It was the year of 1950, on a chilly winter evening in December, when Indian kitchens had mothers walk in, while their sons headed home after a friendly cricket match, the daughters lit up diyas and incense to drive away any evil eye, and the husbands lay on their beds to turn on Aaj Tak– the robust drumming of tablas and trumpets filled the room with mania and suspense, when in bold red letters, the headline read: "Sikkim declared a protectorate of India, the Maharaja of Sikkim says, 'Yes' to India's bid." The TV screen then flashed a man in his mid-fifties, an Indian delegate addressing the press, "We, thereby, promise to keep Sikkim's peace unharmed and safeguard its interests to the best of our capabilities."
Meanwhile, in Sikkim, there was a sense of eeriness looming in that winter, perhaps, uncertainty. While some egoes had crumbled in this political gamble, the others remained unaware of the storm that was unravelling itself near the boundary of this tiny Himalayan kingdom.
***
"Rumor has it, the monarchy is at the brink of its death."
"Is it a good thing, Ama?"
Ama took a minute off the dialogue for a quick self-debate. After meticulous pondering, she garnered her thoughts together, then replied, "I'm no shaman. Ask your father if you're curious."
"But Baba's never home."
It was true. He was a mystic who lived in the forests– in a gufa, where he performed puja for the village; he was a Banjhakri– disciple of a nature deity, who took it upon himself to ward off evils and ensure safety and prosperity of the villagers.
"Then you'll have to wait till he comes around", she giggled.
I scoffed in disbelief.
I raised my head to shoot a counter reply, but found Ama looking past me in frenzic apparition, to the point that it almost jumpscared me– not because I had seen Ama's rosy cheeks lose their color, as if a bee had sucked them off but rather, because I could feel someone's gaze piercing through my skin and churning my insides out.
Tsk-tsk! Chumla clicked her tongue and hissed in annoyance, "Look at these slackers who dare jinx His Majesty's sovereignty! Sly foxes! You give them a hand to help and they will devour the hand itself."
This unprecedented entry of a third party made the blood in my veins curdle in fear– I was so scared I didn't dare look at her. I held my head down and kept ramming the sharp metallic fangs of my kata on the lumpy nodules of mud. Every time my arm swung in the air and then towards the ground, beads of sweat ran down my face, dribbling down to the corners of my mouth, and tasted salty and prickly on my parched tongue. I let out small breaths, which were in unison with Chumla's, in an attempt to camouflage my presence and with my body arched to the ground, the only vision I had was of the hefty clumps of soil that loosened and crumbled when I shoveled my plough.
While the gaffer continued to cuss us out, the sky bellowed like a woman shrieking in pain during birth and the rain fell like teardrops as she held the child in her bosom; the trees jingled in the tune of the wind, and the leaves fell like garlands to welcome the arrival of Asār– which meant more work on the fields and that we'd be paid with a few annas, and if lucky, subsidized with white rice– just the thought of white rice made my mouth water, and subconsciously, I let out a stupified grin.
Meanwhile, the sky fell down in a deafening pitch– like the wailing pack of wolves on a full moon's night; the crackling noise surrounding a burning pyre; or perhaps, like the eeriness of a troubled mind– it was not my mother's hysteric call for flight nor the pitch of the rain, but the sight of a jeep that stripped the murk off my head and brought me back to the fields where my bare feet stood quarterly submerged in waterlogged muddiness. The number of these Indian army jeeps, in and around the village had definitely increased since last year. Was the Chogyal Empire really at its dusk?
Only time could tell.
***
It was the second day of Asār– the sun was shining dramatically bright in the blue sky, leaving no trace of the heavy downpour that had occured the day before. Outside, the culprit had left its footprints behind– the fields were all mushy and seedlings lay scattered, upturned and unidentifiable; few roofs had gone missing, and afar, a tree had tried to fight the double forces– rain and wind, but alas, fallen victim to it. The men hurried to the crime scene with axes, while their wives followed them with doko (baskets); it must be true when they say that one's misfortune is fortune for the other– this winter there would be no scarcity for firewood.
This was a picture of what a normal monsoon day in Chakhung looked like–
even amidst chaos, it was always peaceful here; to the point that it made me anxious: somehow, my senses were wary of the calmness before the storm.
***
It was the year of 1973– political revolt had reached its pinnacle; and even though the ascension of democracy and fate of a political leader nestled in Chakhung, no big outrage or even a reaction had come out of it yet. Chakhung, all the same, remained placid.
