Decisions in Old Delhi (November 23-November 25, 2008)

After breakfast, the German man and I part ways.

I wander the streets of Old Delhi, probing shops, trying to find cheap Kashmiri pashmina shawls and a place where I can exchange books I've read for ones I haven't. I am looking for a shawl similar to the one a Pakistani friend of mine gifted me in college, the kind with hand-stitched embroidery embellishing the corners and borders. I learn that Old Delhi, such a touristy place, is probably not the place I will find a good price. In fact, although pashmina shawls are probably cheaper in India than in the States, they are still more expensive than I had expected. After trying on some real (and expensive) pashmina shawls, and interrogating the salesman about discerning an authentic pashmina, I find another salesman selling cheap, wool shawls that have embroidery similar to what I had been looking for in pashmina. They are clearly of much lower quality than I would have hoped, but he takes me to his upstairs room and shows me his whole selection. I try on a red and black one, and as he has no mirror, he uses my digital camera to photograph me so I can see how I look.

I bargain hard and he offers them to me for the incredibly low prices I had requested (I think Rs. 400 for the two of them). I didn't think he'd give me that price, and I realize I don't really want them, so I say, "No, never mind, I've changed my mind." He says, "No, you can't do that." I think I've violated a rule of bargaining here, and begin to feel guilty. He begs me to buy the shawls. I will be his first sale for the day, and he's having a slow day. If he can sell these to me, it will guarantee he'll have a good day. The first sale is always a lucky one, he indicates. I buy the two shawls, justifying the purchase by telling myself they'll make good gifts for my mother and Nonna, or at least keep me warm as I travel. Only thing is, they're pretty thick and bulky (compared to pashmina).

I look for some books, but I can't find anything. I cannot remember if it is today or the following day, but one day while I am eating my thali lunch, a parade starts up in the main street of Old Delhi. It is a Sikh festival, and the Sikhs bring their communal kitchen to the streets for all to enjoy. There are brass bands and groups of school children marching through the street in parade fashion. A bus comes through decorated with strings of flowers. The Sikhs have prepared food dishes to share with all the people lining the streets of Old Delhi--chole bhature (spicy chick peas with maida flower fried bread that puffs up like a bubble), and others. Crowds surround some men giving out juice boxes and food. A good time is had by all, but the streets are left to bear the brunt of the festival.

Later in the day, I bump into the German guy. He tells me he's left a note for me with the front desk staff at our hostel. When I get to the hostel, I ask for the note. "Think about it. Do it. You may not get another chance," it reads. Of all the people to give me such advice, he must know something about not getting another chance, I reason. This is the kind of serendipity people come to India for, the kind of coincidence I had heard in other's experiences, but hadn't yet experienced myself. I've been waiting for this all along. Something outside of myself to direct me. My inclination to stay in India for another three months is gaining validity.

Now, I must insert here, that I think I was in Old Delhi for approximately two days and three nights, before I headed off to Gurgaon for Thanksgiving and R&R at Austin's Google guesthouse. I cannot recall the exact order in which the aforementioned events took place, and in what order they occurred.

In any case, I believe it was on the evening of my first day in Old Delhi, after the shawls and the Sikh festival and the note, that I had another serendipitous encounter. I returned to the cute, comfortable cafe where I had been treated to breakfast that morning. I sat alone, looking around at all the travelers who had others to talk to, or who were reserving places for friends. I felt alone, but strong. In came two travelers. They tried to sit down, but another person said, "these seats are reserved for friends."

"Sit here," I said, "I have no friends." I guess I was a little down on myself. They sat across from me, and I recognized American accents. I hadn't talked to an American in a while. Although I was a bit sick of talking to travelers by this point, I asked them where they were from, how long they'd been in India, when they were heading home, etc. They were both originally from San Francisco, but the woman was currently residing in Oregon and running her own travel and outdoor recreation business. They had come to India for a friend's wedding. "I'm leaving early tomorrow morning," the woman said, "but he's..." Stephen was his name. Turns out he was scheduled to leave with her, but contemplating extending his flight.

