To Scotland & Back

I am yet to go and see the sights of Scotland, but evidently atleast one Englishman who had, came down to Shillong and fell in love with its low verdant hills, the ever-present mist and the picturesque lakes. And he must have been the one to coin Shillong with the much-beloved moniker - “the Scotland of the East”.

Shillong the state capital of Meghalaya (“Abode of the Clouds”) is perched at an altitude of 1,520 meters (4,990 feet) above sea level. Shillong was a tiny village till 1864, when it was accorded the status of the new civil station of the Khasi and Jaintia hills. During the colonial period, it was an integral part of the erstwhile British provincial states of Eastern Bengal and Assam and served as the capital even after independence. Shillong thus became Assam's capital in 1874 and remained so for a century

With Shillong being the capital even in the British heydays, it remained the epicenter of administrative affairs, followed naturally by trade and commerce ties. Officers put up residence in Shillong, their families soon followed uphill cos after all, the ‘Scotland of the East’ with its salubrious climate, was and still is a comfortable address. Schools came up, shops opened and Shillong became a city.

With the creation of the new state of Meghalaya in 1972, Shillong ceased to be Assam’s capital. Thereafter, there was a reverse influx of Assamese families from Shillong. In Guwahati, it is easy to come across people who used to work and live in Shillong, grown men and women who recall wistfully, the wonderful times when as schoolchildren in Shillong, they would roam in Police Bazaar, go trekking in the hills all around, slurp steaming hot soup in roadside stalls around Bara Bazaar and go off to the Polo Grounds to watch the archery competitions and place their bets. The Shillong of yesteryears can still be seen in their memory-laden eyes, and it makes for a very pretty sight. 

A newspaper article last month about the beauty of monsoon in Shillong and the accompanying inflow of tourists that it invariably brings, prompted a family visit in the 3^rd week of June. Shillong is 104 km from Guwahati but for all the difference between the sweltering heat of Guwahati and the coolness of Shillong, you might think that the two places are in two different continents. It is presumptuous to assume that any beauty, even the beauty of a place is meant for consumption of the soul cos beauty and natural beauty at that, should not be cumbersomely burdened with a ‘purpose of being’. But for whatever it is worth, I drank in through my senses, the sights, smell, tastes and sounds of most that Shillong offers.

We put up at Umiam Lake (or Barapani) near Shillong; nestled among all the pines, with the turquoise waters of the lake in the background. For an all-too-brief period on that 1^st day, the lights went out and we spent some blissful moments in candle-light, with the crickets singing in the forests beyond and a starry sky above. A ritualistic visit to Shillong for most includes a trip to Cherrapunji village, now called Sohra, which our school GK books never tired of reminding, was ‘the wettest place on earth’. The sobriquet now belongs to Mausynram (another village nearby). The trip to Cherrapunji often comes accompanied with spray-like rain, which if you playfully poke your face out of the car and heavenwards, drenches it with cool, invigorating minuscule beads of water. In this journey again, more often than not, you will drive through cottony wisps of cloud which descend suddenly upon the road, just like long-lost friends. Of course, with all the driving rain and clouds, you might or not get to see the majestic waterfalls that dot the panoramic landscape, and fall out like so many petulant rivulets from high plateaus into the deep ravines below.

To end on a light note, with all the inherent attractions of falls, peaks and lakes, Shillong also holds enough charms to entice the shopaholics in the form of ‘Police Bazaar (called ‘PB’ by the locals) and Bara Bazaar. Stalls laden with goodies with grim-faced proprietors in the front apt to quote any price which catches their fancy, hard haggling with vehement remonstrations delivered with hand gestures and shame-faced expressions and the joy afterwards of carrying home the fruits of a hard-fought battle in a cheap blue/ green/ pink/ what-have-you plastic packet – all these appeal to the deal-sniffing instincts of my mother and brother.

We trudged onwards through many stalls, finally coming onto ‘Grand Tibet Market’ near Bara Bazaar.  With my brother scanning the goods from one stall to another, mother and myself stopped at one stall to catch our breath.

It was then, that I saw the black tee with a silhouetted Slash (from GnR) with his favourite Gibson Les Paul guitar. Well, one thing led to another and I learned a thing about myself – that I was not so different from my mother and brother, after all. So, I ended up buying 2 tees and a pair of jeans from that one stall. On the jeans front, the pleasant-faced lady proprietor shows me pairs in slim fit, narrow fit, ‘crotch-gripping’ fit with the usual line, “Brother, this here is the latest fashion.” She felt a little let-down when I asked for a straight fit pair which I normally wear, and began rummaging around the bottom shelves, obviously stocked much below the ‘latest fashion’ stuff and came up with exactly 7 pairs of my specification. She looks up and smiles wanly at me, asking me if I would like to try them on.

I glanced quickly over the pairs, realizing one thing I’d missed; so I tell her, “Didi, my waist is 34” and most of these are too small.” Poor didi’s eyes rolled up and in a voice mixed in equal measure with irritation and reproach, she says, “Brother, 34” is too big. You should slim down.” To be fair to didi, I am hardly representative of the local populace of Shillong. The people here are lithe, wiry, slender and of average height. Didi’s looks and words have the effect of making me feel like a outsized giant with a waist liable to attract litigations and summons issued in public interest. To add insult to injury, I am now left with precisely 2 pairs to choose. So, I gulp down my wounded pride and choose.

Afterwards, I found myself thinking of an act by stand-up comic Russell Peters (bit reproduced here) about a similar situation he says he faced in China. This is mirth about girth!!