Subhasish Ghosh
Chapter 1: The Itinerary of Dreams (and Doom)
If there was one thing Mr. Subhash Mukherjee believed in more than government bonds and early morning power yoga, it was planning. So when he announced the “long overdue” family road trip from Kolkata to Bhutan, his Excel sheet was already color-coded, laminated, and tucked into a blue plastic folder titled ‘Mission Mukherjee: Himalayan Harmony 2025’. His wife, Jaya, barely looked up from her WhatsApp group of Probashi Ladies with Recipes when he declared this at the breakfast table. “You want us all to travel together? In one car?” she asked, blinking slowly behind her bifocals. “Yes! Like old times,” Subhash beamed, referencing a time that never really existed, because they’d never taken a family trip longer than a weekend at Mandarmani—and even that ended with Riya crying about sand in her pani puri and Abir threatening to walk back to Kolkata. Yet, here they were—Subhash with his bound folders, Jaya already packing Boroline and Eno, and the rest of the family about to be dragged into a multi-generational road saga none of them signed up for.
Riya, their youngest, now 28, worked in a creative agency and saw vacations as backdrops for content. “I’m not going without my Wi-Fi dongle, baba,” she warned, stuffing ring lights and neutral-toned saris into her trolley. “I need my #TravelNari updates.” Abir, her older brother and a tech consultant with a receding hairline he insisted wasn’t stress-induced, was even less enthused. “Can’t we just fly to Paro?” he grumbled. “You expect me to drive through Bengal’s crater-filled highways and Sikkimese fog with a seven-year-old backseat DJ?” That DJ, also known as Chiku, Abir’s hyperactive son, was already quizzing Google Assistant: “Hey Google, how long does it take to reach Bhutan if you stop every time you need to pee?” No one heard Jaya whisper, “We’ll never make it past Bardhaman,” under her breath as she packed seven types of snacks and an extra sari for each temple en route. The Mukherjees were moving, alright, but no one quite knew whether they were heading towards adventure—or annihilation.
Their departure day arrived with typical chaos. The Innova was stuffed like a dhobi’s bag before Durga Puja: three suitcases, two duffel bags, one cooler with Jaya’s homemade luchi-alurdom, and a small plastic mandir Subhash insisted must be strapped in the front seat “for divine GPS”. As they pulled out of their South Kolkata apartment, their neighbor Mrs. Chatterjee waved her gamcha and said, “I give them two days. Tops.” Subhash, oblivious, took the wheel with military pride. “First stop: Shantiniketan!” he announced. Except no one heard him over Chiku’s song about Pokémon and Riya arguing with her phone’s signal bar. Ten minutes later, they were stuck behind a procession for a local councillor’s birthday, complete with dhols and a dancing elephant mascot. Jaya sighed and reached for the thermos. “Chaa kaw?” she asked. “Only if you’ve got something stronger,” Abir muttered. Riya, snapping stories already, titled her reel: ‘How It Started: The Great Mukherjee Migration’.
But as they finally broke free of the city’s grasp, the landscape softened—rice paddies glistening under the morning sun, fishermen casting nets into silent ponds, and the occasional tea stall puffing steam like sleepy dragons. Chiku fell asleep mid-sentence, clutching a Tintin comic. Subhash adjusted the rearview mirror and, for the first time, smiled without agenda. “We’re doing this, Jaya,” he said quietly. She nodded, warming her hands on the tea cup. Behind them, Riya uploaded her first post of the trip, and Abir scrolled through emails he wouldn’t reply to. For now, there was only road. Endless, winding, unpredictable road. And for the Mukherjees, the misadventures had only just begun.
Chapter 2: Shantiniketan Shenanigans
The sun was slanting gently through the red sal trees as the Innova wheezed into Shantiniketan, the cultural heartland of Bengal. Subhash, who insisted on calling it “Tagore Town” with unyielding reverence, parked the car near a small guesthouse called Baul Bon. “Authentic rural experience,” he declared, pointing to the mud-finished cottages with fairy lights tangled around neem trees. Jaya was less impressed. “Where’s the geyser?” she asked, holding a towel like a shield. Riya peeked inside the rooms and whispered, “Looks like a sponsored set from a Sabyasachi shoot,” which was a compliment, though no one else understood. Chiku ran off to chase goats, while Abir just slumped against the car, exhausted from dodging potholes and speed breakers that Subhash treated like Olympic hurdles.
