www.kalimpong.info

- Dr. Sonam B. Wangyal

When the Scottish Universities Mission (SUM) was formed it was decided that Sikkim would be its field of operation. Keeping that in perspective Reverent Macfarlane was sent to Kalimpong, as the first SUM missionary, to start a training school for teachers and catechists who would later go to Sikkim and spread the message of the Bible.

On 19 April 1886 the Training Institute was formally opened with twelve students. They lived in long low-roofed houses containing rooms that accommodated two to three students. The number of pupils gradually increased and in the turn of the century an English medium school run by Harkadhoj Pradhan was amalgamated to the Scottish Universities Mission’s Training Institute raising its numerical strength and also the associated problems that come with such a sudden increase. Rev. Dr. Sutherland, the first Principal, had recently left for Scotland having managed the school for over twelve years and the new incumbent must have found the job quite a hand full. Despite the sincerity of the mission and the historical importance of the institution the formative years were difficult and actual success was some distant years away.

In 1901 the school was in its fifteenth year and was still struggling to stand on its feet. The muster roll of 26 March showed a strength of a hundred pupils but the actual attendance was almost 50% less with only 53 students in the class rooms. The weak turnout would have, in a way, suited the new Principal, Rev. John Macara, for the school was short staffed with only one Pundit and three “chela” Pundits. The medium of instruction was in Hindi and you readers will be surprised to know that in the primary section the children were made to learn Latin and how that would be of use to the hill lads seems rather uncertain.

In 1907 Rev. Sutherland returned for his second stint as the Principal. The school had grown substantially but the facilities had not kept pace and that year Mr. N. Lambert, the Inspector of Schools, commented, “With the exception of Mr. Sutherland the members of the staff have poor qualifications and are poorly paid.” Rev. Sutherland was to change all that and set right whatever other shortcomings. The improvements were so rapid and substantial that the new Inspector of Schools, Mr. P. Chatterjee, when he visited the school in 1914 wrote, “The school is unquestionably doing excellent work and I would like some of our teachers in the plains to come and see the work done here.” A year later Lord Charmichael noted, “It seemed to me that the nature study in the school is the best which I have met with any school in Bengal.” The rickety old school was now standing on solid foundations and Sutherland could now look forward to heading home having given over 25 years (1887-1899 & 1907-1920) of his active life to the growth and development of the school. It was a time well spent and when he left Kalimpong in the beginning of 1920 he must have been a very satisfied man.

Today SUMI is one of the best schools in India. The nouveau riche may gauge the standard of a school by the fees charged but the proper method is to rate a school through its alumni. In the final count it is not the fancy buildings, heated swimming pools, grand parks with stadiums etc. etc. but how the finished products of the school have fared in life. This deciding factor in the case of SUMI’s is so impressive that it will easily put to shame many better endowed and more celebrated institutions. The SUMI gave Bhutan and Darjeeling their first doctors, produced a Chief of the Army, an Inspector General of Police, several Cabinet Ministers, Ambassadors, numerous educationists, top ranking bureaucrats, the first Nepali Judge in an Indian High Court and the list could go on endlessly. Suffice it to say that the young ones of SUMI have a wonderful legacy to uphold which sums up to a heavy but at the same time a delightful burden of making themselves successful SUMITES.

- Dr. Sonam B. Wangyal

We dealt with ‘haat‘ and today we will continue to examine some other parts of our body. The Nepali tongue has many double words that add emphasis to the first one e.g., sato putlo, phuk phak, pit pat etc. Where our anatomy is concerned I have chosen a couple of double-worded general terms and the first one is ‘dublo patlo‘ which easily translates as lean and thin but it is a bit more wiry than that and is closer to meaning something like emaciated. The other is ‘patali putali‘ where the first word is a gender reverse of ‘patlo‘ and the second provides us with a choice between a butterfly and a doll. My choice, and probably yours too, is definitely the latter one because the accepted meaning of the compound word is a slender and beautiful woman, a doll-like creature, but a ‘butterfly-like slim woman’ does not sound too bad, does it!

