2024 started with little work and no home.

I decided to go to the Himalayas in the winter. Exactly why, I could not say.

Sounds like the start of one of those feel-good stories where the woman reconfigures into a hot, sorted, rich, fulfilled and joyous person, singing and dancing in slow motion on a mountaintop? Read on and see if any of that happened 😀

It all began when I signed up for a winter meditation retreat. Felt apt. I had been wintering for 7-odd years. The end was on hand. These years had been marred with pain, growth, silence and a lot of roaming in the gloaming and a lo-o-o-ho-t of dancing with the shadows. Not without countless moments of gratitude and joy and laughter. But for the first time in my incredibly lucky river of life, I had the triveni of physical, mental and emotional pain. I leaned in to all three. They’ve taken these many years to dissipate.

I am a hopeless romantic, so I do things because they feel poetic and right. Something calls to something in my spirit, as the retreat did. I howled at the moon and we were “ON!!” Then, I nervously watched the temperatures at Kalimpong and Gangtok, and sent a wish for warmth into the universe.

To get to Kalimpong, you land at Bagdogra and drive up alongside the Teesta for a couple of hours. At the lunch stop, the writing was firmly on the wall.

I got to the retreat venue, my home for the next week. In short order, I got used to the cold, to running to and from the bath wearing shorts and a T-shirt because the meagre rod in the minuscule bathroom stall didn’t allow for thermals, fleece and other luxuries. It’s amazing how quickly I got used to that at a still respectful 8.30am, SIT (South India Time: a legit timezone for having baths). It felt like I’d unlocked the “cold fear. What to do in the cold climes” part. Partly, at least.

The retreat unfolded as it should and my comfort with the weather grew. Apparently the temperature was -1 at the Kanchenjunga viewpoint called tiffin dhara, and I was okay there. It felt like another achievement unlocked. I thought I would need / get endless cups of piping hot tea. That did not happen and I did not mind at all. 

Food was glorious at the retreat. In addition, I got introduced to all kinds of lovely food at the sun-drenched Cafe Kuchisabichii: jhol momos, momocha, phaley, oh the wonders!

Of course, since we didn’t carry phones around that week, I have no visuals to accompany that part of the story. I do have one of Praveen Chhetri of Cafe Kalimpong, who also runs this cafe. He’s here with a book on food featuring his photoessay. Goes without saying, I snagged a copy to read the culinary stories of the North East from the comfort of home.

I felt at the edge of something. Not just at the edge of the Himalayas, as my map showed, climbing up from Kurseong a few days ago. I realised that I seek out these edges, these uncertain spaces. At work and in life, Ive violently rejected the straight paths: cushy corporate jobs, marriage and a chance at an equal partnership, name it. So, no point in whining about it, even if I’m somewhat of a fine whine connoisseur.

With the retreat behind me, I shifted to a homestay called Holumba Haven. I froze my butt off (I may not have been seeing Kanchenjunga but Kanchenjunga was seeing me 😬 I was feeling its icy presence daily). I enjoyed the simple but yum food, the dogs to cuddle, and the various walks from there into Kalimpong. There was also a swing to sit on and take measure of things.

There was the famous headbath, once I had the luxury of a private bathroom. Of course, the sun decided to take voluntary retirement that morning and wasn’t seen for the rest of the day. So I had to put an electric heating pad on my head to dry my hair. That is a silly story for another day. The deep freeze notwithstanding, this interlude allowed for quiet, for most of the realisations from the retreat to settle and for a chance to sing loudly. All my neighbours were trees, so who was going to complain?

The uncertain unfolds away at its own pace, but the pursuit of good food doesn’t take a back seat. And so, I must take a break from the emotional landscape descriptions to talk about this Bhutanese restaurant called Za khang. I dove into the ema datshe, kewa datshe, red rice (oh lord!! Red rice!!!!) and butter tea like nobody’s business and enjoyed watching the Bhutanese pop and Dzomba (Dzongkha zumba for the uninitiated) videos.

The bonus: A Nepali thali dinner with one of the owners of Za khang restaurant, who happens to be Colonel B’s friend and avid motorcyclist. There was the joyous sel roti and aloo dum at Cafe Kalimpong on one of my meandering days.

While the town of Kalimpong felt cluttered and in need of a bit of a wash, the people were lovely. The young man driving me from the retreat to Holumba was a state level offroading cyclist and we spoke of people we had in common, the tribulations of being a career athlete and of Crankmeister. The gent driving me to Gangtok and I had philosophical natter on nature of Shaivism, among other things. I met Mingma and his partner, friends of Colonel B’s and it was amazing how much we had in common and how easily conversation flowed from their adventures to mine, from food in Kalimpong to food at Paramount on weekends at 3am back in 2003. With Praveen of Cafe Kalimpong, I was talking about millets and the impact of its recent popularity on availability for general population.

I got into a very grey Gangtok and checked into my hotel, had a quiet breakfast and a quiet lunch and a quiet dinner. This reload helped me step out and explore the next day.

Outwardly, I did a lot on this day. I explored town, tested all kinds of tea, met people (Colonel B’s peeps, and one quantity cute baby), and returned laden with bags. Inside my head, I was thinking of staying in the moment but finding it very hard to not plan for the next few days. I felt that there is a time to go away and a time to return. This was the time to return. Gangtok’s charms notwithstanding, I wanted to not get into another vehicle, remember to pay another service provider, make more exploratory conversations and look for common ground, stay constantly alert, carve time to myself, inform everyone about my well-being, keep all devices charged and do it all again the next day. I wanted to unpack for the nonce, embrace the familiar routine and get some work done. The mental wintering, it would seem, has been approaching the finish line.

