Mission Kashmir Part Two: Srinagar - Still Waters Run Deep

Near Dal Gate, the entry point to Dal Lake

On a chilly December evening, after riding in the backseats of a Chevrolet Tavera share-taxi from Jammu for ten hours, we got off at Lal Chowk and yawned and stretched. If it was cold that morning in Jammu, the chill had a sharper sting in Srinagar. The driver and some of our co-passengers told us that we'd find accommodation in one of the hotels lining the main street in the marketplace, although nothing looked impressive. The Lal Chowk marketplace wasn't any different from Paharganj in New Delhi or Andheri station road in Mumbai. However, two aspects stood out: the open-air stalls and even the boutiques were closing for the day, and it was not just chilly, it was freezing cold. The next evening, same time, we realised that the temperature was zero degrees Celsius! The only other place where I'd experienced subzero temperatures was in the United States. 

We had to find accommodation soon otherwise we would turn into ice sculptures,  which we usually see at wedding receptions near the salad counters. The folks of Srinagar were amused to see us with our rucksacks and jackets. Thankfully, we had come prepared. We had thick jackets - mine was an oversized coat that I'd purchased at a Costco outlet in Arlington - thermal inners, sweaters, woollen skull caps and gloves, even woollen socks. But I'd made the mistake of wearing Addidas sneakers to a subzero-temperatures place. Barely ten minutes after getting off the share-taxi, my toes singed. 

Road to Srinagar near Anantnag

A middle-aged man chuckled and led us through the alleyways saying he would show us a nice place to stay.

"Houseboat?" he asked. 

We were two guys, brothers-in-law; why would we need a houseboat? I had images of houseboats bobbing on the waters of Dal lake in springtime, with tourists posing for photographs in Kashmiri attire, holding wicker baskets of tulip flowers and all, with shikhara boats drifting by. But we followed the man all the same, who walked so fast that we had trouble keeping up with him. Both of us were slightly heavyset then and we had huge rucksacks on our backs. Our jaws rattled even though we were walking as fast as we could through the narrow winding lanes of Lal Chowk. 

Go India Go Back!
We Want Freedom!
Get Out Indian Army!
Indian Dogs Go Back!

The graffiti was everywhere. They were daunting, they rankled us, made us wonder why we didn't go to Hrishikesh as planned earlier. When we set out from Mumbai in the Duronto Express, our plan inclined towards going to Hrishikesh, doing some whitewater rafting, and then go further up the hills to Joshimath and Auli. Thanks to this chap we met on the train, who convinced us that we should go to Kashmir if we haven't been there before, we changed our minds. Again, at ISBT, if we wouldn't have boarded that PunBus Volvo bus to Jammu at the last minute, perhaps we would have gone to Mcleodganj or Kasol in Himachal Pradesh. Somehow, we were destined to come here, I said to bro-in-law Govind, as we reached a well-paved road beside a river on which there were two rundown houseboats moored on the riverbank. A gangplank connected the houseboat to the riverbank. The thought of slipping and falling into that chilly river was so frightening, it made me slightly dizzy. 

Near Chinar Bagh

"There, that is your room," the man said, ushering us into a tiny, crammed burrow of a room with a fireplace right in the middle. Large enough for a Hobbit perhaps, but not us. He showed us the squat toilet. A wooden plank was removed in the centre. We had to squat over that gap and divest ourselves of the previous day's excesses straight into the river. In the room, there was just about enough place for two people to stand shoulder to shoulder. The rest of it was covered by a double bed, the fireplace with its chimney and pipe extending to the low ceiling, and wooden cupboards and shelves alongside the wall.

"This is a room?" I asked. The man frowned. 

"Of course saheb! This is a houseboat! All tourists who come to Kashmir prefer staying in these houseboats only. Why do you want a building? I'm sure wherever you've come from, you stay in concrete buildings only, don't you?" 

"And where is the Dal lake?" 

"You're standing on it!"

That was certainly not the Dal lake that we were standing on. These two houseboats were moored on some river, which I later realised was a tributary of the Jhelum, not even The Jhelum, let alone the vast Dal Lake. We excused ourselves and went to the main road, wondering what to do next. That was when Shakeel the autorickshawman appeared in his front-engine autorickshaw. 

