27 July 1986 : BLACK DAY- excerpt from FATSUNG (Song of the Soil ) written by Chuden Kabimo

Song of the Soil is the first novel to be based on the Andolan of 1986 in the Darjeeling region. Critically acclaimed, the original in Nepali, Fatsung, by Chuden Kabimo has been translated into Hindi and Bangla apart from English. This excerpt is a reimagining of 27 July 1986—observed as Martyrs’ Day—when security forces opened fire on protestors in Kalimpong bazaar, killing and injuring many.

To commemorate the Martyr's Day, observed on 27th July every year in the memory of the massacre in Kalimpong in 1986, we are sharing an excerpt from Song of the Soil by Chuden Kabimo. This excerpt is about the incident taken from the book, translated to English by Ajit Baral.

BLACK DAY

A little sunshine. A little cloud. A little excitement. A little disappointment. That Sunday bore all of these aloft when it arrived.

Sleep deserted Nasim before 4 a.m. A new dream dawned before his eyes. The plans and schemes of the protest kept roiling in his mind. Norden was also awake. He rolled over and woke Surya up. Surya stretched and turned to the east. Raju-sir was already busy writing something.

‘Something is not quite right today,’ Nasim said, turning to Norden.

‘One day one thing is not quite right, on another day something else isn’t,’ Raju-sir spoke up, looking away from the register in which he was writing. ‘Life is made up of contradictions, of the coming together of those things which are not quite right.’

Still sitting on the bed, Surya laced up his worn-out boots and ran off towards the playground. Nasim and Norden followed him. They returned after running two circuits.

Raju-sir was standing a little to the front. The heavily bearded, middle-aged NB-sir was standing at his side.

The secretary of the party’s Kalimpong district chapter, NB-sir wore his hair long. He had on a leather jacket and an old pair of gloves. The gloves were torn in the middle and one could clearly see his palms.

NB-sir went over the plan that had been shared with them the previous day. ‘I am saying this to you as the party secretary, this is a fight for our soil. You should not hesitate even if it means sacrificing your life. Do you get it, boys?’ The day was foggy. Every time he spoke, vapour would blow out of NB-sir’s mouth. At the end he shouted, exhaling a billow of vapour, ‘Jai Gorkha!’

Everyone repeated the slogan after him. It lifted up the whole camp.

The boys got pumped up. 

‘Should I carry a khukuri?’ Norden asked, pointlessly. Norden’s capability. Still, he winked and said, ‘Of course you should carry one, you donkey! Carry it discreetly, like this.’

Aaloo kaati tarkaari taama lai, na chalaunu Gorkhali aaama lai. Applying green tika on the boys’ foreheads, Surya asked ‘Have you heard this song? We must sing this at the protest, boys.’

Nasim hadn’t heard the song before. Yet he nodded and smiled.

A level road went from the camp to a chautari, a resting place under a tree. The locality of Joredhara was to the right of the chautari. As soon as they climbed the road up to Joredhara, they reached Rachela’s house.

Rachela? 

Nasim’s classmate, Rachela Pradhan would frequently pay him visits in his dreams.

Raju-sir used to say, ‘Rachela is good at studies.’ But Nasim used to think, ‘Rachela is good at everything.

Everything.’ 

Rachela was doing the dishes. Seeing Nasim, she smiled softly and asked,‘Where are you going, Nasim?’

Nasim was no longer the Nasim who had taken a beating at school. He had turned into a different individual.

Raju-sir used to say, ‘Revolutionaries must be like matchsticks. Always walking with gunpowder inside their heads, always ready to explode.’

Nasim really liked this line. Inspired by it, he said, ‘The entire hills are burning. But you Pradhan girl, you stay here okay, washing dishes!’

Wah! What beautiful words. And they had come straight out of his own mouth! He was delighted. Surya turned around to look at him.

Nasim continued, ‘I had heard that the Pradhans are penny-pinchers. Are they also cowards?’

Norden smirked.

Nasim looked into Rachela’s eyes for a long time.

‘Everyone in the house has gone to the protest. But this really is too much. Wait, I will also come. Okay?’

Rachela put aside the dishes.

‘We have duties to attend to there. You come with the other people, alright?’ Overwhelmed by his emotions, Nasim ran after Surya.

‘Duty.’ This word had puffed up Nasim’s chest and put a new swagger in his step.

