Kalimpong Calling

We always took a right turn, and within minutes we8217;d be home. It would be mid-morning, we8217;d be ravenous and the smell of lunch cooking would drive us mad. First, though, we had to go through our rituals; kids having a bath, elders inspecting the garden or the house, the housekeeper updating us on the status of her family. Finally, lunch: Rice, dal, a good curry or fried meat, vegetables. For pudding, fruit from the garden, stewed, with cream. Easy to see what we focussed on. Lunch over, it was time to play. My best friend was Padam, the sweeper8217;s son; he would teach me the latest Hindi film songs, I8217;d teach him cricket. We were out till dark, unfettered by the demands of urban society, unburdened by holiday homework.

Turn left from Dambar Chowk and you hit the crowds. Himalayan Stores, where Noni and Lola would buy their daily newspapers; the Apollo Deaf Tailors; Gompus, where Sai and Gyan ate and drank when not feasting on new love. Take the road up, to your left is the church and college from where a teacher was dragged out and beheaded during the agitation; opposite, Kashi Nath the booksellers, still stocking the magazines and comics you don8217;t find in urban bookstores; further up, Lark8217;s the provision store, which saw a run on its stocks ahead of any bandh, the silversmith haggling is a must, and on past the cinema, the Tibetan shops, through 10th mile 10 miles from Teesta and eventually out of town, though a fork delivers you to Dr Graham8217;s Homes.

It wasn8217;t all sweetness and light. It was my misfortune to be the only exception to a family of very enthusiastic walkers. Our friends8217; houses were scattered around town, and the only way of getting there was walking. One such walk was the Military Round, the 8220;long cut8221; to town: Uphill for what seemed like an eternity to the military camp, passing the road where live the Afghan princesses and which to Bonami, home to the aunt of the BBC8217;s Nisha Pillai not Mon Ami, home to Lola, mother of BBC anchor Piyali Banerjee, then cut across the ridge, past the golf course and the Metal Box guest house Ringkingpong Farm, where the watchman breakfasted on a fried egg each day, past the tourist lodge where I8217;d yearn for a halt and maybe a plate of sandwiches, past the house where Tagore stayed, then a sudden steep descent into town. Longer walks, to Father Booty8217;s Swiss Dairy; steeper climbs, such as the one to Copston, where we used to stay earlier.

Ghosts! They are everywhere, as in any hill town. The best chronicler of Kalimpong8217;s ghost stories was the raconteur and illustrator Desmond Doig, and one of his stories dealt with Mr and Mrs Dench and their undying literally love for each other. The house they lived live? in is now occupied by Desai8217;s aunt; a handsome structure, stone facade, glass-and-iron front door, dark wood floors, wonderful smoky kitchen. Mr Dench died first; his food was left on the table, waiting for him. Mrs Dench descended into ill health and dementia and the nuns took her away. Yet they linger; voices have been heard where there are no people. The spirits have been malicious8212;scratching and slapping8212;and benevolent, waking up an ayah when the fireplace had got blocked and the room, where she was sleeping with the family8217;s children, was full of carbon monoxide. They are part of the dark underside of a town like Kalimpong, as much as the ethnic mix and caste structure that would, from time to time, rip apart the lace-and-fineness in particularly bloodthirsty fashion. A couple of centuries ago it was the scene of bloody wars between the hill tribes. Indeed the house Desai8217;s parents bought was the scene of a massacre a couple of centuries ago.

Ghosts only scared us after dark. By day, we were too busy with the food. Momos, of course, and when I now see a plateful selling for Rs 50, I think back on the unofficial momo-eating contests: 20 or 30 was passeacute;, 50 the mark of a young man. The momo man, who would come around lunchtime with a plastic bucket full of steaming momos and the chutney I8217;ve not tasted since. The fruit: Peaches, plums, cherries all stewed with cream, oranges, bananas with condensed milk8230;The rotiwala Desai writes about, with the cakes and patties and nankhatai biscuits. Years later, when my tastes had matured, the pleasures of ningro fern leaves and other delights grown in the garden or bought in the haat, that twice-weekly festival of the land that city life deprives us of.

The beauty of Kalimpong is that it is all things to all people; it8217;s a fair bet that my siblings8217; memories differ from mine, and obviously our parents and grandparents experienced different things. But some things are constant. The house, for one; to paraphrase Desai, you feel as though you8217;re entering a sensibility. The languid, lazy air; when I began going up with friends, we would begin the day at the dining table, sipping tea; hours later we8217;d still be there, reading, chatting, staring out at the lily pool, contemplating life. And always, always, Kanchenjunga, magnificent whether in bright sunshine, or on a full-moon night, or shrouded in mist and mystery. It will, as Desai says, make you feel that truth was apparent.

Ticket to kalimpong

By air All major airlines have flights to Bagdogra from New Delhi and Kolkata. From there, Kalimpong is a three-hour bus or car journey

By train Take the Guwahati Rajdhani from Delhi or one of the many trains from Kolkata to New Jalpaiguri. From there, or from nearby Siliguri, bus or cab takes two-and-a-half hours

By bus From Kolkata, an overnight journey to Siliguri