A Weekend in Sittong

 

Last weekend, I found myself nestled in the serene village of Sittong, cradled in the Darjeeling hills. The mountains stood tall, draped in bluish-green, while the clouds floated lazily across the sky, casting fleeting shadows over the valleys below. The air was crisp, infused with the scent of tea and wet earth, whispering promises of peace and renewal. It felt as if time had slowed down, inviting me to breathe more deeply.

Just as I was settling into the tranquillity of the homestay, I found myself in the company of five spirited travellers—three girls and two boys—each with a distinct charm. From the moment they arrived, the space around us transformed from silent to lively, a burst of energy within the serene hills. I sensed we were in for a memorable time.

I sat on the verandah, gazing into the distance, when Rohan—one of the boys—wandered over. His gaze held a hint of curiosity. 

“Do you run this spot?” he asked, smiling gently.

I returned his smile. “No, just a guest like you.”

“Good!” he said with a chuckle. “Thought this was your place. What’s it like?”

Before I could answer, Priya, a tall girl with a bright smile, joined us. “Bit of a puzzle, no?” she remarked, glancing at the hills beyond. “Didn’t know what we’d find.”

Leela—soft-spoken and thoughtful—added, “It’s... serene. Just what we needed.”

As they spoke, something peculiar yet charming struck me: the way they used their words seemed natural, yet each of them avoided a specific vowel without missing a beat. Their speech flowed like a river—smooth, deliberate, and filled with meaning beyond words.

Neel, another of the boys, broke the silence as we began our walk along a winding trail by the river. “See this?” he said, gesturing at the flowing water. “You don’t see things like this in the city.”

The murmur of the river, coupled with the gentle rustling of the trees, created a melody that felt ancient, as if nature itself was singing a lullaby. Priya sighed as she admired the view. “This... this is all we need. No race. No rush.”

We climbed to a small hilltop viewpoint where the village lay below—tin-roofed houses nestled among lush fields, with the Himalayas standing guard in the background. Leela smiled, the contentment of the moment reflected in her eyes. “It’s... bliss. I could sit here forever.”

Rohan grinned. “Forever, yeah... but not without food!” His playful tone set us all laughing, dissolving any fatigue from our climb. Laughter felt like the perfect companion to the majestic silence that surrounded us.

***

We roamed the village as if we were unravelling a beautiful dream. The locals, moving at their own pace, embodied the philosophy of Santosha—the art of being content with what life offers. I felt as though the hills were whispering an ancient truth: slow down, and everything you chase will meet you where you are. 

Leela paused at a grove of trees, her face alight with wonder. “You hear that?” she asked softly. “The way... the air sings?”

I listened and realised she was right. The trees swayed gently, each leaf shimmering as if in prayer, creating a rhythm that resonated within me. In the Indian tradition, such sounds are thought to embody the primordial Nada—the unstruck sound, the essence of all creation.

The sound wasn’t something that could be heard in the ordinary sense, but I could feel it—deep within me. It was subtle, more like an inner hum, as if every leaf, every breeze, and every ripple in the river was singing in a silent harmony. In that moment of stillness, I understood what ancient Indian sages meant by Nada. It’s not just any sound; it’s Anahata Nada—the unstruck sound, a vibration that arises without two objects colliding. It’s said to exist within all of us, in the depths of our being, always present but often drowned out by the noise of the world.

I let the thought linger. The swaying trees weren’t just trees anymore; they were participants in an ancient dance—silent yet expressive, as if they knew a secret that the rest of us had forgotten. The soft rustling of the leaves wasn’t just noise. It was as though each leaf was uttering a prayer, or perhaps offering gratitude—an acknowledgement of the cycle of life, a surrender to the moment. I wondered if this was what it meant to truly listen—not just with the ears, but with the heart, the mind, and the soul.

The sages believed that Nada is the origin of everything—everything we see, hear, and feel is a manifestation of this primordial vibration. Om, the sound that symbolises the cosmic pulse, is thought to be the closest expression of this Nada in human understanding. And yet, Nada is not limited to the chants or hymns we sing; it is said to permeate every corner of the universe—flowing rivers, fluttering birds, the rising wind, and even the silence of the mountains. All of it, they say, is Nada Brahma—the universe as sound.

The unstruck sound isn’t bound by time or space. It existed before the universe began and will continue after it ends, like an eternal hum resonating at the core of everything. I thought of how we get so lost in the demands of life—running, chasing, worrying—and in the process, we forget to notice the world breathing around us. We forget to listen. Perhaps that’s what makes travelling to places like Sittong so important—not just as a physical escape, but as a chance to reconnect with this silence, this unspoken rhythm.

The trees were still now, only a few leaves quivering in the soft breeze. But the Nada, I knew, was still there—flowing unseen, unfelt by most. The idea was comforting, almost like an assurance: even when we are too distracted to hear it, the Nada continues to hum, waiting patiently for us to slow down, to pause, and to listen.

