. The market area is an awesome place with shops selling a bewildering diversity of things such as fashionable cloths, cheap electronics, handicrafts, all terrain vehicles, cute umbrellas etc. We felt an intense urge to go shopping, but we did not have much money to spare and refrained ourselves. An umbrella was all we bought and it was more out of necessity. We ate at an over expensive restaurant and did not even manage to fill our hungry stomachs. It was money hard spent and it hurt. A little more of exploring and we found ourselves standing next to an alcohol store. The prices of alcohol in Meghalaya is dirt cheap compared to rest of India, and it felt so good to know that. We quickly bought ourselves some whiskey. It was money well spent and it felt good. Armed with intoxicants, we were on our way to our hotel room, ready for the night. We drank a lot and as usual, had the general drunken conversation about the stale state of affairs of the world, of life and death, and beyond.

I had woken up to a hangover and was not feeling that great. It was raining continuously since the last night. Dull rainy mornings have a thing with them. They make you feel as if it is a holiday. I gathered enough energy to go outside and explore Shillong. We hired a car and set off in search of greener pastures. Our first stop was the Barapani Lake. It is a massive man made lake or rather a reservoir. Created by building a dam in the Umiam River, the lake dominates the landscape and adds a certain charm to it. Water sports activities are available here and it is great to explore the surroundings of the lake, maybe go for a hike. Next we were off to the Shillong Peak which is the highest peak in all of Meghalaya at an altitude of 1965 m. The peak offers exceptional view of the whole town and is a great place to hang out for some hours. The road that leads to the peak goes through dense green patches and shops selling fresh organic vegetables dot the sides of the road at regular intervals. After having re-energized ourselves with the freshness present in the highest peak of Meghalaya, we decided to leave. We made our way to the Elephant Falls. Three sub waterfalls makes up the Elephant Falls, giving it a shape of an Elephant. It was the heights of Monsoons and the rapids were at their raging best, creating a never ending sound of a very loud thunder. I have never seen rapids as deadly as I saw then. The whole day, the clouds had played hide and seek, rendering the weather totally unpredictable. Sometimes it rained, sometimes it was sunny, and at times it rained like havoc. I was slowly and gradually getting used to this rainy world. To my abstract imagining consciousness, it seemed as if the people living in this watery world had all turned into frogs. How else could they survive in this much rain?

Shillong Town, as seen from Shillong Peak

Men At Work

Elephant Falls

Organic Vegetables

Barapani Lake

We decided to return to the main town and explore around. The town was alive with happy people, living contently, in a world that was so unknown and bizarre to people who lived else where in the world; where it did not rain for 200 days of a years. The dominating presence of Christianity along with the convergence of other tribal cultures has made Shillong somewhat unique when compared to the rest of India. Khasi’s are the dominant tribe of Meghalaya and they are a matrilineal tribe and tend to produce independent women. The conservativeness of rest of India has given way to a very open culture in Shillong. Maybe the reason for this Christian influence lies in the history of the place. When the British first arrived in Northeast India, they made Shillong their area of residence by choice. They felt in love with the pristine beauty and the rain. The rolling hills around reminded them of Scottish highlands and that’s how Shillong got its name ‘The Scotland Of The East’. Another amazing fact about Shillong is that it is officially ‘the rock music capital of India’. Music is a passion here for many people. The likes of Bob Marley and Bob Dylan are famous personalities here. So much so that the birthdays of Bob Dylan and John Denver are more of a national holiday here and celebrated with high spirits. Many local bands have great talent and put up awesome concerts, and country music is amongst the favorite of genres. Shawn Lane the legendary guitarist and composer said:

Christianity, a dominant belief in Shillong.

Our last stop was to be the Siat Khnam (archery gambling) held at 4.30 PM every day. Everywhere in Shillong, one can notice small shops, all displaying a poster with numbers printed on them. They signify lottery by archery, an obsessive culture amongst the locals. Some 40 archers shoot at a haystack in this event. The number of arrows is calculated and the last two digits are of importance. Bets are placed on what the numbers can be. There is no limit on how much you can bet. It can be as low as 1 rupee or can be as high as your bank account statement. The shootings last only for a few minutes and you can see arrows going here and there. Some of the archers are drunk and some are a little professional. The whole event looks more like a fish market, but a very intriguing one, and instead of fishes, numbers are bought here. It was a perfect end to a hectic day. We fed our empty stomachs some hot steamy momo’s and retired ourselves to our comfortable room. It had started raining again and the symphony created by falling droplets of water hitting against anything and everything provided me with a deep sense of satisfaction; as if a thirst had been quenched and there was elixir all around.

Taking Aim

The Countdown Begins

And The Winner Is

It was time to move on and hit the next destination. Much was still left to do in Shillong, but with the hope of returning again someday, we managed to leave. Like many other noble men such as Swami Vivekananda and Rabindranath Tagore, and the Britishers, who have had an love affair with Shillong, I knew that I would be coming here again, in hope of romancing the monsoons again.

