Writes: Bal Krishna
I remember clearly, it was a bright sunny day, blue skies accompanied by gentle breeze of crisp air... kind of chirpy weather that would cheer anyone up. I must have been about 11 years old. It was a Sunday, sometime in late October, it was cool but not terribly cold. A weather all of us in Darjeeling refer to as “Dasain ko gham lagyeko din... ”
Around 10 in the morning that day after having taken a nice warm bath - I guess only those who are from the Darjeeling region will understand the connection between Sunday and taking bath - I was sitting outside to dry myself. Back then no one in our neighbourhood took shower, as we didn’t have showers... lucky few would have geysers or electrical immersions to warm their water, but most of us would have to rely on 'daura ko ago ma tata ko panee' for our once in a week ritual, we still do. So here I was having washed and dried, soaking the sun, rameeta herdai - much like 'shit happens,' in Darjeeling, Life Happens and to watch it happen is called rameeta hernu... so there I was, rameeta herdai...
The advantage of living right next to a road is that there is always something or the other going on. Even if there was nothing going on we would keep ourselves busy by playing a game called “Gadee Gan-ney,” in which we would literally count the number of vehicles that would cross our place.
Believe it or not, we would even compete against each other in counting the number of vehicles that passed.
This is how the game was played – you would have to choose a type of a vehicle and someone else would choose another type and we’d compete on what type of vehicle crossed our house more than the rest. So say if someone picked an ambassador, someone else would choose a land rover, and someone else would choose a bus and so on. Back then there were much fewer vehicles on the road than today, but despite that we would passionately play the game. Imagine how idyllic life must have been in the outskirts of Darjeeling town.
The game was competitive because from the word go to whenever Ama called someone to do some chore/work, we would count the number of vehicles that passed our house, till the moment Ama started to yell out our name on the top of her voice. Whoever’s chosen make of vehicle had passed our house the least would be the one to answer Ama’s call for “bring this” or “do that”. Sort of like spinning the bottle, just that our’s took much longer and was much more boring than that.
Anyway, so here I was soaking up the sun on our baranda (that’s how we in Darjeeling pronounce veranda) enjoying rameeta and playing “Gadee Gan-ney” with my brothers and friends, I think my choice was Truck. There were too few trucks to begin with, and at 10 A.M even fewer plying on the road so unfortunately when Ama’s call came it was my turn to answer it, in my defense ambassador, land rover and bus had already been taken.
You know how Ama haru are... they won’t come to you and say ‘do this’ or ‘do that’, they will either be too busy doing stuffs, or don’t want to move from the place where they are at... so they will use their God given right to yell and summon you in their presence... if any of your Ama were like mine, you will understand this...
Ama would be like: “Krishnaaaaaaaaaaaa....”
and I would be: “Hajuuurrrrrrr...”
Ama: “Yaaaaa aaijaa bhaneko suni nas?”
Me after going in front of her, cheekily: “Kaa aija bhan nu bha? Krishnaaaaaa po bhan nu bha ta”
Ama taking off her Bata ko chappal: “Nikkai mukh chalaune po bhako cha ta yo aaj kaal...? Thik parnu na paros hai...”
Me sobered down: “Haina hau... k bhan nu bhako bhaneko hau?”
For a kid, Sunday’s were dreadful... first we had to take a bath – can you imagine the horror of having to do that every week, living in a cold place like Darjeeling? As if that was not bad enough, we had to rush to line up in order to put the ration or kerosene ko card in ‘turn ma,’ and after a while, go and help Ama or whoever was doing the shopping to bring stuffs home.
I don’t know how the ladies did it back then? May be it was instinct... Ama would be like... “Jaa ta ration thapi sakyo hola... liyera aaija ta”.... off we’d go and indeed Didi would be waiting with the ration ready to go. I still don’t get it... forget cell phone, we didn’t even have land line back then... how did they do it?
So I was like: “hajur kina bolaunu bhako?”
In our house (for which I am now thankful) there was no “Kina bolako?” business... Ama and Bata ko chappal ensured that we used appropriate amount of respect at all occasions.
Ama goes: “Jaa ta ration thapi sakyo hola... Didi lai sagai dey ta...” BINGO!! See what I told you...
It’s funny how Ama would be like, go help out your sister “Didi lai sagai dey ta...” and Didi took it to mean, “here Choree... your slave for the day” and she’d make us do all the leg work, while she checked out new shoes or clothes or whatever caught her fancy..
She would be like: “mo yaa basdai garchu kee.. jaa taa Baba ko khaini, Badee ko paan, Kaka ko shirt, Daju ko khata, Baini lai lamo pyaket ko churan mithai, Ama ko dabai, Adhee kilo khassi... ra Duita Suparee liyera aijaa taa....”
and I’d be like: “Jandina mo ta... aafai janos na...”
she’d be like: “Ghar ta pugnu dey... Ama lai bhanera tero hyer na...”
