DARJEELING  September 8th –14th

To Darjeeling

Sightseeing

Hotels and Railway

Checking out of hotels, with the albatross of suspect Rp500 notes hanging around my neck, would, for a while, take on a similar pattern. Manod was horrified that I was trying to pass on notes of this denomination and assured me that the banks in Shillong would not accept them even from myself with a tourist's explanation. He was, however, able to show me how to differentiate between the bona fide, new style, notes which were now coming into use to get over the Pakistani problem. The new design, incorporating Ghandi and India Gate, was less important than the fact that, as with our own currency, a metal strip now ran across the banknote. Thus, I was able, the evening before our departure, to off-load several more thousands of my troublesome cash.

            Leaving at 07.15, as Jean had arranged, and with the same Nepalese driver who brought us up from the plains, left us plenty of time to get the 11.00 flight from Ghauhati. We reckoned, however, that the driver either did not realise this or wanted to get back home for his day off. In either event, he drove very briskly when the pot-holes and hairpins allowed and I was tempted to use the "Aste, aste!" ("Slowly, slowly!") which young Lashynna Duncan had helpfully written down for Pat when, at the Duncan's house, the subject of recklessly fast driving had been brought into the conversation. The driver had with him a companion, presumably for security reasons on the return journey – it certainly was not for matey conversation as they exchanged no words for the whole trip. For our part, we again enjoyed the "Scottish" countryside and could feel the temperature rising as we dropped down 4,000 feet on to the plain.

            Passing again through the city of Gauhati, we were confirmed in our opinion that it was truly a rubbish bin. For the airport, there was some excuse as the departure terminal was being rebuilt. This meant that the signage was almost non-existent (in any language) and replies to enquiries were not easy to comprehend. (Probably, my questions were similarly difficult.) Eventually, we were able to put our suitcases through the security check and found ourselves seats under a fan, having been told we would have to wait half hour or so before we could check in. The place was crowded, of course, hot (naturally) and noisy (inevitably). The thirty minutes turned out be be five and we were soon installed under more fans in the departure lounge. Not wanting to risk the need to stop for a "comfort break" on the way down from Shillong, we had not eaten before departure so now could enjoy the cheese sandwiches and bananas á la Polo Towers prepared for our breakfast – plus water approved, according to the bottle, by the International Bottled Water Association.

            The personal security had been very thorough at check-in and passengers were requested to go outside to identify luggage before it was finally marked as being ready for the plane. We were frisked before going into the lounge and our passports were scoured for the third time. So when a man in shirt and flannels approached me and said "Where are you travelling to, sir?" I ignored him and turned towards Pat continuing our conversation. He repeated his question and I said, with some obvious impatience, "I know where I'm going thank you – OK?" Whilst my mind was moving into the dangerous area of "Could you take this parcel to my brother in Darjeeling?" Pat was being taken aback at my rudeness and offered the information. I glared at her. "Could I see your passports, please?" As I was about to say, "Get lost", he produced from inside his shirt, an identification tag proclaiming his name and airport security staff number. When I produced the passports, he checked the pictures and then wrote the numbers down on the rolled-up newspaper he was carrying – very "official", I thought. "Excuse me, sir, but why were you so unhelpful to begin with?" I suggested that it might have been because he was not prepared to explain who he was at the outset and suggested that he do so in future. He smiled and left – I just glowered after him. I suppose I over-reacted but it was probably part of my anxiety that things should go smoothly for both our sakes. Having said that, when we were approached again in the queue at the departure gate, it was Pat who rounded on a poor little guy (again, this one had no visible identification) and hissed "Our passports have been looked at four times – that’s enough!" and he withdrew from the English lady's wrath. Security was tight on the tarmac also. We walked through another metal detector and were frisked again immediately before stepping on to the aircraft steps. Pat found this and the presence of, so many guns frightening – I felt reassured.

            The Jet Airlines flight was brief. We re-crossed the mighty Bramaputra and within thirty-five minutes we were walking across the tarmac at Bagdogra on the Siliguri plains. We were met by the Trinity rep, Shanta Lama and her husband, Mani. "Pronounced Money" he said "But I don't have much of that!" and threw his head back in an enormous guffaw. Mani, born of Nepalese parents (his father was a Ghurka) was short and slight, with a small moustache, rather uneven teeth and wearing his hair in a pony-tail. He laughed a lot. Shanta was a most attractive lady with pretty, short hair, and, so we were to discover, a wonderful dress sense. Her voice had a distinctive throaty, gravelly quality. They greeted us very warmly with hugs, putting yellow silk scarves rounds our necks – a traditional Nepalese custom. Although this airport was also being rebuilt, retrieving luggage was quite painless and we were soon heading towards the large Tata Sumo people carrier in which they had travelled down from Darjeeling. The driver and his mate helped load our bags and with the latter sitting in the back with the luggage, Mani and Shanta up front and Pat and I behind, we drove out of the small town of Bagdogra. Mani pointed to the horizon. "That is where we are heading" he laughed  "In the clouds - 7,000 feet up in the mountains. It will take four hours!" And he roared with laughter again.

            After Gauhati, the town of Bagdogra seemed quite "tidy" and quiet. Along with the usual assortment of roadside cows, goats and bullocks, there seemed to be several cohorts of unusually large black pigs. Initially, we followed the road to the main city in the area, Siliguri, where we would have joined NH 51A for Darjeeling. But before long turned off towards the Himalayas using a shorter but steeper route. We were soon in open country and saw our first tea plantations. Stopping for photos, Mani showed us the tea plants and explained how only the very tips of the leaves are picked. We watched groups of women working in the fields of tea bushes (this is strictly women's work) and later saw a dozen or so sitting by the road in a line waiting in turn for their sacks to be weighed. Some would be casual workers, others full-time, Shanta explained, and they would be paid each week on Saturdays.

            Soon we began climbing. The road was well surfaced but was narrow and, of necessity because of the steepness of the ascent, very twisty. We were soon looking down into precipitous, tree-lined gorges and across steep-sided hills of tea bushes. Pat, behind the driver, had drawn the short straw in terms of looking directly over the edge of the roads and her alarm amused Mani tremendously. She made a joke of it but spent most of the steepest part of the journey – 12 miles of 1 in 4 – hoping that our driver knew exactly where the wheels were since she was in a position to see straight down the drop! After a couple of hours of this fantastic scenery, we reached the top of the main climb and stopped in the village of Pankhabai for tea and toilets. The view from the cafe back down into the valley was staggering although, as on the plateau approaching Cherrapunji, clouds were moving quickly along and no sooner had a spectacular view appeared than it would be obscured by packs of fleecy white.

