Mungpoo, May 9: On his 80th birthday on May 9, 1940, Rabindranath Tagore had enjoyed being wheeled around the bungalow at Mungpoo by K.B. Yonzon, a youth of 18 years then.

Seventy-years later, Yonzon, now 88, is among a handful of people who had witnessed probably the last of Tagore’s birthday celebrations before his death in August 1941.

“I was a worker of a Cinchona factory here and was assigned to take care of Gurudev during his stay. Around 300 villagers had gathered here on his 80th birthday with flowers and garlands. Gurudev had wished to be wheeled around the bungalow so that he could meet the people. I had taken him around and he was very happy,” Yonzon said at Tagore’s 150th birth anniversary celebrations here today.

Overwhelmed by the love and affection of the people, Tagore had penned three poems including Janmadin during his stay here which are still preserved in the Rabindranath Museum, now housed in the bungalow.

To Pratap Singh Ghatraj, the bard in flowing white hair had appeared like a “sadhu”. “I had attended his birthday celebration in 1940 as a 10-year-old with my mother. I was awed by his appearance because he looked like a sadhu,” Ghatraj, now 80, said.

The bungalow at Mungpoo, around 40km from Siliguri, wore a festive look today with people from all quarters flocking there to celebrate the poet’s birthday. School children in colourful dresses and local people performed folk dances, recited Tagore’s poems and sang Rabindra Sangeet.

The programme was jointly organised by the district administration, information and cultural department, directorate of cinchona and other medicinal plants, the Rabindra Memorial Model Labour Welfare Centre and the local people of Mungpoo.

Tagore had visited Mungpoo four times from 1938 to 1940 because of his love for the place and special bond with Maitreyi Devi, the daughter of his friend Surendranath Dasgupta. Memoirs of his stay here were published by Maitreyi Devi in her book Mungpoote Rabindranath translated into English as Tagore by Fireside .
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www.kalimpong.info

Neighbour Krishna Sharma in front of Gauripur House.
Picture by Chinlop Fudong Lepcha

Kalimpong, April 16: Had Rabindranath Tagore been alive, he might have been moved to pen an elegy on the approaching death of the bungalow from where he had recited his poem, Janmodin (Birthday), live on the national radio more than 70 years ago.

Almost four weeks short of another anniversary of the recitation (that took place in 1938), it is difficult to imagine that Gauripur House on Hill Top used to be one of the favourite summer destinations of the Nobel Laureate.

The two-storied bungalow, owned by B.K. Roychowdhury of Calcutta, is on a scenic hill, near here, and is surrounded by lots of greenery.

Tagore had visited the bungalow three-four times and stayed as a guest of the Roychowdhurys.

However, the building is in need of serious repair.

Thick foliage has grown all over the house, the windows are broken, and the interiors are in a bad shape too.

Even the unmetalled approach road, which is part of the property, had seen better years. Wild growths have all but hidden most of the stretch.

“We had requested the government to take over the house and convert it into a museum on many occasions, but to no avail,” said M.K. Bhattacharya, a professor of political science at Kalimpong College.

Biswanath Paul, principal of a cooperative training centre that ran from the ground floor of the bungalow from the fifties to the late nineties, said he had approached the former chairman of the DGHC, Subash Ghisingh, with a request to acquire and preserve the building as a heritage property, but without much success.

“The bungalow can be revived as a heritage home (read hotel). It should get a good number of visitors,” Paul said over the phone from Siliguri.

There is no dearth of tourists to the place even now. It is a must-see, especially for the Bengalis.

“Tourists keep coming here frequently. Most of them go back with bitter-sweet memories of the place,” said Sangita Sharma, who lives with her husband on the first floor of the bungalow.

Her family has been the caretakers of the building for three generations now.

Sangita’s 80-year-old mother Krishna, who lives in a house just below the compound of the bungalow, recalled meeting Tagore as a child.

“I remember him as an old man with a khadal (wooden slippers). I was very young then. We were scared of going near the bungalow,” Krishna said.

Whatever could have been the reasons for little Krishna’s fear all those years ago, for people like Bhattacharya, Paul and his wife Bani, a retired professor of Sanskrit of Kalimpong College, the fear is that their efforts to preserve the place might never bear fruit.

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www.kalimpong.info

Siliguri, April 13: Children attending the 40-odd Lepcha night schools in the three hill subdivisions of Darjeeling will find a treasure trove of knowledge about their community in the second edition of the Lepcha-English Encyclopaedic Dictionary that will be introduced in the institutions soon.

The book was published in October last year.

