Our trip to this mountainous region of Bengal proved difficult for me in many ways, all of them cultural.
Although I had been born in India, and raised by parents who were both born and had grown up in India, I spent my formative years in UK. Naturalized as a British citizen, I had attended British schools, and when not in school uniform had always dressed in Western gear. I also felt most comfortable in the company of my British or European friends and was, by 1993, a peculiar mixture of Canadian and British in my daily habits and social customs. Yet, despite my British heritage and experiences, my spirituality and way of seeing the world was a lot more Eastern than Western. I was - and am still - a living, breathing example of the East-West dichotomy.
The original name for Darjeeling was Dorje-ling. A dorje is the Tibetan word meaning both thunderbolt and special stone or diamond, and ling is the Tibetan word for holy place or monastery. So the story goes, a monk once meditated for several days or weeks next to a dorje on what is now Observatory Hill, thus making this place sacred so that now both Buddhists and Hindus freely worship there. Townsfolk named their mountain top home to honour the sacrifice and dedication of this monk.
The ruling British overlords had changed the spelling to Darjeeling in a prior era, effectively erasing any holy references that might offend Western visitors. These also oversaw the building of houses, hotels and infrastructure - roads, railway, schools, sports arena, zoo, electrical, plumbing and postal systems - for the comfort and use of those who frequented this "Queen of the Hills" as an escape from the unforgiving summer heat of the plains.
The city of Darjeeling had, nonetheless, felt very "English" and familiar to me, in an historical sense. Despite its occasional political instability, it is ideally set up for tourism, having numerous outdoor opportunities including world-class mountain trekking. The stunning scenery and laid back lifestyle attract visitors from all over the world. Though located in the foothills of our planet's tallest mountain range, Darjeeling is still over 8,000 feet above sea level. And the rivers that rage through its mountains are extremely rapid and often dangerous. That is why one is permitted to go river rafting, only after one has provided a signed waiver of responsibility and left the name and phone number of one's next of kin!
The gentle values of the Buddhist refugees now permeate the city so that Darjeeling very quickly makes you feel welcome and a part of that community. But, after nearly 50 years of corporate neglect, services like reliable plumbing, dependable scheduling and the postal system, that we take so much for granted in the West, became fractured and broke.
In the true spirit of Buddhism, as each social service became inefficient and insufficient, the Indians in charge laid emphasis on sharing resources like fresh water with everyone. Thus, each day, after the needs of hotel guests had been met, the town's hotels would graciously allow the townspeople to collect fresh drinking water from their pipes. Perhaps it takes a crisis for man's humanity to emerge?
As recently as 1993, any fax out of Darjeeling could only be sent via the town's grand telegraph office which was located in a huge stone Victorian mansion, located a dizzying 129 steep steps carved into the side of the mountain. Trainee Mountaineers might not mind this climb. But ordinary folk, with ordinary leg muscles, must really have to WANT to send a fax, just to venture up there.
Mind you, from the telegraph office portico, the view of the city and surrounding mountains, was a truly magnificent reward for one's valiant efforts.
During that long and tedious wait at the Telegraph Office, my emotional meltdown became more difficult to suppress. While Mom and Auntie alternately argued with and cajoled the Bengali staff, I waited for them on the only available seating - a simple wooden bench provided in that foyer-cum-waiting room.
MOUNTAIN STORM
No wonder they called Darjeeling the sacred place of the thunderbolt!
While it lasted I, was too mesmerized by the beauty and enormity of that storm to feel anything but awestruck. Then, as quickly as it had begun, the storm ended, the sun shone, and my companion bid me a beaming farewell before he quietly vanished from view, down the steep stone staircase that led to the street level.
I certainly felt much better after that brief encounter than I had done before, because I knew, beyond doubt, that an Angel had comforted me that fateful day. As my courage returned, I recalled that Angels will often employ a loving person's habits or sensitivities to lend hope to other human beings or to pass along to them their special Angelic messages.