Now on to some specific body parts: ‘Pate‘ (pronounced as in rate or mate) or stomach has its own nuances and we take on ‘pate palnu‘ which literally translates as nourishing the stomach but actually means to earn a living. Well our ancestors who coined this term and Napoleon who said, “An army marches on its stomach.” were both very much on the same wavelength for they knew how important it was to nourish the ‘pate‘ before anything else. No wonder our forefathers took the logic a notch higher by bequeathing us the term ‘pate kholnu‘. It does not mean to commit suicide and neither does it imply any surgical procedure but to, as the English speakers would say, spill it out, open up the heart. Yes, our ‘pate‘ is in the heart of everything and therefore our profoundest thoughts would come not from the bottom of the heart but from the bottom of our stomachs which the following phrase aptly illustrates: ‘Hami pate kholera bolnay manchay ho!’.

In the first of this Nepali Nuances series we dealt with the verb ‘katnu‘ and I mentioned ‘nak katnu‘ but there is more to it than a single poetic expression and an almost opposite meaning is implied by the term ‘nak thamnu‘ (uphold one’s nose) or preserve or guard one’s social standing. If you are capable of ‘nak thamnu‘ then, believe me my ‘nak phulcha‘ (nose will swell) or you will do me proud. The neighbouring ear is also not few, I mean ‘kamtiko chhaina‘. ‘Hati kanay‘ implies big ears and not elephant ears while ‘kanayguji‘ (guji = insect) does not mean insect in or of the ear but rather the wax in that orifice and the word ‘kanay‘, by itself, has nothing to do with the ears but surprisingly means a one-eyed person. Older people are used to saying ‘kanma tail halyo‘ meaning blocking the ears and therefore not heeding or not responding to a command or request. Some people claim that the actual meaning is ‘to keep silent’ (which probably is also the result of indifferent ears!). But to consider more familiar terms I would like us to mull over ‘kan khayo‘ or to irritate the ears through noise or words and when the irritations are of different nature we normally yell out, “Tauko khayo” and that would amount to something like ‘to get on the nerves’. To the person who gets on our nerves we often tell him/her off by saying, “Tero tauko!” which despite translating as ‘your head’ actually means “You blockhead (idiot, stupid)!”

Talking of ‘tauko‘ we have the famous term ‘ghantaukay‘. Most dictionaries translate the term ‘ghan‘ as ‘a large hammer sledge-hammer’ but I think the prefix ‘ghan‘ has no relation to a hammer but it just means what it is supposed to mean, big (cf.ghan kanu = to make a big sound, ghanandhakar = pitch dark, ghanera= excessive etc.) and so the word does not mean a sledge-hammer head as given by one the most famous dictionaries but simply big head, nut, cranium or skull.

At the opposite end of ‘tauko‘ is the ‘khutta‘ and with it is connected a marvelous expression, “khutta jhiknu“. It is almost opposite of ‘haat halnu‘ (to meddle) and suggests an act of total disassociation. My favourite for this week is ‘nang ra masu‘ denoting an intimate relationship. What could possibly be so closely related than the flesh and the nails and we are all aware of the soreness that can be caused when the two are separated. I wish that any relationship
you strike will be of the ‘nang ra masu‘ nature and hope the day will never arrive when you have to ‘chhati thoknu‘ in regret.

Ajako lagi dherai bhayo hola, abha ma khutta jhiknu paryo.

- Dr. Sonam B. Wangyal

The Nepali word for hand or, more correctly, the forearm is ‘haat‘ and the term was once used, formerly frequently and now occasionally, to denote a measure of length representing the distance between the finger tips to the elbow. But let us not leave it at that but rather ‘haat lagau’ (commence/begin) to give it the real flatter it deserves instead of just a cursory mention. ‘Haat misamis‘ (lit. exchange of hands) means fighting and conversely should the flaying hands come together we get, ‘haat jornu‘, and one would then be asking for supplication: now isn’t that appropriate!

Similarly, another appropriate one is the common expression ‘malai rees uthyoki haat chilai halcha‘ or if provoked I itch for a fight. In the small gambling joints that punctuate our hills ‘haat‘ takes a new meaning in the common expression ‘tas barne kasko haat ho?‘ meaning whose ‘turn’ is it to deal the cards. In both the latter cases hands may be essential for the implied purpose but the intended meanings are entirely different: fight and turn.

