Tales Untold

The Call Of The Mountains

My father and I had this tradition of visiting Darjeeling every year during Christmas. The torturous heat of Kolkata would wear us out throughout the year, and we would hurriedly escape to the misty Himalayan mountains as winter came knocking at our door at the end of every year.

A single parent, my father worked hard to save money for our little trip. I was a naive child then, and I would often demand toys and clothes that would catch my attention through the windows of stores which my father could not afford. But as Christmas approached, those trivial desires disappeared and excitement took its place for I was always eager to go back to the hills that had become my second home.

We always journeyed by bus as it was cheaper, then boarded a vehicle from NJP Railway Station directly to our destination - a cheap roadside hotel that was cramped amongst other buildings at the very heart of Darjeeling town.

I loved the local cuisine, from steamed dumplings to warm 'Gundruk' soup that helped soothe my aching throat for I always managed to catch a cold there. Everyday, my father and I took a walk around the town : re-exploring the Chowrasta Square, visiting the Zoo, taking a peaceful stroll in the calm ambience of the Botanical Garden and offering prayers to divine deities of Mahakal Temple.

But most of all, I loved sitting on a park bench sipping a cup of steaming tea with my father's arms around my shoulder as we admired the mighty Kanchenjunga mountain, a cool breeze caressing our brown faces while we basked in the winter sun. The air was always rich with the aroma of tea leaves and 'momos' wherever we went; it followed us from Nightingale Park to our hotel room and even chased us all the way to Kolkata, its memory teasing our senses, begging us to return to the little piece of Paradise in the North. But we had to wait another year, another Christmas to make the journey again.

Tiger Hill was another favourite spot of ours - known for its scenic view of sunrise. We used to walk all the way from the main road to the hill top in the early chilly morning, armed with jackets, scarves and caps to keep ourselves warm. But the cold wind was mischievous, and it always found a way to get through the bundle of wool right to our shivering bodies. Most of the time, we were only greeted with cruel clouds that obscured the golden orb of light. Sunrise was a phenomenon that was difficult to witness, I realised. But there were rare days when we were rewarded with a precious sight of the rising Sun in all its majestic glory, and the view never failed to strike us with awe and wonder.

First, the sky was pitch black. Then as the sun peeked at us from beyond the mountains, the sky changed its colour to deep purple. With the approaching dawn, it went through various hues of the wide spectrum from red to pink to orange, then golden and finally settled on blue for the rest of the day. It was a priceless treat for our eyes, and the change in colour of the Kanchenjunga along with the sky made the view all the more magical.

The only regret that my father and I carried was that we never once witnessed snowfall. We never got the chance to make snowmen or play snow fights, for our vacations were short-lived and we had to return before New Year's Day. It mostly snowed only during late January in Darjeeling and I was always back in Kolkata by then.

Tragedy arrived when my father died shortly after I turned twenty, and along with him died our yearly tradition. All alone and with no one to look after me, I was compelled to find a job and earn my own living. Darjeeling soon disappeared from my list of priorities as the harsh realities of the adult world consumed me completely.

I struggled for years before I could finally settle down and create a comfortable life for myself. I was in my thirties by then, always working and rarely taking days off from my job. But one Christmas morning, as I was sipping warm tea, I began to reminisce. Fond memories of my father and our trips to the Queen of Hills came rushing through my mind. My heart ached with a pensive longing and I could suddenly hear the familiar call of the Himalayas, begging me to return to its embrace once again. My body yearned to feel the piercing breeze and my heart cried for the home I had left behind.

So on January, I finally cleared my schedule to make a quick trip to Darjeeling. More than a decade had passed since my last visit. The snow-clad Kanchenjunga welcomed me once again and I felt my heart grow lighter as if years of drought had finally been quenched with the waters of Hippocrene. The familiar smell, the peaceful atmosphere, the people, the flowers, all seemed to engulf me like old friends reuniting after eons of separation . . . It was bliss.

After a week of exploring the new facets of the old town and touring my favourite places, I decided it was time for me to leave. My craving was sated for now, and I made a vow to restore the tradition of an annual Darjeeling trip. But when I woke up on the day of my departure and looked out past the blurry window, I could only see white. The houses were white. The trees were white. The streets were white.

The town was covered in snow! Overnight, it had transformed its attire as if a fairy godmother had dressed it into a white gown. I rushed out to the balcony to feel the snowflakes and savour the wonder my father and I had always longed to witness. I felt like a child again - I was filled with joy and excitement. Snow! Snow everywhere! I could finally build a snowman! I laughed with delight and curiously enough, I did not feel alone. I felt as if my father was right there with me, appreciating this miraculous gift from nature. Or perhaps, it was a gift from my father himself.

It was his death anniversary after all . . .

❤