Pronouncedly sleep-deprived, I looked over to my left from my aisle seat, only to see an empty row stretching out in front of me. Some of my nerves were relieved at the sight. The trip was off to a good start.
I was travelling to Sikkim, to experience it from the Lepchas perspective. They were the original inhabitants of Sikkim before it was annexed and since then, the state has consisted of a mix of Nepalis, Bhutiyas and Lepchas. I would experience it all with a group of strangers. Over the course of a week, we would live with the Lepchas; forage, cook, eat, talk and learn from them.
Meeting my travel mates at the Bagdogra airport relieved the rest of the nerves. After a long stomach-turning car ride, we landed tired and hungry at the doorstep of our first homestay, run by Tshering. We said our hellos; he came across as shy and perceptive. We later discovered that he was also hospitable and had a knack for photography.
During dinner that evening, we were presented with a buffet. Sticky rice with corn, stinging nettle soup, and salads. Little did we know that this was the start of an immersion into lip-smacking Sikkimese foods that we would struggle to memorise the names of, over the next week. Kauri, Khuri, Ting momo, Dalle and Chhurpi chutney.
Upstairs, we sat staring at the eight auspicious Buddhist symbols. We were to pick one that spoke to us the most. We would paint this in a monastery the next day. I picked the Wheel of Dharma, the Khorlo because it felt “complete” to me.
Standing in the chill of the morning after a night of uninterrupted sleep, I looked around Tshering’s colourful garden — fresh green broccoli, bright red tree tomatoes and pink peach blossoms stared back at me. Sikkim was India's first organic state and it was currently the season for broccoli in February, followed by beans in March. Downstairs, we ooh-ed and aah-ed at a single coffee bean (that typically grows in hot and humid weather) that grew in Tshering’s greenhouse. Upstairs, we strained our eyes to catch sight of the Kanchenjunga peak, the third-highest mountain in the world and more interestingly, considered the guardian deity of Sikkim by the Lepcha people. Unfortunately, the clouds took up most of our view. While walking to the monastery, we felt jittery with excitement. Tshering had told us the previous night that it was the time of the Tsechu festival so we would see a lot of activity there, and we did; Women carrying plates filled with sel roti and khapse, lamas chanting away and children blowing on dungchens and spinning prayer wheels. We didn’t need to spend any more time to know that we were in the presence of a tightly-knit community. As we walked up some steps to the kitchen, a little boy came trailing along. I offered my hand which he readily held. We later learnt that his name was Lehto and that if any of us offered snacks to him, he would tilt our hand to directly pour it down his mouth. After watching the monastic artists set up our canvases for the day, we began painting them with brushes fat and thin; the first instruction for us was to paint a blue background. We knew we were in for a long day when they asked us to do the same thing twice, and then thrice. Later, they proceeded to mark parts of our canvases with red, yellow, and green for us to fill up. It was like a paint-by-number exercise, and it slowly became absorbing.
It began to rain at some point so we all proceeded to a meditation room of sorts to continue. I had to paint multiple ombres in the centre of the wheel, which was tough, and frequently corrected by one of the monastic artists whenever I called them over to check my progress. A little girl offered us all biscuits and candies as we painted. Lehto meanwhile took up a hammock that he refused to leave. Once we were finished (the monastic artists would go over it once to correct all the ways we messed up), we lit butter lamps and said our goodbyes. Our day wasn’t over though. For dinner, we sat down around Tshering in his orange kitchen as he rolled and twisted dough to make ting momos. We tried our best to contribute but once steamed, it was easy to differentiate the ones we’d managed to keep together from the ones Tshering expertly crafted.
We were up bright and early again the next day because we would be hiking and caving. After a protein-filled breakfast of buckwheat pancakes, we were on our way. After huffing and puffing up some stone steps alongside two dogs who happily came along with us, we gingerly headed into the muddy green of the jungle. I felt steady due to the nature and people around me — there would always be someone holding out a hand, a sturdy bark, or a stone that offered support. We reached the opening of the first cave after about 30 minutes of climbing; one by one, we proceeded into the dark cave with only a headlight and crawled to make it to the end of the cave where photos of deities, butter lamps and incense sticks greeted us. We lit incense sticks, praying quietly before exiting the cave. The Lepchas worship parts of nature like mountains, caves and rivers; and inside this cave, it was easy to feel the presence of a higher power. At the opening of the second cave, we spent some time throwing coins up at a stone that jutted out with the conviction that a wish we attached to the coin would come true. Several attempts later, one of mine landed but I forgot to make a wish. Crawling through the third cave was tough but it led us to a big and comfy opening where we spent much time perched on the stones, talking about Lord of The Rings and Game of Thrones.