But I know that most of us are not fighters or gamblers so let us continue with some other undertones of the word which ‘mero haat pareko cha‘ (or have come to my possession.) and I am inspired to ‘haat halnu‘ or meddle with them. In the English language we are familiar with the term ‘the long hand of the law’ but in Nepali it is just the opposite: only our thieves have long hands and so we are told, “Tyo sangha hosiyar garnu, haat lamo chha!” (Be wary of him, he is a thief!). The meddling hand appears to be everywhere and therefore it is not uncommon to hear comments like, “Tyasko safaltama mero haat chha!” or “Mero bephaltama tyasko thulo haat chha!“.

Now what is exceptional is that the fingers in the ‘haat‘ are given a very unique pecking order and using the word ‘auli‘ the thumb is ‘jethi auli‘, ‘maili auli‘ the first finger, ‘saili auli’ the second finger, ‘kaili auli‘ the third finger and ‘kanchi auli’ the little finger. The alternative is to use the word ‘aulo‘ (masculine) which will then give us ‘buro aulo‘ for the thumb, ‘chor aulo‘ or ‘kalmi aulo’ ( ‘kalam‘ holding) for the index finger, followed by ‘mailo (maila) aulo‘, ‘sailo aulo‘ and ‘kancho aulo‘ down the hierarchy. In which other lingo is this possible!

Before we round off this part of the essay let me tell you one more thing about ‘haat‘. John Keay, the famous historian on India, would like us to believe that the early Aryans migrating to Aryabarta, the land between Vindya and the Himalaya, had never seen an elephant and seeing the trunk do the job of a “hand” they simply called the beast ‘hat-ee’ (Sanskrit: hasti).

Talking about the early Aryans there is another contribution of theirs to our lexicon, so says another historian. The Aryans traveled from west to the east, towards the sun, looking for a better future. So ahead of them was their ‘purba‘ or ‘before/future’ and that became east, ‘purab‘. At the opposite was what they had left behind or ‘pachhim‘ (cf. Nepali ‘pachhi‘) and so we got our west. In the left direction were the Himalaya, the high mountains or ‘uttan‘ or ‘uttara‘ and that came to be known as ‘uttar‘ or north and the land on the right hand side became ‘dachhin‘ or south (Sanskrit: dakhsina = right or south). So if an Englishman blows his trumpet saying that NEWS means North, East, West and South you can tell him that where cardinal directions are concerned we have a much richer and more profound history.

(Here is the first essay from the series “Their words, hamro vocabulary” by Dr. Sonam Wangyal. In this series of essays he looks at the influences of other languages on the Nepali tongue (and sometimes vice versa), and the fates of the words that are borrowed or modified (or mutilated) as they travel from one vocabulary to another. Enjoy! -Admin)

-Dr. Sonam Wangyal

We are, I would like to believe, a class by ourselves when it comes to adopting and adapting foreign words into our vocabulary. This short essay will consider some English words that have slipped into ours.

The word ‘hap-pen’ per se makes no sense but once its root ‘half pants’ is brought to mind the Nepali speakers’ adaptability becomes obvious. Similarly so many English words become Nepali with just the minutest of change: tile to ‘tali’, pension to ‘pinsin’ or ‘pesin’, bioscope to ‘baees-scope’, brush to ‘burus’, sentry to ’santry’ etc. Even English names of places find our sculpting tongues transforming them to suit our speech. In Darjeeling the Shrubbery Grounds became ‘Sarbary’ Ground, in Kalimpong the Homes became ‘Homus’, in Sikkim the White Hall was altered to ‘White-al’ and in Kurseong Dow Hill was changed to ‘Dao-ill’.

To arrive at our own new words we sometimes make additions and at other times we subtract from the English. A good example of our expanding a word would be ‘tar-karry’. Here the word curry (actually a word from Kerala but came to us as English ‘curry”) is expanded with the addition of ‘tar’ or gravy/sap giving us the hybrid ‘tar-karry’ or curry with gravy.

But we are at our best when subtracting and my favorite is ‘Alkatra’ for tar. In the olden days when the roads were being laid out in our hills the cold environment half the liquid tar would freeze before it was laid on the road and so oil had to be added to soften it. Thus developed the term ‘oil and coal tar’ and our forefathers not to happy with the tongue twister simply reduced it to ‘alkatra’. Similarly, the drivers had a difficult time saying ’shock-absorber, jerk-absorber’ and so they abbreviated the whole thing to ’shokup jokup’. The simplest of abbreviation is to be found with cauliflower where our ancestors just removed the second moiety ‘flower’ and kept the first part ‘cauli’ or ‘kauli’. The same goes for ‘patloong’ for pantaloons, ‘paltan’ for platoon etc.

