The good men of India: A story at 17000 feet

For as long as the earth goes round, there will be some men not considered equal to some others. From the former, will rise a few, who shall shine, if not by their success, then by their deeds. And we, who were more equal by virtue of our birth or money or blood should feel ashamed for such travesty.

6 AM, Day 7, Gangtok:  As we piled our bags and got inside the car, Binay introduced us to his friend Prashant, who would assist him in driving. I nodded mechanically. To complete North Sikkim in two days, we would have to be on the road for at least 15 hours each day. Only later I would realize that there were finer reasons for me to feel glad about his presence.

We were headed to Lake Gurudongmar. At 17,100 feet above sea level, it is India’s second highest lake.

We rolled out of the city. We smiled at the mountains, the sky and the sun. We stopped for chai and omelettes. With soaring spirits, we carried on.

At every waterfall in sight, I would yell and Binay would stop the car. While I ran to clamber over rocks and make my way in, the rest would laugh at my antics.

I love waterfalls. There are few things as overwhelming as standing right under a waterfall, and looking at the water fall from the top of the mountain

We broke for lunch at Chungthang. When Binay and Prashant sat at a separate table, we took out plates and joined them.

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We drove on. Somewhere we got down to play in the waters of the Teesta  river. We screamed with happiness and pain as the freezing cold water cut into our soles like a hundred knives.

By 5 pm, we had rolled into the small town of Lachung, more than 9600 feet above sea level.

From here on, everything changed dramatically. For one, the brightness of the sky started fading. It would soon be pitch dark.  Second, at these altitudes, the vegetation changed from green to brown and red, what they call the alpine variety.  Wild orchids sprouted from the hills along our way.

Changes were also happening to the dynamics inside the car. Till now, Binay and Prashant had been chatting mostly with each other. Now, they started opening out to us. They told us about their families, and work - driving taxis to Kalimpong every day for a living. They spoke of how they fell in love and married their childhood sweethearts, how the wives were now working in the US.

They asked us how we got married. We did not tell them that we weren’t. In their simple minds, our being married was probably the only explanation for being on a trip together.

It grew dark soon.

As we went past dark hills and streams, we kept on talking. Then Prashant switched on his phone, playing songs, all sentimental tracks that we grew up listening to in the 90s.  We all started singing in chorus. We knew ever word,every tune and somewhere in the darkness mountains, our voices were the only ones breaking the silence for miles. Somewhere in the beauty of the environment, and the beauty of the moment, my mind took me back a few years. And my heart, well it just cracked a little. Some things shall never change.

Looking back, those few hours of singing together were my best moments in the trip to North Sikkim.

Around  10 pm, we reached Thangu.

Not a single room was not available for hire in the village. Both the hotels had been occupied by workers of a construction firm. We decided to ask the villagers. Ten minutes later, a man offered to let us sleep in his storeroom. Binay asked Snigdha and me to take the room, and said that Prashant and he would sleep in the car. Of course I declared that we would not separate, that we had come as four friends, not as drivers and customers,  and that we would either all sleep together in a room, or in the car.

Thankfully, Prashant managed to get a room in another house, so we had two rooms now, and nobody had to sleep in the car.

Our storeroom was tiny. Hanging on its door was the leg of a yak leg. Inside, there were two thin beds, they were loaded with warm mattresses. Prashant brought out a bottle of brandy. Binay and I disappeared into the street to get some snacks. It was blisteringly cold, and every time I spoke, puffs of air came out of my mouth. I laughed and looked up at the sky.

I have never seen more stars in my life.  Take me to a court of law and I would swear there were a billion. For a moment, time stopped, as I gaped, and stared and stared at the clusters and clusters of silver that shone above.

Back in the room, we drank our brandy with gusto. After dinner, Binay and Prashant went back to the other house.

They were back to wake us up at 430 am.

After drinking hot tea, we set off for Gurudongmar at 5 am.  There is no human settlement ahead of Thangu, and the land is under army surveillance. Gurudongmar, itself lies just five kilometres from the Tibet border.

At dawn, we passed through blue mist. As the day progressed, we passed through large magnificent stretches of barren land and colourful mountains. The lake is about 15 kms from the last check post. It is mandatory that everyone be back at this check post by noon, as the  winds at Gurudongmar blow faster as the day progresses, enough to blow you off the ground.

We reached Gurudongmar around 930 am. After paying our respects at the Gurudwara, we walked to the banks of the lake.

It was incredible. For it is a blue that no river is, no lake is. It was a blue that no blue is. It is one of the most beautiful lakes you will see in the world. Do go there some day if you can.

Mad with joy, Binay and I rushed to take off our shirts and prance about in the ice cold waters. Our first bad decision.

The second bad decision was to attempt to walk around the 6 km perimeter of the lake.  It doesn’t sound strenuous, but at 17,100 feet with low oxygen levels and fast blowing winds, it is a lot. That day, the four of us were the only ones, besides an army regiment, walking the perimeter. We plodded, and plodded and reached one bend after another. At every bend, we would think that we had reached the last to realize that we were not even close. Finally, we completed the entire circle with Prashant and Snigdha beating us to the end.

Having seen the lake to our heart’s content, we returned to our car to drive back to Gangtok. The journey back is probably one of the most treasured ones in all my travels.The roads were terrible, in fact for stretches  there were no roads at all, only mud, but we were so busy talking and singing and laughing that we never noticed or felt any discomfort. It was not just the company, but also the nature around us. The alpine steppe vegetation made my heart sing. Mountains full of red and brown bushes, orchids, blue streams, yaks… it all overwhelmed me. It was as if we had come into a ‘lord of the Rings’ or a ‘Narnia’ setting. We clicked a thousand pictures, and I kept shaking my head in disbelief, at the beauty I was seeing around me.

If you can, do visit the region between Lachung and Thangu some day.

And those two men.  Binay, ever the friendly boy, ever the impulsive man. Knows only two things, to follow his heart and to not care about the consequences. Hedoes things on instinct. When he told me that he agreed to come on the trip because of the excitement in my voice, and not for the money, I smiled. And I believed him. Because I understood how this man functions. To do things for the love of it, or because your heart or gut tells you to do so, and to worry about the consequences later, is his mantra, and maybe mine.

 I have often looked at a waterfall and a rock and jumped to climb those, but few companions have been as enthusiastic. But Binay would join in everything.  We jumped out of the car when we saw yaks and ran madly with the herd. We stopped the car when we saw a beautiful massive thirty feet rock and raced to see who would reach the top first. We would climb up only to realize that we did not know how to come down. When we were finally back, we were out of breath, our heads ached, our ribs were almost bursting with the exercise, but we were still laughing.

 In Binay, I found an alter ego. Hopefully, he found something in me too.

Prashant, on the other hand, was relatively sober. An immensely practical man, he wouldn’t give way to emotion as easily as Binay or I did. He was the right man to be Binay’s best friend, I felt. As Binay repeatedly said, every time he would be in trouble, Prashant would help him out. He wasn’t just Binay’s best friend. He was also his guide, his counsellor and brother. ‘Daju’,Binay called him affectionately, the Sikkimese word for brother.

We spoke non-stop throughout the journey. It amazed me that both men’s wives were working in the US (as housekeepers). When I asked them if they did not miss their wives, they smiled. Both men answered that they missed their wives terribly. When I asked them, why then, their replies were simple. Their wives wanted to see the world, and they wanted to help them fulfil those dreams.

Here were two men, working as drivers in Gangtok, raising their kids all by themselves, so that their wives could at least try and pursue their own dreams from life. Here were two men, themselves not educated beyond eighth standard, but making sure that they worked long enough to ensure that their children studied in good boarding schools in Kalimpong. What an example to set for Indian men.

Here were two men who kept checking on Snigdha to see if she was okay, who kept praising her for the stoic way in which she walked around Gurudongmar, who accorded her all respect and warmth, and who were ready to sleep in a car after driving for fifteen hours, only because they felt she would be uncomfortable with their presence in the same room. As Snigdha told me later, ‘never, not for a single moment did I feel insecure as we drove through the night in the hills of a strange unknown land with two men we did not know at all.’ We were too busy singing I guess to be worried.

