Unlike cities in the plains, mountain cities operate under severe constraints—limited land, fragile ecology, and difficult mobility. Most urban planning frameworks are designed for flat and gentler terrain.As a result, places like Gangtok  grow without a model.Congestion, poor last-mile connectivity, pressure on water and services, lack of public space, and increasing vulnerability to disasters are the consequences of unplanned urbanization.

Unlike cities in the plains, mountain cities operate under severe constraints—limited land, fragile ecology, and difficult mobility. Most urban planning frameworks are designed for flat and gentler terrain.As a result, places like Gangtok  grow without a model.Congestion, poor last-mile connectivity, pressure on water and services, lack of public space, and increasing vulnerability to disasters are the consequences of unplanned urbanization.

Gangtok’s growth has been largely organic, not by design but by default. This is not due to a lack of imagination, but the lack of a shared vision—and the confidence to pursue it. If we continue this way, we risk locking ourselves into a future of compounding problems.

Mobility as the Foundation of Urban Form

Urbanisation begins with access In the mountains, where terrain makes movement difficult, mobility does not just support the city—it shapes it. The way we move determines how we build, where we live, and how communities connect.

Today, road-based mobility dominates, but roads are land-intensive and inefficient on steep terrain. As population and vehicle numbers grow, congestion inevitably worsen, leading to gridlock.If mobility is the foundation of urban form, then rethinking mobility is the key to rethinking the city itself.

Contour Urbanism: Building Along the Terrain

In the mountains, flat land is rare—but where it exists, life thrives. Instead of large plazas, what the terrain offers are linear stretches along contours. These can become car-free pedestrian pathways—“strips of life”—that form the backbone of urban habitation. [Fig.1]

Clusters of these horizontal walkways, connected vertically by lifts, escalators, and ramps, can create accessible, inclusive neighbourhoods. Such a system supports walking, encourages community interaction, and provides a structured framework for services like water, sewage, and electricity. [Fig. 2]

At a larger scale, neighbourhoods can be connected through a network of these pathways, forming a city-wide mobility layer that is human-centric rather than vehicle-dependent. [Fig. 3]

Ropeways: A Mountain Solution

For longer distances and steep gradients, ropeways offer a compelling alternative.Unlike roads, they require minimal land, traverse slopes efficiently, and operate without adding to ground congestion. They are environmentally cleaner, quieter, and less disruptive to fragile mountain ecosystems. Modern systems can carry not just passengers, but goods and emergency services as well.Of course, ropeways come with concerns—privacy, visual impact, and questions of ownership. But these are design and governance challenges, not reasons for dismissal.

Ropeways, unlike roads, demand a design approach that leverages their ability to traverse steep slopes and sharply reduce travel distances. In a ridge-based city like Gangtok, lines should run perpendicular to the ridge to enable efficient uphill and downhill movement.

Ropeways, unlike roads, demand a design approach that leverages their ability to traverse steep slopes and sharply reduce travel distances. In a ridge-based city like Gangtok, lines should run perpendicular to the ridge to enable efficient uphill and downhill movement. A linear spine from Ranipul to Bojoghari can connect these lines and facilitate longer-distance travel. [Fig. 4]

If integrated thoughtfully with pedestrian networks, ropeways can fundamentally transform how Gangtok moves—and, by extension, how it grows.

Planning Through Mobility

Mobility is not just a transport issue; it is a planning tool. Choosing the right mobility system can help address multiple urban challenges simultaneously—housing, congestion, service delivery, public space, and even disaster management.

Mobility is not just a transport issue; it is a planning tool. Choosing the right mobility system can help address multiple urban challenges simultaneously—housing, congestion, service delivery, public space, and even disaster management.

Imagine a parallel, car-free layer across the city: a network of walkways, vertical connectors, and ropeways that allows people to move without relying on vehicles. Such a system could revitalise neglected neighbourhoods, stimulate local economies, and improve quality of life where it is needed most.Even existing neighbourhoods can be retrofitted. By connecting and reorganising current paths into coherent horizontal networks, accessibility can be significantly improved. With genuine public participation, such transformations are not only possible but likely to gain support. 

Beyond Infrastructure: The Question of Ownership

How we build is as important as what we build. The prevailing development model—often driven by large, externally executed projects—prioritises infrastructure over people. It limits local participation, erodes ownership, and misses precious opportunities to build local capacity. Conventional public-private partnership (PPP) frameworks, while widely used, may not be optimal in contexts where institutional capacity is limited and socio-economic equity is a priority.

How we build is as important as what we build...Gangtok needs an approach that involves community-oriented ownership structures, where local stakeholders—including residents, landowners, professionals, and government—participate directly in the planning, financing, and operation of infrastructure systems.

Gangtok needs an approach that involves community-oriented ownership structures, where local stakeholders—including residents, landowners, professionals, and government—participate directly in the planning, financing, and operation of infrastructure systems.

Such models offer several advantages:

•  Enhanced local ownership and accountability

•  Retention of economic benefits within the region

•  Opportunities for skill development and capacity building [especially for a transformative technology for mobility in the mountains like ropeways]

•  Greater alignment with community needs and priorities

External technical expertise can be incorporated in a consultative role, ensuring quality while preserving local agency. While ownership should remain local, the benefits of a ropeway system must be widely shared to avoid monopolies. An alternative to a conventional PPP model is a community-led consortium that conceives, builds, and operates the system, supported by international technical experts as advisors.

Equity can be distributed among key local stakeholders based on agreed contributions, creating an ownership structure aligned with community interests [Fig. 5]

• Promoters (Sweat Equity): Entrepreneurs, designers, planners, contractors, and professionals who initiate and steward the project.
• Landowners: Given land scarcity in Gangtok, owners—especially at station sites—can contribute land as equity; government land can be similarly valued.
• Contractors: Construction partners can take equity in lieu of cash payments, reducing capital expenditure and debt reliance.
• Government: A key stakeholder through land and power contributions, requiring a more enabling and flexible institutional approach.
• Local Neighbourhoods: Representation in governance ensures accountability and alignment with community needs.
• Ropeway Company (Strategic Partner): A reputable international firm could come on board under aligned CSR objectives, providing expertise and potentially reducing dependence on external financing.

This model distributes ownership, lowers upfront costs, and embeds the project within the local socio-economic fabric.

External technical expertise can be incorporated in a consultative role, ensuring quality while preserving local agency.This is not just about equity; it is about long-term resilience. A city that understands and manages its own systems is better equipped to adapt and thrive.

External technical expertise can be incorporated in a consultative role, ensuring quality while preserving local agency.This is not just about equity; it is about long-term resilience. A city that understands and manages its own systems is better equipped to adapt and thrive.

The Governance Gap

None of this is possible without clarity in governance. Today, there is ambiguity over who is responsible for planning and managing the city. This  situation undermines long-term thinking and allows short-term, ad hoc decisions to prevail. Without a coherent vision and accountable leadership, even the best ideas cannot be implemented effectively.

Planning is, fundamentally, an act of governance. It requires intent, coordination, and the ability to think beyond immediate pressures. A community-based ownership model will have the inherent checks and balances to help it succeed and can possibly grow to fill the vacuum of stewarding the city.

Planning is, fundamentally, an act of governance. It requires intent, coordination, and the ability to think beyond immediate pressures. A community-based ownership model will have the inherent checks and balances to help it succeed and can possibly grow to fill the vacuum of stewarding the city.

A Choice About the Future

Gangtok stands at crossroads. It can continue on its current path—reactive, fragmented, and increasingly strained. Or it can choose to evolve deliberately, using its constraints as a framework for innovation.This is not just about infrastructure or mobility. It is about the kind of city we want to become—and the kind of society we want to be.

Development, if understood as evolution, demands direction. It requires us to define what matters, to take responsibility for our future, and to ensure that growth strengthens rather than erodes our social fabric. In the end, cities reflect their people. Their values, their governance, and their sense of collective purpose are embedded in the spaces they create. If Gangtok is to thrive, it must not only build differently—it must think differently.

In the end, cities reflect their people. Their values, their governance, and their sense of collective purpose are embedded in the spaces they create. If Gangtok is to thrive, it must not only build differently—it must think differently.

Everything happened so suddenly that she was beyond understanding the events that landed her in Gangtok.

Three weeks ago her father got a phone call from his friend from Gangtok; they were looking for a bride for their only son. Her father was elated; the same friend that he had grown up with now wanted his Amala as his daughter-in-law. His friend had left behind Jhyam Busty to work for the government; apparently, he now enjoyed quite a senior position in some Government office. “His Amala must be blessed”, he thought. All those rejections were just leading towards something good; patience did bear good results.

Everything was prepared within the span of a week. Being the only daughter, Saila Bajey (Grandfather) left no stone unturned for the wedding of his darling daughter. The fields were cleared, tents were put up, and people began flitting in and out of their three-room government-funded model house.  The courtyard was filled with sacks and crates brought in from Jorethang. The goat shed was cramped with the addition of two new goats ready to be butchered for the wedding, and the stench of poultry emanated from the backyard.  Everything appeared ready for what seemed like the wedding of the century in Jhyam busty. 

Everything appeared ready for what seemed like the wedding of the century in Jhyam busty. 

The day finally arrived. The villagers had gathered early in the morning to witness the wedding. Amala decked in a crimson sari and covered with an equally red netted scarf, waited in anticipation. She had not seen her groom-to-be, but just the fact that he was from Gangtok made him handsome in her eyes.  He was the man of her dreams; it was surreal that she would be leaving the confines of her home, her village, in a few hours to enter a completely different world. She was nervous but happy. Her father had been boasting of his good fortune to anyone who dared broach the question regarding Amala’s hasty nuptials. The perpetual smile etched on his face showed just how much this alliance would mean to his family. Neighbours who earlier refused to give them a second of their time now visited their house in flocks, even the Panchayat Sarpanch had been generous enough to extend help in the form of a sack of rice, “Your daughter, my daughter, same thing”, he had beamed at Saila Bajey. 

She had not seen her groom-to-be, but just the fact that he was from Gangtok made him handsome in her eyes.  He was the man of her dreams; it was surreal that she would be leaving the confines of her home, her village, in a few hours to enter a completely different world. She was nervous but happy.

The wedding frenzy began at the crack of dawn on that fateful day. At around 11 o’clock, the village kids began running towards the house screaming, “Ayo hai, Ayo hai” (They are here, they are here). No sooner had they reached the house than a car came in sight; it was an I10 decked in floral arrangements, followed by a rally of vehicles. The villagers watched in amazement; the only vehicles they had closely seen were Baley’s scooter and Rajmaan’s Commander. For them, this was grand, royal almost. They whispered and sneered, some were green with envy, and others were just too surprised to react. Finally, the procession halted just above the house and people began to scramble out. More surprises for the villagers were in store as they saw people clothed in brightly colored attires that sparkled in the noonday sun, sunglasses perched on their faces like it was a part of their anatomy. Saila Bajey scrambled down the newly built staircase, hands folded with respect, happiness glinting in his eyes. Spotting a familiar face, he went ahead and bowed with hands joined in respect and humility.

At around 11 o’clock, the village kids began running towards the house screaming, “Ayo hai, Ayo hai” (They are here, they are here). No sooner had they reached the house than a car came in sight; it was an I10 decked in floral arrangements, followed by a rally of vehicles. The villagers watched in amazement; the only vehicles they had closely seen were Baley’s scooter and Rajmaan’s Commander. For them, this was grand, royal almost.