After visiting the caves, we headed up to a spot where we gobbled down our packed lunch while listening to a popular lore about a nomad, from one of our guides. It went - there was once a strange nomad that visited the village and started terrorising people. When the villagers reached out to their king or Chogyal, he sent in a letter to them. Unfortunately, it was written in a script they couldn’t read. Reluctantly, they took the letter to the nomad to translate it for them. He could read the script, and in the letter the king instructed the villagers to kill the nomad. The nomad incorrectly translated this as “serve the nomad all he wants.” One day, when he was relishing a hearty meal of pork that the villagers brought to him, a drop of oil slithered down to his neck from his mouth. He used his knife to swipe it away and accidentally slashed his neck. We were apparently picnicking on his deathbed. Though we were now in the mood to hear more stories, there were big drops of water falling on us so decided it was time to pack up. We descended the hill semi-carefully, slipping in the mud and stepping on unsteady stones but somehow leaving unscathed. Back at Tshering’s homestay, we received our finished paintings. We spent some time exchanging them with each other and admiring them; all of the rookie mistakes we’d made were painted over perfectly by the monastic artists. That night was an especially cosy one; we were all presented with bamboo mugs filled with Chee, a local beer made by fermenting millet. We clinked our mugs against each other, shouting “Achule”, a local cheer meaning “Hail the mountains!” It was a long night, yet we couldn’t finish the Chee. The next morning, after breakfast, we were all gifted with a fabric that was tied around our necks by Tshering’s mom (“a blessing for the rest of our trip”) and we said our bittersweet goodbyes.
We were headed to our next homestay, one that was run by Gyatso Lepcha, a social activist who’s been at it for over 20 years. When we reached the homestay, we gaped in awe at the photos that adorned the walls. Gyatso and his wife Samsay receiving an award from the Governor of Maharashtra, newspaper clippings about Gyatso’s work that led to stopping multiple dams from being constructed, photos they’d taken with the Crown Prince and Princess of Norway when they’d come to stay at the homestay years ago. We were clearly somewhere special. After some delicious orange tea, we met Gyatso and Samsay, both of whom had humble demeanours. Gyatso told us he was currently fighting a (long) fight against a dam proposal in the Rongyung River, a river they believe is the gateway to heaven. Samsay said little and stared at us. The homestay was a typical Lepcha house, consisting of bedrooms in a separate structure from a kitchen cum living room. Both of them were built on raised platforms. We would later find out that these were all earthquake-resistant structures, as we sat around the fire in the kitchen and felt tremors. Thankfully, we weren’t at the epicentre. We slept in our rooms soundly that night, though it felt a little chillier than Tshering’s homestay. In the morning, we were off to a Somal’s house where we would learn the art of making bamboo mugs, specifically adding braided strips of cane to it. This turned out to be difficult, but Somal was a kind enough teacher to make the experience enjoyable.
Though it was raining pretty heavily and the visibility was bad, (we were in a cloud) we decided to forage after we packed our bamboo mugs in our bags. We collected a basket full of fiddlehead fern and watercress, and we chewed on cinnamon and sniffed a medicinal plant’s leaf as we went along. We stopped by houses where we were greeted with warmth, cups of tea and cats. We would often spot jars filled with orchid pickles and baskets of dalle chilli placed to dry outside. Of course, every house was surrounded by lush green and flowering plants, and so many of them.
We even stopped by Gyatso’s new glamping space, where I declared I would be a volunteer in the near future. Gyatso welcomed the idea after a short interview about my cooking skills. Back at the homestay, we talked to and grew closer to our fellow guests — a filmmaker duo and a German couple. The German woman told us the story behind her snake tattoo, and the filmmakers told us about one of their films titled “The Story of the Boatman” that we made a mental note to check out. The majority of our evening though was spent making momos with Samsay (who we were quickly learning was a masterful cook) and tasting her fruit wines with cheese. We sucked at guessing which fruits they were. We checked the weather forecast fervently, hoping that our last day would be a sunny one so we could set up a picnic near the Rongyung River. Unfortunately, no such forecast came but we went anyway. The next morning, with our raincoats on our backs, we dipped our feet in ice-cold water and fought against leeches with our fingers and stems; making it back to the homestay felt like making it back to a shelter. We went about the rest of our day with a nagging feeling, the kind that creeps up on you on the last day of a fine trip. Our evening was spent nearly perfectly; finishing up the previous night’s pineapple wine and listening to a live performance by Mutanchi Souls, a Lepcha band with some incredible original tracks.
During the drive the next day, we caught a glimpse of the Kanchenjunga peak, something we couldn’t do at Tshering’s homestay, and it looked almost surreal. Though we were content, the goodbye we had to say was difficult only because of all the lovely people we’d had the pleasure of meeting; Tshering, Gyatso, Samsay, little Lehto and many more who made up a part of the kind community here. Now, back home and writing this from my bedroom in Bangalore, all I can say is — I can’t wait to volunteer at Gyatso’s glamping space soon.