For two days, they kept calling her ‘Bahini’ lovingly, the Sikkimese word for sister.

While our country rages and despairs over the rapes that engulf it, while the world media rightly questions India’s disgusting patriarchal behaviour, while men in Delhi and other parts of the country still continue to grow more lecherous and vicious, while tourists wonder whether or not they should visit this country, here are two lowly educated men deeply in love with their wives, secure about themselves and their partners, and doing everything they can to encourage their partners to live life on their own terms. I wish somebody would use these two men as an example when they wrote that article about ‘The Good Men of India’ in the New York Times.

To anybody who reads this blog from outside India, and wishes to visit this country, I would like to say that these are the stories that never come out. And while we have rapists, we also have such men here.

That night, we reached Gangtok at eleven pm. After 18 hours on this road, we still weren’t tired at all. We shook hands, hugged and promised to stay in touch on Facebook. I felt sad about leaving these two men and going off to a new land the next day.

I still remember asking Binay his wishes from life. 

“Neeraj, I just want to do one thing. I don’t want to be too rich. I just wish I had money enough to travel. I want to see as many places as I can, talk to new people, understand how they think, and learn something from the experience.”

If only you knew Binay, you spoke the words that fill my mind.

Now read:

1) Conversations with a Russian Backacker
2) The Thimpu Bookstore
3 How I met Lisa

The Sikkim Bhutan Series: The Magic of Tiger's Nest

My breaths are coming out harder, and I can hear my heart pounding. It  is now mostly mental - a matter of will, and how much your mind can push your body. There is only one focus - the next step. Then, the next. Whenever your body wants to give up, or stop, or even pause for a minute, take the next step. And then the next. Don't stop.

 I look up the mountain. There it is, Tiger Nest Monastery, right on the top, perched precariously at the very edge of a sharp cliff.

Earlier around 7 am, we take a cab fromThimpu to Paro. This town lies in a valley 55 kms away from Thimpu. We roll past hills, hills after hills. A river gives us company for most of the route and just like everywhere in Bhutan, the water sparkles blue. After an hour and a half, we have reached our destination. We will be staying at is the Nivvana Resort, owned by Karma Wangmo.

The reception area is built like a living room. Hardly have we kept our bags down, and Karma brings out hot pancakes for us. I see the Royal couple's photograph framed on the wall. I have seen this everywhere in Bhutan - in shops, restaurants and houses. Could it be fear that makes the people do that?

I am absolutely wrong. As Karma points out, the people of Bhutan love their royal family. The current king, Khesar, is young. He has been in power only for the last seven years. But his father, Jigme Singye Wangchuck, the fourth king of Bhutan is an iconic man. In the 34 years that he ruled the country, he introduced a number of developmental reforms. He is the only king in the world, in the twentieth century, to lead his army in a battle. For international meets, he flies by Economy Class. He has even given up his palace and stays in a cottage, just like the common people. The king of Bhutan knows that his country is not rich and behaves accordingly. No wonder his people love him.

Karma speaks glowingly of him. I listen in wonder. I look around the warm room and my eyes stop at a green Scrabble box on her bookshelf. Jigme Wangchuck might be a wonderful man, but can he beat me at Scrabble. Actually, no one can.

I ask Karma if I need to fill any particulars before taking the room, and she shakes her head. Staying at the Nivanna is like staying in a house. I like it. Outside, Karma has a nice vegetable garden and we go look at the apple trees and eat some strawberries. The mountains make up the background. 

At 1030, we start out on our mission - to trek up to Taktsang 'Tiger Nest' Monastery. Most people take a taxi to the base of the mountain and then commence on the trek. We decide to walk from the hotel itself. It is a terrible decision. The base is some 6 kms from the hotel, on a road that keeps winding up. We are bound to lose energy even before beginning our trek. Still, there is a river flowing on our right and it feels nice to hear it gurgle and give us company. As we walk up, there are large fields and small houses. Many of these houses have chillis drying on their roofs. Finally we cross over the river, and a road leads us through a wooden glade to the base of the mountain.

Taktsang Monastery lies at the very top of this mountain, vertically 900 metres above us. From our spot, it looks like a colourful dot on a brown mountain. To reach it, we must make our way through a hilly forest, rocks, and all the recent years of non-fitness that shroud our bodies.