We decided to return to the main town and explore around. The town was alive with happy people, living contently, in a world that was so unknown and bizarre to people who lived else where in the world; where it did not rain for 200 days of a years. The dominating presence of Christianity along with the convergence of other tribal cultures has made Shillong somewhat unique when compared to the rest of India. Khasi’s are the dominant tribe of Meghalaya and they are a matrilineal tribe and tend to produce independent women. The conservativeness of rest of India has given way to a very open culture in Shillong. Maybe the reason for this Christian influence lies in the history of the place. When the British first arrived in Northeast India, they made Shillong their area of residence by choice. They felt in love with the pristine beauty and the rain. The rolling hills around reminded them of Scottish highlands and that’s how Shillong got its name ‘The Scotland Of The East’. Another amazing fact about Shillong is that it is officially ‘the rock music capital of India’. Music is a passion here for many people. The likes of Bob Marley and Bob Dylan are famous personalities here. So much so that the birthdays of Bob Dylan and John Denver are more of a national holiday here and celebrated with high spirits. Many local bands have great talent and put up awesome concerts, and country music is amongst the favorite of genres. Shawn Lane the legendary guitarist and composer said:

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We came upon it by accident. An uneventful Tuesday afternoon drive through the little town of Bishwanath Chariali – which still sported shops from my parents’ days here in the 1970s – and a chance suggestion by someone to go to the river. It didn’t take us long to get to the outskirts despite a five-minute stop at Mahamaya Stores to pick up salted peanuts. The road leading to the ghat is marked intermittently by tiny mud and thatch villages, a local roadside market, cyclists and playing children. At one point, though, the Assam countryside opens up to vast paddy fields on either side, marked pale golden-yellow by a benevolent winter sun. No matter how long you’ve lived in or visited Assam, it has these pockets of delight that continually surprise you.

The road ends, quite literally, where the river bank begins. Beyond a stretch of white sand (under water during the monsoon) flows the Brahmaputra, wide and deep as the sea. Apart from a cluster of fishing boats, Bishwanath Ghat was untouched and empty. Hard to imagine then, that in the late nineteenth century, when Assam remained impossibly remote, accessible only by ferries, this was a bustling port of call. My father, who’d worked many years in the tea industry and who was a keen historian, explained that in those days, manufactured leaf was loaded and sent to Calcutta from Bishwanath Ghat. Even more amazing was that workers’ wages were sent from the city back here and stowed safely with the ghat “officer” until it was picked up by someone from the tea estate, sometimes weeks later. Sitting on the sand bank, watching the river run by, it is easier to imagine that slower, more innocent world.

The thing to do, of course, is hire a boat, elegant as a paper cut-out, and explore the area. (The rates vary according to bargaining skills, but it shouldn’t be more than Rs 150-200 for an hour.) Bishwanath Ghat, as our friendly boatman told us, is dotted with temples, both on its banks and its river island. Before we make a pious stop, though, he rows us across to an oddly shaped stone sticking out of the water. There’s just enough room for us to jump onto it. “It’s Shiva’s mark,” he says pointing to a three-pronged line on the rock. “It is never dry.” Incredulous as we were, we had to admit it was an odd, yet seemingly true phenomenon. Our next stop was a functional temple perched atop a hilly edge. The place was closed and incredibly quiet, littered with ancient carved stone. We’d missed it, but if you want to catch the evening aarti, get there just before four o’clock.

We then made our way to a small bay area with a boulder-strewn bank. Here were the remains of the ancient Gupta Kashi temple, which lies underwater in summer, but since it was early December, now had a make-shift shed around it. There was no one there but apparently it draws tremendous crowds during the bihu festival (celebrated in January, April and October). To the right of the temple, up a cow-dung splattered path, is a spot of curious interest.  “It’s the place,” explains our boatman, “where the gods play dice.” Beyond a small gated entrance is a large, flat stone covered by a tin roof, on which there are strange board-game-like markings. We couldn’t quite figure out the carved squiggles but they could well have been something out of a cosmic chess game. Past this, the ground drops suddenly, and beyond the barbed-wire fence is a wide expanse of dry white river sand, appearing out of nowhere like a sudden dessert.

By the time we made our way back to our boat, the sun had set and twilight hovered over the water like a roosting bird. In the silence marked only by the splash of oars, a fisherman, somewhere in the distant gathering dark, started singing a slow, sad folk song. On the banks, others mended their nets by the dim light of lanterns. We came upon this place by accident; the gods had rolled the dice right.

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All Photographs Copyright @ Eureka Khong

The Tawang Monastery

It was not easy to reach the holy city. Our car had broken down 10 kms away from the town, it had started raining, the car was stuck at a hair-pin bend, night was approaching and after a long wait we managed to hitchhike in an over-crowded car. But amazingly, hard work doesn’t seem that hard, when you are high up in the mountains. Maybe, it is because of the clean & energetic air or just that our basic instincts of survival makes the body adapt to these harsh lands; where hard work is a necessity and a way of life. Even, the many motivational messages, carved everywhere provide inspiration to all who can read English. Probably the builders who carved the roads in these harsh but holy lands grew wise along the way. Upon reaching we managed to find a room with beautiful wooden interiors. We were tired, and after a delicious meal of pork and rice, sleep was all the body could offer us.