Shakeel was a tall, balding man in his fifties probably, with grey-white wisps of hair and a peppery stubble. In his phiran and boots, he looked warm and comfortable while we trembled and could barely speak coherently. He gave the man a scolding and then took us to Bishambar Nagar. On the way, he showed us a little eatery where he said we could get good, inexpensive, vegetarian food. I wasn't happy. Vegetarian food? I came all the way to Kashmir, travelling nonstop for two days, my bones and knuckles were rattling in that cold weather, and I have to eat vegetarian food? All that the eatery had was chapatis, some dal, a mixed vegetable dish, and a potato mash sabji. All of this constituted a thali for forty rupees. But hey, where are the kebabs and stuff? I'd heard and read about the Kashmiri Wazwan, the Tabak maaz, Rista, Dani phol, and Goshtaba so much and instead, over here, I get vegetarian food? 

"For tonight, this should do," Govind said. He was relieved I guess, because Govind isn't much of a meat eater. In fact, his 'non-vegetarian' comprises only chicken (without bone) and prawns. For him, coming to Kashmir was like coming to another world, another universe altogether.

We gingerly asked Shakeel if there was a liquor shop nearby. He frowned and said that he would take us to 'the only liquor store in Srinagar' but before that:

"You need to find accommodation, don't you?"

Of course. I could not feel my big toes anymore. I was certain that by the time we returned home, I would not have those toes for long. They would fall off before the end of this trip. 
We went down a flight of stairs beside the Bishambar-Dalgate road, descending into a narrow alleyway, and came upon a staid building with a signboard above its entrance: Hotel Golden Finger.

That is certainly some finger. Ever since we had landed, we had been privy to hate signs, which categorically stated that weren't welcome as 'mainland Indians' over here. 

"Don't worry about these slogans, sirs," Shakeel said when he saw me nervously staring at one of the messages on a nearby wall. 

"We Kashmiris love to host you folks! These are our protests against the AFSPA stopped coming here, what will we do? How will we sustain ourselves? Please don't worry. You are welcome in Srinagar."

Govind by the Chinar Bagh stream

One of the many bridges to cross to Chinar Bagh

Eventually, we brought for ourselves a bottle of Blenders Pride whisky and food packets from the nearby eatery, which had shut down by the time we returned from the liquor store. It was only seven thirty. We got a little room for 900 rupees with an electric blanket as well.

"Trust us," the receptionist said. "You will need it." 

I made another mistake that evening. I tried to take a bath. The water from the boiler was scalding hot. I could see steam rising from my arms and the back of my hands turning red, but I could just not feel the heat. My toes had turned slightly blue, but the hot water brought back their original colour. I trembled so much that I got back into the four layers of clothes that I had worn and leapt onto the bed on which the electric blanket was laid out. Govind was smart. For the next four days in Srinagar, he didn't even remove his shoes, let alone the clothes. 

Bread toast and omelette with milk tea with sugar, not salt. Staple breakfast at Golden Finger Hotel. We weren't the only guests in the hotel the previous evening. Four old folks stepped out of a room conversing in Marathi. They said they were from Model Colony in Pune and were pleased to know that I 'was from Kothrud'. No, I didn't really belong to Kothrud; in fact, Pune in general and Kothrud in particular was the 'place of my undoing', but until then, the 'undoing' hadn't happened. The Puneris were returning that afternoon, so I wished them safe travels and Govind and I set out towards the famous Dal Lake. 

We didn't know that the Chinar Bagh was on the Bishambar-Dalgate road where the eatery was located. A tranquil river shrouded in fog weaved along with the road with arched bridges at various points that one could take to cross over to the Chinar gardens. The hotel chaps said that the temperature was 2 degrees below freezing that morning, but by the time we got to Dal Lake, it had risen to about 4 degrees C. The boatmen and other locals were amused to see us. We were tourists obviously. We definitely didn't have the apple and rose cheeks of the locals. We didn't wear phirans and carry kangris within the gowns. It was baffling at first to see no hands in the phirans of most Kashmiris. Did they lose their hands after mishandling some landmines or, worse, were their hands chopped off by terrorists as punishment for siding with 'Indians'? Later we realised that their hands were within the phirans, wrapped around kangris full of live coals that kept them warm. 