Snigdha and I begin to walk up. The forest is full of blue pine trees. There are no signboards for direction, no stalls up the mountain, no wrappers or plastic lying anywhere. When Jigme Wangchuck made Gross National Happiness a law, its definition insisted that economic development should go hand in hand with environment preservation. He has also made it a law that Bhutan should be under 60% forest cover for all times to come. For all times to come. I love this man.

We keep walking and soon two small Buddhist temples come in sight. A stream of water flows out from one of them and passes through a brown, cylindrical wooden tube before falling onto the earth. The tube has been fashioned to look like a penis, foreskin et al.

Bhutan is full of phallic symbols. Many houses have male phalluses (painted in gold), standing upright on their roofs. Shops sell phallic key chains and magnets. 

What a country.

We pass by the two temples, and now the walk is directly uphill. We are walking along a narrow path with trees on the slopes. The soil is red in colour. A steady breeze hits our chests and it looks as if it is going to rain. I regret walking from the hotel to the base. From time to time, we stop to take photos.

The first hour of the trek is arguably the toughest. Paro is approximately 3000 metres above sea level. We keep seeing foreigners, mostly Europeans, coming down the hill. We greet as many as we can. Everyone talks of the breath taking view from the top, everyone talks of how we should just move slowly and that we shall eventually reach there. They all have Bhutanese guides with them. For all foreigners except Indians, Bhutan charges USD 250 per day to stay in the country. For this amount, they get a standard hotel, three meals, and the services of a guide. The Bhutanese believe in a low volume high impact tourism policy.

What a country.

We stop from time to time, to catch our breaths.

A group of eleven Indians pass us and I get into conversation with them. They are from Nasik and have just completed a six day trek in West Sikkim. Last year, they completed the Everest Base Camp trek.

I fall back, in line with Snigdha. Something familiar is happening, I can sense it inside me. Till now, I have been breathing hard. We have taken frequent, two minute breaks. But now, something has changed. It starts with me getting irritated at myself. I have always loved sports. I want to win every athletic task. It disgusts me that I am panting now, for it reveals to me how my fitness has reduced since my college years. It also reminds me something that I have known for long. I love the underdog tag. This is now about pride. To not give up, to not quit. To bloody give every ounce you can till you either win or fall down.

Everest Base Camp boys, let us see who gets to the top of the mountain first.

We soldier on. I have decided that now I shall not stop till I reach the top. I start walking faster. From time to time, I turn back to look at Snigdha. She is never far behind, always walking at the same pace, determined, never showing a trace of complaint or distress. Four days back at Gurudongmar in North Sikkim, at 17,600 feet, besides an army regiment, we are two of only four people who walk around the entire 6 km perimeter of India's second highest lake, through merciless winds. She reaches the end before me. I am proud of her, she can kick any man's ass.

I move on, keeping only the Nasik boys and Taktsang in my sight.

We keep walking. Besides some rare patches when the terrain is flat, for most parts we keep moving uphill. At times, I veer off the path and run up through the trees.I love scrambling up, walking straight is boring. I am Capricorn, the mountain goat, after all.

After two hours (not counting the hour from the hotel to the base), it is mostly mental. It is now a matter of will, and how much your mind can push your body. There is only one focus- the next step. Then, the next. Whenever your body wants to give up, or stop, or even pause for a minute, take the next step. And then the next. Don't stop. Come on.

One by one, I start moving past the Everest base camp boys. Actually its not about them. I was wrong. I am not competing with anybody. My battle is with myself, with my own sporting pride, with my own mind. 

 

Finally, Taktsang comes close. The breeze is colder now.  Ahead, a series of narrow steps go down steeply for about 500 metres, at the end of which begins the last 100 metre ascent to the monastery. Right before this ascent, is a waterfall. And its roar is the only sound for miles around.

I stop at the waterfall and clamber up the rocks. The spray drenches me completely. It is freezing cold.

After ten more minutes, we have reached the monastery. I walk past the outer walls to the very edge of the mountain, and stare at the valley. Later, when Snigdha and I go inside, we choose our own routes. We want to experience the monastery individually. We walk through the rooms, and sit inside with the paintings, the sculptures and ourselves. We don't speak. Our shoes lie outside, weary from the long walk.