Simple slip of the tongue can be traced in ‘eskroop’ for screw, ‘bundil’ for bundle, and ‘kitli’ for kettle.

Dr. Indra Bahadur Rai’s explanation as to why we chose not to call the tea gardens with more precise words like ‘bari’, ‘bagan’ or ‘bagaicha’ is another that I am very fond of. In the days of yore the Assisstant Managers would, pointing to the plantation, command the workers to hurry saying, “Come on, come on.” Our folks thought that the place the fingers were pointing to was the “Kaman” and so the word stuck.

It is an unwritten law that any English word commencing with an ’s’ has to be rendered with an ‘es’ in the Nepali and so we have eschool (school), espeed (speed), estand, estation, etc. Our favourite and the most useful vegetable, squash, of which we can eat every part: the fruit, the roots, the leaves, the tendrils, the stems and the shoots, took a little more refining than the simple addition of ‘es’. After all it is our special vegetable and so from squash it became ‘esquash’ according to the established system and then received an additional revision to finish off as ‘esquoosh’.

Esquoosh me for the day - I promise you more “Their’s” and “Hamro” in the future.

(We will be featuring some series of essays by Dr. Wangyal on a regular basis, starting with this one: Nepali Nuances. In this series Dr. Wangyal explores the richness and vitality of the Nepali language, and with his trademark and typical style he covers the range of this richly idiomatic and charmingly onomatopoetic language of ours. I hope you enjoy reading his essays, and please do leave your thoughts and remarks as comments. This is a great forum to interact with the author. Thanks, -Admin)

- Dr. Sonam B. Wangyal

With this essay we commence a seven-part series on the amazing vitality of the Nepali tongue. The subtlety, complicatedness, and the sheer beauty of the exceptionally native nuances make it a very personal language. People talk of the complexities of the English and other languages but I am a firm believer that they are a poor second to Nepali. One has to be ‘with it’ for a very long time to grasp the fine idiosyncratic shades and the incredible earthy and at times wacky rationale of the Nepali language. Could the translation ‘Losing bull: purging habit’ make any sense to a non-Nepali speaker! The Englishman would rather prefer ‘A bad workman quarrels with his tools’ but that is too simple and far too straightforward for us and so we have ‘Haruwa goruko chheruwa bani‘ and only we, the Nepali speakers, can appreciate how well and ingeniously it has been coined.

But this essay and those that will follow are not about adages, proverbs and aphorisms but about words. And we will kick it off with ‘khanu‘ or the verb intransitive (and transitive) meaning ‘to eat’ and round it off with ‘katnu‘ or to cut. Can one eat a reprimand? Well, we can for ‘Gali khanu‘ is a common exercise, after all, ‘hamiharu gali khadai ta hurkayko ho‘. We have a way of dealing with the unpleasant aspects in our lives and like eating a reprimand or rebuke we simply chew and swallow anything negative that comes our way. Therefore, we might lose but we can never get thrashed simply because we eat whatever thrashing is doled to us or ‘hami dhulai khancha‘, and to cite a few other examples we have ‘dhoka khanu‘ (to eat a duping), ‘thesh khanu‘ (to eat a stumbling) ‘laat khanu‘ (to eat a kick) etc. And the menu of edibles does not get any shorter for we have such delicacies like smoke or cigarettes (sigrate khanu), promises (kasam khanu), salary (jagir khanu), business or trade (bechi khanu) etc., but the icing on the cake must be, and unlike in the English where one would steal a kiss, we eat a kiss (moai khanu or chumba khanu in our hills), after all, the primary function of the oral cavity and its appendages is to eat.