The town was colourful. The three split up when they neared Haat Bazaar. Nasim’s legs trembled a little. His face turned pale. His voice seemed to have stuck in his throat. Still, he said, coughing, ‘We will meet in the evening, boys, won’t we?’

‘Hyah! This Muslim is such a sissy,’ Surya spat out the tobacco he was chewing and continued, ‘Weren’t you talking big in front of that Pradhan girl earlier?’

Nasim went limp and set off slowly uphill. Surya left for Saatdobato. Norden walked off towards 10th Mile.

Shaking in fear, Nasim passed by the police station and headed to 8th Mile.

The day was overcast. It seemed like the sun would vanish behind clouds.The clock was about to strike 11.

The crowd quickly swelled. Most of the people were dressed in the traditional daura-suruwal. Everyone was singing and dancing.Those who had smeared green colour all over their bodies were surging forward, jumping.

Nasim finally plucked up some courage. He ordered the line to move forward, and commanded, ‘Put the students up in front.That’s the president’s order!’

Notwithstanding the pushing and shoving, an orderly line was formed. Those who were in front didn’t come towards the rear. So the students remained at the back.

They started shouting slogans. God, what excitement!

As more people joined the crowd, its contours changed. It took on newer and newer countenances.

Suddenly, a loud sound could be heard. The police immediately raised their shields. Those wielding guns formed a line. The marchers stopped abruptly at Engine Dara just outside town.

A police officer was chewing a paan. Someone brought a small hand-mic and gave it to him. Speaking in Hindi, he shouted into the mic,‘You cannot all go ahead together.

Dhara 144 has been imposed from here on!’

The crowd milled about in the same spot and started to shout slogans.

Nasim did not know what to do. They had to reach Mela Ground. He came up with an idea and ordered the ladies to the head of the procession. He was certain that those who were in the front would make way for them.

But it didn’t work. The protestors did not agree to give up their places.The policemen remained firm as a wall.

The front ranks turned around and came to the rear. People coming from other places must have already reached Mela Ground. Nasim’s tension increased. Just then, another group came shouting from behind them. The man leading the group was in great excitement. He was tall, and wearing a headband. As soon as he saw the police, he started hurling abuses.

He must have been a little drunk. He turned to the protesters and shouted:

‘We Gorkhas won’t obey the syarpis. Won’t obey!

Won’t obey! Break this barricade, boys!’

He advanced. The group following him also moved forward.The police officer shouted out a warning. But the tall boy ignored it. Nasim turned towards the back and kept standing still.The police tried to stop the leader again.

He wouldn’t listen. He kept surging forward.

The situation became tense. The tall man still refused to heed the warnings. He started arguing with the police.

He ran about, swinging an unsheathed khukuri in the air. The revolutionaries started jumping and shouting a war cry: Jai jai Kali Mahakali, aayo, aayo Gorkhali! (Hail hail Great Goddess Kali, here we come, here we come, we Gorkhali!)

The police officer couldn’t bear it any longer. He started to yell even more loudly into the mic.

The police started to fire tear gas at the demonstrators.

Surprisingly, the tall man disappeared from the line of protestors. A boy had been standing right behind him, a boy with Mongoloid eyes. His hair was unkempt. He had a tiny dream writ large on his face. It was that dream which did not allow him to flee.

This boy advanced, picked up a tear-gas shell and threw it towards the police where it exploded. The police were upwind of the fumes which made it even more difficult for them to stand their ground.

And then?

The police officer bellowed one last time. No one could understand anything.

Something that no one had expected happened. All at once, the sound of guns could be heard. People started to fall down. The Mongoloid-eyed boy plunged into a

gutter. Those who were at the back began to run. Nasim too ran and jumped into the gutter to save himself. The revolutionaries dispersed at once.

A thickset man came forward. He had an old Commander jeep. Parking the jeep by the side of the road, he walked up to the police with his hands folded in

supplication. He sought their permission to pick up those who had fallen.

Nobody could figure out what that man, who spoke in a Tibetan accent, said to the police officer but the force stepped back. He started to carry the injured to his jeep.

Nasim finally reappeared on the road. His legs were still trembling, his eyes were still in a haze.

Seeing Nasim, the Tibetan man gestured to him and said,‘Oi you boy, who all have fallen here? Put them in the jeep.We need to take them to the hospital or they will die.’

Nasim looked at the gutter. The Mongoloid-eyed boy was lying down there, drenched in blood. Nasim carried him on his shoulder and put him in the jeep. The jeep sped off to the hospital.

