It seems coincidental, but also somehow appropriate that I should have been talking about happiness quotient in my last entry before I left for a shoot on Dec 9, and visited the land of the highest happiness index right afterwards. Or maybe, as I have always believed, there is nothing like a coincidence…
So it was that I found myself in Assam, on a documentary shoot, and decided the shoot absolutely had to be followed up with some travel. You don’t travel all the way to a place like Assam, to only work. Its simply not done.
To begin with, I scouted around for company. I’ve never traveled alone (though I have a feeling that too is about to happen, like a number of other firsts in the recent past), and somehow didn’t relish the idea. I didn’t have to look far. A colleague and friend Ramesh, who was sound recordist on the same shoot, was more than enthusiastic. In fact, he had similar plans. Next we scouted around for potential destinations. I haven’t explored the North East, and therefore the choices were many. Assam itself had enough to offer, and then there was Arunachal, Nagaland, Sikkim, Meghalaya, Manipur… we could take our pick. And then we realized how close Bhutan was. That settled it for us.
Thus it was that we landed in this tiny Himlayan kingdom-nation, of a small population and high happiness quotient.
The journey to Bhutan was interesting enough. We were in Duburi district in Assam when some tribal groups called for a 1000 hour bandh. (I don’t remember the name of the organization, a pathetic reminder of how far removed we all are, or atleast I am, from the goings-on of the North east. Its truly shameful and I have no excuses to offer for my ignorance. Perhaps this subject warrants a separate entry.)
To avoid the bandh we started at 3 in the morning for Guwahati. Even though we were close enough to Bhutan in Duburi itself, information about how and where we should go was hard to come by. Helpful locals told us where we could cross the border from, but what then? We didn’t just want to cross the border. We wanted to go someplace, we just didn’t know what or where that might be. Internet connections were pathetically slow. All our attempts at sourcing information from the Net resulted in more or less the same few facts rehashed by various different websites. Finally we decided we had no choice but to return to Guwahati, and take a safer, if also long and circuitous, route to Bhutan.
So we spent a day in Guwahati surfing the net, finding out bus and train timings and finally rushing to the railway booking centre to book tickets to New Jalpaiguri in an overnight train. Miraculously we got tickets, for the same day, inspite of the ‘no availability’ that the website seemed to be professing. Moral of the story: in India, there’s always a catch, whether or not you know it, or are in a position to find it.
The rest of the evening was spent in preparing for the bitter cold we would find in Bhutan. We looked for thermal inner wear, and Ramya managed to find Jockey for himself soon enough. However, for some strange reason, shopkeepers in Guwahati seem to think that women don’t need branded thermal innerwear. Or atleast not of the Jockey variety. We also picked up monkey caps, something I haven’t ever actually seen anyone wear as monkey caps. Neither would we, though we used the caps extensively. If you’re wondering at the choice of monkey caps in particular, well, try finding a headgear warm and decent, without flowers or fake nike logos or badly imitated Che Guereva staring down at you, in Paltan Bazar in Guwahati, on a Sunday at 7 in the evening.
New Jalpaiguri is the train station nearest to Siliguri, a town that is the door to several North eastern states, as well as Bhutan. We landed there the next morning, a good two hours late, and headed straight for the bus station. After waiting at the Bhutan counter for two hours we were informed that the afternoon bus for Phuntsholing wouldn’t leave that day, owing to the strike. Apparently the 42 day strike had been called off, but another one called in its place. Thankfully this one was just a day long strike, and apparently it was our destiny to be hit by a strike after all. Gloomily Ramya and I roamed around Siliguri. We went to a monastery there and a school for Buddhist studies.
(An aside: walking around the monastery, in the lookout for some information about it, we came across a monk. We tried asking him what time the prayers happen, and if there were going to be any in the evening. We got a half hearted response from him, which prompted the first of Ramya’s one-liners, ‘this guy certainly hasn’t imbibed Buddhist values. He has a long way to go to monk-hood.’)
At the school for Buddhist studies we walked into a prayer class. There was a whole bunch of young monks, the youngest not more than 8 years or so, chanting various hymns. They were led by some older ones, and every once in awhile someone would play a wind instrument or strike a hanging drum. Another older monk was distributing sheets of hymns. The students had differing levels of concentration, some fidgeting in their seats, others rocking back and forth, and one actually yawned. I have attended a prayer session many years ago in a monastery in Ladakh, and it’s all very ordered. This was so different and equally fascinating. They all had cups and glasses, no two alike, in front of them. At one point a couple of monk-boys came in with big flasks which they held with a corner of their robes, and poured a hot liquid into them. We got two cups too, of the thin white liquid. It tasted like sweetened milk, diluted with water. I have had only cow and buffalo milk, and this was neither. Ramya left his after a couple of sips. I tried to be brave, but gave up halfway through the cup.
After awhile we decided to go back to the bus station, and began to explore the possibility of going to Phuntsholing by taxi and to look for other passengers to share the fare with. We so desperately wanted to sleep in Bhutan that night. Just then voila, Ramya heard a man yelling ‘Jaigaon’. (Jaigaon is the town to the Indian side of the border with Phuntsholing.) Yippee, we’re on our way.
Its about three and a half to four hours to Bhutan by bus, depending on the traffic on the highway, and the number of stops it makes on the way. On the way, Ramya got off once for a smoke and returned grinning and showing off an unfamiliar note, Bhutanese currency! In the towns close to the border, Bhutanese currency is accepted, almost common.
Jaigaon and Phuntsholing lie side by side, the border separating them, and a huge gate called the Bhutan gate providing the point of exchange of traffic. The passage between these two is free. Its quite a sight, and we both found it most delightful. We had multiple cups of tea at a tapri on the Indian side, next to the Bhutan gate, watching the steady stream of vehicles and people going to and fro. I was grinning foolishly the entire time.
