The Origins of a Himalayan Kingdom That Hates Honking

The Sikkim Diaries – Part 3 (March 2025)

The Holy Mountain

Wispy white clouds and a heavy haze meant my time at Tashi View Point was short-lived. The goal of my morning walk had been to catch a glimpse of the iconic Kanchenjunga – the world’s third-highest mountain – but I stood there with nothing more than a shiver and a frown, staring out over the valley below. I glanced around the empty platform and felt like everyone else had already got the memo – there would be no view of the mountain today.

The only person more out of place than me was a young lad in a fashionable green sweatshirt, with a gleaming smile, standing beside a golden telescope held together with cling film and masking tape. I couldn’t help but gravitate towards his optimism – perhaps with the faint hope that the clouds might clear and the telescope might suddenly become useful.

His name was Tenzing, he told me enthusiastically, and introduced himself in perfect English, which he accredited to Peaky Blinders and other British Netflix series. Native to Sikkim, Tenzing was raised by his grandfather – but not his parents’ father – who gifted him the telescope as a way to make money and give structure to his days. I didn’t pry – it felt too soon – but from his description, I got the impression his parents weren’t around.

His days consisted of meeting visitors – typically from elsewhere in India – and offering them a close-up view of Kanchenjunga through the telescope in exchange for a small fee. He also offered to take my photograph, which I politely declined – assuming, wrongly, that there might be a catch.

Tenzing remained incredibly enthusiastic as he told me about his job, describing the joy of showing the mountain to new people every day. I expressed slight confusion, given that there was no chance of seeing Kanchenjunga today, but he insisted: “Every sighting of Kanchenjunga is a blessing”, he said, “even if just for a moment”. Then he began to explain what the mountain meant.

Kanchenjunga literally translates to “the five treasures of the high snow” – gold, salt, precious stones, sacred scriptures and its invincible armour – each representing one of the five peaks that form its summit. As the third highest mountain in the world, there is little surprise that many mountaineers have attempted to conquer it.

However, I was surprised to learn that not a single one of them was Sikkimese. Tenzing suggested that the mountain chooses who sets foot on it, rather than the other way around.

It turns out that the Chogyal of Sikkim – the former monarch of the Kingdom – made a promise to the mountain’s holy deities that it would never be climbed from their side. The Sikkimese royal family placed the mountain at the heart of the state’s spirituality and religion, institutionalising their Bhutian heritage in line with that of the Lepcha people, another indigenous community in Sikkim.

Among the Lepcha people, the mountain holds even deeper meaning. They believe they were created from the fresh snow of Kanchenjunga itself, calling themselves the “children of the snowy peak”. Their story of humankind begins here, at the heart of the Himalayas.

There is another local belief that a demon resides on the mountain, living high up on the slopes and protecting the summit. Local guides talk of how those who have come too close to the summit have perished, and that no mountaineer has ever reached the peak.

It is believed that those who try to conquer this sacred mountain will always be humbled by the power of God, and even those who have completed the expedition have stopped before reaching the summit out of respect for local customs.

As Tenzing continued to share these stories, I couldn’t help but admire the quiet humility with which he described the mountain. There seemed to be an unspoken understanding that to truly respect nature was to accept that it could not be conquered.

I was now even more drawn in by Kanchenjunga’s awe-inspiring presence, and I told Tenzing of my desperate need to catch even a glimpse. He raised an eyebrow at me, letting me reach my own realisation. My desire to see Kanchenjunga – on my own terms – was the antithesis of the Sikkimese perspective. I was wishing that nature could be brought under my control. It couldn’t.

I had already been humbled by Kanchenjunga.

A Kingdom Without a King

I’d given up hope of seeing Kanchenjunga today, said goodbye to Tenzing, and wandered off without any clear direction. The peace and serenity of Sikkim had begun to rub off on me, and my usual urgency to “maximise” my time had been replaced with a quiet desire to explore slowly and organically.

I wandered through the vibrant gates of the Gonjang Monastery, a beautiful temple overlooking Gangtok in the valley below. Young monks scurried between colourfully decorated doorways carrying stacks of books and papers, while others leaned over the balcony, waving at passers-by.

Unlike other parts of India where temples are often a silent escape from the chaos of the streets, the Gonjang Monastery felt like an extension of Sikkim’s calmness, disrupted only by the occasional ring of a bell echoing into the hills.

Tibetan Buddhism is very prevalent in Sikkim, and stunning monasteries are scattered throughout the foothills with prayer sheets dancing in the mountain breeze. The links between Tibet and Sikkim run deep. The Namgyal Dynasty, which ruled from 1642 to 1975, were of Tibetan origin and brought with it a branch of Buddhism that blended with local spiritual traditions, including the worship of Kanchenjunga.

Buddhist scholars have even likened the ridgeline of Kanchenjunga’s five peaks to the silhouette of a reclining Buddha – a powerful symbol representing his final moments before he reached nirvana.

I spun the prayer wheels on my way out, glanced back at the monks giggling amongst themselves, and climbed the steps back towards the road. I reflected on everything I’d learned about Sikkim so far: Buddhism, spirituality, environmental respect, and deep indigenous roots. I had seen elements of this elsewhere – but never all at once.

Sikkim felt like a complete outlier. I couldn’t quite believe that I was still in India. That’s because, until about fifty years earlier, I wouldn’t have been.

