Alexander

An unfulfilled request dangled over my head like a hatchet about to drop: when in Darjeeling, visit the monument of the great Körösi Csoma Sandor, a Transylvanian scholar, one of the first to ever research the vast domain of Tibetology and to bring to light Tibetan teachings of immense import, mainly by authoring the first Tibetan-English dictionary and grammar book. He died in Darjeeling following – what else? – fever from the Malaria he contracted during his travels in the Terai.

My pledge of sending photos from places my friends found particularly interesting sent me on a wild goose chase around this city perched high upon numerous hills, making any such endeavour a sort of heaving treasure hunt trek up and down the steep hills of Darjeeling.

In all honesty, Körösi Csoma Sandor was not much more than the tongue-twisting name of the street where my uncle resides and his fame was as familiar to me as the spatial positioning of quarks in mesons and baryons. But I had to do it, not only as a fulfilled wish to my friend, but also for the benefit of my own intellectual (and physical) development. This is what brought me in front of the tourist officer whom I casually asked about the Christian cemetery in town:         

‘Why you want to go there?’

‘Well, you see there’s this Romanian scholar who expired in Darjeeling and I want to visit his grave…’

‘What his name? He is famous?’

‘Well, his name is a tad complicated, Körösi Csoma Sandor. And yes, for my country he was quite famous. I don’t know if he was famous here as well…’

‘When he died?’

‘’Bout a hundred fifty years ago.’

‘I don’t know this name. Can you write it down?’

…

‘Hmm, no, so sorry. I don’t know. There’s a cemetery here [points to a place on the badly photocopied map] but the only famous person there is Alexander…’

‘Okay, I’ll check it out anyway. Thanks for the help.’

After this deep heart-to-heart I started walking downhill looking around for some nice gravestones where I imagined myself an astute archaeologist in search for some long-lost treasure. I mostly found tea plantations stretching as far as the eye can see, especially since the eye has some difficulty seeing past a thick blanket of low clouds in a city propped on the highest, steepest hills around, where for some reason the British decided that they should inspire the locals and force them to grow tea plants so that they – the British – would feel more at home. 2400m is Darjeeling’s mean altitude (pun intended), give or take 100m here and there, where nature was stubborn enough to erect yet another mound with a 70 degrees slope.

This being said, I walked on, dreading the way back as the city rose menacingly over my head. And that’s when I saw it: I stopped in the middle of the road, oblivious to the persistent stream of honking pouring from every jeep that passed me by; I stared, transfixed by the shiny 50cm letters that composed the message on the opposite wall; and I started laughing again. So hard in fact that my face turned redder than an overripe tomato and my cheeks started hurting:

As soon as he saw me (and probably a little confused by my overly joyful appearance), the caretaker of the cemetery shuffled closer and introduced me to the tomes of greetings and notes that had been left by faithful admirers of Alexander. He approached the matter by asking me if I was from Hungary and I was hurt by this blunt lack of knowledge of obscure east-European history. I remarked that Alex, as well as myself, came from Transylvania and withstood the urge of explaining the whole political and historical situation, which I myself am not entirely clear with. He said he knew all about it but still insisted on showing me all the Hungarian memos safely stored inside his notebooks and encouraged me to leave a meaningful, deep commendation about the great man, of course not failing to remind me that he was the one who took such good care of the monument and any financial acknowledgement of his efforts would be welcomed.     

That’s how Alexander turned out not to be the Great (although he will always be great in my heart – a 50cm high great etching, that is) as much as he turned out to be good old Sandor, the one I looked for and thus excavated, and, if still on that subject, the only famous person Darjeeling prides itself with.