By Anand Gurung

Two things over the past few weeks reminded me of a journey I had made four years ago.

Firstly, it was a six-hour long motorcycle ride to Daman, a place situated 2322m (7616ft) above the sea level south-west of Kathmandu, to revel in the alpine surroundings and about a meter deep snow that had fallen there. It was this place where, excited by the sudden glut of snow for the first time in my life and perhaps the most spectacular view of the Himalayas I have had till now, I thought as if I was in Darjeeling for a moment and had strangely enough begun to compare the two places with each other.

Secondly, it was the framed b/w photograph of Sunny Rauniyar – in an old photo-studio in Putalisadak I usually pass by on my way to office these days – kept next to the photos of other Nepali film actresses who have since vanished from the industry and have gone into oblivion. The photograph where Sunny Rauniyar – fresh, pretty, 20-something – is wearing a black T-shirt and a soft smile in her unblemished face, absurdly seems more like a tribute to the bygone age where she — along with Karishma Manandhar, Kristi K.C, Gauri Pradhan and others– was the screen sensation of an upcoming and promisingg Nepali cine industry. Her photograph also reminded me of our chance meeting and conversation in Darjeeling, and memories of the journey I had made four years ago came back running to me.

That winter morning my friend had telephoned me and asked if I would like to accompany him on a journey to Darjeeling. It was a cold winter in Kathmandu and going to Darjeeling meant bracing up for more cold and freezing weather. I told him that you don’t want to be there in winter and that it was not a pleasant idea. I had last been there way back in the late winter of 1985 and since had formed a view that although it was a charming place to be, but during the winters the country had less of the sun making the place very cold and gloomy; and being there was very depressing.

But the thoughts were returning there. I quietly leaned back on my bed and tried to remember my sojourn in Darjeeling. It came in hurriedly but was very frayed and all I could make out clearly was the house of an old friend of my grandfather where we had stayed as guests. The house was near North Point School and quiet, steep trails led you down to it. It was a very modest timbered house: simple, yet well maintained with assortment of flowers lined neatly in its balcony and hanging from it. I remembered it overlooked a deep gorge, which was always shrouded with mist, except in sunny days when it was tea plantation and green hills and the cable car slowly making its way up the steep hills.

I could not remember much about the town, only that it was all squelchy and cold with winter rain most of our stay there. The dull narrow streets with old and tatty houses standing beside them, the secluded residences amidst tall trees, the town all foggy and walking around it was as if like stirring in the midst of the clouds. I began to wonder how it was like now. During these past years I had heard a lot about Darjeeling and many of it was very sad. But I was sure that those hard times of Gorkhaland agitation was thing of the past now. As I reflected upon all this the feeling of revisiting Darjeeling grew within me in a subtle way, after some moment I realized that it was a longing, as one wishes to return to old haunts. I willed myself somewhat hesitantly to phone my friend and said, ‘you know Darjeeling sounds great’.

We caught the Darjeeling bound train from the squalid station of Siliguri after a sleepless overnight bus journey from Kathmandu. The drive up in the train high in the mountains, high above Siliguri was exciting and all through the journey we watched the beautiful country.

We reached Darjeeling when part of the sun got behind the mountains. The train slowly passed through the outskirts of the town following the twisted blacktopped road. Finally the train pulled in at a little station. We jumped off the train into the cemented platform. We then walked into a small restaurant and got us warm teas and shared some cigarettes. It was very cold and mist had settled over the town and this seemed to give the impression of a town as if lying deep in gloom – just like when it was on my last visit.

After the rain stopped we came into the center of the town walking down the narrow ruined street that went a long way through juxtaposition of houses, ruinous buildings and array of shops. It was nearly dark, so we decided to check-in a hotel. We got a nice one a little way from the market. It was cheerful and clean and our room’s window looked out into the market below and the bright lights from the town’s top ridge. After having a slight meal, we felt sleepy and tired and flopped into our beds. It rained all that night.

Early next morning we got up and went outside to see the town. It was cold, foggy morning, the dew settled in our heads and the cheeks felt coarse with hands. The narrow streets were grubby with yesterday’s rain. We went around the hill cart road and saw it come alive with the frenetic bustle and noise of people and traffic. I felt the town different and changed from the last time I visited this place. Back then it was a quaint sleepy little town with a laid back air in its character, but now I saw it slowly losing itself among rapid unplanned urbanization. It was very congested – much like as if Kathmandu’s Ason bazaar had been dolloped upon this once beautiful little town.

The sun swung up finally in the mid noon and it saw us exploring all there was to see in Darjeeling – as our escort had put it. He worked in the hotel where we had stayed and had taken the afternoon leave to walk us around the town. With him we roamed around the town and it brought back vague memories of my earlier visit. Then he took us to the magnificent Lloyd’s botanical gardens where assortments of flowers and shrubs greeted you and it felt pleasant there. We also visited the Zoological Park and the Himalayan museum just across from it, while all the time marveling at the elegant little cottages and bungalows of the town’s British past that are scattered all around the hill.

(To be contd…)