Atop a Himalayan kingdom

Getting into Nepal is an incredible journey, and one that's not easily forgotten

The king may have been shown the door, the flag changed, a republic proclaimed, and "at the stroke of midnight - which is 15 minutes ahead of ours - a new country awoke to life and freedom", but before the present turn of events in Nepal, a far more dramatic event had unfolded in the summer of 2001.

My first board exams over, I had turned 16 and in my father's words, I was "a man". I was ready to board my first flight.

After a good three hours, twirling around the hills of Darjeeling to find a straight road in Siliguri and darting across it, I found myself in another country, at the Nepalese airport of Bhadrapur, waiting to fly to the capital, Kathmandu.

My other options were to either take an overnight train to Calcutta, and then fly for a much exorbitant fare, or take a 'reportedly' overnight bus to the Himalayan kingdom. Not only did the bus not adhere to its tag of being an overnight entity, but halted at every possible juncture.

And then the days were of lawlessness (when the Maoists were considered bandits), propagated by the defenders of the law themselves. NYPD-styled, slit-eyed cops in their blue shirts, black trousers, jolted passengers from their sleep. One held a flashlight, while the other put a camera with a heavy flash right into the 'victim's' eyes to take a picture. (Often few unsuspecting tourists posed a few smiles, comprehending it to be a token of the great Nepalese hospitality). The logic behind it simple: To keep a database of the people entering the country.

Flying from Bhadrapur was convenient and financially feasible. All I had to shell out was a little over Rs1,000. But as I neared the airport I couldn't help but think that there was catch. For every silver lining there must be at least one cloud.

I had seen enough airport-related movies to realise that the first thing I needed to do was get hold of a trolley. Spotting one, and balancing my rucksack over it, I pulled, pushed, nudged, tugged and even kicked it, but it refused to budge. The wheels just didn't work and neither did any of the others, and someone thought the wheel was the greatest invention of mankind.

Impression No 1 was definitely bad. The greatest, most basic invention had gone kaput, with the more heavy-duty technology of flying yet to follow. A couple of lanky porters offered to help, but I kindly declined. I searched for an indicator that might show the status of my flight, only to find none.

A tug at my shirt made me look to my left, where I encountered a short fellow in a dirty-white shirt with a stream of snot running down his nose. He snarled and took in a deep breath and along with it, the snot, and asked, "Which flight?"
"Buddha Air", said I. "Isn't it scheduled any minute?"

He looked out of the window, over the airstrip and the air over it. Another deep breath, more snot, "Depends on the sky," he said. "Go get your bag checked in. I'll let you know when the flight is due," he continued.

After an intense session with the contents in my rucksack, the security official gave up, offered a quick apology, opened a small pouch and started furiously grinding tobacco with his right thumb on his left palm.

Suddenly the people on the chairs seemed to stir from their stupor. Someone had spotted a distant aircraft, only to be disappointed when it carried on its course over the airstrip.

I had a collection of Somerset Maugham's stories, over which I reluctantly spent an hour. "Aayo! Aayo! (It's arrived)," said the short fellow in Nepali, with the snot now precariously dangling over his chin. He caught hold of my bag, "I'll help," he said.

After one great tug at his nose, where he lodged the serpent-like snot back into its source and in the process almost bent backwards, he carried my rucksack on his head and made a dash for it. I looked around, almost everyone was. Everyone was running to the aircraft, in want of the best possible seat.

The aircraft was small, the interiors even smaller, with a maximum capacity of 20, including the pilot and the airhostess. I offered the short guy who helped with my luggage Rs20 - Indian rupees. He couldn't conceal his happiness and neither could the snot, which now was streaming down both nostrils.

I lay down on my seat. No 'Terminal'-like episode was to happen, neither was I to meet any Meg Ryan, like the one in the movie 'French Kiss', as I looked around my co-passengers. Some had feet atop their seats, while the women opened their tiffins containing rotis and vegetables.

Some had even brought flasks of tea. I pushed myself further into my seat as the airhostess, a 30-something lady, with a lot of powder and lipstick on her face, demonstrated how to use the seat belt.

"In case you need to throw up" "she said, as she caught hold of a paper-bag, "you can use this." She then, quite, obligingly, proceeded to demonstrate the act of throwing up. The engine revved up; the wheels started rolling. The airhostess looked at me, showed me a tray full of Nepali newspapers and magazines and asked, "Want something to read?"

"Do you have anything in English?" I asked.
"E-N-G-L-I-SSS," said she, incredulously.

"That's alright." I stared out of the windows into the bluish-white mountains, the peaks of which were now turning a slight pink in the afternoon sun. Somewhere, there was Mt Everest. I looked down and smiled; I was flying.
b_lhendup@dnaindia.net