(To be contd)
So it was that I found myself in Assam, on a documentary shoot, and decided the shoot absolutely had to be followed up with some travel. You don’t travel all the way to a place like Assam, to only work. Its simply not done.
 |
| Assam |
To begin with, I scouted around for company. I’ve never traveled alone (though I have a feeling that too is about to happen, like a number of other firsts in the recent past), and somehow didn’t relish the idea. I didn’t have to look far. A colleague and friend Ramesh, who was sound recordist on the same shoot, was more than enthusiastic. In fact, he had similar plans. Next we scouted around for potential destinations. I haven’t explored the North East, and therefore the choices were many. Assam itself had enough to offer, and then there was Arunachal, Nagaland, Sikkim, Meghalaya, Manipur… we could take our pick. And then we realized how close Bhutan was. That settled it for us.
Thus it was that we landed in this tiny Himlayan kingdom-nation, of a small population and high happiness quotient.
The journey to Bhutan was interesting enough. We were in Duburi district in Assam when some tribal groups called for a 1000 hour bandh. (I don’t remember the name of the organization, a pathetic reminder of how far removed we all are, or atleast I am, from the goings-on of the North east. Its truly shameful and I have no excuses to offer for my ignorance. Perhaps this subject warrants a separate entry.)
To avoid the bandh we started at 3 in the morning for Guwahati. Even though we were close enough to Bhutan in Duburi itself, information about how and where we should go was hard to come by. Helpful locals told us where we could cross the border from, but what then? We didn’t just want to cross the border. We wanted to go someplace, we just didn’t know what or where that might be. Internet connections were pathetically slow. All our attempts at sourcing information from the Net resulted in more or less the same few facts rehashed by various different websites. Finally we decided we had no choice but to return to Guwahati, and take a safer, if also long and circuitous, route to Bhutan.
So we spent a day in Guwahati surfing the net, finding out bus and train timings and finally rushing to the railway booking centre to book tickets to New Jalpaiguri in an overnight train. Miraculously we got tickets, for the same day, inspite of the ‘no availability’ that the website seemed to be professing. Moral of the story: in India, there’s always a catch, whether or not you know it, or are in a position to find it.
The rest of the evening was spent in preparing for the bitter cold we would find in Bhutan. We looked for thermal inner wear, and Ramya managed to find Jockey for himself soon enough. However, for some strange reason, shopkeepers in Guwahati seem to think that women don’t need branded thermal innerwear. Or atleast not of the Jockey variety. We also picked up monkey caps, something I haven’t ever actually seen anyone wear as monkey caps. Neither would we, though we used the caps extensively. If you’re wondering at the choice of monkey caps in particular, well, try finding a headgear warm and decent, without flowers or fake nike logos or badly imitated Che Guereva staring down at you, in Paltan Bazar in Guwahati, on a Sunday at 7 in the evening.
New Jalpaiguri is the train station nearest to Siliguri, a town that is the door to several North eastern states, as well as Bhutan. We landed there the next morning, a good two hours late, and headed straight for the bus station. After waiting at the Bhutan counter for two hours we were informed that the afternoon bus for Phuntsholing wouldn’t leave that day, owing to the strike. Apparently the 42 day strike had been called off, but another one called in its place. Thankfully this one was just a day long strike, and apparently it was our destiny to be hit by a strike after all. Gloomily Ramya and I roamed around Siliguri. We went to a monastery there and a school for Buddhist studies.
(An aside: walking around the monastery, in the lookout for some information about it, we came across a monk. We tried asking him what time the prayers happen, and if there were going to be any in the evening. We got a half hearted response from him, which prompted the first of Ramya’s one-liners, ‘this guy certainly hasn’t imbibed Buddhist values. He has a long way to go to monk-hood.’)
At the school for Buddhist studies we walked into a prayer class. There was a whole bunch of young monks, the youngest not more than 8 years or so, chanting various hymns. They were led by some older ones, and every once in awhile someone would play a wind instrument or strike a hanging drum. Another older monk was distributing sheets of hymns. The students had differing levels of concentration, some fidgeting in their seats, others rocking back and forth, and one actually yawned. I have attended a prayer session many years ago in a monastery in Ladakh, and it’s all very ordered. This was so different and equally fascinating. They all had cups and glasses, no two alike, in front of them. At one point a couple of monk-boys came in with big flasks which they held with a corner of their robes, and poured a hot liquid into them. We got two cups too, of the thin white liquid. It tasted like sweetened milk, diluted with water. I have had only cow and buffalo milk, and this was neither. Ramya left his after a couple of sips. I tried to be brave, but gave up halfway through the cup.
After awhile we decided to go back to the bus station, and began to explore the possibility of going to Phuntsholing by taxi and to look for other passengers to share the fare with. We so desperately wanted to sleep in Bhutan that night. Just then voila, Ramya heard a man yelling ‘Jaigaon’. (Jaigaon is the town to the Indian side of the border with Phuntsholing.) Yippee, we’re on our way.
Its about three and a half to four hours to Bhutan by bus, depending on the traffic on the highway, and the number of stops it makes on the way. On the way, Ramya got off once for a smoke and returned grinning and showing off an unfamiliar note, Bhutanese currency! In the towns close to the border, Bhutanese currency is accepted, almost common.
Jaigaon and Phuntsholing lie side by side, the border separating them, and a huge gate called the Bhutan gate providing the point of exchange of traffic. The passage between these two is free. Its quite a sight, and we both found it most delightful. We had multiple cups of tea at a tapri on the Indian side, next to the Bhutan gate, watching the steady stream of vehicles and people going to and fro. I was grinning foolishly the entire time.
(To be contd)
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