Houseboats moored at Dal Lake

The only one of it's kind in India I guess

There are soldiers and army check posts everywhere in Srinagar. Mostly CRPF jawans, but you'll get a glimpse of all of them: Rashtriya Rifles, JAKLI, Sikh and Jat, Engineers, Signal Corps, GREF. Imagine waking up to the sight of guns pointing at you every day. Imagine how it would feel to be patted down every now and then. On the other hand, imagine the plight of those soldiers who come from various parts of the country, standing on guard for long hours in acutely hostile territory, amid belligerent folks who abhor the very sight of you and your uniform. 

The walk alongside Dal lake, which wasn't frozen yet but was frigging cold, did us good. I had run my first half marathon earlier that year in January 2012, but nothing after that. I was also a regular drinker and ate a lot of fries. Although I went to a gym as regularly as I could, I hadn't really toned up a lot owing to the junk food and alcohol that I consumed. Working in IT also ensures that you lead a sedentary lifestyle, in front of a laptop or computer all the time, sitting in one place for long hours doing nothing worthwhile. So while the walk was exhausting, it was a good exercise. Of course, we took one look up at the clouds enshrouding the Adi Shankaracharya temple on top of the hill and decided that instant that we weren't going to climb that far. But I wanted to see the Hazratbal mosque and so we walked...in the wrong direction. 

A little after the floating post office, we took a shikara ride. Gulzar was a young and handsome boatman who took us into the villages alongside the lake. It was a different world, magical and absolutely beautiful. There were crossroads (or crosswaters perhaps) where village folks rowed their canoes to shops and houses. Gulzar showed us the floating farm patches, which need to be tied to the owners' houses or else they float away and become other people's properties. 

Even the locals were in no mood to venture out in that cold weather

Colourful shikaras in contrast to the leaden environs

The refurbished Gulfaam of 'Gul Gulshan Gulfaam', the old teleserial on Doordarshan

One of the many saffron vendors on the lake

"Why did you come in this weather, sahebs?" Gulzar asked. "Even we Kashmiris find it too cold to be outdoors. You won't get to see the lovely flowers in the gardens. Everything is barren and gloomy right now."

We told him we wanted to see snow. 

"Go to Gulmarg and Sonamarg then," he said. "You'll surely see snow there. It could snow in Srinagar too, but when I can't tell. If you're lucky, it might snow tonight even."

He bought us Kahwas from a tea stall, filled with almonds and a dash of saffron too. Many shikharas sailed towards ours in which the boatmen showed us jewellery and artefacts made of beads and colourful stones. Other boats brought saffron. 

Our first and probably best cup of Kahwa

"If you rub saffron on the palm of your hands and if a yellow-orange stain appears, the saffron is not real," Gulzar said. "Those are a different kind of flower with saffron dye in them. Real saffron doesn't let colour leak from it. Real saffron also has a richer fragrance."

We didn't buy saffron from the boat vendors but we stopped at a handicrafts shop from where we purchased dress material and shawls for the womenfolk. I'd gifted one of the shawls to a certain someone who I hope still has the shawl, and that the shawl hasn't gone the same way that the wine and martini glasses, which that person had gifted me, went.

At the crossroads

The steely grey skies persisted throughout our stay in Srinagar. The sun looked like a Diwali lantern in the frigid sky, incapable of providing any warmth to the cold, frozen land below. We asked Gulzar about the general mood in Srinagar, the animosity towards outsiders. He wore a wan smile and said that there was no hostility at all in the hearts of regular Kashmiris. He reiterated, like Shakeel, that if there were no visitors in Kashmir, the state's livelihood would collapse. 

"We need visitors here, saheb. As many as possible. We want Kashmir to be a grand tourist destination, just like it was before the late eighties."

The floating farm-islands that could drift away if not literally tied up to the owner's house

I noted the stress on the word 'visitors' and 'tourists'. So long as you were only a tourist with no intent of settling down as a permanent resident and certainly not an army man, you were welcome anytime. If every state in India assumed that stance - and I'm not even talking about secession here - then the idea of a Republic of India itself would collapse. We would return to precolonial times when the country did not exist as India and was fragmented into more than 300 states and principalities. Can you imagine a situation in which you, like me, were born in Mumbai and would need a passport and visa to travel to Bangalore or Hyderabad and work there; or if a man from UP was denied work visa to Maharashtra? Apparently there are three broad groups of people in Kashmir: one that wants to remain with India, another that wants the state to be acceded to Pakistan, and a third that wants Kashmir to be an independent country. There are similar movements in some North East states as well, and the Khalistan movement, the struggles and the impending violence, hasn't been erased from our memories yet.  

