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