“My long-lost friend”, cried the other man, enveloping Saila Bajey in a hug. This was signal enough for the rest of the family to join Saila Bajey in welcoming the guests. The janti (groom’s party) was led towards the house, refreshments were served, and in a short while, the town folk were marvelling at the rustic festivities that they had almost forgotten existed. The rest of the day went by without any glitches save for the drunken skirmishes that accompany every wedding ceremony.

Amala stole glances at her husband, blushing every time he tried to make conversation. He was a heavy-built, muscular man with brown eyes that actually reminded her of a villain in a Nepali movie that she had watched long ago during her only visit to Jorethang Mela. She tried not to make anything of it; at least he resembled someone in a movie. By evening, the bride and groom were exhausted. Rice plastered on their forehead hid their frowns, but their eyes could not lie; they were also yawning at regular intervals and looked ready to collapse. Amidst all the madness, no one had remembered to feed the pair. Finally, after the last well-wisher had done his share of congratulating the couple, they were taken into the house from their makeshift mandap (makeshift stage for wedding ceremonies) and fed with the remains of the day’s feast.

As night fell, happiness mingled with liquor brought out the ‘Mithun’ in everyone, chairs were removed, and a dance floor came up in minutes. City folks danced to the tunes of new-age Nepali music that had become a rage in recent times while the villagers looked on, transfixed, eyes gleaming with some unidentifiable emotion. The celebration continued until the wee hours of the morning. Had it not been for sheer exhaustion, lord knows if it would’ve stopped at all. The wedding party was to leave early in the morning; they weren’t staying back. They had to be back at Gangtok; apparently, everyone had a ‘tight schedule’ that could not be compromised.

Tears were shed, promises of “will visit again” were spoken. The newlywed couple was sent back with sacks full of homegrown ginger, cardamom and all kinds of vegetables straight from the in-laws’ backyard. The accompanying janti looked quite pleased with their share of organic produce, courtesy of the bride’s family.

Tears were shed, promises of “will visit again” were spoken. The newlywed couple was sent back with sacks full of homegrown ginger, cardamom and all kinds of vegetables straight from the in-laws’ backyard. The accompanying janti looked quite pleased with their share of organic produce, courtesy of the bride’s family.

They left, raising a storm of dust along the newly dug road. Amala, too tired to keep her eyes open, eventually fell asleep and woke up just when their vehicle was climbing uphill from Ranipool. She looked on with bewilderment: concrete jungle and unending train of vehicles plying up and down were the first things she noticed. Her husband had not spoken a single word to her. Too shy to start up a conversation, she buried the hundreds of questions that had begun to crowd her mind, telling herself that she had enough time for that as she was to spend her life with him.

She looked on with bewilderment: concrete jungle and unending train of vehicles plying up and down were the first things she noticed. Her husband had not spoken a single word to her. Too shy to start up a conversation, she buried the hundreds of questions that had begun to crowd her mind, telling herself that she had enough time for that as she was to spend her life with him.

The vehicle slowed down and came to a stop at Tadong, just a few meters from the College. All the other vehicles accompanying them had gone their separate ways. Her husband spoke his very first words to her, “Time to get down”. Still clad in her wedding attire, she got down with wobbly feet and stood beside him as he gave orders to his driver to get their things home. He started walking and Amala followed him down a steep staircase. He stopped in front of a tall building and said, “This is where I live”. Unlike the few movies that she had watched, no welcoming rituals were performed for their homecoming. “Things must be done differently, life is not a movie after all”, Amala thought as she entered the house.

“Where is your father?” Amala spoke, her first ever words to her husband.                                               

“I do not live with my parents”, he replied without looking at her.

She nodded at his reply. The house was a three-roomed apartment with a kitchen extended into a living room and a balcony. Apparently, the husband did quite well for himself. Amala was quite in awe about the whole scene unfolding before her. “This will be your room”, the husband broke Amala’s daydream and pointed towards what appeared to be a room next to the kitchen. Something seemed amiss, but Amala did not have the energy to figure it out. Meanwhile, the driver had brought in their luggage and the husband was instructing him to put everything in place. Amala did not have a fancy trousseau; she had two bags of clothes and sacks of vegetables and spices to last a few months. Speaking of which, the sacks now looked ill-placed and neglected in the shiny tiled kitchen with its fancy appliances and marble countertops.

She went into her room and saw that her bags were already there. It was a modest-looking room with minimum furnishings: a bed, a bedside table, a vanity mirror and a cupboard. More than a bedroom, it looked like a guest room. But Amala had no idea; she had no experience to compare it with. Just as she was wondering what was next, her husband appeared in the doorway.“Freshen up if you want, I will be out for a few hours, cook anything you want, but don’t wait up for me”, and he disappeared before she could even reply. Amala thought it was odd that he had not entered his own room. He was being a gentleman, of course, that could be the reason, or he was too shy to interact. “These things take time”, she silently scolded herself for being too quick to question his motives. She decided to take a bath.

She came out of the bathroom with hesitating steps and walked towards the living room. The house felt empty. It was almost five o’clock in the evening, and the pale sunlight filtered through the curtains, casting long shadows. Amala felt a sense of loneliness creeping up from within, threatening to spill out in tears. She would not ruin it; this was the beginning of a good life and she could not give in to crying, no matter how much she missed the warmth and the familiarity of Jhyam. She walked towards the kitchen and found herself staring at appliances that looked too fancy to be touched. She opened the fridge only to be greeted by more packaged stuff that she did not recognise. Overwhelmed but also too tired to cook, she decided to eat the only thing she could recognize - bread that she spotted in one corner and some fruits for dinner. Unknowingly, she was adapting to urban life after all!

The house felt empty. It was almost five o’clock in the evening, and the pale sunlight filtered through the curtains, casting long shadows. Amala felt a sense of loneliness creeping up from within, threatening to spill out in tears. She would not ruin it; this was the beginning of a good life and she could not give in to crying, no matter how much she missed the warmth and the familiarity of Jhyam.

After finishing her dinner, she decided to explore the rest of the house. She found there were two other rooms apart from the one where she was housed. One of the rooms looked exactly like hers, but the other room was bigger in size and looked quite lived in. It had a bigger bed and was well furnished, unlike the other two rooms; this had personal belongings with photo frames and a painting adorning an entire wall. Her naivety failed to elicit the kind of suspicion that would otherwise have rattled a person with more worldly knowledge. But Amala came from a world where master bedrooms and living rooms were alien concepts. These things were beyond her comprehension; ignorance was bliss. The house tour did not take much time; she wandered back to the hall and decided to wait for her husband.

Her naivety failed to elicit the kind of suspicion that would otherwise have rattled a person with more worldly knowledge. But Amala came from a world where master bedrooms and living rooms were alien concepts. These things were beyond her comprehension; ignorance was bliss.

The rhythmic ticking of the wall clock lulled her to sleep; Amala woke up to faint light streaming from the windows. According to the clock, it was six in the morning; she had fallen asleep waiting for him. Waking up to a completely different view, it took her a couple of seconds to realise that she was in Gangtok and not Jhyam. Just as the reality was sinking in, she heard the door to the master bedroom open, expecting to see her husband, she looked towards the door, wary of how he might react.  Her eyes were greeted by a different pair of eyes, unlike the brown of her husband’s; his were black. He gave a warm smile and walked towards the kitchen, opened the refrigerator and grabbed a water bottle. His actions oozed a questionable familiarity.

“You must be Amala”, he said, but more to himself and sauntered back to the room.                 

  “Don’t forget to close the door”, the husband’s voice could be heard from within the room.

Amala looked at what had transpired before her, confusion clouding her thoughts. “He must be his best friend”, she thought as she began tying her hair up to prepare some tea for her husband and his best friend.

More than just Water Sources 

For many people in Gangtok, springs are not just an alternative. They are a necessity. A single household may require 50-100 litres of water per day for basic needs like drinking, cooking, and washing. Springs often help meet this demand where municipal supply is irregular. People collect water for drinking, washing, and other daily needs, especially in areas where access to municipal water is limited or uncertain.  In some neighbourhoods, visiting a nearby spring is still part of the daily routine. During conversations with residents, this dependence became even clearer. A shopkeeper in Burtuk shared that not only his shop but several nearby households depend on this water source.

For many people in Gangtok, springs are not just an alternative. They are a necessity...During conversations with residents, this dependence became even clearer. A shopkeeper in Burtuk shared that not only his shop but several nearby households depend on this water source.

A City Growing Around Water 

What is interesting about Gangtok is that many settlements have historically developed around these springs. Long before modern infrastructure, people chose to live close to reliable water sources. Today, even as the city expands and changes, this connection still exists.

What is interesting about Gangtok is that many settlements have historically developed around these springs. Long before modern infrastructure, people chose to live close to reliable water sources. Today, even as the city expands and changes, this connection still exists. In many areas, springs remain embedded within urban spaces, beside roads, hidden between houses, and along forested slopes. They form a quiet network that continues to support the city. This network is not made up of springs alone. In Sikkim, along with springs, there are also jhoras (small natural streams that carry water down the hills). These jhoras help feed many springs along the way. But in many places, they are being blocked, polluted, or disturbed by construction and waste. When this happens, it also affects the springs that depend on them.

Changing Patterns, Growing Concerns 

Many residents feel that some springs are not as abundant as they used to be. Changes in rainfall patterns, increasing construction are often seen as possible reasons. A homeowner in Deorali shared that since the construction of new houses began the water flow has noticeably reduced and may eventually dry up. He expressed concern that there should be stricter rules to prevent construction directly on or near natural springs.

Although many springs are perennial, residents say the flow decreases significantly during the summer months compared to earlier years. These changes are not always dramatic, but they are noticeable enough for people who depend on these sources daily. In some cases, the issue is not just natural changes but also everyday neglect.

Although many springs are perennial, residents say the flow decreases significantly during the summer months compared to earlier years. These changes are not always dramatic, but they are noticeable enough for people who depend on these sources daily. In some cases, the issue is not just natural changes but also everyday neglect. For example, leaking pipes have been observed near Amdo Golai, where water is continuously lost due to the lack of maintenance. Such carelessness adds pressure on already limited water resources.

Community Care and Shared Responsibility 

One of the most remarkable aspects of springs in Gangtok is how they are cared for. Even when there is no formal system in place, local communities often take responsibility in maintaining them. People clean the area, ensure the flow is not blocked, and share access with others. In many cases, these spaces are treated as common resources, regardless of whether they are on private or public land. This sense of shared ownership reflects a strong community connection to these water sources.

One of the most remarkable aspects of springs in Gangtok is how they are cared for. Even when there is no formal system in place, local communities often take responsibility in maintaining them. People clean the area, ensure the flow is not blocked, and share access with others. 

Some springs are also well-maintained. For example, ‘Bardang Dhara in Bardang’ and ‘Gai Dhara in Tadong’ are known to be relatively clean and well-kept, showing how community effort can make a difference. However, not all springs receive the same level of care. One spring near TNA has the potential to be a well-maintained public space, but it is dirty and with continuous water flow there is waterlogging in the surrounding area.

In Tathangchen, a house owner explained that some springs have small reservoir systems built upstream to store water. However, these are located higher up in the hills and reaching them during the rainy season becomes very difficult, and oten remains out of reach.

