Memories of Shillong

It was a late morning near the Rumtek monastery in Sikkim - blue autumnal skies, a staggeringly beautiful monastery gracing the overwhelming mountains and an immensely friendly people made every moment feel like paradise. (Add to it a brunch of pahadi chicken and strong ginger tea and you can wonder what 24 carat memories are made of).

Feeling peace and joy, I wondered continuously how charming it must be to live in these mountains. There seemed peace in every view, a smile on every lip. You see, after years of being exiled in books and I-have-to-top-this-time-too exams, I had gone for a holiday in the hills, ignorant that a deep-seated yet forgotten love for the mountains was about to be rekindled. 

I saw a bunch of school kids happily returning from school while walking on a hilly slope, each armed with a pine cone or a cedar branch as his choice of weaponry. I couldn’t help wish aloud how delightful it must be to go to school in the hills - what with these delightful views on the way and back, along with the overall charms of a small town world. It was then that I saw my sister give me that ‘really’ look.

‘What?’ I couldn’t help asking.

‘You were in their shoes too!’

‘When?’

‘How can you forget Shillong?’

The last word froze time, while releasing the floodgates of childhood memories. The key was hidden all these years in an urban teenage life, that thrived on aims and ambitions, friends and families. Which is what is normal. It is only in growing old that we feel the need to slow down, to contemplate, to let aloneness sink inside a wearied soul. But on that day, the college-going me was happy to feel old enough to look back. 

And I recollected that I too, used to walk on hills and vales to reach school. Every morning, I had to don a white shirt, navy blue pants and sweaters to start for school. But that was not all - the uniform was complete only with rubber boots and a raincoat in hand. The wettest place on earth had a record to keep, and that meant, sudden rains. Didn’t matter if the sky was graced by a sparkling sun or moody clouds, it was a matter of seconds for the rains to descend. And if you were unlucky, then the pelting hails. Thus dressed and armed with a waterproof Duckback bag, the walk to school would commence - first through the end of the bustling Laban bazar and then, thankfully, far from all those crowds, into the valley. (The only shop I would look forward to was a toy store that had a bunch of Hot wheels cars). To cross a bridge on a gurgling stream, and then to climb again on the edge of the hills. To see our little school, aptly named ‘Tiny Tots’ at the far end of yet another valley. 

Many a day had I spent mesmerised on that wooden bridge - the swirling waters creating frothy patterns on a shallow river bed was a delight for a five year old. So was seeing the hailstones plunge into the waters, only to resurface defiantly to further float away. Or seeking the pale blue morning glories on the way to school. If you were lucky, then bright red false strawberries would be scattered on the jade green grasses on the way to school. 

There was even more, once I could come back home - A big sprawling garden overlooking the hills and markets, and filled with rusty leaves that crunched with every step, a tall plum tree that showed gratitude in every season, my father’s maize plants that would grow corns in abundance and to add that sense of mystery so needed for a little kid - the entrance to a dark brooding cave at one end of the garden that I could never dare to enter once in two years! On weekends, I could spend hours in that garden, waking ahead of everyone else, to watch the mists retreat with the growing sun, to secretly eat that last piece of chocolate before mom could wake up, and to round up a bunch of fresh petunias. If I was too bored, I would search for miniature broken locks, of which the garden seemed to have a lot of, and which prompted me to make a story of the mysterious lock-plant that grew in the cave. And then, there were the rains - a lot of it, that always added a sense of freshness to the air and plenty of waterfalls to the hills. Weekend evenings would often be a walk in the hills, in search of these waterfalls, besides mom’s search for pudina and other herbs that grew on the hillside. 

Every child loves rains and nature - but Shillong gifted it in such abundance that I believe it spoiled me for the rest of life. Even today, I love the rains - chilly winter rains or summer relief rains, matters not. Even today, I skip work to sit alone on a sandstone cliff and watch the day pass by, the cloudier the better. Even today, if I go to a small town and smell that rain-washed freshness or feel the warmth of a gentle autumn sun, I have just one name to recollect. 

Perhaps Shillong shook that foundation so hard that it will be difficult to raise a skyscraper of endless rat-race-ness within. There won’t be much then, but if that minimalism includes a wooden log cabin in the hills that secretly romances the mists in the morning, perhaps I will still be a happy man. Just like those children near Rumtek from decades back, laughing and singing in infectious peace that only the mountains can bestow…

7th April, 2021