The Lama of the Lost Roads

Prologue

Between the breathtaking valleys of Bhutan and the quiet plains along India’s border runs a mystical road, not charted on any map of tourism or busy trade. On it travel men who carry goods, stories, and sometimes destinies larger than their own understanding. This is the story of Manjit Singh, an Indian truck driver whose pragmatic eyes would learn to see beyond the visible; of a wandering lama whose smile bridged centuries; of a boy who might never have been born at all; and of breathtaking Himalayan roads and especially the haunted surroundings that return to themselves like unfinished prayers. It’s an unforgettable journey that would definitely take its reader to the closest possible exposure to the ever amazing ‘Shangri La’.

Everyone in Phuentsholing city calls him Dorji. It is his second name though. The first part of his name has been long forgotten. Dorji runs a small bookstore in the heart of this picturesque border town, known to locals simply as P’Ling. It is the second most vibrant city of Bhutan. The shop is called ’The Bookworm & Silverfish’ a name that always makes people smile.

Dorji has loved books since childhood. An Indian teacher, who once lived next door, had given him his first novel; it was ‘From Heaven Lake’ by Vikram Seth. “Read this,” the teacher had said. “Always remember, books will keep you company when the world doesn’t.” The habit stayed. Over the years, reading has become his quiet obsession. His relatives now call it a ’sophisticated addiction’. Dorji laughs at that. He cannot imagine a day without reading. Fiction is his favourite, but he dips into everything, history, travelogues, poetry, even cookbooks.

Each night, he takes a book home from his shop. He believes that reading before sleep invites the right kind of dreams. “Books are like warm blankets,” he says, “they tuck your thoughts in.” Some nights, those dreams unsettle him, strange visions of faraway lands. But more often, they bring gentle laughter or soft nostalgia that he likes the most.

His bookstore is well-known among the town’s readers. Students, teachers, even tourists wandering around, often drop in. They buy books, they chitchat mundane matters and share thoughts. He used to politely ask for their recommendations. His Instagram page, full of book covers, shelf corners, and handwritten quotes, has its own charm. “Ah, Dorji posted again,” people often say over coffee. For many students, following The Bookworm & Silverfish is almost a ritual.

One such follower is Param, a boy from nearby Jaigaon, just across the border. His father, Manjit Singh, drives trucks between India and Bhutan. Param spends his weekends at Dorji’s shop, reading Tintin or Ruskin Bond, his eyes wide with wonder. “Uncle Dorji,” he says one day, “one day I’ll open a bookstore like yours, only a bit bigger!” Dorji laughs, “Then promise me, you’ll sell my books there too.”

Manjit and Dorji often meet for tea at a small stall behind the market. Dorji likes to listen to Manjit’s road stories, steep bends, misty passes, and nights spent among pine forests. When Manjit is offered a long delivery route through Dorji’s connections at a local logistics company, he comes to thank him.

“Heading north, right?” Dorji asks, “packing your favourite tea leaves for the road.”

“Yes,” Manjit replies, tightening his turban. “All the way to Thimphu, and then Trongsha and who knows maybe beyond.”

“Then you’ll see real Bhutan,” Dorji smiles. “Wish you enjoy the mountains that breathe and beckon the travelers since eternity. When you come back I will tell you the story of a medical researcher from Europe, Peter Steele, who travelled along with his wife and two children inside Bhutan way back in 1970 and wrote a book named ‘Two and Two Halves to Bhutan’.”

Two students from the Polytechnic College, Dawa and Karma, join Manjit on the journey, eager to reach their homes in Northern Bhutan. Before leaving, they stop by the bookstore.

“Sir, we’ll keep in touch,” Dawa says, holding his phone.

“You must,” Dorji replies. “Remember, at every halt, every sunrise. Send me pictures. And never forget, books make the best companions.”

As their truck disappears along the winding road, Dorji stands at his doorway. The faint scent of packing boxes and the goods stacked inside still lingers around him. He adjusts a pile of books on the counter and smiles. The stories, he knows, will always find a way to travel, even when people are far apart.

The road from Thimphu winds upward, curling like a lazy ribbon along the mountains. The truck moves steadily. Its back is heavy with sacks and crates. There is a motley smell, faintly of rice, oranges, machine oil and miscellaneous goods. Inside, laughter rises and falls like the mountain breeze. Bollywood songs play from Manjit’s small speaker, old Kishore Kumar melodies, tinny but cheerful.

Morning begins slowly in Phuentsholing, or “P’Ling,” as everyone calls it, where the hills of Bhutan lean gently toward the Indian plains like old monks in a quiet bow. The small town, half-trading post and half-mirage, stirs awake with the chatter of hawkers, the scent of butter tea, and the soft hum of trucks that wait in rows near the customs gate.

Manjit Singh stretches beside his truck, a long, mustard-yellow vehicle with the name “Param Transport” painted in green. The name, of course, is his son’s, Param, who is twelve and dreams of being a bookstore owner one day, thanks to Dorji, the bookseller who has become something of a legend among the young in this border town.

Dorji’s shop, The Bookworm & Silverfish, sits on a narrow lane behind the Druk Hotel, and anyone who’s ever bought a Tintin or Ruskin Bond in Phuentsholing knows him. He has that rare smile of a man who reads because he must, not because he should.

