Inside the Heart of Darkness-VII

(Tracing the Unfinished Journey)

(There have been too many inevitable interventions that stalled my writings–Inside the heart of Darkness. Besides the travelling, there were various other issues that demand an early space to give them relevance in the face of short and swift public memory. I am continuing the unfinished series again by revisiting, catching up and of course patching up with the unforgettable footprints.)

11 October 2007: The sunset immediately brought in the night’s darkness that stood darker and heavier with the silent hills and mountain. The Indian Army who were camped besides Tuivai River were preparing dinner. Smells of fried yellow dal and potato filled the air. I met a homesick soldier from Kerala. I told him the brown automatic rifle did not suit his homesick heart. He told me he would be going home for Diwali, leaving behind the gun. Everyone should be home in this brief brittle journey that we do not choose. But miles still stretched before us.

We started the journey again after crossing Tuivai river. A new journey on a new pick–up truck. A prayer was said by one ICI elder from Saikot who came to received us. He later confessed that he is also a member of the “passion fruit missionaries”. The “missionaries” are a band of the self-help group, TUMTUS, who are visioning for economic empowerment by growing passion fruit in parts of Churachandpur, Cachar, NC Hills, Jiribam and Mizoram. Not even after a minute that we set off, our jeep almost skidded off from the slippery National Highway 150 that it negotiates. One of the front wheels was already in the air. And beneath, the yellow river runs growling. We (L. Keivom, Pastor Lalrochung, the ICI elder and me) vacated the truck and went ahead on foot. We smell the leaves and the soil. That was coming home. We covered a good many kilometers when the truck catches us up again. I preferred the walk, but the distance would never be covered even if we walk the whole night. The ride turned out to be interesting again as we try to find our way on that National Highway that was filled with mud pool, deep and stagnant water and running stream. We passed through Sipuikawn. The electricity deprived village was weakly alive with jumping yellow flames from the kitchen’s hearth. Some created shadows in their homes by using lamps made of syrup bottles filled with kerosene and a big flat thread. There was no visible evidence of science, technology or modernity. Nature and everything traditional still regulates their lives. Besides, rats gnawed them down. The journey was like returning to the past.

Hungry and weary we reached Lungthulien village. We were told that the village folks have been waiting for us with ready dinner. To my surprise we found the village folks gathered in the middle of the village with a high flying banner that read; “Welcome Pi Lalremsiem”. The Village Authority (VA) prepared a formal welcome program to greet us. I was surprised, as I was not expecting that at all in that middle of the night where the village sits in the corner far from the middle. The entire village must have congregated for the sermon and the song that was without the bread and the fishes. Children swarmed the hillside, besides the road. Some yellow running noses were shining under the petromax lamp. The village choir that was composed of youths of different churches were neatly seated on the bench, which was arranged in the middle of the road. The road was clogged for a rare time. But they knew that no vehicle would pass through. There was a long empty bench that we occupied. The conductor’s table was clothed with the multicoloured Thangsuopuon. A black Ahuja microphone fixed on a rusted stand stood in front of the table. The conductor, a tall, lanky and thin man with protruding cheekbones, was full of energy as he took charge. We were garlanded and greeted with a bow and folded hands by the girls. A welcome with a very Indian salaam. The welcome was fine, but I did not like the garlanding act. For no reason at all, it was too blind an act. Too monotonous. Too unnecessary. It must have been expensive for them too as they parted with two Thangsuopuon shawls. The garland was made in the colours of the celebrated shawl. I don’t know if there was any strings attached, but I love more than two things that happened to us that night. I appreciate the collective spirit of the villagers who turned out in good numbers, despite the absence of bread and fishes. I love the song of the village choir. The life packed song did not fail to move the spirit within. The song was about a prayer for His forgiveness and blessing. The song not only stirred many women to dance, but also moved many silent listeners. I also love the dinner- rice and mutton- that was prepared to welcome one of Mizoram celebrities who accompanied us. He was the singer, Joseph Zaihmingthanga.

The dinner will be long remembered. Never that the food was bad or too good. But it was almost difficult to eat as one of the rape victims whom I met in February 2006 in the same village was serving us. She was part of the group of rape victims that we took to Aizawl for medical check up, one month after they were raped. It was the end of the world for those girls, who thought they were all getting pregnant. Their menstrual cycle was disturbed. They have no appetite. Many of them were vomiting. Many of them were still bleeding. The pain, shame, depression, anxieties, and helplessness could be seen from their faces. Their words were shockingly louder. Their tears were endless in that dry village. Tears could have flow if God was not with them. Besides, she was the first of the victims that we met, as our investigation started from the end of the village where the family was occupying the RPC pastor quarter. Our eyes were bigger then eggs when we met again that night. We both try to deliver sweet smile. But it was wry and dry.

mouth only cracked like drought ridden ground. Words were scare. I was left to wonder if the rats that invaded their rice fields have also eaten up all the words. We were almost left with numb silence. But I managed to ask her if she was doing well. She told me that it has been a difficult life. A different struggle. I asked myself if I was right enquiring about her well being. While my regret was embraced with uneasy silence, her words were a soothing balm. “By God’s grace I am carrying on, I hope I would”, she told me. Like a Pastor, who, on his routine visit to his churches, I told her that we have His grace, which will help us through. I told myself His grace is sufficient. There were so many things that I wanted to tell her that night. But I did not. I wanted to tell her to be healed forever. I wanted to tell her to forget everything that is burdening her. I also wanted to tell her that this will also pass like everything else.

I remember silence loomed heavy that night, but there was an intense struggle to find words. I was quite hesitant to ask again, but I enquired about her friends. “Some of them are in the village, some moved out to escape, and one recently got married”, she told me.

It was a relief to know that they are moving on. They should. They deserve it. Why should the devil have all the good music?

After dinner we started the last lap of the journey for the day as we headed for Senvon. Our jeep was filled not only with more passengers, but also with shouts of “halleluia” “amen” and “sisisisisi….” We were told it was the band of prayers who have been fasting and ceaselessly praying. As I try not to concentrate on the shrieking noises and voices, I looked out as far as the jeep headlight could clear. In the middle of that muddy, moonless night, rats frequently crossed the road we were traveling. I thought to myself that they must have resorted to patrol the deserted road after destroying the jhum fields. Signs of menace invaded the freshly plough-like road that leads to the “Holy land” of the Hmars, Senvon. Our destination is the seat of the Gospel for the Hmar people. The seed of the light was sown in the year 1910. The Light brought us back to Senvon. But the night was covered with thick black darkness when we reached Senvon. Immediately we were blessed with many empty beds that were laying bare, waiting for us. We choose two beds in one room. I and Pu Hrangthangvung slept together. But we were straighter than the bed. Keivom slept alone. We washed ourselves clean before we hit the bed covered with clean white sheets. The night was too quiet. It almost bites us. As if to save us, Keivom cheered us with the precious imported “holy water” and broke the silence. The spirit warms us in that cold night just as he said. After that all I knew, as I was told the next morning, was the snore of the three worn out mortals knowing they are home.

(Delhi, January 17, 2008)