The solitude engulfs my soul and my senses. There is a sense of peace, a calmness about this monastery that I have not felt before in any religious place. I sit  I am overwhelmed. I don't want to be around anyone for some time. Both of us fritter about the rooms quietly. Later, I come out of the monastery, first, and go and sit at the edge of the cliff, again looking at the world below. Later Snigdha comes out, and I think I see a tear in her eye. We leave and begin our descent. We still don't talk.

I don't know what's affecting me - my soul or my adrenaline. I am walking very fast. Soon, I am almost sprinting down the mountain, my shoes skidding in the mud. In 50 minutes, I reach the base. Snigdha comes down within minutes.

We spend the evening walking in the Paro market. Later we have dinner at the Phoenix. A young man comes in with his daughter and a guitar. She is around 6 years old. We watch him as he plays the guitar and sings to her. We smile. He bades us over, and we join him. We spend the next hour singing Bollywood songs loudly in the restaurant. He insists we eat something, so we do. In the end, when we leave, he is shocked when we try to pay our bill. "You are my guests", he pleads. We insist on paying, but he doesn’t agree. I don't think he was a rich man. Yet, just like so many others on this trip, he surprises us with his gesture. Dinner could not have been better.

Early next morning, Snigdha and I walk upto the museum. We read about Bhutan's history, its wildlife, costumes and thangkas. Later, we sit on the hilltop, and watch the whole town lying before us. I am disturbed. I have always wondered why, when many foreigners come to India, they speak of a spiritual experience. I have shaken my head when they call India exotic. And yet, as I sit here on the hilltop, I cannot but help feel there is an aura about Bhutan, something mystical about it, something that I cannot explain. It is still so many years behind India. It is still so clean, so virgin, so different. How can it be, when it is just across the border? It is as if the world forgot about this mountain kingdom tucked in the Himalayas. And I can't forget about Tiger's Nest.

I still have questions about the previous day's trek. Is it the sheer effort that it took to get up there that overwhelmed us when we were inside the monastery? Or is it, that it lies in the middle of nowhere, only hills and mist and a waterfall? Or is there something about Taktsang istelf? I am not a religious man by any stretch of imagination. Religious places never affect me, why does this monastery then? I turn and look at the sky. From our spot, the monastery looks like a colourful dot on the mountain. I start smiling.

Maybe it is just Bhutan - a country that has stayed unspoilt, a country where everyone we have met has been exceptionally nice to us, a country that has made a measurement for happiness.

I look down the hill, and see a cat and a dog fast asleep right next to each other.

Maybe it is just Bhutan - where the king made a law that the country should remain under at least 60% forest cover for all times to come.

Now Read:

1) Conversations with a Russian Backacker
2) The Thimpu Bookstore
3 How I met Lisa

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The Sikkim Bhutan Series : The Bookstore in Thimpu

Disclaimer: Back from a solo trip in Europe, the author is eager to continue experimentative travel. This time around, he wants to travel alone with someone he does not know at all. Enter Snigdha Sehgal, whom he's met only once before. Together, they spend fifteen days gallivanting through the hills and rivers of Sikkim and Bhutan.

The story of Thimpu was supposed to be brief, a short description of the things to do in the city. Instead, it is about a bookstore.

0600 am, 1st October: Still sleepy, Snigdha and I board the bus from Phuentsholing, the Bhutanese border town, and reach Thimpu in the afternoon. We spend the evening walking about the market, wondering why there is such less activity outside. We don't know yet that Tuesdays are dry days in Thimpu.

Did you know that Bhutan is the only country in the world with no traffic lights?

Early next morning, we hike up to Buddha Point. Once we reach there, we stare at the tall golden edifice of the holy soul. Some monks are taking photographs of each other with an iPad. A European party enters and wants to take photographs with the monks. Everybody poses happily. The Buddha continues to smile beatifically in the background. He is used to tourists doing the same every day.

After spending an hour up there, we return to the main city.

