The Search for the Pink-Headed Duck, page 11
We follow a narrow footpath through back yards, gardens, and goat pens reminiscent of those in a terraced Italian village. Laundry dries in the breeze, and the smell of garlic floats through the air. Women lean out of windows on crossed arms watching children kick a soccer ball. As we come around a hairpin turn, I confront a giant portrait of a man painted on the side of a boulder. It’s Subash Ghising, president and founder of the Gurkha National Liberation Front; I can’t determine whether he’s smiling or sneering.
Along the base of the mural is the flag of Gurkhaland. I’m later told that Ghising worked closely with astrologers on its design. In this hill culture the occult frequently controls people’s lives. The GNLF relies on astrologers to forecast the most auspicious days on which to schedule meetings, strikes, and even gun battles.
“Everything has meaning,” my escort informs me. “Signs ride on the wind.”
Just beyond the tip of Ghising’s tie, the path veers to the right, and there’s another mural. This one shows a map of the proposed Gurkhaland, a 2,500-square-mile tract with a population of a million people, 70 percent of whom are Gurkhas. This ideal Gurkha state is bounded by Nepal on the west and Assam to the east; Siliguri marks the southern extreme, while Sikkim and Bhutan form the northern frontier.
Ironically, the GNLF headquarters is one of the few buildings in the neighborhood not covered with political graffiti. It’s a simple two-story concrete house that Ghising bought years ago. He still uses a couple of rooms above the offices as an apartment. A dozen men mill about the entrance with their kukris ever ready. I offer my camera bag to one of them for inspection. He ignores it and orders me to wait.
A shrill whistle cuts the air. I trace it to a sentry on a rooftop. Other lookouts are posted atop cars, porches, and rock ledges. Each of them signals all clear.
“Now you can go in.”
I walk across the concrete porch and stop in the mud room, my progress blocked by the largest man I’ve seen in the hills. “Welcome,” he bellows, extending his hand and introducing himself as C. P. Chetri. He leads me down a corridor, nodding at the three men guarding a door. They relax their grip on their kukris.
I follow him into a tiny office with two chairs, a desk, and an old typewriter. A kukri hangs from a nail in the stucco wall. Three frayed extension cords hang from a light fixture and run down a corner of the room. Nothing is plugged into them.
After ten minutes the president calls for me. I enter a room filled with fourteen men and three women. They introduce themselves, each mentioning his or her title as a member of the GNLF Central Council. Two unshaded bulbs light the room. Ghising sits at one end of a long row of metal chairs, looking exactly like his portrait. The very first Gurkhaland flag is tacked above his head. As I inspect it, one of the council members explains its symbols.
The green field represents land and self-determination. Three stars denote the union of Nepalese, Bhotia, and Lepcha ethnic groups into the Gurkha cause. The stars’ four points signify the marriage of the three groups with destiny, a future that only the GNLF can deliver. Four horizontal bars on the bottom stand for opportunity, equality, fraternity, and liberty. The kukri, with its curved tip pointing to the uppermost star, evokes the Gurkhas’ history as the warriors of the Himalayas.
I’m directed to a seat opposite Ghising. He’s wearing a down jacket, a white shirt, and a striped tie. His twill pants are rolled above his ankles, and he constantly slips his feet in and out of his black shoes. Every couple of minutes he checks his cap, adjusting the angle ever so slightly.
Eighteen cups of steaming tea are brought into the cold room. Ghising makes sure that I’m served first. The tea is a special blend of golden blossoms and first-flush leaves, a present from the pickers at a famous estate. The president and I stare at each other, neither of us saying a word, moving as mirror images, raising our cups at the same time, crossing our legs simultaneously.
Unsure of protocol, I begin by complimenting the tea. My remark sparks a ten-minute review of the harvest. During the discussion the hierarchy of the council emerges. However, the moment Ghising holds forth, everyone else hushes, no one daring to interrupt him. His English is better than I had expected and rarely does he need the interpreter. After an hour it’s apparent that the GNLF is a one-man show. If I’m to understand the Gurkha dream of freedom, I must understand Ghising. I ask him for a private interview. He agrees to talk, but not in private.
