Darjeeling - a word that conjures images of jade junipers entwined in shrouds of grey and mist, long winding slopes and lush tea plantations. To be fair, even with the spiralling populated mass of buildings that have since sprouted all across these famed idyllic inclines and the sheer magnitude of human bodies, read tourists that press all around you, nothing quite prepares you for it when you first glimpse the mountains.
I was in Darjeeling for half a day, barely, earlier this year in January on a quick trip with my mother, having visited it last about three years ago. As our jeep wound its way into town, just before the iconic Batasia loop, I saw her again, the third highest mountain in the world. She just seemed bigger somehow, framed majestically, sheer white and grey against a fantastically blue sky.
Everyone had warned us that it would be cold, frightfully so and that we were foolish to attempt it on a January. And it had been, earlier that week, dank and gloomy, all sullen and sulky in the fogs that had blanketed down. Maybe she knew I was coming? I do not know but the day was splendid with not a hint of cloud or mist. Just sheer blue and the sun in its fiercest winter glare.
I am glad I have that to remember rather than the graphic scenes I see now, police jeeps burning, a lone man dragged across the streets, leaving a trail of blood, even as gun shots reverberate in the background.
Darjeeling I do not think will ever be the same. The people have had enough – enough of being called Chinki ( a slang for Chinese, on account of the slanted eyes), Gurkha, derogatorily, to denote a security guard and the endless questions – Are you Nepali? Are you Korean? Are you Japanese? I should know because I’ve been asked these questions and more. Can I see your passport? Do you eat dog meat? If you’re not Chinese, then what are you?
Indian is what I reply. But even that answer is complicated. I begin by saying my father is from Manipur. So he’s Manipuri then? Are you a Manipuri? No I say, he is, was, I correct myself, was a Kuki. What’s that? Trying to explain the complexities of that would be futile so I go on to say, my mum is a Nepali, but not from Nepal, from Darjeeling. And actually she wasn’t a true blood Nepali either, since her father, my grandfather was from Bihar. He was raised an orthodox Hindu Brahmin but converted to Roman Catholicism after a near death experience. Like I said, it’s complicated.
But the questions still remain. But really, which part of India do you come from? Hard to say given my genealogy and furthermore, my father’s position in the Indian Police Service that led us through countless towns in four different states and left me, us, my siblings with no place as such to call home. If you want melting pot, you’re looking right at it. Me. And that’s not even a tip of the complex web that is my life and my family.
But I am digressing. Perhaps I am not in the least bit qualified to speak on this matter, far from it. But of all the places that my family and I wandered through, this, Darjeeling was the closest I get to call home. For almost every town we lived in, even now, I have always felt the outsider, the one at the corner in the party looking in, never participating, too scared, too intimidated and yes, sometimes too tired to give a damn.
Darjeeling was different. My family there, my mother’s cousins, nephews, nieces, aunts and grandfathers, yes because everyone who is a granduncle automatically becomes one, baje, grandfather; they were all different. They, the people of the town, with the exception of the one odd egg, (aren’t there always?) heard one word uttered in a terrible accent and squealed, “She’s one of us” and welcomed me in. I didn’t have to pretend anymore or worry about how I presented myself. I was one of them, I belonged. Finally. Which is why I get to call it home.
And which is also why this current impasse at the hills fills me with a sense of outrage and frustration. Because I have seen it before. In another state, the one my father came from, Manipur.
In essence both places have the same challenges, in this reach, if you will for a sense of identity. Who am I? Where do I belong? Let me explain. The Kukis share space among the various hilly regions with the Nagas leaving the Meiteis, the actual Manipuris in relative isolation in the valley. Since the creation of the state of Manipur and with the sister states of Nagaland and Mizoram, both the Nagas and Kukis have been trying to create their own identity within the state of Manipur. The Nagas wish to redraw the boundaries of the state to include some regions to be included within the state of Nagaland, while the Kukis would prefer not to and going one step further, carve out a separate state for themselves. The results have not been pretty.
Ethnic cleansing like the Tutsi genocide was the rule of the day in the 90s when between 1992 and 1997, hundreds of innocent people, men, women, babies were massacred in the state of Manipur, most of which took place inside churches, Christians killing Christians, a fact I still cannot wrap my head around. And that’s not counting the numerous civilian deaths perpetrated by the army and the police in ‘encounter’ killings, some genuine, the majority the result of trigger happy soldiers with a go free pass, courtesy the AFSPA.
So what is it that I am trying to say? Like almost all of us, deep down all the Kukis are really asking for is to be recognized and accepted for who they are. And they and what everyone else in this country, in their struggle for an identity, to be known and heard, do not and have not always done what is right. That is clear enough. Over the past few years, they try and have been trying, unsuccessfully, through agitations and strikes to get this point across but in reality, one that does nothing but inconvenience and greatly, no one else but the common man.
