tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-59998324455694857802024-03-13T10:46:17.972+05:30litNOW!fiction, translations, poetry, travelogues and samplings of creative writing generated in Sikkim or inspired by it...Unknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger3125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5999832445569485780.post-88325307771973702032015-01-02T17:27:00.000+05:302015-01-02T17:27:28.825+05:30An insider painting poignant disruptions<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">by KRITIKA CHETTRI<br /></span>DORJEE T LEPCHA, a small frail man, would sit in his rented house above the public toilet drawing sketches of the life that went on in this part of the haat bazaar in Kalimpong. This same artistic skill was to fetch him the Parijat Paryawaran Puraskar for his comic book called Bancharo, about a frail orphan kid raised by ghosts in a forest swamped with illegal loggers, who goes on to attain superhuman powers. His friends at the cult literary magazine called flatFile would often say that had it not been for Tuberculosis, he would have been one of the most accomplished singers from these parts. Right from his days as a student in Kalimpong Government High school, he had been writing, composing, giving voice to his songs –<br /><i>Aljhi day samai ko dhara<br />Khojna day malai kinara<br />Mo yasai chu besahara<br />Ya khushi laija Ya mero joban<br />Ani chahana le hareko mann.</i><br />Later when TB left him unable to voice his songs, he would still not give up on music and picked up the guitar. Through lifelong he would remain possessive of his compositions. <br />Some would remember him from the famed Kalimpong chess competition where he had reached the finals along with his friend Anmole Prasad. The game went on for two whole days when the committee man got impatient and left. Later we heard Dorjee went on to beat his opponent and become Kalimpong’s chess champion. This zest for life did not diminish even when the TB got incurable and he had to face an untimely death at forty six.<br />As a student and teacher of literature he has translated some of Indra Bahadur Rai’s short stories for the volume entitled Gorkhas Imagined. A regular contributor to the now defunct literary magazine, flatFile, he would write stories full of humour and wit. The following short story gives a glimpse of life during the agitation of the late eighties in the hills of Darjeeling. While there have been a fair number of fictional narratives on the agitation right from Kiran Desai to Prajwal Parajuly, Dorjee’s story is unique, in that it is told from the point of view of one who has observed the lives of simple everyday folks and their personal trials and tribulations in being associated with the movement. In other words, he comes across as an insider to this world as he poignantly paints its disruption. <br /></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5999832445569485780.post-36268094567400218922011-02-09T12:46:00.002+05:302011-02-12T14:14:12.530+05:30one morning, April 1986<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEJ1q-2frvqk3qowgcd7K8Nh09TaqueZjtzXEDjrNa7Z8MgpCFyL0Go35JdlrgQdVrO2YaMc1Mu-QckHqr1gZxTa5k7zHromD6L6re-RoGiQ9ajGBhTM0xqGFu3GVWCRhWJAo_nMwG-AZ8/s1600/one.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="256" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEJ1q-2frvqk3qowgcd7K8Nh09TaqueZjtzXEDjrNa7Z8MgpCFyL0Go35JdlrgQdVrO2YaMc1Mu-QckHqr1gZxTa5k7zHromD6L6re-RoGiQ9ajGBhTM0xqGFu3GVWCRhWJAo_nMwG-AZ8/s400/one.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #999999;"><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #999999;">by <b>DORJEE TSHERING LEPCHA</b>, 1957-2008, teacher, musician, writer, friend...</span><br />
<br />
<br />
WHEN SEVEN-YEAR-OLD PHURCHU WOKE UP, he was surprised to find his father watching over him, gravely.<br />
Phurchu had a bed that creaked whenever he moved, reminding him of his grandfather who had this unnerving habit of grinding his teeth, whatever were left , for no reason. But his father had taken care not to rock the bed when he sat on it. From his bed, Phurchu could see his mother in the kitchen, sitting on a mura, crying.<br />
He wondered why…<br />
<a name='more'></a><br />
She would normally have been cooking at this time. Especially today. It was his birthday!<br />
