Special lassi 1st chapter

JAICO PUBLISHING HOUSE

Ahmedabad Bangalore Bhopal Bhubaneswar Chennai Delhi Hyderabad Kolkata Lucknow Mumbai

SPECIAL LASSI

Amrita Chatterjee

A BACKBREAKING MISADVENTURE

IN THE HIMALAYAS

First Jaico Impression: 2015

No part of this book may be reproduced or utilized in any form or by any means, electronic or

mechanical including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system,

without permission in writing from the publishers.

SPECIAL LASSIISBN 978-81-8495-649-8

© Amrita Chatterjee

Page design and layout: Inosoft Systems, Delhi

Published by Jaico Publishing HouseA-2 Jash Chambers, 7-A Sir Phirozshah Mehta Road

Fort, Mumbai - 400 [email protected]

www.jaicobooks.com

Every day, once a day, give yourself a present. Don’t plan it. Don’t wait for it. Just let it happen. It could be a new shirt at the men’s store, a catnap in your office chair, or two cups of good, hot black coffee.

— Dale Cooper, FBI Special Agent Twin Peaks

Special Lassi wo rh (B format) 3-12-14.indd 3 1/6/2015 5:07:53 PM


Prologue: From Norway to New Jalpaiguri

It was May 2011: the summer of boredom, work and celibacy. An entire year had passed since I’d moved back in with my parents and abandoned the debaucheries of student life. Looking ahead, everything was going well. I had a semi-decent job, some money in the bank, no prison sentences and the afternoon heat hadn’t been nearly as toxic as the forecasts predicted. But a furtive glance over the shoulder was enough to indicate that my threshold of sobriety was fast approaching. Something had to be done, something sufficiently cracked up and insane. So I mulled over River’s idea of backpacking with him around the Himalayas for the next two months.

“Listen woman, we’ll be hanging out at monasteries, drinking the finest teas, getting stoned and abusing philosophy. What more could you possibly want from a holiday?”

He was right. It was an impressive itinerary and I couldn’t help but say yes.

Since River was already in India volunteering at a mental health facility near Kolkata, all I had to do was beg for a sabbatical and book a train ticket. So, at the end of the month, I set off towards the city of joy, tucked away in the familiar snot-coloured interiors of an Indian railway carriage, with the smell of food and piss emanating from all sides. The chai wallahs paraded up and down the aisle, speaking entirely in twangs rather than syllables. “Chnaaaaaai, Dip chnaaaai…” their nostrils flared with each call. Soon the high-rise buildings, ugly city traffic, malls and


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McDonalds gave way to leafy suburbs, quiet streets and kids on bicycles; then came the highways, dust, farmland and women on their haunches.

An hour or two later, as the view from my window gradually became indiscernible, I was forced to acknowledge the other humans in my vicinity. My companions on this journey were an old couple, who had more suitcases with them than an entire caravan of nomads crossing the Sahara. Clearly, the old man had been so occupied with packing that he’d forgotten to wipe the stains around his freshly dyed moustache. His wife, on the other hand, the sly fox, was shamelessly abetting her husband’s public humiliation by pretending to fiddle with her crochet needles instead of directing him to a mirror. I tried to ignore both of them, but that shoddy dye job was hypnotic. Once I’d noticed it, I just couldn’t look away. Eventually, it got to the point where I had to say something.

“Excuse me, uncle, your moonch… ” I pointed out the stains to him, his wife didn’t seem very happy about it.

“Hain?” He got up and peered into the small mirror nailed to the narrow space between the two windows.

“Oh, haha, thank you, thank you. Ho jaata hai kabhi kabhi, happenings, you know? Do you know? You understanding me?”

Red flags went up in my head. If I didn’t play my cards right, then this could be the beginning of a two-day long conversation about all things personal and unnecessary.

