Eight of us stood in the midst of the Himalayas in Sikkim, Northeast
India, looking uncertainly at the landslide before us. The storm had
moved great chunks of mud and rock downwards, birthing a gushing
waterfall that blocked the road and surged down the mountain with a
resounding roar. The travel agency had told us there would be a jeep
waiting for us on the other side. If we get to the other side at all, I
thought to myself, looking at the steep drop. Army men had gathered at
the site to help travellers across.
A loud bang suddenly shook
all of us, and instinctively, we ducked behind the jeeps. ‘Terrorists!’
screamed my mother. Slightly amused by this dramatic outburst, the army
guys explained to us that an alternative way was being built and that
was the sound of the dynamite. We stood a few feet away from the
waterfall, the spray already starting to wet our clothes. Our cook, a
tall, burly man, who was accompanying us on our journey from Gangtok to
Lachung, went first. He accidentally knocked his bottle of kerosene
against a rock and the lid disappeared, demonstrating to us a possible
fate. My brother, adventure-hungry as always, started heroically wading
across the water. I, mumbling prayers to myself, gingerly stepped
forward on a mossy rock. I slipped, and of that one second, I only
remember the noise and the horror of finding nothing to hold on to. But
almost immediately, I felt myself being hauled up quickly by a pair of
strong arms and I found (to the delight of my 13-year old mind) myself
looking into the eyes of an army jawan. There was no time for a
fairytale romance, though--I was deftly carried across and deposited on
the other side--he got back to business. By then, my brother had managed
to get my parents, my aunt and uncle across. Our guide, a Gorkha man,
lightly skipped across the slippery rocks like it was child's play.
Once
on the other side, we spent some time grinning stupidly at each other,
triumph and relief reflected on all our faces. We swapped stories and
pleasantries with other travellers. While we waited for our pick-ups, we
took in the scene once again, slowly and in awe. Rugged mountains
surrounded us, with white streams of water surging through them.
Snow-capped peaks lay in the distance and there was an ominous stillness
in the air. We sat by the side of the road on our suitcases, and
watched the crowd disappear in lots into their vehicles. An hour passed
and there was no sign of our jeep. We were the only ones left. My dad
and uncle walked down the road but didn't come across any signs of
civilization. Our unspoken fears manifested themselves in irate
exchanges. ‘The kerosene smells,’ said my dad crossly. ‘The lid fell
off,’ I informed him. ‘It smells terrible,’ he complained, ‘Close it.’
‘We're going to get eaten up by wild animals,’ whispered my mother. ‘You
never know what's gonna come out of the trees.’ I hoped for a yeti. The
clouds darkened and hung above us threateningly. It was still early
evening, but we were enveloped in the thickest of greys. Strange
unfamiliar sounds penetrated the air--birds, animals and insects--adding
to our nervousness. ‘There may be tigers around,’ my mother said. ‘No
tigers here,' our guide supplied helpfully. 'Only bears.'
We
huddled together miserably, lost in reveries of our sane, safe lives at
home. A couple of hours later, we heard a dull drone in the distance. It
grew louder and an army jeep appeared. We flagged it down frantically
and explained our situation to the driver. He was on duty and was going
downhill. Looking at our desperate faces, he offered to hitch us a ride,
provided we didn't reveal ourselves at the check-points. We all crammed
into the backseat, the giant of a cook stepping on my little toe. All
through the journey, I scowled at him. He, in turn, held the kerosene
bottle close to dad’s nose and our Gorkha man hummed Nepali songs
cheerfully. A good five hours later, we reached Lachung, a sleeping
village that welcomed us into an idyllic cottage with the river Teesta
rippling through the frontyard. Our cook, forgetting his sullenness,
beamed at all of us and went on to prepare a delightful, warm and
well-deserved dinner.
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