A BITTER CHRISTMAS

Christmas is here once again to heralds -from many other things, the coming new year. Once again, it is time for introspection –and that is the part I hated the most. I hated it because I know it well how I’ve wasted the year, I hated it because I know it well there were many things that I could and should have done, and I hated it because –because I had the best Christmas gift last year and it was taken back.

This year, I got all the time I needed to continue my education but I didn’t, I got the chance to travel around the world (well, at least half the continents) but I let it go, I got some offers which I should have not declined and there are many more that will be and should be lost in the pages of my diary only.

But the year also gives me few things to cheers for, moments and memories that will linger on for the rest of my life. I don’t want to confine those memories to my diary alone, I’d love to remind myself of those moments when I’m down. But, alas, since those moments were blotted by as much bad moments, they will hardly lift my spirit –for optimism is not one of the qualities usually associated with me.

For I am born a pessimist –sarcasms and ironies are the words that I live by. Loneliness is my constant companion and I hate that. But it is a lonely world here and if you ask me, I think your life is as lonely as mine. At least I know what I am talking about –that my senses are intact.

Life in a city has always been lonely. But I never felt as lonely when Christmas approaches. It is the time of the year I missed home the most –with emphasis on home and the things associated with it.

I have a home here in Delhi and most of my close family members are here in Delhi only. We often have a family gathering during the festival seasons including Christmas, still I longed for home and I don’t know, why?

May be life in a city has become so complicated that it is not easy to have some simple and pure fun. One has to go through nightmares just to have some fun and that fun always comes with a price tag. I missed the days when I had pure and honest fun doing the simplest things and those very things that I cannot afford here in the city.

May be the chasms between the privileged and the under-privileged has become so wide that we the under-privileged failed to savour our time and surroundings as we are constantly engrossed with our contempt and envy of the privileged.

Maybe life in itself has become complicated, for, a few years ago, I spent a Christmas back home and still found something missing. May be it’s the price I paid for growing–up, or may be, it got to do with my feeling of belonging neither here nor there.

I don’t want answer for all my questions, for I know I’ll not be willing to accept the answer. But one this is clear that I am a bitter person right now, for Christmas is the time I look back at the harsh reality of my life and it's not easy to be constantly reminded of your failure and missed chances. And this Christmas, I’m especially bitter for I was cheated with a gift last Christmas, which was the best gift that I ever got. It was taken back a few months later and now, tomorrow is Christmas and there’s no chances that I’ll get it back.

Well, may be I should try what a true optimist would do in this situation by saying “Well, at least, I can savour the memories!”

Merry Christmas!

Tags: mizo, zomi, zogam

The Waiting Room

Ironic as it may sounds, American Hospital of Paris is one of the best hospital in Paris. Apart from that it is the only one where ‘most’ of the staffs speak English –or to put it more aptly –‘don’t hesitate to use English’! It seems the butch of Americans who started the hospital a century ago were much more desperate than me when it comes to the language barrier!

It is not the average hospital where every sick man/woman who are conscious enough to think of ‘bills and payments’ wants the ambulance to take them to. But I suppose at least a few of them are there to make maximum use of their insurance –like I do!

It was in the waiting room of the MRI Section where I met the two well-dressed ‘Frenchmen’. They were engaged in an animated talk when one of the turned toward me and asked me in English, ‘Filipinos?’ ‘Cambodian?’

I shook my head and said, ‘Indian’. They looked surprised but not as surprised as the British couple sitting across me who were visibly surprised. Then as if some sort of realization dawned on him, the younger of the Frenchmen raised his index finger and said, ‘Nepali?’

God! I wanted to cry out. With due respect to our Himalayan brethrens, I don’t usually respond to that ‘name’ very well.

I shook my head and told him that I was a tribal from the north-east of India. He barely let me finish my sentence when he started spilling-out ‘the amazing time’ he had in India when his Nepali guide ‘duped’ him and left him ‘bare’ in his hotel room.

He was speaking so furiously and rather loudly –of everything he saw or heard, from the people, the place, the food, the film –he seemed to have one thing or the other for everyone as I noticed everyone from the old American couple to the heavily accented Scandinavian to the nurses in the counter were totally mesmerized while I tried to recall if I had ever heard of anyone dying from frothing but had to conclude that whatever was his problem, his mouth definitely was not the one!

And, of course, he finished with saying that his experience was one of a kind and he wished to visit the northeast when he came round the next time. I nodded my head rapidly to look agreeable and managed a wry ghastly grimace when I actually intended it to be a beatific saintly smile!

Just then a nurse called-out for a certain ‘Monsieur el-Bashir.’ I looked around the room looking for any Arab but I saw none. The plump British couple were as surprised as me to see the young Frenchman stood-up and follow the nurse to one of the rooms.

Shortly after, another nurse called-out my name, or rather, something that vaguely sounded like my name. I noticed all eyes turned on me, as it was pretty obvious I could be the only one with a name that sounded like that. I stood-up and followed the nurse to one of the room. Just as I entered the room, I heard the Scandinavian said, ‘seems like these Chinese are everywhere!’

Tags: identity, relationship

HELLO!

Bored to death in Paris, Will be back soon!

Some Fotos

Keitui

A Birdeye view of Khuga Dam Reservior

Khuga Dam Displacement: A Rehabilated Village

Khuga Dam Displacement: Another Rehabilated Village

The Photo Says it All!

Better than Nothing: Singngat Fire Station

Khuga Dam Reservior

It will be sometime before I managed to post a new piece so for the time being, enjoy these photos I took a few months ago.

AIIMS: Teaching Discrimination

Chances are if you are a Schedule Caste/Tribe student studying or practicing in India’s premier medical institute, AIIMS in New Delhi, none of your fellow student or doctor will work with you and you will have to live in a ghetto, you will not be able to play a certain sport and each and every day, you will be reminded again and again that you belongs to an inferior class in the society.

The Thorat Panel set up by the Union Health & Family Welfare Ministry at the PM behest after a series of articles from the print media exposed the social discrimination practiced in the Institute was led by Mr. SK Thorat, UGC Chairperson with two other members. The report has thrown up many shocking result, which, not surprisingly, the Administration of AIIMS rejected ‘in totality’.
The Panel which interviewed 50% of the Students belonging to the reserved category accused the Director (of AIIMS) of instigating and creating a divide between the students and ghettoizing reserved category students.

The report says the AIIMS administration failed to ensure safeguards for weaker sections of society guaranteed under the Constitution like undergraduate programme and special coaching for the Scheduled Castes and Scheduled Tribes students. They also accused the faculty of ‘misusing’ their power during internal assessment.

As many as 69% of the reserved category students alleged that they did not receive adequate support from teachers, 72% said they faced discrimination, and 76% said their evaluation was not proper while 82% said they often got less than expected marks.

In practical examinations and viva voce, the treatment meted out to them was 'not fair'. And worse, 76% said higher caste faculty members enquired about the castes of their students while 84% said they were asked, directly or indirectly, about their caste backgrounds. An equal percentage of students alleged that their grading was adversely affected due to their background.

The reserved category students also alleged 'social isolation' at various levels, including even from faculty members, with 84% of the students saying they faced segregation in the hostel that forced them to shift to hostels No. 4 and 5 where there was a concentration of SC/ST students.

So far, the AIIMS administration has rejected the report as a bundle of lies and set up their own panel, their report is awaited. But considering that the panel was set up by the administration which is also the alleged perpetrator, one doesn’t expect much except for ‘another bundles of lies’.

