That Little Village My Parents Love So Dear…

Every alternate year, I went back to that little village despite dreading the seemingly endless journey.  Despite being provided with options and having alternate and much better places to live, my parents insist to continue living in that obscure little mountain village often inaccessible during rainy season, with a distant mobile phone network that works just a few days a year.

That little village is also the place where they brought us up their six children.  It must be the one place they wanted to brought up their children and grandchildren but that’s not the case for my parents.  None of us stayed back and none wanted to live there in the future so we all tried to make up by spending our summer and/or winter holidays with them rather than getting away to one of those exotic location often advertised in those glossy magazines like most people do.  Of their eight grandchildren two were born in their presence and the last one was over a decade ago now.

That doesn’t meant I don't like the place.  No matter what that little village is the one place I still called home and my heart still beats for it.  Despite my untiring complaints of  everything, from the lack of privacy to my inability to use my mobile phone or wifi-internet connection, and despite my unending whining about the lack of basic infrastructures and the government’s apathy, I still yearn for that village and the simple people who live there.

My mother sent me off to live with my Brother just before I entered my teenage years not only because of the ethnic troubles at that time, but also to escape the drug-prone environment.  Moving to Delhi has been dramatic for me in many ways.  But I'm not complaining or blaming my Mother, rather I thanked her for letting me face the real world early without waiting for the inescapable reality we are ought to face in the future and being caught unprepared.

My whole family has been scattered across India and abroad.  My parents are getting old and there are slim chances of a family get-together.  I often wondered if my parents ever felt lonely and regret sending all of us off.  Mother always explained that it’s for our own good and with the hope that we can make something out of ourselves. 

I can’t say we made something out of ourselves with pride –to other, we are still nothing but we did it okay.  We all would loved if our parents wanted to live with at least one of us in a city, but they have sacrificed enough doing without us and we are not going to ask them to part with the one place they love.  Apart from that, I often observed how handicapped and worthless they felt in the few occasion they came to visit us. 

In the village, they have farm and garden to keep them busy, animals to take care of, have close relatives as neighbours who sought their advice for every decision and can take care of them if the needs be. They have a full and dignified life there, the only thing amiss is their children. If they had lived with us, they have to give up all that since life in a city call for a totally different life style. We don’t want them to make so many changes and adjustments so late in their life or feel sorry about themselves for the remaining years of their life.

We know how much they miss us and we miss them too.  It’s a sacrifice –a sacrifice to maintain dignity, to show our respect and love and as a token of thanks –a sacrifice that we all understand.  That’s the reason why we never wanted to drag them away from the one place they love –the place that we all realized we are still in love with.

Life In A City

Talking in phone with my little niece back home, she reminds me of how much I fancied living in a big city when I was her age. I saw the lights, the glitters and the glamour in those films and convince myself to believe living in a city would guarantee them all. What a disappointment!

In those days, if I were told that there are frequent power-cuts in big cities like Delhi or Bombay or that the roads are filled with pot-holes, I would shake my head in dispassionate unbelief. And, how would I believe that I would spent a large chunk of my hard-earned money on renting a single room that's more like a dark cave with a single door and a window (if you're lucky)!

Many of us living outside left behind their wives/husbands; children and or parents back at home. I don't want to imagine what those separated couples must be undergoing, but I can speak for myself and assert that it's not easy either –being single, working and living in a city.

If you are lucky enough to get Sunday off from your work, it's the only day when you can meet people of your kind -that too, only if the church is within a reasonable distance. That Sunday church service could be your only 'social life' for the week unless you are one of those crows who are comfortable enough in their fake peacock's feather.

On the occasional time you went to church, you might even saw someone who fasten you heart beat and you may stole many quick glances, but that's as far as you would go, because for the next six days, you would be pre-occupied with your work and you would even hardly have the time to think about her/him.

You woke up in the morning, clean yourself, have breakfast, pack you lunch and off you went to spent the next hour commuting to your work place. You returned home in the evening buying grocery on your way, tidy yourself up, prepare and have dinner, watch a little bit of TV and you dozed off. You repeated the same pattern the next day, six days a week, and will continue to do so in the future. That’s life in the city.

If you are lucky enough to have someone within the neighborhood, you'll at least have someone to chat with, or if your family or friends have telephone, you can chat away for something about your monotonous/redundant life bearing in mind your fast running phone bill. Maintaining a relationship is expensive, it not only consumes time, but also your money.