            From Pankhabai, we climbed less steeply but the road was now less well maintained. We passed through many narrow village streets with beautiful fruit laid out on stalls manned by smiling women and children. Shanta pointed out begonias, lilies, orchids and dahlias growing along the roadside and we were enthralled by cascading waterfalls, adding movement to the riot of colour. At Kurseong, we joined the route of the Darjeeling Himalay Railway (or Toy Train) and from here to our destination, the track was either alongside, in the middle of, or slicing across, the road.

            For the final part of the journey, we seemed to be dropping down into the town of Darjeeling itself, which gave us a chance to appreciate how it clings to the sides of the mountain valley. In the town, the narrow thoroughfares were choked with traffic and there was a feeling of claustrophobia, especially as our large vehicle seemed to fill the roads side to side. But this soon evaporated when we found the Mayfair Hotel. We were greeted by the manager, Mani's friend, Suriya. "His name means The Sun" said Mani with yet another roar of laughter. The hotel was once the summer palace of the Maharaja of Nazargunj and in the nineteenth century was entirely pink-walled. Now a shining white, with grey pillars and roofs, the building was a delight to the eye both inside and out. There were colourful Buddhist prayer flags fluttering over the gardens in which there were life-size statues of Hindu gods including Krishna playing his flute and surrounded by three or four of his "consorts" as Mani politely described them. There were many large pot plants, small lawns with tables and chairs and each entrance was pillared. At the rear, there was a small Hindu shrine (a replica of a temple in Kathmandu) from which Pat on several mornings over the next week was to hear mantras being sung. Surya told us that the hotel was owned by Dillip Ray, a member of the government in New Delhi and later in the week he proudly showed us some new, elaborately carved wooden tables and chairs that had just been delivered. For now, Mani wanted us to see the room he had chosen for us – it was quite beautiful. I pretended indifference and said, "I think this will do", at which Mani fell into paroxysms at my jest. We sat with them and had tea and biscuits and then they went their way after first delivering the set of report sheets for the following day.

            My first day's work was at the Loretto Convent, a school where, between 1929 and 1932, Mother Theresa had been a teacher. We had approached it through some very tortuous streets – at one point, the zigzag road was so sharp that the taxi had to reverse down the diagonal part of the Z as there was no chance of actually turning. We were met at the music department by Sister Padua. Now approaching ninety, Sister Padua no longer entered pupils for exams but still, she said, "helped out" with some of the work. She had the sort of beatific face that can only come from a lifetime of duty and devotion to other people. However much I rail against the failings of the Catholic Church, I am never anything but in awe of the serene sisters I have met at convent schools in many parts of the world. Sr. Padua first came to India in 1936 and, over the years, she had made regular return trips to her native Ireland to see her family but, after a recent fall, had decided that her days of long-haul flights are over. When Trinity College was building up its exam system at the end of the 19th century, it was piano-teaching nuns, the previous generation to Sr. Padua, who had opened up centres in their schools probably influenced by the presumed link between the college and the Catholic Church. At that time, naturally, all the nuns were European and the musicians brought with them their cultural background and, more often then not, a high standard of teaching. Even in the twenty-two years of my involvement with Trinity overseas, I have noticed the decline in piano entries, numbers and standard, due, in part, to the demise of the older generation of Catholic sisters.

            For the moment, Sr. Padua was pleased to show me her music room where I was to work. The standard throughout the day was quite reasonable. Towards the end of the afternoon, however, two girls in a uniform I did not recognise as belonging to Loretto, each made disastrous attempts at Grade III piano. They were followed by a short, rotund nun with a smile as wide as the Bramaputra. She also took Grade III with an equally poor outcome. In fact, Sr. Crysanthia was not able to attempt one of the pieces – she just beamed at me and said "I’ll leave that one alone ".

            As was often to be the case, it was Pat who saw more of the school than I. After Mani and I had joined her for lunch back at the hotel, and at Sister's insistence, she joined me at the school. She was shown the school hall where there were paintings of the school when it was first built and of its later development. The paintings were done by a German artist who the locals were convinced was a spy! Sr. Padua, who moved about with great difficulty, then passed Pat over to an Indian teacher of English, Mrs. Ojah, who whisked her away on a tour of the school. Loretto Convent has 1,200 girls and she saw first the gorgeous kindergarten children in their grey uniforms, blue blouses and blue pinafores with red hairbands or bows. The older children worked in very crowded classrooms with wooden desks (plus inkwells) of the type Pat associated with her own schooling. In each of the classrooms she entered, the children stood up regardless of their own (almost all female) teachers and, when Pat was introduced, chanted "Good afternoon, Mrs. Wiltshire!"

            When Mrs. Ojah's room was reached, Pat was invited to the front to talk to the girls who listened in silence as she explained why she was in the school and how pleased she was to meet them. Pat imagined that Mrs. Ojah simply presumed Pat would have been a teacher, a profession she has mercifully been spared: addressing a classroom of students was a new experience.

            Pat and I met up at the end of the afternoon when Sr. Padua joined us in order to introduce Sr. Chrysanthia, one of the Grade III candidates, as a colleague of hers from the sister school in Kalimpong, a small town in the next valley to the east, 40km up towards the border with Sikkim and the Himalayas. Sr. Chrysanthia had with her the two young students (her piano pupils, I gathered!) and they gave Pat and I the traditional yellow silk scarf of greeting plus presents "to take home to England" – some rush table mats and a block mounted photograph of the Loretto convent. We found this very moving especially as, expense apart, the card inside thanked me for being so kind in the exam room They then, all three, proceeded to entertain us with Nepalese songs and dances, Sr. Chrysanthia providing explanations/translations before throwing herself, somewhat incongruously in her habit, into the dances. When I thanked them (and bearing in mind the very low marks they had each achieved in their exams) I made great play with the fact that they were, I considered, extremely clever even to be able to take the exam in my language and that I hoped they had learnt something from the experience – standing orders prevented me from disclosing the result but I think Sr. C. knew what I was implying.

