Sangti Valley, Arunachal Pradesh
My watch seems to be playing its favourite trick again. Moving slower than usual, as if the arms aren’t able to take the weight of time. Or maybe, it’s because the arms too find themselves distracted amidst the winds of where we stand. Meek and unassuming at first glance, Sangti embraces those who truly observe her and don't merely look at her. She envelops them in a warmth that isn’t overpowering but just right, like a cup of butter tea offered by locals to visitors after they’ve unabashedly thrown both their fingers as well as their worries into the chilly streams.
A tributary of the same name is how this valley came to be identified as Sangti. Eager to have an immersive day there, I had rushed from Dirang early in the morning without having breakfast: city girl naively expecting to grab a bite here, heh.
A smile slowly erupts on my face as my local taxi enters through the gate of “Welcome to Sangti” decked with tribal signs. But it soon falters on realising that there are no open eateries to be found. Life in India’s Northeastern corners commences quite early. Akin to this, there’s movement in the village where I’ve just arrived. Old men sit outside their two-story wooden homes busy in quiet conversations, a handful of women carry goods on their backs, and a river - that I can’t yet see but can hear - sings at a distance. That’s when my eyes fall upon my wristwatch. From what it does reflect, it ought to be half past 9 in the morning. That’s when I spotted him. A young boy, no more than 6 years old, leaping outside the Sangti Post Office.
He’s clutching an envelope in his tiny palms so tightly that I fear the letter's contents may crumple. Possibly, this way the traces of his palm lines would also make their way across the distance to the recipient. I see him from a slight distance approaching the post office while gulping down a corn cob. It’s the post-harvest season. It is no wonder the houses are decked in equal parts with corn and tenderly potted flowers blooming gloriously in this season. Half-eaten corn cob in one hand and a letter in the other, the boy calls out for someone. The adult in question briskly takes the letter from him, suggesting that this was a regular affair and steps back inside. The boy starts to skip away when my hunger, for food and conversation, interrupts him.
“Hi, my name is Niyati. What’s your name?”, I introduce myself.
“Lobsang…”, he responds shyly.
“Oh, that’s a lovely name. What does it mean?”, I ask.
“It means…great soul…”, he reluctantly replies, this time so shyly that he’s clutching the ends of his flailing flannel shirt dearly.
I realise that I must put him out of his misery soon, so I ask, “Can you tell me where I can find something to eat?”.
“My mama makes noodles sometimes near the river. But she is at the farm right now. You can ask her.”, he replies while making a beeline to start moving.
I keep up with him. As we move at his hurried pace, I briefly see the sheep farm in the distance. Travellers usually stop at the farm to gain insight into sheep rearing. The Brokpa shepherds of Arunachal Pradesh are known to be herding hundreds of fluffy sheep who flock to their pen once the doors are open. Often confused with the Brokpas of Ladakh, the Arunachali tribe bears the same name but is otherwise unrelated. This pastoralist community rears sheep and moves about in search of grazing land.
My train of thought breaks when a woman clears her throat. I look up to find her half-smiling, partly taking in the frame of the person who’d befriended her child on the pretext of craving a meal. “My name is Pema, Lobsang’s mother. He tells me you’re hungry?”, she says.
“I typically go by the name Niyati but sure hungry is a fitting name too!”, I joke sheepishly.
Luckily for me, Pema grins at my lame sense of humour, “If you can wait, I have some work to finish first. Then I can accompany you to my food stall down by the riverside.” I nod with a smile. With everything that I’d read up, I assume that the mother-son duo must be referring to a kiwi farm. The West Kameng region is known for kiwi orchards. Menus wouldn’t stop boasting of them with snacks to wine, all being prepared with this fruit!
However, what I find Pema working on are chillies. More specifically, drying of chillies. Upon my curiosity, she reveals that in Arunachal Pradesh, along with its neighbouring states, the famous bhut jolokia - one of the spiciest chillies in the world! - is grown. But it is more specifically grown in the Namsai district which is hundreds of kilometres from where we stand. Pema and her husband source their chillies all the way from there to bring down and sell in their local district. Having tasted the generous proportions of spice in the local cuisine, it came as no surprise that bhut jolokia is fairly in demand.
On the mention of her husband though, I prod her about his whereabouts. Pema eagerly shares that he is in Namsai for a few months learning about chilli cultivation from the local farmers there. Suddenly, I ponder upon the vision of Lobsang in front of the post office. I assume that the network there must be poor. She clarifies that the network is manageable, erratic yet manageable. The letters are a choice.
