Random Expressions

Part One: Thimphu

Preamble

The mobile phone rings. As ever, I try to do two things at the same time- switch off the gas, and switch on the phone. It’s my travel agent from Mumbai..

With an unusual warmth and glow, she drags out, “Hiiiiiii, Deepak! You had called? How are you?”

Perfect, except that the milk has boiled over, and the ‘parna’ (mop)with which I was holding nearly caught fire. I let it be. “Fine, yes, I did call…a small request…”

“Yaaaa…tell me naaaaa” she goes…the same heart-filling, confidence building lovely friendly tone.

“I need a ticket to Paro in Bhutan, and an early return. Plus arrange for a taxi to Thimphu, and a decent hotel stay, with a taxi for the next day to Pheuntsholing!”

The warmth has boiled over; a frosty silence follows. “Huh?” she manages to blurt out. “Request?” I almost hear her saying. But, after a few minutes of a few incoherent sounds and uncomprehensive gibberish, of which I can catch only the ‘umms’- and-’yas’ and ‘ohs’, she manages in perfect English, “I will call you back!” - curt and pithy!

I laugh. Maybe, my request was actually a demand…going to Bhutan and arranging for places there, sitting in Mumbai, is certainly not easy, and I let the poor girl be!


Thursday 23rd December 2004

10 am

Tribhuvan International Airport, Kathmandu is nearly empty. The major flights have still some couple of hours more to go. After paying the airport tax, I await at the check-in counter of Druk Air, the only airline that flies to Bhutan. The counter is deserted and the flight is to leave at 11:35. A couple and another family are there before me. The family has more baggage than I can ever expect anyone to carry. Later, I learn the total weight is a whopping 90 kilos, much more than the allowed one, and they pay excess baggage charges.

After waiting for some fifteen minutes, a grumpy man comes to the counter. As I patiently wait the family to do their excess baggage check in, I notice a lengthening queue behind me.

When my turn comes, the grouchy fellow looks at my ticket, and grunts, “Business class?”

I am flummoxed. Is that a sin? I stutter an affirmation.

But even before I can react, the man is shouting out, and calling the lady who had just left before me. “Madam!” he calls in his gruff voice “You forgot your baggage claim stub”. Flustered the lady returns, collects it, thanks the unsmiling gentleman and leaves. He is back to issuing my boarding pass, but again the lady returns, her papers and passport falling all over her, “I am sorry, you did not give me the boarding passes!”

What exactly has she collected from the counter considering that a boarding pass and the baggage stub is the only thing that this man is supposed to give?

I sigh! This is indeed la-la land!

11:35

The departure lounge is jam-packed. A Qatar Airways flight is almost ready to leave; since Qatar is a hot-destination for unskilled workers, the airlines are doing brisk business. The gates open and a crowd rushes towards it like the way people did in the past when DMS milk booths opened up in the mornings in Delhi.

There is a pat on my shoulder. I turn. A tidy looking, slim gentleman, with a thin beard is standing there.

“Is the flight to Paro announced?”

I nearly laugh. “Flights are not announced here. Just keep your radar up!”

12:00 pm

I alight from the airport bus on the concourse. Both the front and back doors are open. Since everyone is heading towards the back gate, I follow them, with my boarding pass in hand.

I look around; the same grumpy man has reached there. He sees me, and calls out, with his fingers clicking, “Business class, this way!”

For all I know, I could have been a Tihar jail inmate being flicked off to a special jail. I follow him up the stairs from the front gate. A mannequin dressed in the tradiotional Bhutanese dress stands there. I smile. She does not. I enter the miniature plane and take my seat.

Customer service is indeed a long way off from this place!

12:15 pm

The orange juice served is world class. Since the glass is small, and my thirst is not, I press the switch to call the airhostess.

The mannequin comes in, and I point towards the empty glass and ask her for a refill.

“I have to do the demonstrations now, wait!” she looks at me with the tired look of admonishing an irritating child. The smile is still missing.