A bylane

A wider bylane

"We are angry with the authorities who have deployed the Indian Army over here," Gulzar said. "For how many years they have been here? How they use their powers to govern us? Tonight, there is going to be yet another curfew in Srinagar. A Shia youth who was in jail earlier was released two days ago. Now they have arrested him again. On what charges? They say he raped a woman. Tell me sirs, why would we rape our own women? All this is done by the armymen, but they put the blame on us and brand us as terrorists. The bandh has been called in protest against the youth's arrest." 

We returned to the shore, walked around the barren Shalimar Garden and Nishad Bagh, drank more Kahwas, walked through villages, and sat pondering by the lake. The fog was heavy and it was still cold even in the afternoon, as I mulled over what Gulzar had to say. I could see the outline of the tomb of the Hazratbal mosque, thought I didn't have the energy to walk around the lake up to the masjid. We had lunch where I asked for Mutton Rogan Josh, which wasn't as good as the one I had in Ramban on our way to Srinagar. 

After our shikara ride, Govind with Gulzar the boatman

That night, I bought Seekh kababs and skewered mutton with chapatis, while Govind stuck to the vegetarian fare at that little eatery. We returned to the hotel room by six thirty. The chap at the hotel said it was minus two degrees celsius. We drank all of the whisky, went to Gulmarg the next day, and to Pahalgam the day after, and on the last day headed out to Srinagar airport to fly to New Delhi. It snowed that morning in Srinagar. That was the first heavy snowfall that both of us had seen, although I'd witnessed two snowfalls earlier in Washington DC. Our flights were delayed by four hours but the security personnel allowed us to sit inside the airport terminal. Throughout our stay in Srinagar, that one question kept lingering in my head: Would Kashmir become the paradise that it once was, ever again? 

One night after our juicy Whatsapp conversations with our respective love-interests back home, when I drifted off to sleep, I dreamt that I was Emperor Jehangir. On one of my campaigns up north, I rode into Srinagar and stood by the Dal lake, spellbound by the beauty of the surroundings. It was springtime and the hillsides were abloom with bright flowers and lush chinar forests. Mesmerised by the sylvan environs of Kashmir, I muttered a Persian quote borrowed from Amir Khusrow, the Sufi poet: 

Gar firdaus bar-rue zameen ast, 
hami asto, hami asto, hameen ast.

Kanha Diaries Part 4: Nights in the Forest

The MP Tourism Kisli Canteen sits on the edge of a meadow, which is now known - rather for about a decade now - as the Indri route. Not far from the canteen is a lake that the "new" forest road skirts and goes deeper south. Kisli itself is a safari zone now. I think they have brought the elephants back to the kraal over here, behind the canteen. On my last trip way back in 2009, there were no elephants here. The forest officials had moved the beasts to the Kanha headquarters deep within the core area of the park. 

In the evening just before sunset

Ankur and Anupam on our last trip to Kanha, Nov 2009

The hermetic trance I find myself in whenever I am in Kanha. Gosh, I was fat!

Without further digression, the canteen. It has a little oval patio where we love to sit after dinner. Once the dishes are washed and the canteen is cleaned, the caretaker spends time chatting with us, telling us tales of wonderful sightings in recent times, inquires whether dinner was good (It always is; has always been good!), and whether we'd like to carry plain butter and jam sandwiches on the safari the next morning. 

"I'll bring tea for you," he assures us. "At 4 AM." 

He switches off the light in the patio and leaves, while we continue to sit in the cold, under the dark night sky studded with stars. We don't talk; we don't want to spoil that moment, that tranquillity with our chatter. However, is the night really silent and still? 

As the sun went down, the petrol bunk and the tiny, walk-in-wardrobe-sized post office

Colours of the sky at dusk

In the urban parlance, maybe. But the forest is anything but quiet at night. Lean back on the backrest of the chair and look up to the starlit sky. Thousands of them, no hyperbole here. Kanha National Park, like any other forest, is one of the few places left where you can see a carpet of stars blanketing the world. 

At the same time, your ears 'open up'. It picks up the nearest and the most distant chirrup of crickets and other night creatures. The hoot of the owl. The constant chatter of the night jar. The occassional trumpet of a peacock in the meadow north the dormitory and the forest officer's bungalow. The calls of the chital. Even the lapwing sometimes. 

