The Keeper of Memories
First Position- English, Writing Contest 2026
By Sanjana Rai
City: Kalimpong, West Bengal
At the heart of Kalimpong stands a 124-year-old chautara that has quietly witnessed the town change around it. From monsoon songs and steaming momos to political upheaval, disappearing shops, and young people leaving in search of a future, it has seen generations come and go.
Through the memories of the people who return to it, the chautara tells a story about a town caught between what it was and what it is becoming and asks what it really means for a place to endure.
The rhythmic sound of a sarangi drifts through the air, drawing in crowds and filling Kalimpong's narrow roads with a strange kind of warmth. Gaine daju, a travelling folk singer, sits on the still-damp roadside in his traditional daura suruwal. As his fingers move across the strings, the town seems to come alive with Jindagani Darpan Chhaya, a song that wonders whether people meet through fate or circumstance, and reminds its listeners that life is as fleeting as a mirror's reflection.
The Nepali day of Asar Pandhra is almost here, marking the end of June. This is the time of year when rice is ready to be planted. Kalimpong's terraced fields start to stir with excitement. The monsoon winds carry stories of its own and the land waits patiently for the paddy. People flock into shops to stock up on dahi chiura, curd and beaten rice, the meal everyone eats on this day in honour of the farmers. Shelves empty out fast, and shopkeepers can barely keep up with the demand.
Above, the sky begins to drizzle. People appear beneath umbrellas of pink, blue, yellow, and green. Gaine daju keeps going with his sweet melody, the lyrics carrying the harsh realities of life.
…Life is as fleeting as a mirror's reflection.
One by one, people contribute what they can. A twenty-rupee note. A ten-rupee note. They land softly in the small box beside him. Then the drizzle grows heavier. Drop by drop, it turns into rain.
Gaine daju gathers his sarangi and runs towards me. Soon others follow.
People are crammed together, waiting for the rain to stop, with umbrellas dripping at my edges.
They have a word for it, a Nepali word that lets you pause and watch the spectacle unfold. It is called ramita hernu. And what better place for it than here, seated on me: the chautara that stands at the heart of the town, Damber Chowk. I am a raised stone platform, worn and mended several times, with a green roof above me and open sides that let in fresh air. I am 124 years old, built so that people could rest.
But rest does not come easily here. It must be earned or quickly taken away from the rain. That is why people have always found their way back to me. They know Kalimpong for its nurseries, mountains, and monasteries. I know it through its seasons, its familiar scents, and the people who keep returning. Nestled in the Himalayas with the Teesta flowing below, this town has stood in the same spot for decades, pulling people in from every direction. Maybe that is why it is called the "ridge where we play."
And from where I sit, it gathers people into this very place. If you watch the town from here, you can see it stretch in four directions. A green, almost faded clock tower stands at the centre, shaped like an elongated triangle, its tip holding the clock. From there, four roads diverge. To my right lies Main Road, the busiest part of the town, what many simply call 9th Mile. The town around me is still mapped through mile markers: 7th Mile, 9th Mile, 10th Mile, left over from a time before better ones existed.
They know Kalimpong for its nurseries, mountains, and monasteries. I know it through its seasons, its familiar scents, and the people who keep returning. Nestled in the Himalayas with the Teesta flowing below, this town has stood in the same spot for decades, pulling people in from every direction. Maybe that is why it is called the "ridge where we play".
But 9th mile, where I am, is where the town gets loudest. Shops stand tightly packed, people move through narrow spaces, and vehicles somehow make their way along roads that were never built for this much traffic. The old restaurants are still where they have always been, pulling in the same familiar faces and tempting tourists with the ambrosial aroma from their kitchen windows.
Across from me, steam escapes from a small kitchen in soft clouds, drawing tourists and locals alike for a plate of hot pork momo. A small board outside gives the price: Rs. 100. When oil meets the wok, chowmein and chicken are tossed in next, stray dogs gather nearby, expecting leftovers. Tourists blow soft phoo-phoo sounds to cool their food before the first bite. The lip-smacking affair rarely lasts more than a few minutes. Sometimes that small gesture alone is enough to make the restaurant owner's day
Not far from all this, Gaine daju is seated on me, quietly counting the notes he has collected. Tens and twenties, slightly damp from the rain. He counts them once, then again. A smile appears on his face. He has gathered enough. Clutching his sarangi under one arm, he rises and dashes through the pouring rain towards the restaurant.
Life in the town passes through these crowded streets, with people constantly moving from one place to another. The sharp whistle of a traffic policewoman rings out as she tries to keep the traffic moving every few minutes. Horns respond in all directions as a result. People hurry across the square before the traffic starts moving again, while cars, scooters, and bikes are left wherever there is room. Every few minutes, an Omni van pulls in, its back packed with bench seats and passengers climbing in and out. Spacio jeeps wait patiently a little farther ahead, transporting people to locations that seem far away from here. People have always moved through this town pressed together, making room for one more, the way they have always made room on me.
That is probably what it feels like standing here: you cannot fix your gaze on one thing before something else pulls it away. But Kalimpong was not always this crowded. I remember it being calmer, back when the hooves of mules could be heard from a distance, wool and rice loaded on their backs, bound for faraway places through the Jelep La pass. This town used to breathe easier. Now it rushes along, and even the shared vans have to carve out space just to move. Trade routes gave way to roads, mule trains to shared vans, and each generation left behind its own idea of progress. The latest one stands across from me: a glossy hoarding advertising a new mall, its polished image strangely out of place against buildings with fading paint. Just below it, a jhora, a small rivulet, lies clogged with waste, and passersby cover their noses and walk faster. I often wonder if that mall will ever feel like a part of this town, which has always grown in its own uneven way.