I told them I had the same quandary. I couldn't believe I was meeting someone even more indecisive than myself, someone who would wait just a few hours before his flight to change his itinerary. He said he felt that he hadn't fully experienced India, that he was still waiting for some spiritual inspiration, the thing people come to India for. I think that for both of us, the decision-making process brought us into our first serendipitous moments in India. For me, these were with the German man and Stephen, and for Stephen, it was with me. I told him about my experience with the German man, about how with his advice, I was leaning very strongly toward staying another three or so months in India, and fulfilling my goal of staying at an ashram and visiting spice gardens. I think this was the mirror Stephen needed to look in, to learn that his soul also wanted to stay a bit longer.

He decided that night to call his airline and change his ticket. He told me that it was because of his meeting with me that he was able to make this decision. I divulged that now I felt very responsible for his well-being and positive experience in India, but he assured me that it was not my responsibility. He seemed very happy about his decision and promptly made plans to leave some of the heavy luggage (for example, a bike kickstand) at the hotel so he could travel light.

I stayed one more day in Old Delhi, and probably met up with Stephen after his friend left on her scheduled flight. But I cannot remember exactly what I did on those days in Old Delhi.

I do know that Stephen was a wonderful person to have in Inida. Although we did not meet up after Old Delhi, we kept in touch via Facebook messages, offering each other our joys and struggles, our doubts and assurances about our decisions. He thanked me many times for helping him fulfill his personal destiny and deepen his spiritual journey in India. He sat in a 10-day Vipassana meditation course and made good friends with a Keralan family who owned a guesthouse. He ended up staying in India maybe 1-2 months longer than I, but we still kept in touch.

Mahananda Express to Old Delhi (New Jaipalguri-Old Delhi, November 21-23, 2008)

I usually book my train tickets online and it has overall been very convenient. At the time of booking a train from New Jaipalguri to Delhi, the only open train I can find is the Mahananda Express, which travels this route every day of the week. Little do I know, it also has a reputation to be one of the slowest trains. I am scheduled to depart at 11:15am on November 21, and arrive at the Old Delhi station at 6pm on November 22. That's already a 31 hour train ride. In the middle of the night, I wake up and realize we are often stopped for long periods of time. It seems the Mahananda Express is no "express" at all; it must have a low priority on the tracks. We stop for long periods of time on and off throughout the journey. The train ends up arriving at the Old Delhi station about seven hours late, at around 1am, making the journey a 38 hour ride.

I don't mind a slow train. I really love train rides, just sitting back and enjoying the scenery, both outside and inside the cabin. And getting through books I want to read. Time stops when I am in transit, and I like the opportunity to relax.

I cannot recall who shares my cabin. It may be a mother and her two daughters on the long bunks, and a man on the short window bunk, with a few bunks to spare. Somehow the conversation turns to dance, and I learn that the mother is a classical Indian dance instructor near Delhi--maybe in Chandigarh. I ask if she can recommend places to study dance in India, and she says she can teach me! I am too timid to ask how this might work--fees, housing, other logistics. But I politely say that would be nice, though I might be leaving the country in just four days. I also have a conversation with the older daughter about Bollywood. I tell her my friend's co-worker at Google is the cousin of Deepika Padukone, one of the biggest heroines at the moment. Smart and mature, she says, "Eh, these things pass. In a little while, there will be someone new." At one stop, the mother and daughters meet some relatives on the platform. The relatives hand them some fresh food. The younger girl looks like she's crying because she had to say goodbye to her relatives so quickly. The man at the short window bed offers us bananas throughout the trip, always saying, "take, take."

I cannot recall if I am confusing train trips, but I believe that at one point the mother and daughters disembark. The short window bed man stays on. This might be a memory from another trip, or it might be from this trip. I also remember sharing a cabin with two men who are apparently powerful members of the Indian police. They tell me that if I need anything, they can help. Near the end of the trip, they seem to drink some alcohol and get a little tipsy. The higher-up in the police force keeps inviting me to his mother's village home. He says that 70% of Indians live in villages, and if I haven't been to a village yet, then I haven't seen the "real" India. He says his mother will treat me like a daughter. It sounds interesting, but I am much too wise by now to accept such an offer as a single female traveler. Luckily, I have an excuse because I have a flight scheduled to leave the country in a few days.

The other memorable passenger from this train ride is the only other Western traveler on my train car. I avoid talking to him for the first part of the journey. I am sick of small talk with other travelers by now, repeating questions such as, "Where are you from? What have you seen? How long will you be in India?" But then, maybe halfway into our journey or so, after having stepped out on the platform and staring out the open door for a while, he comes and sits across from me.