You slip into a state of trance. Eyes closed, shivering in the cold despite your multiple layers of clothing, breathing in the fresh jungle air, and listening to the sounds of the jungle. Then, from somewhere - in my head at least - I hear the opening notes of a song from a movie that I love: Yeh Tara, Woh Tara...

It is actually the instrumental piece after the first stanza that rings in my head. At once, I transform into a philosopher, a poet, even a singer - a much better one than I normally am, for I can't sing to save my life.

Sunset at Bamhani Dadar in Mukki zone

The vast meadow of Bamhani Dadar at dusk

Kanha National park, more precisely the Kisli core area where I have always camped while in Kanha, can do that to you. For a long while none of us speak or dare to disrupt the tranquility of the moment. But sooner or later, our ears - which are now trained to distinguish between regular calls and alarm calls of most forest creatures - pick up the alarm calls of a chital. We sit up straight and crane our necks, squinting at the darkness around us. Did the call come from somewhere close by? We scan the pitch-black meadows and see shining eyes looking back at us.

"Just chital," we say to each other. Now that we are 'Veterans of the forest', we know there's no need to panic. If the alarm calls stop after a while, we speculate what could have alarmed the deer. Must have been a jackal or dholes, red dogs, maybe. A leopard? The langurs were quiet and unfazed, so might not be one of the big cats. But if there are many alarm calls of the chital, if it turns into a noisy chorus, then it has to be a tiger or a leopard on the prowl. If the night air fills up with alarm calls, we stand up and prepare to hurry to the dormitory, which is about 200-300 metres from the canteen. Our next task is to determine where the calls are coming from? If they are close by, better sit over here instead of risking the walk through the darkness to the dormitory. If the cries are far away, well, enjoy the opera! Where else will you get to hear this?

On my first trip to Kanha National Park, I was sitting on the veranda floor with two Costa Rican chaps, Jorge and Ricardo. The three of us were the only ones in the dormitory, and we had just finished dinner and were sitting outside to drink in the sounds and the chill of the forest. Suddenly, we heard several dholes calling out from not too far away. Even the caretaker stepped out and listened with a smile.

Video: What do Dholes or Red Dogs sound like at night? This is NOT my video; it belongs to a Youtubber, Tejaswi Naik. All credit and thanks to him for posting his experience online.

"Wow, so many dholes!" he said. "You are lucky, sirji. Lately, our guides haven't spotted large groups of dholes. There was a time when the sighting of a pack of 30 - 40 dholes was common. Over the years, their numbers and sightings have decreased. Now, if you are lucky, you'll get to see little groups of 2-4 dholes. 10, if you are extremely lucky. But that."

He was now pointing towards the hills that we saw in the north, hemming the meadows. "That certainly sounds like a large pack."

"What are they, coyotes?"

"Not coyotes. These are dholes, red dogs."

"Red dogs? Like stray dogs?" 

"No, these are wild dogs. The Indian version of the African wild dogs. They resemble jackals but they are different."

Red dog sightings had become rare in Kanha. I have seen a few on various trips - not on the first one though - but never more than four to six of them at a time. If we could have driven into the forest that night, we would have surely seen a large gang of dholes traipsing about in the meadows.

On one of the trips, my father joined us - Govind, Anupam, and me. This was my only late spring/early summer safari trip. It was the first week of April and we were sitting outside the canteen, without many layers of clothing. I was wearing shorts for the first time in Kanha. One of the safari jeeps, a green Gypsy, refuelled at the petrol bunk next to the canteen. For a long while, it stood there, the driver chatting with someone at the petrol bunk. We could only see the glow of their cigarette ends in the darkness and the red rear lights of the Gypsy. 

A while later, the Gypsy left, veering onto the road that led to the Khatia Gate outside the park. The jeep stopped again on the road and my father lurched forward. He was gaping at the jeep, rather at the road lit up by the headlights. 

"Elephants!" he exclaimed, pointing at the muddy brown shapes crossing the road in front of the jeep. Until then, he didn't know that those elephants were tame. 

"They send the elephants out at night," Anupam and I explained. "They graze in the forest all night. Then, just before dawn, the mahout goes looking for them. The chains fastened on the ankles of the elephants leave a trail, which makes it easy to trace them. Then, the mahout looks for signs of tigers around. If they find a tiger that they know is going to stay in the spot for a long while, they relay a message to the headquarters at Kanha. In turn, the officials at headquarters issue tokens for the 'tiger show' and tourists are brought to the spot so that they can get a glimpse of the tiger. 