“Uh… no, my hindi thoda… less hai. Sorry!”“No problem, no problem, I know English very good. You from

Phoren, no?”“Yes, yes, that’s right.”“Which place?”London? No, that would be a big talking point. America?

Probably the same. I needed some place as obscure as… yes, “Norway.”

“Oooh… Narvay! Ye kahan hai? Where is that?”


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“It’s a country right next to the north pole.”“Achcha? Then you see lot of Eskimo? You eat whale also?”“Well…” The old man leaned forward with curious, childlike eyes and

I instantly knew that my scheme had backfired. After this, we were in free fall. Before I knew it, I was telling him all about my fictional life in a land where the sun never sets. We discussed how reindeers are to Norway what cows are to India. I also threw in a short history lesson about John Lennon, the composer of Norway’s supposed national anthem, Norwegian Wood.

“Hai ram! Lenin? From Russia, you mean?” “Uh… yes, yes, the same one.”

This highly educational tête-à-tête was interrupted only when the chai wallahs came around. The old man was so enthralled by my tall tales that he insisted on buying me cups of tea throughout the journey. By the time we were pulling into Agra in the evening, I could not have felt more terrible about lying to such a generous old geezer.

* * *We had hardly looked out of the window in the past few hours, so the nightfall took me by surprise. Droves of weary travellers were standing at the edges of the platforms. Hundreds more were sitting on the stairs or sleeping on the floor; a few adventurous souls were busy pissing on the tracks. It appeared as though the whole population was being evacuated.

“Bhaiya… kuch hua hai kya? Did a bomb go off somewhere?” I questioned a tea stall owner through the grills of my seat window.

“Bomb? Arre nahin. Yeh to roz ka scene hai. This is less crowd; six o’ clock peak time, madam!”

“Really?” Emboldened by this knowledge, I decided to venture out for a short walk and partake in some vigorous jostling.

The evening air was predictably warm and humid, laced with


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cries of ‘Agra ka petha’, which are small treats made from winter melons or pumpkins boiled in flavoured sugar syrup. It’s nearly impossible to avoid the multitude of vendors who, with woven baskets full of petha balanced on top of their heads, climb into the stationary trains to make a quick sale.

I had to buy a packet merely to use as a repellent. Only then was I allowed to walk away. I made my way towards the farthest corner of the station where a number of dogs were all lying face down in perfect symmetry. None of them reacted to my presence. They all looked like passengers on an express train to the afterlife. The difference between the hustle and bustle on the main platform and this dog mortuary at the tail end was stark and unsettling. I was going to leave right away, but a black mongrel drew in his last shaky breath as if requesting me to stay and so I did, for a few minutes.

Back in the carriage, we had some more company – two middle-aged women with a toddler, who started wailing as soon as the train moved. But I didn’t mind, because she was a delicious little girl – soft, white, fluffy and slightly browned on the curve of the shoulder, just like a freshly baked roll of bread. With their arrival, our entourage finally felt complete. Chatty geriatrics on one side, toothless babies and breastfeeding mothers on the other, the evening was as wholesome as it could possibly get.

“Hello! What’s your name?”The baby seemed to understand my question, but she let her

mother answer. “Baby Sarah.”“That’s a nice name. Ooohh Sarah, what are you eating?” I

tried to engage her with my best baby voice.“No, no. Her name is Baby Sarah.”“You mean the whole thing?”“Yes, of course!” The mother let out a long, exasperated sigh. Obviously, she had no idea of what was coming to her 13 years

from now.


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“Okay then.”We all had dinner together and thankfully, Norway was replaced

by Baby Sarah’s gurgling laughter. Shortly after, we retired to our berths and I was dead to the world within seconds. The rhythmic cradle-like motion of the train had me soaring high above green forests and blue rivers till about six in the morning, when the sun appeared at the horizon. The experience of waking up on a train is so much more pleasant than on a plane – no aching back, no swollen feet or lungs clogged up with recycled breaths. You can stretch out your limbs in any direction you like and the morning air is so crisp and sweet that it goes right into the bloodstream like high-quality cocaine.