Sikkim was once an independent Himalayan kingdom, positioned between Nepal, Tibet and Bhutan. During the expansion of the British East India Company, the Sikkimese monarchy formed an alliance with the British over a shared rival – namely, the Gorkha Kingdom of Nepal.

Following the Anglo-Nepalese war, Sikkim regained territory, but gradually fell under British influence. This influence slowly evolved into control: by 1861, Sikkim was a de facto protectorate, and by 1890, the British Empire had assumed full administrative control of the kingdom.

During this period, large numbers of Nepalis migrated to Sikkim to work, farm, and build infrastructure along key trade routes between India and Tibet. This triggered a major demographic shift, reducing the indigenous Bhutia and Lepcha communities to less than 25% of the population. In response, the Chogyal implemented a weighted voting system that gave greater political power to indigenous groups. In practice, however, this was less about fairness and more about maintaining political control.

In the post-colonial period, as Sikkim became an Indian protectorate, pressure for democratic reform grew. The population demanded a more balanced voting system; protests escalated, tensions rose, and the Chogyal eventually requested support from Delhi – a decision that effectively transferred power to India.

A referendum took place a few days later, with nearly 98% of people voting to abolish the monarchy. A landslide – but not without conspiracy. Critics argued the vote lacked legitimacy and undermined democracy, masking the annexation of a sovereign territory. Colour-coded ballots compromised secrecy, placing pressure on voters within their communities, and many voters faced significant challenges, including illiteracy.

Either way, the result was decisive. It was the end of the Chogyal – and Sikkim’s time as an independent state.

It certainly wasn’t the end of its unique identity, though. As I walked along the winding roads back towards Gangtok, I began noticing more of the state’s quirks. The roads were unusually quiet, which was a product of strict laws against ‘unnecessary honking’.

The streets were also remarkably clean, reflecting Sikkim’s long-standing environmental policies, including bans on single-use plastic carrier bags as early as 1998, and, more recently, plastic bottles. (Since my visit, the state has also completely banned single-use plastic).

Sikkim felt like the opposite of everything I’d experienced in India so far. And yet, a complex geographical, political and cultural history meant I was still within the same borders. Maybe the stamp in my passport had been more symbolic than I first realised.

Ironically, as I reflected on this, a car horn suddenly broke the silence – almost certainly unnecessary. I was ready to issue an imaginary fine when I turned to see Tenzing hanging out of the window of a densely-packed hatchback. He waved me over.

I inhaled, wedged myself between an elderly lady and her shopping bags, and we began rolling down the hill toward Gangtok. The engine was switched off and gravity did the work.

All That Glitters is Not Gold

Tenzing invited me for a coffee at his favourite local café and, naturally, I obliged. Partly, this was driven by my urge to ask endless questions about Sikkim, but I couldn’t deny that some of my willingness came from having no alternative plans.

After an animated back-and-forth at the counter – long enough to build a queue behind us – Tenzing insisted on buying my coffee. I initially refused but eventually accepted, realising it was his hospitality I was accepting, not just a coffee.

I squeezed through the narrow swinging door and turned around to notice Tenzing a few paces behind me. He had paused at the entrance, speaking quietly with a dishevelled man in Nepali. He gestured towards the bench beside me, and I took it as an invitation to sit.

Moments later, he handed his coffee to the man, patted him on the back, and returned inside – reappearing shortly after with another drink in hand. He didn’t even mention it. He he simply sat down and we continued talking.

Tenzing began to open up about his childhood. He described a difficult home life shaped by addiction, and how his parents’ relationship with alcohol influenced his decision to remain teetotal. He left home at a young age and spent time in a Buddhist monastery before being supported by his ‘grandfather’ – the same man, I assumed, who had given him the telescope.

Tenzing was also candid about his struggles. He spoke of finding it hard to trust people, of feeling let down, and at times overwhelmed by the state of the world. Yet there was a quiet optimism in his words. A belief that things could improve.

His passion for nature and the environment cut through everything he said, placing his love of the world around him at the heart of everything he did. He spoke eloquently about karma and doing good without expectation, which he had already demonstrated through his hospitality and his actions.

I admired Tenzing’s openness and resilience – though, sadly, his story is not unique. Mental health challenges are a huge public health concern in Sikkim, particularly amongst young people. Alcoholism is widespread amongst adults – the state has some of the most affordable access to alcohol in India, and home-brewed drinks have long been part of local traditions and celebrations.

At the same time, Sikkim has one of the highest suicide rates in India. Limited opportunities, unemployment, and drug abuse are often cited as contributing factors, particularly in rural communities, where pharmaceutical drug abuse is a growing issue, partly linked to the expansion of pharmaceutical manufacturing in the region.

Some even suggest that rapid social and economic change following Sikkim’s merger with India in 1975 has led to a mismatch in expectations and reality, leaving young people vulnerable to unfulfilled aspirations and perceived failure.

I left Tenzing with more questions than answers. The day had begun with optimism – mountains, spirituality and a deep sense of cultural pride. Yet it ended with a more complicated picture. Kindness and hospitality was accompanied by isolation and hardship. Hope existed, but so did hopelessness.

The reality of Sikkim felt like a contradiction – and I had only just begun to understand it.