A bit worried, I'd try and bargain: “Gur (jaggery) kini dinu huncha?”
Unimpressed, she’d be like: “Paila liyera aija na... anta bhanchu”
Godddddd she knew how to keep me in check... so finally I would relent and after walking about ten paces, I would hear her go... “Masu chai fila ko haldey bhanai...”
In those days, I used to envy Sita... I had heard that the earth had swallowed her... that’s the trick I wanted to learn... (Didi you are reading this, please know that I love you and miss you a lot)
So off I went towards bazaar to pick up the ration.
One of the best things about growing up in a small town and an even smaller suburb is that we all suffer from a rare disease called ‘Jodi Bandhnu’ – That is a rare condition where an individual is incapable of going anywhere without her/his friend (preferably friends) in tow. So luckily for me my best friend tagged along.
We reached the ration shop, and Didi was almost done paying for the ration – Man timing I tell you.
If any one of you have ever gone to a ration shop on a Sunday, you will know how crowded it gets... so we were enjoying the sights and sounds and after Didi paid for the ration, we lifted up the two super heavy net ko bags (does anyone remember those halka jalee-jalee bhako net ko bag?).
There is a trick to lifting heavy bags, you shouldn’t carry it on your arms, instead you should lift it up to your shoulders and use your other hand to hold on to the bag ko bokney part, that way you are not carrying the bag, you shoulder is.
So my friend and I lifted the bags and put it on our shoulders and started walking back towards our home... we had just crossed bazaar and were walking, when initially we noticed a few people run towards the direction of our house... then in about 30 seconds it was almost like pandemonium ... everyone and their grandmother started to run everywhere, and we could hear them shouting, yelling and screaming...
In the babble we could not make out much, but we were panicked... Didi asked someone what happened? This person didn’t even bother to stop – jerk... and yelled out the three most dreaded words in those days... “CRP”
Poor Didi she was only 3 years older than me, so she must have been 14... she was as clueless as we were... but all of us knew, CRP meant bad news... so we started running towards our home as well.
Now when I think about it, I find it comical, but also equally telling of how simple and dumb we were... all three of us – my friend, I and Didi were running with heavy bags in each of our hands. It never entered our head that we could leave the bags and run to save our lives. For us the bags and its contents were very precious, because at the end of the day they were our responsibility... and we couldn’t leave them behind.
So here we were three kids... with sacks full of ration ko chamal, chini, gau and additional Sunday shopping stuffs... running for our lives (or so we felt)...
That is when we heard a loud sound and its echo... we knew it was the sound of firing.
Source: The Darjeeling Chronicle
I remember clearly, it was a bright sunny day, blue skies accompanied by gentle breeze of crisp air... kind of chirpy weather that would cheer anyone up. I must have been about 11 years old. It was a Sunday, sometime in late October, it was cool but not terribly cold. A weather all of us in Darjeeling refer to as “Dasain ko gham lagyeko din... ”
 |
| People lined up to collect Kerosene... only used for representational purpose |
The advantage of living right next to a road is that there is always something or the other going on. Even if there was nothing going on we would keep ourselves busy by playing a game called “Gadee Gan-ney,” in which we would literally count the number of vehicles that would cross our place.
Believe it or not, we would even compete against each other in counting the number of vehicles that passed.
This is how the game was played – you would have to choose a type of a vehicle and someone else would choose another type and we’d compete on what type of vehicle crossed our house more than the rest. So say if someone picked an ambassador, someone else would choose a land rover, and someone else would choose a bus and so on. Back then there were much fewer vehicles on the road than today, but despite that we would passionately play the game. Imagine how idyllic life must have been in the outskirts of Darjeeling town.
The game was competitive because from the word go to whenever Ama called someone to do some chore/work, we would count the number of vehicles that passed our house, till the moment Ama started to yell out our name on the top of her voice. Whoever’s chosen make of vehicle had passed our house the least would be the one to answer Ama’s call for “bring this” or “do that”. Sort of like spinning the bottle, just that our’s took much longer and was much more boring than that.
Anyway, so here I was soaking up the sun on our baranda (that’s how we in Darjeeling pronounce veranda) enjoying rameeta and playing “Gadee Gan-ney” with my brothers and friends, I think my choice was Truck. There were too few trucks to begin with, and at 10 A.M even fewer plying on the road so unfortunately when Ama’s call came it was my turn to answer it, in my defense ambassador, land rover and bus had already been taken.
You know how Ama haru are... they won’t come to you and say ‘do this’ or ‘do that’, they will either be too busy doing stuffs, or don’t want to move from the place where they are at... so they will use their God given right to yell and summon you in their presence... if any of your Ama were like mine, you will understand this...
