RIVER PEOPLE

I do not know much about gods;

But I think that the river Is a strong brown god - sullen,

Untamed and intractable.

- T.S. Eliot, ‘The Dry Salvages’, Four Quartets

1^st Quartet | Dzongu (North Sikkim)

Seven-year-old Norkit Lepcha loved counting numbers on her tiny fingers. If it crossed ten she continued counting on her toes as well. She belonged to a tribe tagged by the U.N.O. as an endangered one. However, her father’s notion differed, he believed that ‘tribe’ was a name used by scholars and politicians. He belonged to just one tribe…farmer. This morning, she counted the number of empty rattling trucks that ran past her house towards the Teesta River. She had counted twenty so far and hoped that would be all for the day or her toes would be outnumbered. Her father came out of their hut carrying a bamboo basket with a sickle, a bottle of moonshine, a metal tiffin with rice, and three dalleys[1]. As usual, he was headed to the outskirts of the forest to forage for grass and firewood.

A dam was being built on the Teesta River close to their village. The dam company had bought lands from the villagers in that area. They had said that the dam was simply a huge water tank. When they paid Norkit’s father, he finally fulfilled his long-cherished dream of purchasing a Bajaj scooter. After days of contemplation, he finally decided that it would stand shining just below their house, the best vantage point from where their protector Kongchen Chu[2] would mightily guard it. Since then, thirteen years have passed. Now, he is worried that his parking place will crumble apart like just his land near the river with the continuous blasting of dynamites by the dam company.

After her father left, Norkit went back to counting her toes. By late afternoon, she lost track of her count. Yet the number of trucks was flowing faster than the Teesta. Lately every evening, the residents of upper Dzongu and even Mangan noticed that the mountains were making loud complaining noises. They secretly knew the gods were angry at them for playing with the land. And somewhere in the jungle, Norkit’s father even in his drunken haze could clearly see that his ancestral lower jungles were now a soiled landscape. Landslides scarred the land where once greenery flourished in abundance. Just as he filled half the basket with grass, he heard a loud sound from the holy mountains echo through every ravine in the hills. He looked at Kongchen Chu with terror and cried, “Sorry, I don’t want the scooter”.

2nd Quartet | Chungthang (North Sikkim)

Ramu Singh, resident of Mughal Sarai (Bihar), had always aspired to own land and a house far from the vibrating railway tracks. However, when his father passed away and with him being the only son, Ramu knew he had to get his two sisters married off first. The standard dowry was a motorcycle, fridge, laptop, and a cow if he wanted to get them married into a good family in their village. So, when a group of men from his village were being recruited by the dam company, he enlisted. The salary was good and he calculated that if he worked for six years, he would solve his problem and fulfill his dream. So, here he was on a remote hill in Sikkim with a group of fellow Biharis donning yellow helmets and gumboots. The work was difficult. All his six years were spent on piercing the stubborn cliffs. The plan was to channel the Teesta into a different location via a tunnel through the hill. He had sent money to his wife to buy a mobile phone. By the grace of God, the news coming from his home was always good. In a couple of days, he would finally be going home. He had been spending just ten percent of his salary to pay for ration. The accountant for the dam company, a fellow villager was entrusted with his savings account.

At four in the evening, Ramu came out of the tunnel. It had been hot in there and the sudden gust of wind coming from the Chungthang valley made him feel alive again. It was a Sunday evening and as he walked uphill from the dam site, he decided to check his savings account. But first, he called his wife. The reception was poor but after several trials, he heard her voice. As always, the news was good, everything was fine back at home. His daughter who was in class eight was preparing for her exams. After the call, he went to see the accountant who had gone inside the tunnel. Walking about a kilometer into the tunnel he met the accountant, greeted him, and explained why he had come to see him. The usual sound of dynamite blasts reverberated, this didn’t alarm them because they were used to such sounds. It was what came next that made them run in a frenzy. The grounds and the walls shook in unison. The strong rocky walls cracked and caved in. Everyone there started running to the entrance. It was exactly 6:10 p.m. and the magnitude of the earthquake was 6.7 on the Richter Scale. The day was 18th September 2011.

Two days later, the rescue operations group declared that four workers had died in the dam tunnel. They said there could be more inside. Among the names of the missing people were those of Ramu and the accountant. After three weeks, Ramu’s wife received a call from a Human Resource Officer of the dam company in Sikkim. The manager didn’t want to share the bad news so he just said that Ramu along with his fellow villagers were returning home. They would reach in two days. She felt happy and tried calling Ramu but his phone seemed to be switched off. On the scheduled day of his arrival after six years, Ramu’s wife, daughter, and two sisters waited at the Mughal Sarai train station, just forty meters away from their rickety mud house. They wore their best clothes to greet him. She told her daughter, “Your father will build us a new strong house this time. Now we won’t have to worry about the rain and wind during the monsoons. And yes, no more earthquakes by the moving trains. I hate earthquakes”.

3rd Quartet | Triveni (South Sikkim)

Dave Hoffman had taken a month’s leave from his work to fulfill his dead father’s wish. After a year of battling lung cancer, his father Ron Hoffman passed away in his hometown near San Francisco. Following his father’s instructions, he travelled to the Himalayas. At Bagdogra Airport, as he waited for his Inner Line Permit to visit Sikkim, he reread his father’s letter written a week before his death.