A Good Thought

It was a beautiful and clear morning the next day. From the window of the room, the monastery was visible and it felt good to be in a place of faith and purity. The plan for the day was that, we would venture beyond till the invisible line that divides the two giants; India and China. Excited with the prospect of traveling the high lands of the mighty Himalayas, we were soon on the road. We reached a check point of the military and had to take special permission to go further. Ahead lay critical territory, where every day and night the best of the Indian armed forces keep a vigilant watch over the cunning enemy Dragon, living in life threatening landscapes only to stop free democracy from being over-taken by forced communism.

After the check post, the road lead to higher altitudes. We were surrounded by dense alpine forests which soon turned to rugged rock and ice landscape. We crossed some empty bunkers, remnants of the sad Sino-Indian war of 1962 where many brave men died. Further on we crossed many lakes. All of them looked so holy, their waters as still as the mountain and untouched by mortal souls; only spirits could live in them. The snow-clad peaks seemed so near and the sky was painted in the blue of dreams. I was humbled as anyone else would be. I felt an urge to bow down, in respect to a supreme creative and intelligent source. We were on borderlands or rather no mans land. Somewhere in the cliffs, I could see a small cave. I wondered as to who could live there and who would want to live there and how could one even go there? Only on closer inspection could I see a flight of countless stairs carved through sheer rock leading to the cave; reminding me of the song “stairway to heaven” by Led Zep. A board hanging below at the foot of the stairway read “meditation center”. It is so mystifying to still see such a powerful place of devotion in this modern gadget filled world that one cannot escape the question of our existence. People still meditate for years in solitude in the mighty Himalayas, and they will certainly be wiser than us and may even teach us a trick or two about life.

The many lakes beyond Tawang

The meditation center and bunkers erected during the war of 1962.

The road ended once we reached Sho-nga Tseir Lake. We were only 5 kilometers away from China and on a clear day one can even see the ‘Great Wall Of China‘ if he/she is lucky. The lake was the most scenic of all I had seen on the journey. Surrounded on three sides by mountains which help create a small canyon like gap, only a small part of the lake faces the hills below and a beautiful stream originates from there, which would probably turn into a river somewhere down the hills. A small army camp of the Gurkha regiment is based there and a breath-taking lake-house of dreams stands at a bank of the lake. Trees grow in the middle of the lake with holy prayer flags tied to them. It is because Buddhists in winter walk on the frozen waters of the lake to tie the flags there. We decided to walk the whole perimeter of the lake and a good population of delightful mountain birds accompanied us on our walk. As we reached the end of the lake which opens into the hills below, a strong wind suddenly forced a cloud to enter the lake from the gap. We were at the bridge and fresh moisture from the cloud was hitting our faces at high velocity and the presence of thousands of prayer flags purifying the air made me feel so clean and blissful as I have never felt before. Without the help of shamans I was having a spiritual experience at that moment, something I plan to cherish and remember all my life. Rain was soon approaching and so after a heavenly lunch offered by the army men, we departed back to Tawang.

Our next destination was the Tawang Monastery. Little did we know, how shaken we would be by the visit. Situated right on the hill-top, the monastery dominates the whole landscape and an aura of purity radiates from this ancient structure. It is a home to many monks who come here to learn the secrets of Tibetan Buddhism. The main building comprising of the temple and prayer hall, is magnificently done. Images of life & death, and of Buddhist mysticism are elaborately displayed on every wall and the use of bright awakening colors makes the monastery look more like a piece of art rather than just a building. My friend was trying to demystify the meanings of the art works but only in vain. They were too deep for our consciousness to understand but nevertheless they do provide us with an everlasting solace and intellectual comfort. A giant 27 ft golden Buddha statue stands at the center of the temple. I felt compelled to bow down and pray. They say every journey has something to teach and I knew that once I step out of the monastery, a part of me will have changed. By the time we were done seeing the monastery, both me and my friend were exhausted but not physically. It was an emotional roller coaster ride, for the depths of Tibetan Buddhism are too hard to absorb for the mind of a stupid modern man.

The Buddha Statue and The Prayer Hall.

We were leaving the next morning and I was ready for the future; it looked bright and everything seemed right. I still had fifteen hours of journey left in the Himalayas till I reached the plains of Assam. And I smiled with all the calmness I had collected.

Brahmaputra in Tibet

I found this interesting post on Unboxed Writers written by Dianne Sharma Winter, who shares our passion for writing and promoting travel in India. This article beautifully describes the mighty Brahmaputra, the lifeline of North East India. She has expressed her support towards our initiative by allowing us to publish her article on our blog.

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“Eventually, all things merge into one, and a river runs through it.”
~Norman Maclean

 A friend said to me on my return from Assam in India’s North East, “There is a saying up there that goes ‘If you cross the Brahmaputra one time you are destined to return.’” In any case my mind wanders back to that peerless state at odd moments of the day and night, in my thoughts already I return there again and again.

There are a lot of legends and prophesies floating with the current of the mighty Brahmaputra River as it tracks it’s course from Tibet to Bangladesh, roaring down through narrow chasms and gobbling up land in its hunger to reach the sea. A river as wide as an ocean, blood red with stories of sacrifice and patricide, unusually for a river it is male in its aspect and unusually for India, it is not a holy river but often referred to as the Old Man River.