When I resumed my seat next to the window, we were passing by miles and miles of virescent fields with narrow canals slowly feeding water to the crops. The only other person awake yet was the old man’s wife. She was busy rolling her breakfast paan with a generous sprinkling of areca nuts. We sat in awkward silence for a long time while she masticated thoughtfully.

“So, where are you planning to go from Kolkata?”“Darjeeling,” I replied with enthusiasm.“Hai ram! Darjeeling? Why? There are two places in this world

that I’ll never ever go to again – one is Darjeeling and the other, Puri. Bekaar! Never again!”

“Really? Why?”“Ugh, you will see, why should I tell now!” Thanks for letting me know, I mumbled under my breath and

shot her a few hateful glances, not that she cared. We went back to the awkward silence till her husband, who had groggily made his way out of the compartment earlier, showed up with a plate full of hot samosas from the pantry.

“Eat, eat, you not get this in Narvay.”Our train crawled into Sealdah Railway station at seven in

the evening. We were four hours late, which is more or less on time in the larger Indian scheme of things. Unfortunately, River


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had booked the tickets for our onward journey to New Jalpaiguri on that very night. So my plans of venturing out into Kolkata, however briefly, had to be abandoned.

“Okay beta, be safe. I will surely think of you when I hear of Narvay again.”

“Haha, of course you will, of course...” The old man shook my hand and I kicked myself internally while walking towards the exit, where River was waiting for me.

* * *In the whole year that we’d been apart, River hadn’t changed at all. Slightly dishevelled and spaced out – that’s him, forever and always.

“I’m so sorry about the train! How long have you been waiting here?” I apologized between hugs.

“Waiting? Here? Are you mad?” He nodded his head at the crowd, which was scurrying in and out of the exit like ants trying to navigate the shortest route back to their colonies.

“Then?”“I was chilling at the Victoria Memorial.”“That museum of colonialism? Why?” I asked, reproachfully.

But River simply guffawed in response, implying that I was an idiot.“Victoria Memorial is bloody amazing! It’s where all the lovers

of Kolkata rendezvous in secret. In the horse carriages, behind the unruly bushes in the garden, next to the marble pillars… they are everywhere. This evening will remain a cherished memory, trust me.”

“Ew. And somewhere in the universe, Queen Victoria is writhing in agony as we speak.”

“Why? She has no right to complain, considering that not a single English pound was spent in building the memorial. The funds were siphoned off entirely from the Maharajas’ coffers.”

“Huh. Looks like you’ve thoroughly scraped the bottom of Kolkata’s barrel.”


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“Oh yeah absolutely, and it’s everything I had imagined India to be. I’m a bit upset though that I didn’t find special lassi anywhere.”

“Jesus, are you still obsessing over that? There’s nothing special about special lassi. It’s just a flavoured milk shake blended with low-grade marijuana.”

“I know, but it’s the idea of a pot milk shake that fascinates me. Do you know what I mean?”

I paused for a second; I had no idea what he meant.“Not really… but fine, we’ll try to look for it somewhere along

the way, okay?”“Ok-kay.” River executed a perfect Indian headshake and we

walked around Sealdah to find something interesting to eat.The flyover outside the railway station had a narrow passage

underneath, which quickly led us to the other side. Here we found a lively bazaar with little wormhole shops squeezed next to each other, illuminated by the soft yellow light of bare halogen bulbs dangling on spindly wires. We were surrounded by so many food stalls that it was impossible to pick a favourite. And despite the competition, all of them had robust queues where the orders were being hurled at the cooks like impassioned curses. The peppery aroma of hot samosas and ghughni tempted us considerably, but in the end, we picked a roll-shop with the smallest throng.

