C. Norbu was senior instructor at the Nehru Institute of Mountaineering (NIM), Uttarkashi.

I wasn’t his student. But over several years spent climbing and trekking in my own small way, I came across many people fondly recalling this affable teacher of mountaineering.

Being an instructor at a government run-institute, Norbu’s students were an eclectic lot, drawn from rich and poor, urban and rural, local and outstation. Some made outdoor work their career.

Norbu had his weaknesses but everyone loved the whole package of this smiling man, who unlike so many mountaineers carried his achievements lightly (he had a list of ascents spanning, 6000, 7000 and 8000m peaks).

The first time I spoke to him was many years after my course at NIM. It was probably late 2009 and there was a wedding in Uttarkashi to attend. The groom was a mountaineer. Some of us who had worked with him in the outdoors got invited, as did the whole faculty of NIM.

At the party ahead of the wedding, I understood what Norbu meant to his students.

Administered in quasi-military fashion, outdoor training at India’s mountaineering institutes often resembles a boot camp. It is common for instructors to be stiff and protocol conscious.

The majority of the instructors enjoyed their share of the evening’s spirits, seated at a table. Norbu sat on the floor where most of the invited former students had clustered.

“C Sir” — that’s how they called him. I was struck by how the students hung around him, hung to his every word and wouldn’t let him go. Somewhere amidst that, Norbu in his characteristic fashion introduced himself to me.

His easy conversation amazed me for when I did my mountaineering course I had sensed an aversion among the climbing lot for my reading, writing and enquiring self. Norbu seemed to accept that. He came across as a bit of a rebel himself, keeping his own counsel.

Party over, he gave me a lift on his motorcycle to the dinner venue. The next day, as the groom’s baraat crawled to the marriage venue, I was my usual Malayali wooden self scared of dancing. Norbu didn’t spare me.

He got me dancing on the road for the first time in my life. What an unforgettable baraat that was — many of those NIM instructors dancing on the road had climbed a 7000 or 8000m peak. I remember wondering where and when I would see another baraat like that filled with climbers. Perhaps in Norbu’s hometown — Darjeeling, a place of gifted mountaineers; maybe Manali, maybe Leh.

I remember four things Norbu told me over those two days. First, he wished he had better income for all the years of training work at altitude he had done. There were offers to work elsewhere but he felt attached to NIM. In some strange way, the institute was his life.

Second, he was rather tired of everyone’s obsession with climbing Everest.

Third, he felt Uttarakhand was still inward-looking when it came to the larger world of adventure. It appeared a sad observation from the heart, given his roots in Darjeeling and life in Uttarakhand.

Fourth, he overlooked my average scores at NIM and complimented me for continuing to visit the mountains. That remark is the best memory of NIM I have, better than my mountaineering course years ago. It touched me that this man should open up despite meeting me for the first time just the day before.

The last time I met Norbu was in October 2010 at NIM. A trekking team from Bengal had gone missing near Kalindi Khal — Norbu spoke about it. In early 2011, I tried Norbu’s number. There was no response; he was probably in Darjeeling.

Then recently, while at an outdoor equipment store in Mumbai, I heard of his demise in mid-March following a road accident in Muzaffarnagar.

He will be missed.

(The author is a freelance journalist based in Mumbai)