Phurchu had not been seeing much of his father. This time as well, his father had been away for three days and three nights. But he had learnt to take his father’s unannounced disappearances as routine, quite like the frequent closure of his school, sometimes for weeks on end, even when there were no festivals around. Much like the processions on the roads, menacing CRPF personnel parading everywhere, frequent retorts of gunfire bursts (which, to Phurchu, did not at all resemble the sound gathered from the movies) and between them, the silences louder than the exploding bombs, the burning of houses that he could see from his window on odd mornings on the beautiful slopes of Kalimpong - frozen smoke writing history with a bright ink. All of these had played so often that they had become normal occurrences for the seven year old.<br />
For Phurchu, the best part of course, was not having to go to school. He was having a ball.<br />
He distinctly remembered his father’s arrival last night. His sleep was broken due to the banging on the door which initially he thought to be another spate of exploding bombs, but when he heard his mother’s admonishing tones, he knew who had arrived. He had tried to get up, but sleep benumbed his limbs and the 5-kilo quilt pinned him down like an opportunistic wrestler. He heard his mother and father talk in urgent, heated whispers. After sometime his mother had started crying. That had somehow lulled him to sleep.<br />
And now…<br />
“Get up Phurchu. We have to take a walk.”<br />
His father forced a smile that made him look insane.<br />
“Mmm…!” Phurchu showed no enthusiasm on this unusual proposal.<br />
He pulled the quilt over his face and pretended to still be asleep.<br />
“Come on, son. A He-Man never feels lazy to go for a walk. Aren’t you a He-Man?” Father coaxed him and gently pulled the quilt off his son’s face.<br />
His voice carried the trace of a blocked nose.<br />
“I feel too cold to go, Apa. We’ll go after the sun comes out, okay? After breakfast?” Phurchu made a last ditch attempt to procrastinate.<br />
“No, no. Your Apa does not have that much time. A good boy always obeys his elders.” He held his son’s hands and pulled him up. Phurchu rubbed his eyes and yawned.<br />
“Are you going again? Where are you going?” Phurchu tried to make his father guilty by flaunting his disappointment.<br />
“You’ll know soon enough,” he replied cryptically and pushing the small shoes near the bed with his foot, said, “Just put on your sweater and shoes. You can wash your face later. Come on, hurry up. I don’t have all day.”<br />
A reluctant pair of feet disappeared into the canvas shoes while the older man found a sweater for his son. He made Phurchu put his head through the neck of the sweater and helped him slip his arms in the sleeves. Once the son was ready, his father examined his handiwork with satisfaction and said, “We’re all set. Let’s move.”<br />
As they proceeded towards the door, Phurchu stole a glance at his mother; she had not spoken all this while and was looking blankly over an empty pot, eyes swollen. A subtle stiffening in Phurchu’s hand around his finger made his father turn. He looked at his wife resignedly for a minute and said, “You hear, there? All the money is in the left drawer. I’ve left the keys on the table. By the way, don’t forget to burn the papers in the other drawer, all of them. Phurchu and I are just going to have a chat while we walk.”<br />
She began to sob even more as the two walked out of the house, on to the road.<br />
The road stretched its long arms both ways and seemed to be enjoying the scratching brooms of the municipality sweepers. A look at his watch told him that it was only five, but the morning was bright enough even without the sun.<br />
Once, a bright artist from Dr. Graham’s Homes school had painted an imaginary aerial view of Kalimpong. The work was considered a masterpiece and as though to acknowledge its due worth, it was displayed in all the schools of Kalimpong. This painting, a sizeable 24”x30”, depicted the town with the Deolo hill on the north, Durpin in the South and the two rivers Relli on the east and to the west, Tista.<br />
Phurchu had also seen the painting. The overhead picture of his own town was amusing for him. When his father had remarked on how the town had grown, Phurchu had silently disagreed; he thought, looking at the picture, it seemed that instead of the town growing in the middle of the wilderness it was the wilderness that was swallowing up the town. And in some ways he was quite right. For such was the township of Kalimpong that the moment one left the road and took one of the side roads, the scene changed dramatically like in some revolving theatre and one could end up in a moment on some dusty path leading down to the village.<br />
