Futile Dream

 

Lawrence was sitting near the window of a quaint cafe of the hill town through which he could get a glimpse of the bustling town below and Mt.Kanchenjunga in the distance, bathed in colours of the setting sun. The last year when he was here, one of the staff told him, ‘Sir, it is just 75km from here,’ when he caught Lawrence gazing at the lofty peak.

While growing up, Lawrence learned the art of rock climbing from his father, who was a mountaineer. While choosing career after high school, Lawrence chose to nurture his passion for rock climbing and became a professional mountain climber. He then scaled several peaks in different continents in the coming years, including the highest-Mt.Everest. But, that did not quench his thirst. He now eyed for Kanchenjunga, the third highest peak in the world.

When after high school Lawrence decided to pursue his career in mountain climbing, his father sent him to Himalayan Mountaineering Institute Darjeeling to take up advanced mountaineering courses. It was from those days; Lawrence nurtured his heart, the dream of scaling Kanchenjunga, which along with its neighbouring peaks resembled Lord Buddha in a sleeping posture according to the people of the town.

In the years to come, when Lawrence and his team tried to get permit for the long cherished expedition, the Indian Government denied. When he questioned the concerned authorities, they told him the summit was banned to mountaineers. The furthest they could go was to the base camp at Yalung at 4500m.

According to the authorities, the ban was imposed to not hurt religious sentiments of the Lepcha people living at the base, who believed that the first humans originated from snow at peak of Kanchenjunga. Another myth associated with the peak is that, the mountain is home mythical creature yeti called Dzo-nga.  Apart from the mythical tales, the authorities told several nerve chilling ghost stories related to previous climbers, who had died under mysterious circumstances.

When the authorities had finished their stories, Lawrence thumped his fist and walked out of the office in rage.  He couldn’t let some stupid myth bury his long cherished dream.

That year Lawrence with his team trekked till the base camp. While returning to his country, Lawrence promised himself that he would come the following year and would set his foot on the summit of Kanchenjunga.

Today, Lawrence was back in Darjeeling after full one year. Though he was given permit upto the base camp again, he had hired a Sherpa, who had agreed to help him in his illegal expedition to the summit in exchange of extra sum of money.

The day came, when Lawrence with other mountaineers and trekkers set off for the base camp. It took eleven days to reach the base camp. On reaching, everybody took shelter in their tents. When the night dawned and everyone was fast asleep, Lawrence with his Sherpa slipped out of their tents in middle of the night and set out to live his long cherished dream.

Lawrence with his Sherpa walked ahead undeterred. Neither the cold winds nor the deathly silence  could dampen his spirit.

When the day broke, they had walked miles away from the camp. They knew a search team would be sent looking for them, but bothering not of consequences they walked ahead.

After many hours of climbing through the rocky terrain, they halted at a ridge few meters below the summit. Lawrence could hear his heart beats thumping against his ribcage. ‘Only few meters of climb, and then I will become the first person in history to step on your summit,’ Lawrence murmured.

But, Gods had other plans. When Lawrence started making his way up, the snow below his feet started sliding down. He tried to calm himself down but it was futile. Suddenly, he felt a strong gust wind hitting across his face and Lawrence lost hold of his grip and the world vanished before his eyes. Lawrence and the Sherpa were perished in the avalanche of snow.

Yet again, Mt.Kanchenjunga stood firm and unconquered.

 

 

Image Courtesy: Google Images

Z Reversal

 

 

Herbert Ramsey was sitting alone on a boulder of rock, which had come running down the hill and sat with a thud along the edge of the road, in the last monsoon rains. He dug his face deep between his knees, not to let the sunlight reach his eyes. When few coolies and co-workers tried to lift his spirit with lame jokes, with gesture of his left hand he waved them away. He wanted them to leave him alone.

It was year 1878, when the idea of connecting Darjeeling with Siliguri through railways conceived in the mind of Franklin Prestage, an agent of the Eastern Bengal Railway. Soon he submitted his proposal to the Government. As per his proposal, he wished for a train to run parallel to the Hill Cart Road on a 2-foot track. The very next year the Herculean task was taken in hand and the work of laying iron rails on wooden sleepers began.

The project was carried at great pace under the assistance of competent  British engineers and contractors in the plains but greater challenges lay ahead. When the ascend started, the engineers and contractors were left baffled. At Chunabhati, 23km ahead of  Siliguri the steam locomotive failed to accelerate uphill despite several attempts. The average gradient  was 1:29, a ratio impossible for any engine in those days.

When Franklin Prestage’s proposal was accepted, contractor Herbert Ramsey was called from England along with competent engineers to take the Herculean task in hand. Ramsey had proved his mettle on previous projects entrusted to him in various British colonies. But this was nothing like anything he had worked before. It was like Hannibal taking elephants over the Alps.

6 km before Tindharia, at Chunabhati the steam engine refused to climb uphill after several attempts. The engineers made several changes in the drawings but nothing seemed to work. The gradient was way too much for the tiny locomotive to climb. Contractor Herbert Ramsey was frustrated. He had never imagined such problems coming his way. On the other hand he was running behind schedule on the project. He had to make the engine climb up the steep slope so that the train could run up to Tindharia, and this way he would complete the first leg of the project.

When the sun had descended below the horizon, Ramsey lifted his head from between his legs. His co-workers and coolies had made their way to their tents. After another failed day, he lazily walked towards his tent. Once inside, he threw his weight on the wooden chair next to the table beside the little window facing the newly laid tracks.

After giving a brief look outside, Ramsey’s hand reached for his writing pad and a pen and addressed a letter to his wife in England.  He was crestfallen. The failures were making him miserable. He missed his wife and thus poured his heart out in the letter. Among the various things he wrote in the letter, he also mentioned about his failures on the project in brief.

A few weeks later, the postman came looking for Herbert. He had a letter for Herbert from his wife. Though, Herbert was occupied with some elevation drawing with his engineer, he quickly started going through the letter. Of the many things his wife had written, one particular sentence caught his eyes. It read;

“If you can’t go forward, why don’t you go back darling.”

By this sentence, Herbert’s wife had meant, if he was not able to go forward with his job then it would be better for him to return back to England, but it conceived the idea Z Reversals in Herbert’s mind.

In Z Reversal, a train is allowed to go several yards backwards on a different track and then allowed to accelerate up along a different track to gain elevation.

Within a week, when the tracks were laid as per Herbert’s new conceived idea, the toy train was able to ascend uphill. Soon tracks were laid up to Tindharia  and thus on 4th March, 1881, the Viceroy of India Lord Lytton inaugurated the Darjeeling Himalayan Railway by riding the first leg of the journey from Siliguri to Tindharia.

In the following months to come before the people of Darjeeling town would see a train, this engineering feat of Herbert Ramsey, helped the Toy Train to climb steep slopes without which it would have never reached Darjeeling.

 

Gulab Jamun…

 

It was a sultry summer morning.  It being Sunday, the boys occupying the cottage next to Mishra Ji’s cottage lay lazily on their thin mattresses spread across the floor. They had left the front door open, to let the morning breeze come in. Their coherent snoring was audible to the chaiwallah, stationed in his shabby establishment across the street. The paperboy called out each by their name, but none bothered to answer him. Out of dismay, he threw the newspaper inside and went on his way.

Their snoring stopped only when the words, ‘Hey Ram! Hey Ram!’ came in through the window, opening into Mishra Ji’s courtyard. The voice seemed familiar. It was Mishra Ji again. But unlike previous occasions, he sounded  more of worried than angry this time.

‘Ramesh, what have you done this time, to set Mishra Ji on a rampage early morning?’ asked Tribhuvan, elbowing Ramesh in his loin. Ramesh unaware of what was happening bothered not to pay any heed and slept like a lifeless body.

The boys staying next to Mishra Ji’s cottage studied in a college situated in the vicinity of the neighborhood. They were a group of five. They appeared no less than close knit brothers, from the kind of bond they shared but weren’t related in blood. They managed their daily chores in turn and spent time after college, studying, playing cricket or sharing silly jokes.

Every now and then, a cricket ball would fly into Mishra Ji’s courtyard, shattering pickle bottles, kept in the sun to dry or throwing chilies in air spread on cotton sheets. This would send Mishra ji into a fit of rage and he would curse the boys and prayed the gods to show wrath on them. The boys giggled and made faces at his words.

Today morning when Mishra Ji woke up, he heard   the braying of a donkey. The sound was loud enough to conclude that it wasn’t coming from far off but the animal was nowhere to be seen.  ‘But how come a donkey in my courtyard?’ questioned Mishra Ji to himself, sitting on his haunches. ‘Probably, the sound is coming from the well!’ uttered Mishra Ji alarmingly.

Holding the hem of his dhoti in his right hand, with little beads of perspiration appearing on his forehead, Mishra Ji quickly hurried towards the well. The well was located in a far corner across the courtyard. When he reached near the well and peeped inside, he gave a loud cry, ‘Hey Ram, Hey Ram… .’.  His wife taken in alarm rushed to the scene, and stood there in cold blood.

The donkey belonged to the dhobi from the neighborhood, who had now joined the couple, along with the other neighbors and the boys. The poor soul watched the animal with teary eyes. Each person, standing round the perimeter of well, claimed ways of the animal falling into the well but none suggested any means to save the poor soul.

The Mishra’s stood worried. ‘What if the animal dies inside the well?’,’ Where will we get water for our daily needs?’ whispered Mishra Ji’s wife in Mishra Ji’s ears.

The well’s water was used by the Mishra’s and the neighbor’s for their household chores and for drinking purpose.  Mishra Ji requested a few of his friends, but all denied. Finally, he let a sigh and with a heavy heart announced an award of rupee five to whoever, who got the donkey out of the well.

Seeing the sullen faces of the Mishra’s and the poor dhobi, Ramesh came forward to their rescue. Ramesh was the most mischievous of the five. He always enjoyed sending the Mishra’s on a rampage. But, this time he couldn’t hold back himself. He couldn’t let poor soul die. He asked Tribhuvan to quickly get the rope from their cottage. When Tribhuvan appeared with the rope, he quickly tied it along his waist and asked his friends to lower him into the well.

Once, he was close to the donkey he asked to lower another rope, which he tied around the donkey’s stomach. Meanwhile, the poor soul brayed consistently. With all their might, the others pulled Ramesh and the donkey out of the well. Mishra’s finally let a sigh of relief.