They were barely unpacked when Subhash hustled them out for the “walking tour of Tagore’s legacy”, beginning at Visva-Bharati University. Riya rolled her eyes but agreed to come if she could film a montage. Abir protested until Jaya reminded him there was a famous samosa-jalebi shop nearby. As they walked through the rust-colored pathways and sun-dappled courtyards, Subhash’s voice took on a tour-guide tone. “Here, Rabindranath Tagore taught under the trees. No walls, no limits!” he declared, arms spread wide. Riya murmured, “Like my agency,” earning a laugh from Abir, who hadn’t smiled since Kalyani Expressway. Chiku, meanwhile, was fixated on a group of art students painting under a banyan tree. He squatted next to one, whispering, “Do you know Doraemon?” The artist replied, “Only Tagore-mon.” For once, Chiku was speechless.
Lunch was an affair to remember—or regret—depending on whom you asked. At a local eatery called Bhuri Bhoj, they were served brass thalis with rice, shukto, begun bhaja, kosha mangsho, and a bowl of payesh that nearly made Jaya weep with nostalgia. Subhash asked the manager to pack ten extra luchis “for tomorrow’s breakfast in the hills,” and the man smiled politely, knowing they wouldn’t survive the heat. Riya posted a Boomerang of the payesh and captioned it #PoetryOnAPlate, while Abir checked his signal bars every five minutes, groaning as his VPN sputtered. Then came the incident with the bicycle rickshaw. Subhash, in a fit of romantic nostalgia, made everyone board a single rickshaw for a ride through Sonajhuri forest. The rickshaw-puller stared at them, then at the rickshaw, then back at them. “Paanchjon?” he asked in disbelief. “Lightweight hote hobe.” “I am retired, not lightweight,” Subhash huffed, as the rickshaw creaked with every revolution and finally gave up halfway up a slope. The family had to push it back while Chiku cheered, “This is like Mario Kart!”
That night, as fireflies blinked lazily around the courtyard, Jaya finally relaxed with a warm shawl and some roasted peanuts. “This place reminds me of our honeymoon in Bankura,” she said, almost shyly. Subhash smiled. “Except this time, we brought all the headaches with us.” Riya sat editing videos, but paused long enough to capture her parents sitting side by side, framed in lantern light, their laughter soft as the rustling leaves above. Abir, sipping on mishti doodh, finally admitted, “This… isn’t bad.” Chiku was already asleep, a paintbrush clutched in his hand. The night air carried songs from a distant Baul gathering, haunting and raw. In that moment, the Mukherjees—accident-prone, over-packed, and often loud—felt strangely in rhythm with the world around them. The road ahead was long, but something was shifting. They weren’t just traveling; they were arriving—into each other’s lives, one stop at a time.
Chapter 3: Chaos in the Dooars
Leaving Shantiniketan behind, the Mukherjees ventured north toward Dooars, the lush forested stretch of North Bengal that smelled of wet earth, cardamom, and quiet danger. The drive was long and winding, cutting through fog-kissed tea gardens and quiet villages that blinked awake at dawn. Subhash, now firmly in his element, had plotted the route meticulously. “We stop at Lataguri. It’s a forest fringe village. Very authentic,” he said. Riya, exhausted from editing travel reels in the backseat, groaned, “If I hear ‘authentic’ one more time, I’m sleeping in the car.” Abir, who had agreed to take the wheel for this leg, soon regretted it as a monkey gang blocked the road near Gorumara Forest, one of them baring its teeth at their Innova’s side mirror. Chiku, naturally, found this hilarious. “Look! Dadu has cousins in the jungle!”
The homestay at Lataguri, called Green Glade Resort, turned out to be a cluster of pastel cottages facing a dense sal forest. It had character, certainly—if one considered flickering bulbs and moody geysers to be character. Jaya tried to stay optimistic. “At least the air is clean.” But within minutes of settling in, Subhash’s meticulously curated safari schedule was thrown off course. “The jeep we booked has gone to fetch another family,” the caretaker mumbled. “We have one left—but no driver till evening.” Subhash sputtered in disbelief. “Do they not know I emailed them thrice?” Riya muttered, “Maybe try sending a carrier pigeon next time.” To kill time, they decided to explore the nearby tea estate. Chiku ran along the furrows of the green garden, giggling. Jaya picked up tea leaves and talked of her college friend who married into a plantation family. Meanwhile, Abir struck up an unexpected conversation with the local guide—a former botanist who spoke about climate change, migratory birds, and how elephants still wandered into villages looking for jackfruit.