Ama would be like: “Krishnaaaaaaaaaaaa....”
and I would be: “Hajuuurrrrrrr...”
Ama: “Yaaaaa aaijaa bhaneko suni nas?”
Me after going in front of her, cheekily: “Kaa aija bhan nu bha? Krishnaaaaaa po bhan nu bha ta”
Ama taking off her Bata ko chappal: “Nikkai mukh chalaune po bhako cha ta yo aaj kaal...? Thik parnu na paros hai...”
Me sobered down: “Haina hau... k bhan nu bhako bhaneko hau?”
For a kid, Sunday’s were dreadful... first we had to take a bath – can you imagine the horror of having to do that every week, living in a cold place like Darjeeling? As if that was not bad enough, we had to rush to line up in order to put the ration or kerosene ko card in ‘turn ma,’ and after a while, go and help Ama or whoever was doing the shopping to bring stuffs home.
I don’t know how the ladies did it back then? May be it was instinct... Ama would be like... “Jaa ta ration thapi sakyo hola... liyera aaija ta”.... off we’d go and indeed Didi would be waiting with the ration ready to go. I still don’t get it... forget cell phone, we didn’t even have land line back then... how did they do it?
So I was like: “hajur kina bolaunu bhako?”
In our house (for which I am now thankful) there was no “Kina bolako?” business... Ama and Bata ko chappal ensured that we used appropriate amount of respect at all occasions.
Ama goes: “Jaa ta ration thapi sakyo hola... Didi lai sagai dey ta...” BINGO!! See what I told you...
It’s funny how Ama would be like, go help out your sister “Didi lai sagai dey ta...” and Didi took it to mean, “here Choree... your slave for the day” and she’d make us do all the leg work, while she checked out new shoes or clothes or whatever caught her fancy..
She would be like: “mo yaa basdai garchu kee.. jaa taa Baba ko khaini, Badee ko paan, Kaka ko shirt, Daju ko khata, Baini lai lamo pyaket ko churan mithai, Ama ko dabai, Adhee kilo khassi... ra Duita Suparee liyera aijaa taa....”
and I’d be like: “Jandina mo ta... aafai janos na...”
she’d be like: “Ghar ta pugnu dey... Ama lai bhanera tero hyer na...”
A bit worried, I'd try and bargain: “Gur (jaggery) kini dinu huncha?”
Unimpressed, she’d be like: “Paila liyera aija na... anta bhanchu”
Godddddd she knew how to keep me in check... so finally I would relent and after walking about ten paces, I would hear her go... “Masu chai fila ko haldey bhanai...”
In those days, I used to envy Sita... I had heard that the earth had swallowed her... that’s the trick I wanted to learn... (Didi you are reading this, please know that I love you and miss you a lot)
So off I went towards bazaar to pick up the ration.
One of the best things about growing up in a small town and an even smaller suburb is that we all suffer from a rare disease called ‘Jodi Bandhnu’ – That is a rare condition where an individual is incapable of going anywhere without her/his friend (preferably friends) in tow. So luckily for me my best friend tagged along.
We reached the ration shop, and Didi was almost done paying for the ration – Man timing I tell you.
If any one of you have ever gone to a ration shop on a Sunday, you will know how crowded it gets... so we were enjoying the sights and sounds and after Didi paid for the ration, we lifted up the two super heavy net ko bags (does anyone remember those halka jalee-jalee bhako net ko bag?).
There is a trick to lifting heavy bags, you shouldn’t carry it on your arms, instead you should lift it up to your shoulders and use your other hand to hold on to the bag ko bokney part, that way you are not carrying the bag, you shoulder is.
So my friend and I lifted the bags and put it on our shoulders and started walking back towards our home... we had just crossed bazaar and were walking, when initially we noticed a few people run towards the direction of our house... then in about 30 seconds it was almost like pandemonium ... everyone and their grandmother started to run everywhere, and we could hear them shouting, yelling and screaming...
In the babble we could not make out much, but we were panicked... Didi asked someone what happened? This person didn’t even bother to stop – jerk... and yelled out the three most dreaded words in those days... “CRP”
Poor Didi she was only 3 years older than me, so she must have been 14... she was as clueless as we were... but all of us knew, CRP meant bad news... so we started running towards our home as well.
Now when I think about it, I find it comical, but also equally telling of how simple and dumb we were... all three of us – my friend, I and Didi were running with heavy bags in each of our hands. It never entered our head that we could leave the bags and run to save our lives. For us the bags and its contents were very precious, because at the end of the day they were our responsibility... and we couldn’t leave them behind.
So here we were three kids... with sacks full of ration ko chamal, chini, gau and additional Sunday shopping stuffs... running for our lives (or so we felt)...
That is when we heard a loud sound and its echo... we knew it was the sound of firing.
Source: The Darjeeling Chronicle
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