It is no secret the problem between the Health Minister and the Director of AIIMS especially after the recent reservation controversy, but the question is –is these brutalities triggered by the recent reservation controversy or is it a deep-rooted tradition in the institute that was there for a long time but exposed only when this controversy cropped up?

Whatever the answer is, discrimination in any form, be it harsh or subtle, be it based on caste, creed or race, it should be condemned. Every one must note that the Quota system did not guarantee entrance to any institute; all the SC/ST students in AIIMS get there based on their merits. Their selection is not based on caste or religion, but on their performances in the extremely competitive Entrance Exam –so there really is no void of merit.

There is no denying that the quota system as practiced in India is not the best solution for what it is applied for. Still you cannot compare the effect it has on the communities. Just compare this –the general community having one more doctor and the tribal community having its first doctor.

Source: http://www.hindu.com/2007/05/06/stories/2007050609700100.htm

The Tribal, the Job Market & the Quota System

Being a Christian, a tribal and an arts graduate doesn’t give you much edge in the present day job market. But that puts you among the minority of minorities and that’s not a disadvantage –at least not in India. If you wonder what I mean, I am talking about the adorable evil called quota or reservation system in India.

The quota system enabled me to enroll myself into a college in Delhi University which I would not be able to get into if I were in the general category. Being a Christian (or the western education system it brought along) contributed to my medium of education that helped me sail through the three years where I was deemed unfit if I were to go along with their eligibility criteria set-up for the general category.

I know many other who managed a seat in the country’s best IT and Business school through the quota system. And if you want to apply for a government job, there are seats reserved for you. And there is more to come. With the Home Minister of the Congress led UPA govt. intent on implementing the quota system in private sector, we the tribal –with our ‘not qualified for the white collar job market but over qualified for blue collar job’ qualification, are the one to benefit the most.

When it comes to education, most of us from the North-east, especially the tribals, cannot afford the financial or infrastructural backing to get good education, especially the technical or management kind, or simply don’t have access to them. And a resume without any technical background is difficult to sell in today’s job market. But our modest English medium of education gives us an edge over our counterpart in the mainland whose medium of education is in some regional language rather than English.

Even though the quota system is yet to be implemented in the private sector, a certain number of them started showing-off how much tribals, dalits or backward class employee they have with them despite their resistance to its implementation. That definitely is good news for us, but it should be noted that even if the quota system is implemented in the private sector, it will be on voluntary basis, and we cannot expect much from it.

Still, what bother me is –if the quota system is implemented, what could be the possible implication for the tribals of north-east India? In my opinion, it would surely benefit those of us living outside the north-east of India, but in the north-east itself, it would hardly make any difference since there’s no private sector functioning from there.

Rather, it will spurt another wave of migration to the mainland. That would certainly be good news to the government if they are serious about greater integration, but it definitely won’t ring a bell with the various liberation armies back home (is that good news for us as well?). It would also means lost of roots and identities for many of us.

But as I said before, the quota system is yet to be implemented and that too on a voluntary basis so we cannot expect much benefits from it. As such, what we can do is –those of us who are already in the mainland should continue working hard -seriously and sincerely, and shows them (the mainlanders?) the stuffs that we are made of, and most importantly, occasionally sent a few thousand back home.

Manipur: A Dead End..?

Walk around the state of Manipur, you would find many young men –educated and uneducated; some may even belong to an insurgent group and some could be a drenched-out daily labourer; some walk with big dreams and some aimless wanderers. They all may speak different dialect; they may come from different background, tribes and upbringing. But one thing they have in common is that they accepted the government for what it is –a non functioning government.

Go and ask them what they want the Government to do for them; most probably they won’t know how to answer, or what to say at all. But ask them about their lives, their families, and their backgrounds, you would most probably find hundred things that the Government can do for them.

Go and ask the old woman what sort of help she got from the Government, she would say nothing. Ask her what she wants from the Government; she would most probably have no idea. Ask her if she knew any welfare schemes for an old and poor woman like her, she won’t have a clue. Think of the amount the central and state governments have spent on all those welfare schemes.

Go and ask one young terrorist why he chose to be a terrorist, his answer, most probably would be he had nothing else to do at home. Then, ask yourself why he had nothing at all to do at home and think of what he can do and why he can’t do what you think he can do, then, you will know who failed them.

For a lot of wronged youths, becoming a terrorist has become the sole viable option to vent their discontentment, and demand redressal because they feel they are being denied a fair treatment. They never knew in which way they are wronged, but at least they know how to compare their situation with youth their age of other states or countries, and they could clearly see the difference. They may never be able to tell you eloquently what they are deprived of, but you don’t need to be a social scientist to know what they are deprived of.

Their feelings of discontentment and humiliation make them become an easy cannon fodder for insurgent group who had been waiting for this opportunity. It’s high time the government took steps to address the grievance of the people.

It may be difficult to bring awareness to people who had resigned to their fate, and waking up a government that pretend to be a deaf as a statue and as mute as the Chief Minister himself. But then it has to be done, in some way or the other.

For Our Tomorrow..?

Exactly a decade has passed since I last stand here. I can still feel the sting of the evening winds, it still whispers in my ears and the hustles of leaves can still be heard –but the smell, it smells different.

I sat down at the trunk of the old ugly oak tree where I used to sit. The tree –not deterred by age and change, sprouted new saplings whose buds are snipped by the mark of a sharp tool, most probably held by some itching hand.

I used to sit in one of its poking branch overlooking the whole village and its valley. A dry stump with marks of axe partially hidden by undergrowth is the remaining remnant of that branch which, to my childish imagination, put the village and its valley under my mercy.

I don’t care where I sit now, I don’t bother how much I have to bend or in what position must I put my foot to step over the village, nor do I bother to count the number of houses anymore. The voices of playful children coming from the village don’t lull me nor the call of darkness scares me, but the beckoning of my conscience makes me restless.

I looked around; the stark contrast between the two sides of the mountain ranges provoked my always helpless conscience. From the village, looking up at the vast green covering of the mountain ranges is a pure delight for the senses. As long as I can remember, this ranges of mountain has been a restricted zone as it was the main source of water that gurgle down the gorges through the little brooks that supply water to the village and paddy fields.

But looking at the leeway side of that very range is a different story. It had never been deprived of its green covering thought never a protected forest. I remember women folks climbing up the mountain to collect firewood –it was abundant enough, they never had to cut down any standing tree. But a decade has totally washed down its greenery.

Small dugouts –burnt and black, can be seen everywhere. In most of the dugouts, you can see people packing or digging-out the black burned-out remains of the trees that once covered the place, and nearby them, bags of charcoal lies in a haphazard row. Farther down the slope, clouds of smokes seeped out of small foxholes. The smokes come from the burning woods buried beneath the ground.

Those bags of charcoal will be transported to Lamka, and from there –they don’t bother. But the little income they earn from the charcoal is their lifeline. Times have changed; the land is not as fertile as it used to be. The hard, day long toil at the field can no longer sustain their simple existence.

The glowing rays of the sun can be seen in the far horizon; at least that horizon is still dense with trees. Just then I heard a voice calling out my name, it was my aunt. It would otherwise have been hard to recognize her blackened face if not for her shrill voice. She reminded me that I should be at home unless I wanted another bout of malaria. Indeed, it is funny to see what a tiny little mosquito can do.

Tags: mizo, zomi, zogam

SEE LAMKA AND DIE!