The evening safari finally arrived with drama to spare. They were barely five minutes into the jungle when Chiku shouted, “Tiger!” only for it to be a very confused spotted deer. Subhash hushed him while holding his binoculars upside down. Riya tried filming the dusky forest but her camera caught more of Abir’s scowl than the jungle. Then came the real moment of panic—a low rumble and the sudden appearance of a wild elephant crossing the dirt path barely fifty feet ahead. The jeep froze. So did everyone inside it. Even the guide stopped mid-sentence. “No flash. No movement,” he whispered. For a moment, the elephant looked at them, as if considering their worth, then lumbered away into the trees, leaving behind silence thick as honey. Jaya reached for Subhash’s hand without realizing it. Abir, heart pounding, simply said, “Okay, that was… intense.” Riya, for once, didn’t film. “Some moments,” she whispered, “shouldn’t be filtered.”
That night, rain pattered on the tin roof of their cottage, and the forest hummed with nocturnal life—crickets, frogs, distant birdcalls. They gathered in the veranda, sipping steaming black tea offered by the caretaker who now warmed up to them. Subhash, humbled by the elephant incident, was unusually quiet. Jaya rested her head on his shoulder. Chiku was wrapped in a shawl, dozing between Abir and Riya, both scrolling silently but not disconnected. Something had shifted. In the jungle’s wild unpredictability, the Mukherjees had found a strange kind of stillness. They had come looking for wildlife, adventure, maybe some family bonding. But they got something else—perspective. Tomorrow, they would head toward the hills. But tonight, the forest was enough.
Chapter 4: Kalimpong Kinks and Curiosities
The journey from the lowland jungles of Dooars to the misty ridges of Kalimpong felt like shifting gears from chaos to quiet charm. The Mukherjees started early, climbing through winding mountain roads wrapped in fog like shy shawls. Subhash, once again behind the wheel, whistled Tagore songs with newfound mountain confidence—until a sudden honk from an impatient trucker nearly sent him swerving into a chai stall. “This road has more curves than your mother’s kulfi recipe,” Abir grumbled, clutching the dashboard. Riya, on the other hand, was enchanted. “It’s like driving through clouds,” she said, filming snippets of orchids dangling from trees and prayer flags fluttering like secret wishes. Chiku, armed with a lollipop and boundless curiosity, asked, “Are we close to the Himalayas or heaven?” “Same thing,” Jaya smiled, passing him a packet of murmura.
Their stay in Kalimpong was at a heritage guesthouse called Glenview Villa, perched on a slope overlooking the Teesta valley. With ivy-covered walls, wooden floors that creaked politely, and a caretaker named Dawa who served tea like a ceremony, the place felt dipped in nostalgia. “This is… straight out of Satyajit Ray,” Subhash whispered, already imagining himself in a pipe and shawl. But true to Mukherjee luck, the serenity didn’t last long. Their first outing to the Pine View Nursery ended in minor disaster when Chiku tried to “rescue” a cactus he thought was “trapped in a cage,” resulting in a small stampede, two Band-Aids, and one broken pot. “He has a revolutionary streak,” Riya joked while helping Dawa pick up the shards. Later that evening, Abir wandered into an antique shop on Rishi Road and accidentally bought a supposedly haunted Tibetan bell. “The shopkeeper gave me a discount when I said I had insomnia,” he told the family. “I think we just brought home a ghost.”
The next day’s itinerary included the famous Durpin Monastery. As they climbed the last stretch, the bells chimed faintly and clouds rolled in, creating a surreal stillness. Subhash insisted everyone sit through the prayer chants, and though Riya fidgeted and Abir sulked over the lack of phone signal, something settled in the silence. Chiku sat wide-eyed, watching the monks with reverence. Afterwards, they walked down to the view point, where the Teesta flowed like a silver ribbon far below. Jaya, clutching her shawl in the cold wind, said softly, “We’ve never taken this much time… just being together.” For once, no one replied with sarcasm. Even Abir just nodded. That evening, the family took a slow walk down Haat Bazaar, picking up wool socks, a packet of dried cheese, and a giant yak keychain Chiku named “Yakonanda.” Back at Glenview, the bell rang randomly at 3 a.m., causing Abir to swear he’d toss it into the Teesta if it happened again. But secretly, he kept it next to his pillow.