Apart from one day a year when the qualities of the water become divine enough to wash away the sins of a devotee, Brahmaputra spends his life washing away the efforts of man whether sinful or not. There still remains a divine union between the Brahmaputra and Mother Nature, the fruits of their union visible in the verdant jungles and fields so green that they could only have been painted by the co-ordinated efforts of man in harmony with nature. Brahmaputra is not a river that will be easily tamed, it is a river that demands respect and submission.

Rare indeed to find a reference to this river without the word “mighty’ attached to it. A river of sorrow and munificence, the river is the blending and balance of our human lives measured against the flow of time. Every year hundreds of people are taken by the swift flow of flood as the river swells with monsoon rain and thousands more are nourished by the rich silt deposits left in its wake. Who can judge a river, one may as well argue about the way blood courses in veins through the human body. We have to trust nature to ensure the balance since nature has ways and means and rules that no human can challenge.

Such is the journey of the river that explorers for years were unable to locate the precise point of birth or to plot its course with any accuracy. In Tibet where the river leaps to freedom from the great glacier mass of the northern most chain of the Himalaya, the river is known as Tsangpo, meaning ‘purifier’. Sweeping and leaping through chasms, plunging through narrow valleys and collecting various tributaries along the way, the river twists and turns and executes hair pin bends before it spills into the North Eastern States of India. Here the river collects the Dhanasri River and becomes known as the Brahma putra, son of Brahma. Here the river rolls majestically through the valley, spreading arms and channels and oscillating from side to side leaving islands in its wake and swallowing up others according to its mood. Here lies what was once the biggest river island in the world, Majuli. What the river gives it will also take away and in recent years the river island has been reduced in status to the largest river island in India since the old man river has eaten away the southern end.

Rolling into the alluvial plains of Bengal, the Brahmaputra rushes to meet the River Goddess Ganga. United they dissolve into each other like lovers and spread fingers into the Bay of Bengal feeding and destroying the fragile river islands that exist at the end of the world in the area known as the Sunderbans.

If a river is the highway of life, cultures and commerce then the Brahmaputra is beyond par in this respect. With the effortless of a patriarch, a unique family of man gathers at his side, worships at his feet and accepts his rule with resignation tinged with respect.

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Reach Dianne at http://diannesharmawinter.com

Elaborate dances

Being a native of Assam, I have always heard tales about how vast and broad the Brahmaputra River is. Only after I came to know of Majuli, the tales became more concrete. Majuli is the world’s second largest river island, and only a river as vast as the Brahmaputra can harbor such a huge area of land within its territory. But through my experiences, I have gathered that – you do not really know a place until you have been there. So on a hot sunny day, my good friend and fellow traveler Mr. Todi and I decided to embark on a journey of discovery towards feeding our curiosity about Majuli.

We drove from Kaziranga to Johrat, and after 12 km from Johrat junction we reached Nimati Ghat, the departure point for a photogenic over crowded ferry filled with cars, cows, bikes and numerous people to Majuli Island. Once at sea, the view was over whelming. It is said that civilization ends at the water line, then we enter the food chain. I couldn’t have agreed more. The beauty and the wrath of the mighty Brahmaputra comes together in a flux en route to Majuli. Desolated islands cross by, civilization seems like a distant dream, and you feel as if you are living the life of a character out of a fantasy novel.

The ferry ( filled with cows, cars, bikes and people )

After 2 hours the bank of Majuli is visible. I hear a distant chanting. Further, I see people in different stages of their lives, the young and the old: dancing, singing, and merry making in the name of God, as if age ceases to matter. I figure, it is a sort of welcoming gesture. As soon as we set anchor, the chanting becomes louder. Then a group of elderly men, clad in dhotis and armed with child like charm appear from the ferry, and suddenly there is peace and silence. Everybody around me begins to bow and I feel an immense rush of energy all around me. I go ahead and bow as it seems like the only thing to do. There was something very special about how suddenly and quietly it all happened, like an unexpected cameo by a reclusive, very famous star. Till date I don’t know who those people were but I respect that kind of enigma.

We drove towards our cottage and for the first time I was seeing the holy land of Majuli. The sun was setting in the distant horizon, and the land was covered with a thick layer of magical mist. Five kilometers from the port of Kamalabari lies the main village of Garamur. And on its green back-lanes was our cottage, “La Maison de Ananda” translated as “The House of Happiness”, and it is indeed true to its name. Constructed by a French couple who fell in love with Majuli, it is styled like a traditional Mising bamboo hut and run by a warm and loving family. The landscape of the island consisted of a lot of farm land and patches of forest land and there was not even a single building in the island, rather houses made of bamboo could be seen everywhere; sustainable living. We slept early, exhausted from the journey.