1:00 pm

The flight had taken off a wonderful start and the view below is simply breathtaking. Layers upon layers of lush mountains stretch upto the horizon, with the snowy, hard peaks forming the border at the end. The clouds form an intricate design with their white tufts, some far below the peaks. The journey is truly a worth taking experience for the visual splendor that is on display (despite the mannequins and grouchy ground staff!).

En route, the captain points out towards Mount Manaklu (fifth largest), Mount Kanchenjunga (third largest) and Mount Everest (the largest).

After some time, the landscape changes again, the mountains below are larger, brown and gargantuan in their circumference. At some point we are so close I can see the shadow of our plane over them.

The plane shudders and shakes and I am jittery. It is scary to see the plane maneouvering through the mountains, and at the same time shivering through them.

In a casual, non chalant way the captain’s static voice booms over the announcing system, “This is just a minor turbulence, please fasten your seat belts, and relax!” Oh yeah, give me another line, please!

Barely has the captain finished when I notice the mannequin announcing “Ladies and gentlemen, we are about to land…”

My heart jumps up faster than Jeetender can ever amidst his pots and pans…Land? But where? All I can see below are miles and miles of barren brown mountains…and the plane is actually descending.

In a flash, the mammoth bumps give way to a small valley, and I see the runway. Phew! What a relief!

1:10 pm

Bhutan has only one airport in the entire country: Paro International Airport. From there on one has to travel by taxi or bus to Thimphu, the capital city (or to any other town). The airport at Paro is neat, well maintained and was built by India as a friendship gesture. It was inaugurated in 1999 by the then Foreign Minister Mr. Jaswant Singh.

The airport is smaller than Delhi’s Inter State Bus Terminal even! The plane parks itself at the front of the arrival lounge- no buses required…just walk through.

A small glitch at the immigration counter occurs. In the immigration form there were three choices for purpose of visit: Business, Official and Tourism. Since I was on an official work I had naturally, keeping in mind the basic meaning of the word ticked the second choice.

The lady at the counter looks at me. “Which department”

“Eh?”

She points to me at my form. “You have marked ‘official’ on the form. Which government departments have you come to meet?”

I get her import. ‘Official’ here means something to do with any of the Royal Ministries. Sensing the futility of argument I mention one, which in any case I was to meet during the course of my visit.

3:00 pm

The drive to Thimphu (from Paro) is one and a half hours approximately. It’s an enchanting journey with a river flowing along the highway as it curves and winds its way through the tricky and treacherous mountains. The river is shallow and full of smooth white stones and emanates a sweet melody as it shimmers through the crevice between two slopes. All along as much as the eyes see, there are hills and mountains in various sizes and shapes strewn over the landscape. The bridge at the confluence of two rivers (again, built by Indians) is a wonderful scenic architecture, an ideal place for a song picturisation. The winters have a firm clutch, and despite a sunny day, I can feel a chilly wind.

Thimphu is not in a proper valley. It is built between spaces found between two mountains. From above, before we enter the city below, I can see it stretching longitudinally parallel to the river, at the base of the hills.

It is quaint.

7:00 pm

All meetings over, I do my discovery of Thimphu. As I had noticed earlier, the place is very small, and I take a walk around the main market square, built over two parallel long roads, on one of which is the hotel that I am staying in. The hotel road is almost at the edge of the city, lengthwise, and from my room, I can see a formidable wall of the mountain rising, not very far off.

Bhutan Tidbits


Ensconced snugly in the Himalayas, Bhutan truly is a kingdom in the sky.

It is believed that the name Bhutan is derived from the Sanskrit ‘Bhotant‘, meaning ‘the end of Tibet’, or from ‘Bhu-uttan’, meaning ‘high land’. Historically the Bhutanese have refered to their country as Druk Yul, ‘land of the thunder dragon’. Bhutanese refer to themselves as Drukpa people. The Kingdom has a total area of about 47,000 square kilometers, about the size of Switzerland

The Bhutanese have preserved their culture with a ferocious intensity. They have also treasured their natural environement as seen as a source of life. It has been identified as one of the ten bio-diversity hotspots.Due to this tourism is structured and controlled and everyone entering it is given a ‘Travel Permit’ mentioning the places of visit.

