Love Regained

BREAKING NEWS

Hasina looked up from the open laptop resting on her knees. ‘Breaking News’ never failed to get her attention no matter how trivial the news might be. One never knew when there would be something really important. And sitting for long hours at airports, one did welcome some distraction. She glanced at her watch, it read 5:00 am exactly. She had been waiting in the capacious transit lounge of Bahrain Airport for almost five hours and had had her fill of the brightly lit duty free shops that it was famous for. There were still three more hours before the scheduled departure of her connecting Gulf Air flight to Kathmandu.

“This is a CNN Breaking News special,” the craggy faced anchor spoke into the camera. “We have a confirmed report that in the last fifteen minutes - Paris time about 4:00 am - a plane went down over the English Channel with 75 people on board including a ten man crew.  The Air France Airbus 300 was on its way to Le Havre and circling over the channel in preparation for landing at the Le Havre Octeville Airport. Initial reports suspect a bomb explosion as the cause of the crash. We have got video footage coming in as we speak.”

The end section of the plane, the prominent colors of Air France clearly visible on the tail, came into view. It seemed only a matter of time before it too vanished into the deep blue waters of the English Channel. Flotsam of the wreckage was strewn about nearby. The TV announcer came back on screen, “Although this is a preliminary report, there are some indications that this terrible carnage was the work of a single individual. According to airline officials, 35 of the passengers were American students on a cultural tour of France. We will keep you posted as soon as our reporter on the ground reaches the scene.”

Hasina closed her laptop, and automatically a prayer came to her lips, “Lord, please keep Amir safe.” She stood up, a certain amount of concern clearly visible in her large kohl lined eyes, then immediately sat down again. Her long legs, sheathed in skin tight black jeans, were no more sure of themselves.  Her mind was racing, “What if? What if Amir was on that plane?” She opened her laptop and opened the file to reveal the photo they had taken just twelve hours ago at Charles De Gaulle International Airport in Paris. They were standing in front of a Mac Donald’s and had happy smiles on their faces. Amir’s even white teeth were in sharp contrast to his thick black eyebrows and neatly trimmed beard. His eyes, however, were a hazel brown. Hasina looked as attractive as she always did, her well proportioned body and youthful face belying her forty years, her all black outfit complementing her dusky complexion. Amir was dressed in a light brown checked shirt and blue jeans.

“Hasina, I’ll make sure that I reach Bahrain in time to catch your flight,” he had promised. Hasina believed him. It was but a continuation of the many promises made since the time they had first been introduced by a mutual friend a month ago at the Universal Studios City Walk in Orlando, Florida. It was obvious that Amir had been smitten at first sight. He was the spontaneous type who couldn’t hide his feelings. They had entered a few of the dance halls and listened to music side by side on big earphones at the enormous music store. He fancied himself a poet and loved lyrical songs. They had walked around a lot, the festive atmosphere aiding in making their conversation light and frothy. Then and there, even at their first meeting, Amir had declared impulsively, “Hasina, I’ll go back to Kathmandu with you. I haven’t seen my folks for a long time now.” Like Hasina, his home too was in Nepal and he had been in the States for the last two years working as a research scientist at the IT department of the University of Florida. She herself was at the end of a three month visit to her sister who worked as a nurse in Florida Hospital.

Some of the waiting passengers were now standing and looking up at the television screen, while those seated had their eyes glued on the news as well. ‘Breaking News’ flashed on the screen once more. Hasina looked up. “Our reporter is now on the scene.” A pretty woman in a brown skirt and white shirt holding a microphone came into view, her blonde hair blowing in the wind.  “Details are still sketchy but the police have determined with some certainty that the bomb could have been disguised skillfully as a laptop. Sadly, there seems to have been no survivors.”

Hasina froze, her heart seemed to have stopped beating.  Her mind raced back once again, this time to Orlando Airport. She and Amir had met at the Terminal 1 gate and checked in their luggage. They carried only their laptops with them. Amir had switched his on as soon as they sat down in the departure lounge, saying, “I have to confirm an appointment with a fellow researcher in Le Havre.” Hasina noticed that his laptop was not at all like her own Toshiba Satellite. It was bulkier and heavier. “What brand is it?” she had asked, observing the absence of any logo whatsoever.  “Oh it’s a prototype we designed at the university. Isn’t in the market yet,” he had replied shortly, before closing it shut and putting it inside a black leather case.  

