From Sikkim to Switzerland: A Tale of Two Peaks

From a nation that lost its wealth and wisdom by sheer idiotic living to one that got rich by turning snow into gold, my Swiss tour has been… enlightening. A tale of contrast, really. Of chaos and clockwork. Of wild, shaky ambition and polished, gleaming perfection.

And I ask you—what makes the tour of mountain peaks so alluring?

Is it the cold climate? The pristine whiteness of snow that makes you feel like you’re walking through a postcard? The tranquillity that comes from the absence of honking horns and chai vendors shouting into the void?

Yes, maybe. But only partly.

The real charm, I’d argue, lies elsewhere. It lies in the daunting inaccessibility—the anticipation, the trepidation, the climb. Where’s the thrill in reaching a snow peak if it feels like a picnic spot? A day-trip? What’s a mountain worth if you gain 10,000 ft of elevation in two hours with barely a hair out of place? And I ask you—where’s the build-up? Where’s the fear?

Take Gurudongmar Lake, North Sikkim. The highest point on Earth that my lungs have dared to visit—almost 18,000 ft. Two full days from Gangtok, with a night halt at Lachen, a sleepy, gorgeous village that doesn’t know what plastic looks like.

And I ask you—how could anyone not feel the gravity of the journey? Sub-zero forecasts, horror tales of frozen winds, oxygen scarcity whispered like ghost stories at campfires… every detail adding to the legend. Every co-traveller a prophet of doom: “My friend passed out halfway,” “Take camphor, it helps,” “Are you sure you want to go?” And suddenly, the destination becomes more than a lake. It becomes a summit of human stubbornness.

Now contrast that with Jungfrau, the so-called “Top of Europe.” At 13,000 ft, yes—but dressed up in engineering wizardry. From Zurich, one hops into a spotless bus to Grindelwald Terminal. From there, a 15-minute cable car glides up like a dream. Then, like an onion ring in a McDonald’s meal—comes the pièce de résistance: a train through a tunnel bored through the belly of the mountain that spits you out in a glass dome, at the summit.

And I ask you—what sorcery is this?

What sort of people build a five-star train station at 13,000 ft? With cafés, climate control, Wi-Fi, clean loos, and even souvenir shops? Where’s the struggle? Where’s the possibility of frostbite? And most importantly, where’s the poop?

Yes, you heard me. Where’s the good old aroma of horse dung? The pony trails lined with manure and tourist regret? Where are the loitered wrappers, the Bisleri bottles, the misplaced chips packets that adorn our “Mini Switzerlands” back home? Where’s the visual cue that humans passed through?

And I ask you—what school did the Swiss go to that taught them how not to ruin their mountains? How do they walk through a landscape without scattering evidence of their presence like confetti at a wedding? Because, try as I might, I couldn’t find a single toffee wrapper or a bored child etching “Pooja wuz here” on an ice wall.

Gurudongmar challenged me. Humbled me. It whispered, “Earn me.”
Jungfrau… entertained me. Dazzled me. But also handed itself over, packaged and polished.

And I ask you—do we really want everything in life to be so smooth? So easy? So unearned?

In India, be it Gurudogmar or Tungnath, the mountain makes you earn the view. You arrive breathless, with half-frozen fingers and a proud smile, like you’ve survived a trial by nature. In Switzerland, the mountain is served to you on a golden platter with a timetable, a QR code, and a chocolate sample.

Don’t get me wrong. I’ll take that Swiss hot chocolate any day. And if someone’s paying, I’ll gladly ride that Alpine train again—grinning like a wide-eyed kid. But in my heart, I’ll always remember that breathless moment at 18,000 ft, staring at a frozen lake in Sikkim, wondering if my brain was running out of oxygen—or if that was just the raw, unfiltered high of having truly arrived.