"This train is so slow. We're already so late," he complains to me. "Yeah, this is India," I reply. This short sentence is often used by travelers and Indians alike as a comprehensive explanation of situations here. He doesn't seem placated. I can tell he needs someone to complain to, and that someone is me. He says he's taking the train back to Delhi because he has to go to a travel agent to pick up a refund on a flight that was canceled. This is another thing he's angry about.

At one point in our conversation, a very young newspaper wala sells us the newspaper. I don't know the real price, but I am happy to pay the five rupees he requests. I reason that if he is ripping me off, I don't mind because I am supporting a child who's working rather than begging, and it's only five rupees. But the Westerner across from me argues with the mere child. "It's really supposed to be three rupees, but you blacked out the price on the front. I'll only pay the real price." Then the man brushes the child away. At another point I give a child who is sweeping the cabin a tip, and the man again shoos the child away. "Sometimes you have to tell 'em to fuck off," he says, "Sometimes it's the only way to get 'em away."

I am certainly not impressed by this man, but it's nice to be able to talk to someone, and I have nothing else to do, so we continue our conversation. I soon realize that the conversation is basically one-sided, that this man doesn't want to listen to my India stories, and merely needs to voice his. I learn he is from Germany and has just started receiving his pension, and so decided to revisit India. He had been here many years ago and wanted to see how it changed. He looks young to be receiving a pension, so I ask how this was possible. "My medical condition," he says, "I went to the doctor and they filled out the forms, and the government approved."

A little later in the conversation, I ask him what his condition is. It may seem like I am asking very personal questions, but I find that travelers usually open up to each other because we'll probably never see one another again. "AIDS," he says. I am a bit taken aback, although I do my best to hide this. He is the first person I've met who I know has the disease. I always thought I'd meet a person in a third-world country with AIDS, or in a shelter or something. But he looked so normal. Which is, of course, the point. AIDS is not obvious.

I continue to probe whenever I feel this is appropriate in the conversation. He says he worked in Japan as a young man, learning how to translate Japanese and German. He seems very intelligent. The type of person who is maybe too intelligent to know how to interact with others. He says he believes he contracted AIDS sometime while he was traveling in Asia. I'm thinking he got a bad blood transfusion or stepped on a used needle. He didn't find out he had the disease until maybe 10 years after being infected.

I am just baffled by how this could happen to a person. Later, I ask if he knows more specifically where he was infected. "Thailand," he says. Oh. Sex industry, I realize. Wow. This is the first person I meet with AIDS, and I am sorry to say I have no sympathy for him. He has complained to me, acted uncaring toward street children, and now I learn that it was his own risky (and, in my mind unethical and disgusting) behavior that caused his situation. Writing this now I feel terrible. But at the time, I was just stuck with this gruff man talking at me.

We continue talking. He says his antiretroviral drugs are working the way they are supposed to. He got an early pension because he needs to take mid-day naps and tires easily at work. But he doesn't seem to be in a terrible situation. Yet, he will not tell his doctor about his India trip until he returns to Germany. And one of his medications is supposed to be refrigerated, which traveling in India does not allow. He says he has three chances to relapse, and this hasn't happened yet. He'll get his blood tested when he returns. He also thinks he contracted Hepatitis B while traveling, another thing to deal with when he gets home.

The train is so late, it's looking like we'll be arriving at the Old Delhi station past midnight. I am beginning to be worried about navigating Old Delhi alone to find a hotel, so I ask what the German man's plans are. He thinks he'll just sleep at the traveler's room at the train station, or in the station waiting room. I don't want to do this, and finally I convince him to split a rickshaw with me to get from the station to Old Delhi. I call a hotel listed in the Lonely Planet and make a reservation--two single rooms--for us. Then we go to our bunks and sleep for the beginning of our second night on the train. We are woken up at around 1am to disembark. I try to bargain hard for a rickshaw, but at this hour in such a touristy destination, we have little luck. Because we got in so late, when we arrive at the hotel, our rooms have already been occupied. The hotel owner recommends another place and promises we'll get the same price. One of his workers walks us to the second place, probably owned my the first owner, or by a close relative.