While they waited to catch the American Airlines flight to Paris at their next stop in Chicago O’Hare International, she had asked, “Amir, is your appointment on?” Giving her a regretful look, he had replied, “Yes, unfortunately.” “That means you will be flying to Le Havre from Paris then?” she had asked.

“Well, that’s the plan, there are flights from Paris to Le Havre every hour or so.  But don’t worry I just have to hand over a few papers then I will fly to Bahrain and catch up with you. I know you have a long wait there to fly to Kathmandu,” he had said, his hands firmly on his strange laptop.

Now, as Hasina stared disbelievingly at the screen, her face a frozen mask, only the words ‘bomb’ and ‘laptop’ resounded through her numbed mind again and again. “Oh Amir, how could you? How could you?” she cried to herself. She recollected too the intensity in his hazel brown eyes when he had declared once during the flight to Paris, “America is going down the drain. It won’t be long before it becomes completely corrupt – both morally, which it already is, and economically, a process that has already begun.” His gruff voice sounded almost choked as he had gone on to relate a recent incidence at his university in which two Asian students had been shot dead. He had known them well and it was obvious that he had been deeply affected. “Such things are happening at other universities too. I tell you, America is no more what it was. It’s finished.” Hasina could clearly detect disdain in his voice.

 “Oh Amir,” she groaned inaudibly. “Why did you do it?” The other passengers were still staring at the screen, their faces mirroring each other’s consternation and concern. This was not the kind of news that one wanted to hear when waiting to fly. She put her face in her hands and closed her eyes. It was not only for Amir that she mourned, she grieved as well for herself. She was forty and still unmarried. It was not that she lacked in suitors, but she had never found someone who she thought she could respect enough to spend the rest of her life with. In Amir, she had thought that at last her wish had been granted. Amir with his sprightly good looks, his witty demeanor, his obvious intelligence and his spontaneous enthusiasm. She uncovered her face and looked up. A part of her mind refused to believe it. What if it wasn’t Amir? What if it was somebody else? She couldn’t be sure yet. “Oh Lord, let it not be Amir,” she implored.

Her eyes strayed to the TV screen again. The anchor was saying, “Well, Patty, what else have you got for us? Any breakthroughs?” The blonde reporter came back on screen, her voice crisp and sure, “Yes Greg, the police have identified a suspect.  Apparently, his first name is Kabir.” A wave of exultation swept through Hasina. It wasn’t Amir. It was somebody else. “Oh thank you Lord. Thank you.” It was as if a tremendous burden had been lifted from her shoulders.

The reporter went on, “The suspect evidently had an alias. The police think that he also went by the name of Amir.” The blond reporter’s words shattered her hopes like crystal glasses thrown into a storm. Her hands involuntarily went up to cover her face once again. Her shoulders sagged. She couldn’t breathe. Amir, Amir, Amir, his name reverberated in her ears like clarion calls. Everything was over. Her life was meaningless now. A lifetime planned together was finished before it had even begun. She wanted to cry and wail, yet the tears refused to come and the wailing was only that of her heart. Her chest heaved, she struggled for every breath. She stayed like this, her face covered, for many minutes. She lost track of time and all around her was a deathly silence that only she could experience.

Suddenly, as if from afar, a voice drifted into her remorse filled thoughts, “Hey Hasina, look who’s here!” She refused to look up, nothing mattered to her anymore. The voice, now seemingly nearer, repeated, “Hey, everything all right Hasina?” The gruffness in the tone was familiar. Slowly, she pried her hands away from her face. She looked up with wild eyes. “What? How?” she gasped, staring at the hazel eyes looking down at her with some concern.

“It’s me, Hasina. Promised you I would make it didn’t I?” She tried to stand up. Couldn’t. She continued to stare at him but the wildness in her eyes was now replaced by total incomprehension. She had practically lost her voice. “What? How?” was all she could squeak out. “Simple – I drove over to Le Havre, faster that way. It’s only 178 km. Told you all I had to was to hand over some papers. Took the flight from there and here I am. Why are you so surprised? I promised didn’t I?” he sounded a little aggrieved at having to explain in such detail.

