Gorkhaland and Yossarians

We reach Siliguri Junction. It’s 6 p.m. now.

I ask Alix, “The auto for NJP is ready. Shall you get in?”

She mimes to wait for a while.

I ask again, “What happened? Any problem?”

There I see her bag on the hood of the vehicle. She climbs up to the hood herself as the driver is busy collecting fare from passengers and isn’t helping her to pass on the bag from hood. She takes down the bag herself.

I ask, “Shall you board the auto?”

She mimes the same gesture again. Starts unleashing the bag and tells me, “I want to give you something.”

I am astonished and ashamed. I say, “Please get in auto. You will be late. I don’t need anything.”

She disagrees as I repeatedly suggest her to get in the auto. She tries to convince me, “Only a book that I wanted to present you as a token of memory.”

The book is ‘Iya-Ile’ (The First Wife), a Nigerian drama in English.

Alix is supposed to catch the train at 8 p.m. She intends to go to Kolkata. From Kolkata, she’ll fly toward Goa by air. She is wearing warm clothes and a muffler to protect her from the initial hammering of the cold. She is British. She entered Nepal. She is now in India after having roamed around Nepal. She will return home only when she finishes up with Goa. She says several times, “I liked Nepal very much.” Kathmandu, Pokhra, Paataan, and Bhaktapur, in particular, had an emotional impact on her.

She also came out of the vehicle along with me when the driver stopped at Garidhura, a roadside hamlet, for evening tea snacks. She is in her sweet twenty-fives. She has learned a few Nepali words. She wished to have black tea. Sipping the hot tea, she asked me, “Does this place also belong to Gorkhaland?” I yessed her. In the meantime, we had informative pieces of gossip about Gorkhaland, Tea Estates, and Cinchona Plantations. After this, she makes it clear about her understanding: the toiling people out here are oppressed, and Gorkhaland is the only way out for them. But I explained to her, “Alix, Gorkhaland isn’t the last resort that is going to solve the problem of the toiling mass.” She wondered, “Why?”

I answered her with brevity: “It’s because in Gorkhaland, a handful of “new rich” will not help the majority of Darjeeling people overcome their fundamental crises. The process of making Gorkhaland is proving to be a tough democratic exercise. But even if Gorkhaland is carved out as a separate autonomous state from the state of West Bengal, the problems might still persist. The problems may even magnify as the corruption increases with the creation of laws, systems, and establishments. The gap between the “Haves” and the “Have-Nots” will widen. This skewed hill will be skewed at more acute degrees of gradient.” Suddenly, a worried expression appears on her face. She didn’t inquire about the final solution’s path. I didn’t unleash my opinion, either.

We had to speak out. Driver had turned up the volume on his stereo.

She asked, “Who is singing?”

I answered her, “Manila Sotang.”

I narrated her in English the initial part of the Nepali song “Bhijyo Sihraani Raataima” (pillow has drenched in night). I added that the song carried the very discourse of Darjeeling. The native ‘sons of soil’ migrate both internally and externally in order to fight with their unemployment problem. So, the desperate wives drench their pillow every night in the fond memories of their departed husbands. Children anxiously search for the forgotten faces of their distant fathers.

I thought of telling Alix about “Muna-Madan,” a great, narrative-length poem by legendary Nepali writer Laxmiprasad Deokota. “Muna-Madan” is the tragic story of the departed Muna (wife) and Madan (husband), who migrate to Bhot (then Bhutan). I considered telling her that in “Madan-Muna,” a new “deconstruction” of this work might be done as more and more women migrate only to face problems in various parts of the world. Today, female trafficking is the deepest crisis in the hills of Darjeeling. Earlier, only men flew off; now, women are also into this.

I asked Alix whether I could see the book lying in the seat just besides her. In fact, it is the strange name printed in bold letters on the front of the book that has driven me crazy: Catch-22! It’s a bestseller from 1961, written by Joseph Heller.

“Its wonderful! Black-Humor! Anti-War,” Alix said at a shot. Catch-22 is the American military law that restricts one from escaping out from the war field or any operation. In book, the very name is an allegory for ‘losing situation’. I am glancing at the back of this bulky book. I try fixing my eyes and concentrating on the tiny letters as it’s really a tough task to read inside the vehicle running on topsy-turvy, curvy, zigzag roads of Darjeeling hills. It becomes noticeable that, written on the backdrop of the American invasion on Italy during the final phase of Second World War, this non-sequential, absurd and black-satirical novel is regarded as one of the best work of the twentieth century.

