Farewell To Shillong

By Nirupama Dutt

SHILLONG has always been a very special place to me. Its waterfalls, the silent lake, long walks, busy bazaars and shabby cinema halls continued to haunt my thoughts long after I had left the place in the first flush of youth.
I would never tire of telling my friends of this hilly splendour. The notes of music coming from crowded fetes, the colourful overalls of the petite Khasi women, white lace curtains on the tiny windows of the villas and the blind beggar strumming his guitar in the dirty Bara Bazar. These were the images of Shillong and of course tales of schoolgirl crushes and those two good-looking boys forever chased by girls, made bold by the matriarchal status of the Meghalaya Hills. Well, the nostalgia had to linger, for it was a city of those lovely growing-up years. So much had been discovered then.
Then after more than a decade, I made it back. While on a holiday, at my brother’s tea-garden in upper Assam, I determinedly took a night-bus to Gauhati, and then to Shillong.
I checked into a hotel, for hardly any of the old schoolgirls were there except one who was still unmarried and working on a thesis. I wanted to surprise her, coming as a phantom of our silvery youth.
A nice breakfast and a change and I started off for my friend’s house, carrying the gifts I had brought her. I took the route of the old days, some four kilometres of sharp descent and climb. I forgot I was many hears older and many pounds heavier. Panting, I reached the house! A happy sight, indeed, but the happiness was short-lived. A stranger opened the door. My friend, I learnt, was now teaching in Arunachal.
So I returned to the hotel in a taxi, stopping briefly at my school. A concrete structure had replaced our lovely wood hall. The old hall had been burnt down. I found a nun of my days – Sister Christopher. I had been one of her favourites – but now she couldn’t place me!
Back in the hotel I planned out a busy evening, for I was feeling much like a lost lonely spinster. I would go to the ramshackle cinema hall and then have a plate of noodles at the restaurant, where we had celebrated our I.S.C. first divisions. But the short afternoon nap turned into sleep courtesy the long walk, so it was a plate of noodles in bed, because the hotel dining hall was under repair.
Next morning, a pretty young Khasi maid came to dust the room. Packing my bag, I forced some of my memories on her and she listened with patient disinterest. I rewarded her for her patience with the lipstick and purse, meant for my friends. She happily carried my bat to the taxi and as it started, she shouted: Khub Le! Khub Le is a curious Khasi phrase for a greeting and a farewell. This time, it was farewell to Shillong!
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