Darjeeling and the surrounding region is entering its 45th day today of total shutdown. Manipur along the National Highway 39 shut down once for over a 100 days, one of many. The total effect on the state and central governments in both Manipur and Darjeeling has of course been and will continue to be zero. In the meantime the common man paid and continues to do so, outrageous sums for daily necessities, struggles to get medical aid and sadly, the greatest loss, the future of the children gone for a toss.
I was in grade 10 when the agitation in the hills were escalating but even then there was no threat tangible or otherwise that I or even my class mates felt. Of course there were rumours flying everywhere and the standard joke of losing six inches, a grim threat of losing one’s head. People claimed they had seen these beheadings but of course there were no cell phones back then, at least not readily available as now; and so one never really saw up close the horror that we have since then seen in the brutal killing of Madan Tamang in broad daylight. There are still pictures perhaps even a video floating somewhere in the web but I have not, could not bring myself to see it.
More so because this is not the Darjeeling I remember. It is hard for me to fathom the depths of depravity and bullying that have since taken place from when I first lived there almost two and a half decades ago. My people were and I believe still are, kind and generous, ridiculously hospitable and a quiet, hardworking lot.
India is a complex country with a myriad of peoples, languages, customs and traditions and each one trying to fit in, find its place. Couple that with the caste system, decades of a male dominated society and a total lack of any civic sense whatsoever and you have the chaos that you see spilling on the streets every day.
Not all is bad though and not all is bleak but with the advent of technology and information available at the touch of a button, comes the question but why not me? Why can’t I have that? Good questions really. But no real direction as to how get there.
In essence that is Darjeeling too. A small little town that once we dreamed of as idyllic, the perfect home. But it sees too, the great strides everywhere and dreams of bigger, better plans for itself. The bigger has happened in a sense but not in the way it hoped. Tenements flock and flank every available space to house the increasing number of chattering hordes that rise in increasing waves every year. So much so that there is no standing room, literally.
Everything else though is stuck like a needle on the old LP player, scratching the frustrating tone of unemployment, bad roads, poor water supply (even though it rains buckets throughout the year) and the same bleakness, breath-taking views notwithstanding. There is only so much one can take and it did not matter what the trigger was, the floodgates are now open. And while the future looks uncertain, they can say at least we made one step forward. I hope sincerely for their sake, they find the right voice to lead them this time.
And finally, talking of soft spoken, the meek shall inherit the earth is a strange paradox I know. I mean how can they? But if you look closely, they do, they always will. A friend who stood and talked till the cows came home just so I could fit in to a new environment, an aunt who soothed my fevered brow and fed me steaming bowls of soup, a father’s friend who filled in the gap and stood by me when family was a thousand kilometres away. They didn’t have to but they did. Loved me unconditionally. So they do actually. Inherit the earth. In the hearts and lives of all the people they have loved.
And why for me Darjeeling will always be home.
~ Judith Vaddi
I was in Darjeeling for half a day, barely, earlier this year in January on a quick trip with my mother, having visited it last about three years ago. As our jeep wound its way into town, just before the iconic Batasia loop, I saw her again, the third highest mountain in the world. She just seemed bigger somehow, framed majestically, sheer white and grey against a fantastically blue sky.
Everyone had warned us that it would be cold, frightfully so and that we were foolish to attempt it on a January. And it had been, earlier that week, dank and gloomy, all sullen and sulky in the fogs that had blanketed down. Maybe she knew I was coming? I do not know but the day was splendid with not a hint of cloud or mist. Just sheer blue and the sun in its fiercest winter glare.
I am glad I have that to remember rather than the graphic scenes I see now, police jeeps burning, a lone man dragged across the streets, leaving a trail of blood, even as gun shots reverberate in the background.
Darjeeling I do not think will ever be the same. The people have had enough – enough of being called Chinki ( a slang for Chinese, on account of the slanted eyes), Gurkha, derogatorily, to denote a security guard and the endless questions – Are you Nepali? Are you Korean? Are you Japanese? I should know because I’ve been asked these questions and more. Can I see your passport? Do you eat dog meat? If you’re not Chinese, then what are you?
Indian is what I reply. But even that answer is complicated. I begin by saying my father is from Manipur. So he’s Manipuri then? Are you a Manipuri? No I say, he is, was, I correct myself, was a Kuki. What’s that? Trying to explain the complexities of that would be futile so I go on to say, my mum is a Nepali, but not from Nepal, from Darjeeling. And actually she wasn’t a true blood Nepali either, since her father, my grandfather was from Bihar. He was raised an orthodox Hindu Brahmin but converted to Roman Catholicism after a near death experience. Like I said, it’s complicated.
But the questions still remain. But really, which part of India do you come from? Hard to say given my genealogy and furthermore, my father’s position in the Indian Police Service that led us through countless towns in four different states and left me, us, my siblings with no place as such to call home. If you want melting pot, you’re looking right at it. Me. And that’s not even a tip of the complex web that is my life and my family.
But I am digressing. Perhaps I am not in the least bit qualified to speak on this matter, far from it. But of all the places that my family and I wandered through, this, Darjeeling was the closest I get to call home. For almost every town we lived in, even now, I have always felt the outsider, the one at the corner in the party looking in, never participating, too scared, too intimidated and yes, sometimes too tired to give a damn.