The United States Air Force is threatening Italy with air raids from Pianosa, an Italian island only 22 kilometres above sea level in the Mediterranean Sea. Yossarian, the main character of “Catch-22,” is in deadly charge of bombarding. He is scared, distressed, and disappointed by the lethality of the insane war. He is fed up. Yossarian plans to leave the fighting scenario. His family tries hard to establish and justify his release from the war field on the grounds that he has become insane. Though his pretence doesn’t work for him, he struggles to prove that he’s insane in front of others. The very circular, non-sequential, and ironical elements of the novel thus expose the vulgarity of imperialist greed and expansionist war. I remember here the catchy lines by Agam Singh Giri, a popular Nepali poet of the sixties and seventies from Darjeeling: “War, thirst for human blood, desperate aspirations of killing and destroying… (A. Giri, War, and Warrior) Wilfred Owen, the war poet, comes to mind. Earnest Hemingway, too. And the highly popular Bob Dylan song “Knocking on Heaven’s Door.”

Sobriety and intellect might be prominent features, which might draw anybody closer to Alix Thorpe. She has worked as a script editor with Soho Theatre in London since last year. She is learned in English literature. One could debate with her. One could talk. I asked, “How is your England?” A sense of worry was concealed within her answer. Her face contracted with wrinkles of gloom. She told me, “Just fine.” When I asked if the recession had left its mark, she became animated and eager to explain certain points. She informed me, “No, no… Recession still hovers around England.” She admits boldly, “What is most disappointing is that unemployment and poverty are rising out there.” Contrary to our general hypothesis that all Americans and Europeans are rich and content, this information may be shocking. I inquired about the trends in drama in England. She informed me that the theatre is attempting to bridge the gap between stage and audience in a variety of ways. Even IT is being incorporated to achieve this target. Her theatre presents shows professionally every day. She expressed her sadness over the declining number of drama viewers. I supported her opinion with my logic. The imposed dominant “popular culture” is one of the factors contributing to art lovers’ alienation from their call to the genesis. People are opting for illusions against originality. We were disillusioned in an equilinear-equivocal way.

We had a good exchange of ideas. Brecht, Ibsen, Plath, Bronte, one by one, became alive in our travel-gossip. I asked whether she has watched “Dead Poets Society,” “Colour Purple,” “Cast Away,” or “Schindler’s List.” “What do you think about “One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest”?” She suggested I read the novel that inspired the film. “Read the book. Book is better than film,” she told me. I thought some ideological parity could be struck between this film and “Catch-22.” It seemed that Alix didn’t have any point of difference when I told her of the failure of globalisation across almost the entire globe. Capitalism was almost in coma after the Lehman Brothers of America triggered the global recession. It’s recovering slowly but it’s not in well tempo. The anti-establishment people oriented forces are capitalizing this crisis to hit at the weakest links of the capitalist socio-economy. Discussion is broadening our thought spaces.

Alix Thorpe has emailed me to inform me that she has reached Goa safe and sound. She was not feeling well. She is now recharged. She relaxed on the seashore, watching the beautiful sunset. I’m not sure how long our memories, Alix’s and mine, can hold the forty-minute association we shared from Kurseong to Siliguri. But what is sure to last in my memory is Yossarian, the character of “Catch-22,” the book introduced to me by Alix. It’s because we are all Yossarians. Like this desperate bombardier, we are also pretending to be insane to find an escape route from the menace of the chaotic status quo of the insane world order. The entire world has metamorphosed itself into a prison house for poor insane creatures defined as “human.” Every now and then, there is war. Insane war. We are bound to act as weapons for these vested wars. We, the war machines, believe that war is for power. We help winners win by defeating ourselves. We lose, and they win. Century after century. Decade after decade. Day after day. We are the losers of this insane war. I can see the pitiable people being squeezed, pressed, and slashed on these visible and invisible fronts. Either way, all of them look like Yossarian. Or, Yossarian looks like them.

The narrative is unquestionably the same. They are all starving to prove themselves to be insane. O, we poor Yossarians!