Dear Dave,

My wish is difficult to fulfill but I know you will try. You know that I first met your late mother during our flower-wielding protest in March 1967 near the Pentagon. We were singing “Be sure to wear flowers in your hair…”. I have a bad voice but it sounded great when your mother hugged me and sang along. She made me feel like a rock star. Two weeks later we married and moved to Kathmandu. One day we met a guitarist from Sikkim and he invited us to his country. We tagged along with him to his ‘Shangrila’. During our ten-day stay in the small kingdom; we were mesmerized by the lofty mountains, innocent village people, and sacred monasteries. But the most impressive thing was the two rivers, Teesta and Rangeet. The magical waters of the Teesta and Rangeet rivers captivated us the most. The folklore about them was even more touching. The Sikkimese believe these two rivers were a boy and a girl formed from two balls of snow from Mt. Kanchenjunga. When they grew up, they fell in love. However, the creator decided to separate them. They were taken apart and placed in different places, the Teesta (girl) in the north and the Rangeet (boy) in the west. Son, true love can defy even the wishes of the gods. They decided to meet at a point called Triveni in southern Sikkim. Yes finally, they met there and since then have flowed together. When your mother passed away, I dispersed her ashes into the Teesta. I request you to scatter my ashes into the Rangeet. I will finally meet your mother again and we will flow together like the two rivers, forever.

Your father

Dave got his permit papers and afterward managed to bargain with a pre-paid taxi to Sikkim.The driver, a small-built beaming Bhutia said it would take two hours if they didn’t encounter traffic jams. Once they reached Sevoke the driver asked, “Sir why you istop(stop) at Triveni?” Dave answered, “My father said it’s a good spot for people to meet”. The driver gave a skeptical nod and drove on. On reaching the Coronation Bridge he said, “Sir…that ij (is) River Teesta”. Dave looked at the brown water body, it seemed calm with undisturbed reflections of trees near its bank. They drove for two hours, and Dave noticed that the river didn’t show any signs of life or movement. He conjectured that they must have grown old flowing together for the rest of their lives. After a short walk downhill, he reached the river bank. A Hindu priest was performing a ritual, Dave asked, “Namaste! Sir, which one is the Rangeet?” Pointing to the river on the left side the priest said, “Namaste! Ooooo…Rangeet.”

Dave thanked him, then opened his backpack and took out an urn. He unscrewed the cap. A gentle breeze swept a part of the ashes with it. Dave tearfully poured his father’s ashes into the Rangeet. He waited for his father to finally meet his mother on the other side of the river bank. The black ash mixed with the brown river, but didn’t move. He thought it would take some time and the view from the roadside would be better. As he reached the roadside, the driver asked, “Sir, finished? Pelling…berry (very) far. If rain coming, the istone (stone) is falling”. Dave smiled saying “Okay five minutes”. But the ash remained like a dull blob on the water; Dave was surprised and asked the driver “The rivers don’t move?” The driver laughed and answered, “Dam is building. Now river become fat and lazy. Water no move…”, losing his limited English vocabulary he made a gesture with both the hands in parallel unison like a fluttering prayer flag, “now no zig-zag and up-down.” After ten minutes, Dave gave up seeing his father flowing towards his mother. He sighed and wished, “I hope and pray you have a happy journey!”. Dave’s wish and prayer were also meant for the two rivers.

4^th Quartet | Gyalshing (West Sikkim)

Sonam Topgay was lazing on the terrace with his old dog Mutt. Under the winter sun, his thoughts returned to the Gyalshing Court where his youngest son Dawa was constantly visiting for litigation regarding the proposal of a dam on the Rathong Chu River. Dawa would soon return with the final decision of the court. He patted Mutt, the old dog looked at him with cloudy eyes and curled up to sleep. Sonam pondered the aftermath that might follow if the dam was allowed to be built. A day before, Lama Phurba, the Tashiding Monastery abbot and an old friend had cried when they spoke about the dam. Before leaving Lama Phurba said, “This river is holy. Our Bumchu[3] contains its water…”

Sonam was eighty-two and had lived a life with simple ambitions. Under the last king, he had been recruited to work in the Forest Department. His service allowed him to travel all over Sikkim. His best memory was when he had accompanied a British surveyor crossing Zemu Glacier in North Sikkim. At that time, he witnessed the greatness of Sikkim’s ecology, the lands and rivers were pure and untouched. Never had he been so proud to be called a citizen of this land. Even after the annexation of Sikkim in 1975 he continued working for the Forest Department till his retirement in 1998. Sonam had three sons and one daughter. Dawa was his youngest child.

Suddenly Sonam’s iPhone rang, a gift from his eldest son working in a corporate firm in London. He was not used to this modern luxury and his old age made him constantly forget how to use the phone even when Dawa taught him relentlessly. To escape Dawa’s annoyance, he always pretended to have learned it. Sonam got up and called Meena their maid from Maalbazar, who was working in the kitchen. She walked upstairs her hands covered in the soap’s lather, “La Azola[4], I am doing the dishes”. Sonam grumbled, “I had told that boy that I didn’t require this thing. It ruins my peace of mind. Please tell him I’m sleeping”. Meena wiped her wet hands on her t-shirt with a picture of an angry bird and answered the phone. That day he didn’t feel like convincing his son abroad that he was taking his diabetes medicine on time. By now, Mutt had left and Sonam found his lap cold and empty.

A few minutes later Dawa arrived, he sat on a chair and sighed. He slowly covered his face as he wiped his tears saying, “Apa[5]…we lost the litigation. They will start building the dam after two weeks. I’m sorry”. Sonam Topgay got up and hugged Dawa. He said, “I always knew we would lose and they would eventually build a dam. I asked you to fight for this litigation so that you could witness with your own eyes how our lands require protection. You tried hard and now you understand. This is more important”. Looking at each other they both smiled. Dawa smiled because he was happy with his father’s reaction. Sonam smiled because he was content after seeing his youngest son finally do what he always wished. The son now loved the land like his father.

[1]  Round red chillies cultivated and consumed in Sikkim, Darjeeling, Kalimpong, and Nepal

[2] Mount Kanchenjunga

[3] Sacred water pot

[4] Yes Grandfather

[5] Father