Life in a city provides many 'pros' and as much 'cons', just like in the rural areas. Big cities offer mostly materialistic things, and to enjoy them one needs to have a deep pocket, and most of us can afford that. While at home, what we are being offered are mostly aesthetic like clean air, water & environment, love, friendships and so on; the absence of which can make life pretty scary...

May be that's the reason why the word 'home' sounds so heart-warming. The mere thought of 'home' can heal you of the day's fatigue, it can relax you from the tension boiling inside you on over-hearing someone calling you names or making an unnecessary comments about you. The word 'home' can transport you across the seas and the plains and take you to those ranges of hills and mountains where you spent the happy days of your childhood. The word 'home' is transcendental; it’s therapeutic and transforming...

Pipi & Pupu in Delhi

Nobody liked changes, especially the older generation; it hit them hard and square. They have a notion of things, place, situation and life and don’t want to see that notion derided or banished. Neither would I. But with many of us living outside our native place, many parents are forced to follow along their children and live outside the world that they had spent their life.

It must be hard for them to make so many adjustments and changes so late in their life. It is understandable that most of them are totally handicapped when they moved to a territory unknown to them. We, the children, have to understand and take care of their psychological and mental need as this is the time when they started thinking that they have no purpose and are useless around the new places.

In places like Delhi, there are number of aged population from our community who had come to live with their children. And it is understandable most of them don’t like the place at all. Both my parents still choose to live back home even though all of us, their children, are living outside.

My parents knew what life is like in Delhi as they have visited us more than once. Though my mother, unlike my father, never complained about life in Delhi, I can feel from her look and the little word she spoke that she dreaded the time when she would be left with no choices but to live with us.

When my mother came to visit us recently, I took her around the various departmental stores in Dwarka. I piteously looked at her as she stands there flummoxed by the varieties of toothpastes, and struggling to choose one. Then, she gasped and an awkward grin spread through her face as she saw the ordinary white Colgate that was available back home. As she tightly grasped the toothpaste, she said beneath her breath that she always preferred those.

I looked at my mother –lost; lost for word, lost for what to do next, afraid to take the next step. Late at night when we were alone, she complained bitterly how she had become invalid around here. I told her not to be silly, what else can I say?

It breaks my heart to take away my parents to this foreign land where they will be eternal aliens, incapable of moving around on their own and relying on their busy children for even the smallest of needs which I may not always be able to take care of. The last thing I want to do to my parent is to clip-off their wings and take away their self-worth.

While my Mother was in Delhi, she once told me this is not the world as she knew it. It’s an unfamiliar territory for her. She would definitely miss our little village where she walked up to the shop keeper and asked for a tooth-paste and was given one without being asked the type, variety or flavour.

I once asked my Parents to come and live with us in Delhi. My Father joked if I would be willing to baby-sit both of them at all time. I am not a good babysitter. Rather I am the one whom everyone around me baby-sitted. They, especially my mother, would tell me when to eat, when to sleep and when to visit relatives and whom to visit.

I don’t need to be reminded of these small details, but that’s what she chooses to do. But now, the babies here would be my parents, and they knew better than me that hitting one’s head against the wall will hurt us and not the wall. And here, their emotional needs will be more than their physical, and those needs are available only at home -back home, where they are free.

On the other hand it breaks my heart to think that my aged parents do their own laundry, fetch water and do all sort of household work by themselves. But the bottom line for me is that I would not take away their independence as long as they wish to have, and even if they choose to come and live with us, I would promise them that I would make sure that I would not part them from their loved ones if they choose to, as and when they die because that is one of their biggest fear.

And that definitely would be a sad ending…

"October 1 is International Day of Older Persons (as recognized by the UN), it is also world Vegetarian Day"

The World in Silent Mode...

One of my favourite past-time used to be watching TV in silent mode.  It always transfixed me to see situations unfurl silently and to let the world pass-by without sound.  It is like a dream –it can be nightmarish but mostly harmless.

But these days, I hardly have time to indulge in that favourite past-time of mine.  I have been busy, especially this past week when I got an additional job as an attendant to a sick nephew who was hospitalized.