We are given two rooms--one cheaper room on the first floor just across from the reception desk, and a much nicer room upstairs. Somehow the German man manages to get the nicer room, and I am stuck with the noisier reception area room. He goes up to sleep and I double-check on the prices to make sure they're really the same rate. Not surprisingly, both rooms are more expensive than the original hotel--especially the upstairs room. I bargain hard to make sure we only have to pay the first price we were quoted.

The next morning I see the German guy (I cannot remember his name) and he thanks me for getting him a beautiful 400 rupee room for 200 rupees, which he will stay in for the next few days before his flight. Apparently he had heard my bargaining. He says he'll buy me breakfast as a thanks, and we head off to a nice cafe he remembered from the first time he was in Old Delhi.

At breakfast I divulge my dilemma. I don't know if I should leave with my scheduled flight on November 25, or if I should extend my ticket and study yoga at an ashram and see more of India. Thanksgiving is coming up and I am getting a little homesick. It will be hard to be away for Thanksgiving and Christmas. But I have this nagging feeling that there is still more for me to do in India... I haven't accomplished all I had set out to do...

Sightseeing in Darjeeling (West Bengal, November 18-21, 2008)

I end up spending about five days in Darjeeling, which is more than I had expected. There are many sights on the Darjeeling tourist list, and I am determined to see most of them. My arrival and departure dates are quite rushed, so I suppose I really only end up using three of the days for sightseeing. The other two days are for moving in and out.

First, I take a two-hour tourist "joy ride" ride on the Toy Train, and visit the train museum en route. The British are credited with directing the construction of the Darjeeling Himalayan Railway, or Toy Train, in the mountains of Northern West Bengal. Its inaugural journey was in September 1881, and it is one of the few hill railways still operating in India (India Lonely Planet 535). Without it, the region would have been geographically and economically disconnected from the rest of the country. Thus, although the British presence in South Asia was detrimental in many ways, colonization also resulted in important development projects that had a positive impact. Despite their oppression under British rule, many Indians today seem to retain a subtle sense of reverence for the Crown.

I also visit Observatory Hill, which was the site of the Dorje Ling Monastery (the city's namesake), and is sacred to both Buddhists and Hindus. Today, devotees of both religions come to a temple in a small cave to honor Mahakala, a Buddhist deity and an angry form of the Hindu god Shiva. I arrive at dusk and am a little confused as to where the interfaith temple is located. There are a few other worship spaces on the hill, a labyrinth of prayer flags and devotional bells. A Hindu man eagerly offers to take me on to the temple. Although I should know better by now, I tell him "no money," and because he concurs, I decide to follow. He shows me that, indeed, this is a site for both Hindus and Buddhists--pointing out the iconography and small sculptures unique to each religion. He then walks me through a Hindu prayer, dabs color on my forehead, and shows me now to tie a special knot with a red string, which he advises me to use to pray for my family. As we are walking away from the temple, he asks if I want to buy some marijuana. I didn't see that one coming! Apparently at the other worship spaces, it is common Hindu practice to smoke weed. I tell him no and walk away. I circle the hill a few times, hoping for a nice sunset view and photo opp of the Himalayas and Mt. Khangchendzonga, but this is not to be had.

I cannot recall the order in which I visit the next sights (it has already been six months since I was in Darjeeling), but during the next couple days I visit the following:

I walk quite a ways from my hotel, through Chowrasta, Darjeeling's town center, and to the Tibetan Refugee Self-Help Centre. According to my India Lonely Planet, this refugee center, established in 1959, "comprises a home for the aged, school, orphanage, clinic, gompa and craft workshops that produce carpets, woodcarvings, leatherwork and woollen items" (536). Not listed are the village toilets, my first stop. A sheltered, long, shallow trench (rather than the usual deep hole in the ground), they definitely make my "worst toilets" list for the trip. Things get better as I visit the craft workshops, however. Most of the Tibetan artisans are willing to let me photograph them, and I get some great photos as they spin yarn, some on bicycle wheels.

After the Refugee Center, I continue walking quite a distance in search of Happy Valley Tea Estate, the only Darjeeling tea plantation listed in my guidebook. En route, I take a break at some roadside stands selling Darjeeling tea. Not knowing how long I'll have to wait to find a proper restaurant along my walk, I'm happy to satisfy my hunger a stand that prepares fresh vegetarian momos for me. The savvy saleswoman also prepares samples of tea for me, and I am sold on the silver leaf tea. I buy a nice box for Austin, who has been such a gracious host in Delhi. I also buy a cheaper bag of green tea to take back home.

