The lucidity of the sky in the night would give an
impression that the moon had made a formation of stars to descend on the roof
of the earth and embrace its beauty forever. Even animals and insects would
show their respect to the serenity of the night. At the crack of the
dawn, the smoke emitted from the chimneys of the houses would rise in the sky,
mingle with the mist, form different shapes, and then disappear with the cold
wind taking them away to a different destination. As the sunrays would
titillate during the day, the glistening skin would smile as if it has just
received a new lease of life.
*
Hidden behind the hazy sky, the moon would arrogantly walk
in the sky, feeling proud of its tranquillity, while the gunshots pierced the
silence of the night on the roof of the earth. The thick smoke, emitted out of
a houses slowly turning into ashes, would overshadow the mist, fight with the
wind, and make a layer in the sky. The body would shiver with fear and the
spine would hurt with continuous alertness for survival.
*
Ananda had experienced both, while the memories of the
former slowly faded away; the latter remained as a nightmare. He was not
expecting that a seventy-two year old mind would remember everything, but he
was saddened as to why only those memories that at times brought smile on his
face slowly evaporated. He had been stuck on a particular page of the book
called life. In the quest of life, when the things at times becomes
meaningless, everybody hopes that one day the page will turn and the life will throw
something new. But for Ananda, life had been harsh. Deracinated long back, he
had stopped counting the years now, but it must have been around fifty years
since he last breathed the unpolluted air that blessed him after being filtered
through the mountains, floating above the uncontaminated water of the lakes,
and finally brushing the edelweiss grown in his backyard.
***
In 1959, while the winter was still resistant and the
summer was yet to cement its foot, Ananda received the much awaited knock at
his door at the crack of the dawn. The twenty-three year old agile body of
Ananda swung up from bed and moved firmly towards the door. The unsettled waves
of thought hurtling inside his mind for the past few days finally matured and
started nurturing a dream, a dream to see Free Tibet.
He opened the door and two men with their head covered by the woollen shawl entered. One man closed the door behind his back and stood there while the other one walked a little ahead but stopped at the site of a packed travel beg lying alongside the bed.
He opened the door and two men with their head covered by the woollen shawl entered. One man closed the door behind his back and stood there while the other one walked a little ahead but stopped at the site of a packed travel beg lying alongside the bed.
‘Oh! You are ready!’ He said with a big smile on his face.
‘I had thought that you will need some more time. We are proud of your
decision. Welcome.’ He stepped forward and hugged Ananda. The firmness in
Ananda's embrace exhibited the power and determination he had garnered in last
few days.
A few days back Ananda had attended a congregation having
religious pretext where the discussion mainly revolved around the freedom
struggle. Ananda was a silent spectator. After the congregation was over, two
people approached him.
‘Can we talk something important?’ One of them asked with a
straight face. Ananda was surprised, he couldn’t recognise them, but before he
could have reacted, one of them pulled him inside a room. The room was very
small with just a bed and a large metal trunk. Just above the bed, a flag
having two swords with yellow background decorated the wall. Ananda knew the
significance of the flag. The flag belonged to the Chushi Gangdruk Defend Tibet
Volunteer Force, which had only one objective, to throw the Chinese out of
Tibet. "Chushi Gangdruk" is a Tibetan phrase which means
"land of four rivers and six ranges" referring mainly
to Amdo and Kham region of Tibet.
‘I don’t think we need to introduce ourselves anymore.’ One
of the men said. ‘We need people. You look strong. You can be trained to the
highest level; we want you to join the group.’
Ananda was speechless and confused. He had never thought he
would be directly involved in the freedom struggle. He always believed that a
few Tibetans couldn’t drive out the ruthless Chinese, who outnumbered them.
The men watching him carefully could read his face. One of
them came and patted on his shoulder and asked him to sit on the bed. With
hesitation, Ananda followed him. The other man opened the trunk, took out a
book, and handed it over to Ananda.
‘We are leaving you hear for a few hours, with a hope that
you will also be able to see the same dream... The dream we are living with ...
day and night.’ One of them said and they left the room.
Alone in the room Ananda kept watching towards the door for
some time. He weighed the idea to walk away from there. He didn’t belong to
this place. He was just a labourer, working for last four years, in the large
field illicitly acquired by a Chinese after 1951. He was the sole bread earner
of the family of four including him. His father was partially paralysed after
he slipped on the mountains on a rainy day. His mother contributed marginally
by growing vegetables in the backyard. And his sister younger than him,
confined within the walls of the house, spent the life under the continuous
fear of Chinese. No, his situation didn’t warrant him to jump into the freedom
struggle risking the future of his family.
Ananda eyes fell on the cover of the book, a Chinese was
holding a gun on the head of a Tibetan monk. The patriot in him made him turn
the cover, and as he turned more pages, the persistent anger fuelled by the
contents of the book, which depicted, with words and pictures, the Chinese
massacre, and attack on the monasteries in their motherland, heated the blood
inside his body. A tightly clenched fist landed on the bed, this was the only
way he could have vented his anger at that moment. Within a few seconds, the
two men entered the room. The heat emitting from Ananda’s red eyes, hinted the
success of their mission.
‘Keep your energy saved for the Chinese.’ One of them said.
‘You are an asset for us.’
‘I have a family to manage.’ Ananda finally spoke.
‘The whole Tibet is our family. Can’t you see the suffering
of our brother and sisters?’
‘But...’
‘Dont worry, we have people here who will take care of the
basic needs while you will be on the training.’
‘Training?’
‘Yes, Training. We cannot fight against the Chinese like
this. We are carefully selecting people to send them to USA, you will be
trained by their CIA. I have heard that the training facility at Camp Hale in
Colorado is really good... They take good care of our people.’
