From the Memory Lane

Some journeys are unforgettable.

When I go to Kalimpong, I sometimes recall my first trip to the place as a twelve year old, almost two decades ago. The memories of that trip are etched in my mind. It was special in more than one ways.

Kalimpong was a land of dreams – I had friends who sang paeans to Kalimpong lollipops and cheese. I had often dreamt that if I was in the place I’d buy numberless lollipops and cheese. It’s another matter that I didn’t have much money then.

Some dreams do not take long to realise. I soon got an opportunity when I was selected to be a part of school volleyball team. I was the youngest member of the team and I had been selected not because I was oozing with talent, but I had been dogged during the practice. My principal had liked my resolve to learn the game and recommended me to the coach. I do not know how the coach initially took that, but I believe he too wasn’t averse to rewarding a determined player’s enthusiasm.

 So, there I was, huddled in the Land Rover among experienced seniors. They sang and clamoured on the way boisterously. The enthusiasm and excitement was infectious. However, I was also feeling vaguely homesick. I must have been awfully naïve. It was the first time I was going away so far without my grandparents, who doted upon me…

 I soaked in the sweeping view of Kanchenjunga, woods, tea gardens, the confluence of Tista and Rangeet Rivers and other sights as our Land Rover rattled downhill. Driving over the Tista Bridge and the road over its banks was altogether a noble experience. I was greatly thrilled during the whole trip, but was also aware of tinge of sadness that coloured my happiness.

St. Augustine’s – which was the school hosting the tournament – was much bigger than our school. We were warmly received and ushered into the grand dining hall. Water melons and biscuits had never tasted better. Before noon, the tournament began. We were the least favourites to win. Yet we put up a great fight. The best part was the coach even let me play in one crucial game.

 The semi-finals were to be held the next day. We had failed to reach the semi-final playoffs, still we put up at the school’s hostel that night. The long journey and the tiring games induced such deep sleep that most players of our team slept like logs. The pranksters had a field day, or rather ‘night’. It was drizzling that night. The pranksters dragged some sleepers along with their mattress to give them an unwelcome cold shower outside!

Next day, we returned. I couldn’t bring many lollipops or cheese slices. I certainly brought bundle of unforgettable memories though.

Theories of the Learned and all that

As I was waiting for taxi in the driving rain, several thoughts flitted across my mind. I was thinking  of  this and that, but soon I realised unconsciously settled on following a line of thought about people by the time I was ensconced in a taxi seat. Of all the miraculous creations of the almighty, man occupies the top most rung of hierarchy. However, man can be most stupid of all creations. How else do we explain peoples’ unquestioned acceptance of dogmas and principles whether they be social, political or religious?

History is witness to countless ‘Reigns of Terror’ unleashed on humanity. Why does it always take numberless tragedies to sink into man that rigid rules and dogmas, and inversely excessive freedom, only lead to ruin? Why does man deify someone, no different from himself, and subject himself to humiliation of all kinds? One at the grassroots is always the one to bear the worst, anywhere in the world. Ironically, they are also the ones who ready the pedestal for a Mussolini or Hitler. And where do the learned of the high society go at such times? They busy themselves in pamphleteering and thereby fanning the fire for the deified hero, or pore over tomes of books and theories to wriggle their way out.

Theories, I’ve realised at a great cost, are brain child of minds that live on a different plane. I had an erudite friend – one who was well versed in all sorts of high brow theories. I once happened to display my ignorance to him by debating that theories are lost on one who has difficulty making ends meet. It let loose the hell gate of his almighty fury that a quasi-literate had the temerity to question demigods of the erudite fraternity – Roseau, Voltaire etcetera, etcetera. They were giants whose names I could not even pronounce.

“Everything is theory; you are what you are because you know no theory!” That was his final verdict. All the theories he knows might save the world one day, but they could not save our friendship from falling apart that day.