“The first Lepcha-English dictionary was compiled by General G.B. Mainwaring, an Englishman, in 1898. However, the first dictionary compiled by an indigenous Lepcha, K.P. Tamsang, was published in 1980. The book went out of stock and we undertook the task of coming out with the second edition by adding more words about the community’s religion, flora and fauna and natural resources,” Lyangsong Tamsang Lepcha, the editor of the second edition, told The Telegraph today.

The book includes the mening of almost everything that is relevant to the Lepchas, he added.

“The state despite our continuous demand has not introduced Lepcha language in the government schools. We are undeterred by this indifference and have started night schools to teach the children of our community their language, culture and literature. The dictionary will be supplied to these night schools so that children can refer to them,” said Tamsang.

He added that the book will also be helpful to anthropologists, scholars and writers interested in studying the community.

Tamsang along with two others started compiling Lepcha words and their meanings in both Lepcha and English from October 2008. Within a year, 1,100 copies of the second edition were published. “We have made an addition of around 500 Lepcha words to the existing 26,000 words,” Tamsang said.

The words and their meanings are written in Rong, the Lepcha script, and in English.

“Michael Way, a British national, who is interested in studying the Lepchas has helped us financially to publish the book,” Tamsang said.

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www.kalimpong.info

For those not yet familiar, please check it out and you will not be disappointed.

Looking forward to reading Mr. Moktan’s take on Kalimpong… and current events back home.

It was towards the winter of 1995 in one of my customary visits to Professor Richard Keith Sprigg’s one-room books and journals lined apartment that I received one of the most fascinating surprises of my life. Dr. Sprigg, a retired professor of Cambridge University, is in many ways a man of many surprises but I was never prepared for the particular surprise that was in store for me.

Reaching Kalimpong early one day, and having plenty of time to ‘kill’ before picking up my daughter from the Convent, one of the many options open to me was a visit to the old linguist. A visit to him had always been profitable and this one was not expected to be any less. In most of my visits I would be the one to begin the conversation as I always had a stock of questions to which he invariably had ready set of amazingly scholarly answers. This time around it was he who commenced the proceedings and that too in a very extraordinary manner. He opened a cupboard, took out a fresh bottle of premium Scotch Whisky and asked that we celebrate. It appeared that he had been waiting for several weeks to find someone suitable to mark one of the most memorable days in his life. The problem was that it was just ten o’clock in the morning and at twelve I had to collect my daughter and the hum of alcohol in my breath would immediately erase the relatively good impression that I had cultivated, over almost a decade, with the nuns at the convent. Despite the great honour from the internationally respected linguist I was not prepared to annihilate my reputation, and in the process my daughter’s too, without having some extraordinarily compelling reasons. Eventually we hit upon a compromise: he would narrate the unforgettable event and if I found that to be worthy of a celebration I would wet my throat. In the meanwhile I had mentally planned to ask my friend to fetch my daughter should the unexpected had the better of me.

The old gentleman proudly informed me that he had received his third Doctorate a few weeks ago. The news just stunned me. I knew that he was working on a Balti dictionary but in my over half a dozen annual visits to his place I had never seen him working on a dissertation and all of a sudden this surprise. Knowing that he had a Ph. D. from London University and a Litt. D. from Cambridge I enquired if this one was from Oxford. The Professor was firm that this Doctorate was more valuable than what Oxford could confer and recounted the following story.

A few weeks ago he had been invited to address a Rai conference in Capitol Hall at Darjeeling. He planned out two speeches, a short and a long one, with the same introduction. While delivering the introductory part of the speech if the audience became fidgety and noisy he would follow it up with the short speech and if the public responded well then he would go for the longer one. The response was favourable and he continued with the lengthy lecture dwelling on the historical, cultural and other aspects of the Rais of Nepal and Darjeeling. The Rais, it must be remembered, have a most unique and colourful feature in their cultural milieu represented by the Bijuwa (shaman) whom they call Mangpa. It was natural that a good portion of the lecture had to do with the mangpas and at the end of the speech the mangpas present were so pleased with what the old man had to say that they went up the stage, put the mangpa attire on him, beat their drums, chanted mantras and officially ordained Professor Sprigg as an honorary mangpa. Thus Professor Richard Keith Sprigg, an Englishman to the boot, became the first and only European mangpa. The story ended there and he uncorked the bottle confident that I would now honor the event with a sip or two.

I was still not prepared to humour him and asked him to tell me about his third Doctorate instead of wasting time over a true but off the track story. He stared at me through his light blue eyes, almost apologetically, and remarked in a tone of disappointment that I had overlooked the story. He exclaimed with an unmistakable emphasis that he was now a mangpa, and that was a Doctorate because he had now become Rai witchdoctor. It was an unusual Doctorate but it was valuable and significant to him because it had come from the hearts of the simple people he had gone to address. He was overwhelmed and if he had won some Rai hearts with his speech the Rais had certainly gained him with their gesture. The Doctorate actually was an extraordinary one and certainly not something that Oxford University could bestow.

