We pass the last row of the concrete edifices and embark upon a kilometre-long road. To the natives, this is the ‘highway’ - the closest to the asphalt miracles of the big cities. This road is significant in another way. It connects suburban Siliguri to a timeless terrain uncorrupted by the demands of contemporary civilisation.
We’re an hour into the journey now. The landscape has changed, but the mist remains constant. A frail man sits on a parapet, his eyes fixed on a marijuana joint. He wears a cloak barely enough to cover himself. He takes a deep drag from his joint and glances at us, eyes glazed but content. He is oblivious to the cold. We, inside the car, of greater privileges shiver under ‘branded’ jackets. Thirty metres ahead, we come across a group of poor, road workers working hopelessly to repair a road. ‘Hopelessly,’ because the road they repair is irreparable. The women and the underaged children elicit sighs from the passengers. It is more pity than empathy. I am guilty of that offence too. Their bodies speak of malnourishment and hard times; but behind the face value I see a certain pride, a self-confidence that has hitherto escaped me. I feel a short, sharp pang of jealousy. I can’t help but look back at the marijuana man. He is but a silhouette now, a mystic figure living in the clouds. The picture’s appropriate.
The mist refuses to leave us, but the landscape (whatever we can make of it) is elevating, in all senses. The foliage is thicker. Trees grow with a freedom they should never be forced to let go of. The road seemingly has a life of its own, snaking to its destination. The river Teesta rages moderately. We cannot see it. We feel its power though. The driver, in all this madness, goes about his job unconcerned. It is just another day for him.
Two hours into the journey, the mountain ranges appear in the distant horizon. They are white, winter manifested in its truest form. The breeze is cold but homely. The houses are an amalgam of Scottish and native architecture, confusing to the untrained eye, but to a local like me a world within a world. I look through the windshield. The sky is blue. In front of me is the town of Kalimpong, exploding breathlessly into sunlit life.
Via: Wikipedia, Darjeelingnews