Kalimpong wasn’t thrilling in the traditional tourist sense—it had no cable cars, no flashy attractions, no loud music. But it had a way of seeping into them. The mist curled around the verandas like old memories. The silence wasn’t empty, but kind. The hills weren’t distant, but comforting. As they packed to leave for their next destination—Phuentsholing, Bhutan’s border town—Subhash looked at his family, half asleep over breakfast, and felt something stir in his chest. Not heartburn. Not nostalgia. Something rarer. Contentment. They hadn’t yet reached Bhutan, but already, something sacred was unfolding.
Chapter 5: Borderlines and Bhutanese Blunders
The journey to Phuentsholing, the border town that serves as Bhutan’s southern gateway, began with both excitement and an unusual silence in the Mukherjee car. It might’ve been the steep mountain descent, or perhaps the collective anxiety of entering a foreign country armed with only printed permits, a “tourist-friendly attitude,” and Jaya’s box of nolen gur sandesh. Subhash had read every blog on Bhutanese etiquette and kept muttering, “No honking, no shouting, no plastic bags.” Riya was already on Instagram asking, “Is there a Bhutan filter yet?” Abir looked unconvinced. “If there’s even one stamp missing from our papers, we’ll be spending the night with goats.” As for Chiku, he had only one concern: “Will they let me bring Yakonanda across the border?”
Phuentsholing was a charming contradiction—calmer than Jaigaon, its Indian twin across the border, yet bustling in its own meditative rhythm. The immigration counter resembled a quiet classroom, complete with posters of the Bhutanese king and monks in maroon robes guiding confused tourists. Subhash, armed with laminated documents, approached the officer with a smile bordering on desperate. Everything went smoothly—until Riya was asked for a printed hotel booking confirmation. “I have the email,” she said, waving her phone. “No internet,” came the gentle reply. After half an hour of borrowed Wi-Fi from a momo stall, Abir’s dormant Gmail finally opened, prompting a cheer from Chiku and a bow from Subhash. They were granted entry. The guard even smiled and said, “Enjoy Bhutan, but slowly.” It became the family’s new catchphrase.
Their first glimpse of Bhutanese hospitality came at a boutique hotel named Druk Dreamstay. Wooden walls carved with dragons, windows framed in orange and red, and complimentary suja (butter tea) greeted them. Jaya winced at the first sip—“Tastes like salty ghee latte”—but didn’t complain. That evening, they explored Phuentsholing’s small streets, clean and dotted with prayer wheels. Subhash insisted they all spin the wheels clockwise while chanting “Om mani padme hum.” Riya did it twice, just in case it improved engagement. Dinner was at a traditional Bhutanese restaurant, where Abir bit into a deceptively calm-looking dish called ema datshi—chillies in cheese—and immediately began to cry. “Is this lava in sauce form?” he gasped. Chiku was thrilled. “Baba turned into a volcano!” Subhash tried to help by offering curd, which somehow made things worse. Jaya, however, devoured the dish with pride. “This reminds me of your Didima’s green chilli pickle.”
Their Bhutanese adventure had begun not with majestic monasteries or silent valleys, but with misplaced paperwork, misfired spices, and moments that would live in family WhatsApp groups for years. Yet that night, as they lay under thick quilts listening to the soft drizzle outside, a quiet peace settled among them. It wasn’t just about crossing a border—it was about learning to lean into the unknown together. Bhutan already felt different. Not just outside, but within. Tomorrow, they would journey toward Thimphu, the capital in the clouds. But tonight, Phuentsholing cradled their chaos with calm, and for the first time, even Chiku slept without a bedtime story.
Chapter 6: Thimphu, Thunderclaps, and a Wedding They Didn’t Plan
The road to Thimphu from Phuentsholing wound like a ribbon across misty ridges and roaring rivers, where every turn brought a gasp or a prayer. Chiku counted waterfalls while Riya curated a playlist of “aesthetic mountain vibes” that featured everything from Pahari flute music to Ed Sheeran. Abir, seated in the front with a local driver named Tashi, tried hard to understand his accent and failed amusingly. “He just said something about a dragon kingdom or dragon chicken?” “Druk Yul, Abir,” Subhash corrected him. “Land of the Thunder Dragon. You’re literally in it now.” The capital of Bhutan revealed itself like a secret—no skyscrapers, no chaos, just wide roads, clean squares, and traffic policemen in white gloves making elegant hand-gestures like dancers. “Where are the honks?” Riya whispered, half awed, half suspicious. Jaya smiled. “They left them behind in Kolkata.”
