Forgotten Thank Yous in India

 

When you are travelling to the North-East of India, you expect to be feasting your eyes on the snowcapped mountains, the sun rise and the greenery. You expect to wrap yourself in a stole while drinking that hot cup of coffee, bang in the middle of the month of June. You expect to visit all the monasteries. You expect it to rain. But what you do not expect is being driven to a tiny street to a person’s house in a place which is a difficulty to spot on the map. Amidst the pouring rain. The ‘it’s-pouring-cats-and-dogs’ rain.

While visiting Pedong, a hill town on the West-Bengal-Sikkim border, I find myself in front of a house in the town of Aritar, a town overlooking the hills and the clouds nestled over it. it was a visit my Uncle said is a must-do. As I opened my big, fat umbrella under the pouring rain, I still wondered why. But before I could wonder any further, we were welcomed in the house by lots of beautiful, potted plants in the porch, and a very excited man. The man was about my height-5’3, salt-and-pepper hair and the biggest smile on his face. It was now that we understood that we were going to be visiting his house, which was not only home to his children and grandchildren, but also to treasures collected by two generations, and what these treasures were, we were soon to find out.

We walked into the house, led by the owner, and he ushered us into a tiny room; to the left he points out a range of bound notebooks, arranged like a series of any best-seller, which were his dad’s journals. Out of that room and into another-we find ourselves surrounded with the most unique driftwood I’ve ever come across-some growing out of stones, some hanging from the ceiling, some with stones of pastel colors. He told us how his dad and granddad started these collections, and how it gives him the utmost joy to protect and organize them. We walked in and out of the house-out to see his collection of bonsai. And what a collection it was. I was not minding the rain any more, for I was too engrossed looking at the miniature trees. And then I saw what I always wanted to see, at the corner of his shaky greenhouse- a pitcher plant. It was tinier, more colorful, and less vindictive than I imagined it to be. It isn’t how I expected it to be, but then neither was my day.

After we had walked through rooms showcasing all types of stamps, and currency, and error notes, which were by far my favorite (my brother and I challenged each other on finding what the error was), we walked through a room which exhibited old forms of electronics-from radios to watches to clocks. And on one of those many shelves, I found a shelf dedicated to cameras. Old film cameras, squeaky clean, still with a rusty kind of a shine. In the northern part of India, in a tiny, tiny town, in a cottage tucked inside narrow allies and streets, there lived a person who shared my interest. Photography. So many years ago, this camera must have given out such memories and smiley faces captured in its photographs. Someone must have held it, asked someone to pose once a while, and clicked the shutter button. And there, in rooms and rooms of history, I found myself a part of it.
How do you categorize this place? A museum? A store? A 24*7 exhibition? I would think of it as a time machine- the only place where I have seen the past and the present come together so harmoniously. A place which is independent in its own, has a sense of freedom, even with so much past attached to it. A house with lots of old stuff, how strange does that sound? But it doesn’t feel strange. You walk in, and everything, each bonsai in its pot, each coin in the framed wood box, each stamp in lamination, each driftwood in its place feels like it belongs. Like it has stayed here for years. Pun intended.

I wouldn’t have wanted the tour of his house to end, but I guess there is only so much a person and his dad can collect and keep as a hobby. Between the rain and having to cross the overflowing drains, I reached the car, leaving behind the man with the huge smile and his amazing treasures without a thank you, something which rightfully belonged to him, but was with me. But that’s okay. He has something that belonged to me too-a part of my self which rests with the camera, on the shelf of the tiny room which electronics, in a cottage tucked inside allies and streets, in a tiny town of Aritar, in Sikkim.

About the author: I am a undergraduate studying in New Delhi, India, and I share great love for dogs, travelling, writing, photography and ice cream.

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5 responses to “Forgotten Thank Yous in India

  1. Absolutely magical. Need to put this place in my bucket list. Thank you very much for sharing your experience.

  2. This article brings back all the good memories that I could relate to, it is very well written, short and beautiful; absolutely and utterly beautiful!

  3. Very well worded…brings the place alive…and more than that brings alive a sense of wonder and discovery!!!

  4. All of us who have travelled to the mountains know of their magnetic pull.There are only comas in a travellers journey,no full stops,coz u got to go back again n again.I almost felt there standing witness to the discovery in the hamlet.I wish l was there.
    Keep travelling Sasha keep the journey n magic of life alive.

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