The official religion is Buddhism, which has been predominant since the 7th century.

Most men can be found in their traditional dress, gho (it is difficult to describe it - but looks like our modern day bath robe but with proper overlapping in the front and tied around the waist by a small belt called a kera). The women wear an ankle length dress called kira, made from beautifully colored and finely woven fabrics with traditional patterns.

The currency here is Ngulutrum, which (very surprisingly) has a conversion rate on par with Indian Rupees. The latter is widely accepted here.

The local language is Dzongkha, but Nepali and Hindi are prevalent.

When I asked the reason for this widespread knowledge of Hindi, my host replied without any hestitation: “Your cinema!”

In both Nepal and here a strong binding force is definitely our Hindi commercial cinema. We may deride it sitting in our snooty ivory towers, but Hindi cinema has been a perfect cultural and linguistic ambassador. The second reason quoted is the popularity of our serials.

Modernity is slowly settling in- there is a mobile phone service and number of internet outlets, but hotels still do not have them. Airtel does not catch here. Calls are expensive, even though, of the list, calling India is the most inexpensive. Most hotels do not provide outside direct dialling.

9:00 pm

The cold is severe, and I return to my hotel room chilled to the bones. The hotel room is typical hill station type- with wooden floors and walls, and some lovely local paintings and designs on the wall. A bunch of quilts are available and I look gratefully at the heater, which the housekeeping had thoughtfully switched it on in my absence.

Since television is available, I catch up on the world and, of course, a few Hindi flicks. Sony, as usual, is showing an umpteenth re-run of Karan Arjun. Since it has been some time since I watched it, I view the film for most parts and call it a day after some time with Mamta Kulkarni prancing to “Chhat pe soya tha behnoi” in my hazy , tired grogginess.

Part Two - The Checking

Friday 24th December 2004

9:00 am

I am ready for the day.

After a small breakfast at the hotel restaurant, with lukewarm tea, I proceed to check out, and arrange for a taxi to Pheuntsholing (my travel agent refused to help me there in sheer exasperation). But now I have learnt the standard rate, so the negotiations are easy.

It is off-season, and the hotel front manager is clearly disappointed at my leaving so soon. I pay the money and promise to return. Inwardly, I vowed, not to this hotel, ever!

The official working hours are from nine to five in summers; and nine to four in winters, which is understandable considering the early sun set and the harsh weather.

I start the meetings dot on time; I have to complete all agenda in Thimphu and start for Pheuntsholing, which is some 172 kilometers from here, but the journey takes approx. five-six hours due to the tough terrain.

11:00 am

The taxi is a Maruti van. Apart from our films, Maruti is the second binding factor between our neighbors. Nepal and Bhutan are full of Maruti 800 and Vans. There is a dealership in both Pheuntsholing and Thimphu.

The scenic beauty is mindblowing as the rickety van traverses through the curves and bends and the slippery mountain roads; a river gives us company gurgling in its innate enthusiasm.

The driver plays some lovely Udit Narayan numbers. Ironically, the first one he does is Raja Hindustani’s Aaye ho meri zindagi mein tum bahar banke…almost felt like Karisma Kapoor driving to Palankhet… Apart from this the other good numbers in his assorted album are Aawaz do humko (Dushman), Ghar se nikalte hi (Papa Kahte Hain) and Tu hai meri kiran (Darr).

Apart from Udit, I hear another voice…yipes! It is the driver insisting on singing along with each song…move over Bappi Lahiri! You have competition! Leaning to take out my handkerchief, I spy his fingers move into negation with the lines “tu haan kar ya na kar..” Ok, move over Shahrukh as well, Gopal Gurung is here! As I look out at the dangerous curve, I pray that he concentrates on the steering wheel than his histrionics.

12:00 pm

The road has been decent enough, and the mountains are dark green in this stretch. It is difficult to realize when you leave one and ascend the other. They envelope you from all sides…on my right hand side, the peak extending up is formidable, and the fall goes sharply down towards the river, which still swings its way in a joyous rhythm.

