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Journalism of Courage
When the poet Robert Burns wrote: ‘The best-laid schemes o’ Mice an’ Men/Gang aft agley (Go oft awry)’, he probably had vacation planning in mind. There are, broadly speaking, two types of vacationers. First, you have those who travel without a care. They embark on trips without any agenda and wait for new locales to reveal themselves, making room for the uncertain and the unexpected. The rest of us, though, do not possess such equanimity. We belong to the second category of people who make lists and schedules – keen to bring corporate efficiency into our holidays.
If you grew up in Kolkata, you’d know that all vacation-related discussions must, by law, feature Darjeeling (when evaluating hill stations) and Puri (if it’s a seaside sojourn). And so, while I had visited Darjeeling as a child, the rest of the Eastern Himalayas remained a mystery to me. A recent week-long trip to Sikkim was meant to rectify this shortcoming. As with all other holidays, I wasted no time in preparing an itinerary and earmarked the ‘top sights’ – Nathu La Pass, Gurudongmar Lake, Yumthang Valley – in the mountainous state.
We arrived in Gangtok, one chilly February morning, exhilarated not just by the prospect of visiting these places, but also by the anticipation of being amid snowscapes. We had timed our trip to see Sikkim in all its winter glory, aware that there’d be some trade-offs. Low temperatures and sharp winds that make your eyes water were costs we had agreed to bear – if it meant we could gaze upon snowy vistas and frolic in snowfields. Nature, of course, couldn’t care less about this bargain.
It was a cold and grey Gangtok that greeted us. The sun was just a suggestion in the overcast sky, and by late evening, our breath formed plumes as if we were smoking an interminable cigarette. We explored the markets and monasteries in Sikkim’s capital city, the days punctuated by brief spells of light showers. In my list of attractions, star billing was afforded to the spots that offered unobstructed views of Kanchenjunga (at 8,586 metres, the third-highest peak in the world). When we arrived at one such viewpoint, our guide-cum-driver pointed towards a vortex of mist and cheerily informed us that on clear days the sunlit summit could be seen sparkling in the distance. Acknowledging this fact with rueful nods, we peered at the soupy horizon for many minutes, before giving up and returning to our hotel.
The morning we were to leave for Nathu La Pass, our guide informed us that heavy snowfall had forced road closures. Tourist permits – required by day-trippers like us to visit the Pass – were suspended indefinitely, delivering a bureaucratic blow to our holiday plans. The next day, we were told that Gurudongmar Lake, too, was inaccessible and it would take days for the routes to be cleared of snow. We were getting a proper taste of winter in Sikkim – unfortunately, it was rendering everything out of bounds.
As we made our morose way to Lachung – a small town in northern Sikkim – our guide took pity on us and improvised a detour. When you’ve come this far, he grinned, I cannot let you leave without seeing snow. We left Lachung behind and followed a narrow switchback snaking up the mountainside. Soon, the conifers on the slopes looked like they’d been dusted with powdered sugar, and as we climbed higher, the trees were plump with frosting. Grimy snow banks lined both sides of the road, our very own security detail cordoning our way up the mountain.
Our guide stopped the car at a clearing and we stepped out into a postcard. Snow carpeted the hills, prayer flags fluttered, a stream rushed beneath a quaint bridge. Later that night, when we huddled around the heater in our hotel, the mood was less sombre. We would’ve been happy to return home with the memory of that single day, but the weather deities of Sikkim had now grown generous.
The following afternoon, we noticed the world outside our window suddenly turn blurry, a thousand cotton balls floating down from the sky. We scurried outside, scarcely able to believe our luck. After a week of disappointments, we were now drinking in the surreal experience of watching snowfall. The flakes fell in flurries – damp pinpricks on our faces and settling with a hush upon trees and ledges and rooftops.
It snowed through the night and the next morning Lachung was a town transformed. Covered in thick blankets of snow, ungainly power cables and nondescript huts acquired a fairytale hue. Snowflakes continued to drift across the car’s windshield as we left the town to make our way back to Gangtok; and then, home. Our best-laid schemes for the holiday had certainly gone agley – but we would not have had it any other way.
The writer is a Mumbai-based lawyer