Indeed, even my own quirkiness had been so utilized, during my jeep journey up the Himalayas, when my curiosity had inadvertently interrupted the personal toilet of those train travelers. Everyone of us had then enjoyed a much needed laugh, which had helped to relieve the anxiety and fear generated by journey potentially fraught with political strife and danger. (press here to read more about this event in Pink Roses - Part 2 Journey to India)
So I was quite certain that, in the Darjeeling Telegraph Office, the traveller's Angelic self had reached out to reassure me in my hour of extreme need.
As a result, I'd immediately felt stronger and more able to cope! And then he went on his way.
Now that I felt regenerated, I was eager to get on with my shopping trip to the market that day. I was even looking forward to rising at 3 am for our planned excursion to Tiger Hill the following day.
Knowing that soul growth only appears to happen by chance, I asked my inner Angel if my experiences in the land of my birth had already been sufficient to fill my soul?
Given the political instability of the region, it was doubtful that I'd be able to return to Bengal again in this lifetime. Yet, my short trip to India, had already been so intense that it had already brought me many important lessons - lessons that would take me a decade or more to fully comprehend and assimilate.
As always, I still had more questions than answers. But, as I was to discover in the days ahead, my Angels had a few surprises yet in store for me, in the Himalayan foothills of India.
Although I had been born in India, and raised by parents who were both born and had grown up in India, I spent my formative years in UK. Naturalized as a British citizen, I had attended British schools, and when not in school uniform had always dressed in Western gear. I also felt most comfortable in the company of my British or European friends and was, by 1993, a peculiar mixture of Canadian and British in my daily habits and social customs. Yet, despite my British heritage and experiences, my spirituality and way of seeing the world was a lot more Eastern than Western. I was - and am still - a living, breathing example of the East-West dichotomy.
DORJE-LING
Such cultural disruption is well known to the Tibetans, who inhabit this region of India. Many of whom fled their homeland after the Chinese invaded in 1959. Several of the higher Lamas settled in Darjeeling, setting up monasteries there, which is why this city of 250,000 souls has such a strong Buddhist presence
The original name for Darjeeling was Dorje-ling. A dorje is the Tibetan word meaning both thunderbolt and special stone or diamond, and ling is the Tibetan word for holy place or monastery. So the story goes, a monk once meditated for several days or weeks next to a dorje on what is now Observatory Hill, thus making this place sacred so that now both Buddhists and Hindus freely worship there. Townsfolk named their mountain top home to honour the sacrifice and dedication of this monk.The ruling British overlords had changed the spelling to Darjeeling in a prior era, effectively erasing any holy references that might offend Western visitors. These also oversaw the building of houses, hotels and infrastructure - roads, railway, schools, sports arena, zoo, electrical, plumbing and postal systems - for the comfort and use of those who frequented this "Queen of the Hills" as an escape from the unforgiving summer heat of the plains.
Since 17th Century, especially since the industrialization of United Kingdom, the average Indian has generated and donated vast amounts of wealth for the business aspirations and families of the invading British. Such generosity was rewarded by the Indian being treated as a second-class citizen, as a servant in his own land.
In addition to usurping his national wealth and manipulating his creative genius for their own commercial benefit, the British also sought to impose their western social values on a land with more than 20,000 years of culture. And that particular blow to India's pride was designed to demoralize the country as a whole, rendering its people more easily controlled.
In addition to usurping his national wealth and manipulating his creative genius for their own commercial benefit, the British also sought to impose their western social values on a land with more than 20,000 years of culture. And that particular blow to India's pride was designed to demoralize the country as a whole, rendering its people more easily controlled.
While India undoubtedly benefited from the new technological and industrial benefits that its alliance with Britain brought, a less arrogant and self-indulgent invader might have taken the time to train the Indian in every aspect of the care and management of their own railways, post offices and road systems.
Evidently Britain had expected to usurp India's vast resources for their "common" wealth for all time. Thus, when Gandhi led the country to Independence and the British abruptly left India, in August 1947, the departing British left behind a railway and road system, plus a British style government. But this infrastructure had no strong Indian hand at the helm. 45 years later it had thus devolved into a parody of its imposed glory. Gone were the spic and span militaristic days of British rule. In its place were broken water pipes, fractured road surfaces and archaic business practices that had once royally served a system long since abandoned.
