CROSSINGS
THE CLICHÉS come rushing to mind as NH6 weaves through the thickly cloaked mountains. Green meshing into distant blue. Interspersed with sylphian clouds floating around as though they owned the whole damn place.
Shillong, the seat of the Meghalaya government, is a hundred kilometres from Guwahati's Lokpriya Gopinath Bordoloi Airport, the busiest entry to the Northeast.
Nothing that meets the eye is irksome or out of sync. Not the frequent drizzle. Not the motley tourists armed with selfie sticks, dressed in local attire. Not even the polypacks of potato wafers on display at every log or tin shop. One can make an allowance, though, for the blaring hoarding that announces a gala, with Farhan Akhtar and "fifty other stars".
Shillong has always rocked, pebbles and all. It loves Lou Majaw as much as Ma'lou loves Dylan. Later that week, no sooner than news of the Literature Nobel spread, the two became one again, in Cafe Shillong.
Our driver is an informed man. A Bengali from Assam, with roots in Sylhet - a bit of Bangladesh that shares a border with Meghalaya.
School texts in the Eighties said little about the Khasi, Garo and Jaintia Hills that make up the topography of the state. I learnt more from the Republic Day tableau from the state.
I spot a signage that says "Ka HDFC". "That's 'Our HDFC' in Khasi," explains the driver. A few meters away, there is a "Ka SBI". We drive on. "Ninety per cent of the population is Christian, and 10 per cent Hindu," says the driver, and adds, "Modi came here last year... But Meghalaya will never go the Assam way."
Inroads are not always dislocating, though.
Way back in 1924, a monk from Ramakrishna Mission had crossed over from Sylhet to Cherrapunjee. Thus began a tradition of service. RKM now runs 68 schools in the Seven Sister states, among other things. Its regional headquarters in Cherrapunjee is this huge building, towering over everything else in the area.
The large complex looks empty. Everyone must be away, working where they are supposed to be working, I gather. I pick up a few packets of cinnamon - an unthinkable Rs 10 for a 50-gram pack.
Back in the car. We zip ahead leaving behind villages and small towns with lilting names like Mawphlang, Pynursla, Mawsmai... Luckily, clear skies accompany us. Even to Cherrapunjee, once the winner of the wettest place on earth prize.
The few shops at Sohra Bazar have almost nothing to offer a visitor. Maybe a photograph? The old woman with blackened teeth, selling betel nuts along with her old man, shies away, covering up her face with her palm. On either side of the road are these giant baskets - at least 7 to 8 feet high - leaning against trees. The betel nuts are plucked, frond et al, stuffed into the baskets and then kept under water for days. Why? To retain the juiciness, the zing thing of the kacha supuri.
We stop at a roadside hotel for lunch. The owner is an enterprising Tamilian, who set up shop after marrying a Khasi woman. "It's a matriarchal society," the matriarch back home had reminded. So the apologetic tone of the friendly cook at Mawlynnong - Asia's cleanest village - comes as a surprise. "Unlike what you see elsewhere, we have to go and live in the girl's home. We also take their surname," he says, between serving us mounds of rice. He wants to work here a few more years before leaving his family. How many brothers and sisters, I ask. "Four ladies and two gents; my mother is a happy woman."
Finally, we are moving towards Dawki, the border town. I notice that there's a sharp ringing sound following us. It rises and falls, but never goes away completely. I look around for the source. "It's the crickets," the driver comes to the rescue again. The music blends with the surrounding stillness, punctuated only by butterflies chasing each other.
There are buses from Shillong, but all I see are a few trucks carrying stone chips. The road starts to turn rough. It is also dusty and hot. "The warmth of Bangladesh," chuckles the driver.
Most of the clearings now are because of men chipping away at the mountain. Trucks full of stone chips are sent across the border to Bangladesh - they are used for construction work. The other stuff passed on, not legally, of course, includes onions, ginger, sugar, paan and betel. And what comes in? Fish and rice.
A bamboo post with a couple of BSF men flies past. In the flatland below, runs the Umngot, a monsoon river. It is nothing more than a few pools of water now. Are we near the border? "That side is Sylhet," says our man, pointing to the plains beyond the river. All I see are some figures lazing on the grass and grazing cattle.
But where is the border? This time, the man points to a tiny milestone jutting out from the grassland. "Modi has said he will build a barbed fencing."
Another bamboo post flies by, this one has two children resting on it, naked as daylight.
Dawki is not quiet at all. We get caught in a traffic snarl. Earnest young men come up to ask, "Boating nahin karega, madam? Island dikhayega, Zero Point dikhayega..." I am not interested at all, but many are. From the old suspension bridge - that was built in 1932 by the British - the water below looks green, cool and peaceful. Scores of boaters are making the most of it. It's like one big picnic spot. On the "other side" stand a few tents. Bangladeshis camping, I am told.
I get myself a bottle of water at the market. Not having seen a border worth the mention I am a little irked. I long to go back to my temporary home in the clouds.
Paromita Kar
