There are several places of interest in and around Gangtok, and since we have an entire day there, we decide to do the tourist routine. We go to the flower show, which is dismal, visit the famous, bustling, ornate Rumtek Monastery and then proceed to Enchey. Believed to be one of the oldest monasteries in East Sikkim, Enchey promises to be an island of calm. Just 2 km from picture perfect Rumtek, it seems older, quieter and holier. There is a sense of peace all around the pathway that leads to the main gompa. Lamas of all ages silently go about their daily rituals. At the main monastery, horror of horrors, we are met by a large group of screaming, cackling Gujaratis. It alarms me, the way they see the monastery, the lamas and perhaps all of Sikkim, as some sort of novelty show that exists only for their entertainment. They talk loudly, sit down in places clearly reserved for monks and point rudely at objects and idols. Five minutes of this and my attempt at calm snaps. I stage-whisper in Gujarati (much to their surprise) and ask them to pipe down. This doesn't quite have the desired effect because they take me for some sort of Gujarati-speaking tour guide and sidle up asking all sorts of silly questions. Keeping within the norms of true Gujarati etiquette, the children ask the men questions, the men ask the women and they in turn ask me! After a few minutes of this, they finally leave, taking with them the noise and preset notions of the outside world and leaving behind only calm, peace and smiling lamas. We sit quietly and pray for a while and then walk down the hill, turning prayer wheels and praying for peace. Driving back to Gangtok, we mention to Tsering (our driver, guide and soon to be travelling companion) that we would like to taste Chang, the local brew. He recommends a place about 1 km from our hotel and says the best time to go is around 1830 hours. We agree before he changes the topic to the permits we will need to go up to Tsangu Lake the next morning. Tsering arrives right on time along with a friend, and the evening takes on the shades of some sort of double date!? We drive in silence for a few minutes and then stop outside the Bajra Cinema Hall. I get out of the van and the movie hoarding catches my eye. When my gaze returns to the van it is empty and there is no sign of Susan or our two new friends. Suddenly, Tsering pops out of what looks like a pothole but which on closer examination turns out to be a sort of subterranean side alley that descends almost vertically into the ground. I follow nervously but am reassured by signs of life and laughter from several open doors on the way down. We enter what I can only describe as Alladin's cave presided over by Alladin's wizened old mother. After a few moments of exchanging pleasantries we are ushered into a cubicle with a wooden table and bench and a young woman graciously brings us our Chang. Chang is a must-do, not for the taste or the high but for the ethnic, aesthetic experience. Each of us is given a copper dish in which stands a tall wooden glass filled to the brim with fermented millet. When all of us have our glasses before us, Tsering presides and fills our glasses with hot water from a kettle. We now have to wait about 3 to 5 minutes till the water turns a milky white and then drink deeply through long bamboo straws called pipsing. The taste is not very unlike toddy but the experience is one to be savoured. The glasses are topped up every time the water level goes down and I can feel the Chang lose its potency with each refill. All this while, Alladin's mother sits cross-legged on a low divan smiling and nodding at us while she drinks from her own glass of chang. By 2100 hours we are all smiling widely. Tsangu Lake is among the most visited destinations in Sikkim. Every Bengali worth her hilsa will have definitely driven up to the famous lake. Strange, considering the government does its bit to discourage visitors in the way of travel permits and appallingly bad roads. Tsangu Lake lies a few km from the Indo-Tibet border and the army controls the entire area. Army barracks line the last 15 km to Tsangu and I screech in shock at the camouflage colours on display. Bright red, brilliant blue and yellow and purple and green. None of the subtle blend-in-the-background colours one normally associates with camouflage. I look around me and my eyes fall on bright red rhododendron groves, blue ferns and verdant green fields. It makes me laugh to think that an airplane flying by will take the barracks to be a part of the scenery. Surely this can only happen in Sikkim. We drive past scores of such gaily-painted barracks and finally reach the Lake. It is magical. The moment we get out of the van it starts to snow and we wander about the edge of the lake totally enchanted. At 13,000 feet above sea level, Tsangu lies frozen for most of the year comfortably nestled among densely forested snow capped mountains. As we look around through a curtain of mist, we can see before us all the wonderful colours of camouflage. The drive from Pemayangtse to Tashiding takes us around 4 hours. En route we stop at Legship for breakfast. Our driver and his companion disappear into a small restaurant for rice, rice and more rice while the two of us wander down the road and buy our breakfast at a stall. A few yards down the road is a little dirt path that seems to lead to the river. We follow it and end up on a suspension bridge that spans across the life-giving river Tista. As we walk across the bridge it sways gently and halfway across we decide there cannot be a better place in the world to eat breakfast. We sit there cross-legged on that small swaying bridge looking down onto the river and eat hot samosas with freshly baked Tibetan bread. A few minutes later a little girl wanders by and smilingly sits down to join our little breakfast. This is a taste of heaven! There are many ways to get to Khecheopalri and with our crazy sense of adventure, we opt for the worst. The drive from Pelling to Khecheopalri is back-breaking and landslide-prone. There are several landslides along the way and a couple of times we stop while road relief workers dynamite large rocks (and create more landslides). It takes us almost 2 hours to cover 15 km. But as always, the destination is worth the ride. Khecheopalri is believed to be an enchanted lake and myth has it that there has never been a single leaf ever seen floating on the surface of the lake. It is serene and beautiful and surrounded by lush green forests, and even though we peer as far as the eye can gaze, there is no leaf to be seen. Buddhist prayer flags flutter all around the lake gently whispering their prayers to the wind. After a group of tourists have hastily offered prayer and departed, we are left alone at the edge of this calm body of water and awed into half an hour of silent meditation. Our seven magical days in Sikkim come to an end much too fast and before we know it we are in Kalimpong, our last destination before we catch a flight back to (yuck!) Delhi. Once there we realise that during the course of our wanderings and giggles and meditation and local brew, we have somehow managed to lose, not just our hearts, but also our airline tickets. The first bubbles of panic set in and several phone calls later we find ourselves outside the local police station to file an FIR. This, says the voice at the airline office, is an absolute necessity if we are to get a refund on those tickets. The police station has 4 cops sitting with cups of tea and our arrival appears to be the highest activity level that has been seen here in a long time. The superintendent himself comes across and offers us a seat and hears our tragic tale. I look around the police station and find two empty cells, a few tables and chairs. On the wall hangs a lonely pair of handcuffs. Next to the handcuffs is a huge chart titled 'Kalimpong Rogues Gallery' on which are several pictures of beaming angel-faced criminals. Right next to this chart is another that is almost as large. It has all the details of the World Cup '99 schedule. I pay attention to the proceedings again and find that the superintendent is dictating the complaint using archaic language generously sprinkled with 'humbly begs' and 'your kind self'. One sentence actually reads: "I beg to inform you that I have lost my plane tickets no XXXX and they have been found missing". Attempts to alter the language are met with frowns and wags of the finger, so we keep it exactly as it is and end with a "humble request to the goodself of the superintendent to please diarize the same"!!! We leave the police station with a stern warning not to lose the copy of the FIR and walk down the road collapsing with gratitude and giggles. Surely this has to be the perfect end to a holiday that seemed so unreal. Filing an FIR in Kalimpong! I mean, how many people do you know who have ever done this? Creative Director Arti Dwarkadas is often foot-loose but not fancy-free, especially while on a trek.
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