1
The Road to Zuluk
Kolkata → Siliguri → Sevoke → Kuekhola → Zuluk
NJP / Siliguri — six friends, backpacks on, about to disappear into the mountains. Note the Bazinga tee.
It started with the Satabdi Express from Howrah — and even before the train moved, something felt different. This wasn't a family trip. There were no parents double-checking the bags, no one else carrying the responsibility. It was us. We had planned this ourselves — the checklists, the bookings, the car hire, the route. Damayanti and I had gone back and forth on the itinerary more times than I can count. That feeling of ownership, of we did this, sat in my chest the whole journey.
We spent a night in Siliguri, and the next morning the hills began. The moment the road crossed Sevoke and the Teesta appeared below — wide, grey-green, the mountains rising steeply on both sides — I remember thinking: this is actually happening.
The Teesta valley from Sevoke road. Someone always has to stop and photograph everything. And someone always ends up on someone's shoulders.
We stopped somewhere on the Sevoke road — I don't even remember who asked the driver to pull over, I think it just happened. The river was below us, mist rising off the mountain faces, clouds sitting so low they were almost touchable. We just stood there for a bit. Nobody said very much.
And then the rain started. It didn't stop the entire way to Zuluk. The mountain roads were winding and narrow and wet, and the asbestos rooftops of every little homestay we passed drummed with it — a constant soft clatter that followed us all the way up.
"The rain falling on the asbestos triangle roofs of homestays — almost clapping for our visit."
Zuluk — tin roofs, prayer flags, a village perched on the hillside. And dinner by candlelight at Palzor Homestay. Momos and chicken curry in the dark.
Palzor Homestay welcomed us like family. We ate dinner in near-complete darkness — momos and chicken curry, plates passed around, everyone huddled close. It was such a strange feeling. Not bad-strange. Just — different. Nothing like home. The kind of different that stays with you.
But the rain kept going outside, and all of us were quietly thinking the same thing: if it's like this tomorrow, getting to the next destination — higher up — could be a real problem. We settled in with warm food and fuller hearts, and I remember genuinely praying before I fell asleep. Just: please let the sun come out tomorrow.
Stay: Palzor Homestay, Zuluk
Train: Satabdi Express, Howrah → NJP
Stops: Sevoke, Kuekhola Waterfall, Teesta river
Alt: ~9,400 ft at Zuluk
2
The Morning of the Screaming
Zuluk → Gnathang (Nathang) Valley · –2°C · First Snow
Someone wrote the crew's initials in the fresh snow. "DU SPA..." — this is what you do when you're 22 and it snows for the first time.
I don't know who woke up first — me or Damayanti. But the moment we saw the sun was out, we both started screaming. Just screaming. The whole homestay probably heard us. We were the trip planners, we had been carrying the worry about the weather since the night before, and the sun felt like a personal gift.
The drive up to Gnathang was unlike anything I can describe properly. At some point the fog became so thick that looking through the windshield you could see absolutely nothing — just white. No road, no edge, no mountain. Nothing. And the driver just kept driving. Steady hands, steady speed, completely calm. I don't know how he knew where to go. I still think about that.
The view from inside the hired car — nothing ahead but white. And outside: everyone bundled up in the Gnathang fog, the snow coming down.
"We couldn't see anything — the roads were so foggy — but the driver drove in complete confidence."
Snowfall and smiles — four girls, beanies and scarves, the car behind them. And then: hot lunch at the homestay, the host serving rice and curry to everyone in their winter layers.
When we arrived, Gnathang was fully covered in snow. We got a huge two-room cottage at the homestay — all of us piling in, bags everywhere, everyone layering up whatever they had. And then, just as we were ready to go out and explore: it started snowing. Live snowfall. Right in front of us.
For most of us, it was the first time seeing snow fall. I can't explain what that feels like — you just have to be there. We went completely mad. Playing in it, walking around, doing the most ridiculous things. We didn't have the right clothes — no thermal inners, no hiking shoes, nothing warm enough really. But we had something else entirely. That energy you have at that age, in a place you've never been, with the people you love most. You can't buy that. You can't plan for it. It just happens.
Five of you against the snow-covered valley — prayer flags visible in the corner. A solo portrait: yellow jacket, blue shoes, no hiking boots. "We were not prepared." And the full group huddle — all six faces, beanies on, smiling.
Walking into Gnathang village — the "Tourist" Mahindra Bolero, wooden buildings, prayer flags, snow-covered peaks behind. And the view from above: rooftops under grey sky, the mountain wall behind the valley.
That same view in the warmer light — and the village road spiralling up the hillside, tiny jeeps on the hairpin below. "Sucheta photography."
Prayer flags cascading across the snow valley with mountains and blue breaking sky — one of the most beautiful shots of the trip. And silhouettes walking the snow ridge with flag poles stretching into fog.