My Garmin’s been telling a very interesting tale these last few days. The hours of meditation through the retreat and post retreat, morning and nightly unguided meditation routines, started showing up by way of significantly lower heart rate through the days. Ive been clocking 12-15k steps daily and the legs are behaving like my old 30 something legs that would do what they’re asked. I’ve been able to climb all the steep inclines without too much complaint. I’ve lugged my suitcase and backpack up and down the many many floors and often steep stairs, in all the locations. For some reason, people saw me coming and kept giving me the highest positioned of all their available rooms. I climbed 3000 feet to the Kanchenjunga view point in 20 minutes without dying physically or emotionally. Without sounding like my usual Brontosaurus with bronchitis. Things must be looking up!

Perimenopausal scenes include a bladder that is put upon, literally, with a massive fibroid that seems to have taken up residence on it. Bladdamir the Impala didn’t not need me to go at Impala pace to every visible loo. Bladdamir the Great did just fine.

The physical part of the wintering seems to be over.

In Gangtok, I walked, got beautiful food, lovely ringside views into the adventures of others, a lot of smiling faces and enjoy winter fashion in the way that only the North East of India can pull off. My senses were full.

I got all sorts of tea to taste. More, I got treated to some truly lovely food, when I was least expecting it. Naga food, Nepali food and from the left of field, a random glass spinach thingy.

What is it about intentions. In the past 24 hours, I have had five inquiries on work. I fielded two, just while writing this. I don’t know where the conversations will take me but I am curious to find out.

Returning is luckily never just a reverse of the trip out. Diwakar collected me to the drop back to Kalimpong. We stopped at this military mess dosa corner with a picture of the Black Cats. Better sambar than the darshinis back home (with loving apology to the sweet sambar eaters. I don’t understand your taste but respect it).

The final part of the trip was driving down from Kalimpong to Bagdogra. In a karmic reversal, the gent who’d driven Manjari and me was assigned. Mr. Biswakarma and I chattered away about how everything including food is politics, how democracy is contingent on voters’ wisdom (thanks, School of Life), about the rise of the new tech oligarchs, about drugs and the dulling of the senses that stops sadness from being processed, and all sorts of other things.

The Teesta kept us company.

Stopped for brekker and one last mono and cha.

I am heading back, having connected with the most important mountains: the ones in the mind. I have a feeling of readiness for the next adventure. I can discern a balance, a steadfastness in the chaos. For now, I feel I am ready. The emotional wintering is also perhaps slouching towards home, to be born into spring.

* The endless knot is everywhere in Gangtok and Kalimpong. I even drew it into my journal during the retreat.

P.S. I’m writing this after much deliberation. I’d decided to not write it. But here I am, sitting at the airport, eating a bagel and reading my book and feeling the eyes of a middle-aged man sitting six feet away. He’s had to turn his head fully to the left to look, because that’s where I’m sitting. For five minutes of eating, I’ve felt his eyes and I’d hoped that time would obliterate the need for some action. After five minutes, I got fed up and made eye contact. It took him another 20 seconds of staring back and finally, a head nod saying “what?” for him to finally look away. In a busy airport. I mean, the ruthless sexuality of a middle aged woman eating a stale bagel notwithstanding… what’s going on!

Being a solo woman traveller is about all the lovely stuff. Meeting lovely folks who ferry you around who go out of their way to signal that they are safe. It is also about controlling my anger and not decking idiot men or launching into them verbally with basic etiquette about being human that clearly their caregivers in their early or late (or 5 mins ago) developing phase missed informing them about.

The north east is largely safer for women to travel solo. I’ve heard this throughout. And that’s mostly true. I walked on roads with absolutely nobody or on narrow streets with no others. I’m slated to fly back home, so it’s safe to say so far so good.

I stopped countless people to ask for directions with no problems. Often, people would assume I’m local and launch into Nepali till I had to tell them I’m visiting. On a couple of lonely roads, local men sensing my discomfort (because I looked back) they’d signal that they would walk ahead, or stop to signal no threat. One said directly, you’re safer in this part of the country.

Then just as you’re letting down your guard, comes something. Like this old relic whose place I stayed at quizzed me on why I was single and did some BodyShaming Lite.

And there was this young chap dropping off dinner to my room who decided to strike up a conversation about was I travelling alone and why. He then proceeded to have the rest of the conversation with my breasts (presumably. They were behind thermals, tshirt and fleece jacket. He had a better shot at Kanchenjunga through the fog, really)

A few hours ago after brekker, I was walking to my cab. Mr. Biswakarma was out of sight, finishing his tea. He had parked in a small alley next to the restaurant. This chap sees me and walks down, doing something on his phone as he came. He came closer, and I could hear moans. He angled his phone that was streaming porn, towards me and kept his eyes on me. He passes, goes and stands in front of the car, (so, he knows the car I came in) and waits. I’m beginning to feel that Hulk feeling come over me and am working hard to stay equanimous when Mr. Biswakarma comes along. The guy silenced his phone, started to walk backwards and by the time I got into the car, was gone.

I apologise to my sensitive and sweet men who read this and feel degrees of helplessness & other unpleasant emotions. I know it’s not easy for you to read this; it’s not easy for me to write this. But I also realise that unless I do, I won’t be articulating the whole story for myself and therefore won’t process and let go of it. I’ll be giving false ideas to other women who might be considering travelling solo. This now feels complete, if disturbing. Like much else in life.