The Indian equivalent of a burrito, these rolls along with the popular chilly chicken, are the enduring legacy of the Chinese immigrants who came to India during the British Raj. Even though most of them were forced to leave after the Indo-Sino war of 1962, the Chinatown in Kolkata continues to exist and serve some delicious opium-scented gourmet treats. At least, that’s what River had heard.

“Two egg rolls, please,” River hollered at the man behind the huge griddle. We then stood next to the kerosene stove, gaping at his hands as they deftly tucked the noodles, roasted peanuts and fried eggs inside the thin roti. The cooking, chopping, rolling,


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packing, dealing with cash and washing up the dishes, all flowed together without a single pause. This, while accommodating the customers’ incessant requests: Could you put some more lemon on my roll? Could you make mine extra spicy? Could you double wrap it, dada? I wanted to hover around these men for a day just to document their nimble fingers, but the line had quickly multiplied behind our backs and we were forced to leave.

We walked back to Sealdah through the same sweat-enamelled passage, with the latest Bengali songs blaring from crappy portable stereos. Somewhere along the way, a plastic buckets salesman wrapped himself around us because River had made the mistake of responding to his cries. While I would simply ignore exclamations such as, “Shirts! Socks! Very cheaply!” River had to stop and pretend as though he was actually interested in buying whatever the hell was being sold.

“Don’t do that, River. Just keep walking.”“But that’s rude. I should at least take a look.”He didn’t listen and consequently, we were plagued with

stalkers for the next eight weeks.The rest of our sojourn in Kolkata was spent in trying to

scream at each other over the deafening arrival and departure announcements at Sealdah. After a little practice, we got so good at blocking out the noise that we almost missed our Darjeeling Mail. This led to a long cinematic chase sequence with leftover egg rolls bouncing out of our pockets. Thankfully, once we were on board, there was nothing else to do except go to sleep. Both of us had been allotted lower berths, which was fine by me, but River didn’t seem too happy about it. He forced me to go talk to the man on the upper bunk and convince him to switch places.

“But what’s wrong with the lower one? It’s nice and airy here next to the window.”

“Yeah, but the rats can also get to you more easily.”“Rats?” I whispered instinctively, so as not to incur the wrath

of the vermin.


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“Uhuh, those big hairy bandicoots that can hack off your big toe.”

“Don’t be ridiculous!”“Well, I am going up. Good luck and good night.”What followed this exchange was silence, complete and utter

silence, as I spent the night cowering in fear, imagining a gang of bandicoots nipping at my toes.



Dorje Ling: Land of the Mystic Thunderbolt

New Jalpaiguri is the last stop below the Lesser Himalayas, which is connected to the rest of the country by rail. And since it’s so far flung, there was a distinct possibility of waking up in a rusty, primitive little town with no ATMs or phone networks. But the morning was a pleasant surprise and NJP was teeming with tourists from all over the world. There were adequate cash machines, everything was new and relatively clean – well everything, except the toilet, which like all other public toilets in India, was appalling. While I was standing outside the stalls, fighting an intense bout of nausea, the woman inside seemed to be taking a bath. After 15 minutes of splashing water on god knows what, two of her friends started hollering, begging that she come out.

“Ay, ki korcheesh? Come out!”“Aashchee, coming!” She shrieked right back at them through

the closed door, but continued to frolic in the water.“But how is it inside? Is it clean?” the friends inquired

hopefully.“Uri baba, naaa! It is terrible!” At this point, I just wanted to kick the door in and cry out, “if

it’s that terrible, then why the bloody hell won’t you come out, you stupid woman!” But as an upstanding citizen I couldn’t bring myself to do it and decided to get some breakfast instead.

“Shit. Look at all these hotels!” Our eyes skimmed along the row of small tearooms outside the station, all of which claimed to be


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top quality hotels. In India, the word ‘hotel’ doesn’t really mean anything. A man pushing around his roadside bhelpuri cart also seems to think that it’s okay to call his establishment a hotel. And here in NJP, someone had the gall to name his dump, The Hilton. With a moniker like that, how could we go anywhere else?

