Bipasa Pal
One
Simran’s arrival in Darjeeling was nothing short of magical. The cool mountain air greeted her as she stepped out of the small airport, the mist weaving its way through the towering pine trees. It was early morning, and the first rays of sunlight were beginning to paint the sky in hues of pink and gold. She stood for a moment, taking in the vastness of the hills and the peaceful stillness that surrounded her. The hustle and bustle of Delhi felt a world away, and in that instant, she felt both liberated and a little lost.
Her mind was preoccupied with her project—an extensive blog post about Darjeeling’s world-renowned tea estates. She had seen the photographs, heard the stories, but the real experience was something she longed to capture in her writing. She was here for the beauty, the culture, and the history of the town, but something told her that Darjeeling had more to offer than just a few perfect photographs.
After a brief stop at her quaint guesthouse, tucked away in a narrow lane, Simran wasted no time. She grabbed her camera and notebook and set off to explore. The narrow roads meandered between old colonial buildings, and the sounds of tea vendors shouting out their prices filled the air. The smell of freshly brewed tea drifted from every corner. It was as though the entire town was infused with the essence of tea—rich, comforting, and vibrant.
Her first stop was the famous Himalayan Railway, also known as the Darjeeling Toy Train, which clattered through the streets like a piece of living history. She quickly took some shots, capturing the train as it curved its way through the misty landscape, with the magnificent Kanchenjunga towering in the background.
As she wandered through the town, she stumbled upon a local tea stall, nestled at the corner of a cobblestone street. The stall was a humble affair, with wooden benches and steam rising from a small kettle. The air was thick with the earthy aroma of tea leaves, and a group of old men sat around the stall, gossiping and laughing as they sipped their cups. She took a seat, allowing herself a brief moment to simply breathe in the atmosphere, the simplicity of life here a stark contrast to the hectic pace of her career in Delhi.
She noticed him then—a man sitting at a distance, his back to her, absorbed in his thoughts. He wore an old brown jacket, his hands resting on a cup of tea, staring out at the mist that enveloped the hills. There was something about the way he sat—so still, so grounded—that caught her attention. The peaceful aura around him was almost magnetic.
Rohit, she would later learn, was the manager of a local tea plantation. But for now, he remained a mystery, just another figure in the landscape that Simran would soon find herself drawn to. She sipped her tea, savoring the warmth, her mind already racing ahead to the stories she would tell about the people, the land, and the tea of Darjeeling. Little did she know, the story would take a turn she never expected, and Darjeeling would leave a mark on her heart that would be impossible to erase.
As the mist began to rise, Simran felt a strange sense of belonging here—far from her busy world, surrounded by the simplicity of life and the call of the hills.
Two
The following morning, Simran woke up early to capture the serene beauty of Darjeeling at sunrise. The air was crisp, and the view from her guesthouse balcony was nothing short of breathtaking. The majestic Kanchenjunga, bathed in the first rays of sunlight, stood as a silent sentinel over the town, its snow-covered peaks casting a tranquil shadow over the lush green valleys below. Simran felt a sense of awe that she couldn’t quite put into words. The city she’d left behind in Delhi—its concrete jungle, its noise, its relentless energy—felt like another lifetime.
She had come here to explore Darjeeling’s famous tea gardens, to immerse herself in the rich culture of the region and learn more about the world of tea. Simran had heard that the Darjeeling Tea was unlike any other, known for its delicate flavor and distinctive aroma. But what truly fascinated her was the labor and love that went into growing and harvesting this exceptional brew. She had read about the history of tea in the region, but now it was time to see it firsthand.
After breakfast, she made her way to one of the most renowned estates in the area—The Glenburn Tea Estate—where the tea bushes spread out like a green carpet, rolling over the hills in an intricate design. The estate was nestled in a secluded corner of Darjeeling, far from the tourist crowds. The drive up to the plantation was bumpy, the narrow road winding through towering trees and fields of vibrant flowers. As she neared the estate, Simran could smell the rich aroma of the tea leaves, freshly picked, filling the air.
Rohit was waiting for her at the entrance. He had told her that he would give her a personal tour of the estate today, and Simran couldn’t help but feel a flutter of anticipation. She had learned that Rohit was the plantation manager, someone with a deep understanding of the tea trade. Despite his quiet demeanor, there was an intensity in his eyes that Simran found intriguing.