In the evening five playful souls could been seen laughing heartily and savouring a pot full of gulab jamuns, sitting on the verandah staircase opening in  the courtyard

 

 

Raising Boundaries

The Town Hall’s bell chimed the tune of the 11th hour, taking Bao in surprise. He stopped running and stood on his haunches panting heavily. A thick cloud of breathe escaped from his half parted lips as if someone had put a burning cigar in his mouth. Beads of perspiration dripped from his moist hair. At intervals he chocked to let out air, he had held in his lungs all this while. His heart pounded against his rib cages so as to break free. The last sound he heard was the ticking of his wrist watch, before falling to the ground and lying their motionless.

Bao by birth was half Chinese, half Indian. His father was a Chinese and out of choice married a Gurkha girl. Bao’s ancestors had migrated from China and had taken refuge in Darjiling long before boundaries were drawn on maps, marking demarcation between India and China more prominent. Since, then Darjiling served as their first home.

Times had changed now. War broke out between these two neighbouring countries over a disputed Himalayan border. Taken by surprise and being unprepared, Indian army suffered a heavy loss, despite of all possible efforts. The country mourned the death of its dauntless soldiers, but that was not enough.

Bao was lying in his bed lifeless and numb as a dead body. He stared out of the window, but the moon and the stars were not visible today. The cold winds gushed in through the broken window-pane, but didn’t smell as sweet as before. He tried to sleep but it wouldn’t come so easily. His stomach churned out of hunger but he didn’t want to eat anything. ‘Tomorrow is the day’, escaped from Boa’s lips as tears rolled down his cheeks.

‘I am not going anywhere, this is my home. I am not going anywhere…’ Bao muttered as he ran past the post office.  The clock adorned over the main entrance, caught his attention. He wanted to stop over and have a brief look, which he often did, when the elders in the neighbourhood asked him to post letters for them. But, not this time. He had no time for anything.

Being back-stabbed and betrayed, the Indian government was now repatriating the Chinese living in its territories. Trucks, full of Chinese were sent across the border every day. Children were separated from their parents, and so were couples. It didn’t matter whether one was half -Chinese. Anyone, bearing a Chinese name had to leave.

Bao ran as fast as he could. He wished to turn into a ghost and mingle with the air, so that nobody could force him out of his hometown. He was born there and had every right to stay there. Above all, how could he just leave behind his little wooden cottage, that stood atop a cliff; the neighbourhood, which he had always considered to be his own. Friends, with whom he played all day in the woods or the butterflies and rhododendrons tress that, fascinated him.

Bao woke up, when somebody jostled him. The sunlight burned his eyes. He started but couldn’t move an inch. Innumerable like him, stood all round. He made his way to the rear edge of the truck. The path behind didn’t seem familiar. Grief quickly caught Bao’s senses and with a thud, he fell on the iron floor of the truck, gazing blankly on the tyre trails, that the truck left behind on the graveled path.

A Glimpse…

 

   He sat there motionless, on the cold, wet wooden bench of the mall, looking in the distance; Cold and stiff. If someone saw him for the first time, he appeared nothing less than a stone statue; lifeless and cold. But, at regular interval, a cloud of breathe escaping from his half parted lips claimed of his earthly existence.

One morning, when I woke up it was drizzling outside, but my love for fresh air and sweet music of chirping birds urged me to leave comfort of my warm bed and take a brisk walk round the mall road. A routine I never missed.

A many familiar faces passed me, exchanging smiles. Some simply walked while others jogged. As I walked past the end of Governor’s House a familiar figure caught my attention. It was sight of the same stranger, occupying the same spot. Like any other day, I didn’t want to walk away. Something stopped me this time.

“Hello Sir”, I greeted the stranger as I drew near him. “I am really sorry to disturb you, but my curious and inquisitive nature compels me to do so. I am really sorry again.” “Who are you Sir, and may I know what is it, that brings you here every day?”

His turned his head a little. All this while his eyes fixed in the distance. It seemed he didn’t want to miss something. Something he had been waiting for ages. Through his half-parted lips escaped, ‘Sengupta, Sourajit Sengupta’. ‘Do not disturb me please’, he murmured sternly.

I started, but my legs wouldn’t move. I couldn’t leave, and carry on with my daily routine. All I wanted to know, why he was there?, what it was, that made this man bear this harsh weather, without  the slightest discomfort?

Slowly with heavy heart I went round the bench, and sat beside the stranger. He didn’t pay the slightest attention to see who occupied the space beside him. I too sat there without uttering a word. All I could hear was his heavy breathing and creaking of crickets from the bushes occupying the hill-side.

At regular intervals I turned my head a little, to seek for the moment when I could spark off conversation but I was left dismayed. Mr.Sengupta didn’t bother to find who was looking at him. He sat there like a yogi in meditation; calm and composed.

‘Sorry to disturb you again, Sir, but do tell me why every morning you come here, sit on the same spot for endless hours and do nothing but gaze in the distance?’ ‘Is this your way of contemplating upon a thought or is it something else?’

‘Sir’, said Mr.Sengupta, breaking the long silence. ‘Many years ago when I was in high school, I read about Mark Twain’s visit to Darjiling. There I read that Twain stayed for a month in Darjiling, just to get a glimpse of Mt. Kanchenjunga. But his stay turned futile. During his stay thick clouds and fog veiled Mt.Kanchenjunga from his sight.’ ‘He left Darjiling with a heavy heart.’