I continue walking on my way, asking for directions to make sure I don't get off track. I am determined to see a tea plantation here because Darjeeling is famous for its tea. According to my India Lonely Planet guidebook, "The tea bush was first brought to Darjeeling from Assam by British planters looking for a way to break China's monopoly over the tea trade. Credit for the discovery of tea as it's drunk in the Western world should really go to the Khamti and Singpho tribes of Assam, who first introduced British explorers to the healing powers of fermented tea leaves brewed in hot water. Darjeeling produces around 25% of India's tea, including some of the world's finest brews...Teas from estates around Darjeeling and Kurseong (also marketed as Darjeeling tea) regularly and justifiably achieve the world's highest prices" (535).

I finally arrive at the Happy Valley Tea Estate, only to find that I am late for the unofficial tour. A friendly employee, however, lets me inside and doesn't even accept a tip! Although the machines have shut down for the day, I still get to see the withering trough, where high-speed fans reduce the moisture content of the leaves, before they're rolled with heavy rollers to force the remaining water onto the surface. The rolled leaves are then fermented in a high-humidity chamber to produce their distinctive flavor. Fermentation is stopped by passing the leaves through a dry air chamber, which reduces the moisture. The finished tea is sorted into grades--unbroken leaves are set aside for Golden Flowery Orange Pekoe teas, while broken leaves end up as Golden Broken Orange Pekoe, Orange Fannings and Dust--and then graded by expert tasters. Low-grade leaves are blended into household teas, while the best leaves are sold to international tea traders (India Lonely Planet 535). I also see a few women working in a separate room, finishing off their leaf sorting for the day. After visiting the tea plantation, I continue on my way back to the center of town and to my hotel.

Another day I walk from Chowrasta to the Padmaja Naidu Himalayan Zoological Park and the Himalayan Mountaineering Institute. The zoo was built to conserve and preserve Himalayan fauna, including Himalayan black bears, red pandas, snow leopards, Tibetan wolves, and India's only collection of Siberian tigers. It is quite impressive in that the animals are caged outdoors, in a rocky and forested natural environment.

The Himalayan Mountaineering Institute is near the zoological park. Although this is not my main interest, my Uncle Mike and brother are both climbers, and they have piqued my interest in the sport. The Institute, founded in 1954, both provides training to some of India's leading mountaineers, and hosts the fascinating Everest Museum, which traces the history of attempts on the world's highest peak. Next door is the Mountaineering Museum, with a relief model of the Himalaya, dusty specimens of Himalayan fauna and more historic mountaineering equipment (India Lonely Planet 536). I am especially interested in the history of attempts at Everest, captured in historical documents such as newspaper clippings.

On my third day in Darjeeling, I am surprised to run into the Czech Buddhists I had befriended in Sikkim. We plan to tour Darjeeling together the next day, but they have to book a flight to Nepal as the overland route is temporarily closed due to flooding. Instead, I tour myself and we plan to meet up in the evening to see a Bollywood film. Unfortunately, I am running late and so I go to the theatre alone, hoping to run into them.

I enjoy the film Dostana, which is Hindi for "friendship." It is a comedy about two Hindi men living in Miami who pretend to be gay in order to convince an apartment owner to rent an apartment to them. The owner hesitates because here niece lives in one of the three apartments, but because they are gay, she allows them to rent. Predictably, they both fall in love with the woman, named Neha. What follows is a series of funny scenarios as they try to win the girl while juggling their fake identities. Although the plot is unoriginal, it makes the Hindi film easy for me to understand. I enjoy the music, dancing and humor very much. Apparently, this is the first Hindi film that addresses homosexuality.

I am disappointed to miss the Czechs at the theater, so I walk to their hotel, hoping they will be in the dining area. Luckily, the two Katkas are sitting at the table, and I am able to deliver the box of sweets I bought for them. Soon, the rest of the Czechs come into the dining area, and I am able to hug them all goodbye one last time.

The next day I leave my Darjeeling hotel and take a 2.5 hour share taxi to Siliguri. I am a little worried I will miss my train, as the car isn't filling up quickly, and we have to slow down to pick up travelers along the way. But the driver assures me I'll make the train. He leaves me off in Siliguri, and I take a share rickshaw to nearby New Jalpaiguri, where I will catch my train to Delhi on the same day. At this point, I am still debating whether I should extend my flight, which was originally scheduled to depart Delhi on November 25. I don't want to miss the train, because it might be a few days before I can book another seat, and that would be cutting it close to my flight.