            The deal Mani had struck, on Trinity's behalf, with hotel manager Surya was for full board. The chef had been told that we were vegetarian and each day served up either a local, Chinese or Western meal. For the staff generally, nothing was too much trouble and, as in Shillong, we struck up conversations with several of the waiters. Khageswar Nayak ("Call me Nayak") was very anxious to improve his English and told us that he practices his English at home in front of a mirror. The downside of this for us was that he "hovered" nearby throughout our meals and engineered a conversation at the slightest pretext. His English was (presumably as a result of this ploy with any English-speaking guest) superior to most of the other waiters. The latter were always crestfallen when we did not order much breakfast but were pleased to explain that tea with no milk was, to them, called "light" tea. We struggled to comprehend "complex porridge?" – cornflakes or porridge! At dinner, we were entertained at the digital piano by a gentleman wearing a permanent beam who, whilst improvising on ragas, was really rather good. However, his harmonic versions of Windmills of your mind or Raindrops keep fallingon my head were, shall I say, individual. When we left the restaurant, he always stood up, inviting me, with a grand gesture towards the keyboard, to play. I declined until our last night, by which time Pat had convinced me it would be rude to desist any more. What he made of odd bits of Bach, Schumann and Chopin I have no idea.

            Dinner that second evening was special. We were trying to work out the nationality of the party of a dozen or so diners who had checked in earlier. Yiddish is not a language we hear very often but we had just got the answer right – the group was from Israel, en route to Sikkim and Bhutan – when a fax was brought to us. Our daughter Joanne was letting us know that she and partner Julian had fixed a date for their wedding in May 2000 and, more than that, had made all the arrangements for church and hotel reception. We were delighted and more so later in the evening when Jo rang (from our own phone in Sheffield, naturally!) to tell us with great excitement everything that she had typed on the two-page fax. Apparently, Surya had managed to put her call through to a German couple in the next-door room, who said to Jo "But we are asleep and we do not have a daughter in India!"

            The next day Pat was able to relax in the hotel. The weather was not good, in fact a monsoon storm hit the area around lunchtime bringing with it power cuts. Thus, some of Pat's chores (ironing etc.) were curtailed and she spent some time reading and writing. The housekeeping staff – three young men with little or no English – were able, despite the gloom, to tidy our room, sweeping the carpet with a bessom since the hoover was out of action. Pat was aware, all the time, of a great deal of scrubbing, washing down of steps and general cleaning going on.

            Meanwhile, I had been taken by Mani (by taxi – few people own cars in Darjeeling) to the largest British-style Public School in India – St. Paul's. Many of the 800 boarders are from Nepal, and Mani explained that this was the place for well-to-do Kathmandu families to send their sons. Most of the candidates I saw were, in fact, from the Nepalese capital. Mr. Sudeep Pande, be-gowned, as were all the staff I saw, took me up to the exam room under the eaves. It had small, partly curtained windows and coir matting on the floor. The piano was one of the worst I had ever come across. When the monsoon rains were thumping on the tin roof, I could hardly hear the candidate's replies to my questions on the music. Perhaps they are used to the noise and that is why so many of the singers shouted their way through TheTurtle Dove and Ye Banks and Braes – truly awful work. During the storms, the light was poor and the single unshaded 40-watt bulb hardly provided enough light for me to see what I was writing.

            Not all of the candidates were from the school. The afternoon ended with two young men, in their twenties I guessed. They both took the Associate Diploma in Guitar Performance. They both failed and this upset me because they both had the technical facility to pass the exam which, with probably no teacher to guide them, is praise in itself. But neither had any sense of style and this was most marked in a work by John Duarte called An English Suite. Neither player understood the tempi – everything was far too fast – neither did they comprehend the quasi-Vaughan Williams pastoralism or its folksy English dance style. I knew that, working with them for half an hour, I could probably have coached them through the exam. The exam fees are extremely high for Indians – the Rp6,000 they would have paid probably represented several months salary – and it was so frustrating, as a teacher, to know that, without help, they would likely as not, fail again the following year. I tried to make my comments as clear as I possibly could to outline what they needed to do but ...

            St. Paul's is a member of the Anglo-Indian Public Schools Association (there are five such institutions remaining) and so I was not surprised to discover that the Rector (Headmaster) was himself Anglo-Indian. I was taken over to his rooms for pre-lunch drinks. I found the gentleman somewhat cold, almost supercilious, which, I gather, is not an unusual defence mechanism adopted by the Anglo-Indian. Most of the conversation was initiated by myself (about the music in the school) although he did show a slight interest in the possibility of reviving the Trinity Speech exams which apparently used to be part of their school activities but which faded away (rather like the piano teaching in the convents) on the death of the supervising teacher.

I ate little of the lunch, not because it was not good but because my stomach was beginning to play up. I had already been forced to visit the "boys'" toilets in the music block – disgustingly dirty with no flush and no water for hand-washing – how is basic hygiene taught when there are no such facilities even in a school which will be producing the country's leaders, doctors, lawyers and captains of industry? The block of red Lifebuoy toilet soap in the Rector's WC looked as though it had been there since Independence.

            I would have liked to discover a little more about the school. From reading William Dalrymple’s The Age of Kali, I had been made aware that La Martiniere College, an equivalent institution in Lucknow, Uttar Pradesh, (used by Kipling as a model for St. Xavier’s in Kim) had seen enormous changes in recent years. Although it, like St. Paul’s, zealously carried on the ethos of an English public school from the 1930s – the very last flickers of the Raj – the endemic corruption in U.P. had found its way into the school, affecting academic standards and attitudes to the curriculum. Perhaps St. Paul’s had been able to keep clear of local politics and, with its high proportion of Nepalese pupils, would be able to continue the English traditions as long as they are deemed desirable by the fee-paying parents. Alas, this was an area I had neither the time nor opportunity to investigate.

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Mani and Shanta were perfect hosts throughout our stay in Darjeeling. Shanta, nominally the Trinity rep, runs the Little Flower nursery school and, no doubt because of this commitment, had handed most the Trinity exam arrangements over to Mani. They both took seriously the job of looking after the examiner and thus it was that one evening we found ourselves walking down through the zigzag of streets to Hill Cart Road – the Oxford St. of Darjeeling – to Mani's tailor. "Rameshwar Cloth Bhandar" it proclaimed outside the shop. I had mentioned the possibility of having a pair of  trousers  made and Mani was very keen that I should not be cheated. The owner, Anurag, and two of his assistants, must have unrolled about fifteen bales of cloth for us, or rather Pat, to choose the material. At an estimated price of about £5 per pair (depending on quality) and because it was difficult to decide on the variety of colours and weaves, it was decided I should have two pairs of trousers made. The tailor (who had no English) was in attendance and proceeded to discuss through Mani and Anurag, the design, cut etc. and took my measurements. All of this was causing a high degree of interest in the shop and, being open-fronted, passers-by sometimes stopped to watch. Good sales talk persuaded me that a shirt should also be made. Since Pat had chosen some quite expensive cloth, the price, after Mani's negotiations, worked out at £21 for the two pairs of trousers and the shirt – “Ready for fitting this time tomorrow, sir!" cried a delighted Anurag.

