On the Mail Route to Tibet

A translation of SHIVA KUMAR RAI’s “Tibbatko Hullaak-path”

This story is not of the present times, it’s from before Independence; from a time when trade between Tibet and India used to move from Bengal’s northern border town, Kalimpong. Those were the days of the British; China had not yet been able to swallow Tibet. Kalimpong had developed into the focal point of the Indo-Tibet trade. The town used to receive bales of wool and rolls of carpets from Tibet and send up pulses, rice, salt, and cooking oil, in fact, all essential commodities, to Tibet. The mule trains moving out of Kalimpong would pass through Sikkim’s Rangpo, Gnathang and pass into Tibet’s Chumbi valley to reach Lhasa. When the caravans moved, the chirling-chirling, ghontyang-ghontyang of bells chained around the necks of the mules would float to distant dales, across ridges and hills. This story is from the time when, with one of these mule trains, Kuley arrived at the Sikkim-Tibet border town of Gnathang.

That’s right, his name was “Kuley” indeed. Everyone called him Kuley. But that is not how things began. The name given to him by the Bahun was Kul Bahadur Thami, but the Nepalese end up using only the quick and the short variations. Take for example what happens when the government, with the intention that the people may walk comfortably, cuts reliable, winding and wide roads; the Nepalese however steal shortcuts and where the journey would have taken two hours, they are already walking through in one hour! They would have already fashioned a chor-baato and broken down travel-time by half before anyone notices. A Chor-Baato is not called so because thieves - chors - use it, but because the road itself has stolen time. Kuley was a victim of this, very Nepali habit. As far as the Bahun was concerned, he had drawn out a Dhalaut, checked the date and time of birth, and the child having been born under the sign of Taurus, the Bull, had written down Kul Bahadur Thami as the name in his birth charts. But Kuley’s own father played dirty with him.... “What’s this Kul Bahadur Thami... a short Kuley will do the job just as well”. And so it was Kuley for the mother, Kuley for the elder sister, the neighbours and soon he was Kuley for everyone.
Kuley of Punkareypung village was agile and tough. How long he had been residing in Gnathang, I cannot say, but when father was transferred there to take charge of the post office, Kuley was already living in the Tibetan section of the village. He used to work for a Tibetan trader, collecting fodder for his mules and Dzos. During winters, when everything from the hilltops to the glades were covered in snow, the grass he had collected throughout the warmer months and stored in godowns, would be fed to the mules and cattle.
Soon after father took charge of the Gnathang office, Kuley became part of the postal services family there. When the post for a ‘packer’ fell vacant, father employed Kuley. Kuley’s work was to segregate the letters into different bags, one each for regular letters, registered post and parcels, then tie the mouths of the bags with a rope, label them and then seal them with red lac. Changing the dates on the seals everyday and cleaning the office were also tasked to him. But his favourite errand was to pack a food hamper for father and accompany him whenever he went out hunting.
It was perhaps because of the many years he spent moving and sleeping in jungles collecting fodder, that he preferred life in the outdoors to the more settled life in the village. He was an expert in laying traps and snares. Sometimes, he would take a few days off and go into the jungle, setting up snares and awaiting his prey. Sometimes, when some Danfeys and Munals were caught, he would return ecstatic. “Here Sir... my earnings. This time, two-three Danfeys and Munals got entangled in my snares in one go,” he would giggle with glee. He used only snares and traps. He had never used a gun till then. It wasn’t as if he refused to use a gun, just that he had never received the chance to use one. “What does a blind person pine for? Eyes”. Similarly, a hunter will ask for nothing more if he lands himself a rifle. Over time, as he accompanied father to all his hunting expeditions, Kuley learned how to use the rifle as well. It was perhaps the hunter’s instinct that coursed through his veins that he was a crack-shot; father had a lot of faith in Kuley’s sniper skills.
Those were times when regions such as this were completely free from government regulations and rules. Slash down as much forest as one wishes to covert for farm steads; need fuel-wood and fodder? Just drop as many trees as required and drag them home! Neither fear of forest conservation, nor any dread of government officials. Nor was a licence required for hunting, nor was there need for any paperwork before felling trees! If there was any fear, however, it was of the spirits of the same jungle and of Budheni, the Old Lady of the Forest. Some nights, when the owl hooted too close to home and the water springs gurgled too loud, a chill of fear would seep into the hearts, and father, taking these as bad omens, would pick out some embers, spread them on a beaten tin strip and sprinkle some ghee on them, offering the Budheni an obeisance of Gai-Dhoop.