1:00 pm

From afar on the opposite end towards the right, where we have to go, Gopal notices that a trailer has got stuck and a traffic jam is piling up. How the hell he managed to do so beats me? From afar, it is barely imperceptible to discern the road on the mountain side, as the foliage is dense, and the wall of the mountain seems to be one continuous whole.

We cross a small bridge over the river, towards the base of another mountain, and reach a check post. A number of cars are standing there, some due to the checking and others, largely due to the jam that has taken place due to the stuck trailer.

Gopal parks the taxi after crossing the barrier.

“Sir, it will take some time, you want to ‘minus’, please do it some place ahead,” he suggests.

“Minus?” I ask incredulously.

He raises his small finger. Of all the euphemisms for urinating, this is the most unique one that I have heard.

I start to get off from the right hand door.

“No, no …” exclaims the driver. “Not from this side. It is illegal to get off a taxi from the right hand side”

1:15 pm

I return from completing my ‘minus‘.

The driver is in the check post room, I follow him there. He is talking to some officials in Nepali (it is a common language spoken here); the official looks up at me and asks my name. I reply and he repeats it to someone over his handset. I wonder at the proceeding and look at the driver for explanation. He is equally blank. Perhaps, they might allow small cars to pass the trailer up ahead and some arrangement is being done for the same.

We come out to the taxi, and are immediately joined by another official.

I smile. No smile is returned. The man is short, fair and has a typical Nepalese-Bhutanese face. He points towards my bag and laptop. His subordinate struts in shortly.

“Is this your luggage?” he asks. I nod. “Please open it”

I open the lap top bag, and he searches every nook and corner, taking out each item and rummaging through the tiniest piece of paper. There is a box of my visiting cards.

“What’s this?”

“Visiting cards” I reply; he looks at it blankly, and asks his subordinate to note that down. One lap top, one charger, one book, one box of visiting cards.

“What’s in this?” he asks, pointing to my blue bag.

“My clothes” I answer. He asks to open the bag and take all the items from it. I am a bit worried. As he proceeds to remove each piece of clothing and checking every pocket of each trouser and shirt, I sense something is wrong. This does not seem routine checking. Then, he searches all the pockets of the bag, and looks at the cologne bottle, and even opens the cap to smell it, and looks curiously through my after-shave kit, and my panic increases. I question him about it. He mumbles an incoherent reply.

As he is doing his checking, my over active, fertile and imaginative brain is thinking about all those Bollywood films where all of a sudden a packet of ‘drugs’ is fished out of the innocent hero/heroine’s belongings. What if the taxi driver had implanted something in my bag when I had gone for my ‘minus‘? After all, I had not checked his antecedents before hiring him. As the investigation proceeds, I am relieved that nothing ‘foreign’ is there.

“Follow me” the guard orders. I do so, and am taken into the inner room of the check post, where I am subjected to a thorough check up- behind my coat collar, all over the body, in every pocket of the coat, each crevice of the wallet…my mouth is dry.

“Wait outside!”

All along, cars are coming, stopping and drivers/passengers are getting their names and addresses registered at the table on the porch of the check post. The wind is blowing harshly, and I shiver in fear and cold. Something is wrong, my instincts scream at me.

There is a flurry of activity as the taxi driver comes out, makes a phone call and talks animatedly to the guard. Thereafter, the guard dials and is calling someone and shouting over the phone. A couple of Indian army personnel are there in the crowd outside, including a ’sardarji’. In Punjabi, I solicit their help for I am convinced that this is not a ‘casual checking’. They dismiss off my fear and walk away by saying that sometimes they too are subjected to these types of searches as well. I am still not convinced. To me, the officials have just shirked off their responsibility a bit too non-chalantly.

I am called in again. The man is still on phone; cupping his hand over the speaker, he asks my name, and repeats it on the phone…then my father’s name…then my age…then my place of birth…then my ‘village’. I inform that I belong to Delhi, hence there is no village of mine.

Again an excited conversation follows. Outside, I notice that another official is inspecting the taxi with the same rigor. The driver’s face is ashen and pale.