A Cultural Connection to Water 

Springs are not only practical, but they also carry cultural meaning. Many are considered sacred and are associated with long-standing beliefs and traditions. Some are linked to local deities, and others are used during festivals and rituals. These practices bring people together and reinforce the importance of protecting these sites. A driver shared an example of a dhara in Ranipool, which is believed to be associated with Naag deities. According to local belief, these serpent deities reside in such water sources, giving them spiritual importance and encouraging people to treat them with respect. This cultural layer adds another dimension to why springs continue to matter.

Springs are not only practical, but they also carry cultural meaning. Many are considered sacred and are associated with long-standing beliefs and traditions. Some are linked to local deities, and others are used during festivals and rituals. These practices bring people together and reinforce the importance of protecting these sites. 

Looking Ahead 

As Gangtok continues to grow, it is important not to overlook these natural systems. Springs are not outdated or temporary solutions. They are part of the city’s foundation.  Protecting them means not only ensuring water availability but also preserving community practices and local ecosystems. Certain areas, such as Deorali ward, are known to have a high concentration of springs, making them especially important from a planning and conservation perspective.

As Gangtok continues to grow, it is important not to overlook these natural systems. Springs are not outdated or temporary solutions. They are part of the city’s foundation.  Protecting them means not only ensuring water availability but also preserving community practices and local ecosystems. 

Sikkim already has initiatives like the ‘Dhara Vikas Programme’ that focus on protecting and reviving springs. However, in urban areas like Gangtok, where land use is constantly changing, springs need more focused attention, as they are more vulnerable to construction and everyday pressures. Small steps can go a long way in maintaining these vital sources. 

A Quiet but Essential System 

In many ways, springs represent a parallel water system. Deeply rooted in the landscape and culture of the region they operate alongside formal infrastructure. They may not always be visible in plans or policies, but for many people in Gangtok, they remain indispensable. In the face of growing water challenges, they are more important now than ever. As the city grows, the question is not whether these systems still matter but whether we are paying enough attention to them.

In many ways, springs represent a parallel water system...As the city grows, the question is not whether these systems still matter but whether we are paying enough attention to them.

Author's Note:

The insights presented in this article were developed during my internship at the Ashoka Trust for Research in Ecology and Environment (ATREE). I am grateful to the team for their support and to Dr. Sailendra Dewan for his guidance, supervision, and the opportunity to contribute to vital spring conservation effort.

In the verdant foothills just 1 km off Gangtok's National Highway, near the Military Police Golai (MP Golai) outpost, lies Samdur village. Nestled on the southern fringe of an army area, this collection of 5 hamlets - each averaging 50 households - shares an all-weather road with the northern Army Supply Depot.

Historical Dependence on Spring Water 

Samdur's water narrative stretches back far beyond modern infrastructure. I relocated here in 2010, but lifelong residents describe an unbroken ancestral reliance on these springs. Emerging from the army area's immediate northern slopes - topographically too rugged for barracks, depots, or any substantial buildings - these sources have reliably sustained the hamlets of Samdur village. Even during harsh winters, when flows naturally diminish, no severe drinking water crises have etched themselves into collective memory. “We've shared news of every hardship across these hamlets”, notes a neighbour whose family has tended the same spring for decades, “but water scarcity has never been among them”.

This reliability stands in stark contrast to Gangtok's recurrent monsoon predicaments. Landslides frequently disrupt the capital's primary reservoirs, such as Rateychu and Selep, plunging the city into shortages. Yet, in Samdur, household tanks continue to overflow. During the 2023 city-wide water alert, triggered by extensive slide damage, our springs gushed steadily, filling reservoirs and underscoring the quiet resilience of these rural peripheries. Community management systems enhance this bounty: in my case, five families share a single spring directly through a network of plastic pipes, bypassing intermediate storage. More distant groups channel water into harvest tanks funded by area MLAs, redistributing it equitably via gravity-fed lines. Maintenance remains a communal chore - often unblocking pipes clogged by monsoon mud twice a week - yet the water is free, a "gift of nature" requiring only collective labour and vigilance. 

Community management systems enhance this bounty: in my case, five families share a single spring directly through a network of plastic pipes, bypassing intermediate storage. More distant groups channel water into harvest tanks funded by area MLAs, redistributing it equitably via gravity-fed lines. Maintenance remains a communal chore - often unblocking pipes clogged by monsoon mud twice a week - yet the water is free, a "gift of nature" requiring only collective labour and vigilance. 

Solty, who is the caretaker of a private land, echoes these sentiments. “Repairs are a nuisance, sure, but shortages? Never crossed our path”, he remarked recently during our short conversation that we had while I was returning from dropping my son at the school bus stop. His family, like many others, including mine, has invested in plastic pipes and tanks - procured sometimes through the area MLA’s largesse but more often from personal pockets. In some hamlets, groups even split into two factions, each accessing distinct springs, blending grassroots self-help with sporadic political support. This patchwork has kept taps trickling since time immemorial, even as residents born here attest to its continuity from their grandparents' era. 

Solty, who is the caretaker of a private land, echoes these sentiments. “Repairs are a nuisance, sure, but shortages? Never crossed our path”, he remarked recently...His family, like many others, including mine, has invested in plastic pipes and tanks - procured sometimes through the area MLA’s largesse but more often from personal pockets. In some hamlets, groups even split into two factions, each accessing distinct springs, blending grassroots self-help with sporadic political support. This patchwork has kept taps trickling since time immemorial, even as residents born here attest to its continuity from their grandparents' era. 

The Army's Unintended Gift: Topography and Springs 

The army area's unique layout has fortuitously preserved these resources. Steep northern gradients, perforce dismissed as wasteland unsuitable for development, host the majority of springs untouched by construction. Had these slopes been more amenable to building, reinforced concrete (RCC) structures would likely have overtaken them, as witnessed elsewhere in the army area and across Sikkim. Instead, civilians retain access via the shared all-weather road, piping water southward across the invisible border. This default arrangement, shielded by topography rather than policy, has endured for decades, allowing hamlets like those in Samdur to thrive without formal intervention. 

Yet, irony permeates the situation. Samdur qualifies as urban under municipal boundaries, lying mere kilometres from Gangtok's bustling core, but it lacks any reliable piped supply. A few years ago, an Asian Development Bank (ADB)-sanctioned project brought hope: pipes were laid, and a harvest tank was constructed at the village's higher reaches. Lines snaked downhill toward homes, promising integration into the urban grid. But the flow? Non-existent. Homes in my hamlet and others remain unconnected; the scheme stalled amid bureaucratic snags, leaving a bitter irony - urban classification, a title without the corresponding amenities. 

Samdur qualifies as urban under municipal boundaries, lying mere kilometres from Gangtok's bustling core, but it lacks any reliable piped supply. A few years ago, an Asian Development Bank (ADB)-sanctioned project brought hope: pipes were laid, and a harvest tank was constructed at the village's higher reaches. Lines snaked downhill toward homes, promising integration into the urban grid. But the flow? Non-existent. Homes in my hamlet and others remain unconnected; the scheme stalled amid bureaucratic snags, leaving a bitter irony - urban classification, a title without the corresponding amenities. 

Emerging Threats: Diminishing Flows and Human Pressures 

Recent years have exposed troubling cracks in this system. Spring yields have noticeably waned, appearing visibly less vigorous and signalling an existential risk. “Springs are dying year by year”, has become a familiar refrain among villagers, uttered not cynically but based on empirical observation of daily flows. Multiple factors converge to exacerbate the decline. 

“Springs are dying year by year”, has become a familiar refrain among villagers, uttered not cynically but based on empirical observation of daily flows. Multiple factors converge to exacerbate the decline. 

Foremost among them are upstream army constructions. What were once temporary galvanised iron (GI) sheet sheds have given way to a frenzy of RCC buildings - complete with extensive excavations and earthworks that disrupt aquifers and subterranean flows. These activities push water tables lower, throttling natural recharge. Before 2015, spring outputs held relatively steady; since then, declines have accelerated, correlating directly with the construction boom. 

Climate change compounds these anthropogenic pressures. Sikkim's springs, primarily recharged by monsoon rains, glacial melt, and forest aquifers, now falter under erratic precipitation patterns, prolonged dry spells, and rising temperatures. State government reports document 30-50% yield drops in eastern Himalayan springs since 2000, a trend mirrored precisely in Samdur. Diminished snowpack in upstream catchments starves high-altitude feeders, while even minor deforestation - whether army-related or incidental - erodes soil moisture retention. No severe shortages have materialised yet, buffered by our small scale and conservative usage, but the trajectory alarms residents as populations inch upward and Gangtok's tourism spillover adds peripheral strain. 

Community Ingenuity Amid Government Gaps 

Where grand schemes falter, residents demonstrate remarkable ingenuity. MLA grants occasionally fund tanks and pipes, but hamlet groups shoulder the rest: rotational repair schedules, equitable distribution protocols, and emergency fixes. My five-family quintet manages its spring directly, minimising losses; harvest-dependent clusters in other hamlets rotate maintenance duties, trekking to unclog monsoon blockages through muddy paths. The reward? Pure, free water, untainted by treatment chemicals. 

One such stalwart is David - real name Dawa Tamang, but barely anyone recognises that; "David” echoes universally throughout the village, let alone our hamlet. A bulky Tamang lad, he single handedly cleared a major landslide blockage last July, spending hours knee-deep in slurry while others “sent prayers”.

Then there's Mama, actually uncle to one village boy but dubbed "Mama" by all, for all practical purposes, the vernacular “Gaonley Mama” village father figure. His real name is Chandra Bahadur Rai, but hardly anyone recalls that name. With his battered toolkit and endless yarns, he orchestrates rotas, mediating squabbles over pipe shares. Last monsoon, I joined them on a dawn repair: hacking roots from our intake pipe, we bantered through the muck, emerging triumphant with restored flow.

In Samdur, informal Dzumsa-like structures have emerged organically around figures like David and Mama, proving adaptable and scalable within our modest hamlets. Yet, as springs fade, the limits of communal effort become stark: labour-intensive repairs cannot reverse hydrological decline indefinitely. 

This approach echoes North Sikkim's venerable ‘Dzumsa’ traditions - village councils that self-govern resources through consensus and custom. In Samdur, informal Dzumsa-like structures have emerged organically around figures like David and Mama, proving adaptable and scalable within our modest hamlets. Yet, as springs fade, the limits of communal effort become stark: labour-intensive repairs cannot reverse hydrological decline indefinitely. 

Policy Ironies and Pathways Forward 

Samdur's proximity to Gangtok lays bare profound absurdities. Tagged as urban yet chronically underserved, it exemplifies peri-urban neglect in Sikkim's development narrative. The ADB project’s aborted pipes symbolise systemic failures: funds sanctioned, half-built infrastructure abandoned, and zero delivery to end-users. State water plans, overseen by the Public Health Engineering Department (PHED), prioritise Gangtok's core despite mandates for 24/7 supply across urban wards. 

There is a proverb: “There is always darkness beneath the lamp”. A lamp may illuminate the room around it, yet the small circle directly beneath its flame often remains in shadow. Samdur village, in many ways, lives within that shadow cast by the bright lamp of Gangtok.

