The lakes are similar, the roads too. The dogs and the dzongs are indistinguishable.

That is the land of

monasteries on mountains. Be it Sikkim, Bhutan, spiti or tawang. They all have the same mystical aura.
The same winding roads that make you wonder or make you throw up. Roads that are non-existent at
places, only to be replaced by a feverishly working JCB belonging to the BRO – the two most common
acronyms you will find on those land-slide infested roads. The same suspension bridges against the paro
chu or the Chandra river. And the same utter disregard to what the Buddha preached. Grasping hands
that seek what is not theirs. Be it china to the east or Pakistan to the west. The most enchanting places
are slowly turning into army garrisons. Kashmir already has become one. The NE is slowly going that
way, if the army presence in tawang is any indication of the days to come. They have not spared the tsos
or the las (lakes and passes). They reverberate with the sound of the thunderous army trucks kicking up
a cloud of dust as if to mask the land from the prying eyes of the Chinese. Kashmir is already out of
bounds. Arunachal is slowly turning into a fortress. It is only a matter of time when you can go and visit
arunachal only if you have a strong military reason. Otherwise you can see it in picture postcards or
documentary movies.

Many times during my journeys, I thought I heard the beat of the distant drummer, but most of the
time, it turned out to be the rattle of the train wheels beneath the steps on which I was sitting on a
breezy balmy day, or the sounds from the rave party next door. Either way, I have been too wary to
march to the beats of the distant drummer. There has always been a compulsion to be accepted, to
blend in, to appear normal. How many times have we been told in our college laboratories when we are
collecting data from an experiment that there will always be one or two outliers which have to be
ignored. Somehow, since those days, I have always been fascinated with these troublesome outliers.

From the arid landscape of spiti to the lush greenery of tawang with plantain leaves so long that you
stretch out and sleep on it and still have some space left to have a dinner that night. The land of Buddha
mesmerized you no end. Men have drawn imaginary lines, called it different names, but the land refuses
to yield to his whims. The dzongs are the same, so are the dogs. The people welcome you with the same
open smile that wrinkles their cheeks revealing tobacco stained teeth, broken at places. The
monasteries are still on top of hills, next to placid lakes or roaring streams. Nothing changes, not even
man’s utter disregard for what the Buddha taught. In tawang, there is the constant disconcerting
presence of the army like a lurking shadow that makes you shiver. Be it on the high passes at Bumla or
the shimmering lakes of sangetsar. What must’ve been a serence place with fluttering prayer flags is
now an army garrison with dust rising up everytime an army truck passes – a tribute to our rabble
rousing neighbors across the borders. In spite of all this, there is a serenity, a foreboding of peace amidst
the pandemonium. The sentinels are symbolic, but the smiling Buddha at the tawang monastery is stoic.
Smiling at the follies of men. Smiling for having left some semblance of order in all the madness. Or
maybe he is smiling because he saw with his eyes closed what others couldn’t see with their eyes open.

Buddha was one such outlier who dared to wake up while the others slept, like my high school English
teacher often used to say, “ಬುದ್ಧ ಬುದ್ಧ, ಜಗವೆಲ್ಲ ಮಲಗಿರಲು ಅವನೊಬ್ಬ ಎದ್ದ.” (Buddha, Buddha, he was the only
one awake while the rest of the world slept”. Most of my journeys in the recent past have taken me to
the land of the Buddha – rather, to monasteries atop mesmerizing mountains and by lake sides. And
visiting all these places made me realize that the Buddha way of life transcends geographical boundaries
and cloistered minds. Nowhere was this more obvious when I encountered the same silken threads
making up the rich thangkas – both literally and metaphorically.

Maybe it was my fascination with the ‘outliers’ that made me visit the places that he once tread upon,
not that he had to physically visit these places in person. His thoughts and ideas were so strong that
they flowed unfettered through the peaks of dhankar, the slopes of Kee, the fluttering winds of kunzum
and the rippling waves of Chandra tal. I have been drawn to these places, trying to hear the distant
drummer. Maybe one day I will hear the beat. Or like Ithaca, the distant drummer is a myth, only
drawing us out of our living rooms so that we see the world and experience the charm. Hear to the
songs of Lakhan das in Somnath, or Mahatir da in malda or the sufi singers in moinuddin chisti’s dargah,
or the ras leela singers at benganati.

War and peace

Even a soldier prays for peace. It seemed a bit paradoxical. What will a soldier do if there is no war?
What will priests do if we find our own god! Deny people the alternatives and you can create a
flourishing business. Stop people from traveling where they want by introducing passes and permits.
Now you are dependent on agents to get you the permits. Deny public transport and you are dependent
on taxis. It has always been my one constant complaint. As a solo traveler, I don’t have the luxury of
commandeering my own cab to the places I want to visit. As a result, I trek, hitchhike and spend the
better part of my journey in just reaching one spot. But not that I’m unhappy – like in this trip.when I
spent close to 6 days just reaching tawang. Technically I could’ve left home in the morning and reached
tawang by night the very same day. There is a flight from banglaore to Guwahati. And assam tourism lies
a chopper one day in a week from Guwahati to tawang. But instead I set out on a train journey that itself
would take the better part of 3 days. And the train meanders through Andhra Pradesh, tamil nadu,
Madhya Pradesh, odissa, west Bengal and finally settles down in Guwahati after showing a glimpse of
the kamakhya temple just before the Guwahati station. Off late my train socializing has reduced. I just
go and perch on my upper berth and seldom come down, except in the evenings to go and sit by the
door and catch the breeze. I have the luxury of getting the food delivered right to my seat, by the
wandering vendors. Mishti dahi, lassi, unending varieties of channa, roasted, boiled all in a tangy salad
form. I probably eat the healthiest food in trains, and also the most sinful – like the sweets at malda
town. I mark the time and day when I reach Malda and look forward to making a breakfast, lunch,
evening snack or dinner at malda town sweets, depending on when I reach the station. I have gotten rid
of the chai habit. The brown stained liquid just got too much! Instead they have started lal chai – almost
like lemon tea. Which is much better than the so called milk tea which is a farce. It has neither milk, nor
tea. The most refreshing lal cha I had was in bomdila whie waiting for my ride to take me to tawang. At
the chilly early morning in the middle of nowhere, the steaming cuppa woke my up so much so that I
decided to wake up even the innermost cell of my interior most organs by having 3 cups. Redolent with
the mild aroma of ginger, the lal cha just left a trail of life and energy as it made its way down my throat.