Their hotel in Thimphu, White Lotus Inn, overlooked the Wang Chhu River and had heated floors, traditional Bhutanese décor, and a receptionist who spoke impeccable Bengali—turns out she was from Siliguri. After freshening up and a lunch of red rice and butter-fried spinach, the Mukherjees set off to explore the Tashichho Dzong, the regal fortress-monastery where Bhutan’s administrative offices and monastic body coexist. Subhash was giddy. “This is what happens when spirituality and governance live together peacefully,” he declared, taking a dozen photos of a single doorway. Chiku asked, “Is the king inside?” Riya replied, “He’s probably meditating while solving budget problems.” Abir, meanwhile, was still obsessing over the ema datshi he accidentally loved last night. “Do they sell this stuff in jars? I want to import it.” The guide at the Dzong heard this and said solemnly, “Our happiness is not for export.” Subhash nearly cried.
The next day brought an unexpected twist. While visiting the National Memorial Chorten, a striking white stupa bustling with locals spinning prayer wheels, they encountered a procession of people in gho and kira—Bhutan’s national attire—carrying flowers, incense, and food. “Is it a festival?” Riya asked, camera already rolling. “Wedding,” said Tashi. And somehow, within an hour, the Mukherjees were seated inside a local wedding tent, sipping ara (a local rice wine) and nibbling sweet buckwheat pancakes. Turns out the groom’s uncle had once studied in Jadavpur, and the moment he heard they were Bengalis, he insisted they join. Jaya struck up a conversation with the bride’s aunt, and Subhash began offering unsolicited advice on retirement planning to half the elders present. Riya managed an impromptu reel with the bride, and Chiku danced with the children, who taught him how to say “Kuzu zangpo la” correctly. Abir sat wide-eyed and whispered, “Is this real life or a weird travel documentary?”
That evening, under Thimphu’s crisp, starlit sky, the Mukherjees sat on their hotel balcony sipping hot suja with chunks of jaggery (which Jaya had brought from home). The city twinkled below like a quiet constellation. “This trip is nothing like what I expected,” Abir admitted. Riya, uploading the wedding video, nodded. “Same. I actually… like not planning everything.” Subhash leaned back, satisfied. “Spontaneity,” he said dramatically, “is the final frontier of family travel.” Jaya chuckled. “Well, let’s not get too spontaneous. We still need to leave on time for Punakha tomorrow.” Chiku yawned. “Will there be another wedding?” No one knew. But Bhutan had a way of offering the unexpected—not in loud eruptions, but in quiet, steady wonder. And the Mukherjees were slowly learning how to receive it.
Chapter 7: Punakha Perils and the Accidental Archers
The drive from Thimphu to Punakha began with cautious optimism and motion sickness pills. The famed Dochula Pass, standing at over 10,000 feet, was both majestic and merciless. As the car climbed, 108 white chortens emerged through the clouds like ghostly sentinels of the Himalayas. “It’s like being inside a postcard,” Riya whispered, camera in hand, face half-hidden by a muffler. Chiku, however, was less poetic. “I can taste my breakfast in reverse.” Jaya gently rubbed his back while Subhash tried to educate everyone about the Druk Wangyal Chortens and the Queen Mother who commissioned them. Abir, munching ginger to keep nausea away, muttered, “If I survive this curve, I’ll become a monk.” But once they crossed the pass and the road dipped into the warmer valleys of Punakha, everything softened—the light, the winds, and the family’s collective tension.
Their destination, RiverWhisper Homestay, was nestled beside a rushing river with wooden balconies that looked out onto rice terraces and fluttering prayer flags. The hosts, Karma and Sonam, were a couple in their sixties who treated guests like relatives and offered steaming bowls of hoentay (dumplings stuffed with spinach and cheese) before they could even unpack. The Mukherjees were charmed instantly. “It feels like staying at someone’s favorite aunt’s house,” Jaya said, sipping hot lemon water. The first stop in Punakha was the Punakha Dzong, arguably the most breathtaking structure in Bhutan, sitting between two rivers—Pho Chhu and Mo Chhu—like a royal lotus on water. As they crossed the wooden cantilever bridge, Riya exclaimed, “If Wes Anderson directed a monastery, this would be it.” Subhash was deeply moved by the Dzong’s interior paintings, while Abir discovered a quiet inner courtyard where monks chanted near flickering butter lamps. Chiku ran in circles around a Bodhi tree until Karma gently guided him to light a butter lamp “for wisdom, not speed.”