Arriving in Darjeeling, aka Gorkhaland (West Bengal, November 17, 2008)

In the early morning, I take a share jeep from Yuksom to Pelling, where I pick up the bag in which I had left the majority of my stuff with the kind folks at Hotel Kabur. From Pelling, I take a short ride in a share jeep to Geyzing, a transit hub where I catch a third share jeep to Jorethang. Here, I have a quick lunch of vegetarian momos, a Tibetan dumpling with spicy red sauce which I know will be harder to come by in less Buddhist parts of India. I find the share taxi to Darjeeling, climb into the front seat and wait until the taxi fills to capacity and we are able to embark on the two-hour journey to Darjeeling, West Bengal.

After arriving in Darjeeling, I climb a huge hill, following a maze of crowded, narrow streets that weave between homes, restaurants and shops. The lower portion seems to mainly appeal to the locals, and as I climb, I see pockets of markets and streets geared to the tourists, likely climbing the hill for a panoramic view of the Himalayan backdrop, and especially Mount Khangchendzonga (8598 meters). I have also found that the higher, more strenuous the climb, the cheap the hotel.

I follow the advice of the Deepen and Deepesh at Hotel Kabur an find the hotel they recommend, near the top of the hill. After comparing this to a few other hotels, I decide on it because of the price and the functional hot water heater for the shower. Darjeeling, like Sikkim, is cold, and I want to be sure I will have access to hot water, even if it is only during certain times of the day. Other than this, there isn't much special about the hotel, except for a very helpful young man (perhaps the owner's son), who draws me detailed maps to facilitate sight-seeing in a city with very confusing paths and roads. There is also a nice restaurant near the top floor.

Even though we are not supposed to do laundry in our rooms due to water shortages--and are instead supposed to pay someone to do our laundry for us--I manage to continue washing my own clothes. It is something have done throughout my journey not only to save money, but because it is the little bit of work I have to do while traveling, and I grow to enjoy the daily routine of bucket washing my clothes, stringing a drying line between chairs or window frames, and hoping my clothes dry reasonably quickly.

According to my India Lonely Planet, "the Darjeeling area belonged to the Buddhist chogyals (kings) of Sikkim until 1780, when it was annexed by the invading Gurkhas from Nepal. The Gurkha's aggressive territorial expansion led to growing conflicts with the British and, after several battles, the East India Company gained control of the region in 1816. The company then returned most of the lands back to Sikkm in exchange for British control over any future border disputes.

"During one such dispute in 1828, two British officers stumbled across the Dorje Ling monastery, on a tranquil forested ridge, and passed word to Calcutta that it would be a perfect site for a sanatorium; they were sure to have also mentioned its strategic military importance in the region. The Chogyal of Sikkim (still grateful for the return of his kingdom) happily leased the uninhabited land to the East India Company in 1835 and a hill station was born. Forest gradually made way for colonial houses and tea plantations, and by 1857 the population of Darjeeling reached 10,000, mainly because of a massive influx of Gurkha laborers from Nepal.

"After Independence, the Gurkhas became the main political force in Darjeeling and friction with the state government led to calls for separate state of Gorkhaland in the1980s...A compromise was hammered out in late 1988, which granted the newly formed Darjeeling Gorkha Hill Council (DGHC) a large measure of autonomy from the state government. Although this appeased some Gurkhas, the breakaway Gorkhaland Liberation Organisation (GLO) and its armed wing, the Gorkha Volunteers' Cell (GVC), have continued to call for full secession" (530).

Indeed, the Gorkhaland independence movement is still very alive today. I had heard from other travelers that during the month preceding my visit to Darjeeling, local people had organized a series of Gorkha cultural events. They used these as a peaceful protest demonstrating their unique culture compared to the rest of West Bengal, and as an argument for independence. When I was in Darjeeling, I came upon an ongoing hunger strike in Chowrasta, the town center near the top of the hill. At this time, a group of girls from a school were participating. I also saw numerous Gorkhaland flags flying high, Gorkha independence slogans painted in public places, and even Gorkhaland license plates.