The next word I have chosen is ‘katnu‘ (verb transitive) for ‘to cut’. Cutting, to us, is an innate inclination and every house has a khukuri to prove that. But we cut many more things than physical objects and so we, of the hills, are at home with the expression ‘dara katnu‘ (to cross a ridge) and ‘dara kataidinu‘ (to chuck it over the ridge). Similarly, we have ‘phaal katnu‘ (to jump over) and sometimes we almost kill it by saying ‘phaal marnu‘. Occasionally we set aside, or should I say cut, everything else and concentrate on a particular subject and this we term ‘bichar katnu‘. Similarly, when we slice the flow of another’s speech with an interjection it is ‘baat katnu‘ and when a soldier decides to ‘naam katnu‘ he is not chopping off his names to pieces but simply cutting it off the regiment’s roster. There are other terms like ‘hisaab katnu‘ (to deduct, or cut, from an account), ‘arkal katnu‘ (to estimate), but ‘nak katnu‘ (to be disgraced or to be subtracted of respect) was once an actual lopping of the snout, beside of course the associated deduction of status. When Prithwinarayan Shah conquered Kirtipur, he was so provoked by the Kirtipurians’ stiff resistance, he ordered the noses of all the male inhabitants of the place be chopped off, save children at breast and musicians skilled at playing wind instruments, and the order was carried out to the last detail. History books have never fully explained the mercy granted to the children and the musicians and my guess is that the children were of no threat while the musicians were necessary to welcome the all conquering Maharaja into his new domain. Mercifully, today ‘nak katnu‘ does not involve physical mutilation but just partial trimming off of social standing or reputation. Finally to my favourite ‘cut’ i.e.,
‘doko namlo katnu‘. Here ‘doko namlo‘ refers to the drudgery or the daily grind of hard physical labour a servant, slave or an impoverished person undergoes and when one is liberated from such an agonizing existence through a generous donor, a sudden windfall or children landing up with good employment it is equivalent to ‘doko namlo katnu‘.

One more ‘cut’ before I quit this piece: “Yo essay pani etimai katney.”

-Dr. Sonam B. Wangyal

At the time of the British take over of Kalimpong (1865) the population of the present day Sub-Division was estimated to be around 3536 souls only. Following the annexation immigration was actively encouraged and the industrious Nepalis happily crossed the Tista to populate and terrace the virgin soil. By 1881 the population had risen to 12,683 and the annual revenue from poll tax had also increased from a paltry Rs 640 to a respectable Rs 11,800. In the next decade the population more than doubled to 26,631 and the bazaar had, beside the Nepalis, Lepchas and Bhutias, several Marwaris, Mohameddans, and other plainsmen. When Britain extracted a trade convention in 1893 allowing for a trade mart at Yatung it was expected to boost trade through Kalimpong. However, nothing worthy of statistical records materialized and people, by then well over 45,000, went about their normal chores waiting for a bonanza called Tibet Trade. Then towards the turn of the century a man arrived who was to change the face of Kalimpong. This man, Rev. Dr. Grahams, in the opening year of the twentieth century contributed considerably to Kalimpong’s population, prestige and pecuniary development by commencing the St. Andrew’s Colonial Homes. The empty hillside below the Daelo then became the sight of sustained construction. Expecting many more Europeans to follow Dr. Graham, Daelo was made the preserve of the Europeans with the government earmarking ten residential sites of two acres each for European settlement. Far away on the opposite side the ‘Development Area’ was reserved for the hillmen with the ruling that no one else could occupy it. Later matters would end the other way around with Europeans and Bengalis living at the Development Area and the hillmen on the Daelo slopes.

The next spurt of development came when many of the soldiers in Younghusband’s Mission to Tibet passed through Kalimpong in 1904. The Mela Ground was increased to accommodate the soldiers, numerous coolies and suppliers arrived (many of whom never went back) and the crude road to Jelep La was improved upon. Incidentally, the temporary armoury of Younghusband containing some canons (Nepali: tope pronounced as in ‘rope’) became our present day ‘Top-khana’. This Mission profited the British with two more trade marts at Gyantse and Gartok and with that the chances of Kalimpong becoming a bustling trade centre increased. But hope was belied for the road communication was still primitive and most of all the Tista was yet to be bridged sufficiently strong for the expected commerce. It was during this difficult phase that a European wool trader, Mr Korb, finding that all suitable lands being either reserved forest or reserved for hillmen, applied to the government to purchase a plot. This became a sounding bell that there were people, besides the highlanders, who were interested in settling in Kalimpong. With Darjeeling becoming rapidly overpopulated the government now weighed Kalimpong as a possible alternative.