She seems to stare away into another time. Nostalgia is probably the emotion that we humans devour the most. All this while, the wooden homes to potted plants, the fraying prayer flags all along to the lack of honking noises, had tucked my wanderer’s heart into another time in present-day Sangti. Simultaneously, Pema and her husband cling to their romance from their school years into a marriage of 8 years by continuing with their letter writing.
“You know I still have the letters he wrote to me back when we were 16 years old. The ink has nearly faded but I can’t part with those pieces of paper”, she blushes. I reflect upon how as life gets busier the further we seem to move away from practices that once were so dear to us. Perhaps, in romanticising mountain life, it isn’t only the soul-stirring landscapes that we romanticise but also the slower pace of life that allows us to reconnect with our older selves.
The sound of chanting causes me to look up. She informs me that it is coming from the Sangti Mahayana Buddhist temple. Mahayana is one of the four schools of Buddhism. It follows the principle that one can attain enlightenment in a single lifetime. The state is home to approximately 26 tribes and in this valley that seems straight out of a picture postcard, the dominance is of the Monpa tribe.
Spread across Bhutan, Tibet and India, the Monpa tribe is typically involved in wood carving, weaving, Thangka painting and cultivation. A distinct factor of the tribe in Arunachal is its nomadic behaviour. Pema suggests we walk to the temple, pay our respects, and from there proceed to the bridge near the river. Walks with a new friend always open up room for conversation.
As we walk at a leisurely pace, I notice an old man wearing a felt cap with a single peacock feather. The complete traditional Monpa attire is seen more on occasions, shares Pema. Based on the design of the Tibetan Chuba, parts of it are still spotted regularly such as the woollen coats and the sleeveless blouses that women wear, running down to their calves. Interestingly, unlike other destinations frequented by tourists where one can try out the traditional attire, one doesn’t see the prevalence of this practice in Arunachal Pradesh.
My comment makes Pema smile. “Tribal people here have seen too much. Change of land and rivalries between different tribes. If you ask any tribe elder, they will always narrate folklore of their victories. There is too much pride here for them to accept putting their cultural heritage on display. The traces of modernization may enter our lands but we still continue to pass down our cultural wealth to the younger generations”, she speaks with fervour.
Her words imprint upon me a perception of the village and its people. Suddenly, the pretty landscapes aren’t merely decked with the blue-green waters. The waters now seem to carry depths. Stories. Traditions. Practices. Prayers. Symbols. They are all still very much alive in the air that you and I feebly label as pleasant. The temple stands small yet tall. White paint on lined bricks. Specks of yellow in the gentle cloth. Splashes of orange upon the prayer wheels. Intended to enhance wisdom and compassion, the prayer wheel stares back blankly at me until I move it as per Pema’s instructions. That’s when I feel it. The atmosphere is heavy, heavy with all that it carries with a humble regality.
I’m not one to feel sentimental at places of worship. Even then, somehow, something between Pema’s words, the Monpa people’s chants from earlier and the melodic bellowing of the Sangti tributary, leaves my ears ringing and quietens me. Before I know it, we are standing atop a suspension bridge. Taut iron wires stand mightily with planks of wood laid in between. If this frame is to be personified by a proud human, it is also softened by the prayer flags that adorn it from end to end. “Om mani padme hum” is one among the many things etched upon these pieces of cloth that are carriers of peace. Mantras, spiritual animals, prayers for good fortune and beyond. One needn’t comprehend it all to accept it all.
Below my feet, below the planks, below the bridge, a river gushes. A tributary of Dirang chu (river), it would be unjust to refer to it as green. It is green, surely, it is. But it is also so much more. There are pebbles in every shade that fall between the palette of white to grey lying beside and beneath it. There are rays of the day’s dying Sun being kneaded within it. There are sounds of waves and thoughts kissed upon those waves flowing with them.
As Pema unlocks a small food stall’s tin door and gestures at a bench for me to sit, I am reminded of the hunger that had originally brought me here. My appetite for everything else has been satiated and my physical appetite has long been forgotten. “So, I’ll make you some Maggi, yeah? And, I’ll eat some pika pila with the bamboo shoot vegetable that I brought from home. While we eat, why don’t you tell me a little about yourself? Where are you from, what do you do, what’s life like there”, asks Pema. I smile. I yearn for the arms of my watch to slow down further, for I am nowhere nearly done, neither with my conversations nor with my time in Sangti Valley.
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