The Sikkim Diaries – Part 5 (March 2025)
Last Chance Saloon
The end of my time in Sikkim was fast approaching and, even after Tenzing’s wise advice, I couldn’t stomach leaving this kingdom without at least a glimpse of the magnitude of Kanchenjunga. I might not be able to control nature, but I could certainly maximise my chances.
So I did what any reasonable person would do: I squeezed into a seven-seater jeep with nine strangers – and a dog – and travelled five hours to Pelling, a small town in western Sikkim known for offering some of the clearest views of Kanchenjunga.
Shared jeeps are the main form of transport between regions in Sikkim, and capacity is very much a footnote. Between loud music blaring from the radio, a barking dog, the discomfort of being pressed against the door – and the communication challenges associated with a white boy trying to ask for the window to be closed without speaking a word of Nepali – I figured small talk wasn’t part of the experience. Instead, communication came through shuffles, sharing sweets, and smiles.
Still more pleasant than the Tube.
Public transport is limited for several reasons, mainly because larger vehicles struggle with Sikkim’s narrow mountain roads, while a low population density makes regular buses economically unviable. Congestion is therefore a huge issue locally, which I experienced firsthand as the first hour of the journey was essentially a standstill, slowly crawling out of Gangtok’s crowded suburbs. Though, there was still no unnecessary honking.
Eventually, we left the city behind and wound our way deeper into the foothills of the Himalayas. In this region, it is believed that there is a secret village known only to elderly Lepchas, its location strictly passed down through bloodlines. Every Lepcha is said to visit this place before death to conduct rituals sacred to Kanchenjunga and safely pass over to the other side.
Venturing into the more remote parts of Sikkim, I began to understand the spiritual nature of this ancient kingdom. The landscape shifted constantly: mountainous ridges gave way to dense forests, mist smothered the winding roads, and sudden bursts of rain formed streams that drained into the Teesta River.
At times, the weather was unforgiving, with wind and rain sweeping through the open windows which had been additional leaning space for our excess passengers. In some moments, the surroundings were calm and silent, disrupted only by the strained engine and the flapping of our drivers half-and-half Chelsea-Real Madrid scarf.
Despite the journey building suspense and anticipation, the arrival in Pelling was strangely underwhelming. Darkness had already fallen and the town had opted for an early night. Its empty streets were only decorated with flickering streetlights and loitering dogs.
I checked into a local guesthouse which boasted a mountain view, and feasted on some homemade noodles in bed. Sunrise, I’d been told, was the best chance to see Kanchenjunga, so I slept with the curtains open in hope that the view might override my laziness the next morning.
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It didn’t.
I woke up to natural light flooding the room, but my so-called “mountain view” was bordering on false advertising. The clouds had lifted, yet Kanchenjunga was nowhere to be seen. There were some mountains in the distance – but certainly not the third-highest peak in the world.
My surprise adventure had failed. It was going to be a very long journey back to Gangtok. I tossed and turned for a while but couldn’t get back to sleep. Eventually, I decided I might as well make use of the extra time and explore some of the surrounding trails. I pulled on my hiking boots, packed a bag, and headed for the door.
Until I didn’t. I froze. There it was. Kanchenjunga.
For a brief moment, the clouds had lifted to reveal the actual mountains. The peaks I had been staring at earlier now looked insignificant – merely hills at best. Kanchenjunga towered above the ridgeline with an almost impossible presence.
I felt a mix of emotions: relief that the journey to Pelling had been worth it, frustration that I had nearly missed the view entirely, but, above all, complete awe.
Just a few days earlier, this mountain had meant absolutely nothing to me. I hadn’t even heard its name, despite it being the third highest in the world and so culturally significant in this part of the world. But through the people I had met, the conversations I had shared, and the stories I had been told, the mountain had become something entirely different. I felt like I knew it.
Time slowed as I sat on the nearby roadside and gazed towards the mountain, yet the moment itself passed in an instant. Soon, the clouds descended once again, sending Kanchenjunga back into hiding.
It may not have been much, but it proved to be the most powerful moment of my journey so far. Every twist, turn, squeeze and jolt of the journey had been worth it. All without any planning at all.
Included Intruder
I climbed the winding mountain roads along an unmarked trail, ignoring the depths of the forests as my mind remained fixed on the image of Kanchenjunga etched into it. After a while, the increasingly steep incline and thinning air began to take their toll, and I settled onto a decrepit park bench overlooking the misty valley below.
The roads were empty and almost entirely undecorated, with the exception of one particularly modern sign that stood out against the deep forest backdrop. It pointed uphill towards “The Elgin”, a name that brought an unexpected sense of familiarity and comfort.
