April
is the cruellest month, breeding
Lilacs
out of the dead land, mixing
Memory
and desire, stirring
Dull
roots with spring rain…
~ T. S. Eliot, The Wasteland
September
I have learnt is no less. I had written earlier about September, how the days
entwine themselves in memories of a brutal past, the in between month of the
heat of summer and the frost of winter. My home state has its own, Black Day,
September 13th; the world another, September 11.
For
the people of Darjeeling too, September will be remembered, for each one, some
in acrimony and others for hope. 105 days later on September 27th, with
really nothing conclusive or foothold gained, the agitation in the hills have
finally come to an end. While many and by that I mean almost every person I
met, have expressed privately, a sense of relief, the private expressions have
by itself been an indicator of the turmoil in the hills I call home.
There
is no doubt that while the mass movement had been unified, albeit even
forcibly, one thing that stands out in stark clarity is that there seems to be
no single party or person that can lay claim to be the voice of the people.
There is no one leader that the people can look up to and identify as the
clarion call that will forge ahead.
In
a sense it has been good in that the people have seen first-hand, the bickering
and dissent within the primary party that called for the strike in the first
place. Washing dirty linen in public seems to be the understatement of the year
as different members sought to malign one another and while it was understood,
that there had been a fair amount of corruption (and that is putting it mildly)
the fact that it was revealed so brazenly has left a bitter aftertaste in
everyone’s mouths.
Also
while it had been a mass movement of sorts, having endured for a record 105
days, the majority of the people while believing that theirs was the voice,
really had no say in the matter, literally and figuratively speaking. That was
evident in the way school children were bullied and traumatised into returning
back to their homes on the days they did venture out to attend classes; in the
manner in which ordinary citizens with genuine needs, those that had lost a
loved one, those that needed medical treatment were met with a harshness that
was dictatorial at best.
And
while the world and the local people themselves saw it as a mass movement,
there was no real outline, a road map if you will as to how to get to the goal
that they aspired for – Gorkhaland, a separate state. Rumours were rife and
plenty – if the strike continued for 90 days, the governments would be forced
to invoke President’s rule (there is no such clause for that); that if it
continued for a 100 days, there was provision for it to be included as a Union
Territory and so on and so forth.
I
wish my brothers and sisters in the hills had looked a little further east.
Manipur has had its share of blockades, some for three months, the last being
over a 120+ days old, recently ending sometime around March of this year.
If
you want horror stories, think of this. Sometime in May this year, 632 days later, 21+ months after nine
civilians were killed in police firings, the bodies of the fallen were finally
laid to rest. Well 8 actually; one of the families who lost an 11 year old,
decided they had enough, managed to steal his body a month earlier and buried
him prior.
Think
of the agony of the families as they waited day after day even as it turned
into months and then some, for some resolution to the conflict that had
resulted in their deaths. Again, here while many saw it as the will of the
people, I cannot even begin to fathom the pain and anguish that these families
faced, forced as they were to hold on, to endure, with no sense of an ending as
to when they could bring closure to this loss that they had faced.
“Fear
cuts deeper than swords..” and that too was, is evident both in Manipur and in Darjeeling. It has been said that
two are better than one for though one may be overpowered, two can defend
themselves. If only it were that simple. Fear and ignorance. The two tools used
effectively in this and other regions to make sure the people obeyed and did
what was commanded, even while the leaders sat far away and made grandiose
statements, over the phone and on cell phone recordings.
Meanwhile
on Saturday, day three after the strike was lifted and also the day of tikka, the mood remains sombre. It is a
day usually marked with grand festivities as family and friends come together
to celebrate but the streets are quiet, despondent even. Earlier in the day, it
had rained some and the clouds and mist had blanketed down. As our family
gathers under a shamiana in my
grandfather’s ancestral home’s front lawn, for my aunt’s memorial service, I
can see the wispy fingers of the mists flitting among the trees affording glimpses
now and then of the town ahead in the hills facing us.
By
late afternoon the skies have cleared and as we head out to town to meet with
relatives and friends, the usual throng of people are missing. There are fewer
cars and even less people and as we reach closer to my uncle’s home, I can see
glimpses of the Relli river below. The views below, around me are perhaps
commonplace but I hide them in my heart fiercely. I know that in the days ahead
I will need them and while I try and preserve what I can on my cell phone, I take the time to breathe in and commit the rest to memory.
For
those of us who live there in the hills and for us, the ones who live
elsewhere, there is something strong and reassuring about the sheer grandeur of
the mountains. Unshakeable, perhaps, that and a fierceness of resolve,
undeterred by the rumblings and ravages of nature. Some faces are sheer and
eroded, but for the most part, the slopes remain green, guarded by firs and
pines, resolute even among the snow and ice.
So
at the end of a hundred odd days what has been achieved? Nothing, many will
say. And winter is coming. There is
no doubt of that. Already the winds are changing. Do we huddle down and brace
ourselves for it? Common sense says we should.
But
with winter also comes the spring. And that I believe is not so far away. And
with it will come the blue skies and the flowers, sunshine mixed with a little
rain. The greyness around reminds me winter is coming but not here, not in my
home, not in my heart.
Comments
Post a Comment