For ‘idiotes’ away from the modern world jargon,
perambulating in silence is paragliding decamp parachute. It’s a difficult task
indeed, even in dreams. Promenades are scarce and silence expensive. Each time
you visit a known place, your thoughts are saddened with the new moronic
concrete that has evolved without resistance. Whereas for the intelligent
gasbag circumambulating in made to order royal gardens is his relaxing
arrogate endeavour.
Burmaik en route Kalimpong from Rangpoo via Munsong
cherishes simple ‘home-stay’s facing mighty Kangchendzonga. Rainbows seem
frequent in rarefied rascal air increasing your rapacity. Teesta flows like an
enormous ophidian down below blue hills. Here silence is in plentiful.
Endorphin flows effortlessly making ten- kilometre walks spasm free. In June,
when it rains, thickly populated pines make vibrations seeking soul mates.
Clouds make lose your loved ones, promising reinventions across hand’s breadth.
Omnipotent presence of silence only intensifies the sound emanating from your
moving body inviting embarrassment. A bunch of school goers breaks the complete
lack of sound putting my endurance to shame.
At four forty in the morning I rise, to opiate myself with
the nature’s tyranny. The white giant in front of my window kept changing its
colourful robe not paying a heed. But soon the rain came down like an organdie
spoiling my awe and the orography in front of my balcony.
Burmaik’s ostentatious presence on national highway 31A
close to Sikkim’s border seemed fragile. My brothers from metropolis are not
that good in conserving memories, I believe. Lush green opulent hills bounding
serpentine tar make cars stop. But with it come empty bottles and tobacco
wrappers. The poorly literate cinchona plantation workers know that. It’s their
place where they were born and where they idle away their evenings after a
tiring days work five kilometres down the hill. The Shiva temple up thousand
odd stairs does bring brisk business during festive month without much harming
the warble and the falaise around. The ‘Kokomhendo’ is still a produce
expanding its foliage. This small deciduous tree (Oroxylum Indicum), found in
the lower heights of Sikkim (unaware of
the boundary that restricts Burmaik to be a part of Kalimpong subdivision and not Sikkim) gives
birth to big two feet long sword shaped fruits. Large purplish flowers beautify
the tree in May and June. Flat seeds have broad, white tracing paper like
wings. These wings are sacred to the people of Sikkim. So sacred that it
ornaments the Buddhist temples and even bond the newly wed. Its juice also
calms down the fiery throat when fever and cough strikes. The pharmaceutical
companies are aware of its medicinal properties. You are aware of the story of Basmati
rice by now.
On the third day morning we decided to say good by to Arun
Khaling in whose ‘home-stay’ we were cared and protected like the very best
seven star ones that I had never visited and never would do so. Khaling’s wife
was expecting her first child when we bid a tearful escape. This broad
shouldered, tall, fair complexioned lady kept smiling the same way she did on
the very first day but with a saddened eye she cared not to hide. Khaling
reluctantly stopped a car that was heading Kalimpong to let us in on a shared
trip. After I had secured my trolley bag in the carrier it suddenly struck me
that I had carelessly thrown a chocolate wrapper in the home-stay. I hurriedly
went back to hide it in my pocket. The little one will be there in August,
reminding me of Tagore’s Balai and the hills should not be in
torpor.