            Now it was Pat's turn to visit Shanta's tailor. The shop was called "New York" and the owner, Feroz Ahmed, was shown the material Mrs. Warji, in Shillong, had presented to Pat when we visited her family for a meal. "This is very fine, natural silk" he declared and agreed it would make up into a splendid blouse. Pat pored over his pattern books and the order was placed. "How much?" asked Mani. "Sixty rupees". "We'll give you fifty and no more " said Mani. I was incredulous. Mani had knocked him down from 90p to 75p to make the blouse for the next day. Shanta, who was always impeccably dressed, had all her clothes made by the handsome Ahmed so we felt very certain of the outcome here.

            One of the great sights form Darjeeling is the Himalayan range to the north that includes the world's third highest peak, Kanchenjunga. On the Saturday morning, the party of Israelis had been taken by coach up to Tiger Hill at dawn to see the sunrise. According to Mani, the views from Bhan Bhakta Sarani at the back of the Mayfair were just as spectacular "And you need only get up at 5am not 3am for the tour operator's bus!" He was not to know that even getting up at five was alien to us and we wondered how many times we had to do this to catch the mountains free of the cloud which seemed quite persistent at this time of year. "Don't worry, I will ring you one morning and you just get up there."

            On the Saturday morning, the sky was beautifully blue at 8 o clock and we wondered whether we had missed our chance but when we raced up to the Bhan Bhakta Sarani, the Himalayas, some 80 miles away, were shrouded in cloud. However, we wanted to be up and about because Mani and Shanta were calling for us. Shanta looked stunning in a simple but most attractive black and white salwar kameez. They walked us along the Mall, a wide traffic-free road that follows the ridge at the top of the town, to the Chowrastra, an open space with the feeling of a town square. One side is open as the ridge drops away giving views towards the mountains – the other sides are full of shops (including The Oxford Book and Stationary Company) and various stalls. We looked at the vegetables, identifying the squash we had seen growing in Meghalaya and watched as an umbrella repairer struggled with a vast forest of broken spines, rods and covers, rebuilding from odd bits and pieces of discarded umbrellas. "We don't throw anything away – someone will repair –  RECYCLING – yes?" roared Mani as he watched the admiration in our faces. Ponies were giving children rides á la an English seaside town and generally a lot of people were watching the world go by. Some of the horses looked far from healthy. One, laid flat out and breathing very heavily, looked on its last legs but the woman with it, through Mani, told Pat that it was "Just tired". Pat's concern over the state of the animals throughout our tour brought her into conversations with many people, most of whom probably had little concept of worrying about the welfare of the animal population. There was, after all, a plentiful supply of all things living which is probably why, as we were to discover, life, human or animal, is seen as easily expendable in some areas of the subcontinent.

            The square was dominated by a statue of the national poet of Nepal, Gopal Prasad Rimal. This commemorated his death in 1973 – We often had the feeling that the people of Darjeeling identified more with Nepal than India. There seemed to be few beggars about but even when we were pestered by very small children, a few sharp words from Mani soon sent them scuffling off. From one corner of the Chowstra led Mahatma Ghandi St. (every town in Indian has an MG Street or Road), and we followed this route down into the centre, stopping to leave a roll of film to be developed at Mr. Das's Studio. The owner was another friend of the Lamas' and, while I was busy depositing the film, Mani bought us a present – a laminated photo of the Toy Train which I had expressed an excited interest in on the way up from Bagdogra.

            When we reached the bottom and joined Hill Cart Rd., the scene of people buying, selling, fetching, carrying, laughing, gossiping in a general hustle and bustle, was one which was being repeated in countless small towns and villages across the world, reminding us of how peoples’ lives, their wants and needs, are very much the same where ever one travels. We were not allowed to forget where we were, however – a man in a brown dhoti approached me and, I gathered from Shanta, offered his ear-cleaning service. Since this was not an offer I felt I needed to take up, we continued to watch the Darjeeling world go by as Mani haggled at the taxi rank for a vehicle to take us a little further afield. The large, clumsy Ambassadors were nowhere to be seen in Darjeeling as various compact Japanese Marutis had taken over the taxi market. Small, slim and manoeuvrable, these vehicles were ideally suited to the narrow, choked streets.

            We made first for the Peace Pagoda, one of a hundred or so across the world built by Japanese Buddhists – there is one in London.  Leaving our shoes downstairs, we climbed to the small temple on the first floor of the building. Here, we read of the aim of the sect – each Pagoda celebrates their non-violent pacifism. The present pure white structure was the 75th to be built. We looked at the very ornate "altar", full of gold ornaments, plastic flowers and photos of the group's founders and leaders. We had, at this point, not known anything of our host’s religion but, as we watched Shanta offer prayers, Mani said "She's the Buddhist, I'm Hindu." Shanta held her hands above her head, then passed her elegant arms down the sides of her body, in the same movement kneeling, then moving out along the floor before she curled right over with her forehead on the ground. This tiny balletic movement was repeated several times. The actual Pagoda, which was not open to the public, lay a little way above the temple and its design and balanced proportions were best appreciated from a distance.

            The changeable weather forced us to retreat to the taxi and we took the Goom road, climbing towards the clouds as we drove further out of town. Here, we stopped at another Buddhist establishment. The monastery of Druk Sangang Choling was built as recently as 1989 and opened in 1993 by the Tibetan spiritual leader, the Dalai Lama. The bright colours on the brickwork combined with various Buddhist motifs, gave the exterior a striking appearance. It is principally a place of education including the teaching of music and sacred dance. As we climbed up the pathway and steps, we encountered an enormous Tibetan bull mastiff. "Very fierce animal!" said Mani with his customary guffaw. Fortunately, "Michael" (how did a Tibetan mastiff get a name like that?) was chained, as were the other members of his family we saw later in the spacious courtyard outside the monastery's temple. Many of the monks we saw, all shaven-headed and wearing a brown habit, were young, reflecting the educational nature of the establishment. It was one such student that Shanta found and who unlocked the elaborately carved doors and took us inside the main temple. Hardly an inch of the interior had been left plain and seemed to recapitulate and develop the motives and carvings from the outside walls. Mani told us that the butter sculptures, which sat among bowls of rice, fruit, biscuits and dishes of water on the altar, would last about a month and then be replaced. We felt privileged to be in the temple and very lucky to be with Shanta as the building was obviously not normally open to visitors.