The city of Darjeeling had, nonetheless, felt very "English" and familiar to me, in an historical sense. Despite its occasional political instability, it is ideally set up for tourism, having numerous outdoor opportunities including world-class mountain trekking. The stunning scenery and laid back lifestyle attract visitors from all over the world. Though located in the foothills of our planet's tallest mountain range, Darjeeling is still over 8,000 feet above sea level. And the rivers that rage through its mountains are extremely rapid and often dangerous. That is why one is permitted to go river rafting, only after one has provided a signed waiver of responsibility and left the name and phone number of one's next of kin!
The gentle values of the Buddhist refugees now permeate the city so that Darjeeling very quickly makes you feel welcome and a part of that community. But, after nearly 50 years of corporate neglect, services like reliable plumbing, dependable scheduling and the postal system, that we take so much for granted in the West, became fractured and broke.
In the true spirit of Buddhism, as each social service became inefficient and insufficient, the Indians in charge laid emphasis on sharing resources like fresh water with everyone. Thus, each day, after the needs of hotel guests had been met, the town's hotels would graciously allow the townspeople to collect fresh drinking water from their pipes. Perhaps it takes a crisis for man's humanity to emerge?
JUST THE FAX, MAN
Despite my willingness to learn the lessons that assailed my psyche in Mother India, my physical health had steadily deteriorated since my plane had landed there earlier in the month. I was tired all the time, and heartrendingly homesick for my Canadian home, family and friends in Canada. I missed my husband and 12 year old son so much that I cried myself to sleep each night.
My travelling family was so concerned by my emotional decline they to decided to send me back to Canada early rather than risk a complete health breakdown by my remaining for the full duration of my planned trip. So it was that my Mother and Aunt began to make arrangements to expedite my departure from India. First on their agenda was to fax pertinent details to our travel agent in Bombay.
A simple affair, right?
My travelling family was so concerned by my emotional decline they to decided to send me back to Canada early rather than risk a complete health breakdown by my remaining for the full duration of my planned trip. So it was that my Mother and Aunt began to make arrangements to expedite my departure from India. First on their agenda was to fax pertinent details to our travel agent in Bombay.
A simple affair, right?
Perhaps, but just NOT in Darjeeling.
Simple is just not as easy in the hill towns of the Himalayas.
Simple is just not as easy in the hill towns of the Himalayas.
As recently as 1993, any fax out of Darjeeling could only be sent via the town's grand telegraph office which was located in a huge stone Victorian mansion, located a dizzying 129 steep steps carved into the side of the mountain. Trainee Mountaineers might not mind this climb. But ordinary folk, with ordinary leg muscles, must really have to WANT to send a fax, just to venture up there.
Mind you, from the telegraph office portico, the view of the city and surrounding mountains, was a truly magnificent reward for one's valiant efforts.
"It's called CULTURE SHOCK!"
My Aunt, Mother and I arrived at the Office around noon of the very next day, ready and eager to send the fax, before scouring the town for souvenirs. Unfortunately, the two all-male staff at the post office had no clue how to work their precious new fax machine. And, since they weren't about to admit that fact to mere women, it took the four of them three hours to TRY to figure it out. Only at the end of their work day, would they admit defeat and allow my Aunt to show them how to send our fax before the next ice age began.
During that long and tedious wait at the Telegraph Office, my emotional meltdown became more difficult to suppress. While Mom and Auntie alternately argued with and cajoled the Bengali staff, I waited for them on the only available seating - a simple wooden bench provided in that foyer-cum-waiting room.
A very patient Australian traveller shared the bench, whilst awaiting the arrival of his international phone call, to be routed into a private cubicle in the waiting area. He noticed that I was crying quietly but incessantly into my Kleenex, and gently pronounced: "It's called culture shock! And it's quite common when you first visit Asia." I could have kissed him both for his timely identification of my tearfulness and for his compassion in reaching out to me.