‘There runs a belief among the commoners that only the lucky one gets to catch a glimpse of the mighty peak, said Mr.Sengupta.’So, I come here every vacation to try my luck’.

I released a long breathe, stood slowly and started walking with words, ‘Best of Luck, Sir’. I guess he didn’t bother to listen to what I was saying, for when I turned to see him, he was looking in the distance; lifeless and cold.

                                                                Image Courtesy-Google Images

 

Longing

On moonless nights
I sing songs
To the twinkling stars
That we meet again
On a road
Lined by Amaltass trees
.
Hand in hand
We walk again
Caring not of flowers
Underneath our feets
Cause we know
We have our own
Blooming in our hearts
.
We’ll make memories
When we meet
We will pour
Our hearts
Of the days
We spent worlds apart
.
I only wish
Time flies fast
Till then
I’ll keep
Singing to the stars

Image courtesy-Google Images

Introvert…

Lonesome musings
Rickety feelings
Joyous mood
On wet gloomy days.

Sulking inwardly
Avoiding sharp gaze
Laughing half heartedly
Just to be there.

Breathing heavily
Behind closed doors
Cursing sunlight
Peeping through the key hole.

Want to be left alone
And not be bothered at all
I am loving this life
Being an introvert after all.

© रavee

Camouflage

Only if we knew
When we would die
We wouldn’t hit the bed
Every night
Hoping to wake up again
With a little guilt
In our heart
To the sound of chirping birds
Perched
High on the Peepul tree
We wouldn’t long for
The winter sun
To fall on your face
And make us feel charged
To defy
All mortal limitations
But with time
We have learnt the act
The act to camouflage
Ourselves
Of weakness
Of pain
And of death

• 

Dust to Dust

I am crumbling
Piece of art
Tired of standing
Tall and strong
Through
Months, seasons and years
Now my time
Has finally come
To return to
Where I always belonged

The Salamander Case

                        

I met Biplab Chakarvarty in a general coach of a train; I took from Calcutta to Siliguri when I was travelling to Darjeeling to spend my summer holidays. A ritual I had never missed in the last ten years. I worked as a lecturer of Psychology in a reputed college in Calcutta and when the rising mercury level made the college management declare the summer holidays a week in advance, I couldn’t contain my excitement. I tried getting a reservation in any of the trains running between Calcutta and Siliguri, but when I couldn’t get one, I decided to travel in the general coaches. Something, I had never done in the last few years.

When the train arrived on the platform in Calcutta, I dropped the newspaper I had bought from one of stalls lining opposite the station building, on an empty seat through the window to mark that the seat was already taken. An act I was well acquainted with after all these years of travelling. But, when I reached near the seat, shoulder wrestling through fellow passengers and hawkers, I found another man sitting on it. He had buried his face deep in the newspaper, quite unaware that the seat and the newspaper belonged to someone else.

‘Sir, the seat you are sitting on and the newspaper you are reading  both belong to me,’ I told the stranger with an authority.

‘Oh, I am sorry,’ said the stranger, rising from the seat and taking an empty space on the opposite seat and started reading again.

He was around my age, well built in frame, but a little taller than me. If not for the little grey near his temple, he looked much younger for his age. He wore thick rimmed spectacles which kept falling off his nose and the colour of his lips suggested he smoked regularly.

When the train stopped at the next station, I realized he was still holding my newspaper. So I asked him to return it, if he had finished reading.

‘Hello! I am Biplab, Biplab Chalarvarty,’ he said, returning the newspaper, after he had neatly folded the pages at the edges and asked a chaiwallah on the platform to pour two cups of tea, taking one f himself and requested me to take the other.

When we began talking over tea, I came to know he was a herpetologist and unlike me he wasn’t travelling to Darjeeling to escape the heat of the plains instead he was going to spend his stay in Darjeeling studying the Darjeeling Salamander, an endangered species nearing extinction. Though his field of study sounded fascinating, having not the slightest idea about it, I kept listening like an attentive child in a classroom. Moreover, I was happy to have at least found a company.

The following day when we reached Darjeeling in the afternoon, I came to know, Mr. Biplab hadn’t booked a place for his proposed stay.  So, to ease his burden of finding a hotel, I invited him to the hotel, where I had booked a room for my intended stay and assured him to make arrangements for his stay also.

When we reached the hotel, the manager was happy to offer another room to Mr.Chakarvarty for which he thanked me enough later that day in the evening when we went round the Mall Road for a walk. Mr. Chakaravarty also insisted me to address him Biplab Da now, though there was very little difference in our ages. I found this easy-going nature of Mr. Chakarvarty quite comforting. Biplab da’s generosity continued later at the dinner table; in the restaurant where we had decided to dine when he refused to split the bill and went on to pay the entire amount.

The following day when we met at the breakfast table, after exchanging morning greetings, I asked about Biplab da’s his plans for the day.

‘I will be heading for the zoo, after breakfast,’ he grinned.

‘Would you like to come along?’ he asked me, while rising from the breakfast table.