            When we came out, the weather was clear and from this high vantage point, we could see very clearly over the valleys and steep tea-planted hillsides. The road below us was National Highway 51A, being the main route between Darjeeling and Siliguri. It seemed incongruous that such a tiny, twisting road should have such a grand designation. Mani decided that, as the weather was clearer, he would take us back through the centre keeping to Hill Cart Road. We chatted to Aurag the tailor, who was standing outside his shop, and made for Tenzing Nagor rocks. Known in the West as Sherpa Tenzing, this first conqueror of Everest lived most of his life in Darjeeling – we were later shown his house. These sheer 300 feet high cliff faces were where he learned to climb – his training ground. With cloud whisping in and out, the crags were full of atmosphere as we watched men abseiling whilst others were suspended on ropes cleaning the rock faces of moss and lichen.

            We were now well and truly on the Tenzing Nagor heritage trail as our next stop was the Himalayan Mountaineering Institute. This was located within the Zoo and, on the walk up to the Institute, we saw some pathetic-looking animals. Some were a cross between a yak and a cow; there were blue sheep, buffaloes, a leopard padding up and down his cage, and enormous Himalayan brown bears. We were not impressed by their conditions. The Institute was set up by Tenzing Nagor and he remained its Director until his death in 1986. Even to non-climbers, the displays were fascinating and included the very flag planted on Everest and the ice-pick used on the final ascent of that first successful climb of the world’s highest peak. We walked to the nearby memorial statue of the man – impressive in its more than life-size black marble. The statue had been unveiled by his friend and fellow conqueror of Everest Sir Edmund Hilary. Alongside, the commemorative block of the same stone marked the position of his funeral pyre.

            On the end of the afternoon, we sat talking to the Lamas in the hotel over a cup of tea. They seemed to have taken as much delight in  the day as we who were seeing so many new things. Shanta said she and Mani were so enjoying our being with them and would miss us when we had gone. Both had been overwhelmingly kind, courteous and generous. We all chatted very easily as though we had been friends for years. Shanta amused us with the tale of an examiner's wife who, thinking that toilet rolls had not reached India, brought a two-dozen pack with her. Having realised that this particular commodity, whilst handy to have in case of emergency, was something with which all hotels were equipped, the lady decided that she needed the room in her case and so off-loaded them on to Shanta as a "thank you " present. Conversation turned to Monday's work and the school I was to visit. Having been to the Catholic Loretto Convent and the High Anglican St. Paul's, I was to continue in this ecumenical manner by examining at the Methodist school, Mount Herman, which Mani had attended some forty years ago. Here, we hit on a long story when Mani said that the English playwright Tom Stoppard was also a former pupil. Before leaving home, Pat had read Felicity Kendall's autobiography White Cargo with its description of the tours she undertook throughout India and South East Asia with her father and the Shakespeare-Wallah company – they had, in fact, performed at Mount Vernon's. Felicity Kendall's brother-in-law was the Indian film star, Shashi Kapoor. (Mani recounted with glee how he was Shanta's heart-throb and she confessed that she has still kept the letter he wrote to her in response to her fan-mail.) A few years ago, Mani met Stoppard at a function in Darjeeling and discovered that the playwright was hoping to visit his alma mater. Mani offered to organize this and was even able to take Stoppard to his old "dorm" in the school. Later, they went together, along with Corin Kapoor (Kendall’s nephew, who had accompanied Stoppard), to find the Bata shoe shop on MG St ("we went past it today") where Stoppard's mother had worked as a cashier. Her old till was still in use. Mani was proud that, in an article Stoppard later wrote about this return to his childhood home, he was referred to as "My friend Mani Shanta...". Neither of the Lamas knew that Felicity Kendall (whom they knew from watching The Good Life on TV)had become involved with Stoppard. Later that evening, after Mani and Shanta had gone, we decided that our “thank you” present to this lovely couple would be a copy of White Cargoes in the hope that it would prove more acceptable than a pack of toilet rolls.

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Sitting on the first floor terrace outside our room that Sunday morning at the Mayfair Hill Resort (to give the hotel its full name) must be one of the most restful "activities" I have encountered, Even at 7,000 feet, the air at the end of the monsoon season was warm. Watching the scene across the deep-sided, tea-planted valley was hypnotic. My eyes closed in a momentary, thirty-second doze and, on opening, I could see the top of the ridge which had been in sunlight above the clouds, was now obscured and the lower slopes had emerged. Occasionally, sailors' trousers of blue sky brightened the patchwork and, waking from the next half-minute of zzz, it was my turn to be warmed by the sunshine. In another minute or so, the clouds drifted my way and I felt misty raindrops. All of this was accompanied by the flapping of the prayer flags, far-off dog-barking, gentle activity from the garden and hotel staff, plus bird-calls and the unending electric razors of hidden unknown insects in the trees and bushes. At different times during the morning, there was added the whistle of the steam engine from the Toy Train as it meandered at walking pace down the hill from Goom and completed its journey from Kurseong: a mantra chanted to a bell accompaniment at the Hindu shrine in the hotel grounds: the amplified call to prayer of the muezzin from the mosque in the town. Although I know that only a quarter of a mile away in the centre of town there would have been the usual clamour, the car horns and police whistles, this terrace at the Mayfair was quite simply serene.

            The Mayfair has probably become one of my favourite small hotels anywhere in the world. The more we saw of it, the more we fell in love with it. Along one corridor upstairs there was a splendid photographic record of old Darjeeling including some shots of the building when it was still the Maharajah's palace. Others were of local inhabitants – rickshaw pullers, water carriers, tea pickers. Even the Pre-Raphaelite and Impressionist reproductions had been thoughtfully placed. The sumptuous furniture presumably reflected the taste (and the investment potential) of the owner. There have been some extensions - cottages within the grounds built in the same architectural style. The similarly stylish conference centre was due for completion at the end of the year. The hotel had only been opened for two years and this explains why Lonely Planet claims that "the Windamere (sic) Hotel is undoubtedly the best place to stay in Darjeeling". Some of my colleagues in previous years had used The Windamere which is dripping in the traditions of the days of the Raj. Unfortunately, one examiner found that water coming through her bedroom ceiling and meat dishes being constantly placed in front of her at dinner, despite her declared vegetarianism, made her less appreciative of the atmospheric "tinkling of ivories" (LP) at dinner, the waitresses in frilly bob caps and the roaring fires in the bedrooms. The Mayfair can also provide fires in the bedrooms and hot water bottles on request whilst the "tinkling ivories" are more likely to be in tune on the Mayfair's digital piano than the elderly acoustic instrument at the Windamere – but perhaps the pianist there knows the chords for Windmills Of Your Mind. Meanwhile, Pat and I are awaiting the next edition of LP with interest.

