Up The Hill — Darjeeling Day 1
The Jayakumars, who have been residents of Chennai, a sultry seashore city with one season, since 2001, have always had an inclination towards hill stations while planning their vacations. Back in 2003, having spent a few days each in Ooty and Kodaikanal in the last two summer vacations, we had our eyes set on a famous hill station fondly called “Queen Of The Hills”.
Now people from South India, including myself, might be confused over what location I am talking about here. Down south, that term refers to Ooty. But apparently, the term is more widely used to describe Darjeeling. As it turns out, Mussoorie is also known by the same name. Well at least there aren’t three places that go by the name Darjeeling or Ooty or Mussoorie like how there are eleven places that share the same name as the fifth largest city in the USA — Philadelphia.
I’m not entirely sure why we didn’t get to make the trip to Darjeeling that year. Over the years, we have gone further north to Manali but never got to accomplish the Darjeeling plan (first world problems, am I right?). Darjeeling was to us what Goa is to most groups of friends, what Pondicherry is to my group of friends, what chocolates are to dogs, what winter is to Chennai — unlikely to get together.
This year, after weighing our options, we decided to make that Darjeeling vacation plan work — a five-day trip starting roughly around the start of the new decade.
We were out by 3:30AM to catch a flight to Bagdogra departing at 5:55AM. For a five-day trip, we did pack heavy. We carried a total weight of about 45kgs. As we reached the domestic terminal of Chennai’s Meenambakkam airport, my brother and I, who have been more used to the bus terminal lookalike international terminal, were in for a gleeful surprise. The domestic terminal looked far more sophisticated, with a newly opened floor that had a couple of good restaurants. Everything aside, I could find an actual difference between this terminal and Chennai’s Koyambedu bus terminal (not sure if this is a compliment to the bus stand or an insult to the airport but I appreciate the consistency in quality).
We had what can only be described as a post midnight snack at 4:30AM at ID, a south Indian cuisine restaurant. It is understandable that the idlis were a little dry, given that the chances of them being fresh at this time of the day is quite low. After a long airport bus ride, we finally got into the SpiceJet flight. Fifteen minutes into the flight, we were served a small breakfast package that contained a masala dosa, a mini onion utthappam and a mini sambhar idli. I wondered who would have a masala dosa so early in the morning and in a flight. But SpiceJet made sure it wasn’t edible enough to be consumed in its entirety, thus saving their passengers from this quandary.
We landed at Bagdogra around 8:20AM. An announcement on landing informed the passengers that photography is prohibited in the premises. As we walked to the entrance of this relatively small airport, I began to take my words back on Meenambakkam airport. But in Bagdogra’s defense, it served mainly as a defense airport apparently. Such airports don’t necessarily need a highly cosmetic look. As we walked out of the airport, a cool breeze at 14°C welcomed us. We had to wait a few minutes for our guide, Paravu, to find us. We walked through a gigantic parking lot, which could hold probably 90–100 four-wheeler vehicles. It seemed ironic, given how the airport could probably entertain 90–100 people in it.
Off we were on a 4.5 hour trip up the hill. The dusty town of Bagdogra was filled with ironies, much like its airport. I came across a fertilizer shop which was also a soil pollution control and testing laboratory. A stationery shop right next to a high school had a hoarding that read “statonary”. There were plenty of open grounds on our route and all of them were filled with children and young adults playing football. Not a single bat or tennis/cricket ball to be seen.
As we inclined up the hill, the roads got extremely narrow and increasingly steep. So steep were the roads that it reminded me of the song in Masss, with Suriya climbing and walking over all four walls. The space between two sides of a path is quite broad but the road occupies only part of it. Since the famous toy train to and fro Siliguri is also functioning, there is a small train track running along the road on one side.
Darjeeling is a fairly wet place with moderate to heavy annual rainfall. For two-way traffic on a narrow road, the heavy rainfall would make moving around the hill difficult and dangerous. But that’s where the civil engineers and policy makers have been proactive. All through the hill, every road is slightly curved — one edge of the road curved downwards to a drain on the side opposite the rail track, which ensures that the road doesn’t hold water and makes it easier for the roads to dry.
During the slow, jumpy and steep journey uphill, I witnessed many anti-CAA and anti-NRC posters on walls. A conspicuous air of a recently dispersed protest filled the foggy hill station as I witnessed quite a few placards that were thrown astray on the sides of the road and on buildings.