The idea of even more uphill walking was unappealing, but curiosity got the better of me, and I continued to follow the winding hairpin bends that would have felt dangerous had it been any later in the day.
As I approached the brow of the hill, a subtle ringing sound caught my attention. The sound of bells pierced through the otherwise silent surroundings at steady intervals, and I found myself following it in an almost trance-like state.
Each ring echoed through the valley below, and as the bells grew louder, I began to notice the layers beneath them: sudden bursts of trumpets, synchronised chanting, and heavy drumming.
I waded through the trees, desperate to find the source of the mysterious sounds, and eventually emerged beside a gated entrance at the roadside. The noise guided me through an arched gateway and up yet another steep climb, which I barely noticed as I remained fixated on the music.
Eventually, the Pemayangste Monastery emerged, isolated from the roads and towering above the valley below.
I removed my shoes and stepped through the gold-framed entrance, though by this point the architecture barely registered. The beauty of the artwork and decoration became a footnote to the sensory overload unfolding around me. I followed the sound blindly up the stairs, the music now almost deafening.
I approached a narrow doorway framed by mosaics and cracked paint. I nervously edged around the corner. Inside, a row of monks sat chanting in perfect rhythm, performing rituals as part of their morning worship. Smoke from burning incense blurred the room and I stood frozen in the doorway.
I felt intrusive, imposing completely out of place. Yet I couldn’t look away. In a slight panic, I removed my hat in an awkward attempt to show respect, which earned a gentle nod from the composed guru leading the ceremony. Relief washed over me at that moment.
I quietly remained at the corner of the room while the ceremony continued, my presence irrelevant. I have no idea how long I was in that room. Time had dissolved as I watched the rituals repeat over and over, trapped in silent admiration.
I caught the eye of one of the monks again, who offered me a subtle smile. I nodded back before quietly slipping out through the doorway. My heart was racing yet I felt completely calm. It was a strange conflict of emotions: I felt like an intruder and an outsider, yet I desperately didn’t want it to end.
I wandered the grounds of the monastery alone while the echoes of the music dissipated into the mountain air. Eventually, silence reclaimed the hillside.
I’m not a spiritual person, nor do I intend to become one, but there was something about the experience that stirred emotions I still don’t fully understand. The feeling of being drawn somewhere while every instinct tells you to hesitate. Feeling entirely out of place, yet strangely included at the same time. Relief and tension existing together.
Every ounce of stress had quietly left my body, without intention or understanding. I weightlessly glided back towards the town, replaying the moment over and over in my mind.
Colonial Hangover
The Elgin Mount Pandim represented something entirely different from the atmosphere of its surroundings. A colonial-style bungalow once owned by the Sikkimese royal family, its beautifully maintained gardens and carefully arranged interiors projected a sense of order and formality that felt completely at odds with the organic charm of the kingdom around it.
A well-dressed Nepali man emerged from behind the front desk, welcoming me warmly and inviting me to sit. He introduced himself as Bapan and politely asked if someone could collect my luggage. At 8am on a weekday in March, he could be forgiven for assuming my surprise appearance signalled a check-in, but even after I revealed my curiosity rather than my wallet, he still insisted on giving me a tour of the hotel.
Bapan guided me through empty lounges and immaculate gardens with an unrivalled enthusiasm and charm. Given the absence of guests, I initially wondered whether his kindness was simply an antidote to boredom, but as our conversation continued and I learned more about the hotel, I realised it all fit into its eerie perfectionist image.
Gardeners were hard at work on flower arrangements that already looked flawless. Staff occupied each lounge with warm smiles, and kitchen staff tended to an empty restaurant area. The hotel felt more like a museum. It was a tribute to ‘old world charm’, a phrase that accompanied Bapan’s stories about Britain’s history in the region.
This romanticised view of the British Empire – which I’d generally describe as a kind of “colonial hangover” – is something I find deeply uncomfortable. During my time in Sri Lanka, conversations with upper-class locals would often descend into nostalgia for the colonial period, framed around the idea that things had somehow been better when the British occupied most of South Asia.
Hotels like The Elgin preserve that nostalgia, clinging onto colonial aesthetics as symbols of sophistication despite the fact that the systems underpinning them were built on exploitation and hierarchy.
Burmese Days by George Orwell captures these contradictions beautifully, describing how British rule in modern-day Myanmar suppressed local culture and projected superiority through the image of the “Pukka Sahib” – a phrase derived from Hindu words meaning something close to “proper gentleman” or “true master”. This professionalism and authority became inseparable from British identity itself.
(And yes, in case you’re wondering, “Pukka Pies” comes from the same word meaning “top class”. The more you know!)
