I should start by apologizing to my avid readers (all three of them) who must be wondering why they didn’t get my newsletter this past Wednesday. I was travelling for most of last week (more on that later) and didn’t have enough time to compose anything cogent by Wednesday. Also, I figured that, unlike me, most of you are honest workers contributing to society and thus, busy with work during the weekdays. Perhaps you’d prefer to indulge my prattling, on the weekends?
So, henceforth, this newsletter will be in your inbox on Saturday mornings for you to peruse at leisure. If you are a corporate lawyer you can find the meaning of ‘leisure’ here. (Hint: It is not something you can bill clients for.)
And with that out of the way, let’s get to this week’s issue!
Until last week, I had never experienced snow. Well, that’s not entirely accurate. When I was a child, we had one of those refrigerators where the freezer would gradually accumulate frost and had to be physically scraped clean every few weeks. The top layer of frost would normally be loose and powdery. I would scoop it up in my bare hands, trying to shape it into iceballs - there was rarely enough and it soon melted. Below this sandy layer lay solid ice glued to the metal casing of the freezer. We would arm ourselves with blunt knives, spoons, forks and hack at the ice to remove it chunk by chunk. By the time we were done, my hands would be numb from the cold but I wouldn’t care. I loved this defrosting exercise.
For the next two decades, defrosting the freezer would remain the highlight of my icy adventures. This, I should clarify, was not for a lack of trying. A couple of years ago, my wife and I planned a two-week-long stay in Mussoorie in December, thinking we’d be there for the season’s first snowfall. Little did we know then, how cruel fate could be. There was no snowfall during our stay. The morning we were to leave Mussoorie and head home, it started to rain. As we wound our way down the hills, the cab driver cheerfully proclaimed, “Lag raha hai aj snowfall hoga. (Looks like there’ll be snowfall today.)” I stifled a cry and he shot us a startled look. He was a perceptive man and understood that talking about impending snowfall, was a topic best avoided. The rest of the cab ride was spent in grim silence. The next day, news outlets reported the season’s first snowfall in Mussoorie.
My next almost-encounter with snow was even more galling. Last year, I (along with my wife and a friend) was in Manali for a week in October. My friend and I were participating in the Solang Sky Ultra1. During our trip, we planned a visit to Rohtang Pass. It is a popular tourist spot (more than 13,000 feet above sea level) and snow-covered for most of the year. Except, of course, in October.
We spotted a raggedy carpet of ice on a nearby cliff and desperate as I was to see snow, we decided to head there. Some of the local vendors urged us to rent and wear snowsuits but we scoffed at them. The snowsuits were hideous. We were also much too haughty to sit on mules and be ferried like some of the other tourists, so we started hiking to the cliff. We were halfway to the cliff when the wind suddenly hit puberty and transformed into a gale. It whipped around us, ripping prayer flags to shreds and cutting into our bones. The snow line was only a few minutes away but we couldn’t carry on and decided to turn back. Other tourists enveloped in those cursed snowsuits and plonked atop mules, continued serenely on their way to the cliff. I took solace from the fact that even if they got to see snow, they would look hideous in all their photographs.
These were the traumatic memories of near-misses we carried, when we travelled to Sikkim last week, cautiously hoping that this time we will find snow.
The first thing we heard when we landed in Bagdogra and took a cab to Gangtok, was that it’d been snowing heavily in many parts of Sikkim. Our hearts soared. We had planned a trip to Tsongmo Lake and Nathu La Pass, which were bound to be snowscaped. As luck would have it, they were a tad too snowscaped. In fact, they were snowed out as the heavy snowfall had resulted in road closures. Thus thwarted yet again, the next day we left for Lachung, in North Sikkim.
The cloudy weather in Gangtok had denied us a view of the mighty Kanchenjunga, so we finally saw the Himalayan range emerge on the horizon, on our way to Lachung. The first glimpse of a snow-capped Himalayan peak is always awe-inspiring. No matter how many times I’ve seen them, those mountains never fail to invoke a sense of wonder and disquiet in me; there is little else that can make you feel so small, so insignificant. But this time, there was also a tinge of disappointment. We had already been told that while it wasn’t snowing in Lachung, the areas further north were inaccessible. In scarcely believable irony, it seemed we would once again be frustrated because there had been too much snow.
Perhaps sensing our moroseness, our empathetic guide offered to take us on a drive higher into the mountains. We readily agreed and set off in the late afternoon, not daring to hope. This would be an ideal time to unleash the cliches about the clouds parting to reveal the sun (or snow, in this case), but truth be told, nothing of that sort happened. There was no epiphany, no denouement. If anything, it was mesmeric, a moment suspended in time. Small clumps of snow on the ground we excitedly pointed at, became larger and seemed to grow on the trees as we drove uphill. At some point, we looked around wide-eyed and noticed that it had started snowing. Tiny, grainy, feather-like snow was falling around us. We stopped near a narrow bridge, with a stream gurgling under it and snow all around. It was bordering on the fantastical. We were in heaven.
This alone would have been enough for us, but the snow-gates were now open. The next morning was spent in another snowy locale and that afternoon, it started snowing in Lachung. Not the wispy, brief snowfall of the previous evening but proper snowfall. Big, fluffy globules of snow fell from the sky infusing magic into the scene. Overnight, bare trees and rooftops turned white. Lachung was transformed into an enchanting picture-book, a winter wonderland.
We didn’t end up going to any of the places we had originally planned to visit in Sikkim, but we didn’t care. Our quest to find snow was finally over. The curse had well and truly been lifted.
P.S.: I cannot help but think about the fact that as I write about frolicking in the snow, there is a war being waged in a different part of the world. There have been countless instances of global violence and terrorism in the recent past, but the armed invasion of a country is egregious and shocking. Let’s hope for better sense to prevail soon.
I don't know if I am one of the 3 regular readers but I am fast becoming a fan of your writing style 😉 keep posting such wonderfully written articles