It was one such path that the father and son took, the damp clay sticking adamantly to their shoes. The path danced abundantly and suddenly hid behind a large jackfruit tree. For a moment Phurchu forgot his morning lethargy, curious to find out how the path would unfold.<br />
They walked without a word. Among the shallow terraces they saw goats fornicating in front of a hut. Phurchu was well aware of the act and just to overcome the embarrassment he asked his father, “Where were you for the last three days?”<br />
“I was working,” he said tersely and seemed determined not to elaborate.<br />
Phurchu sensed it and did not pursue the issue. He longed for his bed.<br />
“Why did we have to come out so early!” he grumbled.<br />
“Because you have to learn a lot of things.”<br />
The father was fumbling for something in his trousers pocket.<br />
“What?”<br />
The frown wrote lines of confusion on his forehead.<br />
“Things... There are many things you don’t know. And you have to learn fast.”<br />
“Why?” Phurchu was perplexed. It was so easy to get back home – just turn and run.<br />
“Because you don’t have the time. I don’t have the time myself, you know!”<br />
“What do I have to learn exactly?” Phurchu had a feeling he was stirring a hornet’s nest.<br />
“Tell me, what would you like to be when you grow up?”<br />
The father opened his conversation as though playing a riddle.<br />
Phurchu thought for a while and said, “I’d like to be like Philip uncle.”<br />
“A bus conductor?” The amazement of it made the father halt and stare at his son. But his gaze eased and a wry smile spread on his lips. Then he continued, “So you want to be a bus conductor. Okay! Fine… You can make a killing as a bus conductor as well. After all it’s money that matters. Who cares whether you are a conductor or a contractor.”<br />
He fell silent for a while. Phurchu was thinking about the metal pistol Philip uncle’s son Sanu had, that did not break even when used as a walnut cracker.<br />
“But as a conductor, or anytime when you’re in a moving vehicle, you have to keep one thing in mind,” Phurchu’s father was saying, “You should never stick out your tongue and you should never pick your nose.”<br />
“Apa, I want to pee.” Phurchu said to his father.<br />
When they came to a thick bamboo grove that opened up like an umbrella at the canopy, the father gently released Phurchu’s fi nger. The boy, who still carried sleep in his eyes, walked behind a tree, slipped down his pajamas and peed. Suddenly, his father came running to him, shouting, “Stop Phurchu! You’re pissing on your own shoes.”<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEil_rWlXXXRsjvb2lEJKad5JOpmhn6BGVhQupvw3fqD7wA02u266LldaLtwnCV2IwQOR3I8uLNt9OmVDl-baORJpzrlJhTyvePSfV0T13Oj9dNuJM0JrpkZWvSSuxO6DO2vD6dhw5rkj0pD/s1600/oneMorning.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEil_rWlXXXRsjvb2lEJKad5JOpmhn6BGVhQupvw3fqD7wA02u266LldaLtwnCV2IwQOR3I8uLNt9OmVDl-baORJpzrlJhTyvePSfV0T13Oj9dNuJM0JrpkZWvSSuxO6DO2vD6dhw5rkj0pD/s320/oneMorning.jpg" width="111" /></a></div>Phurchu turned to look at his father, unsure of how he was supposed to do what his father wanted.<br />
“Always remember, son, before you take a leak peel it like this…,” he said actually pulling down his son’s foreskin, and continued, “Otherwise you’ll end up ruining your clothes. Understand?”<br />
The boy nodded, but he could not pee anymore. After waiting for some time they continued.<br />
“Why shouldn’t we pick our noses or stick our tongues out in a bus, father?”<br />
“Because roads are bad; they are full of bumps and puddles and holes. When the buses jerk and jolt you could end up biting your own tongue or your finger might get shoved further up your nose. That’s why you should not stick your tongue out or pick your nose in a bus, or in any vehicle for that matter. Can you remember that?”<br />
Not waiting for his son’s reply, he walked up to a poinsettia bush and started taking a leak himself. Phurchu looked longingly towards the town, imagining a hot plate of fried rice in front of him.<br />
“Actually, you should write all this down. It will stand you in good stead in the future,” his father said, zipping his fly.<br />
“Can we go back now, Apa? I’m hungry.” Phurchu said, almost begging.<br />
His father pretended to look at him in mock dismay. He said nothing but gestured that they should carry on.<br />
Just then the bell at the MacFarlane Church began to ring. It made the whole atmosphere too lyrical for Phurchu’s father. He became conscious of it and furtively scanned his surrounding.<br />