‘There is news of police firing at 8th Mile.’ This information gradually reached Damber Chowk. It then reached Saatdobato. And then 10th Mile, where the

revolutionaries had been stopped by the police. The sloganeers instantly grew angry. They broke down the police barricades and slowly marched north towards

Thana Dara. The revolutionaries starting out from East Main Road, just beyond the centre of town, had already come near Thana Dara.Their dancing continued unabated.

The revolutionaries were still cheerful. They carried the dream of a separate homeland in their eyes.

At Thana Dara, the CRPF had put up another barricade. They were shouting from the police station above the road, repeating that Section 144 had been imposed. People were busy dancing and singing. Armed to the teeth, the police were standing in front of them like a wall. Still the people weren’t willing to retreat. Slogans kept resounding. Clenched fists were still raised towards the sky.

‘They’re saying that those hit by the bullets are unlikely to survive.’ Another rumour slipped into the crowd. People started shouting even more loudly. Their

rage rose. At that instant, one of the men in uniform shouted, ‘We will not spare anyone who assaults the police.’ The noise in the street suddenly shot up.A loud sound came from somewhere. Nobody had time to think, shots were fired.

‘Look! The taekwondo master has come,’ someone cried out.

A tall boy came running down the road, an unsheathed khukuri clenched between his teeth. As he reached the Chowk, he swung a leg. He brandished the khukuri.

A syarpi fell down in a heap.

He hadn’t got up yet when a woman standing a little ahead of him drew a sickle and sank it into the chest of another syarpi. The woman hadn’t had time to even turn around yet when they heard the sound of gunfire.

Taekwondo and sickle fell down on the same spot.

Disaster had struck.

Darkness descended over all of Kalimpong. People ran helter-skelter to save their lives. Those who were hit fell wherever they were standing. The women started to cry. The men started to run towards the jungles. There was complete darkness.

Nearly ten minutes passed just like that. And the din quieted down slowly. The gun-carrying policemen retreated. The situation normalized a little. Just then, the familiar jeep arrived, 

Nasim and Norden too appeared.

Those who were in the jeep started to pick up the fallen. They did not have the courage to look at their faces so they would put them into the vehicle and then pick up others.

It was only after the jeep had made two trips to the hospital that Norden’s eyes clouded over. The entire road had turned black. Everything was slathered in blood.

Hundreds of slippers were the lone revolutionaries standing in protest.The road was utterly deserted.There was no one except the wounded and those helping the wounded.

‘Oi Nasim! Look here, Rachela is also wounded,’

Norden stuttered nervously.

Nasim turned towards Norden. He saw Rachela.

The same Rachela whom he had goaded to join the demonstration. That same Rachela whose dreams could make him forget Allah.

Nasim froze. No sound emerged from his mouth.The tears did not roll down his cheeks. He picked up Rachela and, wrapping her in a cloth, put her into the jeep. Her insides were half spilling out of her abdomen. She was in no condition to speak.

Rachela was taken to the hospital. There wasn’t any space for new patients and it was going to take time to arrange a bed for her. Nasim raised Rachela up slowly and placed her head on his lap. He gave her some water to drink and sprinkled some of it on her head. Rachela heaved a long sigh and said in a faint voice, ‘I will live, won’t I Nasim?’ Rachela’s voice was quavering. Tears and clots of blood had blackened her face.

She tried to say more but couldn’t. Only her lips trembled.

Nasim too was soaked in blood. He looked at her face reluctantly and said, ‘I made a great mistake by asking you to come to the demonstration, didn’t I?’

Rachela moved her lips again. But not a word emerged.

Tears streamed from her eyes.

And then, all of a sudden, Rachela’s eyes closed. Her hands lolled downwards towards the earth.The soles of her feet turned upward.

Standing near Rachela’s corpse, Nasim began to sob.

Nasim and Norden arrived in Rausey in the evening.

But Nasim fainted before they could enter the camp.

He remained unconscious for three hours. He didn’t speak.

He didn’t even drink a drop of water. His eyes could see no light. Everything was dark. Pitch dark.

He finally regained consciousness at around 7 p.m.

Akashvani was broadcasting news: ‘The CRPF opened fire in Kalimpong. Thirteen agitators were killed.’

On the following day, the BBC announced that it was a ‘Black Sunday’ for Darjeeling.

That indeed was the blackest day for Darjeeling.

Courtesy & source: Rachana Books and Publications

Gangtok 737101 Sikkim INDIA

+91 9733102304

www.rachnabooks.com

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