The man on the phone places the receiver on hold and comes to me and asks me to turn; I am scared. I feel his hand paw all over the back side. He goes back to the phone, receives another set of instructions and is back with me to check the legs - knee downwards to the ankle. A similar routine follows, and he is back with me once more, “Remove the shoes” He dusts the shoes and fingers into it. Nothing there!

Once more, he is on the phone, and asks my name - yet again! My name is difficult for him to pronounce, I spell it out. As a last resort, I hand over my passport to him. He views it skeptically, and reads out my name, but cupping the receiver, he glares at me, “This does not have your father’s name”

I am at my wit’s end, exasperated and ready to burst. Quite sarcastically, I reply, “The Indian passport has the family details on the last page.” I know the tone can land me in trouble, but being an Indian national, and having entered the country in a completely legal manner, with full travel documents (and now, no ‘foreign’ thingy coming out of my luggage) I am not going to get bogged down by them; I make up my mind that if he troubles me more I am calling the Indian Embassy!

But, alas, that is not to be. I find him talking to me, “This does not state your village!”

I am ready to shout! “I don’t have a village. I have New Delhi, and that is clearly mentioned there” With an irritated force, I point to the document at the exact place. I also give him my visiting card, which was a very wrong thing to do, as the address is of Gurgaon, and he is again looking at my questioningly. “You said Delhi!” I throw up my hands in disgust and explain him the Delhi-Gurgaon symbiosis. Dutifully, he repeats the same on the phone!

Though I am trying to put up a false façade of bravado, inwardly I am fearful…I am in an alien country, in the middle of nowhere, with no mobile connection, and faced with hostile security men…not exactly a rosy picture!

A draft of wind enters the door.

I shudder.

Part Three- Pheuntsholing

2:00 pm

It’s been almost one hour of this pantomime.

The man is still on phone, and I pace the room restlessly. All of a sudden, he places the phone down and looks at me.

“You can go” he says, a small smile forming for the first time, and hands over my passport and travel permit. Looking at my visiting card, he says, “Can I keep this?” Sure, I volunteer, relieved to be off this hell.

Sitting in the car, the driver, visibly shaken and perturbed says, “It seems they had some mis-information. They knew my exact taxi number and from where it was hired and my mobile number as well. It is the first time I have been subjected to this kind of a check”

It does no good to my shattered will power. Surreptitiously, I check the laptop and bag to see if some ‘foreign thingy’ has not been slipped in now!

(Later, I learn from my friend, that these kinds of checks are quite ‘normal’ and should not be taken as otherwise; apparantely, the army officials were right)

We start off, but have to stop the car again after a couple of kilometers. The trailer that is the cause of the current delay is carrying a tall piece of machinery, which has got solidly stuck onto a piece of jutting out mountain rock. The work is on, and it takes some one hour before a small way is cleared off for the cars to pass.

5:00 pm.

The rest of the journey is uneventful. We had stopped at a roadside restaurant to have some snacks and coffee. En route, we pass through Chhuka, near which a large dam (Tala Hydel Project) is being developed with the aid of Indian private and government sectors. It has its headquarters some way up at Begu.

At Begu, I again notice a standard Bhutanese government architecture…the buildings are white, with the windows in bright and intricate designs, giving the effect of a ‘patola saree’.

Crossing Begu the weather changes quite abruptly. The clouds have descended and we are enveloped in a thick fog. Immediately, it is dark.

“Now you are in heaven!” exclaims the driver. That is fine, but please drive carefully; I am in no mood to reach the real heaven this soon, I feel like telling him.

I snuggle myself cosily into the farthest corner of the seat, wrapping my arms tightly to shelter against the crazily cold weather; the lengthening shadows and the thickening mist play eerily over the unyielding landscape.

6:00 pm

At long last, we see Pheuntsholing (after passing yet another check post, where once again, the immigration counter stamped my ‘travel permit’; a routine at each entry of a fresh district). It is dark now, and the lights from atop the hill look like a million fireflies laid out in a replesendent net. Pheuntsholing is on the foothills of the Himalayas, beyond which the plains take over. There are no more mountains after that.