But the real chaos began the next morning when Karma invited them to attend a local archery match in a nearby field. “We are short one player,” he explained. “And your son looks strong.” He was pointing at Abir. Within minutes, Abir was draped in a borrowed gho and handed a traditional bamboo bow. “I can barely throw a paper ball,” he protested. “Even better,” Karma smiled. Subhash, thrilled at the cultural immersion, joined the opposing team purely for balance. Chiku became the self-declared referee. Riya documented everything, including the moment Abir’s arrow accidentally hit a prayer flag pole. “You’ve dishonored two nations,” she joked. But soon, Abir found a rhythm, even managing to graze the target once—prompting cheers from the locals and a proud hug from Chiku. Meanwhile, Subhash, fiercely competitive, slipped and fell in slow motion after attempting a celebratory dance. “I think Bhutan just sprained my ankle,” he said, lying dramatically in the grass.
That evening, the homestay was alive with laughter, wine, and Bhutanese folk music. Sonam brought out fried river fish and a rhododendron salad while Karma demonstrated how to make rice beer. Jaya learned to fold the dumplings correctly, and Riya even joined a dance with the local girls. Abir sat with Karma, drinking slowly and talking about how peace felt strangely loud here. Chiku, exhausted but happy, fell asleep in Jaya’s lap, clutching a toy bow Karma had made for him from bamboo. Subhash limped in, proudly declaring he’d “battled Bhutan’s finest.” It was a day none of them expected to have. No guidebook had mentioned laughter echoing through valley winds or strangers becoming family over missed arrows and mistimed footwork. As night fell and fireflies blinked across the river, the Mukherjees realized something simple yet powerful: sometimes, the deepest memories are built not through monuments, but misadventures.
Chapter 8: Paro Peaks and the Pilgrimage Upward
The road to Paro, their final destination in Bhutan, was smooth but filled with bittersweet anticipation. After days of laughter, accidents, archery, and unforgettable momo variations, the Mukherjees were nearing the spiritual heart of the kingdom. Paro unfolded like a painting—nestled in a wide, fertile valley with mustard fields, ancient wooden houses, and crisp blue skies that seemed to listen. Their hotel, Snowveil Retreat, was minimalist yet elegant, with large windows overlooking pine-covered hills and the snaking Paro Chhu river. Subhash stood quietly at the balcony that first afternoon, gazing at the distant cliffs where Taktsang Monastery—the famous Tiger’s Nest—perched like a sacred secret. “We climb that tomorrow,” he announced. “Together.” Abir nearly dropped his tea. “That’s not a monastery. That’s a mountain dare.” Riya replied, “Instagram will love it.” Chiku, of course, was thrilled. “Is it called Tiger’s Nest because there are tigers inside?”
The morning of the trek began before dawn, with flasks of butter tea, energy bars, and nervous excitement. The trail to the Tiger’s Nest was steep from the very first step—stone paths snaking through dense pine forests and fluttering prayer flags. Horses were available for hire, but Subhash insisted they walk “to earn the blessings.” Fifteen minutes in, Jaya started questioning his philosophy. “If enlightenment requires cardio, I’m happy being spiritually mediocre.” Riya paced ahead like a seasoned hiker, her GoPro strapped to her chest. Abir stayed back, wheezing and muttering curses in English and Bengali. Chiku ran in bursts, demanding snack breaks every ten minutes. At the halfway cafeteria, with the monastery visible across a deep gorge, they collapsed into wooden chairs. Subhash looked around the family—sweaty, red-faced, and tired—and smiled. “We’re halfway to divinity,” he said. “Or death,” Abir added, sipping mango juice.
The final stretch was the most punishing—steep stone steps zigzagging up to the cliff face. But then, around a final turn, the Tiger’s Nest appeared in full glory, as if floating above the world. The silence there was heavy with presence. Monks walked barefoot. Butter lamps flickered beside ancient murals. The Mukherjees entered the inner sanctum together, each carrying something unspoken. Subhash folded his hands, eyes closed, whispering a prayer that even he hadn’t known was in him. Jaya knelt beside a small flame, tears slipping quietly. Riya took no pictures, for once. Abir touched the cold stone walls and breathed deeply. And Chiku, wide-eyed, whispered, “It’s so quiet… like the mountain is breathing.” They left lighter than they’d arrived, the kind of tired that feels like release. Outside, mist hugged the cliffs as they began their descent—not just from height, but from something wordless and sacred.