The next morning we hired bicycles and headed out to the satras (Hindu Neo-Vaishnavite monasteries). There are 22 satras in Majuli devoted to the teachings of Lord Vishnu, mostly in the incarnated form of Lord Krishna. There is no idol worship or elaborate pujas held here. The great Assamese saint Sankardev introduced this Vaishnavite culture in Assam. The satras comprise of gurus or borpujaris and their disciples. Young boys even at an early age of ten are taught drama, dance, songs, and are induced with devotion and dedication for the satras. Inside the satras, there is a prayer hall called namgarh, where every morning and evening, kirtans and bhajans(hymns) are chanted in praise of the Lord. The other parts consist of rooms for disciples and their gurus. There is also a small museum of ancient Assamese artifacts. The best time to visit the satras is during the festival of Ras Mahotsav, held around the third week of November. Plays and songs are enacted mostly from the Bhawad Gita. Beautiful dances are performed by the monks wearing wind boggling attire.

Having spent the day exploring, I got back to the cottage, exhausted. There was too much to absorb, the satras were very enchanting-like unexplored fairylands. Our host, somehow sensed that, and brought us a jar of apong (a locally brewed drink) and said that, it was ‘on the house’. We cherished it till the last drop. Our hosts were beautiful people; much like family. We played with their children and learned a bit about weaving in traditional style, from the lady of the house.

Learning to weave the traditional way

The hosts

The Island has a sort of magnetism, pulling all souls to its aroma of love. And just like everybody else who visits this Island, we too were bounded to stay longer than planned. And so, we ended up staying an extra day in Majuli just soaking in the sights and sounds, making a trip to the local Mising village, spotting birds and feeding ourselves with the local cuisine that tasted so brilliant. It was the good life; of no worries and absolute bliss and oneness with nature and the world. We ended up visiting unknown abandoned temples and smoking marijuana in chillums with Hindu wise men. We had forgotten about the world outside and felt as if we could spend our whole lives in this island of love.

Delicious food

It took me quite some time to acknowledge what Majuli was all about. Maybe it was the Vaishnavite culture along with its followers who never ceased to chant the name of Lord and Love, or maybe it was the power of 500 years of spirituality, or the code of love that everybody adheres to. Majuli indeed is a world in itself, where once you set foot; a part of you always gets left behind.

La Maison de Ananda. " The house of happiness "

I cannot imagine myself not writing an article on Dibrugarh. I was born here and since then a never ending love affair has made me surrender a part of my heart to this forgotten land. Beautiful memories linger in my mind, many of them, created by the relationship I share with the place I call home. Dibrugarh has been instrumental in the making of the person that I am. Born anywhere else, I might not have understood the importance of peace and easy going rural life.

Dibrugarh is a beautiful town situated on the banks of the mighty Brahmaputra river and is one of the eastern most parts of India. Tea gardens constitute a major portion of the town and the finest tea of the world is grown here, hence giving the town the prestige of being called as the ‘tea capital of the world’. Numerous tea gardens dot the town and its bordering areas, providing a breathtaking landscape of lush greenery. One is never out of sight of miles and miles of tea gardens and the sweet awakening aroma of tea never leaves a person’s sense of smell. Adding to this beauty is the presence of the mighty Brahmaputra which borders the town extensively and also disconnects the town permanently from the land on the other side. The other side has always been an object of mystery for everybody in the town for crossing the Brahmaputra is a risky business and very few brave fishermen dare to go there. What lies there is still very much unknown; probably many species of plants, animals and birds are waiting to be discovered. The combination of the river and tea gardens provides Dibrugarh with an old world charm where life is so laid-back that I would easily include it in my list of the laziest places on Earth.

Because of its eastern most location, Dibrugarh is in a way cut off from mainland India. This means a minimum industrial activity, the only major industry being tea, which is in itself connected to nature- where millions of tea leaves release oxygen in the air and regulate the carbon-dioxide. This results in crystal clear blue skies and an unusually clean air to breathe. Dibrugargh is a river town and its culture is very much connected to the Brahmaputra River. Folktales and stories of the river are passed from generation to generation and without the fertile soil provided by the Brahmaputra, north east India would be nothing but a desert. The first time I saw my hometown from the air before landing at the Dibrugarh airport, I was left speechless. Looking down from my cabin, I could see miles and miles of green land, most of them covered by huge tea estates, and on the other side of Dibrugarh I could see the mighty Brahmaputra cutting off the town from the distant Himalayas. The air seemed so clean and unpolluted compared to many other towns and cities of India. It has now become a habit for me to ask for a seat next to a window whenever I fly to Dibrugarh for the sight of my hometown from high above has created a special place in my heart.

Life starts early here and many people start their day with jogging and taking leisurely early morning strolls around the tea gardens. Early morning is the best time to indulge in the aromas of tea. The leaves are fresh from the night and the sweet scent of the finest tea of the world is at its best. One can see tribal women picking the fresh leaves. There is nothing more awakening and energizing than the early morning strolls in these tea gardens. The mist provides an added bonus. People depart for their respective jobs during the day and among them many are fishermen. Because of the mightiness of the Brahmaputra and the abundance of river food, the town harbors an extraordinary fishing community and many different techniques are used to get the fish out of water. The next pinnacle of everyday life in Dibrugarh is the afternoon. As dusk approaches, people start gathering along the river side to see the magnificent display of colors created by the sun setting in the distant Himalayas; families with kids, young couples in search of a romantic escape, students playing a game of football or cricket, naturalists absorbing the beauty, local Rastafarian boys smoking a joint in contemplation. The sunsets in Dibrugarh are extremely beautiful and the interference of the Himalayas on the way of the setting sun creates an amazing aura. As with all small towns situated in the country side, days end soon here and people sleep early.