Whenever father yearned for some meat, he would take out some cartridges and hand them to Kuley, saying, “Go, Kuley, go roam about in the jungle and come back.” Once Kuley left, he would invariably return with at least a jungle fowl, a munal or a danfey. On days that a musk deer or a wild goat was shot down, dry pinewood would be collected, put alight, rhododendron and juniper leaves added as incense and a ritualistic offering of the ears and hooves, Kaan-Khur, made in the forest itself. If he could carry it, Kuley would lug the carcass home by himself. When the kill was bigger, he would cover the animal with leaves and shrubs and return to the village to fetch assistance. A hunter, immediately upon completing a successful hunt, performs the Kaan-khur. Leaving behind a kill without performing this ritual allows the spirits of the jungle to snatch the kill away, the hunters believe. Whenever a big animal was hunted, portions used to reach every home, the woodpiles in the loft above the kitchen fire, the Bhaar, receiving strings of sliced meat for smoking.
One day, the postal runners went up as usual in the morning, but even by 4 in the afternoon, the runners bringing in mail from Yatung had not arrived. Usually, the postal runners covered a five kilometre march each and upon reaching their halt, handed over their mail to the next runner in the postal relay. And so the process would continue until the post was delivered to Gyantse. At Gyantse, the British had a fort and the post office was inside it. This arrangement to carry mail to Gyantse inside Tibet was perhaps part of some treaty signed after the British-Tibet war. The mail from Gyantse to Gnathang would also follow the same route down.
When the postal-runners had still not arrived till 4 in the evening, father established contact with Yatung over the telegraph. He learned that the runners had left Yatung with the mail at the normal time. That being the case, at which march between Yatung and Gnathang could the post have been delayed?! It was winter; barely 5 p.m. and the sun had already vanished behind the western hills, simultaneously, wisps of snow had started coming down. Father then despatched Kuley and two spare dak runners equipped with lanterns, rakes and spades to search for the missing runners. Kuley wanted to take a rifle along with him, saying that if he found some game on the way, he would bring that back as well. Father was not in favour of sending Kuley with a rifle, he said, “If I give you the rifle then you will keep loafing around, it will get dark in no time, so what use will it come of?” Kuley went away disappointed.
At around 8 in the night, the postal runners walked into Gnathang, the chirling-chirling of the bells attached to their walking staffs breaking the still of the night and announcing their arrival. A short while later, the slumber was completely shattered by the racket of 5-6 men climbing up the wooden verandah, stamping their boots on the floorboards and against the posts to shake off the snow stuck to the boots. Shaking awake the helper boy sleeping in the far room, father directed him, “Ramey, wake up! Wake up! Light the table lamp and open the office door. Has the fire died out in the fireplace? Fetch some firewood and get it going again”.
Father put on a woolly cap, wrapped a muffler and slipped on an overcoat and entered the office. Even I followed him inside. The fireplace was blazing. The dak-runners, having heaved down their loads, were crowded around the fireplace, trying to melt away the snowflakes that had congealed at the tips of their moustaches, beards and hair not covered by caps. Kancha Gurung was seated on a bag of parcels, holding on to one of the men. The moment father entered, all of them moved away from the fireplace and stood in a single file at one end, but father said, “Sit, sit. Warm your hands and feet in the fire.” Then, turning his attention towards Kancha Gurung, he asked, “What’s happened to Kancha Gurung?” Sun-dantey - Gold-toothed - Maila was the leader of mail runners, and he started speaking, “It’s because of him that the mail got delayed today, it’s only because our luck held, otherwise god knows who all would have lost their lives today.”
“What happened Maila?”
“What could have happened?!” Now, Sun-dantey Maila started narrating the entire story.
“The post arrived at the right time from Yatung and we too left with the mail at the right time. It could not have been any later than 1 in the afternoon; a cold wind was blowing, the tips of our ears were aching from the chill, and then it started snowing as well. We continued under such conditions for about an hour and a half and then a snow-storm hit us. The snow was flying so thick that we could neither hear, nor see anything. We pushed on blindly. The wind tearing through the pine trees mimicked the sound of a group of people screaming; the cold wind was pushing us back and we were struggling forward. At that moment I heard someone shout ‘I’m falling, I’m falling’. I turned back to check, and Kancha Gurung was not there.
“We regrouped behind a boulder which cushioned the beating of the snowstorm somewhat and after a while returned to the spot. About 15-20 hands below, we saw an inert Kancha Gurung, swept away by an avalanche, sitting, his arms wrapped around a pine sapling. We did not know whether he was dead or whether he had made it through the fall alive. I told my friends to drop their loads and hand me their namlos, tie them together in firm knots and hold on to one end while I eased down to Kancha Gurung. I told them that first I would tie the namlo around Kancha Gurung’s chest so that they could pull him out; the mail-bag would be sent up the same way next and then the rope would be thrown down again so that I could climb out.”