'Tiger shows' are often criticised by wildlife enthusiasts because it is not the most natural form of wildlife sighting. The enthusiasts complain that tigers are often cornered by these elephants so that they remain at the spot for a longer while than they desire. But this is the best alternative for 'tiger sighting' for tourists like us. On most safaris, you end up going around in circles without a sighting. By organising this 'tiger show', tourists can get at least one glimpse of the king (or queen) of the forest. Most of these 'shows' take place when the tiger is located at a distance from the road. Spotting these tigers who are far away from the forest road is impossible without these elephants. From the safari jeep, you climb onto the back of the elephant and are then taken into the woods where the tiger is spotted. I think Kanha and Bandhavgarh are the only parks where they have this arrangement, though I might be wrong.

Video: One of the four videotapes of our trip to Kanha in January 2005.

That is the thing with tigers and leopards. These fine felines are highly reclusive, and seeing them in the wild is a privilege. The Kisli area, for example, is largely leopard territory. For them, the fringes of the core area of the park is safe haven. The chances of crossing paths with a tiger or, worse, getting into a conflict over territory are much lesser. In January 2005 when the whole lot of us - Arvind, Anupam, Astik, Govind, Kaushal, Madhav, and I - were put up at the dormitory, we often stood in the veranda after dark, constantly chattering and playing the fool with each other. One evening, the conversation veered towards Quantum Physics - of which I know nothing - and Theories of Relativity and shit like that. All the result of much alcohol and dope, though I wasn't a drinker in those days. Yes, I was a non-drinker once, would you believe that! 

I was recording the silly conversations on the handycam when, all of a sudden, Arvind says, "Dude, do you get this feeling that you're being watched?" 

The lone light bulb in the veranda at the dormitory

"Hey yes, I was just thinking the same thing!" Kaushal said. A sudden silence descended on the group. We were looking over our shoulders, squinting at the woods around us, scanning the barely visible outline of the tall grass around the dormitory, looking for a stalking leopard or tiger. We saw nothing, but we certainly felt it. We knew we were being watched. 

"Come on, let's go indoors," we said and shut and bolted the door behind us. 

North-East Natters Part One: Bonhomie in Bomdila

Gontse Gaden Rabgyeling Monastery

Bomdila? Why?
On a salubrious afternoon at the fag end of July, we got off the crammed last seat of the Sumo share-taxi in the main town square of Bomdila. The air was crisp, a pleasant respite from the muggy plains of Assam. We yawned and stretched, and our joints croaked and cracked, as we collected our rucksacks from the luggage rack atop the Sumo. At once there were touts all around us. Hotel room? Onward to Tawang? Tomorrow? Book your seats on the Sumo today, sirs. It might get full otherwise. 

On the road to Bomdila

A tea break

Another halt before Bomdila

All seats sold out in this season? That too to a town as remote as Tawang in West Arunachal Pradesh? This chap had to be kidding! At his behest, we scouted for a hotel on the main street, but none of them were quite appealing. We had been travelling since Saturday before dawn with a night's halt in a pathetic excuse of a hotel room in terrible Tezpur. We hadn't eaten anything worthy of being called a meal. It was past lunchtime in Bomdila. Most eateries were closed, and the only roadside stalls were those of multicoloured raw beans and corn. Not a single restaurant had food? Not a single Momo stall, which are ubiquitous in faraway Bangalore? After roaming around, we walked into an inn, where we nearly barged into the kitchen and prodded the innkeeper, a woman, to give us some food. Anything would do. 

"We have Thupka," she said. Of course! Bomdila is a town full of Tibetan-origin folks. Bring us the Thukpas, we said. She served the noodle soups with chicken shreds in them. After one glance into the soup bowl, I began to wonder: Was this trip a big mistake? 

This Thukpa in Bomdila was sad!

A sense of foreboding had come over us when we reached Paltan Bazaar in Guwahati the previous day. The untidy surroundings, the dust and grime that we sought to escape in our home cities, the dreary bus ride to Tezpur, the filthy surroundings of the decrepit guest house that we stayed in, the tepid, unappealing food that we had since we landed, and the disparaging laughter of the Malayalee soldier of the GREF unit of BRO, whom we met that morning at Tezpur bus station, and who rode with us in the share-taxi till his military camp in Tenga. 