That night, back in Paro town, the family sat at a traditional restaurant eating jasha maru (spicy chicken stew) and talking about everything except the trek. Not because they didn’t want to remember—but because they already carried it. Abir bought yak-wool socks for his college roommate. Riya picked up a handwoven scarf for a friend she never spoke to anymore. Subhash scribbled into his diary while Jaya packed carefully, folding everything as if tucking in memories. Chiku announced he wanted to become a monk “but only on Saturdays.” The valley outside glowed with a faint moonlight, calm and unmoving. Tomorrow, they’d begin the return journey. But tonight, Bhutan sat quietly in their bones—not as a place they visited, but as a place that had changed them.
Chapter 9: The Return Bend and the Forest of Lanterns
The Mukherjees set out from Paro with full hearts and heavier suitcases, the quiet of Bhutan having wrapped itself around them like a silken shawl. The road back was supposed to be uneventful—a straight drive toward Phuentsholing, one last night at the border town, and then into India by afternoon. But as every traveler knows—and as every Mukherjee had now learned—real journeys don’t always follow the map. Near Chukha, their car hit a long jam due to a landslide up ahead. “Estimated delay: six hours,” said Tashi, who had become more family than driver by now. “But I know a detour—small road, forest way.” Jaya looked skeptical. “Are we being kidnapped?” Subhash, however, was gleeful. “Adventure is calling!” And so, down a narrow path flanked by towering deodars and gurgling brooks, they veered off, into a part of Bhutan not in any itinerary.
What they found was nothing short of magical. In a clearing nestled inside the forest near a village called Tsimalakha, a local festival was underway—unannounced, unlisted, and wholly local. Bright cloth banners hung from trees, women in vibrant kiras stirred pots of rice and pork stew over open fires, and children ran barefoot with painted faces. The scent of pine, firewood, and turmeric clung to the air. “It’s called the Festival of the Lantern Wind,” said an elder, motioning to paper lanterns being hung on tree branches. “We light them for those who traveled far, and those who must travel still.” That was all it took. The Mukherjees were adopted instantly into the celebration. Riya was handed a lantern to decorate, Abir was roped into a game of dart throwing (and lost every round), Chiku made a best friend named Deki who introduced him to roasted corn on a stick, and Jaya helped braid flowers into the hair of giggling girls. Subhash joined the elders under a tree, where he was told tales of migrating birds and dreaming tigers.
As dusk deepened, the lanterns began to glow, each one lit by hand, each one a breath of fire floating against the indigo sky. “You must write something on yours,” the elder said. “A wish. Or a truth.” Each Mukherjee stood before their lantern, marker in hand. Riya wrote, “Let go. Lean in.” Abir, after some deliberation, penned, “Find funny even when it burns.” Chiku drew a smiling mountain with a tiger that looked suspiciously like his toy, Yakonanda. Jaya simply wrote, “Still becoming.” And Subhash, with trembling fingers, wrote: “Learn how to stop planning, and just be.” The lanterns were released into the wind, rising through the trees like a slow-motion galaxy. For a few minutes, the forest glowed with memory, gratitude, and wishes—some shared, some silent. No camera could do it justice. No words could quite explain what it felt like. And yet, it became the moment the Mukherjees would always return to in their minds.
That night, they camped in makeshift tents beside the villagers, eating rice off banana leaves and sharing jokes by flashlight. No cell signal. No itinerary. Just fireflies, laughter, and the faint hum of a Bhutanese flute somewhere in the woods. As they lay in sleeping bags, Subhash whispered, “This… this is the chapter I didn’t know we needed.” Jaya reached over and held his hand. “Neither did I.” Riya, half-asleep, murmured, “Can we come back next year?” Abir chuckled, “Only if you promise not to make me shoot arrows again.” Chiku was already asleep, his arms around Yakonanda, his mouth whispering dreams of glowing tigers and forests that whispered stories in the dark.
Chapter 10: Back to Normal, Whatever That Means
The border crossing back into India felt both familiar and strangely foreign. After the gentle order and reverent silences of Bhutan, the honks, the chai stalls yelling for customers, and a scooter nearly grazing their bumper in Jaigaon felt like stepping into a noisy memory. “Ah, civilization,” Abir muttered, rolling his eyes as a paan-stained sign greeted them with: Welcome Back to Bharat Mata Ki Jai. Riya, meanwhile, was already Instagramming their return with a reel set to a Bollywood remix of “Homecoming.” Jaya exhaled with quiet relief as the border gate closed behind them, while Chiku asked with genuine confusion, “Where did all the prayer flags go?” Subhash looked back once at the Bhutanese side, folded his hands in a small namaskar, and turned forward. “Alright, Mukherjees. Let’s go home and face the laundry.”