            Our main excursion with Mani and Shanta on the Sunday afternoon was a special treat for me. The Toy Train, as it is affectionately known, is officially the Darjeeling Himalaya Railway and is part of the country’s national network, not a privately owned "preserved" line. The 2-foot gauge line, probably the oldest working steam railway in the world, runs for 88km from Siliguri down on the plains to Darjeeling, its terminus. The inaugural run, in 1880, took the then Viceroy 20km as far as Tindharia and the route to Darjeeling was completed the following year. Replacing the bullock cart, the train made the export of tea much more economical; its historical value and significance has been recognised internationally as it has become a World Heritage Site.

            When we reached the station, the two-coach train was waiting to depart, blue-liveried engine No.788B having re-coaled and watered and already re-coupled. This 0-4-0 Saddletank engine was built in 1913 by the North British Locomotive Company in Glasgow – the present boiler on the locomotive dates from 1928. I would have settled for taking photos and watching it puff its way along the road but Mani explained that we would have time to take the train up to the first station, at Goom, and that we would then come back by taxi (which he had already booked).  He went off to buy the tickets and Pat, Shanta and I found seats in the cleaner of the two carriages – the other looked very scruffy and I had noticed a large bundle of very dirty rags on two of the seats. We found quite a few Europeans filling up the carriage, several of whom were presumably equoferrumologists (as trainspotters like to be known). Being a Sunday, there were quite a lot of local families taking a trip, like us, up to Goom. We had struck up a conversation with a young man from Kent when Mani re-appeared and insisted that we sat in the other carriage as we were the wrong side for the views. We duly obliged and we found seats in the window on the "valley" side but unfortunately next to the toilet. The smell when the door opened was retch-making. And yet young girls in the prettiest, immaculate saris were using the stinking place even before the train started.

            We left on time and soon black smuts were appearing on our faces, our clothes, in our hair – but it was fun. Our coach was full. We were the only Europeans; the "bundle of filthy rags" was, in fact, an old man fast asleep. Children ran to and fro, standing in the open doorway as the train huffed its way up the hill, at times sounding like the death throes of a chronic asthmatic. Part of the pleasure was in the slow progress – Peter Ustinov remarked that this was the only train he had travelled on and been overtaken by a cow! Cars and vans whizzed by but we noted that, as the line crisscrossed the road, the train ruled and traffic waited. From time to time, we passed through tiny villages, literally within feet of peoples' homes. The shops and stalls were close enough for us to pick up tomatoes and apples had we a mind: maybe that was the idea – impulse buying as at the supermarket checkout, only here the shopkeeper would have meandered after the train to collect the money.

            After ten minutes, the tiny boiler on the engine needed replenishing and we filled up at a pump set into the cliff wall. We were now approaching the first "spiral" where, because of the gradient, the train had to loop round in a complete circle and climb back over itself. There are two more between Goom and Kurseong, an indication of the steepness of the overall climb. Where the gradient and terrain prevented a spiral being constructed, there are zig-zags where the train reverses up the middle of the Z in much the same way as road vehicles have to do in parts of central Darjeeling. To train enthusiasts, these ingenious feats of engineering become the highlight of the journey – we could remember the excitement when travelling in New Zealand as we approached the famous Rimuwhera spirals. On this particular spiral, known as the Batasia loop, the engine had to be serviced and we were able to disembark and watch the firebox being raked out by a chubby, cheerful-looking fireman who obviously loved his job. The train silhouetted against the by now brighter sky presented obvious photo opportunities from within the 50 yard diameter circle. The area had been laid out with (poorly attended) flowerbeds and the focal point was a War Memorial. Shanta was remarking on the site with some interest and it was only at this point that we learned this was her first ever trip on the train.

            As the train resumed it climb, three lads, with great whoops of excitement, delayed embarkation so that they could chase after our open door to jump on. The first made it easily but the second did not realise that the bridge was coming up (merely wooden joists to support the track with no parapet or railings) and the lad was within a hair's breadth of slipping the twenty feet or so on to the track below. Much to their delight, the third lad had to run across the bridge and chase the train for a while before he could leap aboard.

            By the time we reached Goom, it was raining steadily and we had not seen any of the views across to the Himalayas possible later in the year. Nonetheless, for someone like myself with a life-long interest in railways, standing on the platform of the highest railway station in India and, at 7,400 feet, the second highest anywhere in the world, was an exciting experience. As we watched the engineer stoking and the fireman again raking out the firebox, we were fascinated by two four/five-year-olds, perhaps brother and sister, as they squatted close to the ash-pan and, with a pair of tongs, picked out the red-hot embers and warmed their hands. As I took out the camera, the girl turned and gave us the most gorgeous smile. Perhaps she had learned how photogenic she was and this was a regular scam for the tourists. But she was beautiful and Pat gave her the only coin we had – Rp5 – and she rushed with this fortune over to her family down beside the track. The photo is one of our favourites from the whole tour. 

     Meanwhile, Mani had got into conversation with our young friend from Kent and had offered him a lift back down into Darjeeling. Back-packer Carl Court had already been through Thailand, Bangladesh and Pakistan and now planned to work his way down through India – a 14-month trek. He had recently left the British Army having served in Bosnia where, with nothing on which to spend his wages, he had saved up to finance this trip. He was staying in a hostel in Darjeeling. "It's clean and has water to wash in – it suits me". He was paying Rp100 per night (£1.50) – we were paying Rp4,000.

             Back in town, we went first to our respective tailors to pick up our new clothes. On our way, we saw a group of young men and women, dressed in white, filing out of a meeting. Mani explained that they were devotees of Sreesadhyasaibaba, a philosopher who teaches how to make the most out of life (and whatever religion one has) through tolerance for all others. We learned that Mani himself was a follower. "Sree definitely helped me to kick my alcoholism" he volunteered. He went on to tell us of other members of his family who were similarly addicted, in particular, his brother. This was probably the only time during our week with him that we saw Mani looking rather dejected and unsettled.