It was Dorji who had arranged the assignment for Manjit. “You’ll be fine, la,” Dorji had said, slipping into his usual mixture of English and Dzongkha.

Manjit nodded his head periodically as a gesture of positive response.

“The roads are tricky, but you have good hands and better eyes. Just keep your mind open, Bhutan’s mountains have a way of showing things you don’t expect.”

Manjit had laughed, adjusting his turban. “Things like what, Dorji? Hidden gold?”

Dorji had smiled, as though half the question was a joke and half wasn’t. “Sometimes gold, sometimes ghosts,” he said, waving it away with a shrug. “You’ll see.”

Now, as the truck engine coughs awake, two young men climb into the back, Dawa and Karma, two students from the Polytechnic College nearby. Both have been restless since the term break began, eager to return home to their families in the far northern valleys.

They know very well, it would be a fun filled journey all the way chitchatting and enjoying Bollywood songs. Their first stop is Thimphu, the national capital of Bhutan, driving through the city after ascending from Phuntsholing.

The goods are to be unloaded at two different locations out here. Dawa, having the stout and hefty stature, jolly in nature, smilingly helped the porters to get their packets, boxes and bags.

Dawa, the sturdier of the two, laughs easily. “Uncle Manjit, I’ll keep you awake with songs all the way to Ha!”

Manjit grins. “That’s fine. As long as they aren’t sad ones.”

Karma, slender and thoughtful, leans against the window and smiles faintly. “He means he’ll sing whether you like it or not, Uncle. You’ll have to bear it till Ha.”

The truck pulls out from the lane, easing through the quiet streets. The border gate swings open for them, India behind, Bhutan ahead, and the road begins to rise almost at once.

Soon, the plains fade into mist and forests. The first halt is at Gonglakha, where a few roadside tea shops serve steaming dumplings and Ema Datshi, a traditional Bhutanese recipe of big size green chilies and cheese. The air smells of wet pine resin and diesel.

As they sip their tea, Dawa looks around. “Every time I leave Phuentsholing, I feel like I’m leaving another world. Down there, there’s noise, too much noise. Here, it’s… quieter, too much quieter.”

Manjit nods, stretching his hands upwards. “Quiet is good for young minds. But it can make old ones think too much.”

Karma glances at him. “Do you miss home often?”

Manjit exhales a slow puff. “Every driver misses home, son. But the road is its own home too. You learn that after some years.”

By the time they reach Gedu, the sun has climbed high. Monkeys dart across the road. Waterfalls spill from cliffs like silver ribbons. At Chukha, they stop near a small Stupa, where prayer flags flutter furiously in the mountain wind.

Manjit gets down to stretch his legs. He runs a call to his wife, letting her know that the journey’s smooth. In the background, his son Param’s voice comes through, bright and impatient.

“Papa! Did you see? Dorji uncle posted a new photo of a book, ‘The Lama of the Lost Roads’. Can you bring me that one?”

Manjit chuckles, “That’s not a book, puttar. It’s some old folktale he likes. About a monk who disappeared on the mountain roads and guides lost travelers even now.”

“But it sounds cool,” Param insists. “Maybe you’ll meet him!”

Manjit laughs again. “If I do, I’ll tell him that my son says hello to you.”

Evening settles in Yangthang, a small cluster of houses tucked between two slopes. The air is sharp and smells faintly of wood smoke. They park near a wayside inn run by an old couple, who serve them red rice, stewed beef, and milk tea.

As they eat, Karma looks out toward the faint outlines of the next ridge. “Do you ever wonder, Uncle, how many people drive these roads and never come back?”

Dawa frowns. “Why would you say that?”

Karma shrugs. “Just stories I’ve heard. Drivers who vanish in fog, monks who walk at night, voices calling from cliffs. People who get feelings of being choked, pinned down, or hearing menacing whispers just outside the threshold”

The old innkeeper, passing by with a kettle, overhears and laughs softly. “The mountains are full of stories, young man. But remember, some are told by people who do not know what they’ve seen.”

“Do you know any such people?” Manjit enquired.

He started narrating in a hushed tone, “A watchman of a Dzong was making his rounds inside an ancient, cavernous interior. As he passes the room where old butter lamps are stored, he hears the faint, rhythmic chanting of monks, but the room is empty. The chilling part is realizing the chanting is not in a recognized dialect, but sounds like words being slowly, agonizing forced out of a mucus clogged throat.”

Manjit smiles, a little uneasily. “Then it’s better we sleep early and not see too much.”

They all laugh, though something in the laughter lingers afterward, a faint unease curling beneath the comfort of warmth and food. First time Manjit tasted the dish called Kewa Datshi, a mild Bhutanese potato & cheese recipe.

Outside, the wind hums through the pines, and far down the valley, the sound of the river rises like a whispering crowd.

Tomorrow, they will begin again, toward Ha Dzong, the road curling higher into mist, where prayer wheels spin endlessly in the wind and stories of the unseen seem to ride every gust.

And somewhere far behind them, at Phuntsholing in The Bookworm & Silverfish, Dorji will open his shop shutters, straighten a stack of books, and wonder, as he often does, what the road shows to those who listen closely enough.

END OF CHAPTER