The “Pukka Sahib” image still lingers across parts of South Asia today, particularly in formal institutions that maintain colonial aesthetics as part of a performative classiness. I’d encountered it before in Nuwara Eliya – or “Little England” – a former holiday town for colonial masters, where I once attended an annual horse racing event that seemed strangely committed to recreating the atmosphere of the British Raj.
Hotels like The Elgin exist throughout the region, preserving an “old world charm” that often sidelines local identity in favour of imported elegance and class. Bapan himself may not have personally romanticised any of this, but his role required him to perform it: wearing a suit in a colonial-era bungalow while telling carefully curated stories about British history in the Himalayas. He can be forgiven for leaning slightly into nostalgia.
Bapan invited me to sit in the garden overlooking the mountains before briefly disappearing inside. He returned almost immediately carrying scones, tea and a book. He placed the tray down carefully and kindly gifted me a book: Kanchenjunga Whispers, written by Rea Oberoi, daughter of legendary Indian hotelier Brij Raj ‘Diamond’ Oberoi. The book explores stories of Himalayan culture, history and self-discovery.
And so, just moments after one of the most moving experiences of my life, I found myself sitting in a colonial-era garden drinking tea and eating scones in the shadow of Kanchenjunga. The irony wasn’t lost on me.
From here, I probably could have heard the monastery bells echoing through the hills. I had stumbled into a world that embodied colonial nostalgia – an attitude that historically sought to suppress and erode the authenticity I had spent the morning admiring.
Nationless Nationalism
As I shuffled around in the back of the jeep to make room for even more passengers, a softly spoken Sikkimese man revealed near-perfect English as he asked what had brought me to Gangtok. We began chatting briefly before being interrupted by a loud drunk man who enthusiastically promised to buy me a beer when we stopped for lunch. After unsuccessfully attempting to talk to everyone in the jeep, he eventually took the hint and fell silent – as did everyone else.
When we stopped for lunch, the same man invited me to join him and his family for lunch. I sat with Luxma and their children at a humble roadside restaurant, digging into curry as our drunken companion tried to open locked fridges in search of beer.
Our conversation took several fascinating turns: from the local rumour that Michael Owen descended from a family in North East India (apparently completely fabricated), to their children asking me about my favourite subject at school (economics, obviously).
I told Luxma about my work in Sri Lanka and explained how my trip to Sikkim had been a complete accident, sharing many things I’d learned during my time in the region. Only then did he reveal that he actually worked as a legal advisor to the Chief Minister of Sikkim.
It felt like the missing piece in my puzzle. I’d learned about the history of the Kingdom, its complicated relationship with colonialism, its modern-day relationship with Buddhism, its environmental values, and its unique culture. Now I was having lunch with someone with direct insight into how all of those things continued to shape modern Sikkimese politics and identity.
For the remainder of the journey back to Gangtok, we discussed everything from regional politics to cultural preservation, and how local identity continued to shape the relationship between Sikkim and India’s federal government.
Much of what Luxma described validated the feelings I’d carried from the moment I arrived. Within Luxma’s lifetime, Sikkim had been an independent Himalayan kingdom with its own monarchy. It had its own indigenous communities, languages, traditions, cuisine, and spiritual traditions. Even now, decades after joining India, those differences still shaped everyday life.
Those quirky details – passport stamps, strange road signs, robust environmental policies – suddenly felt deeply rooted in identity. This is what fascinated me most. Sikkim’s distinct identity raises more questions than answers.
It demonstrates how meaningless national boundaries can sometimes feel, and how overlaps between culture, religion and language cannot simply be erased by drawing lines on maps. Sikkim had completely reshaped my understanding of identity, and how it is often far more complicated than just the country in which you were born.
And yet, despite everything that had made Sikkim feel so unique – its monasteries, its sacred mountains, its royal history, its people – I had spent every moment of this journey in India.
I’d never left.
Afterword
My Sikkim diaries have been a kind of experiment in my writing style and tone. I wanted to try something different.
The inspiration for this miniseries came from the connections between the people I met and the things they taught me. My aim was to blend personal experience with cultural and historical context, and to use personal encounters as an entry point into a much more complex place.
I hope my time in Sikkim offered some kind of window into the region, and that these stories act as a gateway into understanding it, or even wanting to learn more about it yourself.
On a personal level, as I mentioned in the early parts of this project, Sikkim also marked a huge turning point for me. It was the first time I had properly rejected meticulous planning. That decision led to one of the most memorable weeks I’ve ever had.
Sikkim will always stand out for the way it allowed me to let go of expectations and embrace the uncertainty. This bizarre Kingdom genuinely changed my life and I hope these stories gave you some insight into how.