During my previous stays in Darjeeling, I had visited the zoo a couple of times, so the prospect of going there again didn’t raise any level of curiosity in my mind. Again, denying to Biplab da’s invitation directly didn’t sound welcoming, so I lied that I had already planned to visit the Capitol Hall, where paintings by local artists were on display.

‘Did you find anything worth buying for your Calcutta home in the exhibition?’ asked Biplab da when we met in his room after dining at a local eatery.

‘Yes, a few.’ I lied again.

‘How was your visit to the zoo, Biplab da? Did you make it a point to also visit HMI?’ I asked, reaching for my cup of tea, brought in by the hotel staff, after Biplab da had quietly taken his, from the tray.

‘No!’ replied Biplab da rising from his chair and after brief pacing up and down in the room sat on the edge of the bed.

From the look of his face and body language, I sensed something was amiss.

‘They didn’t let me visit the breeding site!’ Biplab da thumped his right fist on the mattress in rage, spilling a little tea on the white sheet spread over the mattress.

From the conversations that followed later at night, I came to know that Biplab da’s request for visiting the breeding site of the endangered Darjeeling Salamander was denied by the zoo’s authorities. According to him, the officials present had turned a deaf ear, when he pleaded to them to allow him to study the endangered newt species, whose numbers were dwindling every day.

Loss of natural habitat, unchecked regular poaching and change in climatic conditions were the main reasons for the dwindling numbers, cited the caretaker of the breeding site, though laws were framed for its protection under Schedule II of Indian Wildlife (protection) Act, 1972.

By the time Biplab da finished narrating his day’s tale, it was already past eleven. Though, I wanted to listen to all his stories, but it was already quite late. After bidding good night to Biplab da, I went to sleep because the following morning I had planned a trek to Tiger Hill for which I had to wake up a couple of hours before the day broke.

The next morning, after seeing the sunrise at Tiger Hill, I also took the opportunity to pray for my parent’s well being at the Senchal Temple and visit the Darjeeling Himalayan Railway Museum at Ghoom. When I returned back to the hotel in the afternoon, I found Biplab da waiting for me at the reception. With a beaming smile, he told me he was really happy and wanted to take me out for lunch.

‘I visited the breeding site,’ came quickly from Biplab da, once we were settled across the table.

‘How did that happen?’ I questioned more curious than surprised.

‘I bribed the caretaker!’ whispered Biplab da, bending over the edge of the table, almost knocking the glass of water which was poured by the waiter a few minutes ago.

‘Is that another of your jokes, Biplab da?’

Before he could assure me this time, the smile on his lips and his twinkling eyes was enough for me to realize that he wasn’t cracking some lame jokes this time.

Before, I could further go into the enquiry; Biplab da reached for his cloth bag and drew out a bunch of hand painted pictures and asked me to look at them.

Every time, I had visited the Darjeeling Zoo previously, all I wanted to see was the Snow Leopard and Red Panda. Never had I bothered to look at the other animals and more particularly the Darjeeling Salamander. I had assumed it look like the wall gecko’s found in abundant in my Calcutta home.

But, when I saw the pictures, which Biplab da had passed onto me, I was astonished. The newt was uniformly blackish brown in colour was between 10-15cm in length. The head was a little wider and its snout a little shorter and the body was around three times the length of the head. The tail was slightly flattened at the bottom to ease in swimming, told Biplab da later.

Before returning to our rooms in the evening, after lunch we spent the afternoon strolling around the Mall Road, talking about college days. The courses we had taken and why he had chosen to remain unmarried.

The next morning when I woke up, I felt too tired to walk down to the hotel’s restaurant for the breakfast. My legs felt heavy.

‘I shouldn’t have gone strolling round with Biplab da, after having gone on a trek to the Tiger Hill the same day,’ I cursed myself when my legs hurt.

But, the hotel’s manager was kind enough to arrange for my breakfast in my room along with a copy of the daily newspaper, Telegraph.

After eating, I settled down with the newspaper and a cup of tea on a chair facing the window. The outside scene was just perfect to set the mood for browsing through the newspaper.

As an old habit I quickly flipped over the pages, until I found the editorial page. After reading a few articles and columns relating to the state of the country, I flipped back to the page reserved for news relating to North Bengal. Before, I could read anything my eyes fell on a black and white picture of a lizard like creature. It was a picture of the rare Darjeeling Salamander.

In the article adjacent to the picture, it was mentioned that of the few salamanders being bred in the Darjeeling Zoo, one had gone missing the previous day.

According to the breeding site’s caretaker, when he returned after lunch break, he found one of the salamanders missing. He had tried finding it in the crevices of rocks present in the artificial pond but when he wasn’t able to spot it, he had reported to the higher authorities. The authorities had reported the matter to the nearby police station and the search was going on.

When I finished reading the article, I wanted to tell Biplab da about it myself. So, I folded the newspaper back in four and rushed out of my room to meet Biplab da. But, before I could knock on his door, the hotel manager interrupted me. He held a telegram in his hand. It was addressed to me from my father.

In Calcutta my mother was admitted to the hospital. She had fainted one afternoon in the courtyard. My father had found the hotel’s address in a diary I had kept in his study in which I had written down the address and phone number of hotel and now he wanted me to come down to Calcutta as soon as possible.