The road was bumpy, the ride was long and the bus ran furiously. We were on our way to Lamka from Dimapur. There was an eerie silence inside the bus amidst the noisy engine and clanking of the bus. Each one was occupied in his own thought. I stole a quick glance of the other passengers and the faces I saw rather baffled me. I wonder, what good do those Marwaris and Biharis bring to our land?

Reaching down Imphal valley, the air was humid and cloud of dusts danced on our trail. My little niece was not impressed by the sight, she chose to cover her face and doze off. I thought that was a better idea than ‘trying’ to admire those balding mountain ranges, so I followed suit.

Despite the hideous daylight, and being stiff all-over from the day long torture, once we were there, the sounds of Lamka excited us enough to scramble for the door.

“Eew!” shrieked my little niece, stopping at the door. I don’t know what it was, but being nudged from behind, I pushed my niece and jumped down right after her. It was my turn to shout “eew!” I’d just landed in a pig sty! Well, that ‘pig sty’, officially, is called CCPur Bus Station.

Anyway, struggling along Tedim Road, it doesn’t take me much time to notice the shift of gravity in Lamka. My beloved Lamka, it has changed, and that too –for the worst, and it’s crumbling down! The building mourned under its weight and age, the drains cried for help and the roads struggled in agony with every passing vehicle throwing up heaps of dusts. The ghost of the old town gagged me with its stench and dust, upsetting my stomach, and squeezing my tear duct to the last drop with every gust of wind.

I don’t know if living in the metros for all these years have prejudiced my eyes and judgement, but Lamka is no longer the Lamka that was deeply etched in my heart, it is just a pathetic caricature of the old town.

Lamka of yonder years is a confluence of all culture –desirable and non-desirable, with none being dominant. It was the gateway to the world and life, it was the centre of education and learning, it was the centre of entertainment and life –of the enlightened sort.

I remember guitar strumming young men and women strolling the night streets and alleys, crooning Lianlunching, Lienzapao and Lengtong Pauno with the same aplomb. I remember people struggling for tickets at Light-house, I remember people rushing from all over the district to Lamka for the best of education, but, alas, we can only say ‘those were the days’!

There is no denying ’97 has dramatically changed our world, and of course, Lamka cannot caught itself in a time wrap. It has to change. Change we must, move we must, but in which way and which direction?

We definitely moved and changed, but in the wrong direction. We continued to mistake communalism for nationalism, and terrorism for patriotism, rendering a thick cloud of suspicions hanging in the air.

It will not be a mistake to say that the mass exodus of young men and women from Lamka is the direct consequence of such mentality. Nobody wants their children to grow-up in Lamka anymore. Those who can afford prefer to flee and live ‘outside’ or at least let their children study elsewhere, and with big relief.

I don’t want to sound like one of those self-appointed moral guardian, but I cannot help commenting on the declining brotherhood in the society. There is a big shift from the traditional societal living to individualism. The previously unnoticed differences in the pronunciation of a certain words stand higher as a boundary than the high walls they built to mark their plots –and we still sing ‘tuun sung khat pan’?

Corruption was rampant, so much so that even within the church, it was put as an ‘understood’ thing and was conveniently swept under the carpet –and they continued dancing and praying on that carpet! The once pitiable government servant are now the one who are most envied as they can keep drawing their salary without even working for a single day! And shall I say, Lamka thrives on them?

My big cousin who is a Headmaster of a Government School in a certain faraway village offered me to show his new building. I declined, I just cannot digest it. The building, and every newly built building I saw in Lamka, disgust me as much as the dirty drain that flowed in their nerves. They are dirty and stained, like each and every soiled currency note I saw was stained with tears and bloods of overtly exploited poor farmers who risked their head to earn it. How many people must have been deprived of their basic standard of life by the owner of such building, and other luxuries, so as to enable them to afford them?

To me each and every one of the government employee of Manipur are doubtable –doubtable of being corrupt. If I am at fault, it’s not my fault, rather it is theirs –for letting me believe to such extend. They said I am a pessimist, I am, I don’t denied that. But who can be so positive after tampering upon the not so hidden dirty drains running beneath the ground?

Every time I come to Lamka, it never does me good but antagonize me. A friend suggested that, may be, I am failing to see the bright and positive side of the situation, well thinking of anything positive there, my mind just went –well, blank. My friend suggested Khuga Dam, to me Khuga Dam is nothing but a picnic spot, a humiliating mockery of the thousands of lives it uprooted!

May be, the only positive thing that I saw there was –that my drug abusing HIV+ cousin died a decent death at Shalom while I was there. Thank you very much; the very presence of Shalom and its tribe is not a positive sign of development, since you can never say that you are very proud of (with due respect to) the dedicated doctors and nurses who work there. But I’ll definitely give a standing ovation, once, the people who run homes like Shalom, Priscilla Homes and Gamnuam, etc, are rendered unemployed.

Well, I should end my ranting here or else, it will destroy my mood every time I think of home until I can call that rented flat in Dwarka as my home. But the fact is Lamka is my home, and I love it. It is the place that gives me my now so cherished childhood memories as well as the nightmares in the form of ‘97. But no matter what, it will always remain my home and I would jump with happy feet every alternate year to return there.

Go and see Lamka, if you don’t die of ecstasy, you would die of revulsion. But if you think you survived, check yourself again, may be your heart, you mind or soul is being buried in one of the alleys of that old town, but for certainty, once you are there, you will never be the same. SEE LAMKA AND DIE!

Tags: mizo, zomi, zogam

A Birdeye View of Khuga Dam

Khuga Dam: A Curse or Blessing?

How many people must have it replaced

and how many of them are suitably rehabilated?
How many hectares of land have it rendered

useless or submerged

and how many hectares does it irrigate?
How many sources of livelihood had it affected

or provided as compensation?
What are its possible worst case scenarios?
Is not it a time bomb within the heartland of Zogam?
And, why, in the heartland of Zogam

–Is not it in a scheduled area?

Tags: mizo, zomi, zogam

Just What I Don't Need

When I planned to go home one sweaty night a month ago, I never planned for one this. Well, looking back now, there are many things which I failed to foresee and forget to put it on my plan, but then I can manage with them or without them. But the last thing that bothered me was to be used as a guinea pig!

A week at home at 1400+ metre above sea level, I was down with typhoid or they said so. Well, in this God forsaken village, the doctor is the pharmacist, and they said he is as good as a doctor but he is not a trained one so everywhere else, he will be called a quack!

The first two day, I was down with fever with high temperature. At high noon, I was shivering with cold even after covering myself with three blankets. I was given a combination of 'Combina Forte’ and 'Nimesulide + Paracetamol’ tablets. Later when I complained of my foot being ice-cold, the said I could be typhoid and my medication was changed accordingly. I was given tablets of 'Chloramphenico’' which I took thrice a day and after another two days, when my situation did not improve they changed my medicine to the more effective (that's what they said, not me) 'Ciprofloxacin - 500 m’.

That medicine seemed to work as on the first day itself it reduced my regular two-three fever a day to one. Another two more days and when my one fever a day did not decline further, my parents suggested that I could be contracting malaria!

The doubt, quickly agreed to by the quack resulted in the addition of another medicine! From the next morning when I took my medicine, apart from my usual dose for typhoid, I have to take two tablet of 'Quinine Sulphate’ thrice a day.

The medicine must be very strong as I hears insects and birds chirping in my ears for the whole day and have to live the life of a deaf for two days. When I complained of not hearing anything and the chirping insects, they all knowingly nodded their heads to suggest that the medicines worked as it should be!

