Inside The Heart of Darkness-VIII

October 12, 2007, Senvon: I woke up earlier than my usual constitution in Delhi. Nature was punctual and early. I went out to the lifted balcony that opens itself to nature’s masterpiece. I did not take time to make a decision whether to sleep for another while or not. I choose to remain awake after I sighted the hills and mountain covered with clouds that were always on the move. The clouds, clothed in virgin white, were moving hastily in the lap of the silent green hills and mountain. How secure, content and peaceful they are. The naked and uncovered parts were yellow and barren if not clothed with little young green trees. I said to myself that we have no forest anymore. I wonder what our contribution would be to the alarming global warming. I suppose that if we are not a big actor we would be a small contributing actor. A sleeping partner at least. As I stared the moving clouds below me, the clouds did make way to show a river that it must have frozen in their embrace. I was told the river is called Tuibuom in Hmar. There were jhum fields on the foot of the chain of hills. I was also told that the jhum fields were all destroyed by the uncontrollable rats that overpopulates with the gregarious bamboo flowering. They look pale and yellow. Like jaundice painted colour. In them I saw hope shattered. Vain toil. Rotten dreams.

As I looked farther I saw a village cosily wrapped in the armless cloud. I was told it was Parvachawm village. The village was drowned in the sea of cloud. But they don’t seem like they need to be saved. They seem alright. Everywhere there was cloud. It hid the sun too. But the sunlight could find its way through the thin layers, sending out bright golden rays that fell on the hills and mountain. The clouds were busily engaged as if in some invading mission. I stood wondering if nature wars too. But they did not disturb me a bit. It was a mesmerising sight. The painter seems to be lavishly indulged in the abundance of beauty. Everything is at home. But I doubt one. So I asked myself, if man is at home?

After tea, our host, who is also the Elder of Evangelical Assembly Church (EAC), L Keivom, Hrangthangvung and I went out to tour Senvon village. Senvon is well known for one reason: it is considered as the birthplace of Gospel/ Christianity for the Hmar people and its kindred tribes in Manipur. Senvon is recorded to be one of the biggest village in Manipur’s south. It is recorded to have existed much before 1871 (Woodthorpe, R.G., The Lushai Expedition, London, 1873). The acclaimed Christian missionaries William Pettigrew and Watkin Roberts have made their presence in Senvon, with the later establishing the Thado-Kuki Pioneer Mission (TKPM). It was in Senvon that the first conference of the TKPM was held in December 26, 1914.

The yellow untarred village road was shared altogether by the loosened pig, goat, cow, chicken, sheep and the villagers. We all met without any greetings. But we are all animals. Sharing the wide road with the animals, there is an infectious feeling that makes one to feel no higher than them. There could be no space for pride as man.

Today Senvon housed many doctrinal churches. After almost every twenty steps we found ourselves walking in front of different church building. Some of the churches have memorial stone erected strategically close to the road for passersby to read. The erected stones are interesting as some of them carry different dates of the same event. Besides the inevitable and unnecessary doctrinal battle, these houses of doctrines are also battling the blunder of distorted history. Despite their ignorance of the undocumented history, they are ready to die for mistaken dates that have been miraculously sanctified to become holier and greater than the Word itself. I won’t be surprise anymore if tomorrow some precious sinner’s blood is spilled to save these unholy dates. Today Senvon stands fit to be called the village of churches. Village of small bells. Village of high unseen wall. Village of black sheep trading. Village of clogged doctrines. The virus shed another interesting symbol of identity. In Senvon it is easiest to find out about anyone’s denomination without necessarily asking anyone. In every house a nameplate would bear the name of the head of the house along with the name of the church they belong to. For the first timers it would be easy to mistake them as some heavy degree imported from some underrated university in neighbouring Myanmar. But that is where they belong to. Christianity is a visible fragmenting force. A little is collectively shared. But the differences are widely accepted. Man dwells in layers of identity. People in Senvon are no exception.

I was surprised to see children playing cricket in the middle of the road in front of an unused public water tank. Their stump was one rotten wooden plank. The bat and the ball were their made too. It would be one of the most inexpensive games they could afford. To add to their energy, they have precious little knowledge of the game rules that they strictly adhere to. I photographed them play the alien game. While, earlier for the Englishmen, it was a royal past time with a strict dress code, the cricket playing children in Senvon wore tattered clothes and blue chappal. It may not be a planned-out outfit, but the four boys were all wearing blue chappal as they negotiate the game.

