Idler’s idyll

The short, wiry Nepali, Sebastian, is understandably cheesed off. The only time he lets his mind and body be at rest is during the five hours he allocates to sleep at night. Rest of the time, Sebastian is a blur of activity — there he is, fixing the straw matting of our hut, feeding the dog, running after the chicken, collecting firewood, preparing lunch for us, washing dishes, using the rocks to sharpen the knives, a picture of predatory application right before casting the net in the river for the fish to appear on our dinner plates, getting the lanterns ready before dusk gets to us. And there he is, annoyed and exasperated. We had once earlier tried, but failed, to make Sebastian realise that where we come from, Kolkata, we are part of a different blur. Wake up late, grab a breakfast while reading the papers, iron clothes, run to the auto stand, dash down the Metro’s escalator, stepping on toes on the way up, sidestepping on the way forward, office, nicotine, caffeine, Disprin, deadlines…and then, ‘sleepwalking back again’. Sebastian would have nothing of it; he wants us to see his world.

It’s a beautiful world where he lives. While clambering up to Mulkharka, we had ineffectively taken an effort to not crush the little white flowers growing along the mountainside. As dusk gave way to darkness, the mountains had got lost in the night, till they regained their outlines with a rising moon. Our torches were no longer needed as we scrawled our way up the moonlit trail, leaving behind the flickering flames of Darjeeling, Lava and Sikkimese villages, dotting the neighbouring mountainsides. Sebastian, meanwhile, had listed to us the many things he had done for Pedong, the dainty Bengal hill town where he stays and is a person of considerable influence, and for the neighbouring villages till one of us, hardened by his many rebukes and looking for a riposte, asked Sebastian if he had also built the old trading route to Tibet that runs alongside Pedong.

Reshi is yet another Sebastian find and we are inclined to believe him. A sharp drop from the road, across a delicate wooden bridge that hangs over the swirling waters, through thick forest ad tall grasslands, there stands the little hut by the river — ‘Welcome to Reshi’ says the writing on the wall.

We refuse to go anywhere else, for there seems no other place to go. Sebastian gets the vegetables from his little farmland nearby, and for the fish, there is the river. I want to fish, he hands me a funnel-shaped net and a hammer. Hammer? To strike at the rocks below which the fish normally reside and use the net to spoon them up. All I catch is water. Sebastian tries and holds aloft a healthy trout.

It is at the river where we go for a bath. Walking over the moss-covered, rock-strewn terrain is tricky and, on all fours, we scramble across to the middle of the river. I find my own little Jacuzzi as the water hits every little stress point in the body. We hold on to the rocks for dear life as from the bank Sebastian is waving at us. Thankfully, the noise the waters make is enormous and from the middle of the river we can’t hear him. But I see him smile. Surely, old man is feeling happy that the worlds have met, finally.