Thanks to the quacks (including my parents) I was up and going after two weeks in bed. The moment I was up, I rushed around the house poking all over the dust-bins searching for the empty covers of the medicines that I was given so that I can wrote down the detailed combination that makes up the tablet so that I can possibly look for their potential side-effect on the net once I was back to Delhi.

And hopefully, I'll be back in a short while!!!

Tags: mizo, zomi, zogam

On Vacation

I'll be out for sometime but when I came back, I hope I'll have something more interesting to post about. Apart from that, I have a number of unfinished writings from the past number of years that I hoped to finish during this vacation. Some of the unfinished pieces that I hoped to post in the near future are:

1. SEE LAMKA AND DIE!


2. Zo Church: The Deadliest Political Institution


3. Church Leaders: The Worst Role Models


4. Zomi: On the Edge


5. Being Realistic: A Myth called Zogam


6. On Spring Break: A Heady Cocktail called Zo Re-Unification / Organisation

Something about my Mother

My mother is a legend on her own right. Anyone who knows her cannot help saying that they love her and those are the very people on whose faces I can sense fear when they first interact with her.

My mother is not a typical stay-at-home mother, who would wept all day watching soaps on TV or always busy with the household chores. Rather she is an active one: socially, spiritually and physically, and I must also add -with an active and healthy tongue. She did not hesitate to stand-up for her beliefs and always speaks her mind.

Nothing can delute here views. She likes it or she dislikes it, and she would say so. If you rub her on the wrong way, be ready to face the verbal bullet she is going to fire at you, but if you are being your normal self, if she agreed with you and your view or not, she would treat you as her equal.

Even till now, I hardly remember my mother doing something for me that I can do it myself, like washing my own clothes, dishes and room. If my cloth is broken, she would know and stitch it up, but if it is dirty, she would remind me that my cloth is dirty. When me and my 5 brothers and sisters were growing up, she would divide all the household chores among us, and each one of us was expected to finish our duty -and I must tell you it never was a problem.

The only thing that I can say about my Mother that always annoy me in my younger day is that she would never allow me to have more than Four clothes at a time. From my childhood day till I left home at age 14, I never remember ever having more than four shirt, four pants, two shoes, two socks, etc. If I ever have an extra one, she would give it to some relative, friends or neighbours. At that time, it always annoy me, but now, I fully understand why she did that and I must say, I am proud of it. Here, I can only add -she also has a healthy Heart!

I have lots to write about my Mother, but I must stop here as I am sitting in a Cyber Cafe and I am running out of time. But here is a poem by my favourite Poet, Christina Rossetti...I dedicate this to my dearest Mom on Mother's Day.

SONNETS ARE FULL OF LOVE


Sonnets are full of love, and this my tome
Has many sonnets: so here now shall be
One sonnet more, a love sonnet, from me
To her whose heart is my heart’s quiet home,
To my first Love, my Mother, on whose knee
I learnt love-lore that is not troublesome;
Whose service is my special dignity,
And she my loadstar while I go and come
And so because you love me, and because
I love you, Mother, I have woven a wreath
Of rhymes wherewith to crown your honored name:
In you not fourscore years can dim the flame
Of love, whose blessed glow transcends the laws
Of time and change and mortal life and death.

-Christina Rossetti (1881)

Is my Facial Feature a Curse?

(Sometimes, the unlikeliest situation forced on you the hard reality that is also called ‘discrimination based on facial feature’ and you are given no option but to gulp it down)

I feel guilty to call myself an art-lover as I know pretty well that I know nothing about art. But whenever I do have time, I love visiting old buildings, museums and heritage sites to amuse myself with the intricate stone carving, architecture, and painting and absorb myself in what the builder, craver or painter want to convey through his/her art.

Even thought I am a Christian, I never hesitated to visit temples or mosques as long as I have someone to explain to me the painting, craving, belief and other customs and traditions associated with it. In fact, I have been to quite a number of temples like Chinpurni, Jwala Devi and Naina Devi in Himachal Pradesh, Anandpur in Punjab, Akshardham and Birla mandir in Delhi, Kali Mandir in Tripura and many small and less famous temples whenever and wherever I have the pleasure of staying.

My boss knows me pretty well so she was not really surprised when I became the most excited one when she proposed one afternoon to visit the famous Lingaraj temple in Bhubaneswar. Lingaraj temple is over a thousand year old with a unique architecture style and intricate stone craving, so it was a ready temptation for me. Apart from that we have been in Bhubaneswar for over two months and we hardly get the time to go around sight-seeing or take time off from work, so we all saw this as a good proposition to get away from the damp work place that we have imprisoned ourselves for the whole two month.

We left the office early and went straight to the temple. The moment we landed up near the entrance, priests (panda?) started following us around hoping us to make some offering. We were told to take off all leather stuffs with us like belt, watch, wallet and mobile phone and leave them inside the vehicle.

Once we get to the entrance, my colleagues and the driver went straight but as I was to enter, two policemen and three priests come up to stop me. They surrounded me and started asking me my name, my native place, and of course, my religion. I don’t understand a single word that was rapidly fired at me in oriya. I looked around for some help from my colleague or my boss and it was then that I saw something written near the gate in English –Only Hindus Allowed.

I heard my boss’ voice coming out from among the crowd telling all those people that I was a Hindu from Manipur. My boss was someone who will always get her way no matter what, but she was helpless here as more and more policemen, priests and crowds started gathering around us and her voice was lost in the mayhem. I withdrew myself and told my boss to go inside and enjoy her time.

I stand under the tree across the gate and watched at the crowd who watched me. I feel like a stray dog that people find it not fit to be admitted inside the house. I understand that they have rules to follow, but what I don’t understand is if religion is written in the face or if that rule is based on someone facial feature since I know pretty well that the driver (an oriya) is also a Christian but was allowed to enter inside without even a single glance.

I felt hurt, I feel pained, and discriminated. At the same time, I feel elated; I feel like a martyred missionary while my ego groaned in pain. I want to stomp in, I want to stomp out, and tell them that their idols disgusted me and the place is way too low for me. All those painting and carving that I adored so much before seems disgusting and ugly now. The situation forced me to fully comprehend what a little discrimination can do to someone.

I can very much do without seeing the temple; it has no religious attraction for me like my colleague. But I cannot believe that I was not allowed inside a place where even beggars can hold their head in pride just because of my facial feature. It would had been another story had the Driver been not allowed or at least being asked the simple question, but I was selected out. My boss had given me a Hindu name, telling them that I was from Manipur, I talked to them in Hindi, but I was still not allowed.

When I returned back to the hotel, the first thing I do was fish out the crucifix that my Mom gave it to me a longtime ago. I kept that in one of the side pocket of my trolley and never bothered about it. That night, when I put the crucifix around my neck and let it hang above my shirt when we went for dinner, never in my life do I felt so proud of my religion like that before.

Update:

A week later, we went to Puri inside the famous Jaganath Temple Complex. This time round, my Boss hired a Panda (Priest) as a tour guide. No one bothered me as we walked past the long queue without a single question being asked. In fact, I even take along my Camera Phone and the Crucifix, but I did not take them out of my pocket as a mark of respect.

The place hold nothing special for me, but the simple fact that I managed to enter this temple after what happen the previous week give me a big sense of relief and satisfaction, a satisfaction that someone only in my situation know.

Tags: mizo, zomi, zogam

The Other View

There are two sides to Christianity. Most often, it always goes hand in hand. One, of course, is the religious side and the other is the outlook that it brings about.

The outlook, in its real context should have been a stringent one. Christianity is a narrow, stringent and conservative religion and its outlook cannot be so out of way in its form.

