Turbulent Sohra

Sunday Deccan Herald travel section carried an edited version of this piece here

We stand on the southern edge of the plateau, looking down on Bangladesh from a height of over 800 m, as if from the parapet of a gigantic fort. The plains of Sylhet stretch out in front of us, a vast canvas in shades of green, streaked with the silver of winding streams and wetlands, in colors muted by the afternoon haze.

For a few moments, we watch a Khasi boy and girl patiently dangling improvised fishing rods into a placid pool framed by rocks. The overflow from the pool falls over the edge, heading for the plains.

    

View from Khoh Ramhah

In the near distance, a mountain stream that has just reached the flats forms a vast sandy delta, emerging from it further on as a meandering river and forking into two. The right fork of the river soon skirts the town of Companygunj, now lost in the haze. Directly below us, a road cuts through thick jungle heading for the border village of Shella.

Satiated with the visual feast, we make our way to our guesthouse in the town now called Sohra, but certainly better known by its former name, Cherrapunjee. Sohra has regained its original Khasi name a few years ago on popular local demand, but it will be some time before it gains the same recognition as Cherrapunji.

Our arrival on the Sohra plateau this morning is announced by a dramatic change in the landscape. Lush green hills rifted with deep valleys give way to a vast undulating grassy plain with scant tree cover. We stop where the road nears the edge of the plateau to marvel at the sheer granite cliffs lined with waterfalls plunging into the depths.

Pappan Paul our cab driver is keen to get started on the tourist circuit - the Ramakrishna Mission, the limestone caves, eco parks, waterfalls. The faster we can get through the circuit, the earlier he will be able to get to bed in Shillong.

Pappan turns out to be an interesting character. After a chance encounter three days back in Shillong, he has become our guide and driver. Pappan is a Bengali but speaks Khasi and Hindi fluently and knows all the locals at every roadside stop. We learn from him that his mother lives in the border village of Shella and that he has relatives in Bangladesh. He has been into Bangladesh – apparently without a passport - to attend a marriage in the family, “many years back”, he is quick to add.

Rat-hole mine on the road to Nohkalikai

 A visit to the Nohkalikai falls is the highlight of the morning. As we drive through a deserted part of the plateau, we pass a ‘rat hole’ coalmine – a small tunnel dug into the side of a hillock to access the coal-bearing seam. The tunnel is not high enough to allow the average person to stand erect. A lone man working the mine runs into the tunnel bent behind a wheelbarrow and disappears from sight. There are piles of coal and red earth outside.

Getting closer to the western edge of the plateau, the weather turns turbulent. Clouds have suddenly appeared, blotting out the blue sky. We seem to be out of luck as thick fog completely hides the rock face where the water falls. A plaque describing the falls reads like English but is actually Khasi in English script. An English translation on the other side acquaints us with the legend of Nohkalikai. Likai, a young woman, leaps from this cliff, grief stricken on learning that her husband has killed her daughter of an earlier marriage. ‘Noh ka Likai’ in Khasi means the ‘Leap of Likai’.

The Moors at the Nohkalikai viewpoint

We take a long walk along the edge of the plateau, in rolling hills covered with sparse grass.  The landscape is reminiscent of the English Moors, with the fog constantly shifting the limits of visibility. The fog lifts briefly and Nohkalikai is visible plunging over the opposite rock face. Cloud and fog far from dampening have actually accentuated the beauty of these surroundings.

Our guesthouse is the former residence of a well to do Khasi family, as we gather from the tasteful furnishings, photographs on the walls and the old artifacts on display. We decide to take a walk around town before it gets dark. The streets have a newly washed look. We walk past an imposing building – the St John Bosco Shrine – to chance upon a beautiful open country of low hills and shallow valleys with clumps of trees amidst the heather. A cemetery spreads out from one of the valleys in this picturesque setting.

Open country behind the Don Bosco shrine

I am curious about the how a Khasi village named Sohra came to be called Cherrapunjee in the colonial period. History, as I discover later, records a story something like this.

