My mind was still fresh with an image of the snow-capped mountains while flying to Delhi from Bagdogra in Darjeeling. “Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls to your right is the mighty Himalayas,” the pilot announced after a while and all eyes fixated on the right windows of the shuttle.
I was returning from a visit to Kurseong and as the plane took off, I stretched to take a last glimpse of the tiny little hill town, recognisable from miles away by the TV tower that stands at a crag atop a hill. There it was, waving me goodbye in its usual azure sky with crystal paintings in purple and orange. I could still smell the fragrance of its tea gardens. Suddenly, from behind the hill appeared this massive mountain of white—I found myself stupefied at the magnificence of Kangchendzonga. The orange sun-painted prism on its mighty slopes could cast a spell on anyone—I was in a trance, I thought.
Kurseong is a tiny town stuck in time. It floats in its own space. Nestled in the cradle of evergreen hill forests and steep tea gardens, it shapes from numerous concrete structures of schools, hotels, shops, houses and two hospitals. With a 104-day-shutdown without internet, ceremonious rallies everyday for socio-constitutional recognition of an identity and almost completely cut out from the world—the town got stuck in time and is now painted in monotones.
A hotel owner—a young lad—had just taken over his father’s business. He said, “Those were the best days. No work to do. I just watched movies and played cricket.” “Movies?” “ShareIt had become a phenomena. Youngsters shared movies like it was their moral duty to. The exchange was phenomenal.” Such was the light-heartedness with which a large portion of the population participated in the strike. Many stayed inside fearing ostracisation and several genuine supporters of the cause seemed blinded by political propaganda and ignorance—the Gorkhaland andolan metamorphosed from seeking an identity into communal divides.
The Himalayas on my right reminded me how I had seen the Buddha sleeping as the Kangchendzonga; the sun was setting in Sandakphu, weaving a blanket around the mountain coloured in crimson red and a dull steady orange often edging off to a darker shade. Darkness covered the blanket and Buddha slept for the night. Painted in protest, the sun had set in Kurseong under the cloudy skies. The clouds remain to threaten the following day’s brightness—people ponder, will it rain till dusk or will the sun shine?
Arunava Banerjee
Email: arunava.banerjee9@gmail.com