“Look! It’s just 5:30. Nobody eats this early in the morning. This is time for morning walks. It’s good for health. Remember, even though you’ll hear many people say this, there’s nothing, nothing at all, more valuable than health. This walk will give you a good appetite and better digestion. You’ll see.”<br />
It looked like he wanted to elaborate further on the theme of health, but he abandoned the idea. Instead, he gently put his hand on Phurchu’s shoulder, subtly urging him to move on.<br />
The countryside they were in was actually a horticulture farm. It was to the credit of the people who worked there that the cabbage and radish fields looked healthy and thriving, but the townspeople believed that this was primarily because of the sewage of the entire town which flowed down here. That, of course, did not stop the farm from selling their products in town and the people bought them anyway.<br />
Phurchu held his tiny nose and complained to his father, who seemed impervious to the smell, “Apa, let’s go back. It’s too dirty here.”<br />
“Don’t forget you and I have also contributed to this smell. Why don’t you try to recognise the smell of your own shit! Can you do that?” And he laughed.<br />
“Let’s go back. I’ll be sick.” said the boy. He thought that the grossness of the joke was even more oppressive than the stench. He could not believe that his father could be so indifferent to the suffocating odour.<br />
“Okay. Walk fast,” Phurchu’s father said. “We’ll soon be away from this.”<br />
“Haven’t we come too far?” Phurchu asked.<br />
“Yes, we have. Just watch the path.” And he briskly moved ahead, his son following.<br />
He kept quiet for another minute, and then repeated, “Just mind the path, okay? You might have to return alone.”<br />
“Why, Apa? I can’t go back alone. You have to come back with me,” Phurchu said, starting to cry.<br />
“Don’t start crying now. I was just joking. But do you expect me to be around you forever?” He said with mild impatience. But immediately, realizing the fact that such a question is not exactly reassuring for a kid of seven, he tried to distract his son by rubbing his sole on the grass pretending to have stepped on some shit.<br />
Phurchu’s father looked up towards town which really appeared incredibly far away. The path concealed itself among the bushes like a vengeful snake skulking in the grass waiting to strike. He looked down towards the Relli river and the wilderness that unfurled beyond it in the morning light. A tug at his sleeve made him look quickly at his son and then at the wilderness again, his eyes just a pair of unreflecting, dry niches in the face. Just then, a careless crack of a pipe-gun rang out somewhere below. As if on cue, Phurchu’s father shuffl ed his feet and seemed to be preparing for something. Nearby a nestling dropped from a tree. Its agonized chattering went unnoticed, no bird came down to take it back to the nest.<br />
“Son, I’m running out of time. I think I’ll have to shorten the purpose of this little jaunt. But even as we do so, I must tell you one thing. That is…” he stopped as if he was disturbed by the quiet of the morning.<br />
He was holding his son’s hand. He squeezed it so hard that his son squirmed. Hastily he let go of Phurchu’s hand, but there was no remorse in his face. All of a sudden his eyes assumed the blankness of a condemned man. The transformation robbed Phurchu of words.<br />
After a while, Phurchu’s father resumed, “That is, you don’t have to always take sides in this world. People always fight for different reasons. Some out of conviction, some without. Do you follow me?”<br />
Some months ago his mother had taken Phurchu to the local Sericulture farm where there was a huge mulberry tree. The gardener there grew pally with his mother and so he shook the tree for Phurchu. The fruits showered thickly to the ground but Phurchu standing under it, palms wide open, could not catch a single fruit. His father’s words reminded him of that day. But he could pick the fruits from the ground then, though.<br />
When he saw no change in Phurchu’s face, his father decided to continue. Phurchu had not seen his father this grave, ever.<br />
