The Salamander and the Bobcat. Or the Goose and the Calf.

Yesterday was a day of birth and death. Or, more specifically, four murders and a newborn calf.

When we awoke, the corpses of two grey geese and bobcat lay helplessly on the lawn below our terrace. We went down to inspect them, and Bhuti Aapa, already digging their graves, told us the story. In the middle of the night, he heard the geese calling and the dogs barking. He ran ouside and saw that a bobcat had gotten into the goose pen and mauled two geese, while the furious dogs had managed to chase him up a small banana tree. Bhuti Aapa knocked down the bobcat and let the dogs crush his skull, and went back to sleep.

At that moment I came down with some sort of magnificent allergic reaction to the laundry soap, of all things. My palms started itching like mad and I was swollen and covered in hives. I stripped and brought my freshly washed clothes into the bathroom, to hose them down with soap, and promptly squashed the little salamander that had inhabitated our loo for the past few days. The poor bastard. He was a little thing. Was. Until I stepped on him. That brought the death toll up to four that day, and it was only noon.

My allergic reaction quickly got worse, and bright red I washed down a few Benadryl and lay down as the drugs slowly numbed me. I was lying there in a semi-stupor for about an hour when Chumla burst in announcing the milk cow's labour-time had come. I had never seen a cow give birth, so I threw on a rain jacket and stumbled down to the cowshed.

I was quite unprepared for what I saw. The cow's tail was erect, and two little wiggling forehoofs and quite a lot of bodily fluid were oozing out of what an hour earlier I would have assumed was her butt. I now know that was not her butt, but her cow vagina. It was a sight to behold.

I stood there transfixed. Bhuti, Tashi and Bikas, three of Chumla's young helpers, were there to assist in the labour. The three other cows were bellowing loudly, but the pregnant mother seemed strangely placid. She would occassionally stop pushing, stand up, and munch a little grass.

As I watched her push, all of my own pelvic muscles contracted sympathetically. Steam came out of her nose, and her eyes rolled back slightly. She was having difficulty breaching the head. I watched in amazement as the snout and tongue of the calf became visible, poking through the ruptured amniotic sac. I wasn't sure if it was the tongue, to be honest, or some part of the cow's anatomy. I almost vomited.

I kept asking Bhuti if we shouldn't start pulling on the forehoofs, because of the perforated sac. I didn't want the calfling to suffocate. My colleague Germaine appeared suddenly, as the calf head was crowning. She began to record with her camera. The video cut out as the battery died, about 5 seconds before the head crowned and the calf came sliding out with astonishing speed.

It was a boy.

Ganesh Pure Veg

Back in dreary Gangtok, I slide into my favorite thali dive. Adam and I found it two years ago, hidden in an alley off of MG Marg. This time around, my colleague Germaine and I sought it out once again: it was even more hidden than I remembered, and even more delicious.

It is a Bengali pure veg restaurant, as the sign reads - which means that not even eggs are served. It has a constant stream of people, mostly Bengalis on holiday and a few locals. I have yet to see another traveler in there, save for the few friends I have brought. One can imagine the silent commotion that ensues when a white girl wanders in smiling, speaking Sanskrit in lieu of Nepali or Hindi.

Thali is a magical dish, for several reasons: for its simplicity; its malleability; its substantiality; and, above all, its aesthetic. In Ganesh Pure Veg, there is no menu - only thali. The thali changes daily, so theoretically one might never grow tired of the same old thali. And theoretically, I ate dinner there last night, and will eat lunch and dinner there again tonight, licking my chops.

The baba in front is such a delightful person, and so genuinely perplexed every time I walk through the door that he throws his hands together and shouts Namaskaar Please Come In! Once you have seated yourself at a small plastic table, the dance begins, and the thali assembly commences in the backroom with a clattering of pots and aluminium. A pressed tin plate is placed in front of each diner, perfectly arranged as such: four small tin bowls line the rim in a semi-circle; followed by the three omnipresents - green or red deri piro achaar, a slice of lime and a slice of red onion. The contents of the four bowls changes, but the basic equation is the same - yellow lentil dal; some saucy vegetable like aloo gobi (potato cauliflower); a thick creamy stew with fenugreek that drives me wild; and the fourth - a wild card. Last week it was plain curd, but last night, a magnificent kir - hot cardamom rice pudding.

But this is hardly the beginning. As soon as your plate hits the table, a man emerges with sabji - sauteed vegetables, okra yestrday. Next comes the man with fresh chapati - what would happen if pita and tortilla had a child - straight from the oven. As there is no cutlery used, the chapati is the main vehicle for delivering all this deliciousness into your mouth (save for the kir, which I would lick off the wall if that were the custom). The thali is topped off with a papad, an oversized chickpea crisp. Finally, all the elements in place, you can begin. All the servers watch in amazement as the honkies proceed to eat with their hands, Indian style.

You are only three mouthfuls in when the men reappear, hovering and waiting for you to take another bite so that they can refill your plate. The chapati start rolling out of the oven so fast that there are always half eaten stragglers buried under a bed of steaming fresh chapati. The sabji and aloo gobi and fenugreek stew and yellow dal start flowing like champagne at a wedding. Someone else appears with a pitcher of boiled water and pours it for you in a small aluminium cup, which will cool off by the end of the meal. But the end is not yet in sight, as the food keeps coming.

The brilliance of thali is the simultaneous stimulation of all of one's tastebuds: the saltiness of the dal and papad; the acidity of the lime; the bitterness of the okra; the spiciness of the achaar; the earthiness of the aloo and chapati; and the terrible sweetness of kir. An endless plate of thali, replete with impeccable service: 40 rupees.