Indian town in the Himalayas

Usage examples of darjeeling.

Dalai Lama to Kalimpong, east of Darjeeling, in order to celebrate the 2,500th anniversary of the manifestation of Buddha, Tsarong remained in India.

Thirteenth Dalai Lama, who in 1910 had fled from the Chinese and gone to Darjeeling in India.

Sherpa Tenzing, one of that group, now lives in Darjeeling as an Indian citizen, but he has remained a Tibetan at heart.

Shortly afterward he walked off with the novice, and I was reminded, by contrast, of Darjeeling in India, where Drugchen Rinpoche, the abbot of the Sanga Choling monastery, had told me that they scarcely had room or money to accommodate all the young Tibetans who wanted to become monks.

In the bazaar of Darjeeling, Chulundra Lingasuta stared at his rope in numb amazement.

I told her over breakfast of whole wheat toast, poached eggs, and Darjeeling tea that tasted like a fine liqueur.

Some years ago a friend of mine was walking through tea plantations near Darjeeling, and noticed one particular group of fields where the bushes were all shriveled.

Afterward the priest did the dishes rapidly, then gave them bowls of Neapolitan ice cream, set out a plate of sugar wafers, and made them Darjeeling tea.

There was direct rule in Kumaon, Garhwal, Spiti, Lahul, Darjeeling and Kalimpong, and agreements with chiefs along the little-known border with north Assam.

They ascended easily to the base of Darjeeling Gutter, crossed the miniature bergschrund where its cascading snows joined the main glacier, and began to creep up the sixty-degree slope of dazzling white.

Those lucky enough to possess that faculty, seekersense adepts such as Denis Remillard or the Tibetan Urgyen Bhotia, who headed up the Darjeeling establishment, did not have to fear being stalked or am­bushed by human predators.

The old woman showed up every morning like clockwork at five past seven, and always had the same thing: a peach muffin, and a pot of Darjeeling tea brewed strong enough, in her words, to slice with a bread knife.

As I drank Darjeeling tea from a delicate porcelain cup, I took another look at the paper.

While Lucy carried in luggage, I started the gas logs in the living room and put on a pot of Darjeeling tea.

I had lost my pitons, crampons, snow glasses, snap rings, climbing rope, hammer, ice ax, compass, gun, and one sock, was out of breath, and had stumbled into a colossal drift where I subsided to the brows and wearily languished, warming myself with thoughts of summer games of croquet in Darjeeling.