‘I don’t want to go outside my homeland. I have never
stayed away from my family.’
‘Everybody among us has made some sacrifices. We don’t have
option, Do we?... Do you want our future generation to live like this?’ The
firmness in the man’s voice had increased. Ananda couldn’t find a word to
reply.
‘Give me some time.’ Ananda said before leaving the room.
***
Within one month in Camp Hale, Ananda received the news
that the Chinese had attacked Dalai Lama and his Government had been dissolved.
The Dalai Lama had to take refuge in India, and he was running a Government in
exile.
Ananda was getting restless. The rigorous training
procedures and the continuous feeding of Anti-Chinese tirades were slowly
turning him inhumane. He was seeking blood; blood of the Chinese splattered on
the ground and purify the soil of his motherland.
After six months when Ananda was air dropped by a parachute
inside Tibet along with nine other guerrillas, he saw increase of Chinese
dominance in Tibet. He was not allowed to visit his family. The guerrilla
warfare continued for a few days and Ananda could realise his dream of seeing
Chinese blood on the soil, but the satisfaction was short lived. Chinese
overpowered them in no time and eight people from his group were brutally
killed. Unknown of the whereabouts of the other survivor Ananda spent three
days hiding inside a large stack of timber, infringed by termites slowly eating
away the wood, in an abandoned timber yard. For those three days, he could keep
himself away from engaging in direct combat with the Chinese, but he could not
surpass the internal conflict rising with every passing moment. He was right
when he had thought that a few Tibetans could never pose a threat to the
Chinese. He had not seen his family for many months now. The last he had heard
was that during the combing operation of the Chinese in search of guerrilla
fighters, many houses in his small village were burned. He was not sure if his
family was still alive and waiting for him. As far as he knew, he was the only
person selected as a guerrilla fighter from his village. Was he responsible for
the devastation of the entire village? Physically he was on the verge of a
collapse and mentally he had already surrendered. But somewhere a small thought
was still protesting inside his mind. Was his life worst than a termite? Hidden
inside the cavities, the termites were eating the wood much larger than their
own existence, and within a few days, the wood would be untraceable.
The Chinese Army had already marginalised an earlier
attempt of the Chushi Gangdruk volunteers, and they already had
information about this second batch. The fourth morning, Ananda woke up with
the screaming of Chinese. Holding a gun in one hand and fire torch in other,
they were setting the yard on fire. Suffocated by the smoke, Ananda had to come
out to face the Chinese, who were waiting for him with the dead body of the
other survivor smudged in blood and soil.
Profoundly fed yet the thirsty guns targeted towards him
were waiting for a small command from the sinful yet remorseless hands of the
Chinese. The end was evident but the survival instinct coupled with his
understanding of the debility of the half-burnt timber stack that lay
unattended for many days, pushed him to search for an opportunity. He
took a large log in his hands, swung it with enormous pace hitting it hard on a
stack. The stack trembled and large logs, still burning, started rolling
towards the Chinese. Their guns started growling. Ananda took cover of the
stacks and ran towards the far corner of the yard. He climbed on the last stack
still unburned and jumped outside the yard into the forest downhill. The
dejected Chinese guns were still firing towards him and he was rolling amidst
the bushes and trees until his fall was broken by a rock. He was out of the
range of the Chinese. He opened his eyes to the piercing sunrays. His head was
about the burst with unbearable pain. He lost his consciousness.
***
For almost fifty years now, Ananda, the monk, was serving
the temple in Bylakuppe, Karnataka, the first Tibetan refugee settlement in
India. He was miles away from his root. Ananda faintly remembered that after
dodging the Chinese when he opened his eyes, he was a part of a migrating
troop, who had already crossed the border. He was in pain, a metal piece was
knocking strongly at the corridors of his brain, and the sword of separation
from his family and his motherland was piercing through his heart.
In Bylakuppe, people looked at him with respect and
amusement, a person, a freedom fighter, surviving for so many years with a
bullet still stuck inside his head was more than a miracle.
From freedom fighter to a monk was not an easy
transformation for Ananda, but the disturbing reference of a freedom fighter
killed a bit of his heart every time. The thought of the termite was already
eating his brain slowly. Ananda had to take asylum at the doorstep of God.
As the years progressed, the hurt of separation subsided.
The continuing Tibetan struggle reached him at regular intervals. The thought
of going back to his root crossed his mind many a times, but something unknown,
not fear, perhaps guilt, restrained him every time. He never set his foot
outside the monastery.
In 2008, just before the Beijing Olympics, when the
large-scale Tibetan uprising erupted, which also captured the interest of monks
residing outside Tibet, Ananda could not hold onto his emotions. A march by
foot was planned by monks from India to Tibet, as a protest against the
Chinese. The thought of going back to his motherland sent zesty waves inside
his body. He was skeptical, but perhaps he might find reminiscent of
his family. His tired old brain started weaving many dreams, very unrealistic
considering the prevalent scenario, but that didn’t deter him.
Ananda started his journey with an enthusiasm and a
determination that his dead body should receive sky burial in Tibet rather than being cremated in
India where he was a just a refugee, where the life was recorded as a number on
a piece of paper called registration certificate that needed to be renewed
every year.
Just before he could have joined the group to start the
march, he collapsed on the ground. Drenched in sweat and holding his head
tightly with his hands, he unsuccessfully fought his last battle. The loyal
Chinese bullet finally woke up and did its job, years after it was actually
destined to. A life, which made unfulfilled promises to his family and then to
his motherland, was lived as a mere number far away from his beautiful roots
and when the end approached even his motherland refused to accept him.