The plan is set. We will now go to the School for Crafts, the Zoo and Tashichho Monastery. I guess we are tourists after all. We are at a junction now, opposite to which stands a bookshop.

"Do you want to go into that bookstore for ten minutes?” Snigdha asks. 

"Sure."

"Will you buy anything?"

"No"

We cross the junction, and enter the shop. It is called the Junction Bookstore. 

There is something about the place. As I enter, to my left are shelves and shelves of books. The payment counter is on my right. Straight ahead, a flight of steps lead to a Reading room upstairs. At the extreme end, there is another room with children's books. Witty quotes scribbled on pieces of paper have been stuck everywhere. I see a Tagore book and flip through its pages. 'Three Women’ - I want to buy it.

I go up the steps, into the Reading Room. There is a small kitchen space in one corner. People can make their own tea or coffee here. There is a second hand books cupboard too. The whole ceiling here is covered with yellowed book pages. I love this place. A month earlier I remember seeing a viral post on Facebook about the world's coolest bookstores.  I might have found mine.

This place smells like a bookstore should. I must ask them if they will let me work here. A ‘Mumford and Sons’ song is playing in the background.

I look through the glass, below, at the girl behind the counter. Her hair’s falling on her face. I amble down and walk to the counter. I can see her better now, and a familiar feeling engulfs me. I need to think of an opening line fast.

"Err so what do you think we should do in Thimpu", I ask, arching my eyebrows as if I was explaining Einstein's theory of relativity to her. As history would confess, coming up with suave opening lines to impress women is not my forte. The girl draws up a list of things that we could do. She also gives us directions to a couple of art galleries. I have now begun to crack jokes, and even the books groan at my miserable attempts.

We proceed to Terton Art Gallery - that has a good collection of Bhutanese art, and has been founded by Kelly Dorji. A girl explains us the work behind all the paintings.

We visit the Motithang Preserve next, to see the Takin, Bhutan's National animal. It is a bizarre looking beast, and looks like a cross between a goat and a bull. 

Next, we head to Tashichho Monastery. I like Buddhist monks. I like their robes. I like that they make me feel at peace. Suddenly, one of the monks races past me singing "Kiss me kiss me kiss me.." , a song from the Bollywood movie Race. 

Right.

Inside, the paintings have so much depicted on them. I wish I could understand the stories they say.

Later, Snigdha wants to go back to the bookstore. The weather is lovely, so we walk the distance.

When we reach, we go to the reading room and make some tea. There are two other European men in the shop and they are discussing the book publishing scene in Bhutan, with Kunzang – the bookstore girl. Publishing industry conversations fascinate me. I don’t have the slightest idea why my own book has been lying in my laptop for almost two years, and why I don't approach publishers. I think I know the answer - I am lazy.

Snigdha and I leave our books and join in the conversation, with the Hungarian, the German and Kunzang. Within minutes, we are pulling each other’s leg. Later, I decide to buy "Reading Lolita in Tehran". Book in hand, I walk to the counter. It is time. Be cool. Siberian tiger cool. Just a girl, after all. You on the other hand are Bond, Sparrow, Cumberbatch all rolled into one.

I drop the book. No problem, pick it up with the grace of a feline. Somehow, I don't feel too much like Bond now. Anyway, Snigdha and she are talking, so I listen to them. Wait, I think I am nodding my head. Nod nod. Right, I can figure out that the two girls are talking animatedly but why can I not stop nodding my head. Head, stop nodding. 

Somewhere through the nodding, I am talking too. And laughing. Kunzang’s warmth surprises me. She is the sort of person who makes friends at the drop of a hat. Wait, I used to be that person before entering the store. I check my arms to see if I have dropped the book again. I haven't. Anymore and they will rename it 'Dropping Lolita in Tehran'. Kunzang asks us to call her by the name everyone does - Muy. I ask her what it means.

"Little sister"

Right, let’s stick to Kunzang.

When we bid her farewell, she hands me a Book on Buddhism as a gift. We thank her and head down to Cafe Klein for dinner.

Dinner is a wonderful affair. The Hungarian goulash is almost as good as the company.

Next morning we leave for Paro, the last leg of our fifteen day journey. It is in Paro where I become most introspective. I learn to fall in love with Bhutan here.