There is a proverb: “There is always darkness beneath the lamp”. A lamp may illuminate the room around it, yet the small circle directly beneath its flame often remains in shadow. Samdur village, in many ways, lives within that shadow cast by the bright lamp of Gangtok. We are only a few kilometres from the National Highway, and our hamlets fall officially under the Ranipool Municipal Ward. On paper, we belong to the orbit of the city. In lived reality, however, Samdur occupies a quieter and more uncertain edge - close enough to witness development, yet distant enough to remain only partially touched by it. 

The story of our roads captures this contradiction most clearly. The only dependable all‑weather road in the area was built not by the state government but by the army authorities. It runs along the southern boundary of the military land, almost like a line separating two worlds. The villagers must still climb upward to reach it, for the hamlets themselves lie scattered lower down the slopes. Once one leaves that road behind, the terrain changes quickly into narrow footpaths, mud tracks, and unfinished stretches that become difficult during the monsoon. Years ago, work began on a small road project for one of the hamlets. Even today, it remains incomplete, suspended between promise and abandonment. Other hamlets continue without any direct motorable access at all. 

Electricity, too, arrives in Samdur with hesitation. The power lines are present, but during the early mornings and evenings, when demand increases, the voltage weakens so much that ordinary appliances falter into silence. Bulbs dim unexpectedly. Induction cooktops flicker. A microwave hesitates before refusing to start. In all fairness, water presents a different picture, though. For generations, the springs around Samdur have sustained the hamlets with remarkable generosity.  Even during winter, severe shortages have been rare. Because of this, the absence of a formal piped water system cannot be described only as neglect. The reliability of the springs created a kind of quiet self‑reliance among the villagers. Without the pressure of an acute crisis, demands for large‑scale intervention never gathered urgency. In this sense, nature itself softened the edge of political necessity.

Yet roads and electricity belong to a different category altogether. They depend not on the moods of springs or seasons, but on planning, sustained investment, and administrative attention. And perhaps that is why the old proverb still lingers in conversation here. The darkness beneath the lamp is not some ancient curse or irreversible condition. It exists because the light has not yet fully reached there. Samdur’s story is therefore less about grievance than about a visible imbalance. It is an emphatic affirmation of the belief that places standing closest to the glow should not remain unseen forever.

Practical pathways forward exist if pursued with resolve. While Samdur continues to face shortcomings in other essential services, such as roads and electricity, as elaborated earlier, the scope of this discussion remains with water, because water is where both the village’s vulnerabilities and possibilities become most visible. Reviving the ADB infrastructure with local oversight - empowering hamlet committees for last-mile connections - could bridge the gap swiftly. Army-civilian collaboration offers promise: joint watershed protection agreements to restrict upstream builds near critical springs. Rooftop rainwater harvesting, already mandated in Sikkim's building bylaws, remains underutilised; my own home's tank overflows unused during monsoons, a missed opportunity for supplementation. 

Practical pathways forward exist if pursued with resolve. While Samdur continues to face shortcomings in other essential services, such as roads and electricity, as elaborated earlier, the scope of this discussion remains with water, because water is where both the village’s vulnerabilities and possibilities become most visible. Reviving the ADB infrastructure with local oversight - empowering hamlet committees for last-mile connections - could bridge the gap swiftly. Army-civilian collaboration offers promise: joint watershed protection agreements to restrict upstream builds near critical springs. Rooftop rainwater harvesting, already mandated in Sikkim's building bylaws, remains underutilised; my own home's tank overflows unused during monsoons, a missed opportunity for supplementation. 

Proven interventions nearby provide blueprints. Climate-resilient recharge pits - trenches that divert surface runoff back into aquifers - have boosted yields in Rumtek village. Community micro-grids, powered by solar pumps to elevate spring water into elevated tanks, enhance reliability without grid dependence. On the policy front, reclassifying peri-urban hamlets like Samdur for priority funding and integrating them into Gangtok's master plan would align rhetoric with reality. Sikkim's ‘Jal Jeevan Mission’, targeting 100% piped coverage by 2024, has left Samdur lagging. 

A Turning Point at Golai 

Samdur's springs, once seemingly eternal, now signal urgent peril. Their decline - scarred by construction, stressed by climate - threatens a foundational lifeline for 200-250 households across our hamlets. Yet, community grit persists: from Solty's steadfast stewardship to our relentless repair rotations, it buys precious time. As Gangtok's crisis-prone taps falter annually, Samdur's hamlets quietly offer counter-lessons in nature-endowed, human-maintained resilience.  At MP Golai's symbolic turn, we stand at a hydrological crossroads. Sustain these springs through vigilant protection and innovative augmentation, or risk urban shadows engulfing rural oases. For now, water still flows - thinner, but freely. Tomorrow demands a clear vision: blending ancestral tradition, accessible technology, and unyielding tenacity to quench Samdur's thirst for the long term.

At MP Golai's symbolic turn, we stand at a hydrological crossroads. Sustain these springs through vigilant protection and innovative augmentation, or risk urban shadows engulfing rural oases. For now, water still flows - thinner, but freely. Tomorrow demands a clear vision: blending ancestral tradition, accessible technology, and unyielding tenacity to quench Samdur's thirst for the long term.

1992

Beneath the last pine tree of Hospital Dara, the boy built his first business where people came to confirm what they already feared and paid in coins to delay the thought.

The hospital did not rush anyone. It allowed dread to settle properly. Inside, the corridors smelt of antiseptic layered over something older, while the dental wing carried its thin metallic chorus of drills and rinses and controlled discomfort. Outside, the queue bent without complaint.

Old couples arrived hand in hand, not tenderly but with agreement, fingers interlocked as though they had decided long ago that whatever came would be received together. They leaned close and spoke softly of names and dates that had already been rehearsed. Younger men stood apart with folded slips that did not yet matter, while women adjusted shawls that did not require adjusting.

Below this slow arrangement, where order loosened, the boy sat on a flattened cardboard that had learnt him. One leg bent, the heel turned stubbornly towards heaven, as though drawn upward by something it refused to explain, while the other stretched away in quiet refusal. Between them he held a small territory that did not ask permission.

The coins came mostly from the old. They paused longer, looked once, sometimes twice, and gave as though completing a thought they had begun elsewhere.

Within a week he understood coins not as money but as language. He learnt their weight, their sound, their urgency. At the hospital counter, a card required five rupees, and people arrived with notes too large for the system to accommodate. He had coins. Transactions formed around him without announcement. They gave him more than required, not out of generosity but convenience, and he accepted with the seriousness of someone entering a profession.

He became, within days, a master of coins.

Hospitals did not make people generous. They made them practical.

No one carried a voice with them then. Messages stayed where they were spoken.

Months passed until a traffic constable at Hospital Dara, who had watched him without appearing to, stepped out of his routine and stood before him.

“You have understood business,” the traffic constable said. “Now change location.”

He pointed down the road. “Here, people are worried. They count. There, they forget.”

A pause. “Lal Bazaar. More walking. More seeing. People must see you to give. Sitting here you are useful. Sitting there you will be profitable.”

The boy did not argue. The next morning he carried his cardboard-like inventory and moved towards Lal Bazaar, where money moved faster than thought.

Lal Bazaar was already in motion when he arrived, vegetables spread in uneven colours on damp sheets, vendors calling out prices that shifted with the listener’s face. The air carried coriander, soil, frying oil, and the murmur of negotiation. Near Denjong Cinema Hall stood two neighbouring shops, one turning out samosas in a steady rhythm, each batch vanishing almost as it appeared, the other stacked with cassette players and large sound boxes, their music updated to echo whatever the cinema’s posters announced.

A painted poster flapped loosely against the wall of the cinema, its colours slightly faded but its promise intact. Saajan ran inside to full houses, its story repeating for those who returned to it.

Inside, the man in the film moved with difficulty, his leg failing him, his words doing what his body could not. Women wept for him without hesitation, the suffering arranged carefully enough to be believed.

Inside Lal Bazaar, the road loosened and slipped into trade without announcement, as if walking had simply decided to become buying. Under sagging tarpaulin tents sat villagers, still and unperforming, their goods laid close to the ground. One stall insisted on order. Bottles stood aligned with quiet authority. “Careful, if you break. Then you take.”

The bottles were reused,their labels faded but stubborn. Honey Bee brandy had been replaced by thick village honey that held the light in slow suspension, undecided between liquid and memory.

A single honeybee circled them, restless and faintly offended, a hill-born gatherer drawn by instinct yet checked by glass, by sealing, by this bottled, almost urban arrangement of sweetness. It tapped, retreated, returned again. It could not enter, yet refused to leave.

Customers stepped back. Irritation came first, then a thin, unnecessary fear. The vendor ignored both insect and human alike. Nothing shifted. The honey held its light. The bee persisted.

The boy chose his place and laid down his cardboard with care. His first day rewarded him. Coins came, then notes, then more coins. Lal Bazaar accepted him without inspection. People argued over vegetables and surrendered to snacks, frugality and indulgence kept in separate pockets, while the bee continued its small, determined attempt to reach sweetness that would not open.

Then the Denjong Cinema Hall’s doors opened.

“Khi Khyam! Kusyu Buk! Buttuwa Kukur! Stray Dog!”

“Pagla Rambo!” someone shouted from the doorway, the insult thrown without emphasis, as if it had been used many times before.

The man was shoved forward with a force that suggested prior familiarity, his body pitching into the open like something returned rather than released. He was shabby beyond repair, his shirt stiff with old stains, his trousers marked by drink and neglect, the zip left open without concern. A sour smell travelled with him, thick with cheap alcohol and the stale persistence of urine, settling into the air with quiet authority.

He stumbled once, then corrected himself too quickly, his limbs moving with a jerking urgency that did not belong to balance. His grin remained, though its purpose had been forgotten, laughter breaking apart before it could complete itself.

He moved fast, too fast for his shape, and placed a hand upon a woman at the samosa stall with the misplaced confidence of someone who had stopped recognising consequence. She screamed. The vendor lunged. Oil spat in agreement.

The man fled.

He lurched forward in uneven bursts and dropped beside the boy, dragging cardboard over himself as though it might defend him. The smell arrived fully now, immediate and unavoidable.

His breathing came loud. Then he turned.

“You,” he said. “Which cripple are you?”

The boy said nothing. Rambo narrowed his eyes.

“Go to Naya Bazaar. Sit near Gandhiji. Good sympathy there. Here,” he tapped the ground, “premium property.”

Rambo leaned closer. “I own this area. Shopkeepers, cars, police, dogs. Even the view.”

The boy remained still. Rambo watched, then adjusted.

“Fine. You sing?, Dance? Cry properly? Any begging skill?”

The boy shook his head. Rambo clicked his tongue and leaned back, his gaze drifting briefly towards the cinema poster. 

Then Rambo, Gangtok’s madman with matted hair, a split lip, and shining eyes, swayed over the beggar and nodded with drunken authority.

“Saajan,” he declared. “That’ll be your name.”

Then he sang, voice jagged and triumphant, “O Mere Saajan, Saajan, Saajan, Saajan,” Oh My Beloved, Beloved, Beloved, Beloved, “Ishq Mein Jeena Hai, Ishq Mein Marna Hai,” In Love I Want To Live, And In Love I Want To Die.