Sai

I found two references to Sathya Sai Baba while reading Investigating the Unexplained by Paul Roland. It was quite unexpected and goes without saying I was greatly fascinated. My attitude towards Sai Baba has always been wavering – I have felt lack of enough faith in myself to worship him, yet I’ve discovered sacred texts and love for my religion, Hinduism, mostly because of him; I have seen vibuhti, the sacred ash, emanating from his pictures; yet I’ve never seen him or his ashram though it’d just take about two days to be there from here (I feel at times it could be a grave mistake!); I’ve not read enough literature about him to fully understand him but I’ve easily felt piqued by  the views of the non-believers. No temple was ever erected on shaky foundation of wavering faith. I guess it’s a shame how people can get judgemental so easily.

In the only book about Sai Baba I’ve read, Bill Aitken writes of many miracles performed by Baba. However, Bill Aitken reiterates in his book Sri Sathya Sai Baba, that Baba’s initiative and zeal to help the underprivileged and uplift the downtrodden is his greatest miracle.

Co-Writing

I’m coming back after a significant gap. So much has happened in between… It was a thrilling time and I enjoyed every bit of it. I also found some time to read and write besides. I wish to share a bit of what I’ve been writing.

 

Here is an excerpt from a poem that I’ve been working on recently. Wonder if anyone is interested in co writing this piece with me. Though I’m quite dubious if a good poem can be written in collaboration, yet, I’m not too averse to the idea of experimenting. Little changes can be fun sometimes…   Please feel free to edit these already composed lines if you should see the need.

 

 

 

Across the vast expanding desert,

A train wails in growing dark.

Cold on the marble slabs,

The king lay in his windswept palace.

They who had toiled in scorching heat,

Shed their blood in the battle fields,

Sit around him and howl…

 

 

 

 

PS: In the blogsphere where people plagiarize freely with no accountability, I know there are still sincere souls with great regard for the written word. I would be happy to hear from and be in such hallowed company.

In Half Ruins

I had no home to go to after the war. My mother was dead and there was no word of my brother, who had been reported missing in East Africa. Only a distant aunt lived alone, somewhere in India. Yet strangely unfeeling and unaffected, like a stoic, I boarded a train without any destination. I was too uncertain, perhaps drained, to think or feel about how things had changed.

It was raining heavily the day I came to London. I got soaked to the bone before I could check in at a nondescript hotel. After I changed, I realised there was nothing else to do. Each minute had been a gamble for seven long months at the front. I felt lost and uneasy with nothing to do in that poky hotel room. I spread the contents of my bag on the table. The clothes on top were all wet; my discharge certificate had become soggy mass with most hand written words smudged. Not much money. No welcome-home-letters.

It stopped raining sometime close to seven. I decided to go out, vaguely hoping to find some friends, acquaintance.

I heard footsteps behind me in the foyer. I did not turn back. A young woman in ashy tweed dress passed me slowly with an apprising sidelong glance. Suddenly she turned around just a few paces in front. I stood still, giving her an enquiring look. She curled up her lips, looked at me like someone had dealt a crushing blow and then she hastily shuffled out of the door. I slowly stepped out after her. I saw her turn right and disappear in the dense fog. Footfalls rang out on the cobbled path. I turned the opposite way. My mind was crowded with myriad questions.

That night I tried to picture her. I could recall a little. She was tall, thin and had a long, flowing hair. Her gait was careful, measured. It suggested an inherent panic induced by war that was not cast off altogether. The face was freckled, not very expressible. But one could easily glean signs of prolonged suffering in her eyes, deeply set, poignant and searching.

In the morning I woke up expecting to hear the booming battery, or to find myself torn apart with shrapnel and languishing in some makeshift hospital reeking with putrid wounds, antiseptics and blood. It took a while to sink in I wasn’t where I was thinking. I removed the curtains and gazed out. The city looked fresh, bathed and invigorated by the rain. This was also a city engulfed in a war that had threatened to devour the entire world. But clearly it had survived the German bombs, annihilation, with few scars. Or had I found out enough yet to make such judgement? As I was thinking such thoughts, she crossed my mind.

