RHODODENDRONS AND THE MIST.

Part I

The Eastern Himalaya is replete with the enigmatic beauty of wild flowers, notably Rhododendron, towards the end of the interminable long winter and the arrival of spring, the type of beauty that would inspire Wordsworth’s poetry. It is claimed that Sir Joseph D. Hooker, a well-known explorer, visited Sikkim soon after British occupation began. His Sikkim trip (1848–49) is widely renowned for its description of the region's flora is claimed to have depended heavily on Lepchas for plant gathering and related expertise since he believed Lepchas' information to be the most authentic. The Lepchas seem to have a name for almost every plant found in their homeland. Hooker, too, may have felt a sense of tranquillity from the landscapes and variety of Rhododerons that the Eastern Hilmalaya nurtures.

My peer Shreya and I started our trek to Srikhola or "Sirikhola" in native dialect, this spring. Around 60 kilometres from the heart of Darjeeling town via vehicle, and a 1.5 hour uphill hike gets us to Sirikhola hamlet, where mules still carry the supplies to the households along the off-route upwards. The Siri spring murmurs its way to meet the Rammam river a few hundred feet below, where a bridge sits. Many Tibetan prayer flags flutter in the frigid air of the Sirikhola Bridge, as we stand on the opposite side of the brink, ready to begin the steep climb uphill.

On the uppermost part of the village, lies a home of an elderly gentleman full of anecdotes and his hair all grey from years of grazing the Yak across the Indo-Nepal border. A man full of barter and trade adventures, riding the horses all the way to Phalut on Singalila National Park. They have recently turned their wooden cottage into Sherpa Top homestay that can comfortably accommodate five trekkers at a time. As we arrive at the exact moment of the Losar (Tibetan New Year) to document Sherpa culture, we get to savor the culture, cuisine, and beverages. As a Darjeelingey, I am well accustomed with the traditional drink such as Channgu and Tongba, but yak meat seemed absurd to me, and to our delight, the very evening they prepared Yak meat's Momo, on the occasion of Losar. Two men fairly in their mid twenties, hospitable and well equipped with cooking skills came to help the houselady with the preparation of Momo. With countless conversations with them, my friend and I assisted them in making momo; at this time, I overheard them mentioning how rare yak meat is and how beneficial it is for health, considering yak obtains necessary herbs when grazing on the field.

A modest courtyard kitchen is a characteristic of rural houses in the hills, as we were served Tongba in an aluminium vessel with a bamboo straw; to keep up with conversation, one must refill the vessel with hot water. We sat around the hearth on a Mura (stool) constructed of bamboo and sheep's hide by local craftsmen, as opposed to the plastic ones seen in markets. Four feet above the oven that burned day and night the strips of Yak meat, bundles of corn, and a long black Yak tail and other dried herbs were hung. Daily utensils had gone black and grey from the smoke of the hearth. The Finger dotted pattern of white flour on the blackened shelves and front door functioned as a decoration for Losar, the traditional method of adorning houses that had begun far beyond the modern way of painting walls.

I spotted a faded oil lamp near the hearth, and a guy on his twenties excitedly informed me how they grew up with as darkness fell, the fact that it has only been three years since electricity reached to the Sirikhola hamlet. Several sizes of Khukuri hung beside a window, as did a white and red Nepali calendar with English digits and a month that read March, 2022. A grey cat named Munni with droopy lids lay close to the fireplace. Aside from the indoor kitchen, where we went only to eat our meals, all of the social gatherings, yak herding stories, and a family's heritage were laid out around the hearth, arousing with smoke and warmth the place holds.