Inside the Heart of Darkness – III

Zoram Khawvel
Though the popular search for icon and idol has become an endless affair in Mizoram, the State has not forgotten L Keivom, one of the biggest towering small gods. Mizoram’s memory for the acclaimed writer is never short. I observed that public memory is not short, not at least for the Zoram Khawvel author. His presence was news. He was sought after. Invited. Desired. Worship. Respected. He was also served. Fed. And also criticized, she said, after we left the mountain city, for his honest views on the vanity of imposing total prohibition in Mizoram.

The issue of total prohibition would face a humpty dumpty fall if it were the agenda for any politicians aspiring to score extra mileage in Mizoram. It would get a deservingly democratic vote to be out of Mizoram’s worry. Despite that it is one of the hottest underground debate. I was wondering why it could still exist when the collective, including the leadership, did not really like it. I thought of few reasons. First, the people do not really seem to care about the “total prohibition” when the prohibited fluid flows like milk and honey in Christian’s imagined “holy land.” The “total prohibition” seems to rule, but the people are not in want of that “holy water” for which it was made. However, they shall not be in want ever. Second, Mizoram is a state in image making process, so the “total prohibition” tag goes well with the “Christian state” that it sealed for itself. For it, the image is more beautiful than the real. The State, no doubt, is successful in scoring image. But when it comes to the real, the Pandora box would be gnawed open by the worms itself. The State’s foundation is cemented by the superficial superstructure culture that mesmerized the reasonable as well as the unreasonable lots. That does not leave behind the sinners as well as the holy, if there is any. The third reason, for the last, is simple. The water can flow, so it exists.

A little after five minutes of our check-in in the State guest house, two journalist from one of Mizoram’s biggest local magazine, Zozam, came to meet its unforgettable son. I sat and listened to the interview. Their first question was why Keivom translated the Bible in Hmar and not in Mizo, and whether that negates his cherished vision of Zoram Khawvel? The question that follows was what Keivom felt about the “total prohibition” in Mizoram? In short, Keivom’s response to the latter was that the archaic law was a naïve and immature response to the progress of any civilisation, which is rather a failed and invalid experience in various societies that witness such imposition. Keivom, once again, opened the lid of the people’s silent concern. To add salt to the unseen wounds, he also said that the Old Testament would lost its meaning if wine is remove from all its usage. That has to say that the Holy Book has its source in the holy water. Whatever is, the ancient law, the concern and the question reflect that the unholy State is severely thirsty. I believe the concern is more with the soaring price in the black market rather than the absence of the holy water. The “Christian State” ought to pray not only for the drinkers but also for the self-supposed holy mortals who should wake up to the menace of the black market that is hatched by the State itself.

Christmas City
Night embraced the mountain city to make it look like a huge Christmas tree. It was a bigger relief to rest at its sight. There were big churches that dotted the city. There was a splendid Presbyterian Church and Baptist church not far from where we put up. Strong wind knocks our glass window the whole night through. That keeps me awake. The other thing that keeps me beautifully awake was the Halleluia Chorus that was practised by the Baptist Church Choir. I could hear them trying to perfect the song with unattainable voices. The perfection would be a vain quest, but they tried beautifully. I love that trying part. That inevitable quest. I was in a fixed then, wondering what’s more beautiful, the voices or the song. Knowing that none of the two could exist in isolation, the choirgirl voices reached the depth of my eardrum. While my bedmate, Pu Hrangthangvung snore to meet his dear most in his dream, I took the liberty of relating faces to the voices that I heard. Seeing would be believing. But imagining is also wonderful. I saw angel like faces. For the voices itself were songs. I thought to myself that Adam must have been tempted to eat the apple not because he likes it, but because of Eve’s voice. I reminded myself that many beautiful things are not to be seen. The unseen voices made the baby inside me leap higher than Elizabeth again. That is my testimony in short. I told myself that today is Christmas for me. I reminded myself to count every small thing big. They indeed are the biggest things. It is only that we never count them. I know there is nothing bigger than small and little things. Shall we all say Halleluia before I make a pulpit out of it?

I remember my first visit to the State in the year 2006, when I sensed the same feeling at the sight of the Christmas city. The second experience has the same unforgettable effect too. I realised that beautiful things could make man awake peacefully. The Christmas tree-like city laid bare, seducing me with all its unseen nakedness while its dwellers sleep in numb senses. I did not excuse myself to say that I am a visitor here. Like an honest panderer, I told the night, the light, the air and the darkness that I belong to her. Like every love-struck woman, she embraces me to sleep in her warmth of the Christmas night.