~

2005

From below, they saw the name first, the new letters of KANCHENJUNGA SHOPPING COMPLEX cut in metal and fixed into the concrete face, catching what little light the night allowed and holding it, as if the building had learnt how to shine before it had learnt how to open. The spelling sat slightly wrong, stretched heavier than needed, as though even the mountain had been made to fit a shape that did not belong to it.

Rambo stood still a moment; head tilted back, and then let out a breath that turned into a laugh.

“Let’s take you there,” Rambo said, tapping his chest. “I’ve already been. Been everywhere inside.”

He grinned. “Once it opens, you won’t be allowed. Opening ceremony. Big people.”

Rambo pointed at the building, then at himself, then at Saajan.

Saajan shifted beside him, his good leg holding while the other dragged. He said nothing. Behind the structure, beyond scaffolding and cement, Mt. Kangchendzonga stood without effort. Some carried small devices that rang without warning, voices travelling through them detached from place. Rambo spat, wiped his mouth, and turned towards the back lanes where the city loosened, garbage bins leaning into one another, the smell thick but settled.

Rambo searched through discarded cardboard and broken pieces until he found a bamboo basket that once carried vegetables, empty but holding its shape, with two uneven holes cut into its sides.

He turned it once, pressed its weave, then nodded. “This will do.”

“You want to go or not?” Saajan nodded.

“You lazy, frightened stray dog. Come.” Rambo set it down.

Saajan dragged himself forward, palms placing and pulling, the good leg pushing and the other following late. Rambo bent, slipped his arms under his shoulders, lifted, stopped, adjusted, and lifted again.

Saajan rose, slipped, caught his shoulder. They held.

Rambo lowered him into the basket, pressing one leg down, folding it where it resisted, guiding the other through. “Stray Dog…Sit straight.” The basket fixed his shape. From inside it, the world shifted; not higher, but displaced.

Rambo tore strips from his shirt, tied them across Saajan and beneath the basket, tested the knots. “Good.” Rambo slipped his arms through, bent low, and lifted. The first attempt failed but with the second, he began taking short steps.

The strain travelled through him into the basket so that Saajan felt each correction, each imbalance.

The building stood open ahead. “Four floors. One. Two. Three. Four.”

Rambo began to climb. The first flight was slow. By the second, he stopped.

“Wait.” By the third, his breath grew louder, shoulders trembling.

By the fourth, he did not stop. He leaned forward and kept moving until he reached the top, stumbled, caught himself. They reached the terrace with Rambo leaning forward under the weight, his breath loud, the basket shifting against his back.

He stood there a moment before lowering the basket. Saajan slid partially out. Rambo looked up at the thin rods rising from the concrete. He smiled.

Rambo stepped onto them, testing each step, slipped once, caught himself, laughed, then sat and began to urinate. Mt. Kangchendzonga stood vast and silent.

“I’d piss everywhere, but not towards her.” He took out a crumpled packet and held a hundred-rupee note. On it, the mountain stood printed and contained. Behind him, the real one shifted between silver and ash. 

A thin wind crossed. The note trembled. The mountain did not. For a moment, they aligned.

“See,” Rambo said. “To get her, I had to do it.” He tapped his face. “The slaps were worth it.”

The note trembled again. The mountain did not.

Rambo brought him down slowly, stopping once to breathe, then out into the lanes without looking back. They returned to Khandala, the abandoned house where they stayed, walls cracked, windows gone, the smell of stale liquor and damp cloth settled into everything. Rambo lowered the basket and sat against the wall, his legs trembling once before holding. Saajan pulled himself free while the basket remained where it had been placed, and no one asked anything.

~

The next day Rambo sat in the alley where alu chewra was served on torn schoolbook paper, oil soaking into old lessons, people eating with small cardboard spoons.

Rambo carried the bottle loosely. When he drank, the taste did not correct him at once; only after it settled did the difference begin. He coughed once, then again.

“Still here.” His breathing shortened, not suddenly but as if space within him were closing. The alley did not change.

“I piss everywhere,” he said, softer now, “but not towards my mountain.” 

A pause. “Like that orchid…” The sentence did not finish. He tried to laugh. Nothing came. His body folded inward slowly.

~

A scooter passed at the mouth of the alley. Someone stepped aside. The alley continued. From inside, voices rose. “Dead.” “Pagla Rambo is dead.”

“Don’t touch.” “Leave it.” “Call the police.” The words remained.

Saajan turned. He did not move at once. Then he dragged himself forward, palms placing and pulling, until the alley opened before him. People stood around the body, not close, not far. No one touched him.

Saajan moved closer. The smell came first. Rambo lay where he had folded. Saajan waited. Nothing changed.

He reached out, pressed the shoulder once, then again, and as his hand slipped he caught the bottle, lifted it slightly, and the smell that rose was kerosene, sharp and thin, cutting through, and he held it there a moment before letting it rest.

His hand remained. Then withdrew. Saajan lowered himself beside him. The alley did not change.

“Police are coming,” someone said.

Saajan reached into the pocket and drew out the folded note. He looked at it briefly. Then kept it.

For a short while, Gangtokians said Pagla Rambo had died after consuming kerosene. The version held because it was easy to repeat. Some women were relieved. Even in death, he had done it with drama.

~

2011

To forget Rambo, Saajan moved. Not far. Just enough for the city to change its behaviour around him.

He settled near MG Marg, outside a public toilet where the rate had increased without announcement. People paused longer there now, calculating urgency against cost, some stepping away, some returning, their bladders negotiating what the city had begun to charge.

Traffic had thickened by then. Vehicles did not pass so much as accumulate, holding themselves in place until movement returned in short, reluctant bursts. Those caught between signals arrived at the toilet with a confusion that did not belong entirely to the body.

Some paid. Some did not. Relief adjusted accordingly. Saajan remained. The city continued to grow around him.

The day began under a sky that held the last of the monsoon without releasing it, the air damp and faintly metallic, carrying the residue of rain that had already passed. It was the eighteenth of September, late afternoon, and Gangtok wore its newer surfaces carefully, as though aware they had not always been there.

MG Marg had learnt how to behave. Once a road, it had been levelled into a promenade, its stones aligned, its benches placed with intention, its edges kept clean in ways that suggested supervision. Vehicles had been removed, and in their absence movement changed, no longer crossing but circulating, as though walking itself had been reorganised.

Below it, Lal Bazaar continued without instruction, close and functional, unwilling to widen itself for comfort, its goods arranged by use rather than symmetry, vegetables still carrying soil, voices negotiating without pause. If MG Marg presented the city, Lal Bazaar continued it.

Saajan had been moved by then, shifted from the corner near Denjong Cinema to the flyover above Sher-E-Punjab, where movement separated into levels and no longer paused long enough to notice him.

Nearby, alu chewra had changed its manners, now served on thin silver foil plates with plastic spoons that bent less but said more about improvement than taste.

The day assembled itself through small repetitions: prayer flags adjusting to uncertain wind, tea poured into glasses that held heat unevenly, voices overlapping without agreement.

Then the ground intervened.

At first, it felt like hesitation, something that might belong to the body, but it deepened quickly into something larger. The surface moved in uneven waves, sustained rather than sharp, as though the mountain had reconsidered its stillness.

Gangtok shifted.MG Marg held its order, though the buildings around it loosened slightly, lines adjusting without fully giving way. Lal Bazaar answered more directly, goods lifted and reset, continuation taking precedence over stability.

The shaking lasted long enough to remove doubt. Windows rattled, shutters struck against themselves, and utensils collided in uneven rhythm, a sound of breaking travelling without immediately revealing its source.

People moved without agreement; some running, others standing still—as though waiting for the ground to decide. Explanations followed and dissolved just as quickly.

“Earthquake!” “Strong one!” “Angry Gods!” “Kalyug!”

Phones appeared, lifted into the air, searching for signal, for confirmation, for something beyond what could be seen. Many did not connect. When the movement reduced, it withdrew rather than ended, leaving dust in the fading light and dampness returning beneath it.

Information followed in fragments: a strong earthquake, near magnitude seven, somewhere to the north. Names moved through conversation-Mangan, Chungthang, Singtam-each carrying damage that had not yet settled into certainty.

Numbers followed. They did not remain small.

Roads were said to be cut by landslides that followed the shaking, as though the mountain had continued the event on its own terms. Buildings had fallen in places where stability had been assumed, and the count of the dead rose without settling.

Saajan remained where he was. The movement passed through him without displacing him, though the concrete beneath him shifted slightly, enough to register. Coins in his pouch struck each other during the shaking, their sound contained.

By evening, people gathered in open spaces.

Paljor Stadium filled first, offering distance from buildings that had briefly revealed their uncertainty. Families arrived carrying blankets and small bundles, sitting close together while looking upward more often than around.

The first tents appeared there before night settled. They were set by those who measured rather than feared-engineers and contractors who understood how structures held and how they failed-choosing open ground not from panic but from calculation.

Tarpaulin stretched across spaces, lifting and falling in uneven wind, producing a sound that repeated without pattern. People gathered beneath, repeating what they had heard, adjusting details without resolving them.

A child handed Saajan a biscuit. It had absorbed the air. Saajan held it briefly. Then ate it. The ground had shifted. The biscuit had not.

Helicopters moved through the valley later, their sound arriving before their shape.

The ground moved again that night, smaller but enough to unsettle what had begun to settle. Aftershocks followed in irregular intervals, making stillness unreliable.

Saajan lay awake. The city no longer arranged itself in familiar ways. Lines appeared where there were none; not cracks and not roads, but markings that suggested the movement had not finished. There was no one walking them. The memory remained. When Saajan opened his eyes, it was gone.

The ground held. For now.

~

2013-2020

Neon entered Gangtok gradually, not as an arrival but as accumulation, first appearing where it was not required and then remaining long enough to become part of the surface, until the night itself began to depend on it.

Evenings no longer dimmed evenly. Light settled across glass and concrete in colours that did not align but did not cancel one another, holding their place without resolving.

The air changed with it, holding less of the old dampness and more of what lingered between surfaces; heat, fuel, plastic, and food oil used beyond its first intention. After rain, the ground still darkened, but it did not remain so for long, and the smell of wet earth gave way quickly to something sharper.

Glass multiplied across buildings and storefronts, creating surfaces that reflected other surfaces, one window holding another, then another behind it, until depth appeared without resolving into distance. People moved through these reflections and did not always return whole, their shapes breaking slightly before reassembling, their expressions remaining a moment longer than the bodies that produced them.

Saajan remained where he had always been.

Screens settled into hands permanently, and people began to look downward more often than ahead, their attention held by movements that did not belong to the street. What appeared on those screens began to carry more weight than what stood directly before them.

Across the street, plastic orchids appeared in the windows of a building, arranged carefully behind glass, their colours consistent, their petals holding shape without adjustment, unaffected by air and untouched by time. They required nothing and responded to nothing.

People noticed. They did not say so. The real orchids reduced slowly, becoming occasional, then uncertain, then dependent on chance rather than placement.

One afternoon, during a brief return of rain, a real orchid appeared among them, placed within the same window across the street. Its petals were uneven; one edge already thinning as though time had continued through it while everything else had paused. Water gathered along its surface and slipped away without a pattern.

No one moved it. It remained through the day and into the next. Saajan watched from where he was. Then it was gone. The space it left held briefly before being filled again.

Across the street, the plastic orchids remained.

Elections continued, and the pamphlets changed with them, becoming thicker, smoother, more resistant to folding, their print sharper and their surfaces more durable. The faces appeared clearer, though they remained just as temporary.