Mr. C. J. Stevenson-Moore, a Member of the Board of Revenue, along with the Commissioner of the Rajsahi Division and the deputy Commissioner of Darjeeling accordingly visited Kalimpong in the first week of June 1914. Kalimpong was found suitable for a hill station but Stevenson-Moore set three prerequisites: (1) the area east of Tista be declared a Sub-Division, (2) provision for potable water supply be made and (3) the road to Jelep La be improved. In 1915 the Tista Valley Extension Railway opened with Gaillekhola as a terminus and effort was made to improve the existing cart road between Tista and Kalimpong including the road to Jelep La. In 1916 Kalimpong was declared a Sub-Division and in November 1917 the Governor of Bengal visited Kalimpong and approved Rinkingpong as suitable site for a new Civil Station. The rules were revised to allow fresh settlers at Ringkingpong and the hillmen living there walked away with compensation for land, crop and building with an additional bonus in the form of cash for shifting. Kalimpong was now to become a hill station.

-Dr. Sonam B Wangyal

In the 1864-65 Anglo-Bhutan War the British stretched the Bhutanese troops by opening up multiple fronts along the length of the Bhutan border. However, unlike the Sikkim operation where the Rangeet was bridged, the Tista was not spanned and the battle was fought a good distance away from today’s Kalimpong town. The main motive for the British aggression was to cut off the Bhutanese from all the passes leading to the Indian plains. The war was fought between two uneven sides and despite a bit of saber rattling and some resistance the Bhutanese were no match against the more disciplined, better equipped and numerically stronger British forces. The westernmost flank traced the route through Ambiok, Algarah and thence to Daling fort. Following the expected victory the entire ‘Athara Duar’ or the eighteen passes between Assam and Bengal (‘Dwar/Duar’:Sanskrit - door, opening, pass) became British possession, and since the area west of Ambiok-Algarah-Daling was cut off from the Bhutanese it was also incorporated into the British gains. Kalimpong proper and its surrounding areas therefore came to British possession not because the British fought for them – it was just a bonus acquisition.

Quite naturally the British did not display any calculated concern to a cheaply obtained land and, regardless of the similarity of the population and terrain to that of Darjeeling, the wrested area was attached to the Western Duars as the Dalingkote Sub-Division. Kalimpong was left as it was and even the Mondals who collected the poll taxes for the Bhutanese were allowed to continue except that they would be doing so for the British thenceforth.

In the following year the Sub-Division of Dalingkote was transferred to Darjeeling and the designation ‘Sub-Division’ removed. The newly formed district was divided into (a) the Headquarters Sub-Division (960 square miles) consisting of all the hill areas on both sides of the Tista and (b) the Terai Sub-Division that included the foothills. Later (1891) Kurseong became the headquarters of a Sub-Division by the same name and in 1907 Siliguri Sub-Division was carved out, but Kalimpong remained as an unsolicited attachment to the District Headquarters. The apathy to this add-on territory was so absolute that for the entire area only two officers were appointed: a manager for the Khas Mahal lands and a Police Inspector. When Kurseong Sub-Division was created it had a population of 44,649 and in 1901 Kalimpong’s population was very close to that but the status of a Sub-Division still remained a distant dream. By 1911 the population had soared to 55,653 and yet Kalimpong was not made a Sub-Division and the honour was to eventually arrive only in 1916 when the population rose well beyond 70,000: it had taken all of 47 years for area to become a Sub-Division. Questions that logically and instantly arise are, why the apathy and why the delay in creating the Sub-Division.

The answer probably lies in something that Kalimpong could do nothing about: it was after all just a ‘bonus land’.

www.telegraphindia.com

RAJEEV RAVIDAS

Kalimpong, Dec. 27: The long-neglected genre of drama in Nepali literature is expected to receive a fillip, or at least that is what Laxman Srimal believes. Srimal has been awarded the Sahitya Akademi Award in Nepali literature for his play Curfew this year.

The award was announced in Delhi yesterday by Sahitya Akademi. Besides Srimal, 22 other writers from different Indian languages have been selected for the award, which carries a cash prize of Rs 50,000 and a plaque.

The author and theatre personality is the first dramatist to win the prestigious award since 1977 when Nepali literature was recognised by the over 50-year-old Sahitya Akademi. Previous winners in Nepali were mostly novelists and poets.

The 63-year-old Srimal, too, had started his career by writing poems and has to his credit a compilation Srimal Ka Kabita Haru (Srimal’s Poems), which was published in 1985.