Covered in grime and smoke graffiti, the tearoom hadn’t been cleaned since the builders left.

“Kya chahiye?” The waiter was at our heels, demanding the order before we had even set down our backpacks.

“Can you get us the menu first?”“Huh.” He rolled his eyes and slapped the laminated sheets on

the table. Asking for the menu was perhaps too gauche for The Hilton.

Besides us, their only other customer was a dark-skinned lady. Next to her feet was a huge silver steel trunk that looked exactly like the ones magicians use to perform their vanishing acts. She also had a small white embroidered handkerchief, which she kept bringing up to her face every few seconds to dab around the eyes. She was crying very softly while sipping her hot tea.

“What’s going on with her?” I wondered aloud once we had realized that The Hilton was only prompt in taking the order, but not in getting the food to the table. “I guess she is waiting for someone?”

“Sure… or maybe… she time-travelled here by mistake.”“Hmm… the trunk looks suspicious.”“So does her heavy silk sari and those arms full of bangles.”“A classic Hitchcock scenario: two people out on a holiday spot

an unusual woman.” “They end up following her on a whim…”“And then bam! One of them gets killed.”“Exactly.”“So, do you reckon we should follow her?” River asked,

seriously. “What? No! I was just saying –”


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“Oh come on, let’s follow her.” “Shut up! No!”River hounded me with his stupid plan till our breakfast

arrived, after which he forgot all about the woman. He had ordered for a chai with milk and sugar that he got without the milk or the sugar. I had asked for a black coffee, that I received with an extra serving of milk and a trail of sugar crystals. But we were so hungry that we scoffed down everything without a complaint. In the meantime, a shroud of grey saturated clouds had taken over the sky. As they dispersed into soft cold drops, the power went out. Soon we were surrounded by the sounds of distant thunder and the gentle crackling of raindrops on the asbestos sheet above our heads. Rimjhim, rimjhim, they tinkled like little bells falling from the sky.

* * *This intense but short bout of rain was our cue to get going. We had to reach Darjeeling by nightfall and it was already noon. The simplest way to travel in this region is to take a shared jeep. They are cheap, fast and slightly life-threatening, but never boring. In New Jalpaiguri, it took us less than five minutes to find a ride. Our luggage was immediately chucked onto the iron carrier on top of the vehicle and secured with a thick coir rope. Then we were asked to wait for a few minutes till the driver had found enough passengers to fill up the seats. Since River and I didn’t know any better, we thought it would be a good idea to sit right at the back to be as far away from everyone else as possible. Obviously, it was a shit idea. For the next four hours, we were flung from one side to the other without enough space to even expand our lungs. The vehicle was so stuffed that the driver’s sidekick, a tiny Gurkha man seated beside us, had to use the window to get in and out of the jeep.

The situation improved slightly after we’d traversed the busy streets of the town and moved onto the hills. The drive from


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Jalpaiguri to Darjeeling benefits greatly from the steepness of the incline. The changes in the weather are almost tangible as there is no time for acclimatization. One moment we were sweating like meat on a roasting spit and the next, clouds were settling on our shoulders. However, instead of enjoying these eccentricities of nature, most people in the jeep spent the journey puking out of the window. The two honeymooners in the front seat were in such a bad state that they probably tasted of vomit for days to come.

Halfway through, to distract us from the inharmonious sounds of retching, the driver switched on his stereo and the familiar strains of Rabindra Sangeet lulled us to sleep. Aami chini go chini tomaae… o go bideshini… I know you, I know you, I know you, O maiden from a distant land. The beauty of Rabindranath’s poetry was touching as always, but the song was also a reminder of our horrible loss. In 2004, Tagore’s Nobel Prize medal was stolen from the Shantiniketan museum, right under the government’s nose and it is yet to be found. Whoever did the deed was surely a special kind of thief, most likely a monomaniac or an idiot, who couldn’t get into the lockers of the truly wealthy people in the country.