Sun-dantey Maila poked at the logs in the fireplace and continued, “Babu, we could all have died of exposure today. We somehow managed to pull him out, but this Kancha Gurung, he could not walk at all, appears he injured his calves and knee, the man just collapsed flat. Where could we take and keep him? If there was a shelter nearby, we could have lit a fire and camped, without it, we would freeze to death from the cold and the snow. Abandoning a friend was also not an option, but we could not even carry him either, and it had already started getting dark. We were struggling with the situation when this Kuley showed up with his friends bearing lanterns. We were deliriously overjoyed! It was as if God himself had shown up!! One of them carried Kancha Gurung’s mail bag and two-three of them took turns to carry Kancha Gurung till here.”
Those were days when there was no provision for medication in Gnathang, there was not a single hospital within miles of the place. In the event of taking ill, one had to depend on herbs collected from the forest or rely on faith-healers- a Dhami, Ojha, or Bijua or seek refuge with the monks at the monastery. Father used to keep some medicines with him - “Peps” for cough, for cuts he had “Jharmaura”, “Jambak” for wounds and skin infections, and “Mahakali Tael” for sprains and muscle pulls.  Directing the dak-runners to warm their hands and massage the Mahakali Tael at all points that Kancha Gurung was sore and hurting, father returned to bed. After a while, even the runners lifted Kancha Gurung up and returned to their respective homes.
Even though it had snowed all night, the morning dawned bright. Tiny pools had collected around the dripping snow from the roofs; slivers of clear ice had congealed in these pools and were gleaming in the slanting rays of the rising sun. People had stepped out and were pulling down snow from the rooftops with spades and rakes, some were sweeping their doorways clear of the piled up snow. Inside the office, the same routine of preparing the mail for despatch, a lot of hustle-bustle.
As the dak-runners disappeared over the ridge, Kuley came into sight, sheepishly scratching his head and approaching father. Father knew that whenever Kuley showed up scratching his head, it was definitely to make a request, ask a favour. “What have you come to tell me Kuley? It appears as if it’s not your scalp, but your brain that the lice have attacked.” Kuley giggled and started to speak, “It’s not that Babu... Yesterday, when I was out looking for Sun-dantey and the rest, at the ridge above, a flock of musk deer came out of the pine grove. The day is bright today... and I was wondering whether I could roam around a bit and come...”
“As if the flock will be waiting there, expecting Kuley to show up.”
“It’s not that... It will be easy to track them after last night’s snowfall. How far could they have gone.”
Father pulled out some cartridges from the bandolier and gave it to Kuley, saying, “Here, go, indulge your whim, but don’t wander off too far. If you can’t find them, return in time.”
“As you say, Babu.” Saying this, Kuley packed in some refreshments and slanting the rifle across his shoulders, moved off towards the jungle. He did not return that night. When he was not back by even the next dusk, father started getting worried and went to Kuley’s friends to enquire after him. His friends and acquaintances displayed no signs of anxiety and told father, “Babu, you need not worry at all for Kuley. He used to spend entire fortnights, sometimes even 20 days, living off the land in the forest cutting grass. He knows the entire region like the back of his hand, he is familiar with every ridge, thicket, cliff and hill here. He fears neither wild dogs nor the Yeti nor even ghosts. He’ll get back. He’ll definitely get back.” Father, however, was still not reassured. Earlier, Kuley was free, no job holding him down, now he is an employed person and would not be so irresponsible, he thought. He was convinced that something had happened. The third morning, he sent out three dak-runner to search for Kuley.
Towards dusk, the trio returned, carrying home an unconscious Kuley. He was burning up with fever. His friends had followed tracks in the snow and had found Kuley sprawled unconscious in a cave. They did not find the rifle. Despite a battery of questions, no word escaped Kuley’s lips; he just kept staring blankly into the distance.
Sun-dantey Maila also moonlighted as a faith-healer, he carried out a divination and then spread out some embers on a tin foil, made an offering of Gai-Dhoop and offered a long prayer to the Old Man of the Forests. Even as the prayers were being performed, Kuley appeared to have fallen into a deep slumber and Sun-dantey Maila, finishing his prayers, told everyone: “Let him sleep now. If he wakes up and asks for food, give it to him. He will be fine by morning.”