But wherever Christianity goes, it brings about the outlook of its main proponent or its early proponent i.e. the western world.

And today, Christianity is more of a civilization rather than a religion. It is associated with a liberal or westernized outlook which in its every essence is totally against the value that it propounded.

Today, looking at the Christians in Manipur, Mizoram and Chinstate, I see more of the outlook rather than the religion. And looking at the few said to be dedicated Christian, I don’t know how much of them is flesh and how much of them is spirit.

I remember attending quiet a number of ‘crusades’ and camps sometimes around in 1997. The few things that I recollect of such meetings were the ‘jargon’ used, which to me are very cheeky. Well this may be a totally different thing, but what I wanted to say is that we, as a Christian, are very far from being Christian.

I think no one can deny the bad effect that comes with the outlook bring along by Christianity. To us and to most of the world, the west is the role model when it comes to everything, including lifestyle and spiritualism, and the west, in its totality is an undesirable influence, it is foreign –culturally, traditionally and in its essence.

Westernization or the outlook that was brought to us by Christianity is like a virus. There is no denying that no matter where it goes, westernization acts like a virus, bringing about a clash in the society.

To us, Christianity comes along with the westernized outlook and it cannot be separated. So my question is –is Christianity guilty of ailing the Zomi and Zogam? Is it responsible for killing our traditional and cultural identity?

If you ever ask me this question, I don’t need a second opinion. To me, it is as simple as that –GUILTY AS CHARGED.©lyan

Tags: mizo, zomi, zogam

BE A SUCCESS

(While going through some of my old notebooks this past week, I found this short essay which I wrote for an inter-school competition when I was studying in Standard –VIII. By the way, it won me the first prize!)


In our day to day life, we used to use many platitudes to encourage each other never knowing the real meaning. Such platitudes are not only empty but are also dangerous.

We used to say that there is nothing impossible. But in reality there are many things which are impossible. Our wishes, dreams and hopes are proofs to those impossibilities. If everything had been possible there would be no wishes, dreams, hopes, regrets, surprises, sadness etc.

The fact is there are things which are in our reach and there are things which are simply beyond our reach. Our capability, our nature limits the possibilities. The criteria are defined by nature and one had to accept them. Thus it is not only a failure but a suicide to want something which is beyond our reach.

My father used to tell me the higher you dream, the higher you fall. Now I understand what he meant. If you are to be satisfied by reaching the moon while you aimed for the stars, let me remind you –you are a thousand million light years failure!

It is our insecurities which give rise to these sayings. We could make our life more secure by focusing on the small matters. Why should we give room to failure when we can replete our life with successes? We should focus on the next step that we are to take, after successfully taking that step we can focus on the next and so on.

Life is not a bed of roses. For every rose, there is a thorn. Removing the thorn one by one will make our journey called life a bed of roses all along. After all it is not the star that we hold, but the journey that we happily called life. ©lyan

Another Obsession

One thing that cannot miss your attention while walking the streets of Lamka, Aizawl and Shillong, apart from the old dusty crumbling building and the narrow and pot-hole filled roads, is the big heaps of second-hand (used) apparels laying all along the roads. You get everything from shoes to cap, gloves to over-coats, and the prices ranges from very cheap to an exorbitant (for a used items, I mean) thousands.

It is true that used apparels (or second-hand, as we simply called it) is available everywhere. You can find them in Imphal, Shillong, Guwahati, Delhi, and in most cities and towns. But it doesn’t get any bit bigger than anywhere where we north-eastern are present in large numbers. For instance, in Delhi, if you visit the Sunday morning market at the entrance of IG Stadium, you can simply tell by the look of their face that most of the customers are North-Easterners. The first time I went there I was so shocked to see so many north-easterners especially since I’m pretty aware that we are very late riser, especially on the weekends, when we hardly see the morning!

It is not that I’m against such apparels –in fact I love shopping there though I certainly am not a regular. But my question is –why are we so obsessed about such market? Does it got something to do with our images, appearances or identities? Does it reflect our economic condition and/or our attitude?

My friend often says that it reflects our economic condition while I cannot totally agree. You can buy a new jeans pant at some other local market for the prices that you pay for a used one at such flee market. For instance you can get a new jeans pant for as low as Rs. 200 at Janpath while the minimum price for a jeans at such flee market is around Rs. 250. Likewise, the shoes usually come around at one thousand rupees and we still buy them ignoring the cheap but new shoes available at the local market.

Another friend says that it is the comfort factor that makes him wear such clothes. It is true that such clothes fit us better than the local made one -branded or not. I totally understand the comfort factor especially since I was never able to get a shirt that is a little smaller than size ‘40’ which is the smallest men’s cloths made locally but is big for me. On the other hand, the used clothes that we buy are imported from Korea and Taiwan, and since we are racially and physically similar, it fits us well.

So, the other question is –is it really the comfort factor or are we just image (brand) conscious as it appears? This is a very difficult question to answer especially when it concern we north-eastern living outside the north-east. If you are a north-eastern living outside the north-east, then you’ll most probably know what I’m talking about. For those of us people, image is not just about our appearance and the brand that we flashed, it is an IDENTITY. For us, it is difficult to separate image, attitude, and identity which are all linked to a concept called alienation.

It is true that we buy at such market because they are big branded-names and, since we cannot afford a new branded one which comes at a fortune. This way, it levels us with our rich friends at college. But the other underlying reason is that wearing such clothes –which are not easily available in the local market, makes us look different. Different from the usual suspect which they often mistaken us for -and which infuriate us always. In that sense, by wearing such clothes we are asserting our attitude (of being different) and identity (of being a north-eastern and not from the Himalayas).

Different –it helps you stand out in the crowd. It will cost you a fortune if you are going to buy a brand new dress which will make you stand out in the crowd but such clothes –which are imported and cheap, helps you look different and stand out in the crowd. This is also one reason why the cheap Chinese made ‘fake Converse’ shoes from Moreh are very popular with north-easterners across the country. In this way, it is also a statement –a statement that we belong to a different crowd and not to the crowd here.

Another reason is (I’m sorry to add this) it also shows our obsession with the West. We watched MTV and English movies and anything that comes from the Far West and Far East. And we wanted what they got but we cannot afford it. It is only through such market that we can lay our hand on something like theirs and start acting like them. And, it is no surprise that Mizoram has more westernized, fashion conscious, bling covered Rappers & Hip-Hop artists than the rest of India!

So the next time you stepped out of the house, if, by chance, you see a north-eastern chap with a loose pant hanging low –sweeping the street, a big t-shirt and a big white shoes with a rucksack and an unusual cap, don’t simply judge him as some unruly ruffian because there are more than enough reasons that he is making a statement and asserting his identities through his dressing senses.

Tags: mizo, zomi, zogam

The Sun Rises in the Western Sphere

The sun rises in the western sphere
and they all said the moon rise there,
where the savage danced their way so dear
for they don’t know sunset is near.

Some says the sun, when tomorrow’s come
but for the savage it’s the moon,
For it eclipse in the high noon,
and they don’t know the day’s undone!

Oh savage! Oh brute! And not my dream!
Cried she –the mistress from the west--
Helpless creatures! Chained, and Lost!
Lamented he back home –with a beam!

And they toil, and toil, not in vain,
for when the savage were in delirium
they said ‘saved –from death and doom!’
While quietly buried is the savage’ heirloom!

A century had passed now,
the savage still savage and in delusion,
For they lost their heads and illusion!
For they trot the path of emotion!