The train from Hasimara to Kolkata was slower than usual, as if the universe itself wanted to give them time to digest. In their first-class coupe, surrounded by the rhythmic lull of wheels on tracks, the family finally opened up about the things they hadn’t said during the trip. Abir admitted that he hadn’t laughed like that in years—not since his last semester in college. Riya confessed that for the first time, she hadn’t felt the urge to edit every moment for content. “I just wanted to… be there,” she said. Jaya teared up when Chiku showed her a drawing he made of the Tiger’s Nest, where the figures were stick-thin but all holding hands. Subhash, surprisingly, didn’t launch into a speech—he just listened. At one point, he quietly pulled out his diary and wrote a single line: “Some stories are better felt than told.” They spent the evening playing antakshari, eating leftover khapse, and dozing off in each other’s warmth.
Back in Kolkata, life tried to resume its routine—but something had shifted. The Mukherjees, each in their own way, carried Bhutan inside them like a new frequency. Riya posted fewer filters and more poetry. Abir signed up for weekend volunteering with a travel archive group. Subhash began replacing his post-retirement “five-year plan” with watercolor sketches of mountains. Jaya planted a Bodhi sapling on their balcony and found herself speaking less, but meaning more. And Chiku insisted on greeting guests with “Kuzu Zangpo La” and giving impromptu blessings with incense sticks. One evening, the family sat for dinner—plain khichuri with begun bhaja—and nobody picked up their phones. Jaya looked around and said, “Why does everything feel quieter?” “Because we’re listening now,” Subhash replied. Riya added, “And maybe because we stopped rushing to the next thing.”
On a lazy Sunday afternoon weeks later, the doorbell rang. It was a parcel—from Bhutan. Inside was a handwoven pouch with a note from Karma and Sonam: You left behind a pair of socks and took a piece of our sky. Come return it someday. Attached was a photo of the family beneath a prayer flag tree, all laughing mid-sneeze because of Chiku’s unexpected pepper prank. They framed the photo and hung it by the staircase. Every time they passed it, they paused—sometimes to smile, sometimes to sigh. For the Mukherjees, the misadventures weren’t over. There would be more trains to miss, more tiffins to pack, more homework to yell about. But somewhere between their grocery lists and EMI payments, they now carried a small, glowing truth: the real destination was never Punakha or Paro—it was learning to arrive at each other, again and again.
Epilogue: The Map on the Wall
Three months later, on a sleepy Saturday afternoon, a new frame appeared on the Mukherjee living room wall. It wasn’t a family portrait or a religious symbol. It was a hand-drawn map, lovingly sketched and watercolored by Subhash himself, tracing the winding roads of their Bhutan trip. Small doodles marked each stop: a bowl of ema datshi in Thimphu, a stick figure with a bow in Punakha, a soaring lantern over Chukha, a tiny, majestic monastery floating atop a cliff in Paro. At the bottom, in elegant lettering, it simply said: “Where we learned to be a family, not just a group of people traveling together.”
Every time someone visited, the map became a storybook. Riya would point to Paro and say, “I left my fear of silence there.” Abir, ever the cynic-turned-softie, would add, “And I found my spine halfway up that godforsaken cliff.” Jaya would offer everyone tea and mention the butter lamp she lit without ever revealing what she had prayed for. Chiku, now obsessed with lanterns and tigers, demanded that his parents promise to take him back “before I turn ten.” And Subhash, always the one who had tried to control the itinerary, had finally learned the joy of unexpected turns. He would just smile and say, “The best chapters in life are the ones we forget to plan.”
The world resumed around them. Deadlines returned. The car’s horn honked more. Exams loomed. But something in their rhythm had changed—slightly, imperceptibly, but beautifully. They now argued less about where to go and more about how to go together. They didn’t chase perfection, just presence. And every now and then, when the city’s noise grew too loud, one of them would pause at the map on the wall and whisper, “Let’s get lost again soon.”
Because once you’ve shared misadventures under foreign skies, home is never just four walls.
It’s a story you choose to write—together.