He sat down next to her and opened his laptop, “Look, here’s a little poem I wrote for you while on the way. Have a look. Come on. I really think it’s one of my best.” She dropped her eyes on to his laptop screen and read, ‘Darling of my dreams, Pillow of my sleep, Cover me with your love, Wake me with your screams.’

Just then, a murmur went through the passengers watching the news. She looked up. A picture of a thickly bearded man in his late fifties was on the screen and the craggy faced anchor was saying, “We would like to correct a small mistake in our previous coverage. According to authorities, the alias of this man is not Amir as reported but rather, Jamir.”

Hasina’s eyes returned to the poem. She couldn’t stop the tears of relief and comprehension from flowing freely down her face. She looked up at Amir. His face shone with delight. His hazel brown eyes looked somewhat surprised, as he exclaimed, “Hey, I didn’t know it was that great!”

A Writer’s Guidelines for Editors

In the United States when they give you a green card, they make it a point to stress, ‘this is not a right, this is a privilege we are giving you to live and work in this country.’ What they mean is that since it is a privilege, one should learn to respect it. We all know what happens when people start taking everything as a right, everything for granted. Additionally, since it is a privilege, one has to be aware that if not treated with the deference it deserves, it can also be rescinded.

Similarly, when writers submit their work, editors should consider it a privilege allowed them to consider for publication if found suitable and they should treat it with the utmost respect. An editor does not necessarily have the right to do as he/she pleases with the submitted work even if the fine print in the agreement says otherwise. Writing and editing are subjects that are more tightly bound by high ethical standards than perhaps anything else in a civilized world. 

Yes, an editor has the right to point out specific instances in any given work and suggest changes. Yes, an editor is expected to correct spelling mistakes and put the commas and full stops in the correct places. Yes, an editor should divide lengthy articles by way of appropriate sub headings. Yes, an editor has to cross check facts and figures. Yes, an editor must insist on originality of the submissions. Yes, an editor can ask for a rewrite if justifiable. Yes, an editor may even reject any work if found unsuitable (however, this will never happen if the editor knows his/her job and assign the suitable writer to the appropriate work). But, these are not rights as one should understand them; these are the duties of editors. That’s what they are responsible for.

But, no, an editor cannot play around with the writer’s work in a whimsical fashion. No, an editor is not permitted to slip in his/her own opinions or what he/she believes to be his/her fine prose in between a writer’s finished product. No, an editor is not allowed to change whole sentences because he/she thinks it can be written in another way (Of course it can. English is that kind of language where the same thing can be described in a hundred different ways. Question is – how can you claim yours to be better than mine?). No, an editor has no leeway in giving less than his/her fullest attention to the work he/she is editing (there are too many cases where one will find an editor busier writing his/her own latest magnum opus than doing what he/she is there for – editing). No, an editor should not change the order of the paragraphs as he deems fit, or the title. No, an editor must not split hairs regarding things like ‘between’ and ‘in between’, ‘nevertheless’ and ‘however’, ‘usually’ and ‘normally’, and so on. No, an editor cannot always claim to know best.

A Rembrandt portrait is art that is best admired from a distance. Monet, Matisse, Renoir, Van Gogh, Gauguin, Picasso – works of masters such as these are to behold and not to be held. Imagine what would happen if a curator were to put a wet brush on Mona Lisa and make just a miniscule change to the nose in the belief that she could craft it more to her liking. The masterpiece would be no more the Mona Lisa the world regards with such high esteem. In a similar vein, an editor must appreciate that every work submitted by capable writers is a work of art and even the tiniest bit of altercation could ruin it.

So, in the best interest of everybody concerned, it is imperative that editors take a fresh overall look at their role and responsibilities. Writers must always get precedence and the benefit of doubt, because they, after all, are the creators. Writers must be consulted even when making small changes particularly regarding transposition of words in the prose. And, perish the thought that a feature is the result of co-operation between a writer and an editor – it is first and always, about the writer alone. The editor’s role can only be appreciated if he/she succeeds in adding a glossier sheen to the work, or more usually, if the work sees the dawn of day, untarnished. In most cases, if editors would only remain faithful to the adage, ‘leave well enough alone’, much harmony could be achieved and much acrimony, avoided.

Finally, a word to the reader - without whom neither the writer nor the editor has any value. A reader should know that if an article is found to be very good, it is the writer who must be given full credit. If, on the other hand, the write up is bad, then of course it is the editor’s fault!