“You remember our milkman before the present one? Innocent, plain and harmless? You know what happened to him? He is dead. Shot mercilessly and blindly by the CRPF for nothing. Hence the new milkman. You remember the rooster thief whom Uncle Philip and others caught and was beaten black and blue? Well, the times have changed for him. He is one of the most powerful men now. You might’ve noticed things are not as calm as they used to be two or three years ago. The gunfire, bomb blasts, people running, people chasing – something is going on. You’ll not understand what. But you’ll be a part of it all the same.”<br />
Phurchu seemed to listen carefully. He did not know what to say. By this time, he had found a roasted pea in his pocket which he promptly popped in his mouth. His father paused only to take a deep breath.<br />
He began, “Whatever. Listen carefully. When you are able to understand what is going on now and if ever you find yourself in such times when you grow up, I’ll give you a few hints to remember. To begin with try your utmost not to take sides. I can warn you that’s the hardest thing to do, because it might leave you lonely sometimes. Powerful people will proclaim – ‘you are either with us or with the enemy,’ – and torment you.”<br />
Phurchu was totally exhausted by now, physically and mentally. He was too tired to follow his father’s ranting. They were too obscure for him anyway. In fact, he rather suspected that his father was not talking to him at all. He was talking to himself; why else would he be so inscrutable. Phurchu, was really horrified at this thought. His eyes were filled with tears as he looked up to his father, who was unmoved by his son on the verge of tears. He seemed to carry the disquiet of the universe on his face. His eyes seemed dead, the mouth, however, spoke, “But if you do end up taking sides, then know how to fulfil it. For instance, if you side with the people fighting against the administration, then your commitment should be undivided. You are in it for better or for worse anyway.”<br />
The two had come a rather long distance and the town was no longer even visible. Here, the bamboo grove was denser, the path muddier. All the cottages were thatched, attached to the ubiquitous cow-sheds that reeked of dung. The stray people around looked dirty and scared. Phurchu, his eyes moist by now, mustered all his courage and in a voice that sounded like the un-oiled door of a metal almirah, begged his father, “Apa, I’m scared. Let’s go back home. Please!”<br />
“Let me finish the lesson first. I’m just about fi nished. Okay?”<br />
And then, after carefully maneuvering over a log bridge across a small stream, and helping his son safely across, he said, “But woe betide if your loyalties get divided because of your scruples and you try to balance your conscience by going over to the administration to give them the names of those who ambushed the police jeep in August last year. Because that is treachery. And you will, and should, be punished for it.”<br />
Phurchu’s father had to stop at that point because just then, out of nowhere, a young boy in his twenties came running down and glancing at them for the briefest of a second, overtook them. His camouflaged trousers were tucked into his boots. A black handkerchief tied round his head, a homemade gun slung across his back.<br />
As he went bounding down, he jumped over the stream that Phurchu and his father had just crossed. Perhaps he misjudged his leap, for he very nearly fell on his back into the rocky stream; but he balanced himself somehow and threw himself face first into a thick lantana bush. Before he vanished, he had to struggle quite fiercely to disentangle himself from the maze of branches.<br />
For a moment, Phurchu was completely distracted from his own surreal predicament, rapt in that fleeting cameo.<br />
The two stood still for God knows an eternity. When Phurchu looked up at his father, he saw horror in his eyes.<br />
“Apa…!” Phurchu uttered feebly.<br />
The older man suddenly jerked into his senses. He disengaged his finger from his son’s grip and wiped his hand which had gone damp with sweat.<br />
“Come son. Let’s move along.”<br />
And they resumed their walk. After a while, Phurchu’s father began again.<br />
“Now, where was I? Oh, yes. You will and should be punished for it.” And he put his hand on his son’s shoulder and gently pulled him closer, so that their bodies touched as they moved forward.<br />
“But fortunately, there will be more than one group fighting for the same cause. It is always like that, my son. People do like to do things in their own particular way. All would like to be the ones who calls the shots,” Phurchu’s father said, or rather whispered.<br />
