A snowy sojourn

The winter sun in Delhi was just beginning to stretch its golden fingers across the city when we left for Tawang, a journey that had long lingered on my bucket list. Armed with woollen layers, travel mugs, and the excitement of venturing into snow-draped mountains, we set off. The plan was ambitious yet thrilling: fly to Dibrugarh, drive through Dirang, cross the Sela Pass, and reach the tranquil beauty of Tawang.

The flight to Dibrugarh was uneventful, though the view of the mighty Brahmaputra from above was enough to make one feel small in the best way possible. Once on the ground, the air felt different—crisper, cleaner, and pregnant with the promise of adventure. The journey to Dirang was punctuated with countless bends as if the roads themselves were playfully guiding us toward the horizon.

Dirang is a small town tucked away in the folds of Arunachal Pradesh, a place where time seems to slow down. It was here that I reconnected with an old friend, Bhuban, who had grown up in this picturesque hamlet. Bhuban was as vibrant as the town itself, his hearty laughter resonating in every conversation. His wife Sangey Droma insisted we spend the night at their home instead of the hotel we had booked. “You won’t get this kind of hospitality at a hotel,” she said with a grin that left no room for refusal.

Bhuban’s family welcomed us with the warmth only mountain folk seem to have mastered. His mother served us thukpa, a steaming bowl of noodle soup laden with vegetables and bits of chicken, perfect for the cold evening. We sat around the fireplace, sipping chhang, a mildly alcoholic drink made from fermented millet, while Bhuban narrated tales of his childhood adventures—swimming in icy streams, herding yaks, and playing pranks on unsuspecting tourists. His stories were as colourful as the woven shawl draped over his mother’s shoulders, and by the time we retired for the night, I felt like I had known his family for years.

The next morning, we set off for Sela Pass, the gateway to Tawang. The road climbed steadily, the air growing thinner and colder with every mile. Snow had begun to appear in patches, clinging to rocks and trees like icing on a cake. By the time we reached the pass, the landscape had transformed into a white wonderland. The temperature had plummeted, and the wind bit at our faces, but the beauty of the place was worth every shiver.

Sela Pass felt otherworldly, its frozen lake glinting under the pale sunlight. Prayer flags fluttered in the wind, their vibrant colours a stark contrast to the pristine white snow. I stood there, mesmerized by the silence that seemed to envelop the entire landscape. It was as if time had paused, allowing us to soak in the sheer majesty of nature. Bhuvan, ever the prankster, decided to hurl a snowball at me, breaking the spell and sparking an impromptu snow fight. We laughed like children, our voices echoing across the pass.

Tawang greeted us with even more snow and a sense of serenity that is hard to put into words. The town, perched at an altitude of over 10,000 feet, felt like a world apart. The Tawang Monastery, the largest in India, stood as a testament to the region’s rich Buddhist heritage. Walking through its ancient halls, I felt a sense of peace that no city temple had ever managed to instil in me. The chants of the monks, the scent of burning incense, and the sight of butter lamps flickering in the dim light created an atmosphere that was both spiritual and grounding.

Food in Tawang was another revelation. We gorged on momos, stuffed with yak meat and served with fiery red chutney, and gyathuk, a Tibetan noodle soup that warmed us from within. Sangey Droma insisted we try zan, a traditional Monpa dish made from millet flour, served with spicy meat curry. It was hearty, flavorful, and exactly what one needed in such cold weather.

One evening, as we sat in a small café overlooking the snow-covered town, Bhuban shared a story that stayed with me. He spoke of his grandfather, who had fought in the 1962 Indo-China war and had often recounted tales of bravery and loss. “He always said the mountains here have seen more than we can ever imagine,” Bhuban said, his voice tinged with a mix of pride and melancholy. Looking out at the snow-laden peaks, I couldn’t help but feel a deep respect for the resilience of the people who call this rugged terrain home.

The days in Tawang passed too quickly, each moment more enchanting than the last. We visited the War Memorial, a sombre reminder of the sacrifices made to protect this beautiful land. The local markets, with their vibrant woollens, handcrafted jewellery, and intricate Thangka paintings, offered a glimpse into the artistic soul of the region. Every interaction with the locals, from shopkeepers to monks, was marked by genuine warmth and curiosity.

The journey back was quieter, as if we were all lost in our thoughts, reluctant to leave the magical realm we had just experienced. Sela Pass was even more snow-covered now, its beauty tinged with a touch of danger as the roads had become slippery. Bhuban, ever the mountain man, navigated the treacherous terrain with ease, regaling us with stories to keep our spirits up.

When we finally returned to Delhi, the city’s hustle felt almost jarring. Yet, in the midst of the chaos, I carried with me the tranquillity of Tawang, the laughter of Bhuban and his wife Sangey Droma, and of course, the taste of thukpa by a warm hearth. The journey had been more than just a trip; it was a reminder of the beauty of connection—be it with people, places, or oneself. As I unpacked my bags, a small pile of snow still clinging to my boots, I found myself already planning my next trip to the mountains.

The writer is a freelance travel journalist.