“Start now, if you like,” he says.
I take out a notebook and a tape recorder. He shakes his head and waves a finger at the machine. “No taping. I will speak slowly for you.”
And so begins the first of many conversations.
Subash Ghising claims to have come into life unaided, already suckling when the midwife arrived at the Mon Ju tea estate in 1936. One of eight children, he left school after the ninth grade to help his father, the estate superintendent. Unlike most Gurkha families, they had adequate food and clothing.
In 1953, at the age of seventeen, he enlisted in the Eighth Gurkha Regiment of the Indian Army. He blossomed in the military, resuming his education and developing skills as an artist and writer. He also trained in the gymnasium and became the bantam-weight boxing champ of his regiment. He says he can’t remember losing a fight.
“I am a winner,” he tells me again and again.
During his third year in the army, Ghising’s life changed radically. He was stationed in the Naga Hills as part of a massive federal campaign to suppress rebellious tribal groups fighting against what they considered the tyranny of the men from the plains.
“I was in the jungle,” he recalls. “I killed many men. Most I shot, others I attacked with my kukri. One day a noise, probably a branch breaking, made me look up. I found myself staring into the eyes of a Naga. My gun jammed… I reached for my kukri. I was about to kill him when he cried out in Nepalese: ‘Why are you killing us? We are only fighting for our land, for our rights as Indians.’ It was as if Shiva was speaking to me, and I never killed again.” As he speaks, Ghising acts out his story, pretending the room is the rain forest and a chair the Naga.
His epiphany in the jungle ended his career as a soldier. Several months later he entered college in Darjeeling to study political theory and writing. By the time he was thirty, he had completed twenty novels, each a romance story with a happy ending. (I found it impossible to secure a copy of anything he had written.)
While teaching kindergarten to pay the rent, Ghising became active in local politics. He proudly tells me that he led the first violent demonstration in Darjeeling history. His hands rip the air as he enacts the rock-throwing incident. The issue at the time (and one that still exists) was Calcutta’s insistence on filling vacancies in the region’s bureaucracy with people from Calcutta, not Darjeeling. Interestingly, Ghising was the only one of twenty-three demonstrators not sentenced to a lengthy prison term. No one testified against him.
“I was and am a strong man,” he cautions.
He remained active in radical politics until he joined a group of businessmen and retired army officers to found the Gurkha National Liberation Front in 1980. This alliance between a man on the fringe and the middle class of Darjeeling seemed natural at the time. Ghising had a reputation for action, they had the money, and everyone agreed that Gurkha rights were being trampled.
Darjeeling’s long, steady decline began when the British left and the district was absorbed by West Bengal. The courts and many government offices were relocated to Calcutta, the state capital. Darjeeling, formerly given special treatment, suddenly lost much of its government funding. Because of its then prosperous tea and logging industries, the resort town was able to postpone the effects of neglect until the mid-1970s. But then the infrastructure started to fall apart: municipal services were curtailed, water pipes burst, roads caved in, sewers collapsed. Ghising promised his backers that he could turn things around.
Few people rallied to his cause, and the GNLF remained a small, rather ineffective organization for more than six years. There were no demonstrations and not one arrest during this time. The man of action was stalled. Some said he was following the orders of the middle-class Gurkhas funding the GNLF.
When I mention this, Ghising jumps up from his chair and approaches me. “I was educating the people. That is a long, slow process… Whoever told you that lied.”
No one disputes that in 1986 life changed for Ghising, the GNLF, and every Gurkha in India. “It was amazing,” Ghising remarks in a cooler voice. “It all happened so quickly.”
Hundreds of miles away, in the northeastern state of Meghalaya, the resident Gurkhas were expelled. State leaders, sure that outsiders were depriving natives of jobs, decided that deporting all nonnatives was the best way to protect the state’s heritage and culture. They backed the xenophobic cry sweeping the area: “Meghalaya for Meghalayans.” Gurkhas were singled out because in earlier years Gurkha troops had gunned down tribal insurgents. Almost all the displaced Gurkhas landed in Darjeeling, where they had relatives. The refugees’ stories fueled anger and paranoia. Many Gurkhas wondered about the status of their rights as Indian citizens. The incidents in Meghalaya suggested that all Nepalese-speaking Indians would be treated as foreigners.