Like a peacock they try to sing;
Like a cuckoo they try to dance;
Like a penguin they try to fly;
Like the black crow, they tried in vain.

For they forget their golden skin,
their tail is the peacock’s tail,
their song is the cuckoos’,
and unique is them are as the penguin.

The day’s falling and the night is to come,
The sun’s gone and the moon is to dawn,
But the eclipse is yet to be undone,
and the silver lining is now drawn!

Time elapse in your sleep, poor savages,
For your hornbills are taken hostages
And your treasures rotting under the ruthless root
Feeding charmless creepers of no hue.

LOST IN TRANSLATION

It is always great to be home. To meet your parents, relatives and friends whom you don’t see for the last 3-4 years and to re-live the ‘moments’ that struck you with a sense of déjà vu after seeing a particular thing or faced with some particular situation. But it is not that great when the trains of memories chugged down along the dark and windy cavern of reality that is presently waiting for you. You cannot help comparing between the one scene that was etched in your head like a fairyland and the one that is presently spread before your eyes.

But the worst thing is it will not stop until it ran havoc the flimsy imagination that you used to cream the harsh reality. Then the train will stop, falling down the gorge head first down and you are woken up by the ugliness of the present which will enslaved you till you got some legitimate reason to get out of there.

You might think that I will be dying to go home after staying away from it for nearly a decade now. And you might probably assume that I would take no notice of the long and dangerous way that we have to pass through to reach home. That is like saying Antarctica is in my neighbourhood –it is far from true. And to tell the truth I am not eager at all to go home -to meet the old ghosts which are made much wilder by the newer and younger ghosts.

To me that little hamlets perched out in the jungle of the north-east India is like a God forsaken country –one can only say it is unfortunate. It is as difficult to get in there as it is in getting out of it. Meeting your parents for the love value and meeting relatives and old friends is heart warming. But it is the aftermath that is depressing. And stay for another day and everything will remind you that you are lost in translation.

Even though I never really feel at home when I am in Delhi, I miss and long for it when I am away. I cannot say the same is true of my home. I don’t know if I misread my minds. But I am sure that it shows the sense of tie and attachment are missing. That is why I said I am lost in translation –I belong neither here nor there.

The truth is I miss my parents, my family, relatives and friends and not the place. I like the place but not for living there permanently –only as a place to spent some times. Where else could I get the fresh air, the clean and clear flowing water, the lush green environment, the sunsets and sunrises? What I don’t like is the environment, the new culture and attitudes of people.

I hate those who accepted corruption as a natural things, I hate those government doctors who charged the poor and helpless for the free surgery, I hate those government welfare schemes distributor who pocket them all, I hate those who did not work but draw their salaries anyway, I hate those church elders who don’t practice what they preach, and above all, I hate those gun trotting animals strutting around looking for some helpless victim.

How can I possibly live among those I hate? But on the other hand, if I ever forsake the place, the missing ties will never be restored, and I’ll be lost forever. I hate being lost; the concept of itself makes me guilty. I have lost my cultural identity already, I have no place to be identified with, I lost my tradition, I lost my religion, and by deserting the place, I’ll be severing that last single ties that I have with my identity.

I want to be here, I want to be there, and I don’t belong neither here nor there. There is so much contradiction, too much complication; it makes me confused, dizzy and guilty. It seems globalization is catching up far too fast with us. It seems there will never be a Zogam or Zoland and I’ll never have an identity that will burn my spirit to trot forward confidently into this world.

After many centuries of losing their country the Jews have returned back to their homes, after a centuries of migration, the Chinese have returned back to their motherland, after half a century of brain-drain in mainland India, they are flocking back home now, but when will the Zomi return home? When will they have a home that they can call theirs and recognized by the world? When can they have an identity of their own?

Right now, all I can say is –God only knows. We Zomi, including me, are one good case of a tribe lost in translation. I wanted to be back home, and I don’t want to be back home. I don’t want to be here nor there and I don’t belong neither here nor there. But to be sure I’m not a crow pretending to be a peacock, only a simple case of mistranslation. A simple case of mistranslation which can be corrected, I sincerely do hope so. ©lyan

Tags: mizo, zomi, zogam

The Best Christmas Gift

Once upon a time, Christmas is a festival for me. It means lots of gifts, love, holidays, ample of time to play with friends, and a time to feast. I remember what it feels like –being free and care free and oh- spending with friends the hard-earned pennies saved throughout the year just for Christmas and I must say I certainly enjoyed those Christmases. But as they said, that is the age of innocence, and once I grew up; it seems I somehow lost the essence of Christmas along the way.

Nowadays Christmas Eve, rather than being a festival is a time of introspection for me. It is the time when I retrospect and evaluate myself, my family and the world. And I must tell you that of the eight years I spend in New Delhi, there is not a single time when I spent Christmas with dry eyes. The only exception is the time when I spent it back home with my parents in Manipur, -it is too much like Christmas, I cried. And I must also admit, despite all my shortcomings and pathetic life, never once did I shed tear because of my life. You can blame it on my ego, but the thing that makes me cry are also, on a second thought, is all about my big fat ego.

Christmas, to my brother is also a time of introspection. It is the time when he retrospects and evaluates himself, his friends and his foes. And I must tell you that of the eight years I spend in New Delhi with him, there is not a single occasion when he was not drunk. It is the time when he unleashes his angers, frustrations and stresses of the passing year to -none but his family. And that is the time when I cry –not because he hurts me physically but because he remind me what Christmas would be like if I were with my dear Pa and Ma back home.

Every Christmas eve, I would look out at the dark and silent night and feel what it would mean to be free of worries and regrets. What it would mean to be roaming around with friends singing carols in the freezing night, and still sweat? What it would mean to hop from one church to another to taste whose food is better? It may sound a little silly now, but I know what all these feel like at that time. But, I don’t know why is it the silence that I can remember of the Christmases I spent here despite the loud annual argument played on every year in the next room? Why is it the coldness that I’m reminded of when I think of all the previous Christmas despite the heater and, why is it so dark when I think of the dazzling Christmas trees and decoration?

It had become a Christmas tradition for me to run out of the house and spent the night at the nearby park. I would sit, lost, lonely and in total silence if not for the lavas of tear cracking the December frozen cheeks and the whispering wind that echoed the sounds of a heart breaking into thousands pieces. It has been a pretty long time since the moonless night mourned with me in her foggy white.

But living in this great world of the Lord, one can expect miracles everyday, in fact, every moment, as long as you believe. And I never thought that I can spend Christmas without tears! Last Christmas, my brother made a resolution that he will never drink again. True to his word –he didn’t drink a single drop this year. I know he had faced a lot of troubles –he had to part with some of his best friends who are also his drinking partners, have to avoid certain important people and worst of all, he had to fight the greatest demon: his urge.

This year, Christmas Eve is different. No one run around to avoid Christmas at home. We laughed together and prayed together. We sang carols and we feasted. There is no fighting and everyone is too busy to sit near the heater. Yet it is loud, noisy and warm. As the clock approaches midnight, I cannot help standing up on the side to admire my family. Once again, we are one big family! When my brother approaches me later on to enquire about me, I have no ready reply –I wanted to say I love you, I wanted to say thank you, but I just cried and for once, I allowed myself to cry. Tears say more than word. Then I gave him a big hug! Once again, it is Christmas!