            During the early part of the evening, I was "at work". I had been contacted earlier in the week by a young violin teacher, Dominic Daniel, about his hopes for an Associate Diploma attempt next year, in both the Performance and the Musicianship elements. He had shown me some of his written work and I was told he had been in touch with other Trinity colleagues. Often, at the post Grade 8 stage, Indian students have no teachers who can take them forward and they hang on to every word and moment they can grasp from a visiting qualified musician. I had discovered that, even though Dominic had learnt some of the exam repertoire, he had never played the pieces with a pianist as there were none in Darjeeling who could play the keyboard parts. So, with Suriya's cooperation, I joined Dominic in the restaurant for an hour before dinner was served and, using the Roland digital, played the Beethoven A major Sonata Op.12 No.2  and some Prokovief pieces. There was some delay before we got under way as he had brought his brother, Damien, complete with camcorder so that they would have a record of my pearls of wisdom – several of the staff rushed around looking for an extension cable for the recorder. (Damien is a guitarist and also hopes to take the Diploma next year.) Daniel played quite musically and I felt that his tone was probably limited by the very ordinary instrument he was using. He was very receptive to my suggestions as we went back over various points. He had an audience in Mani, Shanta, Pat and several of the "boys" from the restaurant. When we finished, I gave Dominic the address of Minette Duncan in Shillong in case he could travel there to take his exam. She was the only pianist I knew in the North East capable of playing these piano parts and I felt the challenge would be good for Minette now that she had her Associate. The three to four hour road journeys either side of the Gauhati - Bagdogra flight might seem daunting just for a pianist and violinist to get together. But I remembered that, before Jean Street opened her own Trinity exam centre in Shillong, she used to make this long journey to Darjeeling with a party of a dozen Grade candidates in tow.

            The Lamas were very grateful that I had spent some time coaching the Daniel brothers. From a reps point of view, the Trinity centre can only prosper if there are enough teachers qualified in western music to keep providing the candidates. For my part, I just felt desperately sorry for such enthusiastic students who, with the right sort of guidance at this level, could become very efficient teachers. We discussed whether I could return to Darjeeling to carry out a few days of intensive coaching of the sort they had just seen and, with the promise of the Mayfair as my base, I was very happy to consider the idea very seriously.

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Pat had her second school tour the next day, this time to Shanta's Little Flower Nursery School. She had approached the school down steep, windy roads, no more than wide pavements. Shanta has just over 100 children in the care of herself and three teachers. Mani helps out with the administration. The youngest of the children were three and they stayed with Shanta until they were old enough to go on the kindergarten departments of, for example, Loretto. All in brown school uniform, the children, even at this age, were trained to stand and say "Good morning" when Pat entered their classrooms, after which they could not take their eyes away from this unusual visitor.  She found the teachers most friendly and they were happy for the pupils to show her their extremely neat history and geography books. Some read to her but all of the very youngest joined in to show her their action songs – Heads and Toes and A Sailor went to sea, to seaetc. Three of the cutest little girls did an Indian dance and one of the "older" boys sang his version of the country and western classic West Virginia! – the power of globalised entertainment. The classrooms themselves seemed rather cramped and a little dilapidated particularly for the older children but everyone smiled for every minute of Pat's visit. Mani arrived in the middle of the entertainment and swept her out past a posse of waiting mothers (also smiling broadly) to take her up to Mount Vernon's.

             Here, she had another brief school tour. Mount Vernon was quite a large, imposing building and, in common with most schools we saw, was in need of repair here and there. With some pride, Mani showed her various school photographs that included himself, and introduced her to many members of staff all of whom seemed delighted to welcome her.

            The music department, as at St Paul's and Loretto, was blessed (cursed?) with a plentiful supply of very poor pianos. They had obviously been purchased pre-Independence and were of the type I had encountered in Shillong. After an uneventful morning's work (mostly piano exams), I was shown to the staff room where I joined Pat for lunch. We were introduced to the headmaster, Dr. Das. He had studied at Oxford and Bristol Universities and, at the latter, had his family with him in Clifton – his children went to Henleaze School. With relations and close friends in that part of Bristol, we found we had a good deal to chat about. During the morning, Mani had appraised him of our idea of my returning next year to coach some of the Darjeeling music students and teachers. Dr. Das was sure that fellow Rotarians would help with the funding (including, he felt certain, Suriya at the Mayfair) and spoke enthusiastically of contacting his former church in Bristol ("very wealthy and I have never asked them for anything") as well as the Rotarian directors of Harveys, the Bristol sherry firm. Pat, meanwhile, chatted to the Deputy Head, Mr. Fernandez, and his wife (also on the staff) who claimed that, after each exam her daughter took up to Grade VIII, they both cried buckets at the relief of the torture being over.

            Mr. Bimba, the school's violin teacher, was also with us at lunch and he took me back to the department to continue work. Both he and the cello teacher have Licentiate Diplomas from Trinity and this was reflected in the standard of work. At the end of the session, Mani brought all of the candidates back in and, after a brief pep talk from me, I accompanied Bimba in some pieces by Kreisler, Schumann and Mozart. My experience with Dominic had taught me that it was not very likely that the students would have heard a great deal of "live music" and that this was likely to be far more useful than any words of encouragement I could produce.

            One of the school cars was summoned to take me back to the Mayfair. Pat had been packing and was ready for a last wander down the Mall. We decided that we really could not visit Darjeeling without setting foot inside the famous Windamere (which the locals pronounce "Windermeery"). Thus, we climbed up the drive to reception and asked for afternoon tea. We were shown into a small, chintzy, drawing-room complete with coal fire as promised. On the piano sat a notice forbidding anyone from playing! We sat looking at the many sepia photos on the walls, eating cucumber sandwiches, biscuits and solid doughnuts with a spot of jam on top. These delectations had been served by (elderly) maids in pinnies. It certainly all had charm and, of course, we did not see the rooms. But it is not difficult to imagine that the place is resting on its Raj laurels and we were very glad to have been put into a Maharajah's palace.

