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Kerala / The New Indian Express

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Travelogue: Don't tell the mountains you are coming to Nagaland

Sitting in that cozy Naga kitchen in Munirka one winter evening in Delhi, I promised the girl across the table the one who had been slipping unfamiliar flavours into my life that I would accompany her on her next trip home. To Nagaland. Until I met her, everything I knew of the place came from second-hand anecdotes, and none of it matched what she spoke of: a sweep of emerald hills stitched with terraces and mist. To the then-aspiring writer in me, this was the stuff of alchemy. A view from Kapamodzu Peak in Phek district, Nagaland The road to Dzuleke Village However, to avoid trespassing into the personal, I pitched it as an adventure holiday for our little gang a clutch of nobodies trying to find meaning in the capital. We even started a WhatsApp group: NE Chale? And as word spread, more unlikely recruits joined. The neighbourhood grocers son, whose father insisted that he see more of the world; a freelance designer who sometimes worked with our office; and the young manager of a pub in Hauz Khas. Whatever personal vectors influenced their decision, everyone was convinced that Nagaland would have between its mountain folds, exactly what they sought. Northeast chale? wed ask each other whenever we crossed paths in the office cafeteria, on Tuesday-night football, in the fruit mart queue at Khan Market, during long walks in Nizamuddin, and at house parties in GK. Soon, the answers invariably came. That was ten years ago. The backyard of the chief's house in Dzuleke Village The adventure we had poured so much heart into never materialised. Soon, it became a long-running joke, then a reminder of our collective failure. One by one, people left the group. She did too. Today, only a handful remain, stubbornly holding on to the dream, to the versions of ourselves we once hoped to become. But a decade is a long time. So much has shifted in our lives that the simple act of travelling together required us to set fire to our worlds and pack with us the smoke of that anguish. So I decided to go alone. The only school in Dzuleke Village Part of it was the quiet, persistent desire to see a faraway land. Also, to settle an old promise. But the journey did take on new dimensions as soon as I glimpsed the first mountains peeking from behind the veil of clouds. I was, to say little, galvanised. Perhaps it has something to do with living too close to the sea? Its vastness and the plateauing of its horizon renders in those accustomed to the sight a yearning to see mountains piercing the skies. An aspiration to be more. To ascend. Zhavame in Phek, Nagaland. The amphitheatre or village circle is also seen. However, as the flight descended, these very mountains seemingly conquerable from the skies were now very out of reach and too big a challenge. The adventure the girl charted out in that tiny Naga kitchen, I knew, had finally begun. One name beckoned me more than the others Kapamodzu Peak. Standing at an elevation of 2,620m, it is the fourth-highest peak in Nagaland and is nestled in the heart of Phek district, the land of the Chakhesang tribe, to which many of my friends belonged. While I had imagined scaling to the peaks summit as the arduous of my objectives here, the journey from Dimapur airport to the state capital, Kohima, turned out to be the undisputed champion. The nearly 60-kilometre journey, on roads that wound in narrow, looping ribbons, took close to three hours in the dark. Kevi, a young tour guide in Khonoma Village, poses in front of the morung, a traditional youth dormitory that serves as a center for education for young Naga men Khonoma Village Nevertheless, the decision to not remain in Dimapur that first night paid rich dividends the next morning when I, awakened by the sharp pik-pik-a-wew of an amusingly friendly Red-whiskered Bulbul (which continued this tradition for my many days since), was treated to pristine blue skies. I knew exactly what I had to do write to my friends in Delhi about the AQI levels here. It was 29. For the next few days, I, accompanied by friends of friends of friends in Kohima, navigated the length and breadth of the city; peeling away layer after layer of its storied history until all that remained was Kewhira, an old Angami village. Since one of the days was November 11 (Remembrance Day), a special stop was also made at the Kohima War Cemetery (the site of one of the bloodiest battles of World War II during the Japanese offensive into British India) to honour our fallen heroes. Road to Zhavame Village The paddy fields of Zhavame Village in Phek district, Nagaland On another day, a special visit was charted out by a friend to Khonoma Village, where, he was certain, I will understand from just where this stubbornness of the Nagas rose. Overlooking mesmerising paddy fields and hills covered with lush forests, this warrior village is renowned for its fierce resistance during the British colonial period. There were, of course, repercussions. The entire village and its fort was burnt down several times and had to be rebuilt each time. When asked why their ancestors didnt flee and built their lives elsewhere, the young chap who was guiding me uttered rather nonchalantly: healing cannot begin if you run away from where you lost. My friend was right. I understood now. The unofficial tour guides of Zhavame Village The next morning, I began my long ride to Zhavame, a quaint village on the foothills of Kapamodzu, on my friends scooter. While several roads had indeed undergone a makeover in the lead up to the Hornbill Festival, the one connecting Kohima to Pfutsero in Phek, and then down to Zhavame was, from reliable sources, best avoided. So I took the slightly-longer Moa Gate route through Manipur and cut north to Nagaland after passing Liyai Khunou village on the border. Even this road tested me. But coming as the balm was the hospitality of the people I met in Zhavame, which, I learned afterwards, was a major pitstop along the old trade route that connected the tribes, and later, the states, Nagaland and Manipur. Zhavame Village On one particularly cold night here and desperately in need of a hot chai, I ambled my way to the only shop here. Alas, this one had no provisions left. Overhearing my conversation with the shopkeeper, a young lady offered to run home and make me a cup. The trek began at 3am in almost pitch darkness and bitingly cold winds. A short distance into the trail and I could feel my legs giving away. While my mind was determined tocontinue, the body refused to abide. I wouldve given up entirely had had it not been for a girl navigating the same path as me. She uttered a time-old wisdom disguised as a fable. Dont let the mountains know you are coming, she said. The peaks, she continued, are inhabited by ancient spirits. If they learn you are coming, they will throw hurdles your way. Decide instead to walk till that stone, then, that big tree, until that stream... A view from Kapamodzu Peak in Phek district, Nagaland A viewpoint on the way to the summit of Kapamodzu Peak By the crack of dawn, I was on the summit and treated to a stupendous view. I stayed an entire day here, watching as clouds parted to reveal sweeps of green pastures and villages perched on impossible slopes. And from far beyond, the soft thunder of distant rain. Silhouette of mountains piercing the skies. As equally heartening as this scenery is what Nagaland is really made of: its people. Their open smiles, honest words, and a generosity that expects nothing in return. People whose friendship I will cherish as one of my lifes greatest treasures. Sunrise from Kapamodzu Peak

27 Nov 2025 5:25 pm