After annexing present day Assam in the early nineteenth century, the East India Company sent its Political agent David Scott to open a direct route from the Bramhaputra valley to its outposts in Sylhet. The road selected by Scott passed naturally through Sohra, for Sohra was already connected to Companygunj in the Sylhet plains through a thriving trade in export of limestone mined in the hills. It was not long before the British dug in their heels and established a settlement in the punjee ( the Bangla term for Khasi villages) of Churra (as the British pronounced the name), morphing the name eventually to Cherrapunjee. Scott died soon and was buried in Cherrapunjee. Cherrapunjee remained the colonial capital of the northeast region until 1866 when it yielded this place to Shillong.

Back at the guesthouse, we enjoy a magnificent view of a granite cliff glinting in the setting sun from the balcony. That night, we enjoy a dinner of Chicken curry, vegetable and rice cooked in the Khasi way.

Bridges that grow stronger by the year

We have planned a second day in the Sohra area, this time in a resort near the village of Laitkynsew. The village lies down the road descending from the Sohra plateau to Shella and the Bangladesh border. The resort is run by David, a Tamilian from Madurai. The staff are all Khasi’s from the neighboring villages, well trained in hospitality. David and his charming daughter Angela are the perfect hosts – taking care of our every need and providing us all the information we need to enjoy our stay. After breakfasting on an excellent suji upma (yes, you read right) made by the Khasi cook, I am all charged up to take on the arduous trek to what has been billed as the ‘Double Decker living root bridge’. To top it all, David is also able to persuade C who had initially baulked at the thought of a 6-7 hrs trek to go with me.

Armed with long bamboo poles we set out with Batskem, a local schoolteacher, who will be our guide today. The walk starts down a gradually sloping path that soon becomes a steep stone stairway. At one place where the path turns sharply, the staircase looks as if it is suspended in space far above the green valley floor. We are accompanied by the sound of falling water, the ringing of crickets and the occasional cock crowing in a distant village. We pause to let a villager pass. Though small and compact of build, he is carrying a block of wood on his back, certainly taller and weighing much more than he does. Batskem explains that selling the wood from their land is one of the few sources of income for villagers in these parts.

Passing through a village at the end of the staircase, we encounter a beautiful red-faced bird with colors of blue, black and white - a Kalij pheasant. The bird quickly scampers into the safety of the undergrowth before turning around to stare at us. We are now near the bottom of a valley that carries several streams. The path is slippery and passes through thick tropical vegetation. The air is humid. We cross a fast flowing stream on a makeshift bridge of steel wire ropes that swings with each step and then reach another stream, this time carrying the waters from Nohkalikai, the waters aquamarine. Our guide informs us that a certain algae in the riverbed here is responsible for the color. After another scary rope bridge crossing, we arrive at Nongriat village. A helpful sign points the way to the Umshiang double decker root bridge.

The living root bridge at Nongriat

We investigate each layer of this remarkable bridge. A gigantic rubber tree rests on a bolder on one side of the stream. Secondary roots have been trained by the villagers to span the stream and have penetrated the sloping earth on the other side. The roots take the place of steel ropes. Rocks placed between roots have embedded themselves to form a solid footing for the bridge. In fact, we find that the root bridge is much more stable than the rope bridges we crossed earlier. By the side of the bridge is a natural pool and C decides that this is a perfect place to take a dip. Though we are near the village, our privacy is undisturbed. We eat our packed lunch and laze around until it is time to head back.

We stop by at a Nongriat villagers home to have tea and pick up some oranges from his field. I start counting the number of steps as the ascent begins on this ‘stairway to heaven’; it helps me to stay focussed on taking at least 20 to 30 steps before each pause. We pass betel wines, jackfruit, and Areca nut and Bay leaf trees. A passing cloud brings showers while the sun continues to shine and we take pleasure in getting wet. Looking over our shoulders, we spot a beautiful double rainbow, a rare treat. When we reach the top, I have counted 2040 steps!

Walking towards the resort, we come across a moving plaque in the village of Tyrna. The plaque records the “loving remembrance of 100 years of shifting of the village of Tyrna”. The old Tyrna village along with other villages built on these hillsides suffered irreparable damage in the great Assam earthquake of 1897, having its epicenter in present day Meghalaya not far from where we stand. It is believed to be one of the most powerful earthquakes to hit the Indian subcontinent.

The next morning, we take a farewell walk on Laitkynsew hill to see the Sylhet plains one last time. Our precious takeaway is a photo I take of a Khasi boy protectively closing his arms around his two younger sisters on seeing two strangers walking by.