It was probably because of the atmosphere around the place. It was too quiet, and perhaps he did not want his voice to carry. And Phurchu was in that state of half sleep and half dread, and the calm seemed to deafen him and noise seemed to lull.<br />
The words of wisdom were coming faster and faster, as if Phurchu’s father had made a tryst with time.<br />
He continued, “Can you remember all these things? Look son, these are really very important things for you. For your benefit, let me repeat: if you have taken a side which is fighting for a very important cause against the Administration, you should never betray your people and you should never, either for your conscience or your personal benefit, go over to the other side. For when your betrayal surfaces, you’ll be on the run. On the run because the group you used to side with, has sworn to spill your blood and the Administration, after getting a taste of your flair for treachery, will do everything to suck you dry. Phurchu, there is no choice for you but to remember all this.”<br />
By now the sun had started streaking through the mesh of leaves, and now and then hit the trickling water fl owing unevenly along the stream. It was getting a bit warm.<br />
Oblivious of all this, Phurchu’s father looked carefully down at the rugged path as far as his eyes could see. Suddenly, he halted and looked at his son whose innocent face told a tale of exhaustion and fear. Phurchu was beyond repeating his plea to return home. All tenderness in his father’s face was buried in layers of unknown agony, remorse and despair. The man took a deep breath and as if to conclude a story, and resumed, “So, as I told you there will be more than one group fighting for the same cause. And more often than not, remember, they will be fighting with each other. Or why should they not belong to the same group and fight with the Administration more strongly?”<br />
With that rhetorical question he began his journey again, the end of which the son was totally unaware of, and perhaps, the father as well. The journey that had begun as a morning walk, had transformed into a dark peripatetic madness.<br />
“But son,” he started, “The risk of an inter-group feud is also an advantage, and you have to use it. Or will you have any other choices? None. Hence, you will be forced to seek asylum with another group. You’ll either be out of perils or you’ll be sacrificed in the name of the very cause they are agitating for. It’s fifty-fifty. That is a gamble you have to take.”<br />
They had come quite far from the town. Halfway between the Relli river and home, the trees were thicker now. Phurchu, because he his legs had walked further than they could, had to be supported by his father even over small jutting stones and gaps in the path. His protests were long drowned by his father’s unsolicited soliloquy and so, taking it as one of those unhappy days which he often experienced in school, he accepted his lousy luck.<br />
All right, he bitterly reconciled, this day I not only have to get out of bed in an ungodly hour, but also delay my breakfast, walk around half the world to this wilderness, listen to all these pearls of wisdom I could do without, and spend the worst birthday morning ever. I’m sure it’ll end soon. It has to.<br />
Just then three boys appeared from the shadows of the trees.<br />
They were in their late teens or thereabouts. Any innocence concomitant to their age had been erased by the soot smeared across their faces. They had an ape-like nimbleness despite being heavily encumbered by the weapons they carried. They looked like veterans of a deadly game.<br />
Phurchu felt a strange limpness in his father’s fingers and his hand was released involuntarily. His father’s face froze.<br />
The father asked, “You do remember the way back home, as I told you. Do you?”<br />
He wanted to say no, but nothing came out of Phurchu’s mouth. He was still trying to figure out what was wrong.<br />
“Very well, then. Time has come for you to find your way to town. You can do it, can’t you? Go now, quick!” And he detached himself from his son and started walking down towards the boys.<br />
“Hello bhaiharu! Came looking for me? I was coming anyway. Did Ongkal get my message?”<br />
Phurchu heard his father approach those boys in amicable tones. His own feet were, like the bamboos around him, fixed to the ground.<br />
“Don’t call us brothers.”<br />
Menace rang in the newcomers’ voice. “You don’t know the meaning of the word.”<br />
And they surrounded him.<br />
