YA fiction: Three boys in Kalimpong are thrust into violence during the 1980s’ Gorkhaland agitation

27 July 1986

“Lapchey, Bhotey, Nepali...Hami Sabai Gorkhali!”

(Lepchas, Bhutias, Nepali...We are all Gorkhas.)

“Jyan dinchau, Praan dinchau...Gorkhaland hami linchau hai linchau!” (We will sacrifice life and soul...but we will claim Gorkhaland for sure!)

A never-ending sea of people flowed down Rishi Road in Kalimpong, past the Dambar Chowk. Hundreds, maybe thousands, Tukai estimated. There was a crackle of electricity in the air. Tukai stood at the entrance of Gompu’s Restaurant, hypnotised, watching this sea advance, wave after wave, holding placards, banners, chanting with their proud, loud voices.

Bang! Bang!! Bang-Bang!!

The sounds of gunfire rent the air, above the din of the chants. Tukai gasped as he suddenly saw people being lifted off the ground with wide gaping holes in their chests. There were screams, pandemonium, rushing feet. More bullets whizzed by, followed by soft thuds as they made contact with the intended targets. Blood spurted out in tiny flower-like shapes.

There was a stampede as the indiscriminate firing continued on the protestors. And more bodies fell in the streets, as snipers easily picked off their targets one by one, from their vantage positions on the building terraces on either side of Rishi Road. Tukai began hyperventilating watching the horrific events play out before his eyes. Bloody footprints were stamped on the banners, and placards now lay on the street, as people scurried to find cover.

What was aimed to be a peaceful mass protest had suddenly turned violent. Seeing the casualties, the men in the crowd could not resist any longer. They unleashed their kukris and brandished them in the air. They had had enough of being peace-loving protestors and fodder for the CRPF.

With a blood-curdling scream of “Jai Gorkha,” a man swung his kukri at a CRPF jawan who was charging at him. The head still wearing the American GI-style helmet was sliced clean, and it rolled down the street and came to a standstill. The eyelids of the jawan fluttered for a moment, like a malfunctioning robot, and so did the eyelids before it shut itself down. The decapitated body, though, ran for a short distance, with its arms swinging wildly and blood gushing like a fountain from the neck, before its knees buckled and the body collapsed.

Tukai felt bile rise at the back of his throat. He suddenly felt his bowels let go as he excreted into his trouser. He sensed his own warm shit trickle down the inside of his leg. He vomited and with his shaking legs, ran. But his knees soon gave out under him. So, he began crawling on all fours towards his home.

You see, he knew he had to get away from this mayhem. Even his 16-year-old brain could sense that his life was in danger.

23 April 1987

“Maa-chiknay, kay hereko? (Motherfucker, what are you staring at?) Start digging!”

Roshan was out of breath. He could barely see through his swollen left eye. As he blinked, he felt a warm trickle flow down his cheek. He didn’t bother wiping it away. He knew he was bleeding. He knew every minute he stood there staring back at the three boys he was living his life in overtime.

Gagan, the leader of the trio, swished the butterfly knife expertly in his hand. The shiny blade played a quick game of hide-and-seek. Roshan caught the glint of the blade as it went clackity-clickity-clackity-clack between the sheaths, in and out and out and in. Gagan was biding his time. He knew he had his prey at the point of no return.

Roshan stood knee-deep in the grave that he had just dug himself – two feet deep and three feet long. He estimated it was just the right size if he lay down in a fetal position.

“Let’s just finish him off!” The youngest of the trio, Vashkar, was getting impatient.

Gagan jumped into the small pit and faced Roshan. He held his right forearm tightly in his grasp. “By the time they find you in the morning, either you will be dead and cold. Or, if you are lucky to be alive, you would have had enough time to realise to never fuck with us again!”

The other two watched intently. There was a quick swish and Roshan screamed. His forearm sprung into a crimson fountain as the blade ate into his arm like a hot knife through butter – smooth and effortless – carving a new lifeline that separated him from life and death.

Roshan collapsed into the pit. Panic overtook him. He gasped for air.

“Let’s go...Go!” Gagan, Lhakpa, and Vashkar got into the van.

Roshan watched his blood seep into the mud in the waning headlights of the reversing van, and then the darkness of the night swallowed him up as the van drove away. He screamed. He could not climb out of the pit. He knew this was it, as he felt a sudden rush of coldness spread across his body. He could barely see his own hand as he held it up in front of his face. There was a dull ringing in his ears that began growing in intensity. He realised that at the age of 16 he was going to bid adieu to the world. All he could do was cry in fear and call out for his mother, as life slowly started ebbing out of him.

Excerpted with permission from The Hills Are Burning, Anirban Bhattacharyya, Fingerprint!