Malayalees are typically cynical people, we concurred. All three of us - Jose, Sachin, and I - are Malayalees, and we know our kind well. 

"Malayalee-oo? Ivideyo? Endinna?" Malayalees? Over here? Whatever for?

That was the first thing that the GREF soldier told us. Y'all are coming from Bangalore and are going to Bomdila and Tawang on a trip? Devamme! Oh my God! There's nothing over there!" He said that with much incredulity, using the typical gesture - of flicking the fingers as though you were sprinkling holy water - that Malayalees often used. 

In the balcony of our room at Doe Gu Khill guest house

The terrace lookout to the woods surrounding the road leading to the guest house

Can't stop admiring the sylvan surroundings

Walking to the monastery

Young monks walking up to the monastery for the evening prayer

As I finished the bowl of Thukpa - I gulped it down because I was hungry - I began to wonder, was he right after all? Nothing looked promising so far in the North East. Even the Thukpa was rubbish. Were all those advertisements that showed mesmerising Arunachal and enchanting Arunachal just exaggerated gimmicks? Or were we missing the real thing?

Eventually Google put us on track. We returned to the taxi stand and hailed a taxi - a Maruti Omni - to highly-rated guest house attached to the main monastery in Bomdila. 

"Two kilometres uphill, sirs," said Ali, a tubby, one-eyed taxi driver. "Only 100 rupees. Anywhere you go in Bomdila, only 100 rupees." 

Ali, or one-eyed Ali as we chose to refer to him, asked us where we were from, where we were headed, and whether we had prior bookings in Tawang or even at the monastery guest house for that matter. He gave us an alternative to the share-taxi drive to Tawang: I can take y'all to Tawang, in and around, show you around everywhere. In a share-taxi, you can't stop as and when you feel like. But with me, you can. I'm from Bomdila only and I know this place all too well.

We didn't dispute that, and we told him that we would consider the offer. First, the guest house. We had to put down our bags and rest a little, and unwind later evening with a drink. 

The Doe-Gu-Khil guest house on the Gontse Gaden Rabgyeling Monastery campus was an absolute delight. At first glance, we liked the room we were shown and the environs. Overlooking most of Bomdila town, the monastery and the guest house sat in sylvan settings, amid woods on the hillside, offering fantastic vistas from the balcony of the guest-house room. Trainee monks reside in the adjacent building. They also cook and provide food for guests in the dining room of the guest house. 

"We serve only vegetarian food," the caretaker apologetically said. It didn't matter. We liked the place and took the offer, bidding Ali goodbye. 

"But do you want me to take you to Tawang?" he asked. We told him that we had already booked seats for ourselves on the share-taxi. "That can be cancelled, sirs. You come with me right now! I'll cancel the booking and get you full refund. But you have to tell me soon so that I can refuel and ready another taxi for you. No, we won't be taking this van. I have another van, which can take the beating of the harsh road to Tawang."

He gave all of us his number and told us that he would wait for our call, one way or the other. Eventually, we didn't call him. 

We awoke to the gentle chants of prayer and drum beats and cymbals from the monastery, and another, somewhat inaudible chant from elsewhere. The latter turned out to be a protest march staged in the Buddha Stadium near the main intersection in Bomdila. Gurkha community folks were expressing their solidarity with the Gurkhaland movement in Darjeeling and chanting slogans against the West Bengal government of which Darjeeling was part. We were more interested in the former. So, leaving Jose who was still asleep, Sachin and I visited the monastery and spent some time in the courtyard, taking photographs and breathing in the pure mountain air. After the squalor of Tezpur, Bomdila was indeed rejuvenating. While we roamed about aimlessly, Jose awoke in the meantime and went on a more purposeful walk to town. He returned after dark with a bottle of Blenders Pride whisky and plastic cups. We were determined to preserve the sanctity of the monastery guest house and so, not only did we finish the contents of the bottle that night, but also packed it along with the used paper cups and disposed of the waste in a thrash bin in town the next morning, leaving behind no signs of alcohol consumption in the guest house. Even the packets of chips were duly disposed of. 