This exposure to a laid back life has made me understand the importance of taking things easy. We should work to live but not live to work. Taking the time off to see the sunset is more important than being busy earning an extra buck or two. Spending time with your children and making them understand and admire nature is something that is much needed today. We tend to be attached to our work-spaces but it is the outdoors that we should be attached to. I would have never realized these things if I were living in cities or industrialized places. It makes me glad that I belong to Dibrugarh.

The best thing about making a trip to Tawang is the proverbial journey. It starts from the plains of Assam which is at sea level and ends at an altitude of 14000 ft above sea level, hence we stand to witness the serenity of the country side and the aura of the snow clad Himalaya. This variation in altitude gives birth to a difference in your imagination and to your immediate surroundings – paddy fields turn into dense forests, Yaks replace cows and the weather turns from moderate/hot to cold/extreme cold. The need for change in weather was one of the most motivating reasons of our trip to Tawang.

I have never been much of a summer guy. The Indian summer is much like anything else Indian – abundant. It is sweltering. On one such summer day I was perspiring profoundly and just when I was contemplating suicide, my good friend came along with a map in his hand and wearing the look of a man who is riddled with heat and indignation. Together we planned our escape route. We drove from Dibrugarh to Bhalukpong on our first leg of the journey. Bhalukpong is situated at a point where Assam stops and a promise which is Arunachal Pradesh begins. There is an Orchid sanctuary located a few kilometres from there. I had never been much of a plant person but the beauty of the many rare Orchids blooming there mesmerized me. I suddenly fell in love with these plants and I am planning on having a lifelong affair with them.

The next day we started early and immediately the air was cooler, as if God forgot to switch off the air conditioner! My joy was boundless and my faith in God reinforced. Driving in the mountains is nothing like driving anywhere else. You can’t drive fast because of the narrow roads, blind turns, numerous waterfalls, hovering mist and the always present edge beyond which lies the free fall. But driving slowly also has its gifts. The gift of absorbing the impeccable beauty of the majestic mountains, of surreal valleys overlapping at a distance, rivers flowing and carving the earth effortlessly. I come to realize that the only thing flawless is nature. With every rise and fall of the mountains, with every flow of the river, there is a touch of perfection.

After some slow driving and limitless accumulation of a picture perfect world, we reached Dirang: a small town lying in a lost valley of the Himalayas. River Kameng serves as a lifeline for the people living there. We decided to hold the night here and so checked into a hotel. My friend was tired and told me it was relaxation time for him. So I bid him farewell and started my stroll around town. It is amazing how popular liquor is around these parts. I went to a very subtle if not shabby looking joint for a cup of tea and upon entering on my right there were shelves and shelves full with liquor. Indian, Foreign; they even had Budweiser. I couldn’t believe it at first. Was it fatigue hysteria or was it real?! I couldn’t believe my luck. I felt like Columbus searching for tea only to find Budweiser. I was contented that night and slept like a dead log.

We started early again next day and half way into the journey the scenery began to change. We learned from our driver that we were entering the high Himalayas and undoubtedly the most scenic part of our journey to Tawang. The lush greenery gave way to alpine vegetation. We were no longer driving through the clouds, now we were above them. It was getting increasingly cold and soon the presence of the left over snow gave us a hint that we were reaching the Sela Pass-the highest point of our journey. Sela Pass stands at an altitude of 13700 ft. There is a Shiva temple and a tea stall that sells rum. It was summers in mainland India and here we were, shivering. The rum did seem to be like a healing potion. I let out a small chuckle and thought to myself that God does reveal himself in mysterious ways, sometimes with a sense of humour. There is also a small structure erected paying homage to the Indian soldiers who fought and died in the Indo-China war of 1962. But the most magical part of Sela Pass is the two beautiful lakes; considered holy by the local people. These lakes seemed to have an aura of spirituality, and surrounding them were thousands of Tibetan prayer flags. All we could see of the lake was a meter and beyond laid a thick blanket of never ending mist. Along the way we sighted many abandoned bunkers, army camps, army schools and soldiers. I tried to imagine the war but gave up in fright. We also passed a massive waterfall called the Jung falls; it was one of the highest we have ever encountered.

In a couple of hours, we sighted the monastery of Tawang and smiles dawned our faces. The journey was over and we had reached the hill town of Tawang, the dream was realized.

A sunny summer afternoon in India can really be stressful, especially if your work which demands being under the Sun. But i did manage to find a cure on one such day.

Having worked throughout the day, my colleague and I just wanted to escape to some place quite and serene, but the problem was that we were new to the place and did not know of any good nearby escapes. We decided to call upon a local friend, and asked him to assist us with our escape. After pondering upon some options, we decided to hit the road. We were on our way to Dipor Bil, a fresh water lake near Guwahati. I had never been there, all i knew was that it was a quite place with a huge lake and some wildlife. It turned out to be something of a nice surprise !

