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