I opened my eyes just as we crossed the threshold of Darjeeling. The narrow road grew wider and more colourful. Little shops popped up by the roadside selling hand-knit sweaters, shawls and raincoats. The clock tower arrived soon after and at ten past five, we were finally at the lower jeep stand in Darjeeling. The little Gurkha man wasted no time in unceremoniously offloading our bags from the jeep’s roof. River’s ginormous backpack fell to the ground like a meteor; next to it, mine fell like a lump of feathers. After almost three days of travelling, I was more than ready to just dissolve into a warm bed. But the moment we picked up our bags, the Gurkha looked down and asked, “Where staying? You know place?”

“Uh… not really.”


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He nodded and pointed his finger towards some buildings on top of a nearby hill. “All hotels there. Enjoy climbing!”

The engine’s roar, as it moved away from us, immediately took on a sinister undertone. I looked up gloomily at the long, narrow flight of stairs that we were supposed to climb. For the first time, my limbs registered the amount of manual labour that I had willingly signed up for in the coming weeks. I glanced at River to suggest that maybe we should take a cab, but he had already started walking. So I had no other choice but to brace my diaphragm against the onslaught of gravity. The staircase was not only long and gloomy, but also uneven and a tad slippery. I ended up falling a couple of times. River was a little concerned about my frequent tumbles during the first few days, but after I’d proven to him that my bones were made of steel, he stopped caring.

Once on top, we checked the prices at a couple of youth hostels and settled for the cheapest room because that was our only criterion. The rooms were spartan, but the foyer downstairs opened into a small balcony with an unending view of the mountains. The café, attached to an open kitchen, was covered in football memorabilia and notes that held promises and recollections of travellers from across the globe. The owner of the hostel was a sweet old man who was always hanging around the front gate. He had a bad leg and couldn’t walk properly, but still insisted on shambling up the hill every evening with his carved mahogany stick, a tweed golf cap on his head and a snazzy bow tie around the collar.

A 16-year-old boy ushered us into our room that had a wooden sliding door, that wouldn’t slide. It also had wooden floorboards that refused to remain on the floor.

“Wow, this room is really…” I fumbled for an appropriate word.

“Orange?” River stated the obvious. The walls were painted in the brightest shade of orange


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available. A white vase on top of the rickety side table was filled with plastic flowers and was the only piece of decoration in the room.

“You like it?” the boy asked brusquely. He didn’t look remotely interested in our answer.

“Sure, it’s alright. Can we get some hot water for a bath?” “Okay, you get one bucket only.”“In a day?” “Yes.”“That’s fine. I can make do with one bucket.”At this, he smiled cheekily and added, “one bucket for the two

of you. Water is very precious in Darjeeling. Please don’t waste. No washing clothes here. And come down to reception; you have to sign register.” He finished his command.

“Yes, sir.”A few minutes later, the boy was waiting for us with a huge

hardbound book. River went first and entered his passport number, visa details, etc. When it was my turn, I scribbled my name and left the visa and passport columns blank. I was the only person on the entire page who had done this. A quick glance through the previous pages revealed that I was the first Indian to be staying here in a long, long time.

“Oho! Why so slow? Finish, I have to go.” The boy glared at me impatiently as I handed the register back to him.

“Go where? What about our water?”“Water is up. I go to play football. Don’t ask anything before

seven.” He thumped his chest and I noticed that he was wearing an Arsenal jersey.

“Football? Here in the hills?” “Yes, we play on the road.”“But what if the ball falls down a cliff?” “We get new one.”“Oh, okay.”With this, he left and River rolled his eyes in amusement.


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“What? You’re not impressed by his jersey?”“Please!”I laughed because it’s a well-kept secret; all respectable, as in

cool English people, hate football talk.


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Special lassi 1st chapter