Alt: 13,500 ft
Temp: –2°C
Stay: Homestay cottage, Gnathang Valley
Vibe: First snow for most of the group
3
Lakes, Borders & a Sleepless Night
Gnathang → Kupup Lake → Indo-China Border → Memencho Lake → Lungthung
The road ahead: pure white, snow on both sides, disappearing into fog. And then — Kupup Lake (Elephant Lake) appearing below, cradled in snow-covered mountains, a lone hut at its shore.
Day 3 took us higher. The road from Gnathang climbed into terrain that didn't look like India anymore — or like anywhere I'd been. Flat, frozen, enormous. Kupup Lake appeared below us like something out of a painting — shaped like an elephant, they say, though from where we stood it just looked impossibly still. The silence at that altitude has a weight to it. It presses in. I remember just standing there and not wanting to speak.
The full scale of the plateau — a lake barely visible in the enormous white landscape. And three of the girls, scarves and sunglasses, smiling through the cold.
The Indo-China border. A lone Indian flag, snow on every mountain behind the army barriers. And the barbed wire fence — two enormous nations, separated by this.
"The border: barbed wire, army posts, and the strange quiet of a place where two enormous nations simply stand and face each other."
We reached Lungthung by evening. And that night, one of us fell very sick. Couldn't sleep the whole night — the cold, the altitude, a body completely unequipped for where we had brought it. And in that moment it hit all of us, hard: we were genuinely in the middle of nowhere. No hospital nearby, no familiar faces, no quick way out. Just a small homestay on a mountain at 11,500 feet in the dark. That's a sobering feeling when you're young and you've never been tested like that before.
We all stayed up, worried, checking in. But here's the thing about being young — recovery comes faster than you expect. The night was difficult. But it passed. And by morning, everyone was okay. The mountain had rattled us a little, reminded us it was serious terrain. And then it let us go.
The six of you in the pink-walled Lungthung homestay room — everyone bundled up, sitting together on a bed. This is the worried night. And outside: the electric blue hour falling over the Eastern Himalaya.
The famous 32 hairpin bends of Zuluk from the height of Lungthung — clouds rolling in across the valley. An engineering marvel and a photographer's dream. "Sucheta photography."
Kupup Lake: ~13,066 ft · "Elephant Lake"
Memencho Lake: ~12,500 ft · Sacred
Stay: Lungthung homestay
Night: Utsav fell sick — altitude, recovered by morning
4
Kanchenjunga at Dawn
Lungthung sunrise → Rongo River → NJP → Kolkata
The next morning I could hear Damayanti screaming her lungs out. And I knew. Before I even opened my eyes, I knew. I went to the window — and there she was. Kanchenjunga. Right in front of us. In all her glory, completely clear, nothing between us and her. Magnificent is the only word that comes close, and even that isn't enough.
The sequence you photographed and described — exactly as it happened. Deep purple-pink at first light. Orange-rose as the sun rises. Then fully white against clear blue sky. Pink → orange → white.
"We watched the first ray of sun fall on her, and slowly change colour — from pink to orange to yellow — and finally the snow-peaked mountain was white."
We watched the first ray of sun fall on her. And she changed — slowly, the way only something that enormous can. Pink first. Then orange. Then yellow. And finally, the snow-peaked mountain was white, glowing against a clear blue sky. All six of us, standing in the cold, completely silent. I don't think any of us spoke for a while. That was the moment the whole trip had been building toward — and none of us had even known it until it happened.
Then the long drive back down. We stopped at Rongo River — the cold finally giving way, the foothills warm and green again, the river rushing clear and freezing over the rocks. Someone splashed water at someone. Someone made ridiculous faces for the camera. The mood had completely shifted from awe to pure, uncomplicated joy. We were going home — but fuller than when we'd left.
Rongo River on the way back — "Imagine All The People" tee, "Good Girl Gone Bad" tee. Someone splashing mountain river water at someone else. Three girls making absolutely ridiculous faces. The mood had shifted completely from awe to pure joy.
Three silhouettes standing in the current, backs to camera, facing the valley. Quiet. Contemplative. The end of something. And the green ridge descending into clouds — the journey home.
An early Satabdi from NJP the next morning. The same train, the same tracks, the same six people — but nothing quite the same as before. We'd planned our first trip, entirely on our own. We'd seen snow for the first time. We'd stood at the edge of India and looked into China. We'd had a frightening night and come out the other side. And we'd watched Kanchenjunga wake up in the cold dawn and turn from pink to white while we stood there in silence.
We all reached home safely. That matters more than it sounds — when you're young and far away and one of you has been sick through the night, getting everyone back is its own quiet victory.
Swapno Puron. Dream fulfilled. And it really, truly was.
Lungthung alt: ~11,500 ft
Return halt: Rongo River
Train home: Early Satabdi, NJP → Howrah