My mentor had won. It was barely 10:30 am and there I was absolutely dumbfounded not because of the Scotch in me but because of the story that led me to imbibe it.

Here’s an earlier article by Dr. Wangyal on Professor Sprigg.
-admin

Dear Readers,

Apologies for the long delay in posting Ms. Monila De’s articles. She was very gracious in giving us access to a bunch of her articles. However since these articles are all hard copies (typed) I have to re-type them out in order to post them here. Which means I can only put them up when I get the time to transcribe them. Which means there may be substantial time gaps between these postings.

Enjoy…

-Admin

The Enchantment of Kalimpong

One gets a perfect, clear view of Kalimpong from Peshok on the opposite mountain. it looks like a giant tortoise sitting in the middle of the high himalayas. in the distance is the Homes mountain with the outline of a reclining elephant’s head and back. The low lying trunk joins the tortoise. Two rivers run at the base of these mountains. The mighty Teesta in the west and a smaller gurgling Relli in the east.

Only 4500 feet high, Kalimpong is blessed with the pleasantest and most equitable climate compared to all the hill stations on this part of the HImalayan range. Mild winters and summers make it possible for me to live here throughout the year very comfortably.

Being low, wide and rather flat steep climbs are nor encountered. Houses built, long ago, were on acres of land with tennis courts, terraced gardens and large flat lawns. The old schools all have more than one enormous play fields. Kalimpong is not hemmed in. It is full of wide open spaces with a clear view of the mountain ranges all around, the 180 span of snow peaks and the domed sky above.

Trust the British to have discovered this obscure little place long ago. They set about developing it. They encompassed the hump if the tortoise with roads of gentle gradient, excellent for pleasant, long, fatigue free walks.For the energetic there is a labyrinth of narrow foot paths leading to all the villages clinging to the mountain side, to the Relli and Teesta, to the highest point Delo on Homes hill and Durbin Dara from where one can get a bird’s eye view of the surrounding mountains, plains and river.

The long narrow 70km road from Siliguri to Kalimpong hugs the Teesta making it one of the most picturesque journeys. There used to be a toy train too from Siliguri to Gale Khola. It stopped short before a steep climb to Kalimpong. The train chugged along the Teesta river bed, a sheer delight. UNfortunately the tracks were totally destroyed in the 1950 disaster.

On account of the benevolent climate, gentle gradients and wide open spaces, the rich, famous and genteel were the first to come and live or retire here. They built huge mansions with enormous gardens. The old British houses, still standing, bear testimony to that age of luxurious, lavish living. Kalimpong was, of course, made famous by Dr. Graham who established the Homes over a 100 years ago to educate and shelter orphans in the atmosphere of a proper home. The children educated inthe Homes have spread out all over the globe. Nostalgia still brings some of them back to Kalimpong. Such is the magnetism of Kalimpong that those who have lived here at some point of their lives, always come back for a visit or to live here permanently.

What makes Kalimpong so special. The sheer beauty of Kalimpong hits one like a sledge hammer. Kalimpong, which means “Playground on the Ridge”, is nature’s playground. The mountains, millions of years old, are stationary, a stage for the sun, moon, wind, clouds and mist to give them life, to display them in their finery and various moods. The change of scene is never ending. Each day is different, exclusive.

The houses in Kalimpong are well spread out. The tall houses are only in the market area standing cheek by jowl. This area is over crowded with people and taxis jostling around but the most interesting gourmet’s delight is the ‘haat’ every Saturday and Wednesday. The fresh organic fruits and vegetables come from the nearby villages as well as hot weather vegetables from the plains. The choice is great.

The best ready to eat are bamboo shoots, wild mushrooms, skimmed milk ‘paneer’, tofu, foot long dark green cucumbers, round red ‘dollay’ the most expensive, nose watering and tongue blistering chillies. Kinema, foul smelling but tasty fermented soya bean, tender green corn, broccoli, tree tomatoes, ling green winged peas and a host of others. Rai ’saag’, the king of all greens, being the staple food plus a great variety of other greens. Fruits are seasonal too; passion fruit, peaches, plums, avocados, pears, mulberries, persimmon, loquat and plenty of oranges.

There are no polluting industries in kalimpong. There is no air pollution, it is exhilarating to breathe in pure ozone. There is no noise pollution either.