Falling in Love with Bulbulay

“Do you have an ILP?” queried the man behind the reception desk at the Tourism Information Center on MG Road, Gangtok, Sikkim. I am nonplussed for a moment. Here I am, in the tourism office to get some additional information so as to write an article on the beautiful town of Gangtok, and this grey suited man asks me, “Do you have an ILP?”

“ILP?” I ask. “Inner Line Permit” he explains. “I didn’t know that I needed one,” I answer.

“Well, then that makes your visit illegal here,” he says.

“But in Nepal we welcome you with open arms. We don’t ask you for any permits,” I respond somewhat righteously.

After some half serious jousting, the matter is settled with the man advising me to say that I am from Darjeeling if asked. Actually, this was the only time I felt myself to be in an alien land; otherwise my two week sojourn in this lovely town was like being at home away from home.  Gangtok is like that: you will find mostly Nepali people everywhere and Nepali is the lingua franca. The one big difference being that the people here appear to be fairly contented unlike the Nepalese in most other places including Darjeeling and Nepal.

Gangtok is 124 km from Bagdogra International Airport, 126 km from New Jalpaiguri Railway Junction and 114 km from Siliguri.  My journey began in Siliguri where I shared a taxi with five others. The three and a half hour drive on National Highway 31A took us first down to Teesta bazaar along the Teesta River,  and then, crossing the bridge, upwards to Rangpo, the border town of the erstwhile kingdom of Sikkim, now the 22nd state of the Indian Union. Sikkim has a checkered history. In 1700, it was invaded by the Bhutanese who were then driven away by the Tibetans. From 1717 to 1733, the kingdom was raided time and again by the Nepalese as well as by the Bhutanese. In 1791, China sent troops to drive away the Gurkhas and established control over Sikkim.

The Nepalese again attacked Sikkim which prompted the British East India Company to attack Nepal in 1814. In 1817, the territory annexed by Nepal was ceded back to Sikkim. In 1849, the Chogyal (the Sikkim ruler) became a puppet king under the British governor. In 1947, India agreed to a special protectorate status for Sikkim. In 1973, demand for greater representation for the Nepalese by the Sikkim National Congress led to riots. In 1975, the Kazi (Prime Minister) appealed to India to make Sikkim a part of India. In April of the same year, the Indian Army seized Gangtok and, following a referendum in which the majority voted to join the Indian Union, Sikkim became the 22nd state of the Indian Union on May 16, 1975. China eventually recognized Sikkim as an Indian state in 2003 when India accepted the Tibet Autonomous Region as a part of China. Small wonder then, that Sikkim is considered to be a sensitive state and thus, the need for special permits for outside visitors.

I stayed for two weeks in Gangtok and would have liked to live there forever. Now you might ask me - why would I like to live there forever? The answer is not that complicated. Gangtok is a hill station, and I have always had a special affection for such places, specially the weather (summer: max.21 degrees Celsius; winter: min. 05 degrees Celsius); the constant opportunity the city affords for regular exercise (walking up and down); the familiarity of the language and customs (80 percent Nepalese); the brisk pace of development, and last but not the least, the relatively low cost of living. One more reason is that living in Gangtok means living in a society that is quite affluent and educated and so, less likely to go down to the levels of petty behavior as one finds in poorer and less literate societies. And, yes, the scenery is invigorating.

I stayed in Tadong at a cousin’s place, some 10 minutes by car from the town center. She teaches English at a girls’ school while her husband is a microbiologist at the government hospital. During a breakfast of porridge, potato bread, kabuli chana (chickpeas), eggs and milk, my cousin says, “We are paid pretty well you know. I’m quite happy with my job.” One point here: a large number of Gangtok denizens are government employees and from what I hear, the special status of the state makes its citizens immune from income tax. Now, allow me to relate a typical day spent while in this tax-free paradise. After breakfast I walk out to the street - a taxi arrives, on the way from Ranipool to the town center. Another point here: shared taxis are the most common mode of transport in Gangtok.

There is no shortage of taxis (actually, too many) and they just keep on rolling in every few minutes. I get down at Metro Point and the fare? Just 12 Indian rupees. I must confess that the thought did cross my mind, “How I wish I could travel as comfortably on 12 rupees in Kathmandu!” But, casting aside such unsettling thoughts I walk on to MG Road. There’s a bust of Mahatma Gandhi at the center of this boulevard (actually it is a mall) and so that explains the initials. There are many shops and eateries (always busy) lined up on both sides. One seems the most crowded - it offers just two fares, momos (meat dumplings) and spring rolls. The mall is divided by a low marble and concrete balustrade that serves as a container for flowers and other greenery. Alongside are rows of wooden benches.