Last night, I somehow managed some time, so I curled up in the couch and switched on the TV and turned off the sound.  I was an old habit to start browsing the channels starting from the news networks, then move to sports, movies until I stopped at one of the cartoon networks.  Last night was no different. 

The first news network had a commercial running.  There was a man who looked tense and paced up and down the corridor of a building that looked like a hospital.  Then a nurse appeared with a baby which she handed to the man.  The man looked very relieved.  Then a nurse appeared again with a baby and handed to the man.  He looked happy.  Then another nurse appeared with a baby, the hand of the man was full, but he still looked happy.  The product was about insurance from a banking firm.

The next was a Hindi news network and had ‘breaking news’ in big bold letter with big pictures of leopard splashed in the wide screen behind the anchor.  After the anchor babbled for sometime, the camera took me to a big well wherein inside fall a baby leopard.  The camera zoomed in and out with the leopard circled and continued on and on.  After zooming in and out for about 5 minutes, the villagers somehow lowered down a jute cot covered in white sheet.  The poor feline looked petrified and curled up at the corner where it stood.  Then appeared a man who managed to put a rope around the neck of the cat, lifted up (I thought it might choke) and put it on the cot.  The cot was lifted up to safety and the poor animal was shoved to the side.  I don’t know what happened next as the camera didn’t show me and the twitching face of the anchor came back to the screen.  But I can almost hear an applause coming, may be, from the neighbours’ TV.

That piece of ‘breaking news’ was followed by another section called ‘viewers alert’.  It was about an exposed electrical wires around a transmitter in Orissa.  There were some dead rats around.  I’m pretty sure the viewers get the message. And they also have prizes for the viewer who sent the video.  The prizes include jewellery and some other products which I could not figure out.

Then I moved to another Hindi news network and saw a mob beating up a teenager.  The poor boy seemed to be begging for mercy with folded hands while the men around him continued slapping him back and forth, turned around and smiled at the camera.  I moved to another news channel where a segment called ‘viewers alert’ started (not the previous one).  There was a breaded, beaded man in orange coloured shirt and from the image in his back drop, I figured out he must be an astrologer, so I moved.

There was commercial in one of the English news channel I often tuned in.  The commercial had a man and a woman, no, actually a person who is dressed as half-man and half-women.  The man half and the woman half were (was?) arguing.  I don’t know what their argument was about, or the product they endorsed, but it was highly amusing.

The next channel showed flood victims in a certain part of India.  Dead bodies of three cows and a woman were floating in the side of a bush.  I quickly pressed my remote.  There were commercial in most of the network so I continued moving.

Then I stopped at a channel that showed skinny girls with hardly any clothing, walking down the stage with respectable looking ladies and gentlemen watching from the side.  I’m certain I heard the clicking of their heels…

…click, click, clik

It was the alarm in my phone.  It was time to sleep or I won’t be able to wake-up in time for office tomorrow…

The Way We Are...

I often thought of my family as a dysfunctional one. Oh, make that a clan, or better still make it a tribe. Discussing family issues are few and far off. Sometimes, we even use outside mediator to convey messages. But dysfunctional… well, that sounds a bit cliché.

Don’t get me wrong, I love my family. But I cannot help if we, the Zomi, are absolute minimalist when dealing with our family. However, saying that wouldn’t be entirely true though. We are a much more complicated lot especially when it comes to expressing our emotions.

Say, when it comes to love, intimacy, appreciation, etc. we don’t use physical or vocabulary expression at all. For instance, whenever I returned home to see my parents, I missed them so much I wanted to hug them, but an awkward hand-sake is all I got!

Even a mere hand-sake is not used commonly. When I was in college, I mumbled so many times to my friends ‘why we have to shake hand every time we bump into each others’ that it became my by-line. Even today, I still can’t pick-up that habit and often caused me quite a number of awkward situations.

There was this joke circulating in our village about a man who returned home from Delhi and every morning when he wake up, he shook the hand of everyone he pass by, that includes his brothers and sisters and parents. His families were so embarrassed that they kept someone to guard him so that they can rush outside the house as soon as he woke up!

On the other hand, when it comes to grieving, our women cried a lot and loudly so (the men are, of course, not suppose to cry. (If you do, you can be an exceptional case)! In fact, some women think it as a duty and seemed to enjoy it. Sometimes one cannot help wondering if they are giggling or crying. I knew of a certain woman who saw it as a good excuse to let-out their emotions. I’m not sure how relieving that would be!