Phurchu’s father turned to his son once again and shouted, “Still there? I told you to go back, didn’t I? Now hurry back. I’ve to go to Ongkal on important business. Now go back, hurry!”<br />
Phurchu, who felt he was in some kind of a nightmare, mustered all his strength and will and shouted back, tearfully, “No Apa, I can’t go back alone. Please let’s go back together. I’m scared.”<br />
But by then the boys had already dragged his father long way down, cursing, shoving, kicking and pushing. Phurchu began to cry. Even long after his father vanished from sight, Phurchu kept calling and crying.<br />
When his father did not reappear even after a long time, and Phurchu had drained all his tears and gone hoarse from crying, he was suddenly overcome by an irresistible urge to go back to sleep. But he fought it. He resolved to wait for his father.<br />
He sat on the dusty path, mouse-like and sobbing, “Apa… Please come back…”<br />
It was mournfully quiet all around.<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #666666;"><i>[This short story was first published in the Sunday edition of</i> NOW! <i>over three issues from 19 April 2009 to 03 May 2009]</i></span></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5999832445569485780.post-31866400379329254262011-02-04T20:22:00.001+05:302011-02-12T14:14:57.360+05:30On the Mail Route to Tibet<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_lshEX1iMG-EJk302YIKWJu5zYnejgBlsP6x0zYF3nckJITaap-ss7-g0s4w75TqchR3PkuyEZZMJ39iQRu82C086sXtFHd8d9eMLOdTRCOq8VReWXbVqjVS8Foo5mZgfFkVAwji9dSGc/s1600/hullaak.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="296" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_lshEX1iMG-EJk302YIKWJu5zYnejgBlsP6x0zYF3nckJITaap-ss7-g0s4w75TqchR3PkuyEZZMJ39iQRu82C086sXtFHd8d9eMLOdTRCOq8VReWXbVqjVS8Foo5mZgfFkVAwji9dSGc/s400/hullaak.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: yellow;">A translation of <b>SHIVA KUMAR RAI</b>’s “Tibbatko Hullaak-path”</span><br />
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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.<br />
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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.<br />
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.<br />
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.<br />
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.<br />
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.<br />
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.<br />
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.<br />
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.<br />
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”.<br />
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.”<br />
“What happened Maila?”<br />
“What could have happened?!” Now, Sun-dantey Maila started narrating the entire story.<br />
“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.<br />
“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.”<br />
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.”<br />
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.<br />
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.<br />
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...”<br />
“As if the flock will be waiting there, expecting Kuley to show up.”<br />
“It’s not that... It will be easy to track them after last night’s snowfall. How far could they have gone.”<br />
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.”<br />
“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.<br />
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.<br />
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.”<br />
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.<br />
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?”<br />
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.<br />
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...<br />
“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.<br />
“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.<br />
“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.<br />
“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.”<br />
Then father asked Kuley: “And what did you do with the rifle? Where have you left it?”<br />
“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...”<br />
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.”<br />
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<b><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #666666;">- translated from the original in Nepali by pema wangchuk dorjee</span></i></b></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3