At last Ghising had found his springboard. After working day and night for a week, he announced a plan that would ensure the property and rights of every Gurkha. A demonstration was organized and 3,500 people gathered to hear him speak.
“As I walked to the podium, I knew my destiny was being revealed,” Ghising recalls.
Waving a kukri over his head, Ghising made the speech of a lifetime. With a sweep of the blade, he severed ties with his middle-class backers. He proclaimed the GNLF as “the party of the people … the party of action.” He issued a formal demand for the creation of Gurkhaland. It would be, he promised the cheering throng, a part of India, but first and foremost it would be their homeland.
“Gurkhaland is dearer than life,” he said over and over in his speech, launching the party’s first slogan.
By all accounts Ghising was brilliant that night. His language was tough, his politics radical, and the people loved it. As one eyewitness told me, “He freed everything inside us.”
The speech catapulted Ghising and the GNLF into prominence. He galvanized a proud warrior culture with words threatening violence and promising freedom. Monthly party meetings became weekly and then nightly affairs. Military training camps were opened, a youth wing was formed, and local party chapters were established around the countryside. Darjeeling, a small mountain town, thus began its militant campaign against Calcutta, the lowland giant.
8
Mountains of Trouble
Come dark, Darjeeling shutters up. The only people on the street are tourists in thick-soled hiking boots. I slip into one of the few restaurants open after sunset and take a corner table. In the middle of the room a party of boisterous Germans make toasts and drain their beers. Groups of French, Spanish, and Italian trekkers speak in low voices or study their tea. I recognize my waiter from the GNLF headquarters, where he often stands guard during the day. He brings over a candle when he sees me writing. I ask him why the town closes so early.
“The night belongs to the state police… Patrols are everywhere,” he says, pulling up a chair, his eyes on my scribbling.
When he takes my order, he warns me that my choice of vegetables and rice is all wrong. He recommends a hamburger or pizza, the house specialties, but my order stands. As he goes to the kitchen, he flips on the stereo. Seconds later the Grateful Dead booms from the speakers. The other foreigners start to tap their feet and sing along. Behind the counter the chef weaves and bobs while he slices. The owner raps the cash box, using his pencil as a drumstick. Briefly, the idea of appointing rock stars as ambassadors makes sense.
“Keep on truckin’,” the waiter calls after I finish eating and head out the door.
It’s a beautiful night, and the Milky Way, a faint silver brushstroke, lures me to the Chowrasta. There’s no one about, just a night heron stalking the fountain for insects. Shooting stars flash across the sky. I sit on a bench and imagine myself a dupchen sailing along an astral stream through the heavens. The earth fades to a dot of blue light on my horizon.
“Hands on your head,” a voice commands in Hindi, abruptly ending my voyage. Flashlights snap on. I raise my hands. Eight soldiers fan out. The two in the middle approach as the others train rifles on me. An officer searches my bag, finds nothing, and demands to see my papers. My passport is in my pocket. May I lower my hands? He nods and advises me not to make a sudden move. Once the safety catches click on, most of the tension eases. I hand over my documents, trying to explain why I’m in the Chowrasta. He grunts and orders me to return to my hotel.
The next day at least five people ask me about the incident in the Chowrasta. Because so few people have telephones, the GNLF has developed a finely tuned grapevine.
There’s an unexpected benefit of my meeting with the state police. I’m invited by a GNLF lieutenant, T. P. Chetri, to accompany him to Tiger Hill, a promontory eleven miles out of town, the next day to watch “the most beautiful thing in the world.” He’s referring to daybreak in the Himalayas.
T.P. drives his Land Rover as if he’s rushing an accident victim to the hospital. According to the almanac, dawn at sea level is around six, but it’s almost forty minutes later when the first light hits Darjeeling; it’s a long climb over the tip of the Himalayas. A sublime piece of that solar arc awaits the early morning visitor to Tiger Hill. T.P. stands close to me at the overlook. Only a few cumulus clouds drift overhead, great puffs of white smoke. The view is uninterrupted for hundreds of miles. I can see the mountains of Nepal, Tibet, and Bhutan. As the sky lightens to a powder blue, he extends his arm and moves it slowly left to right.