As I said before we are a society that’s intimacy shy. Our conversations are bared to the minimum. Of course, there are people who talked like a machine gun, but when the topics hits closer to home, the machine gun tongue comes in slow motion. If you are eavesdropping on in a family that you never knew, but the following conversations between the brothers make sense to you, it’s only that you never knew them before;-

A. “I’m getting married”,
B. (As he leave the dinning table) “What for”
- End –

The above conversation doesn’t need any analysis and you don’t need the brain of a rocket scientist to know where it is headed for -for it already ends. And the content is self explanatory enough. By the way, if you wonder what will follow the above conversation, well, the role of a mediator will come to play between the brothers or ‘A’ will get drunk and ransack the house. …simple! But this family is in no way dysfunctional!

It’s not surprising to find so few lawyer and good debater among us. If you insist that we do, I might agree; they are called women; and if this is true, there indeed are few women even among our women! (Well, my friend here suggested if it is a ‘he’, he could be a CC. But I think that would be rather outrageous).

One thing about the mainlander that never fail to amuse us when we first arrived is that that they talk so loud and when they have problem; they argued, they shouted, they pointed fingers, but the punches never come. Among us, it’s the reverse; punches come first than the problem! What I meant is, they talk too much, too loud, unlike most of us.

Another thing is our food habit. A relative once amused me with ‘ganda machli’; of course, it’s what they called ‘ngari’ in places like Shillong. But just think of what it translates to in English! Our food habits are amusing to others, though it sounds lame if we compare to the Chinese’s but most people don’t know what the Chinese eat. Still, I think it’s a good idea to shut our mouth about ‘uisa’!

Another thing that is amusing to others is our big extended family. I once read in a national weekly about a restaurateur in Delhi describing how he happened to employ north-easterner only. He said he employed a north-eastern girl, who has a cousin, and the cousin has another cousin and so on (…or something like that)! That’s so true. Around here, anyone from the north-east is a relative, at least to casual enquirer.

Well, there are plenty of amusing things about everything, and they are not that amusing after all. And to go back to the dysfunctional stuff, I mean the family part; I think it’s more of a universal phenomenon among us, the Zomi, and not just my family.

For instance, my father is a good debater, but he’s not a woman though. My mother has a sharp tongue and we have lots of fun when we are together. But when it comes to resolving family problems, we too feel the needs of a mediator. So, what else will explain the existence of the ‘tanu’, ‘thusa’, etc. system among us?

(Abridged)

India - Cricket - Racism

The Gentlemen Sports of Cricket is at it once again. After the whole of mainland Indian vehemently defended Harbhajan Singh in the ‘that-could-never-happened’ incident in Australia, two coloured cheer-leaders hired by an IPL team’s event management group alleged that they had been told to leave the ground because they had the ‘wrong skin colour’.

If that shocking attitude was not ranked as racism, what does? Mainland Indians, who want to think themselves as pariah during the British rule, often mistake themselves to be in the forefront of war against racism. Not only that, people often think of India as a multi-religious, multi-cultural, racially tolerant country. That is not so true.

Mainland Indians’ anti-racist gestures come out of the woodwork only when they perceived themselves as the target, or if it happened in the west. Just take a look at the Shilpa Shetty’s or the Lakshmi Mittal’s issues.

They stereotyped themselves only as possible victim that they forget to look home and notice that they are ruthless perpetrator themselves. If you don’t understand what I meant, you don’t have to look further than the 10 pages of matrimonial advertisements coming with your newspaper every morning.

Mainland Indian should know that what they often ‘pass-off’ as casteism, regionalism, class-ism, etc, are prejudicial and discriminatory by nature. Around the world, people think India is coming off age, but it won’t unless it learned to take discrimination, casteism and racism as a threat and not minor issues to be conveniently swept under the carpet.

…misfortune alone can’t bring down the bridge

Sometimes, misfortune also brings about a realization that can make you feel much better or worse. Most of the times, the best of imagination, feeling and understanding are not enough to comprehend a situation, and, as always, first-hand experience is the most realistic and reliable experience i.e. if it doesn’t break you down.

