DARJEELING
All my life I have associated Darjeeling with - of course a nice cup of tea -
but mostly with where my mum went to school. So as part of our ‘Footsteps Tour’, we had to go to Darjeeling and see where mum had lived and gone to school.
After two weeks in the closing winter of Kolkata, we set off early one morning for the short flight to Bagdogra. We knew it was to be cold in Darjeeling and our onward destination of Sikkim. We had in all the business of our busy early January, not packed for winter days in India, and the few things I had brought would not be enough. We ventured to one of Kolkata’s malls - there are many and I am always taken aback at how modern and luxurious many of them are. I bought a very cheap black jacket with a fur hood which I was to be grateful for once we reached misty Darjeeling.
I do not think there is such a thing as ‘second hand shops’ in India, as we know them in Britain, but we stumbled across a cool establishment called ‘Skinny Mo’s’ which was a chameleon of businesses. Day time was a second hand clothes shop called ‘Loved me Once’, with a lovely small new designer section attached, and in the evening part of it became a restaurant and Jazz club. The second hand red and black checked jumper I saw was perfect for our trip, and was to appear in most of our Darjeeling photographs! That and my new jacket were to be my staple wardrobe for the next couple of weeks.
Part of the joy of living in new places is the people one can meet, and we had met a lovely bunch of folks who were friends of our Lal Bari hostess, Ilina. Dora, Ranjan and ‘SS’ had a lovely home in Bagdogra and had invited us to lunch once we landed, and before our onward journey from Siliguri to Darjeeling.
Dora’s father was a Tea Planter Tea many years ago, and had built a lovely property in a small lane in the quiet peace of Bagdogra tea country. We were so welcomed and spent a lovely few hours chatting in the garden before lunch. The sun was welcome, as the air was cool, and we enjoyed hearing all the travel tales of these lovely people, and their views on India today, politics, Kolkata life, and our respective kids. We left them with a promise to come again - what a pleasure that would be for us!
There were three ways we could reach Darjeeling, and I had wanted to try to replicate the past travels of granny and grandpa and mum who would travel by train. The Darjeeling Toy Train is a Unesco Heritage railway. Started in 1881 to transport commodities from the lowlands up into the hills, it is of huge interest to railway enthusiasts, with its 2 feet gauge track, running for over 88km. I was very keen that we travel this way despite the astonishment of Dora and SS and Ilina - ‘Oh no, that will be such a long journey’ ‘There are bound to be landslides’. ‘I do not think that train is running just now’. That was just a few of the comments made by those ‘in the know’. But I wanted to have this experience so we booked our seats, and arrived at the busy station early in the morning with imaginings of a magical journey through the Indian hills and tea estates to Darjeeling.
After a delay of around 20 minutes, two tiny carriages which make up the Toy Train finally came whistling in to the New Siliguri station. The train superintendent , dressed in tight black jeans and a leather bomber jacket conveyed a ‘rock n roll’ persona and was something of a show off! As is typical, (read about the temple jostling in my Varanasi’ blog) our fellow Indian travellers all made a mad dash - ‘every man for himself style’, to grab every available space for their luggage. Suitcases, large and small, back packs, colourful striped bags containing picnics which were later unveiled (I do not mean a sausage roll and a sandwich, but full meals of dhal, rice, chapattis), and large cardboard boxes sealed and bound multiple times with thick sticky tape containing kitchen equipment and various household goods. When we came to board, our Elvis Superintendent told us we could not bring such large cases on - ‘there is no room, those cases are not for this train’. I asked him what he would like me to do - would we board and just leave them behind, or not board at all, to which we got a shrug of ‘do what you like’.
Our allocated seats were at the front of the carriage with ample leg space, but all that space had been taken up with other folks luggage. We could barley get ourselves seated, never mind find a place for our luggage. I simply had to become a stroppy passenger and unceremoniously moved into the narrow aisle all the cases taking up ‘our space’, Somehow we all managed to sit, luggage was coerced into every available place, and eventually the kettle whistle of the train signalled a departure. We were off. Off to Darjeeling - I cast my mind back to those bygone days that grandpa wrote about including this journey to Darjeeling. I pictured them on this self same route, over 80 years before. Retracing their journeys.