Two days later, we have to take the bus to Phuentsholing - a four hour journey. We miss the bus, so we go to the taxi stand. We get fleeced by the guy who drives us to the stand. I am annoyed. After half an hour at the stand, finally, a driver offers us to drop us at a point from where, he insists, we will get a bus. I message Kunzang saying that some day if I return to Bhutan, we shall meet again. 

An hour later, we reach the place where the cab driver said we’d get a bus. We see only mountains on all sides. No sign of any life, not even a bird. He says that the bus stop is a little ahead, and we continue driving. After ten minutes, we still are. A board says ‘Thimpu - 18 kms’. I ask him how far the bus stop is. He says 18 kms. Thimpu is in the opposite direction to Phuentsholing. Not only does it take us 2 hours to go from Paro to Thimpu, it would take us a further six to go to Phuentsholing. We won’t reach our destination before night. I am furious, knowing that someone would lie so much and cheat us.

When we reach Thimpu, we buy two bus tickets. It is almost 3 pm. Our bus is at 330. I am still irritated at being cheated, but a part of me is happy to have fifteen minutes more in this city.

We walk to the bookshop. We have till 315 after which we must return to the bus stop.

It has a lock on its door. 

There are some people standing outside. I take out my phone to message Kunzang. Suddenly, one head turns from the group. It is her, and she waves at us. We drag our suitcases to where everybody is standing. Kunzang introduces us to her cousin, his wife, and their baby. Then she disappears inside and we chatter away with the duo. They are as friendly as Kunzang. I am surprised when her sister-in-law tells us that Kunzang spoke about us.

I look at the watch. 3:05. Kunzang comes back, and I can’t help but notice that she looks dressed up. And is that blush on her cheek. There is perfume in the air.

The couple leaves, and we are left with Kunzang. Snigdha wants to buy a book. It is 3:10. We have totally lost it. Everybody's talking at the same time. I am telling Snigdha that we should go to a cafe and pick some lunch, Kunzang's telling us to eat and come back, and Snigdha is looking at books and asking us what to buy. "Anything by Phamuk", I yell.

315 pm. Kunzang has rushed to the reading room to get some other book for Snigdha. Snigdha, meanwhile has picked up the Tagore book that I was looking at yesterday. And one by Orhan Phamuk. I am sure we are going to miss our bus. Then, Kunzang refuses to accept any payment for the books. We protest, but she will have none of it. Snigdha gives her a five hundred rupee note, which Kunzang pushes towards me. I move away, and she reaches for Snigdha's jacket. We are all laughing and yelling. There are two other customers in the store, and they look absolutely bemused.

Kunzang has brought down two other books and she gives it to us as a gift. I have no idea how that girl ever makes any money if she keeps giving books away for free. We keep refusing, but she doesn't listen. 

We hug her and leave, sure that we will miss our bus. Her cousin and his wife's mothers are standing outside the shop and the two ladies offer to drive us to the bus stand. I have no idea what is happening. While half an hour ago I was so angry at being cheated, within moments we have been treated with so much generosity and kindness that it seems surreal. The ladies drop us, and we are off. Throughout the bus journey, I can't stop thinking about this mad, happy family. I want to invite them to stay with me in Kerala.

The story of Thimpu was supposed to be brief, a short description of the things to do in the city. But it became about a bookstore.

And that is what is what traveling is meant to do - it makes you meet new people. It brings you these wonderful experiences that you cherish for long after, and it makes you believe in humanity more often than not. It makes you trust and believe. It makes you independent and stronger. It makes you richer, well not monetarily. It makes you more evolved. It makes you connect with yourself, and explore your own individuality. Somewhere it strips you down from who you were, and adds layers to you that could never be worn if you did not choose to step out into the world.

It makes you know that it is really not worth spending thirty years working in an office. The world is out here. It makes you write real stories.

The story of Thimpu is not about its tourist attractions - not about the Buddha Point, and not about the Textiles Museum. It is about a bookstore. At a junction. 

---The End---

Now read,

1) The Sikkim Bhutan Prologue
2) Spain: The day I ran with the bulls
3) Barcelona, absinthe and conversations