Notes from Darjeeling

… Sunflower isn’t the most visible hotel at the mall anymore. The McDonald’s outlet has closed down, perhaps. For an 11-year-old, Darjeeling was a rare experience, a privilege bestowed by extended family members whom I had begged to take me along. For the next 15 years this would remain my only such trip. Today, the place remains warm; the people a little too kind.

On your way towards the mall – thronged by fellow tourists as usual – you will notice streams of flags stretching across the sky. There might be some boys painting the walls too. World Cup is just a few days away and Darjeeling, as I am later told by Kapil, is crazy about football... much like Kolkata, a city that holds its purse strings tight.

Fig 1: Darjeeling Mall

It is easy to forget that only 12 months back, the hill station, a former British administrative capital (during summers) was completely shut down reiterating demands of an independent separate state. To describe the event as mere ‘shutdown’, would be ridiculous, of course. You may have heard stories of brutal repression and empty shells unless you don’t want to… and instead searched desperately for “foreign links”. It is practical for Bengali tourists and our liberal academia to disbelieve. This isn’t Kashmir. But it need not be very different, I am told. Sustained resistance and international gaze are some years away still... but 2017 wasn’t a momentary slip checked by Writers'. Not all narratives are picked up by the press. But people have memories.

It is easy to buy leaders, difficult to purchase people; a woman in the tea garden reminds me. She trusts a Bengali visitor with her desolation. I forget to ask her name. She isn’t interested in mine. We chat for half an hour though, discussing unemployment, discrimination, care and movements. Gorkhaland is firmly imprinted on the minds of the people and their buildings. There is no exception unless you think of some Bengalis – settlers post 1947.

Fig 2: This is Gorkhaland. No exceptions for corporates

I return to the mall. The pulpit must be more recent. Ani, however, tells me it has been there for quite some time hosting celebrations like the ones around Buddha Purnima. If you walk down towards Keventer’s, you will find tiny stalls selling momo, shapaley and other delicacies. You may see and hear few men singing with sarangi-like instruments. We eat, observe, click and do other touristy things. If you like to walk alone or travel solo, you may explore the alleys further down: the roads gradually disintegrate under your feet…. It is particularly tricky to walk when it rains – there are craters overflowing with filth. Some of these roads are under the GTA, a semi-autonomous body that has become corrupt. The other day I read an article that unfairly compared the town to Gangtok, blaming the elected body for the poor infrastructure.  Perhaps the Bengali writer forgot that Sikkim is a separate state that does not rely on Kolkata for its funds. Or perhaps he got confused because the British wrestled Darjeeling district from Nepal and Sikkim. Of course, Patel or Nehru didn’t have to do much. Ironically, the author’s rants on the poor standards of living justify the process of self-determination. 

Fig 3: Messages of peace and protests

The food is incredibly cheap and good. Thanks to Ani, I discovered Boney’s that serves the most lavish cheese-bacon sandwich at Rs 140. I am not in love with cheese (like Samy) but the cheesecake was better than the ones I had in Delhi. Thank god not many tourists come here! The traditional outlets don’t disappoint either. You may find the sausages at Keventer’s a bit salty but the bacon is very tender.

Fig 4: At Boney's

In a distant future, I won't have hypertension and will survive on red meat every day.... I run into an IP student who stays here. Never taught her in college but she is kind enough to guide me towards the Japanese Pagoda. I come back to the Theatre Road later to visit the Tibetan Museum. It contains an interesting section on medicines, blood pressure being one of the areas covered.

Fig 5: At Museum

Like most hill stations Darjeeling sleeps early. Glenary’s is open till 8.30 pm with a long queue outside. Disha, my student insists that I must visit the place. I had taught them Funny Boy – nothing funny about the text or the boy failing in friendship and love. I eventually go to Glenary’s before taking the shared jeep to Siliguri. The apple pie is a little too sugary but the muffins are pure delight. I get clicked with Audrey too. People stare at me all the time. In Gangtok they had said that I didn’t get a pass to Nathu-La because I look(ed) like a terrorist. Darjeeling is more forgiving. A band singer helped me find my way to Happy Valley Tea Estate. You must visit this place if you care about how tea is processed. The woman at the counter studies English hons. She helps me find a cab to Rock Garden. It is difficult to save when it comes to local cabs but Kapil is a jovial fellow. He does not give much away.

In the evening, I run into Ani again who tells me that Darjeeling and the plains share a love-hate relationship cemented by economic concerns. Kolkata needs the hills for leisure and prestige too…. There aren’t many govt hospitals here. I learn that Darjeeling has a huge number of AIDS survivors. A boy who studies in Kolkata told me of an NGO who is collecting money for an initiative via the World Cup revelry.

The hotel where I stay is very unclean. There is no mobile network most of the time. I dread going back but the streets appear empty and I must return. At Rs 140 you get a huge fish meal. But it’s noisy, thanks to Bengalis who want their food, quick and cheap. During the breakfast a group of Baul minstrels arrive and sing of Krishna. I found one song to be particularly soothing. I deleted the video, can’t remember the lyrics. The workers expect you to pay tips. You have to. I pay fifty rupees for the food while complaining about the room. I later realize I should have been more grateful. Not all houses get water throughout the day. It is a privilege much like the luchi I had earlier. An aged man is advising a Bengali couple on where to buy tea from. Made me giggle and calculate the sum I spent on organic tea for baba and Sumit. How do you reach Mirik? He advises me to take the bus at 8 am. I give up the idea and return to my tiny stinking room.

The dogs here are quite expectedly furry. Try clicking the painted flags and the steam engine fleeting by. It has started raining and my vision gets blurred. I have never seen Kanchenjunga. Didn’t want to. The prospect of waking up at 3 am for a trip to Tiger Hills is not very amusing. I will return when there are fewer tourists around. To Gorkhaland. To freedom.