Every winter I visited my mother’s house in a village called Yang during Namsoong (Lepcha New Year). The village had only three houses and it all belonged to my maternal uncles. The place was very remote and far from Kalimpong town. It had very poor road connection and electricity was a luxury to even think of. Taxi services were extremely limited and only two service vehicles were available that picked passengers from the village at 4 a.m. and dropped them by evening from town. These two vehicles would reach only up to Samthar, a small rural bazaar where weekly haat would take place. From there, it was about 20-25 km on foot to reach my azyong’s(mother’s elder brother) house. Whenever we visited azyongand his family, my cousins would come up to Samthar to receive us. It would be dark by the time we reached there, so they carried fire torches made of bamboo sticks to show the way to azyong’s house.
On our way to the village, under the winter sky we could hear crickets in the bushes, owls hooted far off inside the dark forest that came along with the jackals’ cry. We would hear water rushing down the streams and rivers in the dark and recall the stories BongthingBaje (mother’s uncle who was a shaman) would tell us about the spirits that lurked at the river banks which gave us chills as we walked by the river to get to my uncle’s place.
Next day would start with buk(yams) for breakfast that Anue(uncle’s wife) used to prepare for us. She always worried that her food was not good enough for me and my sister as we had our upbringing in the urban part of the district. Yet I preferred her simple cooking throughout my stay in the village. Most of my mornings passed by playing around in the riverside and in the forest with my cousins.We would catch shrimps and small fishes with the help of our old ragged clothes in the river and bring them back home. Nikung(grandmother) then washed and seasoned them with salt and butter, and wrapped them in a banana leaf and placed them underneath the burning ashes in the hearth.
During lunch we ate home grown rice with some side dishes that azyongharvested from his field and the fresh roasted shrimps that nikung had prepared. Mattim (mother’s elder sister) being aware of my fondness for pickles, would prepare them and save it for me every year. She hid the pickle jars in her vintage wooden closet so that other family members would not find them and when I visited her during winters she secretly took them out and put a spoon full of mango and radish pickles in my plate. Nikungwould also add some of her Chawanprash on the side of my rice plate. As I look back, the combination of rice and Chawanprash tasted as weird as it sounds, but as kids it was a treat given to us by our beloved Nikung. It was her way of showing her love and care for her grandchildren.
After a hearty meal mattimused to take her goats to graze in the forest nearby and I followed her everywhere into the forest. On the way she would pick herbs and edible fruits and teach me their names and taught me how to identify them. She would then wrap them in her nyamreck (belt) and save them for me to eat later as we sat on the rocks by the rivers to watch over the herd.
The family had a simple and classic traditional kitchen built with wood, bamboos and mud. It had multiple hearths in different sizes because of which the ceiling and windows had casts of black smoke. It had small wooden stools, an indoor bamboo staircase to reach the above compartment where the family stored dried corns and a thatched roof. At night we all sat by the hearths under the oil lamps during dinner and enjoyed our meal together. However dinner was usually late so all of us cousins gathered outside the yard and learned and practised Lepcha songs and dance steps to take part in lasogroup. During Namsoong (Lepcha New Year), we used to go around the three houses at night as a group of five to six kids and danced and sang and collected five rupees each in each house throughout the week. With the money that had been collected, we planned picnics and enjoyed our time together in the village until it was time to return to Bom Busty.
Time has passed since then, and after many years I got to visit my azyong’s place in the past couple years. Today a road runs right through the middle of the village and every household has electricity. My uncles’ joint families have been divided into many nuclear families. All the young members of the village have moved to cities for jobs, most of my sisters got married and moved out and there are many new faces that are not familiar to me in the village.
The rivers where I used to play has dried out. The forests I used to explore with my mattim has been slashed and cut down. All the children in the village do not play as we did when we were kids as they are occupied with cell phones and television shows. The village now feels quiet and houses seem empty and vacant. I often end up thinking and asking myself “do I feel this way because I now see things differently as an adult?” because it is believed that “we see the world more colourful as kids” or has the place where I felt home really changed? This is something I have no control of and as it is said that “change is the only constant” I have no choice but to accept this and move on.
Azyong’s house
Samnim Lepcha