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The day of travel
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In the morning two taxis took us from the Bengal Club to the Kolkata airport: one carried us; and the other, our luggage. Our driver took a route different from that I came to the city, and I was surprised to see how modern the new environs of Kolkata that are being built now are. The city sprawls over a huge territory, with high-rises in the middle of what seems like planned communities. I couldn't help wondering whether this urban landscape would change once people move in there: would it retain the large open spaces as designed or would people who aren't residents of these buildings move in and put up little shacks and tents, like I saw in the old town.
When we arrived at the airport we had plenty of time before our plane's departure. To show me where I could stay overnight on my way back, Wanchuk walked with me from the domestic terminal to the international one and pointed out where I could book a room at the airport. He suggested that I walked in and talked to the airport manager to find out all the details, which I did. It's two people per room, and one can make a reservation a week in advance of intended stay.
We walked back to the domestic terminal, and were immediately approached by an annoyingly helpful Kingfisher Airlines' luggage handler who made it exceedingly clear that he wanted to be remunerated for his helpfulness.
Even though the luggage allowance on domestic flights is much lower than that on the international ones, the limit is waved when one takes a domestic flight within 24 hours of international arrival. Having breezed through check-in, we were waiting at the departure gate when an altercation between a group of Bengalis trying to check in and the airline staff caught my attention. Even though I couldn't understand a word, it was quite a spectacle to watch flared tempers, flying hands, and the verbal tussle. It seems that temperamentally Bengalis are like Georgians.
An hour-and-a-half-long flight on Kingfisher Airlines was great: clean and comfortable aircraft, excellent service, tasty meal, and even a pen as a souvenir.
Wanchuk's father, Sonam-la, picked us up at Bagdogra airport and drove us to Siliguri. We stopped for a few hours at his eldest sister's apartment where I met about a dozen of Wanchuk's relatives. They all were staying in Siliguri because the family matriarch—Wanchuk's ailing paternal grandmother—was at the city hospital. Wanchuk and his dad went to see her; I stayed back and talked to the relatives.
In the afternoon we set out for Gangtok; sharing a ride with us was Wanchuk's cousin Dolkar. She is very nice; it turned out she studied at the George Mason University in Virginia. We had a pleasant conversation on our way to Sikkim. The traffic in Siliguri was quite chaotic but Sonam-la negotiated it with ease, which was not surprising given his many years of experience.
On our way we saw a demonstration of Gorkhaland supporters. A large population of West Bengal is of Nepali origin, and for quite a long time they have been demanding a separate state of Gorkhaland. As a means of achieving that goal they often employ the much-feared tactics of bandh, which is basically a general strike accompanied by a total ban on traffic violently enforced by the movement's supporters. That would have been a purely West Bengal problem if it were not for the fact that Sikkim has no airport of its own, and the only road from the nearest airport of Bagdogra to Sikkim—the vital National Highway 31A, a.k.a. 31ANHWay—obviously goes through West Bengal. Thus every time any party for any reason decides to call a bandh Sikkim finds itself cut off from India. Interestingly enough, the Supreme Court of India banned bandhs in 1998 but it seems the high court has no means to enforce its decision.
The road from Siliguri to Gangtok is pretty long and winding but one is rewarded by spectacular views of the rising lower Himalayan mountains and the turbulent river Teesta. The checkpoint between West Bengal and Sikkim is Rangpo. To my surprise, no questions were asked about my permit to enter Sikkim: the permit I got at the Indian embassy in DC was just a hand-written scribble at the bottom of my Indian visa.
Finally, after about a 5-hour drive we arrived to Wanchuk parents's house. His mom, Pem-la, met us there and presented each of us with a khada (ceremonial scarf). In DC I had seen photos of Wanchuk's parents and his other relatives; today I saw some of those people in a flesh: it is a strange, almost mysterious, feeling to see the pictures come to life when you meet the real people behind the photos. Pem-la prepared some Sikkimese delicacies but I had to stay on my diet. I presented my hosts with the gifts I brought for them, and then we called it a day.
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