Editorial»
Flagged off to the Himalayan Kingdom of Sikkim !
JAN 21 - It was the end of March 1964 when we set out to Gangtok, the capital of the Kingdom of Sikkim. There were only two Hillians, Mark and I, because it was a family visit. Lalit was already in Gangtok, and we would connect there. We also took only one guitar because it would be a short visit.
We were in a white Ambassador. With us was Roland Chettri, a Gangtokian. His mother was a Lepcha; so we were almost cousins. He was a fellow North Pointer and stayed with us. We had taken “French leave” from our college because we would be back in Darjeeling in three days. But it was to last for 15 days in Gangtok!
Years later, Roland became an officer of Sikkim Palace’s Royal Guards. Captain Roland Chettri was the ADC to the Chhogyal (ruler) of Sikkim when the king made his last political stand for himself and Sikkim in Kathmandu at the wedding of King Birendra. It was an aborted attempt at the federation of the three Himalayan monarchies of Nepal, Sikkim and Bhutan.
In the “Smash and Grab” of Sikkim in 1975, the Chhogyal was to acknowledge two Nepali soldiers for their loyalty to him to the last before the Indian army made its orchestrated run of the palace whereby Sikkim was “merged” to India. Roland survived the humiliations of defeat while another Nepali, a sentry at the royal gates, was killed in the action. Roland and another Sikkimese officer, Yongda, were subjected to “treatments” by the Indian victors. While Yongda entered Buddhist priesthood in his village, I found Roland employed with the fire brigade in Gangtok when I was there in 1988. He died a few years ago of cancer.
Surprisingly, Darjeeling had received a heavy hailstorm. Our car trudged along, crunching the ice.
Then something happened. Fresh Indian flags appeared out of nowhere, and two were offered to us for hoisting them on the car. We obliged. The car looked very important with three young VIPs inside. In fact, the entire Darjeelingtown was fluttering with Indian flags.
Why the flags? We then knew that Indira Gandhi was visiting Darjeeling that day. It was an icy welcome to India’s minister of information and broadcasting, a lowly berth in the central government but a new ascendancy for her in an early attempt to perpetuate the Nehru dynasty - only to die nastily with Sanjay Gandhi’s air crash, her own and son Rajiv Gandhi’s assassinations years later.
But right now, in the dying winter of 1964, the “Indira is India” propaganda was in its early gestation. Otherwise why should a mediocre minister of stymied information and broadcasting ministry would be given such a grand welcome to a lonely and forgotten corner of remote northeast India?
“Because Indira Gandhi and sons Rajiv and Sanjay are going to attend the coronation of the Chhogyal of Sikkim!” Roland informed us. “She’ll represent India at the coronation.”
Oh-oh! “So you’re actually going to your king’s coronation!” I exclaimed. “I didn’t know about the occasion. For us, we’re just going to attend Alfred’s birthday party.”
“I must assist my father from his official side in the celebrations,” Roland said. His father was the chairman of the soldiers, sailors and airmen’s board in Sikkim. “Actually, many Sikkimese students in Darjeeling have already left for Gangtok.”
The twin Indian flags on our Ambassador with three impressionable young passengers attired in Rockers-Mods apparel, but couched and almost hidden inside the spacious interior with a professional driver in charge, created an odd series of experiences from Darjeeling right upto Gangtok where another celebration, unbeknownst to us then, was gathering momentum. Little did I realise then that it was an international pomp and ceremony, glitters and glamour that were being prepared in Gangtok for world consumption. And the Indian flags did give a foretaste of things to come.
The preparations to welcome Indira Gandhi were manifest along the narrow and serpentine highway as we travelled. At Peshok Tea Estate’s bend, there was a battery of uniformed paramilitary men with obsolete 303 rifles. They presented their arms to us, and the officers saluted us smartly. I, assuming myself to be the senior VIP in the car, returned their salute with my own smart one with as much imperious airs as I could muster for a 21-years-old show-off. Perhaps we looked appropriate as an advance guard or a preparatory party to pave the way for Indira-jee. It happened at many points as we reached the Teesta Bridge, crossed it and drove left on the highway and entered Sikkim.
Our loud laughter and guffaws roared inside the car when we were out of earshot and views of the reception committees. Even the middle-aged chauffeur was enjoying the windfalls of the pomp and ceremony, which rubbed off on him quite demonstrably. He appeared sombre and serious each time another group of officials let us by dignifiedly. At places, I returned their salutes with the Indian Congress-style Namaskar while at other points I simply waved my hand nonchalantly in dismissal.
The Indian flags did wonders for us all the way - well, almost! At strategic places, Sikkimese police and security men appeared out of nowhere and cleared the way for us of vehicles and trucks obstructing the way for their checking and clearance. We were received with smart salutes and sent off with another series at our behinds. We passed Rangpo, Singtam and other focal points in this way, our throats hoarse with excessive laughs and shrieks. Perhaps we would be unable to sing properly at Alfred’s birthday.
Our false reveries were blown only at the burgeoning military cantonment below Gangtok when we arrived there for entry to the capital. A stern Sikkimese official scrutinised us.
“Why the Indian flags? Are you diplomats? Indian representatives? Could you please show me your papers for my verifications?”
Then Roland blurted out the truths while he introduced himself as the son of a high-ranking executive of the Kingdom of Sikkim.
“Remove the bloody flags this very minute!” the officer barked. “This is the Kingdom of Sikkim, you know! It’s not India which has its Political Officer here, and that’s it. Other Indian VIPs and diplomats aren’t due at this moment. Off with the flags, I say!”
Thus the officer reduced us to dunces. We entered Gangtok as properly dressed-down jerks. Thankfully it was getting dark, and our ashen faces and stooped shoulders were cloaked in the late twilight.
Then I saw the streets of Gangtok plying with Mercedes Benzes, Chevrolets and other European and American cars with various national flags festooned and flying. Our Indian Ambassador was junk compared to these sleek and shiny foreign vehicles.
There were so many foreign faces! It was clear that Gangtok was well on its way to celebrating the coronation of the new Chhogyal of Sikkim!
(The writer can be reached at <peterkarthak@wlink.com.np;
peterkarthak@hotmail.com>)Posted on: 2004-01-21 02:58
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