Sikkim- A Memory Etched Forever in My Heart

SUNIL ARORA

I was still a teenager when I first saw the mountains of Sikkim.

Those were the mid-1980s — a time when journeys were slower, letters took weeks to arrive, and a young boy could still carry more dreams than luggage. I had come from the plains with a small canvas bag, two woollen sweaters borrowed from my elder cousin in Siliguri, and a curiosity that refused to sit quietly inside my chest.

From Siliguri, the shared jeep began its long climb towards Gangtok. The Teesta flowed beside us like a restless companion — sometimes calm and silver, sometimes roaring like an impatient teacher. The road curved endlessly, as if the mountains were testing our sincerity before allowing us to enter their world.

Clouds were not above us anymore. They were walking beside us.

In Gangtok, I stayed in a modest lodge near the bazaar where the smell of momo and butter tea floated through the evening air. Prayer flags fluttered from rooftops like colourful thoughts escaping into the sky. People spoke softly, even when they laughed. There was a gentleness in their manner that I had never known in the crowded towns of the plains.

One morning, before sunrise had fully opened its eyes, I found myself in a rickety bus heading towards North Sikkim. The conductor, a cheerful man with wind-burnt cheeks, kept assuring us, “Road is good today… mountain is in good mood.”

That sentence stayed with me.

We passed Mangan, and later the small, quiet settlement of Lachung — wooden houses resting on slopes as if they had grown there naturally, like wildflowers. Children in oversized sweaters waved at passing vehicles. Women carried baskets on their backs with a grace that made hard labour look like a ritual.

Somewhere near a bend wrapped in mist, the bus halted for tea. There was no shop — only a smoky kitchen inside a low wooden house. A young Sikkimese boy, perhaps my own age, handed me a cup without asking anything. When he noticed me shivering, he pushed a stool closer to the hearth.

We did not exchange many words.

Yet in that shared silence, I felt understood.

Later that day, I saw Yumthang Valley.

Even now, after a lifetime of seeing cities rise and fall, that first glimpse remains untouched in my memory. The valley lay wide and green like an open palm of the earth. Snow peaks stood around it — silent, ancient guardians. The wind carried the faint scent of wild flowers and distant ice. Yaks moved slowly across the meadows, their bells ringing like sleepy music.

I remember standing there, a boy who had never before seen snow, stretching out his hand to catch falling flakes. They melted instantly — like secrets that mountains whisper only for a moment.

 A local woman selling tea from a small tent laughed at my wonder. She poured me another cup and said in simple Hindi, “First snow is always special… after that you will only feel cold.”

 I laughed too, though I did not fully understand her wisdom then.

That night, in a wooden house where I was given a place to sleep without question or payment, I listened to the wind moving through the valley. It did not sound lonely. It sounded like an old story being told again and again.

Today, as an ageing man sitting far away from those icy green lands, I often close my eyes and return to that journey. I see the fluttering flags in Gangtok, the quiet smiles in Lachung, the endless sky above Yumthang.

I had gone there as a curious teenager searching for mountains.

What I truly found were warm hearts — simple, patient, and vast… just like the valleys that had welcomed me without asking who I was.

(Sunil Arora is a retired Indian Air Force veteran and a software professional by background from Shillong. Email: sunil@digitiger.com)