The gesture did not change. They were still placed into Saajan’s hands in the same way, and Saajan accepted them without looking at the faces, noticing instead the paper-its texture, its stiffness, its use.

Convoys returned with the same pattern, though the vehicles improved, larger, darker, more enclosed, their surfaces reflecting more while revealing less. The siren remained unchanged, arriving before the vehicles and lingering after they passed.

Gangtok learnt to glow. The night no longer deepened but held its brightness in place, and shadows shortened, staying close to the objects that produced them instead of extending outward.

Then, in 2020, the city changed again.

The shift arrived through instruction, repeated across spaces until it became habit, the word COVID-19 circulating widely, spoken often enough to lose sharpness while gaining weight. Shutters closed and remained closed, and the streets emptied in a way that felt arranged rather than gradual, as though absence itself had been organised.

Movement reduced, and then paused, and the usual layering of sound thinned into something quieter that did not settle into silence but hovered just above it.

People appeared differently when they appeared at all, faces covered by masks worn correctly, incorrectly, or not at all, speech softened, distance measured and then forgotten. Circles were drawn outside shops, and people stood within them, moving forward only when the space ahead cleared, repeating the motion without conversation.

Small bottles appeared at entrances, pressed into hands before entry, their sharp alcohol smell cutting briefly through the air, leaving palms cold before drying into nothing. Hands learnt new habits, rubbing quickly and repeatedly, as though cleanliness could be confirmed through friction.

The air cleared for a while, and distant hills appeared more sharply than they had in years, the sky widening without changing, revealing what had been obscured by use.

Neon did not stop. It remained lit, holding its colour against empty streets as though presence had never been required.

Saajan remained.

From inside a closed shop, a song played at a volume that did not travel and did not disappear, repeating without variation as though it had been left on without intention—

“Jaha bagcha Teesta Rangeet, tya Kanchanjunga stit…” - Where the Teesta and Rangeet flow, there stands Mt. Kangchendzonga…

Inside, an old shopkeeper coughed once, then again, listening without adjusting the sound. From across the street, the plastic orchids held their place behind glass.

Later, people stood in new lines for vaccination, sleeves rolled, waiting not for cure but for permission to return to something that had already changed.

Days passed without marking themselves clearly. When movement returned, it did so carefully, shops opening partially before opening fully, voices returning in fragments before becoming continuous again, traffic resuming without its previous density.

The system continued. Saajan did not adjust. Saajan watched.

~

2025

By 2025, Gangtok had aligned itself without asking whether alignment was possible. Surfaces held. Reflections repeated. Nothing required depth.

A new mall rose above everything else. It could be seen from anywhere in the city, appearing between buildings, above roofs, behind turns, as though it had learnt how to enter every line of sight without invitation. It did not wait to be looked at. It imposed itself.

Rambo would have pointed at the mall, laughed and said it looked like a middle finger, not raised in anger but in habit.

From certain angles, it resembled a presence that did not withdraw, appearing where it was not required, its glass holding more than it revealed. It stood like an attention that could not turn away, as though the city had developed a habit of returning to the same surface even when nothing changed.

He and Rambo would not have been allowed inside. The thought remained, not because it required confirmation, but because it carried its own certainty. Entrances suggested openness, but the conditions were different now. Cleaner, controlled, measured in ways that did not include people like him.

The MG Marg above held its sharp edges, clean and arranged, where people once crossed freely but now moved in order. And a full-length statue of Mahatma Gandhi stood motionless in mid-step at the entrance.

Saajan remained where he was, the flyover. Below, he overheard a lady standing with her phone pressed between shoulder and ear, her voice moving while the road below did not.

“If the cable car started from Ranipool, I could reach before the attendance register decides otherwise… how long to keep explaining the same delay to the boss.” Her office was not far; she could have walked, but that measure had already been set aside. She glanced at the line of vehicles held in place. “The traffic stands,” she said softly. “Only the excuses arrive on time.” The call ended.

Time had moved through Saajan without announcement. The boy who had once sat on flattened cardboard at Hospital Dara had not disappeared, but he no longer occupied the same form. His hair had thinned and then given way to white, settling into an uneven beard as though it had followed its own logic rather than his. His face appeared narrow and sunken while his hands carried the same motion as before, but slower.

Between two buildings, a narrow gap held. At first, it appeared as brightness. Then it clarified into a line, a fragment of Mt. Kangchendzonga, silver and still, held in place by the space that allowed it to exist.

Looking at it, Saajan reached into his cloth pouch and took out the folded note. The paper had softened over time, its edges worn, its creases holding where they had been pressed and pressed again. The mountain printed upon it stood contained, reduced to ink and boundary. He held it up. The wind moved through the paper first. It trembled lightly between his fingers. He adjusted his hand once. Then again. Until the printed mountain and the distant line held together.

For a moment, they aligned. The paper shook. The mountain did not. He held it there a moment longer than required, the gesture settling into him as it had once belonged to someone else. The hand did not lower at once. When it did, it was careful. The note folded along its old crease, and the line between the buildings had already begun to reduce. He did not follow it.

Somewhere, without direction-

“O mere Saajan, Saajan, Saajan, Saajan…” Oh my beloved, beloved, beloved, beloved…

“Ishq mein jeena hai, ishq mein marna hai…” In love I want to live, in love I want to die.

The sound did not remain, replaced by a new gossip in the town. There was someone new now. A man who carried a stick and struck without warning. They had given him a name already. Aashiqui.

Saajan, on the other end, remained while the buildings in Gangtok continued to rise, not reaching but repeating, as though each new height practised, in glass and concrete, the shape of Mt. Kangchendzonga without ever arriving at it.

~

P.S.

• Gangtok once had a Rambo. Not the one from films. Someone smaller, local, and repeatedly remembered.
• Near Lal Bazaar, there is a place called Khandala. It does not appear on maps. People gather, sleep, disappear, and return. Everyone knows where it is. No one points.
• An earlier hundred-rupee note carried Mt. Kangchendzonga. The design changed. The note remained. The mountain remained.

Through almost 20 years visiting Gangtok, the answer that comes to my mind is ‘dense’. My answer would be very disappointing for the authorities responsible for promoting Gangtok. However for residents, density structures urban life, manifesting in everything from traffic jams to waste disposal. 

Density matters for planners too. Planning documents stress density as the major urban challenge. Across time—from the 1987 document Gangtok Integrated Development Plan- 2000 (Local Self-Government and Housing Department, 1987) to the 2023 document Gangtok 2041 (Urban Development Department, 2023)—the challenge for planners remains how to accommodate accelerating demand for housing and services with a limited supply of land? 

To me density is neither negative or positive, rather it’s the defining characteristic of urbanization in Gangtok and mountain cities more generally. In this article, I explore ways of thinking about urban density that go beyond numerical measurement to the ways density is experienced using the concept of ‘urban atmospheres’.     

Gangtok’s Density

Since 1972 Gangtok has added a lot of people, while the area of the city has grown slowly, especially since 1991. The Gangtok Municipal Corporation lists the city’s total area at 19.28 sq. km. Other studies using multi-temporal satellite images have it higher at 24.87 sq.km. (to 2015, see Diksha and Kumar, 2017: 113). The same satellite data demonstrates a net increase of 7.09km sq. from 1972-2015 with only 2.76% growth in area after 1991 (Diksha and Kumar, 2017: 117-118). The population has grown rapidly in the same period; from 25,024 in 1991 to 100,286 in 2011, to an estimated 191,619 in 2021 and a projected 287,433 to 2031 (Urban Development Department, 2023: 35-36). 

With limits on horizontal sprawl, Gangtok has grown vertically. Floors are added on top of existing buildings, new, taller buildings are built in place of old ones, and multi-floor buildings are built down the steep slopes connecting to lower roads. Some buildings have expanded into ‘air space’; ground level floors may conform to property boundaries, subsequent floors jut out into the air, especially if the building hangs over a ridge or street space. While the Sikkim Government controls building height to between 1.5 to 5.5 floors, buildings routinely reach 6-8 floors. 

Density as calculation of bodies per unit of area resonates poorly with the human experience of the city. As such we can think about density in more diverse ways. McFarlane proposes four potential measures (2023: 1550): 

1. numbers of people living in a defined area (usually ward level in Gangtok); 
2. numbers of people in a room, house or building; 
3. numbers gathering at sites to shop, eat, play, work; 
4. numbers of people moving through space such as streets, transport systems, pedestrian infrastructure etc. 

Crucially, various social, political, and experiential factors determine when this number, the volume of bodies, is too high. These factors fluctuate depending on which bodies are gathered, where, and when. Thus, density can be relational and relative, rather than formulaic. 

To grapple with Gangtok’s density we need to go beyond (but not abandon) calculations of bodies in a certain area and think about experiential factors; how the city feels. 

Urban Atmospheres 

Urban atmospheres helps us explore experiences of Gangtok’s density. The concept of urban atmospheres has gained popularity across the social sciences and humanities as part of the ‘affective turn’ (Thein, 2005). The affective turn concerns the relationships between space and bodily experience. There are many theoretical complexities, and disagreements, as to what constitutes bodily experience. For our purposes we can simply say that bodies feel in ways we can describe, using the language of emotion (fear, joy, stress for example), and in ways that have no obvious or relatable language, often referred to as the ‘pre-personal’ (Anderson 2016: 44). 

Affective atmospheres connect bodies and space as ‘cultural and material constellations that can invoke a spectrum of affective and emotional responses’ (Gandy, 2017: 355). How the city feels varies depending on the space, the subject (the individual, groups of individuals), and other living things and objects. These ‘constellations’ exist in Gangtok at the micro level—the atmosphere inside Orthodox Bar and Restaurant felt by one or two individuals for example, to larger scales—the atmosphere of Paljor Stadium during a football match felt by thousands of people. 

Atmospheres are more than just what’s in the air, yet air –interior and exterior—is a good starting point. Air envelopes the body; it enlivens and dampens the senses. Air carries the smells, sounds, gases, particles, and light that shape bodily experiences of urban space. Recall the English phrase, ‘there is something in the air’ to refer to a shared state, a trans-personal response to a certain cultural and material constellation.

Importantly, urban atmospheres are not simply natural occurrences. They can also be created. Think of the manipulation of air, of light, of sound to evoke certain experiences of space. 

This article focuses on three atmospheres of Gangtok and the questions they raise: light, moisture and exhaust. 

Light 

Gangtok’s density is experienced through fluctuations of natural light. Gangtok sits at 1,650 metres altitude, and at the city’s highpoints, rooftops and upper floors, the sky pours light towards bodies, even in cloudy weather. Yet the mountains themselves and the explosion of vertical construction limits light in different spaces, creating ever-shifting atmospheres of bright and gloom. 

Limited space between buildings deprives light to lower floors. Building into air space above roads and laneways limits light at the street level. The proliferation of multistorey commercial buildings such as hotels and shopping malls, especially on the top of the ridge to maximise views, block light to surrounding buildings. 

Density also makes the duration of time in light, and light of different intensities, unpredictable. With more obstructions, light enters rooms for shorter periods of time than in past years, making rooms colder and damper. At the street level, density blocks light, with seasonal variations, casting shared street space deep in shadow even in daylight.