In the quiet of Sittong, I felt as though the layers of noise within me had begun to lift, one by one. Beneath it all was a kind of stillness—a stillness that wasn’t empty but alive with meaning. The river flowed without effort, the trees danced without seeking applause, and the birds sang without expectation. There was no rush to achieve anything, no need to impress or compete. And yet, everything seemed so complete, so perfect, just as it was.

Could it be that this is the truth hidden in Ananda—the bliss that Indian philosophy speaks of? Not a bliss that comes from acquisition or success, but from recognising that life, in its simplest form, is already complete. The Nada, after all, doesn’t create anything new. It merely reveals what was always there—a silent joy, a quiet harmony, a presence that holds all things together.

I sat there for a long time, feeling the rhythm of the place seep into my bones. I realised that I didn’t need to chase after anything to find meaning. The meaning was here, in the rustling leaves, in the shifting shadows, in the unspoken conversations between the mountains and the sky. It was everywhere, waiting to be noticed.

The primordial Nada, I realised, wasn’t just outside me; it was within me too. Perhaps this is what the ancient teachings meant when they said that the universe and the self are not separate—Tat Tvam Asi: You are That. I was not a separate observer watching the hills, the trees, and the river. I was part of it all, just as the mountains were part of the sky, and the river was part of the sea it would eventually meet.

And maybe, just maybe, that’s why we travel—not merely to see new places, but to hear the unstruck sound that has been calling us all along. Travel is not just movement through space; it is movement within, a journey back to the self. And in the end, we realise that we were never really lost—just too busy to listen.

The thought brought a smile to my face. The trees swayed again, as if acknowledging my realisation. I leaned back, closed my eyes, and let the breeze carry me. Somewhere, deep within, the Nada hummed softly.

And I listened.

Neel gazed into the distance, his eyes tracing the path of a distant river. “It’s... strange. We come here for a break, but we learn much more. Like the hills... they’re saying something.”

His words felt profound, as if the mountains were silently teaching us the essence of Dharma—to be steadfast, unchanging amid the flow of life.

***

Later, we ventured deeper into the forest, following a trail less travelled. It was overgrown and wild, with roots snaking across the ground. At one point, we encountered a fallen tree blocking our way.

Rohan laughed at the sight. “Looks like nature’s way of saying, ‘Stop here.’”

Sarita, who had been walking quietly, smiled. “Stop? No way. We go ‘round.”

Her words reminded me of the ancient wisdom of Karma Yoga—the idea that life presents challenges, not to block us, but to test our creativity and resolve. We found a way around the tree, our small victory filled with cheer, as if life had given us a gentle nudge forward.

***

As the day came to a close, we returned to the homestay. The sky above was a blanket of stars, twinkling like cosmic lanterns. We sat in silence on the verandah, the cool breeze brushing against our skin. It was a silence not born of awkwardness but of shared presence, as if we were all drinking from the same well of peace.

Rohan broke the quiet, his voice thoughtful. “What do you think... do we need more places like this? Or... is it just that we forget to slow down?”

Priya nodded, her gaze fixed on the stars. “Perhaps it’s not the place... but how we see. We carry the rush with us, even when the world isn’t rushing.”

Neel added, “And places like this... they remind us how to be still, how to listen.”

It was a moment of shared understanding, as if the village had taught us not through words but through the experience itself. In the Indian tradition, this felt akin to the journey from Avidya (ignorance) to Vidya (knowledge)—the realisation that life’s truths are found not in complexity but in simplicity.

***

As the stars deepened and the night grew cooler, a question surfaced, hovering gently in the air. It was Sarita who gave it voice: 

“We say travel teaches us... yet we often avoid it. Why?” 

Her question lingered like the scent of flowers carried by the breeze—soft, but unforgettable. The wisdom of Indian sages echoes this sentiment: life itself is the greatest teacher, and the path to learning lies in movement, in stepping out of our comfort zones.

Perhaps, I thought, the answer is simple. The mountains, the rivers, and the stars remind us that the journey is not just about reaching a destination. It’s about what we discover along the way—the joy in small moments, the lessons hidden in silence, and the wisdom we gather as we move through the world with open hearts.

And maybe that’s the real gift of places like Sittong: they inspire us to ask the right questions and leave us wondering—What are we waiting for?

***

I must say,  Sittong wasn’t just a weekend escape—it was a lesson in the art of living. As we packed our bags and prepared to leave, I felt lighter, as if I had left behind more than just footprints in the hills. I carried with me the essence of the place: a quiet joy, a sense of contentment, and the realisation that the journey—whether through mountains or through life—is the reward in itself.

The hills waved us goodbye as we departed, their ancient wisdom wrapped in silence. And somewhere in that silence, I heard the answer: Travel, learn, rejoice—for life waits for no one.

 

***Jai Hind***