Once I was in Calcutta, I forgot everything about Biplab da and the Darjeeling Salamander until one morning when my eyes caught sight of another black and white picture in the newspaper. In the picture, it was Biplab da standing between two uniformed men, while a couple of other men stood beside them in casual dresses.

Biplab da was accused of poaching and bribing. The local police had found the missing salamander in a glass container in Biplab da’s hotel room. It was the hotel manager who had reported to the police, when one of the housekeeping staff had found the container underneath the bed when Biplab da was away doing some shopping in the local bazaar.

From the investigation it was found that Biplab da was no herpetologist. Instead he was a famous poacher involved in smuggling rare reptiles to herpetologist across the country for hefty sum of money. Though, he was booked for similar charges in the past but was let go in the absence of any substantial proof but, not this time.

Later in the custody, Biplab da had admitted that it was he who had conjured up the plan of calling oneself a herpetologist so, that he could get easy access to the breeding site but when the zoo authorities denied him the permission, he had bribed the caretaker of the breeding site to allow him to get away with one of the salamander’s and had asked the caretaker to circulate cooked up stories among the officials.

Return

 

It started to drizzle, but Nima didn’t leave her spot. Unperturbed, she remained sitting on one of the wooden benches lining the periphery of Chowrasta. Within few minutes the angry clouds drenched her from head to toe, but her tired eyes kept surveying the length and breadth of the vast open space in front of her. When a chaiwallah passing by stopped to ask her, why she was sitting in rain, Nima cleared her throat and muttered that she was waiting for someone. The chaiwallah without asking any further question went along his way.

Nima was studying in college, when she met Rajiv for the first time and fell in love with him instantly. According to her, Rajiv was like any other boy, but his helping nature made him stand tall above others. Though they were classmates, they hardly interacted. The little conversation they had occasionally would be regarding some class notes, which Nima preferred asking only Rajiv, if she missed any class.

One day while Nima was sitting on a bench at Chowratsa, waiting for her friend, Rajiv came and sat beside her, when he couldn’t find any other empty place. Although, Nima had seen Rajiv coming, she pretended to ignore him and kept reading a book she was carrying that day. In between reading, there were moments when Nima stole glances to look at Rajiv’s child-like face and when Rajiv caught her looking at him, Nima passed a smile and proposed Rajiv like an innocent child. Rajiv reciprocated by a shy ‘I love you too.’

From that day onwards, Nima made a point to meet Rajiv every day after college. They would sit on the same bench; sitting on which they had confessed their love for each other and talk for hours about love and rain, and about moon and stars. On days, when the bench would already be taken, they would walk down the Mall Road, hand in hand and recite each other their favourite love poems.

One day when the couple was sitting at their usual spot, Rajiv broke news of his selection in the Gorkha Regiment. Nima was in tears when Rajiv finished narrating in detail the selection procedure. Though, Nima was little afraid for Rajiv but she was also proud of him at the same time. Her own father had served the country by joining the Indian Army.

The next day when they met, Rajiv promised Nima that he would marry her when he would return home after the completion of his training. Before leaving he also asked Nima to concentrate on her studies, since her final examination was due in a few months. He wanted her to finish with her college education though he couldn’t finish his own. While he would be away for nine months he also asked Nima to keep visiting his ailing parents, who had nobody other than Rajiv in this world to take care.

Today morning, when Nima woke up, she slipped her hand underneath her pillow and brought out a brown envelope. It was letter from Rajiv. The postman had delivered the letter a few days ago. Though, she had read the letter a few times already, she wanted to read it again. It was special. Rajiv was coming home today and had asked Nima to meet at the same spot, where months ago they had proposed each other.

Nima took less time to finish her chores today. Took extra time finding, what to wear. She wanted to look beautiful. When her parents called her for breakfast, surprisingly she ate everything in her plate. She was really happy. She was dying to meet Rajiv

Chowrasta was teeming with people, when Nima finally reached there in the afternoon. The sun was finally out in the eastern sky after weeks of incessant rainfall. She stood for full five minutes at the centre and surveyed the whole open space. Though, most benches were already taken by elderly people and young couples but the one where she had proposed Rajiv was still unoccupied.

Nima swiftly walked towards the bench, clearing people who crossed her path. Before anybody could sit on it, Nima placed her bag on one half of the bench and sat on the other half. When anybody came looking for a place to sit Nima lied. She told everyone that the empty place was occupied by a friend, who had gone round to buy some snacks to eat.

The hands of the watch that Nima was wearing now showed four o’clock. She checked her wrist again but the resonating sound of gong of the Town Hall’s Clock Tower four times confirmed that her watch was showing correct time. ‘Rajiv should have come by now,’ she muttered fixing her gaze in the direction, from which she expected Rajiv to come. She rose to her feet a few times to have a better vision but feeling disappointed every time sank back in her seat.

Dark clouds began to hover in the sky and deafening sound of thunder rattled windowpanes of buildings nearby. When the rain came Nima wanted to head home like other people but she reminded herself of Rajiv’s words and didn’t move an inch from her spot.

After the chaiwallah went his way, Nima waited for another way assuring her little heart that Rajiv would come. But, when the natural light faded and lights of other establishments came up, she started growing nervous. She took deep breaths to calm herself down but this time it wouldn’t work for her. Finally she rose up, thinking of her own parents waiting for her to return home. Tears rolled down her soft cheeks when she started walking home but when a familiar voice called out her name from behind she stopped walking.

