One Winter, Two Weddings and the Big Miss

I broke my old year promise to one wedding. I was supposed to see through every moment of my friend, Mercy Darthanmawi’s wedding through my camera eyepiece that took place on January 12, 2008. But on the day I was in Aizawl attending a very crucial meeting and discussion. I was burdened with unforgiving guilt for not making it to my friend’s wedding. It was silly, but I was making too many unimaginable and unattainable wish: I was wishing the wedding took place all over again for the second time when I reached Delhi. But like a wish it ended as much a wish is to be. That’s the last point of consolation for me. But the blanket of consolation was too thin that it could never cover me. I found myself like Adam in the Garden of Eden after the apple eating act. Not that I was in shame. But I could not console myself with the biggest wish. It did not bring me any closer to the missed reality that is unrecallable. What strikes me, then, was another shawl of consolation that rings in my ears. It was Queen’s song, Bohemian Rhapsody. Some of the lines negotiate with the situation I was confronting. Mercury’s voice got louder with the lines; “Nothing really matters, easy come easy go, if I am not back by this time tomorrow carry on, carry on…” That was the self with me negotiating the guilt. I said to myself, I have the song, but will that explain?

Then again, my eldest sister, Kimboi Buhril walked down the aisle and said “I do” on January 30, 2008 at Rengkai ICI Church. The first in the family to walk the Church aisle. The sorry thing was that I wasn’t there again. I did not promise her. But I was expected without any condition. The absence was not, again, deliberate. It was rather a circumstantial inevitability and I was asked to turn down. Otherwise, I’ve booked my tickets to fly home for the day and for cherishing every moment at home. But again, my plans was like a Babel ruin.

I started to slowly dismantle my resolutions. It was like unpacking a big box of acquainted books. It was already a layered mountain. The only option out was to console myself and accept things the way they are. Otherwise, I was dreaming of smelling home flowers. Leaves. And soil. I revisit them, but from a distance. I saw them passing by. One by one. I was dreaming of sitting in that long and wide porch where mom’s flower pots sit endlessly as the colourful bloom seduced the bees. I would then sip homemade tea and the best homemade wine they saved for me. I was also hoping to wake up early, at least more than once, before the sun rise and sit in the same porch to watch the morning glory rise from Saidan hills and mountain. I am sure I would be closer to Him seeing His creation rise and bow amidst nature’s lap, than wandering along with the billion pagans. My desire to see the legless cloud floating on the foot of the hills and mountain was also shattered. For those who haven’t seen them, they resemble the ghost who walks. I remember they used to form a thick and heavy blanket to stand against the piercing sunlight, as if in a big battle. Clouds are full of humility. They did not lose. Never. They always reappear the next day. But I always find them stepping aside and making way for the sunlight to shine through. I, then, remember the wishes that I made many times; of my desire to learn their language to help me understand their songs and romance. A language to learn their lives and movement. A language to whisper and speak to them. I love to learn their peace. Their songs. Their wisdom. And their bliss. I also missed mom’s ambrosia, which she told me she would make out of the fattest long necked duck that would also breathe its last when I come home.

I missed the chances of photographing portraits of people who are in their afternoon and evening years. Their wrinkles weave glory road when many die without getting to wear them. I see completeness and fulfillment in wrinkled smiles and laughter. I also missed walking to Thingchom, where dew sparkles atop grass and leaves. I learnt a lot from them. They celebrate with the fullest meaning of their brief existence without showing any signs of dread. No signs of fear. And no signs of regret. Life is not about the length and breadth of it. Rather, it is living the meaning that counts. I would have photographed the wife of Thingchom’s chief feeding her colourful chicken when the evening sunlight rest in the village. In that thinly populated village she seems to know all her chicken by their face, which was more than one hundred. I love Thingchom for that intimacy, which is homely. Everyone knows whose cow or dog is wild and high with the seasonal blood thrust. That is one place I can be home anytime. Thingchom produced a good amount of jaggery, which is sweeter than any earthly kiss.

To make up for the missing, I made endless telephone call. They also did the same on their part. I called, once, when my sister was in the middle of the aisle. My sister on the aisle was a big miss that I will never see again. How I wish I was there. I retreated to the days and years when we grew up together. Like brothers in arms. Technology could never make up for the heart longings. It would never as long as it was one winter and the two weddings that I missed.

(Delhi, January 02, 2008)