Kuley woke up at around 3 or 4 in the morning. He was famished. He blinked, trying to orient himself to the flickering light of wick-lamp in the room, trying to get his bearings. His friends who had stayed back to watch over him, were gathered around the agenu, the kitchen-fire, sleeping. The fire was down to the embers. Finding his friends nearby, he realised that he must be at home. He did not want to think about anything, he was starving, his priority was to eat something first. He poked around the ashes of the kitchen-fire and gathered some live coals and tried blowing them to life. Suddenly, something came over him and he rushed out, grabbed a handful of wood-shavings, put them to the flame of the wick-lamp and fired up the agenu. He picked up the kettle of last night’s tea and the pot of leftover rice and heated them. He drank the tea himself and also passed around cups to his friends. He was completely back to his senses now.
Soon, it was bright daylight. As word spread that Kuley had regained consciousness, nieghbours and townsfolk started streaming in. Everyone had the same query, “What happened Kuley dai?”
And even he had the same answer for everyone: “Beats me... I shot a musk deer. It sprang up and collapsed into the snow. What all I saw after that... everything played out like a dream sequence from thereon.” Father also arrived there after having seen off the mail going down.
This is how Kuley narrated the day’s events to father. Once you have heard Kuley’s story, each of you will arrive at your own respective conclusions, some of you might not even believe it, but as far as I am concerned, having spent a considerable amount of time in these regions of Sikkim and Tibet, Tibet, for me, remains a country of mystery and secrets. Kuley ran his fingers through hair and shaking his head, as though he wanted to set down a big load off his mind, started telling his story...
“That morning, after taking the rifle and cartridges from Babu, I set off for the spot where I had spied the flock of musk deer the previous night. After crossing the thicket of dwarf pines, about two and a half miles further up, I arrived at a flat pastureland; surrounded on three sides by low hills and stretching wide into a grand pasture on the fourth. I got the feeling that I knew this place. In fact, I was convinced that I had seen this place before. It came back to me later that earlier, when I used to fetch fodder, I had spent many days in this glade. A short distance away should be an overhang under which I had spent a night. Even if at that moment everything was covered in thick snow, that overhang, should still be dry. With these things playing in my mind, a desire rose to visit the shelter again and I moved in that direction.
“I had walked barely 50 yards when I heard some noise rising from the far slope and noticed movement in the bushes there. I hid behind a dwarf pine and started scouring the slope. I noticed two musk deer ambling down towards me. I aimed for the stag bringing up the rear and released a shot.  The report resounded through the entire forest. That stag leapt up in the air and fell back into the snow. I stood transfixed at the spot, staring at the warm red blood spreading across the spotless snow. The doe had fled from the spot fast as an arrow released from a stout bow.
“I was thrilled. Preparing to offer the Kaan-Khur, I was reaching inside my bag for the knife when something caught my eye and settled on a vision some distance away. At first, it appeared like a heap of pure white snow gathered around the base of a pine tree, but soon, my illusion was dispelled. I saw – dressed in flowing unkempt white rags, sporting locks of matted white hair, a man who appeared to be a hermit, move towards the dead stag carrying a stout staff. Taken by surprise, I sprang behind the cover of the pine bush and watched. What was surprising was that even though he was walking, his feet did not sink into the fresh snow; it was as if he was floating. Even crows and partridges leave footprints in snow, so how was it that this huge man was not leaving any! I was thinking of these things when he reached the fallen stag and stood still there for a while; then, he swung his staff. The stick had barely touched the stag that it leapt up, as if startled from its sleep, and sped off in the direction that the doe had run off to. That white visage also moved away in the same direction.
“I could not believe my eyes. The impression of the stag’s body at the spot where it fell was clearly visible, the snow for at least 2 feet around this spot was soaked in blood. What happened? And then, fear enveloped me, my head started spinning and I collapsed at the spot. I got up. I wanted to flee, but my feet would not move, it was as if iron fetters weighing a tonne each had been tied to my legs. I would struggle to lift my legs, only to fall down. I have no recollection of what happened after that or how I eventually reached the shelter of the overhang where they found me.”
Then father asked Kuley: “And what did you do with the rifle? Where have you left it?”
“I don’t know Babu, I have no idea. From what these guys tell me, it was not with me when they found me. May be I dropped it at the spot where the stag fell...”
It took Kuley many days to recover from the trauma of his experience. Meanwhile, father despatched two mail-runners to look for the rifle. They recovered it from the spot where the stag had been killed. It is said that when they reached the spot, the snow there was still covered in blood. Rust had spotted inside the barrel. Staring down the muzzle of his rifle, a dejected Father said, “This Kuley, he has ruined the rifle.”


- translated from the original in Nepali by pema wangchuk dorjee