“I started writing since my school days (Pushpa Rani School in Kurseong) by penning poems,” said the dramatist on phone from Siliguri.

Srimal, however, hoped that the award would do a world of good to the genre of drama. “It has not got its due in our literature. There are many like me who have done wonderful work in this genre. I hope this recognition will spur us all into producing better works in the future,” he added.

The dramatist is also a widely recognised theatre personality, having directed many plays, including his own. “I spent most of my youth on stage. I thoroughly enjoy the experience,” said Srimal, who produces most of the dramas under the banner of the Kurseong-based Sharda Sangeetalaya.

I.B. Rai, the 1977 recipient of the award, said Srimal’s plays analyses Nepali society threadbare. “He looks starkly at the social problems,” Rai said from Siliguri.

Admitting that television has weaned away a sizeable chunk of audience seeking “cheap entertainment”, Srimal, however, is optimistic that theatre would survive the test. “People like Purna Gurung, Nanda Hangkin, Raju Pradhan and Arun Prakash Rai have been producing great works. Their efforts will surely bear fruit.”

Apart from being an author and theatre personality, Srimal is also an educationist, having retired a few years ago as assistant headmaster of Victoria Boys’ School, Kurseong.

“Now, I have immersed myself totally in writing. I have been striving to achieve the proficiency already acquired by other societies in play-writing,” Srimal added.

by Janice Mukhia

If ever there was a point in our past that changed the fabric of our entire community, I would have to flip the calendar to lay a finger on Sunday, the 27th of July, 1986.

Indeed, that is a day that will go down in the annals of Kalimpong history as “Our” Black Sunday. It is a day that continues to live in infamy, for in that tragic moment we all turned a corner and underwent a complete transformation. Quite unknowingly we bid farewell to our inborn innocence and inherited, what some have quite candidly labeled as, the “Inheritance of Loss”. We undoubtedly inherited a great loss, the burden of which we carry to this day.

It did not all start out that way, or rather no one had quite envisioned the tragedy and atrocity that that day would bring upon us.

It was a bright, hot summer day in late July. The Gorkhaland agitation—the demand for a separate state for thousands of Nepalese living in Darjeeling and its sub-division had gripped the hills. Every man, woman and child’s interest and involvement in the agitation was adequately piqued. The movement undoubtedly, had reached a fever pitch. Darjeelingeys brimmed with fervor towards the cause, and supported it with a dedication that almost equaled blind faith. A burning passion for the land had kindled the heart of every darjeelingey, and every lip pledged support to give their life, if need be, for “our maato”.

On 27th of July, 1986, I woke up to the murmurings of an entire village drenched in a carnivalesque mood. Women draped in colorful chowbandi cholos paced the streets with saipatri malas hanging around their neck. Men in daura suruwals and khukuris slung by their sides walked alongside, eager to impress their female counterparts. Every other person, musically challenged or not, sported a beat or two on the madal. Festoons fluttered in the afternoon breeze, and shouts of “jai gorkha-jai gorkhaland” pierced through the ravines and cliffs. On that day, cultural, societal, economic and religious boundaries seemed to fade and had merged as one. Everyone, be it bahun, rai, limbu, kami or damai spoke with ONE voice, with one purpose, such as, or had never been seen before.

At the heart of all the festivities was a much somber issue. The Indo-Nepal treaty which in way had sealed the fate of the Nepalese and their status quo in India lay at the heart of this contentious issue. Shrouded in uncertainty, Clause 7 of the treaty came to be synonymous with the ambiguous legal status of the Nepalese living, not only in the Darjeeling Hills but throughout India. Our “Identity” as legal residents of India was in itself brought to question. A mass campaign was therefore organized, to burn the flags of the two countries and to nullify the treaty. Leaders at the local level had planned a non-violent march to the main town square to make their demands heard. It came as a step in the direction to gain an equal footing as rightful, legal, tax-paying citizens of India.

As expected there was a huge turn-out. Processions from all quarters of town with its share of musicians, dancers, men, women and children converged at the main town square roughly around mid-day. But just as they were approaching the police head-quarters someone heard a loud boom. Unaware of what was going on, the crowd continued under the impression the sound was from a firecracker. Then the boom was followed by yet another, then another and yet another loud boom. No one quite knew what was going on, but commotion broke loose as a lady fell to the ground with blood streaming down her temples. As realization of a cruel reality slowly filtered in, mass hysteria ensued.