And then I worry that I will meet the same fate, cleared away in the name of more space, or a prettier view, because this town has changed shape in ways only someone as old as me would notice. I remember how a hot cup of tea felt resting on my stone, how conversations used to fill this square, back when small tea stalls lined these spaces. They used to sell hot samosas and glasses of chiya to people who squatted on me to drink them. These days it is curated cafés instead, and people go as much for the décor as the food. Some things stick around anyway. Old buildings still carry traces of another time, a few shops have outlived generations of owners, and others just disappeared quietly enough that nobody really noticed.
Then there are the people.
Some have been coming here every day for years. They arrive around the same time, sit in their usual place, and begin talking about rising prices, politics, marriages, illnesses, or simply the weather. Maya is one of them.
She arrives early each morning carrying bundles of local greens. This is the season of ningro, the fiddlehead fern that appears with the monsoon, and chhurpi, the Himalayan cottage cheese she sometimes brings with her. She spends her mornings at the Haat Bazaar, selling vegetables and chatting with customers. By afternoon, when most of her stock is sold, she makes her way to me. She always sits in the same spot and pours herself a cup of chiya, strong CTC tea, from a worn thermos flask, the cheapest variety of tea available to her. Then she fixes her gaze on the road.
I have known Maya for almost forty years.
She first came here during chyasi, the violent agitation of 1986, when these hills rose up demanding a separate homeland, Gorkhaland, and the town lost many of its own. I remember what changed before I understood why. Fewer people sat for long. People spoke in whispers when a jeep slowed down nearby. Someone scratched words into my stone: Gorkhaland. I did not have a word for what was happening. I only had fewer people resting and more people in processions. That was when Maya's son disappeared.
For weeks she moved through the square asking the same question. Had anyone seen him? Had anyone heard from him? Every day she returned carrying hope that grew smaller with each passing afternoon. I remember her tears falling onto my stone surface. I remember the silence that followed.
She never got her answer.
Even now, the agitation finds its way into everyday conversations, in stories retold over cups of tea and in faded posters pasted one over another. If you look closely, you can still make out the word Gorkhaland beneath shop signs, showing through newer coats of paint. The town lost too much during those years, and each time the movement returned, it seemed to lose a little more.
Forty years have passed, but some afternoons I still find Maya looking towards the road, her cup gone cold in her hands.
Even the name of this place where I sit carries that same uncertainty about who belongs here. Before it became Damber Chowk, it was known as Maharani Chowk during British rule, a name that carried the Britisher's legacy. Today it bears the name of Damber Singh Gurung, a son of these hills, the first representative of Indian Gorkhas in the Constituent Assembly. I remember the day the signboard changed from Maharani Chowk to Damber Chowk. There was hammering, and then a small crowd came to watch. Someone read the new name out loud. I have carried both names since. The old one is still there, under the paint, if you know where to look.
But even though people here have always had to prove they belong to a country that already claims them, I have seen their hearts swell with pride every Independence Day, or what everyone here calls pandhra agasth. People say that after Delhi, no city celebrates it better, and I believe them, because I have felt it every single year. It is three days of life: school march pasts, band displays, and the town's favourite football tournament. Days before, excitement builds in the air. New clothes are bought. Vendors travel from afar, and some sleep on me the night before with their small businesses bundled around them. On the day itself, people quarrel just to get a spot on me. Children march in uniform, and the call of "forward march" rises in the air in perfect unison. Buildings flutter with the tricolour. It is not just a celebration; it is how this town reminds itself of what it is.
The town goes back to when the Britishers arrived and set up schools and generations of students came from far and wide because of which many return years later carrying memories of classrooms, playgrounds, hostels, and friendships that long outlived their school years. Many who come back for this day are people who left and never returned for anything else, who came back just to stand here, just to feel what they left behind. For a brief moment each August, the town gathers its scattered children back into its fold.
But after the flags come down, the leaving resumes. Boys who used to sit here with their legs not even touching the ground stand here for one last cup of tea before a taxi to the station. I have heard the same sentence for years, in different voices: "There is no future here." I do not see where they go: Delhi, Bengaluru, Dubai. I only know they stop coming back the way they used to. Their families show each other photos of glass buildings and bright lights. The photos do not explain the empty seat. As they leave, the streets go quiet.
I feel the quiet ache most in the evenings. People here call this time sanjh, when the day's rush begins to fade. The old lamp posts flicker on one by one, the roads grow quieter, and the stray dogs wander in before settling beneath my roof. It is in these hours that the melancholy settles in, and most of it is memory. I notice the things I have watched for years and cannot shake off, like a chewing gum. Across the road, small dark spots press into the asphalt: a fresh pink piece, once picked up, chewed, and dropped without hesitation, hardened now into those dark spots that you would mistake for the road itself. You forget it was ever something someone chose, used, and discarded.
I often think of the stationery shop that once drew crowds every day. It is gone now. People mention it only now and then, usually in passing. Sometimes I wonder if that is how it will be for me too. One day I will simply become another part of the road, passed without a second glance, until even the habit of looking is forgotten.
Today I stand between a clogged jhora and the vision of a new mall, between Maya's forty years of waiting and a town that continues to change. Some things fade out quietly and a few just stay, even after everyone has stopped talking about them.
Not that Kalimpong has ever really lived in its headlines anyway. It is mostly the smaller things, like a tourist blowing on a hot momo before the first bite, Maya pouring herself another cup without taking her eyes off the road, that half-second of quiet right before the first "forward March" on Independence Day.
I have been the still point around which all of it turned. And if I have learned anything in 124 years, it is this: a place survives not because its buildings stand, but because its people keep returning to it, in memory, in longing, in the stories they tell long after they have gone.
The rain began it. And the rain will come again.
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