The train was cold and draughty and I was glad of my ‘once loved’ red jersey and department store jacket.
Passing through Indian Countryside
A journey through the heart of Indian countryside is one of my most favourite things. It is like a cine movie of peoples lives. Passing through towns, villages, settlements, fields, one can see the many styles of lives which populate the vastness of the Indian countryside. The first hour or so of the journey, the narrow gauge track ran so close to the tiny dwellings and shops. It stopped frequently although it was so full I am not sure how anyone else could possibly find a place to sit.
The activities I saw from the train were many and it made the journey anything but tedious. Tea shops of course, doing a brisk business of serving masala chai, not laced with, but overloaded with sugar. The rather off putting sight of the chicken man, the chop bang, chop bang of the heavy knife cutting the lifeless chicken in to pieces. Standing along side the slaughter were cages of scrawny live birds watching their fate. I do not know if they knew this was their fate?? Did they feel the threat or did they live, caged up and blissfully unaware.
Tiny houses, where stood a grandmother on the doorstep with 2 or 3 or 4 children playing around her sari (not apron strings here) all seemingly happy and at one with the day. Small schools, one room, with make shift benches for little students, sitting on the earthen ground writing in paper jotters.
And always always the stray dogs, I can not call them pavement dogs as there were no pavements - maybe they are rail track dogs, lying perilously close to the wheels of the passing train but unperturbed with the proximity to potential injury. Most of them looked heathy and well fed, and as we moved on up further and further towards Darjeeling and the coolness of the hills, the coats of the dogs grew thicker, and they changed from the sleek well fitted suits of a hot Mumbai fellow, to the well clad fur coats for the cooler plains.
Pause on the Hills
After around 3 hours, the train stopped. In the middle of the countryside. Dead. No rail station, no one to embark. It just stopped. It sat, and sat and sat and folks started to get off, as did we. Broken down. The train driver and two men who had appeared from - well, I really do not know from where, and joined by Elvis Superintendent, were all peering into the side of this old engine. There was a lot of banging and clanging as they coerced the pipes and coils of the engine with a number of metal tools - spanners, hammers, hooks. One of the chaps, maybe the train driver, was in amongst it and up to his elbows he was black with oil. I think he was our only hope.
The passengers with the colourful striped bags, found a flat piece of grassland beside the track and spilled open their food, as those of us without supplies looked on in envy. Now, those of you who know me well, will know I do not travel far without a thermos, and some kind of snack. I can not explain why I had nothing with me - not even a biscuit. I think it is because I had visions of being served hot chai and samosas on the train. Some trains in India are well catered for and serve hot tomato soup, kachoris, and even samosas. But not on this miniature lady - she only had room for herself. So we just mouched around the countryside along the narrow gauge track which spliced through the countryside.
‘Come back ma’m, do not go so far - there are snakes and sometimes panthers’, the train guard called to me. Chance would be a fine thing!
Talk of having to send us the remainder of the way by road became empty talk as suddenly The Lady coughed and fluttered her way in to motion and we were off again. No explanation, apology, reason. Just a tired old train, wheezing her way through life and not prepared to give up!
10 and a half hours after we first embarked, we pulled into the darkness of a deserted station at Darjeeling , and were relieved to arrive at our cosy accommodation very soon after.
We had been recommended a stay in ‘The English Cottage’ which was a lovely property built into one of Darjeelings hillsides, which afforded us prime seats to view the mighty Kanchenjunga every morning and evening as the sun rose and set through our stays. As if to tease us, she kept herself shrouded behind a thick veil of mist for the first two days and then our patience was rewarded. Slowly, slowly, that mighty perfect disc of fire arose and cast her brilliance on the snowy peaks of Kanchenjunga.