It was exactly a week ago, a Monday night, on my way back home from office that I was attacked by 4 men on my way. I had always taken that route since we moved to this south-west Delhi area a few months ago. It is not a main road, but well lit and less crowded. I barely noticed them hanging around there until they started attacking me from behind. One of them caught hold of me and another keep punching and pulling my hair. The other, their leader, I suppose, keep shouting and abusing me from the side while one of them try to snatch my wallet and mobile phone from my hand.

Fortunately enough, I spotted a PCR van passing through the main road and I shouted for help. I thought the two policemen would rush, but they actually walked –walk, in its slowest version, while my attackers make their escape. But to surprise me more, I noticed six or seven men standing near the wall watching me being attacked and didn’t raise a single cry for help –forget about attempting to help me.

We have a saying that vaguely translates to –misfortune brought down the bridge. It was the last thing I expected, to be abused, assaulted and attacked. I am no tough nut nor is my slender frame made for physical fighting. Maybe all they want is my wallet and mobile phone or just to have some fun while robbing someone. I don’t know why I just don’t let go my phone and wallet, when my wallet is close to empty and my old phone will hardly fetch them much, but I just hold on to them as if my life hang on them –maybe my consciousness is not willing to be abused and robbed.

But the final blow comes with the Police. After ‘inspecting the situation’ (it’s their word), there’s no visible physical injuries and since they failed to rob me, there’s no need to register a case and I should just go home. They lectured me on sets of rules which I should observe as a minority living in Delhi and the first rules is to avoid this sort of places. I just want to tell them this is the sort of place we live, but it’s my nature to keep my mouth shut and spent some time in solitude when any sort of emotions passed me. They offered to drop me home; I just picked up my bag and pieces of eye-glass and went home.

I hardly feel anything at that moment but seething anger at the spectator who watched me like a beaten-up stray dog too frightened to even run, and at the cold advices of the policemen and their inaction. But late at night when I lay down to sleep and the day’s episode slowly passed my mind, I feel my heart beat fastening and sweat started to cover me. The thought of my attacker made me tired than the day’s work and the cold advice of the policemen made me shudder, and the whole incidents makes me nervous about the next day.

My attackers are no different from the average people whom I met in the street, or the people whom I work with. The mute spectators are not different either; they are the same faces I see when I look out of the window, when I turn left or right. How can I ever know this or that person will attack me and which one will not? I doubt I’ll ever find the answer, so I’ll have to live with the fear until time and memories sympathize with me and make me forget all about the incident.

I had always been concerned about my sisters and nieces, but it seems I hardly understand their feeling. Fearing about something that we never experience and fearing something that we had experienced is totally different. Looking back now, I’m especially angry with my self and at the policemen who advised me to quietly go back home. I had run away from seeking justice, thus failing not only myself, but my sisters and nieces and everyone else who might face the same situation in the future.

But when I asked myself –if something similar happened to someone in my presence, will I be the same mute spectator? I just don’t know how to answer that. I had been a mute spectator to many incidents unless it got anything to do with my immediate family, of course, they were much less minor, but my stand had always been –it’s better to avoid any sort of trouble as long as it can be avoided, and I still think that’s the best policy especially when living in the mainland.

Do I still think that’s the best policy? Well, I don’t know. A week has passed now, and I still dreaded taking that same route. I took only the main road, fighting for spaces with cycles, rickshaws, scooters and cars. But do I feel any safer on the main road –no, the incident still haunts me. And, something tells me that if I’m attacked here, no one would help me either but there’ll definitely be lots of spectators. After all, how can I expect anyone to get involved in a trouble that got nothing to do with him?

I think you must feel the same way I feel. This is a deep rooted problem facing not just you and me but everyone else. My case is not one of a kind, it happened every now and then, though it’s probable that my facial feature may make it easier for me to be selected out of the rest. But I still must maintain that it’s just my misfortune that the bridge would fall just as I passed.

I think such incidents would continue to happen until people get more educated and civilized enough to respect one another for what they are. And I sincerely hope our policemen learnt a little bit more about policing and instead of dissuading, they should encourage and try to earn the trust of the people. After all, misfortune alone doesn’t bring down the bridge.

No comment please, I’m recovering…

Going Home...

[“You are coming home?” “This Christmas?” “Please do come, oh God, it has been over a decade now since we last saw you.” “They are fine, everybody is fine” “Oh, your grandparents will be very happy when they hear it” “Yes, yes, you know, they are old and failing”. “No, no, they are alright, nothing to worry about” “How is LC” “She’s also coming?” “All of you?” “Oh, I am so glad, we should kill one cow when you come…”]

A week after this phone call, I was on my way home along with my parents and sister.