The lake is huge, and there weren’t many people around, in fact we were the only visitors. Dipor Bil has been named as a Ramsar site because of its rich bio diversity. It is a natural habitat to more than 200 species of birds including 70 species of migratory birds. During winters, on a single day one can see more than 19,000 birds in the area. Unfortunately the winter was almost over, and so was the birding season, but we did manage to see a few Storks and a flock of Siberian Crane’s.

There is not much to do in Dipor Bil, there aren’t any facilities for lodging, all a person is left to do is hire a boat and go for a ride on the lake. And so we sailed away into the mysterious waters of the lake. The surface of the lake is filled with a million water-plants, their circular leaves floating and consuming any empty space that can be found. It looks rather like an abstract painting, like a civilization of leaves submerged and in search of air. I note evolution and how all things adapt to survive. Our boat was being steered by a Bangladeshi immigrant, and he seemed as much a part of the lake as the lake was a part of him. The sun was setting on the horizon, and as usual, the sky started its display of mesmerizing colors. I think about God and how brilliant an artist he must be! At a distance away, there were a few boats; fisherman working on their last catch of the day. And as we steered the boat to land, i thought about how life in the country side was so brilliant. No worries! No pollution! No stress!  I had forgotten about how bad things were going for me a few hours ago. All that seemed like a distant nightmare. The escape had indeed been successful, and as the evening brought upon with it the moon, Dipor Bil had brought about a smile on my face. I was ready for the night, had no regrets about life, and felt as free as a bird.

I have always found it hard to explain or describe my experiences at Namdapha. My friends tell me that i have this look in my face and a lot of hand gestures, but words fail me.

Now as i retrospect, things look more clear. More than two months have passed since my encounter with the Mother forest, yet a part of it still lingers in my imagination, deporting me back in time to the first day in the mighty forest.

We began our trek early from Deban moving towards the horizon where lay the lush sub tropical forest of mighty Namdapha. After crossing the Noa-dihing river we followed a goat path which lead us into the wilderness of the interior forests of the park. It occured to me that this might be what they call as “the road less traveled”, and i am humbled by the thought. The first thing that hit me upon entering the jungle was its density and the intricacy of its design. Tall trees intertwine with the other, almost as a romantic couple awaiting their first kiss. Butterflies flirt with you, flocks of Horn-bill fly above and there is a constant feeling of eye’s watching you as you trod upon this unknown territory.

The ground is a canopy of green, slightly damped, because the density of the forest seldom allows the rays of the sun to kiss the ground, almost providing a mystical atmosphere. After 14 km of some serious jungle trekking, we reached the Horn-bill Camp and decided to camp for the night. While we were gathering fire wood, our guide was off to fish from a small stream and also collect edible leaves. Later on we saw a pair of Flying Squirrel’s. Even with the strong beam of our torches, the Squirrel did not even flinch. On the contrary, it seemed to like the limelight. That night as we slept in the silence of the forest, we heard a Barking Deer and distant cries of the great Horn-bill and it felt like the jungle was slowly accepting our intrusion.

Next morning, i woke up to birds chirping and a thousand other noises that i had never heard before: the music of nature i note. Amongst them was the loud voice of the Hoolock Gibbon (India’s only ape). It occurs to me that Namdapha is sacred for it is truly one of the last remaining great wildernesses. The biodiversity is mind-boggling, so many mammals, 500 species of birds, and who knows what else is waiting to be discovered inside its premises. Life starts at dawn here, and only picks up momentum here forth. My guide, Mr. Raju made me black tea and greeted me with a smile. I tried to wake my comrade, fidgeting at first, he too slowly came to life. And we worked on the plan of action for the day. In absolute wilderness, there is either nothing to do, or there are possibilities of doing things that you have never done before. There are no people around, the denseness of the jungle solidifies that notion. No people, no judge, no social norms. Freedom !

My comrade and me decided to do a perimeter check up a small stream and then enter from behind the camp site. Nearby, we discovered a hot Sulphur spring, the water was mysteriously white, and none of us dared to take a swim in it. Couple of yards up the stream, the view was catchy. Tall trees form both sides of the bank, and long prop roots hang effortlessly from them. Thick green canopy as a background. I think of the Rambo movies, definitely shot here i tell myself. My comrade tried to do a series of ” Tarzan hand glides ” on the prop roots…sliped and fell, got up, smiled and did the whole set again. Back at the camp, our guide was smoking and cooking lunch. He seemed to be completely at ease with the surroundings. As for the two of us, we were excited like little baby Ravens waiting to be fed. After lunch roamed about the forest, while Mr. Raju went to fish. Deep in thought my good comrade suddenly announced that we need to bathe in the river naked ( one by one off course ); so yes, we shed our inhibitions along with our cloths that day. Once it gets dark in the jungle, it stays that way, until dawn arrives. We just sat around the fire, planing the trek route for the return journey next day, and listened to our guide’s folktales. I pulled out my canister of Rum, and the three of us sipped it like holy water. Dinner served us well, as we tucked ourselves into our sleeping bags, the wind brought with it the sound of a gradual but powerful process of breathing. The forest was alive, and three of us were a part of the forest.