I sit on one; the sun is shining generously and is especially welcome on this cool January morning. The elderly are sunning themselves; the younger ones are busy shopping and eating. I enjoy the sight of the fashionably dressed girls strolling around the mall. The young are generally fair of complexion, good looking and well attired. “Fitting denizens for a fitting city,” I think, eyes feasting on a pretty bunch. An old man sits down and remarks, “A year ago, this was the most crowded road. Cars would be parked on both sides and walking here was like going through a macha (fish) bazaar. I just can’t believe how they have managed to do all this!” Well, it has to be conceded that Chief Minister Pawan Chamling has something to do with all this. He is popular to a fault due to the diligence he has displayed in developing the facilities of the state. The transformation of a busy overcrowded road into a beautiful mall is but one example of his administration’s many achievements. You might ask - why do I sound so hyperbolic? Well, I am sure you would be too if you would see for yourself how the city’s appealing natural charm is being made all the more charming by the ongoing works of Chief Chamling and friends.

But enough of hyperbole, however justified. Let’s see more. I take a busy lane down to the circular shaped Lal Bazaar. Three storied, the ground floor has stalls selling mainly vegetables, fruits, groceries, meat, fish and other foodstuff.  I marvel at the neat way such a large cornucopia is organized. The first floor has most of the things found downstairs but, in addition, there are stalls displaying clothes and ready made garments, toys and footwear and here too, as almost everywhere else in the world now, one comes across stalls selling a plethora of Chinese made goods, everything from umbrellas to nail clippers; ready-mades to shoes and slippers; toys to mobile phone covers. The third story has more of the same.

As evening draws near, I walk down to Tadong. Midway, I pass Deorali where the lower terminal of the ropeway is located (yes, a ropeway transverses over the city) as well some other important landmarks. I decide to visit them the next day. For now, I am content to amble along the road brushing shoulders with many pedestrians. The brushing of shoulders is due to the fact that most people walk on only one side of the street.  Why only on one side? Good question. It is because only the footpath on one side has a green colored railing that starts from Ranipool some 12 kms downhill and continues right up to the town. So, walking is safe and easy. Across a bend I come across the Indian army’s Black Cat commando base (you’ll see plenty of military people around the town). Further downhill is an imposing Gurudwara made of white marble. I walk on, taking short cuts down one of the many hillside stairways - another example of thoughtful construction by the authorities. Gangtok has a lot of parks, many located on hillsides. You will also find benches on street-sides around the town - really very thoughtful. Thank you Mr. Chamling.

The next day sees me in Deorali once again. Passing the ropeway terminal, I visit the Chogyal Palden Thondup Namgyal Memorial Park (big name, small place) with the statue of the late Chogyal inside. Next, I go on to the Namgyal Institute of Tibetology. It’s an interesting place with dozens of thankas (religious paintings) and statues inside. More interesting, at least to me, is the adjacent library housing books on Buddhism mostly. Many of them are quite ancient texts and I spend an hour browsing through the lot. With new found knowledge, I carry on to the Do-Drul Chorten (Stupa). I meet a lot of Buddhist monks, both male and female. I have always noticed that monks, of any religion, look well fed and robustly healthy. Young males in their sleeveless maroon colored robes mill about. A group of female nuns are making their way up to the Stupa. I can hear the sound of chanting coming from inside the huge hall. There are lots of shoes and sandals outside the door.

I peek inside; its jam packed. A dozen or so monks are in the front, some reading from scriptural texts and some beating a tempo on hand held drums. Their chanting is rhythmic and the large gathering looks on with pious eyes. A young monk sidles to my side. I ask him, “Is this a special occasion?” Seems I have come at an opportune time. According to him, these chantings and prayers will carry on for seven days non-stop. It is to herald Losar, the Tibetan New Year, a week hence. I also come to know that the government has banned the import and sale of meat products for 15 days prior to Losar. Told you - the Chief Minister is a man of the masses - considerate towards all sensibilities. I leave, hopefully with blessings, and go on to MG Road. I’m hungry now, so I try out the eatery serving momos and spring rolls. Gourmet connoisseur that I am, I come out feeling a bit letdown. The momos didn’t taste any different than from anywhere else. Anyway, now that I am somewhat rejuvenated, I decide to take a long walk to the state’s premier school, Tashi Namgyal Academy (TNA). I admire the well kept grounds and the freshly painted buildings (bright red roofs) with their elegant Sikkimese design (dragons, stupas, and so forth) particularly on the roofs and over hangings. Most government houses and other buildings are designed likewise, adding to the town’s charms.