He led her through the lush tea gardens, his steps steady and deliberate as they walked along narrow paths lined with vibrant green bushes. He explained the various types of tea grown here—first flush, second flush, and autumnal tea—each with its own unique characteristics and flavors. His voice was calm and measured, not hurried like Simran was accustomed to in her city life. He spoke with reverence for the land, his words slow and deliberate, like the rhythm of life in the hills.
Simran listened intently, fascinated by the history he shared. She had always admired the hard work of those who cultivated the land, but it wasn’t until now that she truly understood the bond between the people of Darjeeling and the earth beneath their feet. Rohit spoke of his family’s legacy in tea production, of generations who had worked the same plots of land, hand-picking leaves in the same tradition, season after season. There was a sense of pride in his voice as he spoke, but also a deep-rooted connection to the land that Simran couldn’t quite grasp.
They arrived at a small tea processing shed where the leaves were being carefully sorted and dried. The air inside was thick with the scent of freshly cut leaves, earthy and intoxicating. Simran could feel the weight of tradition in this space—this small, humble shed was where the magic of Darjeeling tea came to life. Rohit explained the delicate process of rolling, drying, and fermenting the leaves, all of which required precise timing and skill. Simran marveled at the quiet efficiency of the workers, each person focused on their task with the intensity of an artist.
As the afternoon sun began to dip low in the sky, Simran found herself walking back through the gardens with Rohit, who shared stories of the workers—their families, their struggles, their joys. The silence between them wasn’t uncomfortable; it was companionable, almost peaceful. For once, Simran didn’t feel the pressure to fill the silence with words. The hills seemed to speak for themselves.
As they reached the edge of the estate, where the view of Darjeeling below was framed by the distant peaks of the Himalayas, Simran felt a profound sense of calm. The land here was ancient, unhurried, and unyielding. It was a world that seemed to exist outside of time, where the only thing that mattered was the rhythm of the earth and the slow passage of the seasons.
“I’ve always found peace here,” Rohit said, breaking the silence as he gazed out at the view. “The land has a way of teaching you patience. It doesn’t rush. It just… is.”
Simran looked at him, a sudden realization dawning on her. She had spent her life rushing—chasing deadlines, accumulating achievements, and seeking validation. But here, in the presence of the hills and the tea plants, time seemed to stretch and slow down. There was no hurry, no pressure. And for the first time in a long time, Simran wasn’t sure she wanted to leave.
As the sun dipped behind the mountains, casting a golden glow across the tea gardens, Simran felt the weight of the world she had left behind slip away. Darjeeling, with its quiet hills and rich tea, had cast a spell on her. And Rohit, the quiet man who understood the rhythms of life here, had unknowingly shown her a way of life she never thought she would want.
The hills had called her, and Simran was listening.
Simran’s days in Darjeeling began to blur together in a haze of tea leaves, quiet walks through the mist, and introspective moments spent under the ever-watchful gaze of Kanchenjunga. The more time she spent in the hills, the more she felt a strange sense of peace—a contrast to the chaotic energy of her life back in Delhi. She spent her mornings visiting tea estates, documenting her experiences for her blog, while afternoons were reserved for exploring the small town and its hidden corners.
One of her favorite discoveries so far had been a tiny tea stall on Lebong Road, nestled between the old colonial buildings and the dense foliage of Darjeeling. The stall was humble, with a wooden counter and a handful of benches scattered around the front. The walls were decorated with faded photographs of old Darjeeling, and the air was thick with the comforting smell of brewing tea. A small wood stove kept the chill at bay, and the old men who gathered here in the afternoons seemed to have all the time in the world. It was a place where the slow pace of life felt especially tangible, where time didn’t rush past but lingered, inviting you to stay a little longer.
Simran had wandered into the stall on her third day in Darjeeling, seeking warmth and a break from her constant exploration. She had no idea that she would soon find herself drawn into one of the most unexpected conversations of her trip.
Maya, the owner of the stall, was a woman in her fifties, with a kind face and a sharp wit. She had a way of making everyone who entered her stall feel like family. Her soft, wrinkled hands worked quickly as she poured cups of tea for the regulars, her voice a soothing hum as she exchanged pleasantries with each customer. There was a quiet strength in Maya—a resilience built from years of tending this stall and keeping the traditions of Darjeeling alive, one cup at a time.
Simran had become a frequent visitor, initially for the tea but soon for the warmth that radiated from Maya and the old men who gathered there. The conversations were never rushed. Each word seemed to be chosen with care, as if spoken not out of necessity but out of a genuine desire to connect.