Part Two - Loreto Convent
As with our visit to Grandpa’s Jute Mill in Calcutta, we were so fortunate to connect with the right people for our Darjeeling trip. We were anxious as to whether we would get permission to actually go inside mum’s old school - Loreto Convent. Lina from Lal Bari, where we had stayed in Kolkata, Dora from Bagdogra and a number of their friends whom we had met Lina’s supper evening were all former Loreto Convent School girls and told us they would contact the school to introduce us to the nuns, We were grateful to Pappia- she telephoned the Sister at the Convent to tell them about us and that we wanted to visit as part of our footsteps tour. Sister Sushila said we would be welcome, and just to turn up any time. How grateful I was.
But I fretted - the day we could go was a Saturday and the school may be closed? Would the gate be locked? Or, if the children were in, would we get past security? I worried that our visit would only grant us to see the outer building. Maybe we could not get into the heart of the school and see where mum had spent her childhood school days, But, as kept happening to us on this trip, doors were wide open and waiting for us!
On a cold but sunny Saturday we followed the route from our Darjeeling home down past old bungalows with names from bygone days- ‘Rose Cottage’ ‘Balfour House’ ‘Briar Bungalow’ , until we reached a main road, from where we could see the top of the roof of the Convent and school. We were relieved to find a gate open and a yard man who was sweeping up took us to meet Sister Shanta. She was actually in charge of the Annexe school for Loreta, St Teresa’s. Such a happy and welcoming face, she said she would take us through the grounds to meet the Principal Sister Sushila. Yes!!! We were in!
I believe there are quite a few visits back to the school by some of the ‘old girls’ and I wonder if we were met with a tad of ‘tiresome visitors’ syndrome. I was so enthusiastic and passionate that I think Sister Sushila felt either brow beaten or heart warmed with my enthusiasm, and gave up her time to let us see around the school.
And so there I was, taking the same footsteps that Kathleen Anne Mennie, my mum, had taken from the age of 5 until around 14 years.
We saw the classrooms, and I imagined her sitting at the desks there.
We saw the now empty dormitories, once filled with row upon row of wooden framed beds, now empty (the school no longer takes boarders - so much red tape and rules and regulations). Situated at the top of the school, long, large sunny rooms - I imagined her sleeping in one of the tiny beds- and wondered how she really felt - living with so many others, strangers, for away from her parents whom she adored.
We saw the long row of small bathroom cubicles, and the small wardrobes standing in neat rows, now empty of the girls coat and pinafores and blouses which once hung inside.
We saw the church where I know she would have gone, and we saw the concert hall - where I had a photograph of her back in maybe 1945 taking part in a play.
Then we walked to the gardens. Sister Shanta told us that the gardens all those years ago were stunning, with rosebeds, and seasonal flowers in full bloom - now a huge part of them had been scooped away to make a large sports ground and assembly area. But the grounds were still lovely. Very early Rhododendrons showed hints of the rich red flowers which will soon come into blossom. And to my delight, small crowns of daffodils appeared. I had never associated daffodils with India, but why not? The climate is right and we saw both daffodils and snow drops in Sikkim too. Creamy temple flowers, which looked deep yellow from far, but up close were more buttery and gentle.
I showed the nuns the photographs I had of mum at Loreto and we identified together the places where they had been taken.
There was one particular photograph which really speaks to me. Mum must have been around 9, maybe 10 and was standing at the baluster of a staircase in the Loreto garden. I had shown Sister Shanta and Sushila who had taken me to that exact spot. I find it hard to explain how I felt, I was standing in the exact place where my mum had stood - a young girl, with her whole life ahead of her. And I cried. I cried that back then, she would never have thought her life would be cut short at the age of 69. I looked at that photograph in detail - a lovely young girl, and although the photo is black and white I see her green blue eyes. I see her youth and feel her presence, As I write this now, tears prick my eyes.
I never ever thought of her as a young girl. She was always ‘mum’. That was her role in my lifetime and I regret that I never really knew thought enough of her as this young girl who is so present with us now as we walk around Loreto.
I long to be able to talk to her - how did she feel during her time in India? How did she feel being at boarding school? How does she feel seeing us here now, retracing her life in India. I look at this photograph - her long dark hair (she always had short hair when I knew her) - and what a funny thing to think - ‘when I knew her’. Of course I knew her, but I wish I had known more, I have questions to ask now, answers to hear. And the realisation that she had life before me, of course she did - but I never saw her as that identity. Her identity was ‘mum’.