Occupation here is nature friendly. Schools, hotels, guest houses, hostels, restaurants, flower and cacti nurseries, farming, taxi services, tailoring, shops, contractors and noodle making are the main source of income. There is no desperate hurry to do things, it is leisurely and laid back no rat race for survival.

For me the enchantment of Kalimpong starts at dawn when I am woken up by the greatest soloist, the blackbird. She trills out pure, clear, sweet lengthy notes of an exclusive, delightful raga to welcome the dawn. I rush to the window and draw the curtains to get a darshan of the magnificent, majestic queen, Kanchenjunga.

If I am lucky I see the first rays of the sun kiss her pale white cheeks. She blushes a deep pink. As the run rises higher, she is bathed in gold by his amorous embrace. This coquetting does not last long, it is over in minutes, leaving me gratified to have witnessed the greatest show on earth.

As the sun rises higher, she appears in a pristine wedding gown of dazzling white, along with a chain of bridesmaids of smaller peaks on either side.

The rivers of fluffy white clouds are still fast asleep cradled in the deep river valleys of the Teesta and Rangeet, watched over fondly by the deep blue mountains. The rays of the morning sun brushes each mountain in turn. The tiny huts with tin roofs dotting them, gleam, glint and wink. When the rays touch the clouds, they yawn lazily in its warmth, start rising from their comfortable beds to reach for the skies, their home, obliterating Kanchenjunga from my view on their way up.

Whether it rains or shines Kalimpong is glorious in all its moods. Each brand new day brings a surprise, unique and exclusive, of sheer beauty and joy. I give myself up to its whims and fancies with gay abandon.

Spring bursts in Kalimpong with tender light green leaves. Lillies and plants, buried deep, languishing all winter, shoot up through the dry earth and don their finery.

The white plum blossoms adorn the branches, vying with the pink peach blossoms to steal the show. The slightest breeze flicks off a few tiny petals which float down gently as a feather and carpet the ground below. The incessant hum of bees working overtime fill the air. Birds get busy feeding their clamouring nestlings. Soon they are old enough to perch nervously on rooftops and branches for their first flying lesson. The dry grass, shrubs, shake off their drab brown winter garb and dress in fresh green.

Most often in March a single hailstorm pelts the earth mercilessly with naphthalene balls of ice. They beat down on the tin roofs with deafening clatter and bounce off the green grass like frying pop corns. A delight for children and despair of farmers.

Years ago, so much hail fell one year that it turned the hillsides and roads white choking the gutters. I was delighted and set about collecting them to set jelly crystals for pudding, adding them to cold drinks and preserving them in thermos flasks. There were no fridges then. We didn’t need them.

The blistering attack of hail and rain demolishes all the dust and haze that had covered the mountains, leaving them clean, bright and sparkling. The crocuses spring up overnight, turning the grassy slopes into shades of pink and yellow.

April showers bring April flowers, delicate, lacy white sprays cascade down while hegdes of azaleas turn into a bank of colour. Seasonal flowers turn well tended gardens into a riot of colours. It is a paradise for flowers, they grow easily and happily in this climate Kalimpong is famous for its orchids and gladioli, they are exported to various countries. The cut flowers to Indian cities.

Strong winds, thunder, lightning and dark nimbus clouds pregnant with rain, herald the advent of the monsoons. I love to watch she sheets of slanting summer rain as it comes thundering down to drench the parched earth. The dark clouds obliterate the blue sky, and go rumbling over the mountains purposefully for greater conquests.

It is unusual to have continuous rain. It comes and goes. When it stops for a while swirling, white, gossamer mist envelopes the tall trees into ghosts and inquisitively floats in through my open windows caressing my face with its moist fingers. The sun manages to peep out from behind the clouds, and the whole lush verdant green world smiles at me.

The terraced fields in the valley are ready for planting paddy. The gushing ‘jhora’ water channelled into them are pools of mirror. Soon a brilliant green carpet of paddy covers them. The green patches stand out between the dark green foliage, a patchwork quilt.

The different shades of green spill over in abundance and cover Kalimpong. In the distance the deep blue mountain ranges appear and disappear as thick quilts of nimbus clouds play hide and seek with them. Kanchenjunga appears dark and sombre, bereft of all colour.

The monsoon rains bring their curtain down with a monumental parting display of resounding thunder and lightning that shake the earth.

The sun sets behind the tall mountains, their contours vividly etched on the backdrop of a flaming sky. The last rays of the sun catch the clouds painting them with a kaleidoscope of breathtaking colours, flaming orange, red, muave, delicate shades of pink and green. No two fiery displays in the western sky is ever alike. The morose and grim Kanchenjunga catches the last rays and turns pink.