When Nima turned around, Rajiv was standing only a few meters away from her. He had dressed in his regiments’ uniform and had twinkle in his eyes and had a wild smile playing on his lips. When he came closer, Rajiv wound his hands around Nima and hugged her tight and asked for forgiveness, for making Nima wait. Nima forgave Rajiv and reminded him that should walk home because like her, Rajiv’s parents must be waiting for their son to return home.

After walking for over fifteen minutes when Rajiv’s home was few houses away, Rajiv decided to wait round the corner and asked Nima to walk alone to his parents and tell them that their son hadn’t come. When Nima asked, why he wanted her first to go and lie to his parents, Rajiv smiled again and told he wanted to surprise them by walking from behind.

The front door was open when Nima reached Rajiv’s house. Rajiv’s father had forgotten to switch on the bulb hanging from the porch’s ceiling so Nima switched it on. She had done it many times in the past and knew where exactly the switch was. She called out for Rajiv’s parents but when no one answered back, she went straight in the inner chambers.

In the bedroom, Nima found Rajiv’s mother spread on the wooden floor and his father sitting on his knees. When their eyes fell on Nima, they started crying. When Nima asked them what had happened? Why were they crying? Rajiv’s father reached for a letter lying on the floor and gave it to Nima. It was addressed to Rajiv’s father and had Indian Army’s seal on it. When Nima finished reading the letter she looked bewildered. She ran upto the spot where she had last seen Rajiv but when she couldn’t find him, she went down on her knees and cried rivers.

The letter read that Rajiv was put on patrol duty after completion of his training and a day before going on a sanctioned leave to his hometown-Darjeeling, Rajiv along with two other soldiers lost their lives, in an explosion while on patrol along the India Pakistan border in Kashmir.

Lost Home

I was happy that day
When my mother passed away
In her sleep.
When she was breathing
She would wake up
In the middle of the night
And cry out loud
About our lost home in Kashmir
When father would try to coax her
To go back to sleep
She would start crying louder
Like a stubborn child
She begged father
To take her back
To her lost home in Kashmir
Sleep would finally come to her
Just before day break
When her throat ran dry
I grew up watching this everyday
Standing at her bedroom door
Though I was little
I still have memories
Of the night
When cries of
‘Hamein chaiye Azadi…’
Filled the air
Muffling cries of men, women and children
Who were butchered
By faces they once called family and friends
Still hung loose in the air
Those who managed to save their lives
Like us !
Found makeshift homes in refugee camps
Where government agents assured us
To get back
What we had left behind
Through their false promises
We all grew each year older
And when our future started appearing bleak
It was then our parents took
The toughest decision of the lives
They decided to move to other cities
To earn their livelihood
And educate their children
And their wish to return home
Took backseat
Today, when I poured
The last remains of my mother
In the swift flowing Jhelum
I felt liberated
Of a promise
I once made my mother
On a warm winter morning
Mother, I have put you rest
Where once you dreamt of breathing your last
I have finally brought you home
To your lost home in Kashmir.

Twins

I held this assumption
I was a single child
For all my life
Until one day
When Amma broke in tears
And told me the truth
Buried deep in her heart
I had a twin
She said sobbing
Killed at birth
By a scavenger unknown
She cursed herself
And beat her breast
And blamed herself
For having had
Left us alone
Amma prayed the heaven
Asking peace
For my departed twin
And so did I

Ganesh

I remember seeing Ganesh for the first time, when he came to open the door of Pradhan uncle’s house and after letting me in, shut the door behind me with a bang. So, that for a moment I felt the glasses came crashing down on my head. But, surprisingly they didn’t and before, this little human monkey could do any further damage, Pradhan uncle came screaming inside the guest room and took hold of his culprit’s left ear with his right hand. The louder Ganesh cried out of pain, the harder Pradhan uncle twisted his grip. Pradhan uncle let go Ganesh, only when his hand had lost it’s strength and he felt, he had punished Ganesh enough.

That day, after Ganesh disappeared inside the inner quarters, sobbing, I had paid extra attention when Pradhan uncle taught me Trigonometry, lest I received similar punishment. It was later in the evening, while narrating the whole episode to my mother; I came to know that Ganesh was the new domestic servant of Pradhan uncle’s house.

According to my mother, Ganesh’s father, Shankar worked as a domestic servant in Pradhan uncle’s wife, Shanti aunty’s maternal home in Bijanbari and the last time when she had gone to meet her ailing mother, Shankar had thrown himself at her feet. He had begged aunty, to bring Ganesh along with her to Darjeeling, because he felt his little earning wasn’t enough to feed, all his four children. So, sending Ganesh away with aunty would in a way, lighten his burden.

Though, initially, Shanti aunty had shown great resentement at Shankar’s request and sent angry words flying at him, Shankar didn’t left his spot. Instead, he sat there, before her on his haunches. When she realized that the poor fellow wouldn’t go away, Shanti aunty had promised to bring Ganesh along with her to Darjeeling.

