The Druk - Yul Diaries

The Druk - Yul Diaries - Phuentsholling , Bhutan 

10^th October, 2012:

The black suited consultant in me asked, “But sir, if you do not check the credit worthiness of your customers, won’t giving them loans be a risky proposition?”

My respondent gave a toothy smile and replied, “In this small country, there’s no risk, only happiness.”

I threw the rest of my questions in the waste paper basket and reminded myself once again that I was no longer in the dizzy heights of glass towers in dusty Mumbai, but miles away in the verdant foothills of the Himalaya. I was in the land of the thunder dragon, in the royal kingdom of Bhutan, where, as my client reminded me, happiness was over and above any trillion dollar GDP.

I was in Phuntsholling, a border town of Bhutan, for a small assignment. Having travelled for over 4 hours yesterday from Bagdogra, Siliguri (which included a wonderful 15 kms finisher at the Indian border of the bumpiest-est roads I have ever seen, and which my colleague rechristened as the  “Martian manhandlers” for, as he rightly exclaimed, ‘These are not potholes, these are Martian craters!!!’) we uneventfully crossed an international boundary into Bhutan, with only a languorous guard, not even bothering to note the vehicle passing by him, yet silently remarking, ”Guys, welcome to Bhutan”

The meetings on the first day went pretty smoothly and I must admit that the people here though very simple, are thoroughly sincere with a heavy sense of nationalism. When I told my clients that I had already been to Bhutan last year, had trekked up to the famous Taktsang monastery, attended a tsechu (spring fest in feisty colors) at Paro, had drunk the local rice brew ara, they were already viewing me in Ngultrums instead of Rupees. And when I identified the typical local dish of cheese and chillies as the ‘wonderful Datsi’, they remarked, “There, you have already become half Bhutanese!” If not anything else, Happiness, here I come.

12^th October, 2012:

Work continues as it should be. No details please. Full-stop. But the workplace, or rather its environs, can demand a mention. Phuntsholling being in the foothills, one can spot the hills in the distance. From the second floor of my office, I can actually trace the hills as they rise gradually from the dry riverbeds in the horizon to ok-its-a-tad-imposing heights, full of lush vegetation with tufts of cotton clouds kissing the hill tops. There’s this small wonderful cottage with delectable red roofs, high in the hills, that keeps attracting me. I wonder how it would feel to stay therein and wake up every day to noiseless indolent mornings. Existence as unhurried as a feather gliding down timelessly. An in-existential existence. Well, wouldn’t Sartre be proud?  

While I was getting lost in my utopian universe, with that red roofed cottage at its centre, an aged Indian lady came forward and asked me what part of the project I was working on. When I enquired back, what she was doing here in this Shangri-La, she told me she had left her job in India and was working currently here. Wow, I thought, there is a precedence! Someone has been here, done it and is actually living my red-roofed cottaged-dream!

 As if she read my mind, she immediately gnarled her lips in an unimaginably gruesome manner replying, “Bad decision, very bad decision – an absolutely wrong choice, I should never have left India.” Leaving me reeling, while my cottaged universe met its big crunch, she turned into her office, but not without turning back once more, wagging her finger to repeat, “Bad decision, very bad decision!” I wondered whether she was forced to live in a nunnery and compelled to worship the Avalokiteshwara by scribbling his name backwards a thousand times daily that led to this antipathy. Or maybe she was staying at the red cottage in absolute bliss, definitely warding off competition!    

Later that evening, I visited a local gompa, painted in bright hues and looking resplendent with a lot of local deities adorning the inner sanctum. There were a few demonic spirits also, apparently an intrusion into the religion when Buddhism merged with the tribal Bon tradition of the mountains, incorporating these spirits as wardens against evil itself. Conversion of the highest order! The artistic imagery and statues were too beautiful to not snap a few pics, but I was being stalked by an old monk chanting prayers, and every time the velcro of my camera pouch opened, he raised his voice by 20 decibels as if warning me of the outcome. Finally, pretending ignorance of this bizarre correlation, when I took out my camera, the monk pointed his finger grimly at my camera, then pointed it to himself and then to the demonic figures behind. I took a moment trying to understand if he was comparing himself to the protective spirits and ahem, indicating that I was an evil spirit. (Or better still, he wanted me to click him with the figurines behind him!) Nonetheless, I kept my hypothesis to myself instead of letting decibel levels rise any further.

Later in the evening, I picked up an interesting discussion with a young boy by the name of Tshewang. He was the barman at the hotel where I was staying and had a thorough knowledge of this place. One good thing, rather, one of the many good things of this place is the fact that students around the country are taught both in English as well as the local language, Dzongkha. With a high literacy rate, this would imply that every time you lose your direction, you don’t need to play dumb charades. You just approach the nearest character and he will direct you in simple crisp English. He might even say,”God, can’t you even read English? The hotel is just behind you, moron!” Anyways, I hope you get the point. But mind you, never choose a monk – he might just chant along in his own world, readying to raise the decibel anytime he feels evil spirits lurking nearby.