I found that the villagers have a way of decorating their houses with the skull of wild animals and long horned buffalo. This proves they were hunters. But the head hunting history that has been widely presented is still doubtful. The post-christianity approach to the fluid history of the pre-Christian tribes has been one of inhumane retreat. This cannot stop me from wondering further, particularly with the history of the Hmar people. Sometimes I thought that it must have been deliberately done to sell small people better to win that loose frontiers of love, mercy, grace, support, sponsorship, and funding. A justified Christian project that resulted in dependency and bruised history. The religion has taught many blind men to preach about “truth”, but they never seem to learn to speak for themselves. We are one naive people who will be celebrating the Gospel centenary after dining and feeding with the theological interpretation of our history. We are still living with that version as more men of pulpit crossed the ocean, presenting us as sons and daughters of headhunters, naked, tribals; people who are still drowning in the dark of ignorance and primitive localism. Senvon is a victim of those unquestioned and uncontested version, which today spilled to multiply small houses of doctrines. These houses assert conservativeness, difference, exclusiveness, and all the negativity that exist beyond one’s imagination. The virus is hardened at the bottom from the top, which has become a privilege of the few. It is interesting to observe the Churches move from a people’s institution to a family dynasty. The progress resembles a failed state diversion from democracy to dictatorship. I don’t think we would be good in cultivating a healthy democracy with our powerful suffrage. We have too much to learn with our bowed heads and bended knees. I don’t know where and why we learn to sell our integrity in the name of religion to become headhunters and orphans, which have been a powerful trademark in the hands of Columbus like missionaries.
We headed for the village cemetery to visit old graves of people we have heard. The gravestones are mobbed by multicoloured moss. We were shown the gravestone of (L) Kamkholun Singson, who acted as the chief of Senvon till his death. We, again, visited an old grave that sleeps besides a road that snake inside the village reserve forest. Tea grows wild besides the cemetery. The lonely grave still reverberates of unfulfilled love. The moss ridden grave stood nameless and dateless. It was visible that the grave was uncared for. But L Keivom knows where exactly we are. We stood right in front of the faceless grave as if meeting an old acquaintance. This is it, Keivom told us. The grave belongs to Darkholkim who died of Pneumonia when she was blooming in her 19 years of life. Darkholkim, daughter of Ngurzakhum of Vengthlabir in Senvon, was an orange farmer. (L) Darkholkim was known in the Hmar hills for her beauty. She was (L) Rokung’s bride-to-be. But death took her away from him and they never get to marry. (L) Rokung, whose life brims with challenging experiences was a politician and successful businessman. He was a good friend of L Keivom and breathe his last in Keivom’s arm in the year 2003 after long ail. We visited the grave in remembrance of the two departed lovers and the beautiful unfinished story they have lived here on earth. L Keivom followed the old lines on the gravestone and re-etched (L) Darkholkim’s name. The first and last acquaintances that we visited during our stay in Senvon were the graves.

We went to the school hill where a new and hastily built government school stood. We were told that there were never enough teachers for the school children whose drop out rates is alarming. The teachers who are paid out of the State treasury were basking in their respective hometown far from Senvon, drawing fat salary for their toil-less job. I was told that these teachers constitute the whole lot of “believers” who scored highest marks in their respective Sunday school and getting rewards for best attendance in the same school, while they do not do what they ought to do.

We walked up a hill where, I was told, Mizo National Front (MNF) fighters as well as people from Mizoram came to seek shelter during the height of the MNF movement in the early part of 1960s. The MNF fighters as well as the displaced people were forced out of their homes by the State forces who are trying to quell the MNF movement as well as by the threat of famine due to the bamboo flowering that occurred during 1958-60. Today the villagers who are living in that same hill are in dire need of refuge as they confront famine due to crop destruction as a result of the same bamboo flowering. I met few families who expressed their distress and anguish. The invading rats, after the bamboo flowering, left them fighting another battle with a thin thread of hope. Today that hope has shattered. They are forced to resort to the forest to dig deep ground as they trace long roots of wild yam for their hungry bowels. In this land, every man is for himself. There is nothing that comes from the government. Even the news of corruption that gnaws into their trifle share failed to trickle inside this village. It is difficult to imagine from this deprived corner that there are “booming” and “shining” compartments in other parts of the country and the world. I wonder when the government’s ideological and political commitment would sincerely reach these marginalized constituencies. If there is something called democracy as the nation’s pride, there is no decentralization in its functioning. Democracy, however good it may be, without decentralization is a privilege of the few. These peripheries, which are India’s inconvenient reality, are a blot to the celebrated big talk.

We reached the mount where another EAC church sits. There are two EAC church in Senvon. Senvon could be scanned from this point. There I saw the clouds toy with the village, as they playfully hide and show the sleepy village at their will. Watching nature play is peaceful. I forgot the Machiavellian world for a good while. They exist outside, but only when nature reigns. We retreated to realize our thirst and hunger.

In the evening we climbed Senvon’s Zopui mount. Zopui is the highest point in Senvon, which is also the village reserve forest. Zopui, the only virgin forest visible near the village, is also the water bank for Senvon. The three legged Sikpui Lung stood there. The Hmar Students’ Association (HSA) celebrated Sikpuiruoi at Zopui in the year 2005 and erected a stone that says that Sikpui was also celebrated in Senvon’s Zopui in the year 1898. There was yet another erected stone with a carving of a man with heavy headgear and his smoking pipe standing on an elephant. The man on the stone also carries an axe on his right hand and a head of a man on his left hand, portraying him as a headhunter. Just above his headgear it was recorded – 28-2-87, Shenvon Chonluta- Lungtau. Whatever is, erecting the tall, big stone was one big effort, but the writings did not seem to carry any water.

On our way back we were caught under the rain. L Keivom told me the rain is called Airuo in Hmar. Airuo usually occur in October and would rain heavily and continuously for seven days. We seek shelter in a house and watched the rain wet the ground. We watched bands of distant villagers who came for the Hmar Kristien Thalai Pawl conference. One group was from Leisen village and the other was from Parvachawm. Some children came with their loads of vegetables to sell. It was visible that they came not for the Word alone, but also for the bread. The rain did not stop. We decided to walk under the rain as they fell on us like thousands of harmless spears.

Post dinner we took part in the first night of the conference. It was muddy and slippery with the rain still pouring down heavily. The big extended conference hall was not enough for the congregation. Participating Tipaimukh villages gave their reports. Jinam Valley choir also came all the way from Assam’s NC Hills. There was lots of singing and announcement inside the heavily decorated and packed hall. After the service we returned with our tired muscles and wet hair. It was cold and dark. The candle light flickered, delivering unusual religiosity inside the room for the three thirsty mortals. We pegged the water that did not rain. It ran down warm inside us. The next thing I realize was that our tired words were lost in the snore and slumber.

(Delhi, 09 March, 2008)