View of Bomdila from the monastery

It was the dinner that was the highlight of our stay in Bomdila. Simple, vegetarian fare that was absolutely delicious. Steam rose from the casseroles containing hot chapatis, dal, vegetable curry, and rice. I had goosebumps after the meal, for it was the best vegetarian meal I had had after the meals in Kanha National Park. 

When we returned to Bomdila after our stay in Tawang, we fervently hoped that there were rooms available in Doe-Gu-"Chill" - that is how they pronounce "Khill" - guest house. Thank the Buddha, we got rooms here. On our return journey, our trio rose to four of us with Jarshad, whom we met at a tea break after Sela Pass enroute to Tawang. 

Jose's photograph of Bomdila by night

View of the hills the next morning as we left for Tawang

We met Ali again at the taxi stand and asked him if he would take us to the guest house again. Because of a certain confusion over how to go back to Guwahati - I just didn't want to even pass through Tezpur again, let alone stop overnight - which also led to an altercation, we eventually booked ourselves on a bus that went straight to Guwahati bypassing Tawang. Eventually, after booking our tickets, we called another cab and rode up to the guest house. 

In the evening, I think the boys called Ali once again, this time to ask him to take one of us to the liquor store. He didn't answer the calls. 

It rained all evening and night in Bomdila. Even the lights went out later at night after dinner. In the evening, while the boys sat in the room and drank, I sat in the veranda outside the guest house, chatting with a senior monk who lived in the adjoining dormitory. They served me tea, two cups of hot brew while a chilly rain pattered on the asbestos awning under which we were sitting. He told me about the exploits of the Dalai Lama, about how he first took refuge in Tawang and Zemithang after escaping from Lhasa; about the struggles of the Tibetans and the Chinese occupation of Tibet; about how at least one member of every family is chosen to be ordained as a monk; and all the internal schisms among the Buddhists and things like that. 

Rainy night in Bomdila on our return leg

"You are from Bangalore, right? There is a big Tibetan monastery not far from Bangalore. I have been there. Have you?"

I told him that I'd heard of the place and even passed by on our motorcycle ride to Madikeri. But was I Bangalorean? I smiled. I could have explained to him, just as painstakingly as he did the Tibetan struggles, how I was returning to Bangalore for the last time and how I was moving back to my hometown, Mumbai. But I didn't. Like the grand Buddha statue in Tawang, I only listened to him with a smile. 

One of our tea and pee breaks on the way to Tawang

Getting There
Bomdila is the headquarters of the West Kameng district of Arunachal Pradesh. From Tezpur, it is 156 kilometres by road that winds uphill after Bhalukpong, the entry point to Arunachal Pradesh on the banks of the Kameng river. On the other side of the river lies the Nameri Forest Reserve (in Assam) and the Pakke Tiger Reserve (on the Arunachal side).
From Guwahati, the shortest route is 276 kilometres via Kalaigaon and Kalaktang, while the longest is 335 kilometres via Tezpur. The bus service, however, takes a middle route, via Orang and bypassing Tezpur, which is 308 kilometres. The bus takes 12 to 14 hours in either direction, depending on floods or traffic in the plains of Assam and landslides in Arunachal.

The road is prone to landslides. As the Jawan from Haripad had pointed out, the soil here is not firm. With the slightest rain, whole mountainsides come sliding down, blocking the road to Bomdila and Tawang. Fortunately, we did come upon a landslide or two, but we didn't get stuck anywhere for more than 15 minutes.

If you can book a car and drive to Bomdila, it would be the best thing. There is no other way to get here, unless you can afford to book a helicopter. After Bhalukpong, the route is daunting and achingly beautiful. The thick rainforests will leave you spellbound and the clouds descend till you are at the same level; after a point, even above them! We went in the rains and thus, we got to see several waterfalls enroute. Do check with police officials in Guwahati or Tezpur about road conditions irrespective of the season that you choose to visit these places. I think in summers, you won't have problems, unless the Brahmaputra floods the plains of Assam and leave you stranded over there. 

Where to Stay
Doe-Gu-Khill guest house, certainly! Warm folks, delectable food, clean rooms and tranquil surroundings. There was a medium-sized hotel in the main town square, but I can't remember its name now. For the price that they charge, it isn't worth checking out. 

What to Do
Other than the monastery, I think Bomdila is renowned for its apple orchards. So, if you come here in the right season, you will get to see the apple orchards I guess. Bomdila only serves as a stopover otherwise for people headed to Tawang.