Momo

At Rashbehari Avenue,

I grumble at my hard day at work,

But the sight of momos distract me –

I cannot resist,

And wolf down a plate of the dumplings –

Ah, soft, moist meat, perfectly steamed

Even the cabbage and carrots are heavenly

And that brick red spicy sauce

That tingles the taste-buds!

It had to be a recipe of the mountains

 

True, a Nepali boy smiles

At my appetite,

I have finished two plates,

Asking for the third.

‘Kire, Bari kothay?’ I ask

‘Kalimpong,’ came the dulcet reply

‘You come here all year round?’

No, he shakes his head -only in winter

After autumn’s harvests

There is no need for hands on the fields

 

‘You come every winter?’

He grins; ‘Isn’t it hard?’ I ask again

And he grins even further.

‘You should listen to my grandpa,’ he starts

While dumping more momos on bamboo colanders

‘He used to go to Tibet at my age,

Chin! You know Chin?’

I stand surprised, as he continues,

‘No bus, just donkeys and mules

All along the Tchangu Pass and Jelep La’

 

‘Every year, year after year

Selling tea, biscuits, robin blue

Bringing back salt, and bronze Buddhas.’

My mind races in imagination –

A caravan trundling through the Himalayan heights

The forgotten footprints of an ancient Silk Route.

‘Imagine that life – grandpa going to the mountains

His grandson has it so much easier

One overnight train,

Now, should I complain?’

 

The momos suddenly taste even better

The soup smells of Tibet

Is that Himalayan salt in the sauce?

And I imagine his grandfather,

A young boy, conquering the mountains

Going north, in the icy lands

His grandson, doing the opposite

Going south, to warmer lands

With the same mountain spirit

Selling dumplings stuffed with older tales

 

I wipe the last of Kalimpong’s spicy sauce

With my Index finger

And imagine all the donkey trains

That stopped one day

Or this boy would today

Stand on the roof of the world;

Time to head back home,

But I no longer grumble of my work –

The Nepali boy grins, the momos have done their job…

 

Kalimpong was once a quiet but vital jewel along the ancient Himalayan Silk Route, a place where caravans carrying wool, salt, tea, spices, horses, and precious goods moved between Tibet, Sikkim, Bhutan, and the plains of Bengal. Before modern borders hardened the mountains, the town’s bustling bazaars echoed with the voices of Tibetan traders, Bhutanese merchants, Lepcha inhabitants, and Bengali settlers, creating a rare cultural crossroads. The winding paths through Jelep La and the high passes beyond connected Lhasa with Kolkata, making Kalimpong a gateway between the worlds of the Himalayas and the Indian subcontinent. Today, though the caravans have vanished, the town still carries their memory — in its monasteries, old merchant houses, mist-covered hills, and the lingering sense that every mountain road here once led somewhere far beyond the horizon.

10^th July