The call of Kanchenjunga

 

Do you recollect any particular moment, so captivating, that you keep going back to that memory, time and again, in both good times and bad? Good times, for the memory compounds your current mirth and cheer, and fills you with waves of warmth. In bad times, the same moment acts as an anchor to keep the ship steady in the deluge of despondency.

Such moments are magic moments, wisdom filled bubbles of time, that show up as distinct flag-staffs on the highest crests in the hills and vales of memories.  All of us would have had their share of these magic moments, somewhere on our journeys. Perhaps we may not have realised the ‘aha’ of these moments, but we have all had them, at least once. The realisations that came therein or thereafter, their epiphanies, would have changed us, consciously or subconsciously.

One such moment – as you may have guessed already – was the first time I saw the Kanchenjunga, and as its immediate precursor, the first time I saw the immensity that was the Himalayas. It was in the picturesque outskirts of Kalimpong, one of the jewels of North Bengal, and it was the first time in many years that I, like a Sam Gamgee, had ventured outside my Shire of university, exams, and educational aspirations. After years, you may say, the cage was opened, and outside shone the snow-clad massif of the Sleeping Buddha range, including at its helm, the Kanchenjunga. That evening, I stared at a golden sunset, and entered a dream-like state of enigma, where the realisation of young fold mountains, collapsing tectonic plates, and the incredible creation of the Himalaya, submerging the Tethys Sea, mesmerised me. The grandeur of the mountains took a different meaning altogether. That night, I went to sleep, swirling in the realisation of Winfred Garrison’s poetry - “Oh God, thy sea is so great and my boat is so small.”

Years later, a friend once mentioned he had to visit the Himalaya once a year as a pilgrimage to remind himself how insignificant he was in the grander scheme of creation, and I resonated immediately with his vision. Indeed, this was only a mountain range - imagine when you telescope out further into the stellar systems, the swirls of the galaxies and then the emptiness of the vast universe, you start seeing things differently. But you need to start somewhere, and for me, Kanchenjunga was the tip of that enormity that opened up to show the vastness of the cosmos.

Ever since that moment, I must admit, a few things have changed. All you need sometimes is one footstep away from your usual pathway and years later, you can observe how that one footstep has led you to sail steradians away. Kalimpong and Kanchenjunga awakened in me the sleeping wanderlust, sparking that realisation that there is just so much to see and learn, from travel alone. The exhilaration of a journey, its resfeber, along with the anticipation of seeing the world crackled into life, and began my love to see the wonders of the planet, even the miniscule one buzzing in your own backyard! It gave renewed vigour in the eyes and a yearning in the heart – to want to see more, thus sparking the sojourn of the seven seas. It was also this moment that made me an orophile, a lover of mountains. Especially the Himalaya. I realised the grandness they inspire within, and understood some of the many reasons why many get deranged in the beauty of these snow-clad peaks. That was the start of the tryst with Kanchenjunga, pulling me back to itself countless times, to smell the pine-crushed freshness of the mountain air, and to stare in disbelief at its incandescent whiteness. That was the call of Kanchenjunga, that in turn, mellowed me to understand more of the likes of Ruskin Bond, the Summer Rambler, Frank Smythe and countless others who have given up the comforts of a city life to explore the unknowns of the wilderness in the mountains.

The call of Kanchenjunga has taken me back to the lofty heights of the Himalaya, on multiple occasions. From the meadows of the steep Jalori Pass in the Himachal to the outskirts of Phuentsholing in Bhutan, from the ravine-crafting frenzy of the swirling Sutlej to the placid calmness of the turquoise Teesta, from the trickle of unnamed waterfalls of Munsiyari to the relentless force of the massive Kanchenjunga Falls, the mosaic is filled with wonders. And yet, in the largesse of the Himalaya, there is just so much more to be seen. The call keeps coming, pulling, tugging the spool of fernweh, asking to don the shoes yet again and climb even a hillock if not the base camp to an eight-thousander. It is the same call that also comes alive when I see any snow-clad peak, even outside the Himalaya. Be it Aoraki, a photo of Rainier, or even a billowing lot of early morning clouds that vaguely resemble the Kanchenjunga and its somnolent kindred crests.

I have tried to capture some of these emotions in the many words of this anthology. Some of these are based on real-life experiences of places I have been to, and people I have been privileged to meet. But the artist comes closest to God when he creates visions of the unseen, and melodies of the unheard. Many lines here are based on destinations I yearn to visit – tiny villages, borderland hamlets, lofty meadows, alpine bugyals, and countless sinuous rivers illustrating like thin brush lines, magic on the canvas of the Himalayas. Then comes the people, the flora, the fauna, the faiths, the beliefs, the Puranic stories, and in them all, a culmination that takes us closer to God. Is there any dearth? There shouldn’t be, for the grandeur of the mountains can range from a tiny cairn by a scared pool to gigantic glacial lakes that span across countries. It is the start to an endlessness that can only be contained within the infinity of our own minds. As an ancient Sanksrit verse goes, "In a thousand ages of the gods, I could not tell thee of the Himalaya"

When I look back, all of these strands of infinity came from a singular point – of seeing the grandness of the Kanchenjunga, rising like a sentinel in alabaster, inspiring us mortals to keep rising, striving, attempting to climb higher and higher still. The echoes resound even today from that call I heard that day, not as a war-cry of outer conquest, but as a soothing serenade of inner containment.

I hope the lines ahead trigger a flash of emotions in you as well, urging you to re-search your treasure trove of memories and find therein your own calling – it need not be the majestic mountains, it can come from cerulean seas, the scintillation of a starry sky, snow clad villages or even the myriad mosaics of a maniacal metropolis. It is after all, your calling, in your canvas, where you are creator and creation both.

As long as it awakens you, it serves a grand purpose. Just like a simple soundless call, that of a quiet peak crested in treasures of snow, sagacity, and the sublime…

 28^th June 2025

(Introduction to my latest anthology - the Call of Kanchenjunga)