My illness performed its final act on the train out of Banaras - a virtuoso rendering of feverish cold sweats in the middle of the night (antibiotics had already trounced more pressing intenstinal attackers). By morning I felt better, which is to say my mind was not constantly obsessed with my own discomfort. This freed me to fret over the hairpin turns and impossible passes on the phenomenally beautiful three hour jeep ride to Darjeeling. Our driver was young and intrepid, not really great traits from the passengers perspective, but the ride was absolutely glorious, swallowed as we were in steeply planted tea and ever increasing altitude that, with every meter climbed, promised relief from the heat of the plains.
As it turned out, we mostly exchanged bitter heat for chilling cold, as Darjeeling was experiencing some strange weather for this time of year. The sun did come out long enough for some beautiful walks around the sprawling town and even a couple of choice views of Kanchenjunga, the world's third tallest mountain, which towers over Darjeeling to the north. But mostly it was rain and mist and chills, which only served to make Darjeeling's georgeous flower gardens and quaint cottages look all the cozier. It's no secret that the English liked Darjeeling because it reminded them of home. I freely admit that after two months here, a reminder of home was not at all displeasing.
So, we put on sweaters and wool hats and umbrellas bought from Nepali merchants in the markets and hung around the chowrasta, a sort of town square that is perhaps one of the great people watching venues in the world. A large circle of open space fed by three major roads, with stores on one side and a view of the mountain on the other, provides for ideal flow of traffic. Darjeeling's mix of mostly Bengali tourists with local Nepalis and Tibetans and of course the odd westerner makes for a suitably diverse and eye-ctaching group. And no sooner have you sat down than a chai-walla has stopped by offering to bring tea or India's finest instant coffee (a beverage without peer!) to your perch. Hours of aimless pleasure await as you let your eyes wander from children assaulting pigeons to old ladies rotating their prayer beads to "maximum Bengali" families in full ebullience.
Of course, its is just such minutiae that causes the itinerant to launch into superlative; I could wax equally poetic about the very hot shower in our guest house. What is fascinating, though, is that out of an existence that can't but help feel superficial and bereft of substance can seep so many lasting images and encounters. Not that one can always identify these markers right away, to say nothing of offering capable interpretation when their lasting nature promises some incipient significance. But despite the limitations of comprehension and meaning dictated by the tourist's utter transience, one can't help but bump into all manner of occasions remarkable for their fecundity and potential. Even with the love-hated "book" as your only steady guide, the world cannot be stopped from jumping out and engaging you . . . or else ignoring you completely: young monks playing marbles in the yard of their monastery, obliviously uninterested in our presence as they pursued their games with determination. The tour of the shrine room made for good photo-ops, but this moment of touching up against a world that moved easily and freely despite my observation was more deeply recorded.
So one goes on the road, picking up every day a snatch or two of conversation that makes you stop, a few words from the old woman tirelessly circumabulating the monastery in the rain, a few more from the tibetan woman who cooks "only homemade food" in a restaurant without a menu. Of course, most of your words are delivered in soliloquy, as you ask questions of the houses and the gardens and the mountains and the buildings of unknown origin; but even in this there is dialogue - the physical world etches itself upon you in ways less subtle than the referential expressions of human language. Until suddenly you feel home on a 36 hour train ride across the country, stealing cigarettes in the vestibule opposite the no smoking sign and playing 13 card gin rummy with two recently met berthmates, one a man as old as my grandfather, another younger than myself. Even life in the shadow of mountains comes to seem normal, as you awake with reverence to the site of majestic heights outside your window, certainly worthy of worship in this land of a thousand deities.
From Darjeeling we spent three days in Sikkim, a province that feels as loosely connected to the India of the plains as its political history reflect. But the army battalions sent to keep the Chinese out are not actually so unwelcome from a traveler's perspective - not only are Sikkim's roads by far the best in India, but the self-congratulatory "Border Roads Organization" that builds them erects truly memorable road signs - "Better to be Mr. Late than Late Mr." is our personal favorite. We were also lucky to pass through Calcutta on the way back to Pune, though without adequate time to explore this amazing city where the British ruled their empire for so long and where the red flag of the communist party still hangs bright and viable. And now back on the road again, to the mountains to escape heat and trace down the meaning of prasad.