MOUNTAIN STORM
At that very moment, a mighty clap of thunder rattled the tall windows in the huge stone ediface. Running outside, the Aussie traveler and I were treated to the magnificent spectacle of a full blown (pun intended) Himalayan electrical storm. The raindrops were so heavy and the winds so persistent that I was grateful for the partial shelter of Darjeeling Telegraph Office's grand Victorian columned portico.
Aloud, I wondered if perhaps the monsoons had arrived early. But my companion assured me that such spectacular rainstorms in the Himalayas were the norm. Copious lightning bolts seemed to dance alarmingly close to us as the thunder rolled on and on, echoing throughout the hills that surrounded this rain-drenched sprawling mountain top city.
Aloud, I wondered if perhaps the monsoons had arrived early. But my companion assured me that such spectacular rainstorms in the Himalayas were the norm. Copious lightning bolts seemed to dance alarmingly close to us as the thunder rolled on and on, echoing throughout the hills that surrounded this rain-drenched sprawling mountain top city.
No wonder they called Darjeeling the sacred place of the thunderbolt!
While it lasted I, was too mesmerized by the beauty and enormity of that storm to feel anything but awestruck. Then, as quickly as it had begun, the storm ended, the sun shone, and my companion bid me a beaming farewell before he quietly vanished from view, down the steep stone staircase that led to the street level.
Not till much later did I realize that my Australian companion had not actually received the phone call for which he'd told me he was waiting.
And wasn't the timing of his appearance rather fortuitous, at the very moment when I was feeling my saddest? I also found it significant that the two of us had conversed with, and shared that storm, only with each other. My Mother and Aunt had been so engrossed in their task of faxing information to the city that neither had noticed my companion.
Serendipity?
And wasn't the timing of his appearance rather fortuitous, at the very moment when I was feeling my saddest? I also found it significant that the two of us had conversed with, and shared that storm, only with each other. My Mother and Aunt had been so engrossed in their task of faxing information to the city that neither had noticed my companion.
Serendipity?
I doubt it!
I certainly felt much better after that brief encounter than I had done before, because I knew, beyond doubt, that an Angel had comforted me that fateful day. As my courage returned, I recalled that Angels will often employ a loving person's habits or sensitivities to lend hope to other human beings or to pass along to them their special Angelic messages.
Indeed, even my own quirkiness had been so utilized, during my jeep journey up the Himalayas, when my curiosity had inadvertently interrupted the personal toilet of those train travelers. Everyone of us had then enjoyed a much needed laugh, which had helped to relieve the anxiety and fear generated by journey potentially fraught with political strife and danger. (press here to read more about this event in Pink Roses - Part 2 Journey to India)
So I was quite certain that, in the Darjeeling Telegraph Office, the traveller's Angelic self had reached out to reassure me in my hour of extreme need.
As a result, I'd immediately felt stronger and more able to cope! And then he went on his way.
Now that I felt regenerated, I was eager to get on with my shopping trip to the market that day. I was even looking forward to rising at 3 am for our planned excursion to Tiger Hill the following day.
I thus found it quite ironic that this miracle of transformation, created by my emotional response to India, had occurred at precisely the same moment that my trip AWAY from India was being expedited.
Knowing that soul growth only appears to happen by chance, I asked my inner Angel if my experiences in the land of my birth had already been sufficient to fill my soul?
Given the political instability of the region, it was doubtful that I'd be able to return to Bengal again in this lifetime. Yet, my short trip to India, had already been so intense that it had already brought me many important lessons - lessons that would take me a decade or more to fully comprehend and assimilate.
As always, I still had more questions than answers. But, as I was to discover in the days ahead, my Angels had a few surprises yet in store for me, in the Himalayan foothills of India.
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SECTION 1 Chapter 6 Mt. Kanchenjunga Experience meet the flesh and blood Buddhist Monk who first appeared to me as an apparition in Canada. (press here to learn more about this apparition in Pink Roses - Part 1) 
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