Again I looked at those eyes - I see the truth and respect that were her values and such a sense of who she was. I look at her arms in her school blouse - I thought the sleeves were slightly short and I saw her as being a little bit taller than would be average for her age. I longed for her to know I was there. I longed for her to know how I was honouring her life story. I looked and looked at the photograph. Days gone by. Lives over. Lost opportunities. Sadness for her. Deep hollow sadness for the illness which had come to her. Not an illness that suited her. Because she was elegant, and intelligent, and had a zest for life which carried her through many hardships in her life, sustained her, and made her the person she was - someone who saw beauty and charm in all aspects of her life. And for parts of her life where darkness set in , a faith that was unwavering.
The Sisters allowed us to linger on alone, as they carried on with their duties. We went back to the steps where that photo was taken. I sat there, in the sunny silence of a Darjeeling Saturday in March 2024, glad, happy, sad, melancholy - all these things swirling around me.
We walked up the steps from the gardens and past the school building, to the Convent chapel which was situated at the entrance gate to the grounds. We went into the Convent church and I sat in one of the dark wooden pews, and imagined that she may have sat in this self same place. She had been there. Where she had been, there I was. I felt my whole childhood wrap around me, as she came to my mind, sifting from the Darjeeling girl, into a young mother to me, still in the prime of her life. And then I saw her face as an older lady, just 9 years older than my age now. I sit and absorb the moment in the quiet serenity of that church in the hills of India.
I imagined granny and grandpa arriving to take her for afternoon tea in the town. I imagined her in her school concert - I do remember her telling me about it - she was the ‘Clerk of the Weather” in a play called ‘The Madcap Seasons’ . I remember she told me she was not overly interested in many subjects at school. She missed life on the compound with her parents and Ayah. She told me of her piano lessons and how she hated practising her scales. But still, I just did not truly think of her as anything other than ‘mum’. That is until this time. Bitter sweet. But mostly sweet.
I ponder also. To the new identify a woman takes on when she becomes a mother, and is known as ‘mum’. Does her previous identify disappear, is it hidden by a thin veil, does she put to rest much of her essence and step into the new role of motherhood , closing the chapters of a past life? Would our relationships with parents be different if we called them by their names? Reminding us they are more than ‘only’ mothers? Becoming a mother, so much is gained, but what is lost?
A Fond Farewell
The next morning we were to leave Darjeeling for Sikkim. I set our alarm for 5.45am and quickly got ready to attend the 8am Sunday mass back down at the Convent. I had such a desire to - I know she would have had gladness in her heart for this.
As we travelled to Sikkim Anil suggested that we may wish to change our plans and come back to Darjeeling - how did he know this was my longing too?? I just wanted to come back, to say goodbye to that little girl. To stand in her footsteps once more.
So that is just what we did . After spending 4 days exploring mystical Sikkim - monasteries, temples, fields of cardamom and roadside mounds of ginger, waterfalls, hillsides, roadside stops for oranges straight from the hillside trees, we returned to say goodbye to Darjeeling.
This time we stayed in the Elgin Hotel. Such a beautiful heritage hotel. They had not been able to give us a room with a view of Kanchenjunga and my disappointment was only short lived. From our beds, we had the priceless sight of the beauty of an Indian Hill station at night - the village set into the hill side, and after sun set, darkness spread across the Hill station, like spilling black ink. The tiny lights of the houses, temples, shops and street lamps studded that black velvet cushion like tiny diamonds. I think I loved that view as much as Kanchenjunga.
I told the Sisters that we had come back to Darjeeling, and we were thrilled to have dinner in the convent with them- the living quarters of the convent once accommodating many many nuns, now home to only 6. What a treasured evening that was and will remain with me for ever.
We left Darjeeling spellbound, with gladness in our hearts, new friends, cherished memories, and always, holding dear a place in our hearts and memories for those gone before us.
Never forgotten - Mum, Gaga, Kathleen Anne Mennie Brown 13 June 1936 - 11 August 2005.
What a fantastic story x