On this particular afternoon, as Simran sat sipping her cup, the door to the stall creaked open, and there, standing in the doorway, was Rohit. He looked as though he belonged to the land itself, his clothes worn from work, his hair tousled by the wind. He nodded at Maya, who smiled warmly at him, and then made his way over to Simran’s table.
“You’re here again,” he said quietly, as he sat down across from her. His tone wasn’t harsh, just matter-of-fact, as if he had expected her to return. “The tea here is good, isn’t it?”
Simran smiled, setting her cup down. “It’s the best I’ve had. I think it’s because of the people who make it. Maya’s got a knack for making it feel… personal.”
Rohit’s lips twitched, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Tea is a personal thing. It’s not just the leaves—it’s the hands that touch them, the hearts that brew them.”
Simran’s gaze lingered on his face, noticing the quiet intensity in his eyes. There was something about him—his calmness, his ease in this slow-paced world—that intrigued her. It was as though he existed in a different rhythm, one she had yet to truly understand.
Maya, overhearing their conversation, joined them at the table with a fresh pot of tea. “This is where the stories of Darjeeling are told,” she said, setting the pot down with a knowing smile. “Not in the grand halls or in glossy brochures, but in places like this. Simple, quiet moments, over a cup of tea.”
Simran nodded, taking in Maya’s words. She had been so focused on capturing the grandeur of Darjeeling—the hills, the tea estates, the history—but she was beginning to realize that it was the small, personal moments that held the true essence of the place. It wasn’t just the tea itself, but the people who grew it, harvested it, and shared it with others.
Over the next few hours, the conversation flowed easily. Rohit spoke more than he usually did, his words slow and thoughtful as he shared stories of his childhood in Darjeeling, of his family’s long history in the tea business, and of the land he had come to love so deeply. Maya, ever the storyteller, chimed in with tales of the old days—of the times when Darjeeling was still a hidden gem, before the world discovered its beauty.
Simran listened intently, captivated by the simplicity and depth of the lives these people led. She had always been driven by ambition—by the need to prove herself, to build a name for herself in the world of travel blogging. But here, in this quiet stall surrounded by the misty hills, she was starting to feel the weight of that ambition begin to shift. Perhaps success wasn’t always about climbing the ladder, about proving you were better, faster, more accomplished. Maybe, just maybe, success could be defined by the ability to slow down, to appreciate the world around you, and to connect with the people who made it all possible.
As the afternoon wore on and the sun dipped lower behind the hills, Simran realized that she had spent hours here, in this small stall, in the company of people she barely knew, but felt strangely connected to. Rohit’s quiet presence, Maya’s gentle wisdom, and the steady hum of conversation had become a balm to her restless spirit.
When she finally stood to leave, the evening sky was streaked with deep oranges and purples, the mist wrapping the hills in an ethereal embrace. Simran turned to Rohit, who had stood up to leave as well.
“I’ll see you tomorrow?” she asked, her voice carrying a softness she hadn’t expected.
Rohit nodded, his eyes meeting hers with a quiet understanding. “You’ll find your way,” he said, his voice calm but full of meaning. “But remember, sometimes it’s not about the path you take—it’s about the moments along the way.”
Simran didn’t fully understand what he meant, but somehow, she knew it was true. As she walked back to her guesthouse, the cool evening air brushing against her skin, Simran realized that Darjeeling was doing something to her. Something she hadn’t anticipated. The tea, the people, the land—all of it was beginning to change her in ways she wasn’t sure she was ready for. But one thing was clear: she wasn’t in a hurry to leave just yet.
The hills, with their quiet wisdom, had found a way into her heart.
Four
Simran awoke early the next morning, the golden light of dawn streaming through her window, illuminating the mist that curled around the hills. For the first time in days, she didn’t feel the urgent pull of her to-do lists, deadlines, or the pressure to produce content for her blog. Instead, there was a quiet calm, a stillness that hung in the air like the scent of fresh tea leaves.
She stood by the window, gazing out at the view. The world outside was waking up slowly—just like the tea gardens in the valley below. The hills, bathed in the soft morning light, seemed to move at their own rhythm, unaffected by time or ambition. In the distance, she could see the shapes of tea pickers—small figures against the vast landscape—bending over the bushes, plucking the tender leaves with a practiced hand.