Next day while leaving, i knew that a forest like Namdapha needed everything that is to be done in order to conserve it.

One of the oldest forest of India & also one of the most loved parks of India, Kaziranga needs no introduction. Declared a World Heritage Site by UNESCO in 1985, Kaziranga is solemnly responsible for bringing the One horned Rhino out of extinction. In just a span of hundred years, the conservation efforts of the park has helped increase the population of the One horned Rhino from a mere 100 to more than 2000 today. Also, the park boasts of the highest tiger population density. Kaziranga is one of the largest tracts of protected land in the sub-Himalayan belt, and due to the presence of highly diverse and visible species, has been described as a “bio-diversity hotspot”.

I have memories of visiting the park when I was a little child, and hence started my love affair with the jungle. Kaziranga has always provided a sense of thrill and adventure to the people of Assam, and every other house has its own story of their experiences in wild Kaziranga. I remember a time, when one uncle was traveling by bus to a certain destination for which he would have to cross Kaziranga. And from what I remember, the bus had to stop right in the middle of Kaziranga in the middle of the night, not because a tire had gone punctured, or the bus was damaged, but because there was a Tiger right in the middle of the road. The passengers were frantic, all heads outside the window, each trying to catch the slightest glimpse of this magnificent creature. But the Tiger didn’t move an inch, he kept staring at the bus, as if to certify his dominion over its territory. He was the king, and the bus had to respect that. And I guess, after he could sense fear from all the souls present in the bus, he did leave with his head held high with pride.

Three months back, and I was again on my way to Kaziranga. This time, I was no more a child. Grown up and now a nature enthusiast, I was now interested to learn about the place, to know about its animals, birds and plants. I had reached by night fall and had to search for a place to stay. Thankfully, Kaziranga has many shelter options, from British Victorian era hotels, to heritage bungalows, to modern luxurious hotels. I found myself a decent place to stay at, for all I cared about was for the next day to arrive so that I could enter the forest. After some inquiry, I found out that there are two options of safari, one in an elephant, and the other by a jeep. I chose the elephant safari, for sitting on top of an elephant was any day more exciting than traveling on a jeep.There are also two different timings for entering the Park, one is at 6 A.M early in the morning, and the other in the afternoon. The early morning safari is definitely better, for most of the animals are very active at that time. Also, the park can be accessed from 4 different routes, each route having its own charm. All I had with me was one day, so I wanted to enter the most sought after route. A few conversations with the locals regarding the best route, and I had the next days itinerary ready. On having made all the bookings and reservations for the safari,I was ready to head for a good nights sleep, but not before a soothing glass of alcohol which was offered to me by my friend, which I off course couldn’t resist.

Next day, it was still dark when i woke up at 5 A.M. Quickly we got ready, and off we were to the safari base. A few other visitors were also present, and all faces excited with the anticipation of the wilderness ahead. The elephants started showing up one by one along with their mahouts. It is a wonderful sight to see the love between the mahouts and their Elephants. You feel as if there is a certain connection between us and animals, a lost linkage, like being one with nature and Mother Earth. One by one all the visitors climbed upon the various Elephants. Our Elephants name was Lakshmi. As we buckled up and started the journey, the Sun had begin to rise somewhere in the horizon, painting the sky with a mesmerizing art work. We were inside the forest at last. There was a magical mist all around. It felt like i was living a dream. A blanket of whiteness had surrounded the landscape, as if blurring the vision that i perceived with a touch of purity. Fifteen minutes into the grasslands, and we were greeted by four Deers. A little later, there was a group of a few Swamp Deer. It didn’t take much effort to see the magnificent Rhino. At first there was one, and then there were many of them. I was happy to be on top of the Elephant, for the Rhino is to be feared and respected. On closer inspection, the Rhino looks like an ancient creature. More than a mammal, it resembles certain breeds of herbivorous Dinosaurs. The mahout told us that Rhino’s are responsible for many human deaths, and if the rhino wanted to, it could even tear an entire Elephant apart. It seemed it was baby time, for most of the Rhino’s that i saw had their toddlers following them from behind. An adult Rhino is very protective of its baby, the mahout warned.

The Elephant safari was indeed an experience of a life time. About ninety minutes later, the safari ended. I was delighted. I had seen Rhino’s, fearsome Wild Asiatic Buffalo’s, 2 breeds of Deers, 2 different Crane species and a bluish red Kingfisher. Hunger had invaded my mind now, and after a hefty breakfast along with some heavenly Assam tea, we decided to explore the villages surrounding the National Park. The indigenous people of the area seemed quite friendly and nice. Their homes were very well built by clay and mud, and very enviromental friendly. Our explorations led us to a old Ganesha temple, where the main idol was a giant rock formed like an Elephant. Local tales say that the rock was never carved but found in the shape of an Elephant, and also that the rock keeps growing in size with each passing year. A truly strange phenomenon which i would definitely come later to investigate. Overall i did manage to click some nice photographs. It was time to leave for the next destination. But i did made a promise: to come back and explore all the various routes of Kaziranga, and maybe do a documentary on this rich bio-diversity hotspot.