I found her in the loggia, arranging her hair blown about in hair. I approached cautiously lest I should startle her. I coughed to attract her attention. She whirled and our eyes were locked. Those sad, pellucid eyes glittered.

“Excuse me, but you may remember we met yesterday,” I ventured.

“Well, yes…we did,” she replied in a heavy foreign accent.

“I am Sergeant Hugh, actually just Hugh  now…” I said

She smiled a wry smile.

 A glorious, unforgettable week passed. Each passing day had seemed to bring us closer. I felt hopelessly enamoured, like a poet – inspired. I felt I could effortlessly fill pages with words steeped in passion if I cared to write. I no longer felt shell-shocked.

The sky was turquoise, romantically clear. Branches were low and leaves quivered. Each blade of grass tensed up in anticipation to catch the words whispered. I gently took her soft, slender hand and made an avowal of my feelings.

“I had something to say myself,” she said.

Something dark scurried inside me. I had shared my deepest secrets. For a week she had only talked of this and that.

Her truth stung me like a whiplash. She had been a camp follower during the war. I did not have to be told what her unofficial services were…How people were bludgeoned to become puns for higher glory of the nation and all that! How many of us went smiling to the front to wince when reality battered! Free will is a holocaust consumed by inferno of war. Sooner or later every one of us was dragged along to become body bags, to go missing in encounters. And even if we returned, we came back as shell-shocked zombies staggering to find a place, ourselves.

“…I was among the evacuees in Italy…one day…violated for months … they smuggled me out … left in the coast … had two rings and some money I stole from…don’t know where I’ll go from…”

I was listening from far.

A leaf floated down and nestled between us. In the distance children were crying wildly, playing ball. She was facing westward where birds flew over a church spire. When they melted out of sight, she turned her gaze towards the ruined park. I took her face in my hands on an impulse. She lowered her eyes. Her lips parted, tremulous…

 

 

ps:  I wrote this story in March 2003 for Reflections, a literary magazine that we were desperately trying to keep in circulation.

Director’s Demise

I have the unenviable task of sharing this sad news…
Last night at ten minutes past twelve, after a prolonged battle with multiple illnesses and conditions, Mr Pradeep Tamang passed away. His sad demise has plunged West Point School, Darjeeling in deep mourning. He was its principal, and founder father. Under his guidance the school progressed in leaps and bounds. It scaled dizzying heights. He was able to carve out a niche, a unique identity for the institution.
He was my principal, English teacher and employer too. I owe a great deal to him. I learnt the building blocks of English under his tutelage. It was primarily his inspiration and encouragement that made me see the beauty of written word. Moreover, he was a fatherly figure who cared a lot. All his students, teachers, friends and well wishers are surely going to miss him a lot. He always touched everyone in his own special way. His quaint sense of humour endeared him to all.
I remember when I was still his student, there was a boy whose surname sounded like ‘cut wall.’ Once he was busy scratching something in the wall with his pencil sharpener. When Mr Tamang caught him in the act, he simply remarked in his peculiar, humorous tone: “Just because you are ‘cut wall’ you don’t have to cut that wall.”
He was a man who brought a little cheer, sunshine in every child’s life. He exhorted everyone to persevere to excel in whatever they took up. It is dubious if anyone can take his place as a teacher, administrator and good man…May his soul rest in peace

Songs of Dylan

Notwithstanding the heavy American accent and that pronounced nasal tone, I was mesmerized by the songs of Bob Dylan the very first time I heard them. I had just entered college then, dreaming fervently that it was my passport to a brilliant world. I was too naïve to know then that some dreams cannot be actualized easily, whereas realizing some is like taking a walk in the park.
A friend brought a compilation of Dylan’s greatest hits. We listened in awe. I loved the surreal world of Dylan’s songs. His concerns, pain and pleasure reflected in many of his songs.
I cannot say that I am a die hard fan of Dylan, but I love many of his lyrics and. Some of his great lyrics and song can be found on bobdylan.com
It’s an extensive and a beautiful site for all Dylan’s fans.