I take a short cut from behind TNA which lands me on to the road in quick time. Across the street is an exhibition at the Directorate of Handloom and Handicrafts. It’s mostly handicrafts of India’s north eastern states which doesn’t interest me much and shortly afterwards, I take the road going uphill. It leads me to a large taxi stand from where people travel to places like Tsongmo Lake some 38 km away at an altitude of 12400 ft. I want to go but then somebody tells me that there are security checks on the way, so you can understand why I don’t. Ditto for another famous tourist attraction - Nathu La Pass located at 14,450 ft. I curse myself for not getting my ILP (Inner Land Permit, in case you have forgotten) at Rangpo! While returning, I decide to see the New Development Area - there’s a really nice bookshop, Rachna, on the way, and further below, the lovely Rhenock Guest House - both worth visiting.

The day before last (of my stay) turned out to be the best. I went to Bulbulay, 8 km from town. Here is where lies the 205 hectares of serene paradise also known as the Himalayan Zoological Park. Do I sound hyperbolic again? You will know in a short while why this is so. Before entering its gates, I go across to the temple called Ganesh Tok. From the top floor balcony I get a bird’s eye view of the sprawling town below. This feast over, I enter the hallowed grounds of the park and am immediately transported into an extraordinarily tranquil world. The asphalted road meanders for miles through a dense forest and, today it seems that I am the only visitor. So you can imagine my joy - here I am among 205 hectares of lush greenery - the whole place to myself. I sing at the top of my voice. I sing all the ten songs I know. It is bliss; the whole environment exhilarating.

The first enclosure I came across is that of the black bear. I wait silently on the raised platform over a vast open space surrounded by a white wall. The warning on the board reads: Keep silent. Be patient. You might see the animal if you are lucky. Fifteen minutes pass. I sit on the stone bench. It isn’t my lucky day. I stand up and… and… what should I see but a black bear standing and gazing up at me. Oh, wow, it’s my lucky day after all. We stare at each other, my bear and I - communicating mutual admiration through our eyes. Having exhausted whatever visual communication possible, I drag myself off reluctantly. I swear the bear watches with a sad look on its face. I should have brought some peanuts.

The  park also has musk deer, blue sheep, barking deer, red pandas, a panther, some Himalayan Palm Civets, a Snow Leopard, some Tibetan wolves, barking deer, common langurs and goral spotted deer besides bird species like the Himalayan pheasants. The well fed Snow Leopard lounges lazily. The Tibetan wolves are altogether different. Big, with white fur, three of them lie on top of their stone cave and give me alert looks, their ears all cocked up. I think, “What if they were outside the corral?” They look dangerous, is all I can say. The common spotted leopard is similarly ensconced within spacious surroundings. It brushes its body against the steel net. Is it asking me to give it a rub? Taking my life into my hands (or should that be, my hands into my hands?) I poke in a finger and touch its silky skin. Elation! That’s what I experience.

After some three hours I begin the long trek downhill. The views all around are fantastic – I can see the colourful Paljor Stadium far below. Taking short cuts (and there’s plenty) I reach the 200 year old Enchey Monastery and from there, an area that looks really posh. The Chief Minister’s quarters are situated here - a beautiful establishment by any standards. “How apt,” I think, “The Chief on a high hill pondering daily on how to improve his citizens’ lives down below.” Sikkim, and particularly Gangtok, has much to be thankful for, not least, its good governance. Gangtok is a haven all right, life’s good, and the people, whether they are Nepalese or Bhutias or Lepchas, would rather identify themselves as Sikkimese than anything else, proud as they are of their beautiful land. Tourism is their lifeblood and gracious hospitality, their culture. So, go visit Gangtok and fall in love like I did. Except, don’t forget to get your ILP at Rangpo.