I was born in Chakhung, however my parents were of Nepali origin– they moved to Sikkim as newlyweds after an open recruitment for laborers was announced by a Political Officer named, Sir White– I wonder if it was actually his name or the locals called him so because he was white? Either way, it was under him that a battalion of migrants seeked refuge in Sikkim, who would go on to carry Kalobhari without a penny paid until it was exempted by the Sikkim Darbar in 1946. After tumultuous years of labor, in his latter years, Baba had found his spiritual awakening when a dream led him to an enchanted forest where he met his Guru and metamorphosed into a Jhakri– which too, in a way, was a free act of service.
We were a family of seven– I was the youngest child and the age gap between me and the oldest sibling was a decade different– my three elder sisters were all married and the only son had fled the country– which came to us as news that he, who worked for the Mandal's family had cut ties with them and embarked on his journey to become a Bollywood Star, which also explained the missing case of my 2 rupee coin that I had saved by accompanying Ama to khetala last winter, when he visited us during Dashain.
I swore to make him pay thrice the interest once he starred in a movie!
***
The rain was banished from the sky following the second day of Asār; Indra's exile from Indrakil had distressed life in the village– even moonlight fell like solar flares during the darkest hour of the night; plowing the fields was a hassle as the lightest pat triggered the bullocks, so the men were in constant threat of bull gores; the soil had been sucked dry making the earthworms wriggle under the scorching heat of the sun; the forests glistened red in rage while the village glowed in its golden light– a dry spell in Asār was a clear indication that Mother deity had been provoked, to avoid her wrath, ceaseless rituals and prayers were offered.
Luckily, the prayers were soon responded with jitters of rain piercing the deafening silence of a peaceful evening. The whole village rejoiced and welcomed the rain with a display of water barrels in the veranda; the rain fell as a blessing and once again the fields had started to appear fresh and green.
Now that we were occupied with field work again, there was no more a night where we tucked ourselves to sleep with hunger pangs– plus, lately Chumla had been strangely generous. She had handed us butter, oil, salt, rice, and even the English cookies which she treasured in the drawers of her chest. I was curious, what had caused this change of heart? My mother would say that people don't change easily, unless they are near death. Could it be true? Not a chance. Even the thought of it sounded absurd to me– it just seemed to me that she was invincible, unlike us who'd kneel before death, she was the type to look Yamraj in the eye and say, "Fuck off!"
Ama had been serving the Kazi household way before I was born– later, I would too. So I had known Chumla as early as I can remember, in fact, she might have been my first memory. While all other women appeared the same to me, Chumla had a color to her– or it might just have been the pop of colorful silk robes and jewels that was easy for a kid to be bedazzled by. So, it was just right to be taken aback seeing her color dull out like that. Oddly, she seemed vincible now.
Could it really be true that the monarchy was soon to die? Only time could tell.
***
The following months after July had never experienced anything like this before– the torrential outburst had deformed the face of the village: roofs rolled like paper sheets on the ground, trees fell like dominoes in the direction of gusty winds; the thunder roars were so loud, it felt as if under its influence, the crust would crack open like walnut shells in any moment and gobble up the whole village without letting out a burp!
Once again, the villagers took it upon themselves to survive the calamity. Hundreds of devotees traveled barefoot through dense forest tracts and slippery trails to the wish-fulfilling Khecheopalri Lake– shaped like a foot, believed to be an impression of Goddess Tara, said to have possessed healing powers, with one collective wish: please, make the rain stop. Alas! This time the prayers went unheard.
On one such night, when the rain continued to fall in a stinking pitch and the smell of paranoia diffused in the air, around midnight, I heard a loud jolt. The noise shook me from my deep slumber– I was hardly rubbing the sleep off my eyes when a whirlpool of mud swept me and my bed away. In a striking blink, the walls of the house were reduced to dust– it happened so fast, I couldn't fathom for quite a while that a landslide had swept our house away and my mind remained fogged in oblivion.
When I came to my senses, the noise of havoc had subsided and the night was still; I was lying on my stomach, buried under tonnes of debris– breathing profusely, struggling to catch a breath while I inhaled and exhaled the same dust that entombed me. Anxiously, I called out for my mother. But there was no response. I was scared; I did not want to jump into conclusions but how could I not? Clenching my guts tight, I called for her again. Once, twice, thrice…yet again, not a breath in response. I mumbled her name over and over again, until I lost consciousness. To me, it seemed like time was passing in lapses– one time, I'd wake up to feel my intestines flattened and seeping through the navel, then I'd faint again. I wasn't sure if it was hours or days that had gone by. At this rate, I wondered if I'd even survive– Would I? Would I live to witness the legacy of the Chogyal Dynasty, or would I be buried with it?
Only time could tell.
React