When Shanti aunty got home with Ganesh, Pradhan uncle wasn’t happy to have an extra member in the house but on learning about the circumstances under which his wife had agreed on bringing the little rustic home, he didn’t argue further. Instead, he suggested his wife, to get Ganesh enrolled in the nearby Municipality School. So, now I saw Ganesh daily, attending school in the morning and helping Shanti aunty with the household chores, in the evening and on weekends Ganesh joined us, when we went to play football in the Turnbull School’s playground.

A couple of months had passed since, my first encounter with the little monkey. Yes! That’s what I often heard Pradhan uncle call him, when I went to him for my Mathematics lesson. But, nowadays I realized he had stopped using it. Instead, he preferred calling out his name, when he needed something.

It was at the dinner table one day, when I learnt that Ganesh had become talk of the neighbourhood, when my mother told my father, how Ganesh had come to her rescue when she had failed to find me, to carry a bucket full of water from the municipality tap into the house. Her story didn’t end there; she went on to narrate several episodes from the neighbourhood, when this Ganesh chap had come to other peoples rescue.

It was in the month of May, when as per tradition the board results were declared. I had managed to secure ninety-two percent. At Pradhan uncle’s suggestion, I decided to move to Bangalore for my further studies. The following year when I returned home for my summer vacation, except for people’s age, everything looked similar as I had left behind. But, I felt terribly bad when Pradhan  uncle corrected me and went on to break the news of early demise of Ganesh. Unknowingly, Ganesh had become an intergral part of our lives.

According to Pradhan uncle, the day Ganesh died, he had gone to the water hole at Laal Diggi to fetch water. While returning, a group of boys had attacked Ganesh from behind. When he had tried to fight back, two boys from the group held his arms while a third boy opened a number of gashes in his stomach, with a knife and then they all fled away.

When the police rushed to the scene, they found Ganesh lying dead, in a pool of blood. A day later, when the police managed to catch hold of the boys from their hiding, one of them told the police, that Ganesh had borrowed money from them on several occasions, to buy drugs, his new fancy and that day at the water hole, when Ganesh refused to pay them back, they decided to teach him a lesson.

After Ganesh had filled his bucket and had started walking home, the boys followed him at close heels. They attacked him from behind, when they made sure nobody was around, watching them. All they wanted was to beat him. But, in the fit of rage, when they realised they had killed him, they had flown away.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Morgan House

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When I met Ajay, the SUV driver outside the New Jalpaiguri station, he freaked out a little, when I mentioned that it was Morgan House, I had booked my stay until I completed my study of silkworms at the nearby Sericulture Institute in Kalimpong.

While driving Ajay asked me, ‘Sir, do you believe in ghosts?’

Drawing my gaze from the lovely scenery outside my car window and turning towards Ajay, half-mockingly I said, ‘I don’t know. I haven’t encountered one.’

Breaking the silence Ajay again questioned, ‘do you have any knowledge of the place you intend to stay?’

‘I have none,’ I added sheepishly.

‘Sir Morgan House is haunted,’ blurted Ajay jamming the brakes hard and bringing the SUV to a standstill.

‘Haunted?’

‘Yes Sir, the mansion is haunted by the spirit of Lady Morgan,’ began Ajay.

According to Ajay, Morgan House was built in 1930s by an English jute baron Mr. George Morgan, to commemorate his wedding to Mrs. Morgan, an indigo plantation owner. Their happiness was short lived when Mrs. Morgan died an early death. Many believed she had succumbed to tortures inflicted by her husband, when she did not bore him an heir. Shortly after her death, Mr. Morgan too died. The property was then passed into the hands of the trustees and post independence it was handed to Government of India.

Since, then several hotel staff and guests staying at the heritage hotel have reported hearing tapping sound of high-heeled footwear in the corridors in middle of night and unusual noises. Many guess it to be the ghost of Lady Morgan who wants the lodgers to feel her presence. But, nobody has ever reported seeing her unearthly apparition.

When Ajay pulled the SUV in the hotel’s driveway, the sun had already made it’s journey below the horizon. Chirping of birds in the nearby woods and creaking noises of crickets gave the place an eerie feeling. I came back to my senses when the driver turning his head back told me that we had reached the Morgan House, a colonial bungalow turned into a heritage hotel.

When I stepped out of the SUV, there stood in front of me a century old British mansion, all built in stone. Vines and creepers adorned its stony walls and thin streaks of yellow light came flooding out through the large French windows. If not for the grey smoke rising from the towering chimneys nothing suggested of its earthly existence. Remembering Ajay’s story gave me silent chills but the entire landscape looked like a painting, beautifully set against the hills in the backdrop.

After bidding Ajay good-bye, when I reached the portico, I found Mr. Chettri, the hotel manager standing at the doorway. He greeted me with a warm smile and ushered me to the reception. While making entries in the guests register, there was this one moment when I felt a strong urge to ask Mr.Chettri about the hauntings but something stopped me from doing so. Maybe, I was ready for my first paranormal encounter.

When I returned to bed that night, Ajay’s voices echoed in my head. I did start out of my bed once or twice during the night thinking Lady Morgan had come meet her new visitor but later felt embarrassed on finding that it was just a house rat scurrying away on the wooden floor.

During my entire stay at Morgan House, nothing gave me more chills than the howling of winds in the chimney and rustling of creeper leaves adorning my window sill, when the winds outside stood still. Maybe, these were new methods devised by Lady Morgan to make her visitors acknowledge her presence.