Less light means more energy. Interior lighting needs to be used for more of the day. Spaces need to be heated in cold weather and ventilated when its hot and wet (see below). Those with access to rooftops can sit in the sun, dry clothes (and chillies), etcetera, but with more buildings being split between more tenants, access to roof space is not guaranteed and may have light blocked by taller buildings in proximity. 

The urban atmospheres of density mean that access to light is uneven and unstable. Thinking about atmospheres of natural light raises the question of who lives in light-filled spaces and who lives in the gloom? How does this change? How fast?  Who needs energy to light up space and who can afford it? And crucially, how does this feel? An experience that likely depends on how close to the sky you are standing. Though the movement from light to gloom is not always negative, sometimes the gloom is familiar, comforting, intimate.  

In recent decades Gangtok has become brightly illuminated, particularly around MG Marg, West Point Shopping Mall, and the various hotels and casinos scattered along the ridge. Seemingly catering for tourists and residents with disposable incomes, the illuminated night atmosphere of central Gangtok seeks to create a sense of wonder, festival, consumption. 

Away from the central area, the atmosphere is dimmer. Moving downwards from the top of town, light shimmers from windows and streetlights. Shops selling liquor or groceries illuminate the night from a naked light bulb, a restaurant sends some dappled light through drawn curtains, and car headlights splice the night with an occasional flare. The mountains facing the city are darker, with smaller settlements and even lone dwellings visible from their illuminated interiors. 

The concentration of illumination around the commercial heart of the city reflects the unevenness of Gangtok’s social and economic geography. The centre is bright, the edges are dark. The centre is for consumption, socialising, tourism and events. The edges are where residents live. While many of the illuminated spaces are exclusive, Gangok’s illumination is very public; it can be experienced by anyone walking through city centre. Illumination is an atmosphere of wonder, yet wonder can wear off with familiarity, and in time the appeal fades for residents while remaining fresh for visitors experiencing the city for the first time. 

Moisture

Moisture plays a complex role in the bodily experience of Gangtok. For many residents, and for thousands of tourists, the ‘crisp’ moist air of Gangtok is a reprieve from the plains. This relative affect works both ways, the bodily shock of the plains hits when leaving Gangtok too, even though immersion is gradual along National Highway 10. Moisture in the air signals freshness to the body, a place unpolluted, unruined, until the moisture gains volume and the quaint morning fog becomes an afternoon deluge. 

In the monsoon, rain hammers the city’s concrete looking for an escape. Clogged drains flood, roads runs like rivers, concrete starts to sink, hills start to slide. The atmosphere attacks the senses with smells of effluent, garbage and sediment. After the rain, the sweet petrichor lingers, but the densely packed buildings wear the downpour on their battered exteriors. Moisture lingers lower to the ground, seeping through soil and rock into walls and pooling at lower floors. 

In the lower reaches of the city, moisture is thicker inside than outside; trapped. Damp and mould creep, settling in walls, on bedding, in human respiratory systems. Clothes don’t dry, dry-cleaners do a roaring trade, and electric fans pulse to dry out interiors. Erratic light exacerbates the moist atmosphere; constellations of damp and gloom. 

In small doses, moisture fills lungs with fresh air and inspires mobility. In heavy doses, mobility slows down. Roads wash away, landslides block routes, and residents experience prolonged nervousness over the condition of the roads out of town. A small few can afford to fly over the debris in helicopter services while everyone else has to wait or navigate disrupted routes with trepidation; a precarious journey for the old, the sick, and the poor. Immobility is exacerbated by the dysfunction of Pakyong airport outside the city, often attributed to weather-related challenges.

Urban atmospheres of moisture contrast the invigorating atmosphere associated with altitude and encultured through colonial and postcolonial affection for mountain atmospheres (especially when compared to the plains) with the nervous atmosphere of dense concrete on soft hills. Who gets to revel in the moist air and who suffers for it? Uneven experiences of moist atmospheres are arranged vertically in the city, experienced differently on higher and lower ground and on higher and lower floors. Furthermore, everyone in Gangtok, regardless of where they live have to contend with the interrupted mobilities from landslides and washed-out roads. 

Exhaust 

Exhaust is a constant atmosphere in Gangtok. Exhaust pours out of vehicles, generators, and kitchen fans. Traffic is heavy and exhaust fumes linger; a sensory counterpoint to the imagination of a pristine mountain city with crisp air. Steep topography prioritises cars over walking, taxis are abundant, the consumer finance boom has proliferated car ownership, the tourism-dependent economy keeps vehicles arriving and departing, and construction brings heavy vehicles hauling materials from the plains in a constant flow. 

Physical limitations limit the expansion of Gangtok’s roads. More people, more buildings, more cars, and only incrementally more road space. Walls of vertical concrete at the road’s edge trap exhaust fumes, fusing with other particles: LPG gas, construction dust, mustard oil, and—in some localities—wastewater and sewage. 

Exhaust permeates ventilation systems and windows of vehicles. It wafts through building windows, especially lower floors. At junctions along main roads clusters of people wait in the fumes for buses and shared taxis. For many residents waiting in the fumes is a daily experience, personal and transpersonal, individual and shared. These gatherings generate encounters among the waiting; classmates, friends, strangers. No doubt leading to conversations about traffic. For others, being stuck in exhaust is part of their livelihood; peddlers selling goods in roadside stalls, guards stationed at gates, traffic police. 

Crucially, roads aren’t just for cars. Historically narrow roads, habitual encroachment of buildings into road space, and (somewhat) limited and damaged footpaths means roads also serve as spaces for walking, hauling, selling, and lurking. Roadways are also spaces for communication; billboards adorn major roads, bringing advertisements and politicians into the constellations of affect. More than visual signals, billboards evoke responses ranging from delight to desire to disgust. 

Exhaust is exhausting. The same density that brings vertical construction brings volumes of vehicles into tight spaces. Mountain topography and walls of concrete trap exhaust fumes, fusing them with other particles in constellations gravid with modernity and its debilitations. As with light and moisture the questions of unevenness abound. Who experiences exhaust and who can opt out? 

Mind and Body

Light, moisture and exhaust are just some of Gangtok’s urban atmospheres. Attention to atmospheres brings senses, emotions, and sensations—both individual and shared—into our ways of knowing the city and its dense fabric. This approach emphasises the contrast between Gangtok of the mind (policy, statistics, representation) and Gangtok of the body (affect, emotion), and the points of convergence between them. This opens alternative starting points for understanding, critiquing, and improving Gangtok as the city heads towards future growth in limited space.  

References

Anderson, Ben. "Affect." In Mark Jayne and Kevin ward (Eds) Urban Theory, pp. 41-51. Routledge, 2016.

Diksha, Amit Kumar. "Analysing urban sprawl and land consumption patterns in major capital cities in the Himalayan region using geoinformatics." Applied Geography 89 (2017): 112-123.

Gandy, Matthew. "Urban atmospheres." Cultural geographies 24, no. 3 (2017): 353-374.

Local Self-Government and Housing Department. Gangtok Integrated Development Plan—2000. Government of Sikkim, 1987

McFarlane, Colin. "Critical Commentary: Repopulating density: COVID-19 and the politics of urban value." Urban Studies 60, no. 9 (2023): 1548-1569.

Thien, Deborah. "After or beyond feeling? A consideration of affect and emotion in geography." Area 37, no. 4 (2005): 450-454.

Urban Development Department. Gangtok 2041: GIS based Master Plan for Gangtok Planning Area. Government of Sikkim, 2023. 

The article aims to use the method of 'walking ethnography' to examine the streets of Gangtok, specifically Mahatma Gandhi Marg and Tibet Road. This is also my ongoing process of immersive urban ethnographic fieldwork. By placing visual and spatial observations within broader cultural and ecological contexts, this perspective reflects on the interplay between everyday lives and cultural negotiations.

Tracing the Intersections of Street Art and Everyday Life in Tibet Road

Tibet Road in Gangtok is a historically significant urban corridor that once connected Sikkim to the trans-Himalayan trade networks leading into Tibet. Its name echoes these older mobilities and exchanges, situating the street within the histories of commerce, migration, and cultural encounter in the Eastern Himalayas. Today, the road has transformed from its mercantile past into a layered urban landscape, where everyday practices, visual expressions, and memories intersect. Tibet Road comes alive through the sights of shopkeepers, schoolchildren, migrant workers, and passersby who make the street by their everyday functioning routines. Yet its present texture is also shaped by wall art.  They are made up of images of mountains, trekkers, prayer flags, and cyclists, altering the visual landscape and offering alternative perspectives on history, identity, and belonging. They turn the road into a living slate where the past can be reinterpreted and the present visually negotiated.

Once a site of traders on horseback and surrounded by Tibetan settlements decorated with prayer flags, the road embodied a cultural and spiritual landscape. Now, Tibet Road is mostly dominated by hotels, and restaurants. However, trekker shops selling trekking essentials in the street are a window to the past traders’ route and a contemporary trekkers' hub. The wall art depicting Lord Buddha, accompanied by Tibetan inscriptions of Om Mani Padme Hum, reflects the religious sensibilities of the residents of Tibet Road.  As one of the fifty-year-old residents reflects, ‘This makes me still believe in Sikkim as a sacred place, where sacred forces will help us endure the disasters that may come.’ The art, therefore, may be placed at the intersection of the historical and spiritual character of the area. At the same time, it also highlights tensions with contemporary ethnic politics, where the Buddhist narrative of Sikkim is challenged by alternative socio-political imaginaries.

Prayer flags of Tibet Road stand resilient amidst the dense urban transformations, serving as sacred visuals that articulate the road’s cultural identity. From a visual anthropological perspective,  the prayer flags reflect the continuity of spiritual memory. Beyond their religious symbolism, the flags also signal a form of cultural sustainability that preserve intangible heritage, maintain a sense of place, and foster community attachment in an environment shaped by rapid modernization.

The visual depictions of mountains serve as powerful mediators of the sacred mountain and deity relationship. Within local cosmologies, such paintings are not passive representations but active visual practices that embody reverence, protection, and continuity of belief. Even as the imagery of Kanchendzonga is reappropriated within contemporary tourism that market adventure, trekking, and exploration, its sacred aura remains embedded in the cultural imagination of the people. They function as cultural texts, where sacred symbolism and commodification coexist, revealing the layered ways in which communities engage with their surroundings.

Street Art, Statues, and Commercial Signage in Shaping Urban Spaces

Mahatma Gandhi Marg is the main “marketplace” of Gangtok where business communities, some of whom are the “Old Settlers” of  Sikkim, live and work. It is also the public space where people of Gangtok meet for social gatherings, and political demonstrations. It is  the main tourist attraction for shopping and eating. It lies at the center of Gangtok’s urban imagination. Historically, it has functioned as a marketplace where traders met for commerce. Now, it has residents, and visitors. Over time, tourism and enhancement projects by state Mahatma Gandhi Marg transformed into a carefully curated pedestrian zone with tiled walkways, benches, flowerbeds, and controlled traffic producing a regulated version of “public space” that emphasizes both order and spectacle.