            Before we left The Windamere, we started chatting to two new arrivals, Mike and Doreen from Bedford who had, on previous holidays, travelled through Laos and Vietnam and were now "doing India" by train. "The trains are OK" said Doreen, "as long as you don't need to go to the loo and you don't accept any food, not even sweets, from anybody –  they'll be drugged and you'll wake up with your belongings gone!" They had been from Delhi to Lucknow and Calcutta. Mike was very keen for us to go to the Tollygunge Club in Calcutta. "G an Ts for 50p!" he exclaimed. The size of his stomach and its Himalayan trouser overhang demonstrated his love of the toddy. It soon became clear that Mike was also rather deaf and that he was answering even his wife's questions with either a completely irrelevant statement or another question of his own. We had several confused attempts at conversation. I looked at Pat and we both, rather childishly, were on the verge of corpsing so we bade the “Windermeery” and its guests farewell.

            We had arranged to host the Lamas for dinner that evening and Shanta did not let us down in terms of her saris – this one was beautifully patterned in gold. As we were going in to the restaurant, one of the staff brought two packages to us. Inside the first, was a touching card from Sister Padua together with a laminated photo of the Himalayas that she wanted us to give our daughter, Joanne, on her wedding day. In the other was a present from the Daniel brothers for the help I had given them the previous evening. Again, the kindness of our new friends in Darjeeling was overwhelming. At dinner, conversation roamed over several subjects: my proposed return visit, education, local politics and the forthcoming Indian General Election. Shanta laughed and said that she would not be bothering to vote as, when she turned up at the polling booth for the previous election, she was turned away. "You have already voted”, she was told. It is not uncommon for people to turn up, give the name and address of someone, perhaps a neighbour, they know is on the electoral role and use that person's vote, returning later in the day to use their own bona fide vote. Is it any wonder that the turn-out for these elections is as low as 40%? After saying goodnight to our friends, we were excited to receive a phone call from our son, Robin who, when we left at the end of August, had still been in America with his wife who was doing some research at Harvard University and Washington’s Library of Congress. We had been trying to call him for several days but Suriya kept telling us that he could not "get a line out". It was good to know that they were safely returned and he promised to fax us with some details of their trip.

            If we thought that dinner with Mani and Shanta was to be the quiet climax to our stay, we were soon to think otherwise when the phone beside our bed rang at 5am the next morning. It was Mani to say that his mother-in-law, who lives a little out of town but higher up the ridge, had been able to tell him that the mountains were clear and that our friends should go straight away to Bhan Bhakta Sarani Rd. As far as is possible for either of us, we leaped out of bed, and were throwing on jerseys and trousers when the phone rang again. This time it was one of the houseboys to tell us the same news. It seemed the hotel was also keen that we should not go away without having seen "the mighty one". In five minutes were sitting on a bench watching the Himalayas reveal themselves. The sun was catching the top of Kanchenjunga as well as the other ridges and seemed to be dissolving the whisps of cloud that were scattered just below the 26,000ft summit. It was magical. From down in the cloud-shrouded valley we heard sounds as diverse as chanting, pipes, what sounded like reveille, birds and even a factory hooter. We sat there for the best part of an hour, entranced. And we were not alone. People were out exercising, others were pushing carts of vegetables along the road, many just stood chatting and some were, of course, praying to the mountain. To the Hindu, everything holy comes from the Himalayas, the source of their religion – the Ganges, the Brahmaputra, the Indus all begin their journeys from these gigantic snow-bound wastes. And watching the devotions, it was not difficult to feel that there was something spiritual in these beautiful mountains.

             At 8am, Mani and Shanta arrived and we were able to share with them the excitement we had felt from our experience up on Bhan Bhakta. They were so pleased. Shanta said that she had been pacing about most of the night to ensure Mani did not forget to ring her mother, so desperate were they for us to see Kanchenjunga. Surya supervised the boys loading our luggage and stayed to wave us off. It was the same vehicle and driver Mani had booked for our return journey down to the heat of the plains. This cheered us, as it was obvious that this young man was secure and circumspect. I had expected the day's journey to be shorter with no hills to climb but, as was explained, downward traffic has to give way to those climbing up so it is quite possible for the Darjeeling-Bagdogra leg to be slower.

            On our climb up to the higher ridges of the valley, we caught our last glimpses of the mountain and comforted ourselves with the knowledge that we might be able to get even closer when we move on to Nepal after Calcutta. We had our toilet break in the same restaurant at Pankhabai before embarking on the notorious 12 miles of steep descent – this time I was sitting on the "drop" side. But Mani had one more delight for us. I had mentioned very early on that we felt we could hardly come to Darjeeling without visiting a tea factory and so, after ten minutes of the descent we turned into the gates of the Maikapar Tea Estate. Mani disappeared to find the owner, a school friend of his from Mount Herman's. Rajah (which I think was a nickname) greeted us warmly. He was a strikingly handsome grey-haired man in his fifties who would not have looked out of place on the poster for a Bollywood epic. A Cambridge cricket blue, he served us, not surprisingly, the freshest cup of tea I have ever tasted, presumably something special such as Super Fine Second Flush Tippy Orange Pekoe! He told us that he was about to publish his book on the life of a tea planter. When he began describing his involvement in matters ecological and how this affected the tea business, I wished we had had more time, as it would have been fascinating to talk to him in more detail about this. But Mani was keen for us to go inside the plant. A foreman was detailed to show Pat, Shanta and me the whole process, the various stages of sieving, sifting and selecting which went on. We watched as women, usually with scarves across their mouths and noses because of the dust, shifted wicker baskets of leaves from one machine to another. The men seemed to be detailed to fill and shift the chests. The foreman's English was quite good but he had the habit of switching a machine on first and then describing its function. It was thus a question of "And now we have the grader which ......", the rest being lost in the shaking and rattling of the machinery, a noise which was accentuated by the low ceilings in the factory. We were shown the five grades of tea from the very finest Orange Pekoe Tips to the dust that finishes up in cheap tea bags.

Mani's timing was immaculate and we pulled into Bagdogra Airport almost exactly the statutory hour before take-off. He took charge of the luggage and our tickets so check-in went very smoothly and we were soon into emotional farewells – I think there were tears in the eyes of all four of us as we hugged. We were in the departure lounge for a good half hour but, as we eventually made our way across the tarmac, we turned and saw that our friends had waited for us to give one last wave. No sooner had we settled into our seats than we seemed to be taxiing and lifting off. No doubt the Lamas were watching the plane turn into a speck in the sky as we headed off south for Calcutta. 

 Sadly, that was the last time we were to see Mani Shanta. I had an e-mail from Dominic Daniel in the following Spring to say that, after a short illness, Mani had died at the hospital in Siliguri.