Tshewang stayed in some eastern town of Tashigung and having completed a diploma in hotel management in Thimphu, was working here at the comfy Lhaki hotel. He explained to me that Lha is a local deity and Lhaki translated to the abode of Lha. After discussing on myriad issues ranging from festivals to education and agriculture on the country, I took a lot of inputs from him to decide which places to travel to (read: too lazy to go through the Lonely Planet website). For the one day I would be able to spare to myself in the next weekend, I chose to travel to Punakha via the Dochula pass, east of Thimphu. For this weekend, I decided to travel to a small misty village called Gedu and, if time permits, to the Chukha Power Station and Dzong. The Dzong in Bhutan is a wonderful amalgamation of religion and administration, serving as a seat for both the monastic order as well as the government. Nearly every big town here would be having a Dzong, be it as old as from the 17^th century as in Punakha or not even a decade young as in Chukha.

In the meanwhile, my colleague Faiyaz, after churning turnover figures for the entire day, was now drowning happily in the Sea of Smirnoff. I shook and stirred him out of his eerily happy state of bliss to discuss our travel plans to Gedu and Chukha tomorrow and the Dooars in north Bengal on the day after. He was lost. I was happy (that he did not propose Paro, another destination instead). But at that very moment, Tshewang, always eager to throw in the best proposition, mentioned that we could even complete Paro in the weekend. Faiyaz immediately woke up and asked me “Why not Paro?” Having realized that he had not yet reached 10 glasses to be in a position to ask questions, that too, which made some sense, I hastily retorted, “Stakeholder conflict!” He looked at me through razor thin narrow eyes.

“What stakeholder conflict?”

“I have been to Paro, dolt,why should I go there again?” I never said this, but sincerely wished I should have broached this issue after he had had 10 glasses. I could see his eyelids drooping heavily and was keeping my fingers crossed – after all, he was paying all the bills and had naturally assumed a veto power for incurring all expenses, including travel.

But of course, wise guy Tshewang had to break the silence “Yeah, you should go to Paro - the Taktsang Monastery at Paro ranks amongst the best tourist sites in Bhutan” Rightly said, for Lonely Planet ranks the hike to the Monastery at No.01 of its top ten places in Bhutan. But as I said, I had been there before. So I was unabashedly making other plans without bothering any bit about team spirit (I was reminded of the old monk’s indirect comparison of me to evil spirits then – the monk had really ruined my evening!) So there was I, so shameless, while Faiyaz was indifferent. At least after 10 glasses.

But he was at number <5. So he asked again, “Why not Paro?”

“It’s a steep climb at a tangent of over 60 degrees for over 4 hours through rarified atmospheres and far away in the bucolic countryside”

“What?”

“You have to trek uphill for 4 hours…”

Faiyaz kept staring at me.

“…just to see a monastery”

He kept staring.

“...where they might not even let you take photos inside!!!”

He kept staring.

“…and we have to put up in Paro, which would not have discos and great bars”

“Did you say 4 hours trek?” he enquired.

Some lag in registering my comments! I realized that the 4 glasses were having some effect, at last.

“Yeah, and that too one way and you may not even find your Romanovs there!" (At this rate, I could make scaling the Everest sound a far simpler job.)

“No point, let’s stick to our original plans. 4 hours trek is too arduous”

Completely absolved of all sense of guilt, I breathed a sigh of relief and booed at that monk who was trying to trouble my mind. Evil spirits indeed. I decided I would forget him in no time now. But at that very moment, Faiyaz had to switch over to rum. He casually asked the barman, “Old Monk! Do you have Old Monk?”

13^th October, 2012:

People enjoy their Saturdays here. They start it by working for half days.(Ok I am not complaining). But they are very punctual about working for exactly half a day. So when at 1:40, I went to one my clients, she was packing her bags hurriedly. When I enquired of her hastiness, she told me that employees are not expected to stay so late – in fact, when a couple of her colleagues left at 2 pm once, there was a huge labor issue, after which the company started shutting its gates at 1:40 every Saturday. No wonder these people are so happy!

I immediately went back to my desk and happily packed off for the day. The immigration office being closed, we could not make our permits, which meant that my plans of going to Gedu had to be postponed. Effect of yesterday’s bad karma, I wondered. Nonetheless, at evening we decided to visit a nearby monastery, called the Kharbandi monastery. That would at least help me cleanse my negative vibes!