“Look at it,” he exclaims. “Such beauty. This is what our fight is about. This is our home. This is Gurkhaland… I want my children to come here. I have no money, but I can give them this.”
T.P. joined the GNLF a week after Ghising’s momentous speech and has been actively involved in the struggle ever since. As we drive back, I wonder how the GNLF will be able to secure his legacy. Conspicuously absent from the party platform is any mention of Gurkhaland’s future government; this doesn’t seem to bother anyone but me. It’s unthinkable to T.P. that things won’t work out like the happy endings in Ghising’s novels.
“When my mail is addressed Gurkhaland, India, everything we want to happen will happen. Mister Ghising will guide us.”
The West Bengal state government is controlled by the Marxist Left Front party. Jyoti Basu, chief minister and party leader, is firmly entrenched, having been in power for more than fifteen years. Initially he ignored the GNLF’s demands, keeping his energy and treasury focused on Calcutta, where the needs were most pressing. Several months after Ghising rallied the people, the GNLF backed up their rhetoric with violence, torching state buildings in the hill district.
“We had to send a message to Basu,” T.P. explains. “We said we would fight, and we meant it.”
Basu was enraged by the violence and dispatched troops to restore order. He labeled Ghising a rebel and the GNLF a bunch of criminals. The arrival of the state troops, commonly known as the CRPF (Central Reserve Police Force), only heightened the tension. Reluctant to shoot at the local police, many of whom are party members, the GNLF started to terrorize the soldiers from Calcutta. Barracks were bombed and roads booby-trapped.
“It all led up to Kalimpong,” T.P. informs me. “That is when we became an army and started fighting fire with fire.”
On a date picked by GNLF astrologers, July 27, 1986, Ghising scheduled a mass demonstration in Kalimpong, the second largest city in the district. Busloads of Gurkhas poured into the town, and the police, unnerved by the swelling crowd, suddenly declared the assembly illegal, ordering the 40,000 Gurkhas to disperse. No one left.
A group of college students began taunting the CRPF. A rock was thrown, and the poorly trained soldiers rushed the students, thrashing them with bamboo sticks. The crowd started marching and chanting slogans, but when they reached the police barricades and refused to stop, the troops opened fire. Three girls, all under seventeen, were shot. The marchers regrouped, and this time the police shot twenty-five Gurkhas. Kukris came out, and several CRPF officers were killed, one beheaded by a Gurkha grandmother; with two whacks of a blade, she avenged the death of her granddaughter.
From this incident an elite paramilitary unit called the Gurkha Volunteer Cell (GVC) was organized by former commandos in the Indian and British armies. Rigorously trained, the volunteers were shaped into a deadly army.
By now I know most of the guards by name at the GNLF headquarters. Ghising and I have been meeting for almost a week and there’s little time before the next Gurkha demonstration, the first in many months. Party officials expect a turnout of 500,000 supporters.
“It is a call to arms,” Ghising warns. “We must take charge again. The peace talks were nothing but garbage.”
A cease-fire has been in effect since the summer, when Ghising went to New Delhi for peace talks mediated by the federal government. The demand for Gurkhaland was flatly rejected, and Ghising was urged to accept a generously funded Hill Council, which would be a relatively autonomous governing body with locally elected representatives. Ghising rejected the compromise, and the upcoming demonstration is to be a show of defiance: copies of the government proposal will be handed out and burned.
“After the rally,” Ghising vows, pulling his chair next to mine, and speaking in a low, intense voice, “we will close the district. A general strike will shut down everything… We will strike until Gurkhaland is ours.”
He has placed all GVC units on alert. “I promise you,” he says, “that there will be no stopping us once we start fighting again.” Inspired by his own words, he’s suddenly on his feet, shaking a fist. “We mean business… These politicians treat us like animals in the zoo, but we will fight like tigers. We will win!”