Simran felt a pang of longing in her chest, a strange ache she couldn’t name. Back in Delhi, life moved at a pace that left her breathless. The constant need to perform, to keep up, to achieve—sometimes it felt like she was running on a treadmill, never quite reaching the place she truly wanted to be. But here, in Darjeeling, everything seemed to be in harmony with the land, slow and deliberate, with no rush to the finish line.
She took a deep breath, closing her eyes as the cool mountain air filtered in through the open window. There was something incredibly grounding about this place, something that made her feel more in tune with herself than she had in a long time. She felt like she had arrived at the quiet center of her own being—a place she didn’t know she was missing until now.
After breakfast, Simran decided to revisit the tea estates. She wanted to see more, learn more. This time, she was determined to go beyond the surface, to understand what made Darjeeling tea truly unique—not just in its taste, but in the labor, the history, and the deep connection between the land and the people who worked it.
She arrived at the Glenburn Tea Estate, where Rohit had agreed to meet her again. As usual, he was waiting for her by the entrance, leaning casually against a post. There was something about the way he stood—so effortlessly in tune with the landscape—that intrigued her. He seemed as much a part of the hills as the tea plants themselves.
“Ready for another walk?” he asked, a small smile playing on his lips.
Simran nodded, tucking her camera into her bag. Today, she was more interested in the experience than the photos. The mountains, the tea estates, the people—they were all a part of a greater whole, something that couldn’t be captured in a single frame.
As they walked along the narrow paths between the tea bushes, Simran noticed the silence that seemed to wrap around them. The only sounds were the soft rustling of the leaves in the wind, the distant hum of birds, and the faint chatter of workers in the distance. Here, in the heart of the tea estate, there was a palpable sense of peace—a kind of quiet that spoke louder than words.
Rohit spoke softly, explaining how the seasons dictated the rhythm of the estate. “We don’t rush the process here,” he said. “The tea leaves grow at their own pace. The workers don’t hurry. They pick the leaves with care, ensuring that only the tenderest leaves make it into the baskets. This is the essence of Darjeeling tea—patience, precision, and a deep respect for the land.”
Simran watched the workers carefully plucking the tea leaves, their hands moving with practiced ease. They worked without haste, their motions slow and deliberate, each one a small act of reverence toward the earth. It struck Simran then—the simplicity of it all. There was no rush here, no frantic urgency. Everything, from the tea to the way the workers moved, was done with care and attention, in harmony with the natural flow of life.
As they reached the highest point of the estate, the view spread out before them—endless rows of tea bushes rolling down the hills, with the towering peaks of Kanchenjunga standing tall in the background. Simran stood still for a moment, absorbing the beauty around her. She had seen these landscapes in photographs, of course, but seeing them in person was something entirely different. The mountains, the mist, the tea fields—they were all part of a living, breathing whole. They were not just a backdrop; they were the heart of Darjeeling.
Rohit seemed to sense her awe. “This is where I find peace,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “In the rhythm of nature. The earth gives us everything we need—it teaches us to slow down and pay attention.”
Simran turned to him, surprised by the depth of his words. She had always thought of herself as someone who appreciated beauty, but in a way that was detached, almost superficial. She captured it through her lens, wrote about it, and moved on. But here, in Darjeeling, she was beginning to see beauty in a different way. It wasn’t just something to observe; it was something to be a part of. To feel, to experience.
They sat on a nearby bench, overlooking the estate. The air was thick with the scent of tea, and the distant hum of workers continued, steady and unhurried.
“Do you ever think about leaving?” Simran asked, her voice tentative.
Rohit didn’t answer immediately. He gazed out at the hills, his expression unreadable. “I left once,” he said quietly. “I went to the city, to chase something I thought I needed. But I came back. This land—it’s not just where I work. It’s where I belong.”
Simran understood then. Rohit’s connection to the land wasn’t just professional—it was personal. It was part of him, like a deep, unspoken bond that couldn’t be severed. The same bond, she realized, was starting to grow within her, though she hadn’t expected it to. Darjeeling was starting to feel like home, and the slow, deliberate pace of life was beginning to seep into her own being.
For the first time in a long time, Simran wasn’t in a hurry. The rush of the outside world felt distant, almost irrelevant. Here, in the hills, there was only the present moment. The tea, the people, the land—it all existed in harmony, with no need for anything more.
As the sun began to set, casting a golden glow over the hills, Simran realized that she didn’t want to leave Darjeeling—not yet. She wasn’t ready to return to the world she had left behind. There was something about this place, something about the stillness of the hills and the rhythm of life here, that called to her. And for the first time, she was ready to listen.
