The battle for Middle Earth

As paradoxical as it may seem, the best antidote to the big bad city during the monsoons is ?the rainiest place on Planet Earth?. That?s what the sign on the road to Cherrapunji says, writes Aditya Sinha.

As paradoxical as it may seem, the best antidote to the big bad city during the monsoons is ‘the rainiest place on Planet Earth’. That’s what the sign on the road to Cherrapunji says, as if a list of different planets were being drawn up. Though the young lady in the backseat insists that some years, Cherrapunji comes second to Mawsynram, situated a couple of layers of hills to the west.

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Cherrapunji (or Sohra, locally) is very much Lord of the Rings country (but, heavens, not the third installment where they throw the ring into the volcano — that’s the office). The drive from Shillong is quite trippy — along the edge of steeply descending cliffs, and looking across to other steep hills with dark green cliffs. Look down and the vertigo induces a window of madness — you can imagine flying out into the abyss after a momentary loss of steering. Look up and you’re Viggo Mortenson-like, facing the fierce hordes Orcs on the opposite hilltop, ready for the battle for Middle Earth.

Hamlets of Zizous

Instead, of course, the urban gypsy continues driving through occasional Khasi hamlets, waving to little girls in pretty frocks, and their phlegm-manufacturing raggedy brothers. The young lady in the backseat reminds you that Meghalaya has a matrilineal society, which is probably why parental attention is focused on the little girls, and not their brothers, as it is back home. Ouch!

At the same time, the hamlets all have at least one football field, always occupied by enthusiasts who only stop dribbling to call out to the young lady in the backseat. So many Khasi boys playing football, and we’re not in the World Cup? Whatever happened to ‘We and the WC’ the programme to get India to South Africa for World Cup 2010? Hasn’t Brazil promised to help nurture our talent? Perhaps the rest of India should turn matrilineal. Then we might solve two problems at once — putting together a team that can compete in Asia, and ending discrimination against the girl child.

Asterix and the Khasi matriarchs

The car stops for photo-ops. Beyond the endless layers of velvet hills is a carpet of turquoise. Couldn’t possibly be the sea, and there are no nearby rivers, so what gives? The young lady from the backseat doesn’t know, and turns to the large rocks behind us. “Menhirs,” she says, and I immediately think Obelix. She explains: locals used these to mark the graves of venerable ancestors. I put on my serious face, but speculate on a possible Asterix and the Khasi Matriarchs.

We reach Cherrapunji, and our resort is another 19 kms south, on even narrower roads through the thick tropical rainforest. The resort, on three sides, overlooks hills with at least 13 waterfalls. The south view opens up to low-lying plains filled with recent rain. The mystery of the turquoise is solved. And my mobile says: welcome to Bangladesh Grameen Phone.

The turquoise water will eventually drain into the distant Surma River. The girl in the backseat insists we walk down the hill and infiltrate into our neighbouring country. Instead we visit a viewpoint called Mot I Love, named after a big daddy of the local village Laitkynsew. After he died they put up an obelisk instead of a menhir — a concession to modernity.

Shaolin masters of Bangladesh

Why is it so rainy? Cherrapunji’s steep hills apparently act as a giant funnel for monsoon clouds, and we’re treated to a night-and-morning long downpour. Like The Vines I hear voices in the trees and hear footsteps in the rain. They might as well be dead, as The Beatles sang. Is Venus the rainiest planet in the Solar System?

When it clears, the young lady, her brother and I trek down the hill, determined to reach either the ‘Living Root bridge’ (a giant rubber-tree root that spans a stream) or Bangladesh. They’re armed with bamboo canes for walking (and occasionally pretend to be Shaolin masters warring in the jungle) and have no problem, but I, anxious about wet leaves, leeches and snakes, slip and fall. After 90 minutes, having reached neither bridge nor Bangladesh, the trek seems Sisyphean, so we trudge back.

Urban caveman

We also decide to explore the caves at Mawsmai. It’s an exciting prospect, but inside it is dark, slippery, with pointy rocks above and puddles of unknown depth below. My only thought as soon as I enter is to find my way out (and there’s no turning back, only going forward). Thrice I bang my head against spectacular stalactites.

A shaft of light in the distance — relief — but it turns out to be a dead end. And when we finally emerge, I realise that I could never have saved Middle Earth. Come to think of it, could I have survived the Matriarchs? Maybe it’s time to head back to the big, bad city.