The October sun is bright but mellow. There is a nip in the air. The azure sky is filled with balmy winds. The monsoon gloom has disappeared and the whole world is a brilliant crystal ball. Kanchenjunga rules once more. The bands of butterflies of vivid colours flit around the gold and yellow marigolds.

I come alive, exhilarated, my spirits rise and soar to reach heights of ecstasy. It is a joy to live and I would happily die on such a day as this.

The nights turn to day in the shimmering moonlight. Kanchenjunga majestically presiding over this world of enchantment in all her splendour, bathed in celestial light, turns it into a fairyland.

We used to go for moonlit picnics, long walks or just sit on the lawn enjoying Rabindra Sangeet. Baba used to throw the biggest tea party on Lakshmi Puja evening with the golden disk of a moon above. Late at night I would hear the wo, wo, of the Goddess Lokhi’s owl as he circled Monjula. Moonless nights with glittering star studded black skies are equally delightful.

Winter creeps in quietly on tender feet. I see the signs long before it arrives in full force. The cheery blossoms adorn the leafless branches in various shades of blushing pink. The green tops of poinsettia plants starts turning red. The air is cooler and still, Kanchenjunga dazzling white. Early morning, the window panes shed tears of dew. They roll down leaving crazy patterns on the blurred surface of the glass and come to rest in rows od sparkling diamonds at the bottom of each pane.

The hillsides are attired in vast patches of brilliant yellow sunflowers. Millions of little suns nod, sway and smile at their lord and master, the sun. asses of blood red poinsettias appear everywhere in great abundance.

As the nights get colder, I sit in front of a roaring log fire sipping the warm local brew, chang, through a bamboo straw, out of a long bamboo container. I am ready for bed but the show is not over. Forest fires are raging in interesting shapes in the distance. A child’s scribblings on the vast canvas of dark blue mountains.

All this glorious beauty is balm for my mind and soul. I have suffered much, lost much but who can take away the enchantment of Kalimpong from me?

Monila De

it is not by any stretch of imagination among the grand roads that connect this vast sub-continent. however it is of strategic importance as it is the life line between sikkim and vast chunks of the kalimpong subdivision with the rest of the country. a bolero or any one of the swifter, swankier and smaller cars these days can do the entire 75kms stretch between siliguri to gangtok in 3 1/2 hrs. many of the younger drivers can do it in three hours flat i am told. but, that is asking for trouble. at best of times the road is quite motorable and the border roads organisation people do a fairly good job of keeping it that way. but the road is very narrow and and punctuated by endless series of sharp bends that will brook no carelessness or entertain the whims of speed freaks. the terrain is unforgiving and has zero tolerance for mistakes.. it could be very costly.

to drive home this point, the BRO has put up many sign boards along the route. dire warnings served with a touch of humour. here are some;

1. this is not a rally. enjoy the valley
2. be gentle on my curves
3. drinking and driving don’t mix
4. haste makes waste
5. if married..divorce drink
6. BRO can build roads to anywhere except the skies.
but we are working at it.

i have driven the teesta highway more times than i can remember, and i will do it as many more times as i can. it is by far one of the preetiest drives in the country. it does get very messy during the monsoons with any number of landslips that hold up traffic for hours and sometimes…days. otherwise as the legend says…”enjoy” the valley. carry a flask of coffee, sandwiches, and a cd player. pull up where the river flows gentle along a sandy bank. listen to ‘yesterday once more’. hang around for a while. if you’re lucky you just might catch the sun going down.

along the way we often came across the most gorgeous butterflies .They seemed to be everywhere. So many that the national geographic magazine once did a long article on it under the banner “the valley of butterflies”. then sometime beginning in the late 60’s the butterflies vanished. they say the great floods of 68 was responsible.likely. what remained swiftly became a collectors treasure hunt. and they came from all over the world with butterfly nets and trophy boxes,and for a while it seemed like these winged creatures of such exquisite beauty too would be driven to extinction.

Almost four decades ,and it seems somewhere in the hidden shades of the remaining forests and under the warm moist rocks of the river bends, the butterflies have made a slow but definite comeback. i don’t know how long it will last this time. the nhpc with their grandiose plans to build hydroelectricity dams are clawing away in the valley; and human colonisation of forest lands, the butterflies are making their last stand here.

i took these pictures over the last two summers. butterflies are very difficult subjects. their flight patterns are absolutely freaky. and most times they land and stay still just long enough to tease you. i had some very interesting moments getting these shots and will tell you about it some other time. for now hope you enjoy these pictures as much as i enjoyed taking them.

chuck