On entering the city, I call up my friend, whom I have come to meet, and he promises to pick me up from a designated venue in five minutes time. I get out of the car to stretch myself; once again, the driver, warns me to get off the left hand side; I look at the deserted lane where we stand; where the hell is any policeman standing here? And, the rule, though it makes sense on an highway, cannot be so strictly imposed that one becomes paranoic! I do as he tells me, and wait for my friend.

My friend, B, and I were school mates, and have shared the same dormitory in the hostel, some twenty years ago. Since then, we have been in touch off and on, largely through the ‘email forwards’ that we keep sending each other. He is settled in Pheuntsholing with his family, and has his business here.

We last met some seven years back. At that time, jokingly, I had promised that some day, I shall surely visit him in Bhutan. Today, it was the time to rub in the fact in that I had finally kept my promise!

7:30 pm

After spending some time at his office, and having a hot cup of tea, we leave for my hotel. Although he had insisted on me staying at his place, I was not keen on troubling him to that extent so I forced him to book a hotel. He chooses the best hotel of Pheuntsholing for me - The Druk Hotel. I am impressed.

“We are late…they won’t allow the Bhutan number cars through at this time!” he says, as we sit in his red Alto.

“They won’t allow Bhutan number cars? Here? Why?” I am all questions. He drives out towards the main road, barely half a kilometer away.

“Actually my house is in India and they have stopped Bhutan numbered cars into India in the evenings”

“Pardon! India?”

“Yeah…don’t you know? Pheuntsholing is on the border of Bhutan!”

I didn’t know!. And how far off is our India?

“There,” he points to a tall concrete ceremonial gate in the middle of the main road, again, barely a few meters away. “That gate separates India from Bhutan.”

Incredulously I look at the gate. It is a revelation to me. It is as if one city has been divided into two parts. How can one part of the city be in Bhutan and other in India? No, it’s not one town, technically, that is; they are twin cities. The Indian end is Jaigaon, West Bengal. He drives upto the gate where, as predicted, the security personnel stop us.

I view the place…on one main road, a gate is set up, and it divides two countries. I am amazed and amused!

“See, that is India…will take you there tomorrow…today, will leave the car at your hotel and I will walk down…my house is hardly half a kilometer away” He crosses the border daily. Due to the friendly relations between the two countries, the ‘no man’s land’ is missing.

And what time do they follow in Jaigaon? IST. So, with just a couple of steps, one can gain thirty minutes as Pheuntsholing follows Bhutan time, which is half an hour ahead of us.

He then takes me on a tour of the border. Extended from the gate on both sides is short wall demarcating the two nations through the breadth of the city, with a narrow ‘nallah‘ in between, to cross which one need not be an Anju Bobby George. Some enterprising ‘panwallah’ has broken a portion of the wall (away from the prying eyes of the security) and is openly selling off cigarettes to Bhutanese, as the cancer-sticks are strictly banned here. You cannot smoke on the roads!

He smiles at the still surprised look on my face.

9:30 pm

We have drinks at a nearby restaurant and catch up on the past seven years of our lives. Much has happened, and time flies by. I also taste the locally brewed Highland Whisky; to me it tastes quite like the Red Label that I had been having. Since there is a ‘virtual curfew’ on after nine in Pheuntsholing, we have to leave early. Life sleeps even earlier than Kathmandu. He jokes that he should have warned me not to expect ‘cities’ here; Bhutan is small, laid back, beautiful, simple, exotic and unostentatious.

After promising to meet the next day at ten in the morning, he leaves for his house…in India!

10:30 pm

I surf the channels again. ETC is available, so I catch a lot of latest trailors. I am quite confused…all of them look alike, forming certain cohesive groups…eg, Shabd and Vaada looked like cuts from the same frame with a similar storyline…add Bewafaa to this, I think the ‘unfaithful’ wife is here to stay for some time. Similarly, Elaan, Insaan and Blackmail merged into one bunch- with Akshay Kumar and Ajay Devgan being common to a couple of them. The song snippets do not excite me enough; moreover, like the scenes, they all sound the same.

