On Nepali Language Day, Remembering Siliguri’s Fragile Unity

Hill Cart Chronicles–Post #4

Today is Nepali Language Recognition Day, a day that marks the recognition of Nepali as one of India’s scheduled languages. It is a day of pride for millions of Nepali-speaking people in the country—a celebration of their literature, culture, and identity.
But whenever this day comes around, I cannot help but think of Siliguri in 2007, when that very identity was under attack.

I was there on the ground in 2007, reporting as a journalist, when a peaceful rally in support of Indian Idol winner Prashant Tamang spiralled into one of the ugliest episodes of violence Siliguri has ever seen. What began as a protest march ended with chaos. The protesters were attacked, trapped, the army was called in, and an indefinite curfew followed. For at least a couple of days, Siliguri was a city under lockdown, gripped by fear.

If you remember—sometimes I find myself trying to recall the details as if digging through half-buried memories—the violence wasn’t confined to the rally site. It spread to other parts of the district. Nepali-speakers in Siliguri suddenly found themselves at the eye of the storm, facing targeted attacks that were, to many of us watching closely, clearly politically orchestrated. Colleges even went so far as to set different cut-off marks for admissions, designed to keep out “outsiders”—in other words, Nepali-speaking students from the hills. It was one of the most bizarre and disturbing times I have spent in this city.

As a journalist, I usually stay clear of activism. But on that one occasion, I made an exception. I joined what was called a “friendship rally.” I remember Asok Bhattacharya, then the CPM state urban development minister, leading people of various communities down Hill Cart Road, appealing for Nepali-Bengali unity and friendship. Many of my colleagues were there too—journalists, speakers of different languages, walking side by side. It was a heartening gesture. And yet, in hindsight, I’m not convinced he truly walked the talk. Those of us who lived through that time do not recall his role in the conflict, or in the Gorkhaland agitation that followed, as particularly constructive. One cannot forget that he himself had referred to Nepali-speaking demonstrators as “outsiders.”

Fast forward to the present. Recently, news broke of a Nepali-speaking college girl who was subjected to racist slurs by her Bengali landlady. The incident rightly horrified people across linguistic lines, and the authorities moved quickly—the accused were arrested. There was outrage, yes, but thankfully no “law-and-order” situation, as officials like to describe protests. Yet the atmosphere was tense, and this time the fire spread online. Social media brimmed with anger, prejudice, and big feelings—I borrow that phrase from my life as a mother, where in parenting language “big feelings” are often how we describe emotions children struggle to contain.

What struck me was how many voices on these platforms echoed the same tired belief—that Siliguri belongs to “us” and others are “outsiders.” Usually, it is the so-called fringe elements who have the time and inclination to spend their days trolling online, and one could dismiss them as just noise. But the truth is, such sentiments don’t emerge out of thin air. They are reflections of ideas seeded over time.

Not long ago, I heard a major local political leader demand that all signboards (shop names, etc.) in Siliguri be written in Bengali. I can understand where this is coming from. It is a reaction, in part, to the aggressive imposition of Hindi from the Centre, which many states are resisting. But what works in Mumbai, or even in Kolkata, will not work in Siliguri. This town is unlike any other. Its history is layered, and complicated.

I don’t want to launch into a detailed history (who came first and who last) because that would take us too far afield, and it isn’t the point. The point is simple: you are a Siligurian if you live here. You have full rights over this city, regardless of your language or how recently your family arrived. And really, how far back does one go to claim “original” ownership of a place? If we trace history that way, then ultimately, we must all go back to Africa, where the human race itself is said to have originated before migrating across the world.

I am unapologetically pro-migration. I believe that if you arrive from anywhere—even Mars—and make Siliguri your home, you have the same rights as anyone else who lives here.
Because the beauty of Siliguri lies in its people. Nowhere else have I seen such a dazzling mix of linguistic and ethnic diversity in such a compact space. This is what makes the city unique. It has a corner for everyone to feel at home, and that is what I love most about it.

That is also why political leaders must resist the temptation to play games of linguistic imposition. Doing politics over language may fetch short-term gains, but it achieves nothing lasting. On the contrary, it chips away at the very foundations of the city. Siliguri has thrived on coexistence, on interdependence, on its mingling of cultures. To tamper with that is to risk destroying what makes the city special.

The irony, of course, is that such exclusion is not unique to Siliguri. In Delhi, for instance, Bengalis themselves are often labelled “Bangladeshis” and treated as outsiders. If we resent such unfairness elsewhere, we cannot afford to practise the same exclusion here at home. The same holds true for Nepali-speakers and political leaders from the hills who do not miss a chance to get racist when it suits their politics. Remember that bhaiya song? And the “political demand” to change shop names and signages into Nepali? If we end up mirroring the very prejudices we despise, then the whole exercise becomes meaningless.

On Nepali Language Recognition Day, these reflections matter even more. True respect for language comes not from dominance but from the space we create for each other to belong.

Siliguri’s strength lies not in one language, one culture, or one community—but in the shared ownership of all who live here. Any attempt to narrow that definition must be resisted, not with anger, but with a clear reminder: this city belongs to everyone.