Tags: mizo, zomi, zogam

THE PILGRIM

The good old sun shining bright,
Brightly shining high
And dry;
The heads are soaring high,
Soaring above the plight
Of reality
The light covered in the night,
Turning, the thousand dreams of night
A headless knight of yonder years

The soul wretched in wonder
Over the secret beholder
Wonder too, had sages in yonder
Naught had it discover
Neither would be the toddler
Under the glimpses
Of Eden’s carvers.

But wonder I no more
I had seen;
And, they had seen,
No more love nor peace
Seen I, in the stone
Thousands had wandered for;
While, as true pilgrim
Said they, still
Health! Wealth! Peace!

SHE CRIED IN HER DREAMS

Marriamma did not laugh,
Marriamma did not cry,
Did Marriamma have enough,
Of many death that don’t die?

Did she sing in her youth
-of songs that dreamed dreams?
Did all they loot,
-off, all her dreams?

For her heart cried in agony,
Silence is her amends,
For her eyes mourn misery,
She needs all the sun.

For they devoid her of sun
And looted her existence
Like a rain coat she was sold
Rainy days were all her days.

Longingly did she look at the birds,
For they were all that can see,
But for none spoke for her
Faraway…is her home.

Punching the head that fooled life
Cursing the heart that built dreams
Simple dreams of good life
That, misfortune loves in dreams

And he said lets make life
A palace in the sky
All dressed like a bride
And furnished note by notes

But the bride is still in veil
And the palace in the sky
Brick by brick she builds dreams
And she cried in her dreams

That little hamlet in the hill lies
Far is now as memory flies
For a stranger she bore now
For a stranger she will die

O Strangers, be gentle to Mariaama,
For they promised her a good life
And sold her in the red light
Let her smile, at least in her dreams


Keywords: she cried in her dream, redlight, human trafficking, modern slavery

Discrimination and India

Recently, mainland Indian cry foul of the alleged ‘racial abuses’ against an Indian actor participating in a British TV show. The alleged abuses garnered the actor a wave of sympathy across the country and she emerged the final winner. I cannot say she played the racial-card well but I hope she knew what she is going to face when she agreed to compete in the show.

I knew the kind of treatment I will be given before I decided to move to Delhi. I was not wrong. Each and everyday I faced some sort of discrimination –it can be mild, coated or blown-out abuses.

It is scary being a minority in India but it is intolerable being a racial minorities.

I really do wish those people who took out to the street for the actor will also look closer at home and stop being a perpetrator and stand-up for the minorities which they failed to notice all these years.

I remember how much the British Indian hated being called ‘Paki’ (Pakistan). In the same way I hated being called a ‘thapa’, ‘bahadur’ or a ‘nepali’. It is not that I have anything against the thapa, bahadur and nepali nor am I ashamed of my nature endowed facial feature, I hated this generalization of race. Above all, the above term refers to race and it is racist.

If someone wanted to abuse me, let him abuse me individually –not in a generalized term. At least that will let me realize some of my weaknesses. I am proud of my race, but I am very proud of my individuality.

I remember reading a column about an Indian dignitary travelling to China who failed to recognize the Indian envoy there because he is from a north-eastern state.

I remember working with a retired bureaucrat in a Japanese funded project in Himachal Pradesh who treated me well -mistaking me for one of the Japanese who worked with us. Once I told him the truth, he treated me like a servant –to the extend of waking me up at the middle of the night to buy him a cigarette. I slapped him twice and never give him the apologies he demanded.

I remember a teacher in my college who never took class but give us attendance anyway. She gave me the lowest attendance. I called her ‘Fuhrer’ and she smiled. I wished I’ve punched her face.

I remember seeing my sister squirming when labourer to men-in-car gawked at her on our way to church. I know she faced this everyday on her way to work. I remember being denied entry into a night-club because we are north-east Indian. I remember arguing with the man in the ticket counter of Red Fort who tried to charge me as a foreigner.

My friend suggested to me to pretend as a foreigner. They say in some places it always works. But pretending to be a foreigner didn’t help much when you squeeze in to a crowed bus. Neither will it help when looking for a job or your job is in the lower rank of the ladder.

Anyway, I have enough of pretending to do and I don’t like a bit. I hate trying to flow with the main stream which refuses to see me as a human being. I hate trying to conform to this strange society which doesn’t want to recognize my individuality.

I hate being racially generalized, it is racial discrimination. It undermine my individuality, it undermine my identity. I am proud of my race, I am proud of my identity, and I am even prouder of my individuality.

Tags: mizo, zomi, zogam

I’M LOST! (SOMEBODY HELP ME)

Last night, my niece approached me to help her with her assignment of listing the names of 100 endangered species of animals. She is a bright little child and she had already managed 99 names and was needing my help for the last one final species that will give her 100% marks. I have to admit that I don’t know much about those thing and even the few that I knew were already listed. I offered to look it up in the net, that is when my friend, always the joker, chipped in to suggest my name to complete the list.

We had a good laugh at that time, but late at night when I think again about it, there is nothing funny about it. Rather, the irony of the joke sickened me. I try to ignore it as a simple joke, but the more I think about it, the more it makes me uneasy.

It hurts to think that I, a proud Zomi should be in the list of the endangered species. I’m simply not ready to accept that that I, who would painstakingly explain to everyone where the fictitious Zogam is –instead of just saying Manipur when I’m asked of my native place, should now be in the verge of extinction. The simple thought of it totally unsettled me. I don’t know why. May be, because it is the truth. I wonder why reality is always harsh and truth always hurt.

Zomi -on the verge of extinction? It may sounds exaggerated or you may questions the connection between that little joke and the Zomi, as a whole. Well, I do admit that I sweat out at the first sight of danger and get panicky at the false alarm. And I must admit that I don’t represent the Zomi as a whole – but let me also admit that as a human, the only claim that I’ve got is being a Zomi and I’m pretty proud of that fact.

How serious I was? Well, like all my peers, my favourite song is Thawn Kham’s Zogam song. I got a high every time such a genre of songs are played and apart from that I make sure that I never missed any of the Zo festival and tried hard, even though sleepily, and learned the roots and beginning of such festivals.

Everything seems so ironic and pretentious now. I see no more point is singing “Zogam aw, ken hong taisan kei ning” from Delhi, or for that matter, from Yangon, Tokyo, Florida or any of the “tuipi gal pan”. After all I spent half of my life here in Delhi and feel more comfortable conversing and thinking in my broken English. And if I were back home right now, I’d be itching to abandon it, especially after knowing the easy way of life that a city affords.

But, let face it. Who can deny that we are not lost but firmly grounded in our tradition? I don’t need to remind you how many Davids, Josheps and Marys we have had among us? And, how many of them can speak; forget about the writing part, our language? As for our brethrens in Chinhills, forget it, the youngsters can hardly write or read their names in our own Romanized script.

When we talk about the concept of lost, we often thought only about the ‘tuipi gal ate’. Yes, I can’t deny that these people, including me, are not dying to go back home, but to spent a few day there, and that too, sadly only as a holidayer since we cannot afford other tourist hotspot. But let me tell you, those people who stayed back home did not fare much better either.

The other Sunday, I sat down to read some magazines sent from home in Manipur. I cannot help getting a goose bump when I found an editorial page of a reputed newspaper written by someone by the name of ‘Nowluck’ followed by a Sunday magazine whose editor goes with the name of ‘Heartjoe’! My friend cannot help wondering if these people moved a little down south, will they be called ‘Nowlucka’ or ‘Heartjoei’!

