(Note: A few days ago, I happened to read a piece that mentions how we've lost the letter writing culture, and the joy of a longing wait with it, as instant messaging has changed our sense of time. I felt I should go back and imagine how I would have written a letter to someone beloved if instant messaging and emails were still not a thing. I chose to write from Cherrapunji, Meghalaya.
https://www.brainpickings.org/2015/11/23/rebecca-solnit-encyclopedia-of-trouble-and-spaciousness-2/)
Dearest mmmh? (I’m so tempted to write Shekure)
Cherrapunji is pristine, well sort of. This name has lingered in my head since early school days and feels good to be breathing it now. The town wore a blanket of fog as I got here. You might be saying, “Oh! What else did you expect?” Certainly, there is another side to it. There has to be. I’ll tell you, or rather, show you soon.
I have to tell you, I made this trip unexpectedly; you would have loved it here, the rain, clouds and tranquillity. Though I had juggled the idea in my head (yeah! I never told you) before I confirmed this work trip to Guwahati, it faded away even before I took off. My mom planted it in my head, again, when she rang me up in Guwahati; it’s one of those places that she has been to years ago. Back then, she travelled by rail all the way from Kerala to Assam. Nowadays, it is a route frequented by thousands of East Indian migrant workers, who have made Kerala their Dubai. Ironical? I can’t say. But, I had to listen to mother at least this time. Yes, I am grinning.
This is my first solo trip of sorts, if you discount all those times I’ve travelled alone after leaving home (do not read ‘running away from the concept of home’) almost 10 years ago. Surprised? May be every trip is solo, because, when I look back, it’s about what I imbibed irrespective of who I was with. We should travel together more often; I know you don’t really fancy it but there is no harm trying. I’d like that. The great Kasi, who traversed the seven seas on his matte green Enfield to reclaim lost love, famously said, “The road has the answers.” You know who am I talking about, don’t you?
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| Shillong-Cherrapunji road |
No, I am sober. Coming back to Cherrapunji, it is locally known as Sohra. I am here for a glimpse of the Nohsngithiang Falls (the other name being the ‘Seven Sisters’ fall). I don’t know if I’ve told you, there’s this one frame I envision before most of my trips. This weather is a first for me. It wasn’t drizzling but my clothes were damp and my hair moist. It’s beautiful nonetheless. The air has no pungency and the neighbourhood has no crowd. No barking dogs, no air conditioner compressors, no vendors yelling their guts out. It reminded me of Kerala’s celebrating hartals. Life is slow, time itself is lazing. I was ready to let my eyeballs wander without being impeded by concrete structures. Oh, the fog! I imagined the falls might be veiled too and was on the verge of comforting myself with “there’s always a next time”. But, may be, Helios heard me.
The sun smirked. Visibility improved and the little town unfolded before me like a rolled-up carpet. Sohra, known far afield for its rain, is a modest settlement of the Khasis. Small houses lacking any splendour with mostly slanting roofs dot either sides of the main road. All establishments, big and small, bear the stamp of the matrilineal society. Tiny tots are attached to their mothers’ backs with a piece of cloth. The town’s population appears young, and a great share is possibly below the age of 10 (this is merely my observation and not verified through data).
Let me take you to the magnificence of the Nohsngithiang Falls. It’s an ultra-wide frame. It is supposedly a seven-segmented cascade but I felt there were innumerable vertical drops across the cliff. What you see beyond the hills is Bangladesh, apparently. I overheard a dozen people saying that. You know how nature charms me and makes me lose myself. I probably spent over an hour there, clicking, and watching the clouds brush past the cliffs, casting their shadows on the slopes. A rainbow at the bottom of the falls, oh, how I wish you were here (Floyd playing). Okay, I’ll stop now. You probably have cuss works on your tongue and eyes-rolling.
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| Nohsngithiang Falls |
Floyd brings me to the blue sky. No, it ain’t no myth. The vibrancy of nature here is going to save me several hours of Lightroom time. I know how much you adore blue skies and cloud art (hope I’m getting under your skin by now). What if I told you I even made it to a torrent – the upstream portion of one of the vertical drops of Nohsngithiang Falls – under that blue sky through a broken patch in a fence? Yes, I’m grinning again.
No, ain’t done yet. Listen to Nohkalikai Falls at dusk (I still can’t pronounce these Khasi names). I had mistaken it for a flipped image of the Nohsngithiang Falls (I thought even the names were the same!) in dry season, as the landscape is rather similar. So, Nohkalikai was not in my initial plan; but it would have turned out to be a blunder. It’s one of those love at first sight things, I was captivated. The slanting rays that passed through a thin layer of clouds gifted it an enviable glow. At the bottom of the main drop is a green pool surrounded by an ocean of greenery. I wasn’t happy with the shots and decided to wait for the sun to disappear behind the hills to try again.
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| Nohkalikai Falls |
I walked south; slightly downhill initially and then followed a narrow flat track flanked by grasslands and hillocks. The green and blue grew on me as I headed towards the horizon on that infinite trail. A little ahead, I met Phultiman, a Khasi woman possibly in her early 50s. She told me she was seeking some solitude from the rush near the viewpoint where she runs a shop. I started in Hindi and then she switched to English (not sure if she pitied my Hindi, but you must be laughing now). She runs the shop, which sells handicraft, shawls and sweaters, with her husband. She is a mother of four sons. To my dismay, even she asked me about marriage. Facepalm! But I managed to hide my pique in a laughter. Sweet woman, nevertheless. We discussed rain, the lack of it in Delhi, and even Kerala floods.
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| Phultiman at her shop. |
The sun was to be seen no more. I tried framing the cascade again but nothing satisfactory came out. I cringed for not having got the tripod; but, in retrospect, I at least got the camera, because this trip wasn’t meant to be. The sky had turned into a colour palette. Black spread gradually. The day is done.
Till we meet..
From Sohra,
With love