Darjeeling was different. My family there, my mother’s cousins, nephews, nieces, aunts and grandfathers, yes because everyone who is a granduncle automatically becomes one, baje, grandfather; they were all different. They, the people of the town, with the exception of the one odd egg, (aren’t there always?) heard one word uttered in a terrible accent and squealed, “She’s one of us” and welcomed me in. I didn’t have to pretend anymore or worry about how I presented myself. I was one of them, I belonged. Finally. Which is why I get to call it home.
And which is also why this current impasse at the hills fills me with a sense of outrage and frustration. Because I have seen it before. In another state, the one my father came from, Manipur.
In essence both places have the same challenges, in this reach, if you will for a sense of identity. Who am I? Where do I belong? Let me explain. The Kukis share space among the various hilly regions with the Nagas leaving the Meiteis, the actual Manipuris in relative isolation in the valley. Since the creation of the state of Manipur and with the sister states of Nagaland and Mizoram, both the Nagas and Kukis have been trying to create their own identity within the state of Manipur. The Nagas wish to redraw the boundaries of the state to include some regions to be included within the state of Nagaland, while the Kukis would prefer not to and going one step further, carve out a separate state for themselves. The results have not been pretty.
Ethnic cleansing like the Tutsi genocide was the rule of the day in the 90s when between 1992 and 1997, hundreds of innocent people, men, women, babies were massacred in the state of Manipur, most of which took place inside churches, Christians killing Christians, a fact I still cannot wrap my head around. And that’s not counting the numerous civilian deaths perpetrated by the army and the police in ‘encounter’ killings, some genuine, the majority the result of trigger happy soldiers with a go free pass, courtesy the AFSPA.
So what is it that I am trying to say? Like almost all of us, deep down all the Kukis are really asking for is to be recognized and accepted for who they are. And they and what everyone else in this country, in their struggle for an identity, to be known and heard, do not and have not always done what is right. That is clear enough. Over the past few years, they try and have been trying, unsuccessfully, through agitations and strikes to get this point across but in reality, one that does nothing but inconvenience and greatly, no one else but the common man.
Darjeeling and the surrounding region is entering its 45th day today of total shutdown. Manipur along the National Highway 39 shut down once for over a 100 days, one of many. The total effect on the state and central governments in both Manipur and Darjeeling has of course been and will continue to be zero. In the meantime the common man paid and continues to do so, outrageous sums for daily necessities, struggles to get medical aid and sadly, the greatest loss, the future of the children gone for a toss.
I was in grade 10 when the agitation in the hills were escalating but even then there was no threat tangible or otherwise that I or even my class mates felt. Of course there were rumours flying everywhere and the standard joke of losing six inches, a grim threat of losing one’s head. People claimed they had seen these beheadings but of course there were no cell phones back then, at least not readily available as now; and so one never really saw up close the horror that we have since then seen in the brutal killing of Madan Tamang in broad daylight. There are still pictures perhaps even a video floating somewhere in the web but I have not, could not bring myself to see it.
More so because this is not the Darjeeling I remember. It is hard for me to fathom the depths of depravity and bullying that have since taken place from when I first lived there almost two and a half decades ago. My people were and I believe still are, kind and generous, ridiculously hospitable and a quiet, hardworking lot.
India is a complex country with a myriad of peoples, languages, customs and traditions and each one trying to fit in, find its place. Couple that with the caste system, decades of a male dominated society and a total lack of any civic sense whatsoever and you have the chaos that you see spilling on the streets every day.
Not all is bad though and not all is bleak but with the advent of technology and information available at the touch of a button, comes the question but why not me? Why can’t I have that? Good questions really. But no real direction as to how get there.
In essence that is Darjeeling too. A small little town that once we dreamed of as idyllic, the perfect home. But it sees too, the great strides everywhere and dreams of bigger, better plans for itself. The bigger has happened in a sense but not in the way it hoped. Tenements flock and flank every available space to house the increasing number of chattering hordes that rise in increasing waves every year. So much so that there is no standing room, literally.
Everything else though is stuck like a needle on the old LP player, scratching the frustrating tone of unemployment, bad roads, poor water supply (even though it rains buckets throughout the year) and the same bleakness, breath-taking views notwithstanding. There is only so much one can take and it did not matter what the trigger was, the floodgates are now open. And while the future looks uncertain, they can say at least we made one step forward. I hope sincerely for their sake, they find the right voice to lead them this time.
And finally, talking of soft spoken, the meek shall inherit the earth is a strange paradox I know. I mean how can they? But if you look closely, they do, they always will. A friend who stood and talked till the cows came home just so I could fit in to a new environment, an aunt who soothed my fevered brow and fed me steaming bowls of soup, a father’s friend who filled in the gap and stood by me when family was a thousand kilometres away. They didn’t have to but they did. Loved me unconditionally. So they do actually. Inherit the earth. In the hearts and lives of all the people they have loved.
And why for me Darjeeling will always be home.
~ Judith Vaddi
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