I go off to sleep.

Saturday 25th December 2004

9:00 am

I wake early, and catch the early morning show on Star Gold. The film is Barkha Bahar, starring Rekha and Navin Nischol. It is a longwinded tale of a girl who becomes a tawaif after her lover leaves her. If I am not mistaken, this was Rekha’s first Hindi movie. I cannot help but notice that for her debut, Rekha’s performance came across very polished and mature. The title song by Lata Mangeshkar will stay with me for the entire day.

11:30 am

It is Christmas, and the Yuletide spirit has given this kingdom a complete miss. Not even a single colorful light to show that there is a festival on. All offices are open just like a normal working day. We complete my meetings, which turn out to be quite successful and fruitful; and I am excited as he drives the short distance through the gate.

I am in India! I am in India! I exclaim excitedly. Just a gate on a continuing road is enough mental barriers…and crossing it gives me immense elation. Yes, I am in my own country, my own land!

“Achcha lagta hai, na? Yahan aakar apni aukaat bhi badh jaati hai!” comments my friend. I agree completely. There is a strange sense of freedom that I am feeling…no one is just going to stop me here and ask for my ‘travel permit’ and passport!

This is Jaigaon…the northern most tip of West Bengal. I am a trifle dismayed to notice that the Indian side is much dirtier than Pheuntsholing.

12:30 pm

We visit his family, and later roam around the market of Jaigaon. Since this is India, I decide to buy a few CD’s at normal Indian rates; I pick up Bewafaa and Kisna. Rog is not available.Taking the opportunity I also purchase a few other stuffs which I do not get in Nepal, including Dispirin.

1:00 pm

We cross the road and enter Bhutan. It is nearly time for me to leave. Since my flight back to Kathmandu is early morning the next day from Paro, I have to be there tonight itself, any which way!

The taxi driver is on time.

Thanking B for his warm and wonderful hospitality (he made entry into all the offices simple as also arranging for a hotel stay in Paro, and of course, here in Pheuntsholing), I start off on the return journey. The clouds are low, and it rains for most part of the journey.

7:00 pm

Reach Paro; it is pitch black, and exceedingly cold…The return trip is without any mis-adventure, and I doze off for most of the time.

The hotel chosen by my friend is exceptional. I am booked in an independent deluxe cottage, right at the back, overlooking the forest and the hills beyond. The cottage, made of wood, complete with a drawing room, and a dressing room, is L-shaped and tastefully decorated. I notice that the curtains have a bright woven design, with a broad piece of multi-colored cloth externally sewn at the top end, giving a reverse border effect; I had seen a similar design at the Thimphu hotel as well.

9:00 pm

Sony is telecasting a repeat of Lata Mangeshkar’s “The Queen in Concert: An Era in an Evening”. I have seen it twice earlier and also have its audio double cassette pack. Yet, I am tempted to sit through it again. I watch a small portion, while having my dinner- a Bhutanese dish of cheese and mushrooms with butter naan, and a locally manufactured apple juice.

With a heavy heart, I switch off the television…have to wake up early tomorrow…cannot take the risk of staying back. My cash is nearly exhausted…and credit cards are not accepted in Bhutan! Though Visa has entered at some establishments, the acceptance is rather poor.

I enter the bundle of quilts and silently thank the hotel staff for having the fore-sight of placing two hot water bottles.

(I returned to Kathmandu by an early morning flight of Druk Air on Sunday, 26th December 2004. The journey was uneventful, and the staff at the Paro International Airport, though clumsy, was more courteous. An irritating formality at the airport is to verify your baggage after the security check. The mannequins stayed constant in their unwavering stern smile-less heavily made up visages; and my earlier co-passenger, the tidy man with the thin beard, was also on the same flight back).

The post was originally written in three separate parts on my earlier blog; in this edition I have compiled all the three episodes.

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Technorati : Bhutan, Pheuntsholing, Thimphu
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This entry was posted on Monday, December 27th, 2004 at 8:14 am and is filed under Travel. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.