Paravu was getting restless and rightfully so. Driving an Innova uphill with two-way traffic on a road slightly broader than a single lane is probably the only other action that would make Rahul Dravid fling his honourable cap on the ground. So he stopped at a small motel for tea. I’m sure most of you know that Darjeeling is quite famous for its tea. And trust me, we were told so way too many times. We had to call for tea about 4 times before we got a hot pot on our table. Apparently, you order chai in this district on a pot basis and not a cup basis. One pot serves four. We had the much fought-for chai and ended up regretting our efforts for it. It tasted like what you’d get when you take a tea bag, dip it in hot water for a few minutes and then as you stir the tea, you deliberately add salt.
We reached Hotel Mayfair by around 2PM. As we entered the reception, a very kind and courteous receptionist welcomed each of us with a yellow nylon shawl with the hotel logo on it. The location and architecture of the hotel were spot on — lots of ups and downs, with each room being decorated differently. While I was looking around, another receptionist stood in front of us with a platter containing a pot and four cups.
“Complimentary darjeeling tea?”, he asked. We all have that friend’s house or relative’s house where everyone is proud of their coffee/tea/sweet/snack when it is in fact substandard. You don’t want to kill their excitement but would do anything short of that to avoid the ordeal.
“Yes, thank you!” As I brought the cup closer to my lips, I could sense that the aroma was different. I took a sip. And it tasted delightful. I was torn now. Was this tea particularly good or was the previous one particularly bad?
We were taken to our room, which was a floor below the reception but not exactly basement. That is the good part of staying at a hillside hotel. There is no concept of levels that one can stick to. As we entered the room, I was struck with a sense of déjà vu. An oval shaped room predominantly furnished with wood. Barring the television, this room reminded me of the ones in the Allepey boathouse.
We were late to the lunch buffet and most of the dishes were nearing completion. They were not going to refill the empty tubs as it was almost closing time. I had gone into the mountain-facing restaurant hoping to find some authentic Bengali food only to find functional North Indian and Italian dishes. The quality was fine though! We ordered a Cheese Garlic Naan. I’ve had Cheese Naan and Garlic Naan but not this combination.
I’ve had Cheese Naan in multiple restaurants and the cheese was always stuffed inside the dough. This was literally Cheese Garlic Bread made with Naan instead and oh how light were they! Naan is generally tougher than the other Indian breads but these were amazingly soft. They were light as air and melted in a jiffy inside my mouth. As I was enjoying the melting cheesy naan, I looked up to see this odd looking object. A twisted-blade-wall-hanging-giant-table-fan-ventilator-mini-windmill appliance. I quite did not understand what the purpose was, but I was too hungry to care. I’ll figure that out later.
Since the sun starts descending around 4PM in January, most of the sightseeing stops by then. We had the rest of the evening to ourselves, which we spent playing table tennis and billiards where I had my ass handed to me by my mom and my brother (both had just learnt to play the respective games) respectively. The temperature dropped drastically through the evening but was not yet biting cold.
We socialized with another family, who pointed us to a place called Tieedi Forest Garden and swayed us away from plans to visit the famous Mirik lake. Since it was 01/01, the management arranged for a campfire in the lobby next to the reception with some really good song and dance performances displaying a mix of local tradition and generic Bollywood.
The campfire was preceded by a high tea with Bengali snacks. They served us Ghugni and Puchka. Both the dishes hit surprisingly close to home.
Puchka is the Bengali term for Golgappa. After a brief conversation with another guest, I understood that Golgappa and Pani Puri are different dishes. What we call Pani Puri in Chennai is generally called Golgappa in the north and Puchka in the east. It is actually hard to find proper Pani Puri in Chennai, as it turns out.
Ghugni is a South Indian Medu Vadai with Channa Masala over it, garnished with onions, sev and coriander. Back in SSN College of Engineering where I completed my Bachelor’s degree (or they say I did), there was a store that was run predominantly by people from the Northern parts of India. As other canteens popped up around the campus, the competition went sky high towards the end of 2016. In an effort to retain customers, this store started selling “Sambhar Vadai”. Inquisitive, my foodie daredevil friend and I decided to try it out. The ingredients of what we had that day, as it turns out, were quite similar to Ghugni. The only difference — current-day Ghugni did not attempt to shut my digestive system down.
As the day descended to a close, with my leg hanging out of the comforter, I was staring at the ceiling asking myself one question — “do the chills hit you harder as the altitude increases?” It is probably a dumb question. But definitely not as dumb as having a campfire in a semi-open lobby right next to the reception that is furnished with varnished wood.