Armed forces, unbeknownst to the crowd had crept atop buildings along the road, and were firing blindly, mercilessly and ruthlessly at the unarmed crowd below. Women scurried to protect their young ones from flying bullets. Children ran aimlessly even as their fathers were shot down like animals on a firing range. Mothers saw their sons falling by their side, children witnessed blood streaming down the cheeks of their parents. The elderly lay dying by the street, struggling to let go of their last breath. Men attempted to combat the oppressors with bare essentials, but to no avail. Every shot fired from a vantage spot gave birth to an orphan or to a widow. In the end, cries for a loved one, cries of loss and cries of pain were drowned among a heap of bodies that lay strewn along the road and hill slopes. Gold ear-rings lay unclaimed by the gutter, sarees lay drenched in blood, a stray pair of sandals lay by the road side even as its owner lay face down against the hot, hard and rough surface of a blood stained road. After what seemed like hours of massacre, all that remained were remnants of life or lives that once was, or once could be. Deathly silence crept upon the land, as confusion gave way to mourning. It was a horrid spectacle reminiscent of a scene out of the Crimean war.

The Law of the land or rather the lawlessness behind the action towered above the din of death. Surely no law or an attempt for its justification could legitimize a gruesome act of this magnitude. Our Human Rights had been violated. Our Constitutional rights had been violated and seized from us, but alas who was there to speak for the dead, or rather, who among the living could testify against this gross injustice. Celebration turned to lamentation, laughter to tears and hope to hopelessness. Kalimpong and her children had been murdered, yet, who was there to grieve for the dead or console the living? It was a dark, a very dark period in our lives. Indeed, the cries of the innocent reverberate, to this day, in the streets and in the building alleys.

Many years have passed since Kalimpong first tasted the bitterness of death. Many years have passed since that fateful day in July, when we lost so many of our loved ones to gross injustice. Many years have passed since that black Sunday, yet memories of their painful death stare upon us like an open wound. We have shed many tears since; we have buried many loved ones since, and continue to grapple with the pain inflicted upon us.

Politics and politicians have inevitably forgotten or rather, have chosen to forget the trail of tears that the people have shed. They remain true to their fabric, choosing rather to pursue interests that fuel their individual pursuit for fame and fortune.
A massacre of a different kind now looms large amidst us. It is now up to us to remember the price we paid to gain what was rightfully ours. It is up to us to cherish and respect the life and death of those who we once lost. It is up to Kalimpong and her people, to remember and hold onto the hope that was once alive.

Just as the soul of every martyr remains aflame within the pages of our history, so too “Our Story” remains immortal in our psyche: Our Story is worth the memories!

By Janice Mukhia

I am sure I am not alone when I say this, but if I were asked where I’d rather be at this time and at this very moment, I would without a moment’s hesitation say: “KALIMPONG”.

Kalimpong is truly an integral part of my life and continues to rein a strong hold over my heart. I associate it with a wealth of idyllic memories……memories, if narrated to a teenager who grew up in the big old cities, would evoke a lukewarm enthusiasm at best.

Growing up in Dungra busty during the radio generation with no television, cell phones, video games, MTV or ipods, life in Dungra busty was what you might expect…“SIMPLE”. But make no mistake, it was simple yet rewarding and enriching in every sense of the word or dare I say, invigorating than most kids today can ever imagine.

To begin with, back in those days, reading was still the number one option to spend a lazy Saturday afternoon. I remember, browsing through every pile of Enid Blyton, Nancy Drew or Famous Five books in Kashinath or Upasak. Hopelessly influenced by characters in Enid Blyton’s Famous Five, my cousins and I would plunge into an imaginary world of detectives. Eager to get us out of the house and catch up on household chores, my mom would pack us some lunch, fill our water bottles with orange juice and off we’d go in search of that unborn/undiscovered mystery, borne out of our imagination. The big old pear tree in my aunt’s house served as the magic faraway tree and our letters to Santa Claus did not include pleas for the latest Xbox series or MP3 players. They were filled with pleas for the newest book in town. Yep those were the days, when kids had the luxury of imagining and had a passion for reading. In retrospect, I am glad life was what it was back then. (more…)