It was a little over nine years ago that we left this little hamlet perched in the hill when my father got a job with a central government department and we had to move to Delhi. I remember all my aunts and relatives that consists the whole village crying with my mother as we boarded the jeep that will take us to Lamka from where we would sojourn to that unfamiliar territory. At that time, I thought such parting as very silly and I often wondered why my favourite mithun had to suffer for our leaving this otherwise sleepy little village.

In Delhi two year later, I find myself more comfortable conversing in Hindi rather than my native language. My little sister always got scolding for speaking in Hindi at home. Having a father who spent most of his time in office, a mother who hardly speak, and never hearing it outside our house, I always thought it was hardly our fault that we never realize in what tongue we are speaking.

My father forbid us to speak in any other language other than ours’ in his presence, and being forced to speak to my mother with whatever of that tongue that remained with us, we often found ourselves in the gate of Babel. But now I thank my parents for that. Our Hindi translated native tongue, thought badly structured and often funny to my mother, is the face that we proudly wear today.

It is not easy to live among people who will always call you a stranger no matter how hard you try. As for me, I don’t have to try, to have their way of life, the environment I live in ensure I have the same habits, the same pronunciation, the same likes and dislikes, and the same way of life. But once I became more sensible to the situation around me, each habit, each word, likes and dislikes pushed me farther and farther away from my assumed identity that one day I broke down on the floor, weeping –wondering who I am and why I am here.

Once I questioned my identity, it is not difficult to realize the thin veil that masked my real identity, the pursuit of which, bring smiles to my parents’ tired and dejected face. In this instance, however, environment or circumstances do no favour me and I have to REALLY try hard to regain that perfect pronunciation I had lost, and pick up nuggets, facts and stories that my mother told me when I was young, so that my parents were not ashamed to take me HOME and say that I am their son, and that I am not left out when people talk of our tradition, culture and history. The hope that I am not lost is the only one thing that weight on my mind when I boarded that train that will take me home to meet my grandparents, relatives and above all, to put an approval stamp on myself for the hard work that I have undertaken.

Breaking the sleepy silence of that little hamlet one evening with our arrival, it doesn’t take me much time to realize that I belong here and that I am no stranger in this place. That night, when I retired to that hard cotton mattress to rest my tired body, I have the pleasure of my heart dancing joyously on the knowledge that I have recovered that something, which is as important to me as my existence, and which I thought was gone forever, and become so out of reach in the clouds which swiftly pass overhead.

I was ready to be rejected, to be humiliated like the black crow, instead I was very much accepted as a peacock –each and every word that I said, each and every sound that comes out of my mouth stamped that I am a true blue peacock, and I revel in dancing with my beautiful tail.

But my revelry did not last long. A day later, I feel like a drawn cub board, forgotten to be pushed back –totally dislocated. I wondered what this people are talking about, I heard no one telling the stories of Penglam, Galngam or Neino, I heard no one talking about bawng and sial, no one thought of zuha or zupi.

Well, I never heard of people personally telling me that such things are STILL done, but I distinctly remember such things being DONE when I was young, and also, I often read it in the books and magazines that I painstaking collected from all corners where the good postmen rendered their missionary work. But now instead of hearing Cing Khup and Ngam Bawm, I heard of Jack and Rose of Titanic, instead of hearing the Japan gal & zo gal I heard of Iraq and Afghanistan, instead of a zozu I heard of whiskey and beer.

There is no denying that any society must move on (on which way, I am no longer so sure of). It will be wrong on my part if I am weaving a dream of ‘them’ in a rather romantic or primitive set-up. But the last thing that I expected was to see a bevy of giggling girls clad in Jeans pant singing an English song in the church, or to see the young boys wearing big branded apparels hanging low –sweeping the dusty narrow lane. Indeed, everybody has as much right as me to move on, move on we must, but on which direction and at what cost?

Till now, I thought I was the only lost one and I often thought of myself as an excusable case on the ground that I am breed in a city that is too far off to maintain any sort of link with this place. But I never excused myself. The word ‘lost’ is always with me. It spins in my head, it tugs at my feelings, and it destroys anything that might be remotely pleasant. I took this journey in search of a home; I cannot say I found one.