DHR, Strikes and All That

I have written about the DHR on earlier occasion elsewhere. However, skimming through an old file I found some unpublished pictures of DHR. I  wanted to share those pictures, but due to poor connection today I have postponed the plan for another day.  I could upload only one picture today.

Most of the coaches of Darjeeling Himalayan Railway are named after mountain peaks, hills and people. One of the coaches bears Mark Twain’s name, honouring the great writer and commemorating his journey on the Tiny.

 Incidentally, the situation in Darjeeling now is quite fluid. It is reeling under the indefinite strike called by GJMM (Gorkha Janmukti Morcha). The immediate cause for the strike is alleged police atrocities on its peaceful procession at Panighata, near Kurseong. However, the main cause is longstanding demand of Gorkhaland. The strike has entered the third day and is near total. Very few essential services are kept out of the purview of strike. The picketers haven’t even allowed the police vehicles to ply! However, since 95% of the people are seemingly in favour of the demand for Gorkhaland, there has been no reported incidents of violence

Times they are a changing

“Switch off that TV!” was a very common refrain when I was growing up. I wonder what I found so interesting then.
Today I can watch TV for as long as I want, but there isn’t too much to watch. There are times when I feel even if the TV is trashed for good it isn’t going to make much difference. I guess that about the only thing I’m going to miss sorely is watching games and news. Games – nothing compares to the joy of watching your favourite games as they are being played, live. Although watching news can be a distressing experience, one cannot afford to miss them. One has to stay in tune with times.
We live in a very strange phase of civilisation. Extremities have made inroads into every sphere of our lives. People have taken their views, causes, beliefs almost everything to extreme levels. There are those who propagate ideals of freedom and democracy and hope to carve it out, quite ironically, at the expense of someone else’s beliefs. There are those who would kill innocents for religious dogmas and words of dubious prophets. We clamour for peace, but the world today has the biggest arsenal of lethal weapons in entire history.
I’ve not taken the extreme step of trashing my TV, but I’m judicious about what I watch. Much of the conflict in the world today stems from extremism, rigid viewpoints. I’m taking the middle path.

A Wonder Plant

I had had a nasty fall. It resulted in a deep cut. A long vertical cut two inches above my index finger on the right hand. I could see the white ligament inside. For a moment there was nothing – no pain, no blood. I must have been paralyzed with shock. Soon, blood started oozing out and I felt a searing pain deep inside. I could not run home to grandma because of fear. Friends gathered around me hastily. One of them quickly plucked out a handful of those wonderful leaves, extracted its juice by wringing it in his palms and applied the juice to my cut. For some seconds the pain was intense, but soon the pain subsided.

When it was time to go home after a day’s long play, a scab had formed over my wound. Now it did not look as bad as it did when the wound was first inflicted, but it was pretty much enough for my grandma to give me a good tongue lashing about my carelessness, clumsiness, etcetera, etcetera. The main object of this narration is not to tell you how I was as a boy of course; rather I wish to tell you of a miraculous plant that is widely found in Darjeeling Hills. The locals call it titapati, I suppose it is called Mugwort in English; the botanists know it as asterasia vulgaris.

Gorkhas in Darjeeling hills are predominantly Hindus, but they also have aspects of animist rituals. Leaves of the mugwort plant are thus imperative in many of such rituals. When the household deities are being worshipped, the shamans or witchdoctors use the mugwort leaves extensively. The juice of this plant has antiseptic properties. It is also used as organic pesticide/fungicide. It has been used as cure for acnes, pimples, cuts, bruises and blood pressure with remarkable results.

I suspect that some study has been done on this plant; however, any serious student of botany would find this plant curious enough to tickle his fancy.