There is no denying that we all, either willingly or unwillingly, abandoned our home in search of a better life. Even all those who still live back home will not miss to grab the fist opportunity to leave after all having one or more family members in a foreign country is a social symbol that everyone looked up on. It would have been another fairy tale had we all returned back home with the money and degree that we earned but alas, we all dreaded returning back home by that time.

But the saddest part of the story is that even if we wanted to, we simply cannot return home. The simple fact is that there is no opportunity of employment and earning our livelihood. The other sad irony is that instead of our ‘tuipi gal a te’ returning home, all those students studying back home will have to leave once they are eligible for graduate school since there is not a single good college back home. And it is doubtable that they would return because of the lack of opportunity as said before.

The simple fact is that we certainly are lost if not in the endangered list. You cannot blame me and my tribe alone. The sense and sign of lost are everywhere.

Even if I’m not lost yet, at least thinking of all these makes me lost my mind totally. May be I should seek for help. Seeking for help may be the boldest step that I can afford right now. Or may be I’ll just call myself ‘a citizen of the world’ and blame it all on globalization. Oh! That would indeed be a good way to let go -Damn you, Globalization!

Tags: mizo, zo, zomi, zogam

The Zo Fest

The other day, my friends asked me to come along for a fresher meet-cum-cultural day of a certain Zomi Tribe. I hopped along hoping to catch some traditional dance or song that I must admit I was hardly educated on. You can blame my parents only for that but I’m trying to help them unload that unnecessarily heavy accusation. Any way, I think it is pretty alright that the function started with a prayer rather than some traditional recantation; after all, we’re Christian! It was followed by an introduction and induction of the fresher with a prayer. The prayer seems like a thousand year especially since I was eagerly awaiting the special item performance that the ‘scheduled programme’ I hold in my hand informed me.

As soon as the Pastor said ‘Amen’, I stretched out my neck not wanting to miss a single thing from the special performance. Then came a pretty girl up the stage in an itsy-bitsy tiny little dress to whose tribe it traditionally belongs I still cannot figure it out. She was closely followed by a gentleman with a guitar and, instead of thumping their legs as I often see tribal do that when they dance in Discovery channel; they started singing one sweet candy bubbly song.

I never heard of such cool traditional song, it rather sounds to me like some Britney Spears’ if only her voice didn’t shake and for too long as it ached my jaws. My aching jaw and neck quite disappointed me and that is when I take a second look at the programme and realize that this is the first session and all sorts of entertainment are allotted for the second session! Silly me, if only I have had known that I could have had more time to nap!

I was not that very disappointed when my friends woke me up and interrupted my dream when the first session ended since it means I don’t have to wait much longer. I tried to reason the interruption while scrambling out of the auditorium but it rather makes me wonder how these people are going to perform some tribalistic dance while they are fully clothed except for quite a few girls. By the way, I think the Jeans skirt and pants worn by those girls were also quite traditional since they have been around for quite a long time now though I wonder to which tribe I may ascribe them.

Well, when the second session started I have to stretch my neck quite a few times but I don’t want to hold it out for long since it will only ached before the dance performance started. But I stopped stretching after I realize that special item performance only means some sugary bubble-gum song. I wonder why don’t we ever have a specially dedicated dance recital programme as the mainland Indian often did. Well, that may be another thing but it is quite a bore when you heard of so much twaddle and Britney Spears-cum-Lata Mangeshkar sound-alike. I would very much prefer the original but then there is nothing very original about anything.

Then, in a moment of deep meditation my ear pricked as it heard the announcer, or the emcee as they called them, announce something like ‘the moment that we are eagerly waiting for’. I readily applauded to this finality coming as I have been undeservingly tormented for far too long. But I wonder why I allowed myself to be thus tormented and sit here like a putrid mushroom just to see some people pounding their legs and singing some utterly funny song when I can just watch it from the comfort of home in Discovery channel or National Geographic Channel.

But the moment they switched off the light and light the stage, my mind takes an abrupt somersault, my neck stretched, my ears bloomed and my jaw slumped down my chest, all on their own, and my eyes would have popped out if not for my fake Rayban goggle and I could see it. But my ears wilted back quickly as the 100 decibels sound of the emcee’s voice in the sound box jumped 25 rows to bite it off. Then the keyboardist, by mistake, started playing his keyboard instead of some leather bounded drums. I laughed, but nobody laughed, so I stopped, may be it is not a mistake. My mind stopped to marvel at how far this people have come with in such a short time; from the traditional leather bounded drums I often heard my grandpa say they used, to a hi-tech keyboard to accompanied them in their dance. You know, not even the Japanese do that and to think of it, they make the best keyboard!

The somersault restarted the moment the two traditionally clothed hunks pulled the red curtains to make a small opening which I suppose is where the dancer will come out from. Then, poof, pops out the itsy-bitsy tiny-little-dress girl from the morning session in an itsy-bitsy tiny little shining dress. She gauntly walked across the stage stopping for a moment or two to hold her hips and throw her heads around. Just as she was to leave another girl popped out and she would have looked like Jesus had she only had a beard and her robe was not a bit too tight and had her hair were not pulled back and had she had not shown so much cleavage and had she looked a little more like Jesus. She walked across the stage like the girl in an itsy-bitsy tiny little shining dress and the forced fang baring makes them look similar. In fact, the other 8 girls who followed them also looked similar except that they wear some different cloths, even though they hardly clothed them.

The other fact is that, none of them danced like the tribal danced in TV. To me it looks like a fashion show rather than a traditional dance. I wonder how they did it in the old day. Did they really have such thing as the itsy-bitsy tiny little shining dress, or the flowing robe or the polka-dot dress, and did they wear them every time they dance? If so, then it must be very exciting even though I wonder if my sister would really loved to wear that itsy-bitsy tiny little shining dress. As she said it will expose all her fats, I can imagine that.

I was lost in thought so much so that when they switched the light back on, I thought I was time travelling like in some movies. I quickly grabbed the brochure to cover my eyes and try to open my eyes under it. On my third attempt I managed to squint open it a tiny bit and saw something in the programmes list and I realize that I still don’t take a good look at it.

When the girls started walking back to the stage, this time in their traditional dress, I was no longer excited because I know they are not going to dance. I know that because the programme said so and also, it is called beauty contest. It is not funny. They keep walking around and answer some stupid question in such a pious way that would shame even the saints! And worst, they take up a whole lot of time, and they even called this ‘the eagerly awaited moment’!

Don’t these people have something of their identity to showcase? Don’t they have something like love and fraternity to be the main attraction at such once in a year gathering in such a far off place, instead of showcasing some skinny airy headed girls who don’t even stands to the normal height? Don’t they know how to show their traditional dance to waste the more than one hour time that they used to showcase some skinny flesh? Can’t they sing their own song instead of borrowing others’? Don’t they have any self respect? What is so great about a beauty contest? In what criteria are they going to judge beauty, if it can be judged at all? Should beauty be judged by some brownie points gathered from some moralistically pious answers or from showcasing their body?

I know much better. I know my sister is beautiful because she is loving, caring and forgiving even though she is fat. I know my mother is much more beautiful than those girls because she is more patient and with much more practical wisdom even if she is wrinkled.

These people did not fool me. They are fooling themselves. And I’m not happy either, I am going to keep cursing because I was disappointed and because I have to learn my tradition from some television episode that was narrated by some firangs with no knowledge of it at all. And above everything, I have to return home like a fool laughed at by my friends for mistaking a beauty contest for a traditional dance recital. Next time when they have another contest, I’m going to call it an airy head contest done for the pleasure of some leering old men and young men who organised it and I’m not going to attend.

Tags: mizo, zo, zomi, zogam