Tonglu: Where the Mountains Whisper
A heartwarming travel tale set in the misty trails of Tonglu, where an impromptu decision leads to breathtaking views, soulful connections, and a magical encounter with the Himalayas.
They say good things happen suddenly — like toast falling butter-side up or finding a five hundred rupee note in an old coat pocket. This wasn’t quite that, but it was close. The decision to head for Tonglu was made somewhere between Cooch Behar and New Jalpaiguri, while the train rocked us like a half-hearted lullaby and Arnab passed me his phone with some photos. One look — and I was a goner. Tonglu it had to be. The pictures were stunning, sure — but what I saw with my own two eyes… well, they don’t make pixels that divine.
We’d just reached Rangbul La — a tale I’ve already burdened my readers with once before — when Prakriti’s eyes lit up. She’s a mountaineer, you see, with boots that have kissed more rocks than my knees have kissed pavements. As it turned out, she had Tonglu on her radar too, so when I floated the idea, she nodded faster than a bobblehead in a pothole.
Now, I’ll come clean — my last real trek was back in 2013, and since then I’ve taken more escalators than mountain paths. So deciding to scale a peak over 3,000 metres tall was, frankly, a bit barking mad. But Arnab and Prakriti kept egging me on — gently, of course, like two mountain-loving angels who refused to let me back out. And so, the next morning, with a wave to ever-cheerful Dawa Daju, off we went.
The plan was a simple one: reach Manebhanjang via Ghoom, then walk the roughly 11-kilometre trail to Tonglu. First stop, Chitre — a darling of a village where time ambles and the tea tastes like it’s been brewed by smiling clouds. We sat on the green grass, warming our hands on tea cups and letting the silence of the mountains do the talking.
Then came Lamay Dhura, and later Meghma — each more poetic than the last. And finally, Tonglu. When we reached, the air smelt of moss and miracles. A fresh cup of tea arrived as if on cue, hand-delivered by the breeze itself. Kanchenjunga, alas, played hard to get, hiding behind curtains of cloud — the diva that she is.
At lunch, we tucked into rice, dal, and omelette — nothing posh, but trust me, it tasted like a Oberoi Grand feast after that trek. It wasn’t just the food — it was the effort, the altitude, the shared laughter, and possibly the hunger that made it so blooming delicious.
Post-lunch, we walked to Tumling. And if you’ve never strolled through a mountain path with friends, stopping to sing half-forgotten songs, click daft selfies, and simply sit in awe — then you’ve not truly lived. The air was cleaner than a vicar’s conscience, and the views… well, let’s just say, even silence stood still to watch.
Evening brought its own kind of magic. All of us — the Swedes, the Brits, us three — gathered round for a little kumbaya moment. Someone strummed a guitar, someone hummed a folk tune, and laughter floated like incense.
And then it happened. I stepped outside for some air, and there they were — stars. Not just a handful, but a galaxy’s worth, scattered like glitter on dark velvet. You don’t describe a sky like that; you feel it in your chest. It was the mountain’s way of saying, “Tomorrow, my friend… tomorrow you’ll see her.”
And we did. Morning came — shy and golden — and there she stood, Kanchenjunga in all her glory, draped in light and pride. We didn’t speak much; we just stood. You don’t chat when gods are in the room.
The farewell was gentle. A few hugs, a photo or two, and a promise whispered to the wind — we’ll be back. Again and again. Because some places don’t just welcome you; they claim a bit of your soul and hold it ransom — joyfully, tenderly, eternally.
All photographs by Arnab Thokdar. Arnab is the Vice Principal of Epic Public School. In addition to his role in education, he is an enthusiastic mountaineer, a gifted musician, and a truly remarkable personality.
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