The hike of around 2 kms was decent, noticeable being goliath sized menacing spiders, reminding me actually of Tintin in the Shooting Star - maybe these were the ones that had also inspired Miss Muffet to be scared!

We climbed a decent height to the monastery, which gave a brilliant panorama of the town of Jaigaon in neighboring India. More spectacular was the shimmering twilight on the waters of the Torsa river, sluggish in its movement in India, after scaling dizzy heights all the way from Tibet. The monastery was resplendent, with lots of prayer flags, prayer wheels and chortens. The Buddhist tradition here believes that winds carry the prayers on the flags, thereby spreading their message and innate goodwill, while the prayer wheel has prayers inscribed on them, rotating which is equivalent to chanting the prayer.

At night, after scrunching on braised chicken, we asked the hotel receptionist if there were any hip places nearby. For such a small town, I wouldn’t have been surprised if he would have pointed out the next door ATM. But he surprised us by mentioning an ‘underground club that parties till night.’

‘Its called the Anaconda! They even have Karaoke!’ Faiyaz was jumping with joy - he had discovered his El Dorado. But I was keeping my fingers crossed – the name was exuding some sort of a bioshock. However, what shocked me when we entered was more chronological. The dimly lit place was caught in a time warp, for the songs on the Karaoke was held back till the early 90s of Bollywood. And some loony was making a desperate attempt to rasp in Hindi – Aisa zakhm diya hain...  This was followed by Salman Khan numbers from days of yore when he thought better than taking off his shirt at the slightest pretext. However, once settled, I started appreciating the efforts to create such a joint in this sleepy town. And the young ones had also appropriately responded by turning in good numbers. Also appreciable were these locals who had mastered these songs in Hindi.

Faiyaz was on pint no.04. When he asked for no. 05 however, the bartender ran away. We then realized it was her turn to sing on the karaoke! This place really loved Bollywood. When I asked the DJ controlling

the karoke system if I could sing the next number, he told me that another half dozen songs were already booked till 11:30 pm, when the bar closed.  I calculated the time and showed him that even at 5 minutes per song, there would be another 5 minutes to 11:30 when I could sing. This was followed by a round of astonishment - the DJ, that I could make such thermonuclear calculations in my human mind, Faiyaz, that the teetotaler me was willing to stay till 11:30 and lastly myself, when the DJ, waking up from his astonishment asked me for 50 Ngultrum for singing on the karaoke. These people were actually paying money to sing craoky songs, and that too oft in broken Hindi - As I had deduced, this place really loved Bollywood!

When I further asked the guy why this place shut so early, he talked of the local police that mandated all beer joints to close by then. My fertile mind conjured an image of a repression-ist government, with these hooded rebels meeting deep at night at this underground hideout, knocking at the heavy ornate door and whispering the blood curdling password “Ananconda”. And the secret agenda ... Aaja shaam hone aayi, Mausam ne li angdaai…The next song had already began. So much for toppling governments. It was time for me to leave.  

14^th October, 2012:

“No shyaar, but you can’t cross this bridge!” (‘shyaar’ is the wonderful Bengali-fication of the word ‘sir’)

“Why? Is it broken and crumbling?”

“No shyaar, it is very new”

“Then why can’t we cross this bridge?”

“Shyaar, because it is new!”

I was beginning to lose my patience. We were on our way to the Buxa Tiger Reserve in the Jalpaiguri district of West Bengal. It was a 2 hours drive from Phuntsholling and here were we, stuck before a bridge, where these guys were not allowing us to use the bridge because it was new! In fact it was spanking new, so much so that it had not been inaugurated yet. And hence the folly. Some MLA was to inaugurate the bridge, before which these morons would not let us cross.

I tried using all the weapons in my armory. First came Reason.

“Why have you built this bridge?”

“To cross the river, shyaar”

“What do you think we want to do?”

“Cross the river, shyaar”

“Then why don’t you let us use the bridge?”

“Because the MLA shyaar will cross the bridge first”

I was fast losing myself: “How does it matter if I cross the bridge first?”

“Because you are not the MLA shyaar”

I realized their reasoning was even stronger. So I started using the ultimate weapon of plutocracy – Money. When I suggested them to take a “toll” for crossing the bridge, were they elated. They either

took me to be the Nizam’s long lost descendant or a dolt of the highest order, and asked me to cough up one thousand bucks.

I stood my ground and gave that cold Danielle Craig styled don’t-mess-with-me-kiddies look to them. That helped, when one of the dingbats said, “Shyaar, you have got a big car, why don’t you cross the river?”

“And what exactly do you think we are trying to do?” I said in the grimmest possible tone I could muster, without unsheathing the Beretta from the holster

“No, no, actually cross the river below the bridge - the water’s not deep!”