Within this regulated environment, street art, murals, and statues have begun to appear as both decorative and discursive elements. These visuals shape Mahatma G andhi Marg’s identity as a tourist-friendly cultural space, while also reflecting the tensions between everyday practices and the state’s commercial vision of the street. The visuals are often a part of the projects of beautification and branding that align with Gangtok’s image as a clean and cosmopolitan capital. At the same time, Mahatma Gandhi Marg retains its character as a marketplace, where local vendors, shops, and cultural practices make the street. Thus, these visuals are not merely a presence but constitute the ongoing negotiation over what counts as public culture in a city balancing tourism, commerce, and everyday life. Comparatively, Gangtok’s visual dynamics resonate with patterns observed in global urban contexts.

Commercial signages in M.G Marg 

Once a theatre hall, is now being converted into a high-rise shopping mall. Malls have become popular in the region, often the main reason for disrupting the “mountain” view. It is a contested development as Gangtok is a fragile terrain and falls into Seismic Zone VI.

The multicultural composition of signboards such as the long-standing ‘Muslim Hotel’ and the historic ‘Star Bar’, is one of Gangtok’s earliest bars, earlier situated below the old Star Cinema.  These establishments on the visual landscape reflect the histories of migration, commerce, and sociability that have shaped the street over decades. The signage further illustrates cultural fusion, as seen in culinary representations like the hybridized ‘Desi Tibetan Laphing,’ an adaptation of the Tibetan snack. Such signboards act as semiotic texts, capturing both continuity and transformation, where community identities, economic practices, and cultural syncretism are negotiated in the everyday life of Mahatma Gandhi Marg.

From a visual anthropological perspective, the shop acts as a counter to homogenized urban aesthetics. By sustaining traditional specialization within a modern business environment, the shop not only negotiates its economic survival but also visually affirms the continuity of Bhutia heritage in an increasingly commodified urban landscape.

Flags as bearers of the changing urban landscape

National flags are a visual proof of allegiance to the state, invoking civic identity and participation in the imagined national community. Their presence in a commercial or domestic landscape signals a negotiation between personal, communal, and national belonging. The street is also not just a public space but also private spaces for the residents. Thus, such visuals re-define the very meaning of spaces. 

Prayer flags and Buddha eyes seen in the community building embody religious and spiritual cosmologies of the Buddhist community, functioning as instruments of auspiciousness, and cultural continuity. These elements accentuate how everyday spaces are sites of ritual and moral inscription, persisting amid urban transformation. Advertising billboards represent the commercial and globalizing forces shaping the urban milieu. Their presence juxtaposes spiritual and civic symbols with market-oriented communication, signaling the capitalist aesthetics into traditional spaces. 

Anthropologically, the layering of these signs indicates a liminal space drawing from Victor Turner's idea of the “in-between”. One that is neither fully sacred nor fully profane, neither strictly communal nor entirely commercial. This layering allows for coexistence of multiple ideas  such as patriotism, spirituality, commercial engagement within the same spatial and temporal frame.

Political flags visually assert a party’s presence, influence, and territorial claim within a community. In urban spaces, where multiple social groups coexist, these flags are not just decorative but they signal the spatial and social reach of political actors. 

In recent decades, many phrases and flags have been appropriated by religious and political ideologies into symbols of assertive identities. Anthropologically, this shift illustrates how material culture can be politicized, where sacred objects are used to assert dominance, territoriality, and ideological power. At the same time, the flag exists in a liminal symbolic space sacred and political, devotional and forceful. Its display can signify godliness for some, yet intimidation or exclusion for others, demonstrating how material symbols mediate power relations, and social hierarchies. This defines how people negotiate these spaces as well.

These elements in such spaces including the presence or decline of prayer flags, limited wall art, and the semiotics of street names and commercial signage are not merely what it directly reflects but reflects the deeper processes of identity formation, and cultural negotiation. In doing so, this endeavour through walking ethnography is just a beginner’s reflection of Gangtok as a site. The main drawback of these reflections is the researcher’s dual role as resident and observer that carries risks of bias, time constraints and restricted observation of seasonal or long-term changes. This is an on-going ethnographic process and the article does not cover every essence in detail but as the work progresses the researcher hopes to explore further. 

Bibliography

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Riga, C. (2025). Anthropology and the city. Street art in Medellín’s Comuna 13: A city-making practice and an ethnographic tool. Antipoda. Revista de Antropología y Arqueología, (58), 203–229.

Schacter, R. (2008). An ethnography of iconoclash: An investigation into the production, consumption and destruction of street-art in London. Journal of Material Culture, 13(1), 35–61.

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Kharel, S.(2005). Gangtok : metamorphosis of stereotype-Sikkim-urban conglomerate into a colonial hill-station (1889-1950) : a historical construct. Thesis, University of North Bengal, 2005. http://hdl.handle.net/123456789/1229

According to meteorological data, in the recent months of 2025–26, Sikkim has been facing an alarming dry spell from December to February, with almost no rainfall recorded in Gangtok and Namchi districts. This severe lack of rain has placed immense pressure on local water sources, raising urgent concerns about drinking water availability as the pre-monsoon season approaches.

As the world marks World Water Day on 22 March 2026, the theme ‘Water and Gender’ helps us understand these challenges more closely.

The prolonged dry conditions have also heightened the risk of forest and bush fires, as vegetation across the state has dried out and become highly vulnerable to ignition. At the same time, natural springs are depleting rapidly, threatening agriculture and drinking water supply, particularly in rural areas.

As the world marks World Water Day on 22 March 2026, the theme ‘Water and Gender’ helps us understand these challenges more closely. It reminds us that when water becomes scarce, the burden often falls on women and girls. Anita Gurung, who lives near the bazar, shares how her mornings are planned around the water supply. ‘We store as much as we can before the flow reduces,’ she says. Since water is available only for a few hours each day, daily life is carefully arranged around that short window of supply.

Existing water supply system and key issues in Rinchenpong
Rinchenpong, perched at about 1,700 metres above sea level, depends heavily on a depression-type spring in the bazar area. Dalum Kuan, locally called ‘Kuwa ko pani’ for generations,has supported more than 120 households. Alongside this spring, surface water from Rishi Khola is supplied by the Public Health Engineering Department (PHED). Despite the presence of both systems, supply remains limited to approximately four hours a day, largely confined to morning hours, indicating a chronic mismatch between availability and demand. Seasonal tourism further amplifies consumption, particularly by hotels and resorts, placing disproportionate pressure on already constrained resources.

Strained springs and rising demand
The town’s population rose from 1,313 in 2001 to 1,458 in 2011, and tourism has grown rapidly in recent years. As an evolving tourism destination, the settlement depends almost entirely on spring-fed and surface water sources to meet both domestic and commercial needs. Despite receiving relatively high rainfall and being situated near perennial water sources, Rinchenpong experiences a condition of ‘scarcity amidst plenty’ marked by unreliable spring flows and inconsistent distribution.
Tika Sharma, who runs a hotel business in the area, notes that peak tourist seasons strain the supply. Hotels and resorts draw water from both PHED pipelines and the spring itself. ‘When visitors come, water use doubles,’ she explains. Tourism supports livelihoods-but it also deepens demand on fragile sources.

Before 2008 spring was open and now it has been cemented for water security.

Supply vulnerabilities and water quality concerns
The pipelines are connected directly at the tip source of the spring and reach the household tap. In many village areas, pipelines are sometimes cut and diverted by others to connect water to their own homes. This often creates disputes within the community. As a result, someone has to physically go inside the spring structure to fix the damaged connection. Such issues often lead to local-level tensions and village politics around water access. Before 2008 spring was open and now it has been cemented for water security. The average household dependency is very high with more than 50 household connections within the bazar area and other villages of Rinchenpong block.

A pipe directs water into a bucket covered with a thin cloth or mesh. This cloth acts as a basic filter, trying to stop leaves, insects, and visible dirt from entering the storage line. It is an affordable and easily available method, managed and maintained by the community themselves. Cheme Bhutia recalls how the water sometimes turns visibly muddy during heavy rains. ‘We let it settle before using’ she says. Yet not all impurities are visible. During the monsoon season, the situation becomes more serious. The survey found that the water often carries heavy sediments, small plant parts, and even leeches. The large amount of mud and debris blocks the pipes, slowing down the water flow and reducing the supply frequency. Because the filtration method is very basic, it cannot remove fine particles or harmful contaminants.

The leaking network
Water loss is another hidden problem. Nearly 20 per cent of supplied water is lost due to leakages. Many pipelines run along or across roads. Vehicles cross over polyethylene and galvanized pipes connected to households. Landslides frequently disturb the network. When pipes crack, dirt mixes with the flow before it reaches homes.

Marmit Lepcha explains their repair method simply: ‘We tie it with strong rubber.’ It is a temporary solution, but often the only immediate option. Officials cannot always reach remote stretches quickly. Over time, improvisation has become part of the system.

The diagram explains how water scarcity develops step by step in a growing town or village. As the population increases, the need for houses, roads, and other infrastructure also rises. This leads to more construction, which often results in deforestation. When trees are cut down, rainwater cannot properly soak into the ground, causing the groundwater level to drop. With less groundwater available, there is greater pressure on existing water resources such as springs and rivers. Over time, this continuous pressure and lack of recharge cause springs and rivers to dry up. The cycle then continues, as growing demand and environmental damage further worsen the water crisis.

Women and the Weight of Water
In most households, fetching water has long been a responsibility carried mostly by women. During dry winters, when water becomes scarce, the burden on women grows even heavier. Every day, they walk up and down steep hillsides carrying heavy buckets just to bring enough water home. Manita Pradhan, for instance, wakes up at 4 a.m. in the quiet, biting cold of the morning to collect a pail of water from a nearby spring before the small supply runs out.

During times of severe shortage, especially in large joint families, water becomes so limited that women sometimes skip bathing for weeks, raising concerns about hygiene and health. In most households, it is women who manage this scarcity-carefully planning how much water will be used for cooking, washing utensils, cleaning, and feeding livestock. When the supply runs low, they ration every drop so the household can get through the day. This burden often goes unnoticed, yet it shapes the rhythm of daily life.

Data from the National Family Health Survey shows that in about 71 percent of rural households, women aged 15 and above are solely responsible for collecting water. Their everyday effort reminds us that water scarcity is not only an environmental challenge but also a social one that places a heavy, often invisible responsibility on women.

Sikkim, however, has also shown that springs can be revived.

Learning from Revival and Rethinking Rinchenpong’s Future
Sikkim, however, has also shown that springs can be revived. Under the leadership of Sandeep Tambe, large-scale spring rejuvenation programmes were introduced across the state. Springs were scientifically mapped, recharge areas protected, native vegetation planted, and recharge trenches constructed. Most importantly, communities were involved in monitoring and maintenance.

Many drying springs showed signs of recovery. The approach demonstrated that Himalayan water systems are interconnected soil, forest, slope, and community stewardship all matter. Rinchenpong’s water stress reflects ageing pipelines, rising tourism demand, limited recharge, and fragmented management. Springs should be treated as shared community resources, with controlled private connections and protective zoning.

Possible solutions are visible: improved filtration at PHED storage tanks, protection of recharge zones, rainwater harvesting for hotels and new constructions, reducing leakages through better pipeline design, early repair systems, and landslide-resistant construction can save significant water. Community monitoring and awareness programmes in schools and neighbourhoods can also improve conservation. Water metering for commercial establishments may help regulate excessive use. But more than infrastructure, what is required is shared responsibility.

The story of Rinchenpong’s spring is not only about scarcity. It is about resilience, adaptation, and quiet labour. In a Himalayan state that appears rich in water, survival depends not on abundance but on care.