A month later while sitting in the little jeep that will take us to the airport in Imphal to catch the flight that will finally take us to Delhi, I am no longer sure which way I am headed for -am I going home, or am I leaving home? While pondering over these unpleasant questions, the man sitting next to me asked where I lived. I promptly answered him without thinking; and I don’t want to think about it either.

I have been away for over a month now, I miss Delhi.

Category: Write-up

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

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

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

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

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

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

Stranger at my Home

(This piece is an extract from my Diary dated 23rd December, 2005

when I returned back to my native place to the jungle tribal village of Manipur.)

People used to tell me home is where the heart is. But some times, like this very moment, one can feel like a total stranger at one’s home.

The feeling of homelessness is no stranger to me. I have traveled to most part of India which I called home but wherever I go, I remained a stranger. I reluctantly accepted the tag, forgiving them for their ignorance or at other time consoling myself as being a lesser Indian. But among my own people, I am not ready to be treated as a lesser one, at least not in my own village where I grew up.

As a child, I was given the notion that anyone from the mainland, especially the army, should not be trusted. I remember my mother going berserk when I, once, went to the army camp with my friends. Their fear is understandable as I myself had often seen and heard incidents to justify it. But this time round, my only crime is that I dared to say that I am an Indian and that India is my home.

It is true that I am an Indian (I want it or not) and India is my home (at least my home lies in India). But the sad irony is that my Indianess ends the moment I passed my region into the mainland. Wherever I go, people would ask me which country I came from. I would tell them that I was from Manipur. When people don’t know that I would substitute Manipur for Mizoram or Nagaland, it doesn’t help either. Most of the states in the North-east, according to their guesses, are in Nepal or China. At the end, I was so feed up of the question; I simply nodded to whatever country they guessed for me.

Then I would went to visit monuments and there they would charge me 500-600 percent more unless I am ready to spent some amount of time explaining the geography and demography of India. And in the sphere of education, every subject that includes Indian subject matter exclude me, and in the few occasions when the media picked up news from the north-east, they would be half-baked with most of the name being misspelled as if they were aliens’ names.

I traveled aboard to see people raising their eyebrows when they know my nationality. They thought I must be a Red-Indian. They wanted to ask me about Indian food, Indian music and Indian culture. But the Indian food, music and culture they wanted to know were alien to me.

During my stay in Delhi, I tried hard to learn and appreciate the ‘Indian’ language, food and culture. I forced myself to sit through an hour of ‘Indian’ dance recital, endured many three-hour long ‘Indian’ films and spent sleepless nights after stuffing myself with the spice infested foods which my ancestral would probably say ‘killed the taste buds’.

No matter how hard I try, the freaky question keeps popping out, and would irritate me as ever. I tried to take them as an innocent question but still, it fuels one’s feeling of alienation. People often tell me to take them easy but the prejudice, abuses and discrimination one’s faced cannot be easily taken by the stride. And it doesn’t help very much even thought they sincerely apologized after abusing you especially if your abuser happened to be someone as educated as your very own teacher.

Such situation, though infrequent, aggravate one sense of alienation. It is under many such situation that I started to believe myself as an alien in this country, and take that little jungle village in the tribal areas of Manipur to be my only home.

But now standing here in the middle of the road, surrounded by the chief and elders of the tribe, I certainly feel like a stranger. I was absolutely enthusiastic to return home after more than two years of absence, but the moment I landed up, the first reaction was of general disappointment. Everybody takes a look at me and the first comment was that I was a lost child. My language was adultered and my pronunciation stained. ‘Lost, absolutely lost’, the elders lamented whilst the youngster called me pretentious. And with that big crimes I was standing here with the elders who sermons me on our value, how we were free and independent, with our own land and laws.

I don’t know if it would be wise to remind them that the government doesn’t even want to recognize our existence. To me that is as good as being lost. The elders may think that we are free with our own lands and laws, many anthropologists may come to study our primitive ways and our wild photos may found home in galleries and museums around the world, but that may not be enough if a seven degree minority community living under the mercy of others wanted to survive. But I choose to remain silent.

I don’t know, as of now all I need is some one to talk to me and make me feel at home without pretension. Then I started to wonder, if I can call this place as home even after what I have been through, why cannot I do the same anywhere else? After all, the whole world is my home.