And for once I was happy that these parts had wide river beds with a sluggish flow of nearly dry rivers. The 4 wheel drive of the Innova made crossing the river no big deal. It was a matter of minutes before we reached the Buxa Tiger Reserve.

But more fun awaited at the start of the trekking path that we were supposed to take to reach a broken fort from British times in the hills of Santlabari within the reserve. At its start, we were asked to take a Guide with us. I didn’t approve of it for the path was well carved, straight forward and was too late at 11 am to search for birds. When I demanded that I did not want a guide, I was asked to meet the Forest Officer in charge. I went over to his office, which was very sparse and empty and hardly had any object besides a writing table and a chair, both occupied by the Forest Officer. I met him and explained I did not require a guide.

“But you must!”

“Why?”

“Because it is a rule!”

“Where is it mentioned?”

“At the back of your ticket”

I checked my ticket and pointed out that there was no such rule!

“Oh!”he exclaimed, “these must be the old tickets where they have not yet updated the rules!”

God, it seemed as if I was having a Super Sunday! Where had all these people come from? I mean why couldn’t they have had come earlier and made my life more exciting than it already has been?

“So I don’t need a guide, right?”

“No of course, you do”

“Why?”

“Because it’s a rule!”

“But why this rule, when the trekking path is for less than 4 kms, is straight forward, completely safe and runs through human settlements?”

He heard me intently and put up a very interested look on his face. I felt, for a moment, that I had driven a sense of enlightenment to this Siddhartha at last.

And then the Buddha replied:

“Because”- and this he said slowly and tantalizingly, as if it were the revelation of the century - “you would need a Guide…”

If the Guide would have been selling Bazookas, I would have immediately hired his services. In the absence of the same, the violent side of my persona started instinctively searching for anything that could nearly resemble a weapon to hurl at the Enlightened One. No wonder then that the office was so sparse and empty!

Faiyaz luckily came to the rescue and explained that tourism helped the local economy and hence perhaps, this attempt. I had to accept the reasoning, given my immediate mental state and decided finally to “follow the rules.”Luckily, that was the end for all such interesting conversations for the day.

 Leaving all elements of paranoia behind, we started climbing uphill, the intent being to trek for 3 – 4 kms to reach the derelict ruins of an old British fortress, which was used for imprisoning Indians during the freedom movement. The fortress was apparently destroyed after independence, but efforts were afoot to currently revive its restoration.

It was a bit late in the morn, after 11 o’ clock – not the best of times for treks, as the sun is already up and you don’t even get to see birds so late. Nonetheless, we were supposed to take it as a simple walk amidst the lushness of the Dooars. But the walk did throw up a few unexpected surprises – the scenic view were good, but that was taken (a highpoint was when we climbed a steep slope to find sections of view of the Jayanti, Buxa and Bala rivers meandering in the horizon)- what really took my breath away was the number of butterflies whirling about wherever you gazed! And the variety was truly brilliant! I had read about the Valley of Butterflies at Rhodes, but here was one sitting right next door to home.

The forests were quite dense. For a moment, I allowed my imagination to believe that I was standing inside a primeval forest, all by myself and any moment stumbling across a triceratops exploring for its lunch. My reverie was broken by a tinkling sound when I heard rushing footsteps ahead, only to discover a goat walking on the way, followed by its entire herd and then a goatherd and then much to my dismay, even guffawing tourists -  so much for my primeval isolation.

After the long trek, we headed towards the river bed of the Jayanti River, also within the reserve. Another spectacular experience – the river bed was wide to accommodate the river width perhaps twenty times over, but that was for the mad monsoons – in late autumn, the wild child had matured and the river was flowing gently through shallow channels allowing us to walk over the river bed in leisure.

The day repeatedly took me back to Sunil Gangopadhyay’s Aranyer Din Ratri (Days and Nights in the Forest), which was later filmed by Ray in Daltongunj, Bihar. Its sequel Abar Aranye, was shot after over three decades at this very place in the Jayanti forests. What I really loved was the nonchalant indolence that the place was oozing with. This was the Phuket and Sentosa of yesterday’s typical Bangali bhadralok - To travel in a biscuit colored Ambassador and arrive at the gates of these pristine forests to spend a weekend away from that sea of humanity that was Kolkata.

We then visited the Nature Interpretation Centre (NIC) at Rajabhatkhowa – the name never fails to fascinate me for when translated into English, it means literally “the King’s consumption of rice.” Apparently, some Nepali King was invited for lunch here by the local raja, leading to the nomenclature. I wanted to keep moving to the royal palace at Coochbehar, but the day was nearing to an end and Faiyaz reminded of pending work. That brought me down to terra firma – yes, I remembered there was work and office and project s et al. But where’s the harm in sneaking a day (alas, if also not night) in the forests?