This story brings me sorrow. I don't want to write it or remember it. My hands shake as I hold the pen to write. Nonetheless I have to write and I will write it.
On February 13th, I visited NBU for academic reasons. After finishing my work, I went to bed early because I was very tired that day. The following morning, I woke up early because I had turned in early the night before. After getting up, I took a stroll around NBU's green campus.
The story I'm about to tell begins here.
I sat on a bench in the campus park, cutting raw tobacco into mean pieces to neatly roll it in OCM paper for smoking. Out of nowhere, I noticed two late middle-aged women approaching me. It was only 6 in the morning, and I was completely alone in that park of the vast campus.
Frankly telling, feeling afraid! I quickly gathered my belongings – books and water bottle – into my side bag. However, despite my efforts, the two ladies approached closer, leaving me with no escape.
Both of them were holding bunches of green vegetables in their hands.
I could make out they were Nepali by their faces, but they couldn't make out that I was also a Nepali because of my appearance. So they asked me in Bengali, and I could remember the sentence one among the twos spoke; Apani ki e sabaji kinate chana eti taja.? They meant, these are fresh vegetables do you like to buy?
In reply I asked them in Nepali, 'Are you Nepali? tapai haru nepali ho?
They were surprised to hear this from someone they thought was a Bengali.
Hajur they both replied.
I mentioned them to sit down and asked if they were interested in smoking some tobacco.
They replied, "No," and complimented my Nepali-speaking skills. I responded by telling them that I am Nepali too.
Really? They replied and said, you don't look like. It may be like some Bengalis here you too speak Nepali so fluently.
I replied in my clear voice that I am Nepali by heritage and Indian by a sheet of paper. Then, with a touch of sarcasm, I added that besides Nepali, I can also speak Russian, French, and German fluently, and manage Chinese as well.
After that, we started talking casually. Being Nepali, I felt a friendly connection with them. So, I ordered some cups of tea and we decided to chat for a while. Since they were selling vegetables, they belonged to the working class, and I like interacting with such people.
As we talked, I inquired about their background, they mentioned that they were from Darjeeling but had to leave the place permanently after the 1986 aandolan because both of their husbands died during that movement, and eventually with this context, our conversation turned to the Gorkhaland agitation of 1986.
Both of the ladies shared a story of great melancholy. I would rather not reveal their first names, but I would like to mention their surnames to emphasize their Nepalese identity from the hills. One of them was rRai, and the other was sSubba.
One of the ladies the Subba even shared an even sadder story, explaining how just eight months into their marriage, she was pregnant right when the agitation began. She and her mother-in-law had to flee to the jungle to escape the haunt of the CRPF. She told me that she was only 14 years old when she eloped with her husband from the hills of Nepal to Darjeeling.
She has never returned to her birthplace again and doesn't know whether her parents are alive or not.
I paused and asked her about, she mentioned being pregnant. I inquired about the child's current situation. She replied, I have a daughter who was delivered by my mother-in-law alone at home. She is now 35 years old and works in a hotel in Goa. She expressed. In this world, the only one I have is her, and she's not with me either, she said.
I tried not to let my emotions sway me, and to isolate myself from the pain I jokingly told her, 'If you keep talking to me like this, your 'saag' won't stay fresh for long, and nobody will want to buy it, because the sun has come up and is shining brightly.' And I can't buy either because I'm staying at my friend's place and I don't even know how to cook.
Then, both of them thanked me for the tea and left.
From the above story, we can understand how the protagonists of a great struggle endured hardship during the movement and continue to live with very little.
The leaders compromised, prioritizing personal gain over the ideals of the revolution, accumulating wealth and building mansions and living a good life, then passing it on to their offsprings, who continue to live well to this day. Meanwhile, the people who sacrificed everything, including their lives, still suffer today. They've been betrayed by the very leaders they supported, even forced to leave the land where they and their ancestors have lived for generations. Like a bitter pill to swallow it's an unwavering truth
Even though they didn't achieve what they fought for, they still deserve a good life and some dignity. From giving birth in dire straits to watching her child leave for a job at a hotel in Goa, her journey has been challenging.
Throughout history, civilized communities have harboured groups of anonymous individuals like these. These individuals constitute the majority, the labourers, who lack the opportunity to fully develop as men. They grow up with the leftovers of society's resources, receiving the least food, clothing, and education, while serving others. Despite toiling the most, they endure the greatest indignities. They often starve and face humiliation at the slightest pretext from their superiors. They are deprived of everything that gives life a meaning. They are akin to lampstands, carrying the torch of civilization on their head, providing light to those above while being coated in the dripping oil themselves. Unless and until the very foundation of this civilisation, which is so cruel to the weak, is changed, people like them have to survive on the crumbs of bread thrown down from the dining tables of the rich, and what we see today is a man-eater civilisation. It just cannot do without a group of victims who must feed it and carry it on their backs. Its wealth, its luxuries and even its culture rise high in the sky on the shoulders of these subaltern multitudes. And this explains why the symptoms of a class revolution have become so pronounced in the world today.
The stories shared here remind us of the unfairness in our society that pushes many people into difficult lives. When we see the challenges faced by those who are often overlooked, we must address the unfairness deeply rooted in our way of life. We need to challenge the systems that keep some people down while lifting others up. Our goal should be to create a world where everyone has the chance to succeed, without facing discrimination or mistreatment. It's time for us to rethink how our society works, focusing on fairness, equality, and togetherness. We must listen to those who are often ignored, sharing their experiences and pushing for real change. By working together and staying committed, we can build a future where everyone is treated with respect and given the chance to thrive. Though the road ahead might be tough, it's a journey worth taking, as it leads to a better world for everyone.
The wrinkles on their worn out faces,
The mournful smiles
The tremble in their voices
And watery eyes... portrayed the trauma of yesteryears.... of lost love, life and land....
Just like the masculine aroma of tobacco.... which still lingers on.
(by Abhishek Neo)
(Disclaimer: The story I just shared is based on conversations I had with two ladies. I'm unsure if it's entirely true or not. Email:
