David Buhril

Aizawl: The Christmas Tree City

2008-07-15T13:07:00.001+05:30

Be it January, when the Christian hangover is high after all the man made “holy” festivals or July when the downpour is thick and heavy, Aizawl still looks like the last undying Christmas tree at night. That is what it is to me every time I return there.

I find no reason waiting for December to come to celebrate the birthday of the Son of Man. Whenever I am in the city, it felt like Christmas. Many things could not be thoroughly explained. This is one for me. I sought no further rhyme or reason. If seeing is believing, I do here, which is enough.

But I realised that it was always a lonely Christmas. No one seems to be in the same mood that I used to be. As usual the road would be clogged with slugging taxis and modified bikes that made the biker bow unusually low. They reminded me of those rugby players who were in full anticipation for the rough game. I read the day’s newspaper and there was no trace of Christmas. Not even of advanced Christmas. I asked if I am an anachronist. I did not seek the answer from anyone again though. There was just no announcement or notice about the Christmas that I was celebrating. I asked why I am so lonely on Christmas night in this “Christian State.” Well it might be the difference in the timing. It is no wonder that people are still religiously waiting for the Messiah to deliver them salvation. I couldn’t wait for that anymore. I already have it that I ought to have it.

On my Christmas day the big arms catch made the headline in the local newspaper- 19 AK 47 rifles and more. The most peaceful; state has become one big arms bazaar. The reports traced about the booming arms trade in the state that has been clandestinely going smooth under the nose of the government of Mizoram. I thought that the sawrkar needed silence to maintain inactivity. That’s not strange when it could already deliver the image of being the most peaceful state. There’s too much under that image that we missed everything. That we also forget everything. Worst, we negate everything. We believe the image. Many a time we resemble idol worshippers. Everything seems to be OK here as long as one could wrap them under the blanket of silence. The image making game is big here. Bigger than the image already. One could easily miss the reality if the image is to be believed. Underneath, it is a different chaos. I wonder if the tag would remain any longer to grace the blurring images.

There’s more news on my Christmas day. I read about this lady who is leading a new gospel movement amongst the youth in Aizawl. The hot venue is Aizawl’s Vanapa Hall where the gospel missionary, Mimi, led a different kind of gospel singing session with all sorts of fused dances. I was told that there is more than soul searching game here with the tribe of newly empowered and liberated youths who were allowed the many free nights out by their parents in the name of whatever comes along with Christianity or religion. Everytime I return here there is always a burst in the name of religion. The Church seems to be confused. Everyone seems to be confused. The State media could poke a bit by calling her as the leader of Mizoram’s rock and roll. The Church were silent again. That isn’t strange. Let it wait for more signs and symbols. It would be lucky if there is a revelation in at least black and white. My question is who will read the blur? If the concerned are confused, the rest are switching to the live telecast of the “dance session” that is also called “jam session.” I am also concern because many acts were performed in His name. But the wave is too strong to be paused. It finally turns out to be a wait and watch game for the multitude where cynic apprehension crashed the screen that the small eyes could afford.

What more? Well there’s the artistes from Nagaland who came all the way to aid the famine victims in Mizoram. The proactive move is a miracle because Nagaland also witnessed the bamboo flowering as well as the chain of endless bloodshed that Mizoram never seem to care. But who cares when the visitors handed over rupees twenty lacs in cash in the name of combating famine and aiding hunger. Lucky that we have tlawmngaina that could be twisted to suit any situation. We received the donated money with our big hands. Nobody really knows where it would end up again. As usual the distressed farmers would be the last in the queue. But still it is beautiful as long as the “Christian State” and the “disaster zone” sells like hot cakes. On the other hand people are slipping out of the State with Reebok and Nike shoes, with flashy mobile phone and Korean movie star hairstyles. Oh, they are the new exported logo of the hungry and famine devastated State. Lucky would be those who believe them, for they see not the harsh realities. They don’t seem like they shelter farmers and distress lots.

What more? Well there’s a merciless press release on my Christmas day by another distress organization, Zoram Kuthnathawktute Pawl (ZKP). I like the way they voice their plights. But, they were treated like the mute traders. However, they spill out with comfort ease that Mizoram would see darker days in the future if their plights are not addressed. I love the spirit, but the prediction is alarming. It is a wonder why the MNF sawrkar who were also once under the same spell of the doom flowers failed to address the plights of the devastated farmers in the face of looming misery. It is a shame that the boys in power still have the guts to sell our famine and hunger. We could have been the solution. If the sanctioned money that was allocated to combat the impact of the bamboo flower were fairly used, the grieve stricken farmers would have enough to store bags of white rice and more than one pair of Chinese made Nike and Reebok shoes too. But the mileage and leverage provided by the death flowers seems to have blinded the sight of the men in power. The bamboo flower has become a celebrated bloom. Many would love it if the flower blooms after every five years.

Meanwhile, night’s darkness gulped the city. My big Christmas tree surfaced. I sat lone and longing on the balcony. A song seeps in from a distance. It is another church choir practicing for some holy occasions that the State has in abundance. It was not a Christmas song, but there was beautiful relation as it was the Christian anthem, Halleluia Chorus. From my seat, I could see people dining. Some glued to the juke-box. Some putting the lights out. I console myself saying, “I have the Christmas tree all for myself.” Not just that, it’s Christmas for me too. However lonely. I wonder why it is not Christmas every night for everyone when we have the big Christmas tree silently standing by.

(July 12, 2008, New Delhi)

Blue Night In Lungthulien

2008-06-23T15:42:00.000+05:30

I listened to the villager’s tales of worries all for free. If I had to pay them I’d go broke. They would be in the same situation if they had to pay me for listening. Like equals do everything was for free. There was plenty to listen. Too much for free. Initially it was difficult to even make out the head and tail of it. It looks like they have not been having anyone to listen to them. One by one they unwrapped them. Many of them were smeared with complain and helplessness. With bursting temper and uncontrolled emotions. The closer one gets to them, the intimacy instill a trust to share the visible as well as the unseen baggage that gnaws them, no matter what it holds. There was almost everything in listening. I said to myself man has not sought enough in listening.

I remember the first time I visited Lungthulien. It is still so clear. Like yesterday’s funeral. That was in February 2006; when the villagers were living in terror, girls and women raped, men folks herded and beaten, and the villagers getting displaced to refugee camp in Mizoram’s Sakawrdai . I met the shattered rape victims, their devastated parents, the helpless displaced persons and their desires to weave a new life. That was my first time in the village where I did the listening game.

Our kind host was Pu Ralkapthruom and his family. The same family hosted us during 2006. I had developed a home like feeling with the family. The shared misery bonded us for one thing. It has become so beautiful today. The relationship is like a beautiful flower on a plant of thorn. That thorn is necessary. It should be inevitable in this walk of life for every man. This time I and Lalthansang Pulamte were sheltered in the new house that glisten on a sunny day and glow on moonlit night. The old house sit above the National Highway 150 and the new one was situated on the opposite side. The new house was lifted high and done with a wooden floor. I love the balcony at the back of the house for every reason. That was one place I always resorted to, to listen when the fiery red sun set behind the distant blue Sinlung hills.

The view from the balcony was breath taking. The proposed Tipaimukh dam site stretches far and wide below. I was shown the areas that would be submerged if the dam is allowed to be built. From the balcony the bleak future of the dam could be seen. It touches part of our host land too. The present National Highway 150 would be submerged. Now there is a talk of diverting the highway. This must be one of the reasons why the road, which was a lifeline for the constituency, was not repaired and maintained for more than twenty years. This must be the reason why the Tipaimukh villagers were being slowly pushed into learning to live with the without. The without has a big shocking presence here. There’s nothing, not even a trace to say this is by the government and for the people. Sipuikawn and Tipaimukh villages would be submerged. Wipe off the map. Tuiruong (Tipaimukh), the river of life for thousands of villagers would flow no more for them. Fishing and the regular boat journey from Tipaimukh to Fulertawl and other areas in Cachar would be a thing of the past. The rice bowl, the jhum fields, of Rovakot , Sartuinek, Lungthulien, Parbung would be swelled with water. The forest and land of these villages are clearly visible from the balcony. On the other side, behind Tuiruong, sits Mizoram Sinlung Hills. The distant villages on the other side in Mizoram were electrified. Black tarred roads snake for them. AAY rice is available for Rs.3 a kilo. In Manipur’s Lungthulien, if it is available, the same rice cost Rs. 15 a kilo. Availability is a big question. The without could be felt. I sit and watched, as time pass by, reminding myself the great game of inequality that we are negotiating with silence and misery. What little was visible from that balcony was enough to knock everyone from the slumber that we are celebrating. We should not allow the bliss to go for long. The bliss should also have its limits.

The future is tense and grim if wrong decisions are taken from outside by the outsiders. We should not allow deliberated policies to uproot and destroy the lives and future of thousands of innocent villagers. We fail as human beings if our voices are silenced and our other strength becomes numb in the face of hungry forces driven by the might and power of money and heartless intruders. This is one of the most important corners where our history flourishes and the seed of our future is hatched. This land is precious. We are not fishes or other water friendly species to be dammed by doomed structures. We cannot surrender our land, rivers, homes, trees, forest, the land of our future generations and our priceless independence and dignity for vain monetary compensations. We won’t be man and human if we hope to eat money and survive. There won’t be any to eat even. The bait of inhumane seductions is pricking our conscience and reason. We all should stand up for this cause. There won’t be any other worthy cause that demands your intervention. There should be an alternative than wiping off a land and its people off the map in the name of development.

The magic of the night reveals as the moon glides from behind the mountain that wall Lungthulien. I listen to the sound of silence. I also hear children studying and reading aloud their homework in the quest of memorising them. There were playful voices too. It was all too different from the year 2006 when fear silenced the cosy village and the remainders were trapped without much choice. Today they are living like free men and women, but burdened with the threat of famine and epidemic deaths. More than five infants have died from the village, levelled by the “strange disease.” The running hills below us shone with surreal lights. It was like witnessing the greatest show of light that would never be repeated again. I blessed myself saying, “Only the blessed see this light.” Night insects and other unseen creatures lend their voices to the night. Some lend their lights too. I wonder if man has ever tried the sound anywhere. I sat glued and speechless. My friend, Lalthansang entered with an exclamation, “An hawi chuoi chuoi de aw!” We have been receiving gifts from the villagers- tea leaves, fruits, sometimes vegetables and meat too. “Tonight” he said, “It is a holy water that could burn with blue flame.” He performed that for me. I saw for the first time holy water up in flame. The holy water that never flows. We let it flow and the night explodes with the holy water up in blue flames.

(New Delhi, June 22, 2008)

Catching Up

2008-06-16T13:17:00.000+05:30

The beginning was long time gone. We have the words today in plenty. Holed-up man in tattered clothes stained with old stink of unpalatable doctrinal houses cornered the little spaces that were cultivated with toil and struggle. How long does it take for a birth and death if man could do? When was the last time that one believe religion to be a house of truth and love? Too many shades. It is time they set.

Very recently Delhi Thurawn was cornered to a clogged space, dictated by will who have tasted a smear of power and might. They, who did not spare even the last vocal chord that embody speech and expression and the inevitable flavour of freedom that exist to give breathe and life. Nothing is small when the quest and hunger for power is big. The little avenue that we collectively nurtured with the prize freedom was suddenly gasping for life. I saw, once again, the beauty and the beast battling to find a place as the truth burst open from uncontrollable corners. Nothing could be hidden. Man only love the vain attempt. It put them in the race for that eluding power and glory where the quest for empty victory rang louder than the rusted church bell.

I confessed I learn a lot from the entire discourse. It is one inevitable revelation. Big lessons from unwritten chapters emerged from one neglected path of history. When the new generations do not have questions to inquire about the current history I am glad we have people in their evening year who also have seen the morning and the afternoon past, ready to shed a light to the layered darkness. The heart of darkness multiplied after the Gospel. Man is still the victim. The proud victim. When the generations that did not believe in Columbus and his tribe has grown, the quest for the retreat into history has to be made by shedding those extra flabs that we have gathered from dim pulpit lights that has the house divided. When there is twenty three ways of putting a nail inside a wall, the march of a people into the future should not be limited by narrow door. The attempt itself is irrelevant and invalid when man is the new king with open choices in every field aided by precise tools and technologies. The attempt is a shame to the little people who are practising the march of the leviathan. If at the gate of the centenary, such forces could wrest the empowered generations and their medium of freedom, liberty and dignity, the ghost of the "head hunters" are, no doubt, still largely alive.

The opportunity compelled me for a comparative study of societies that dwell with similar threat to the same freedom. Manipur's Imphal is one close example where the fourth estate were frequently dictated to necessitate black out in protest against the multiplying Brutus. Pakistan,
with a military ruler, is another appalling context. The Taliban occupied territories were severely blotted. The same forces are not far and outside. I realised everything is within us. The good. The bad. The ugly. I could not help, but equate the forces that gagged Delhi Thurawn, our small voice, to have loosened their reason, dignity and integrity. When they thought they have mastered the art of silencing voices, we ought to remind ourselves that we are playing the losing game. A winner is not defined by one particular time and period. When there is a retreat, which is inevitable, the mad race in the vanity fair would only be ridiculous. He, who stands for truth and justice, would eventually resort to fight for that freedom where life lies.

The other lesson is we are still one vulnerable troupe with weak reactionary capabilities. We are ready to burst and explode, losing our reason and integrity. We don't seem to mind sacrificing our dignity when we could do without it. We don't seem to mind withdrawing from the truth that defines our valuable existence as man and human being. Abdicating spaces that plotted us as a being superior than all other animals. The thin line that segregates us from the beast is erased to situate ourselves just as another lesser mortals. We seem to be content if we are not robbed of our life. But being alive alone is not life at all. We need to open- up every forum and faculties to inculcate healthy discourse and discussion.

We are pregnant with pretension when it comes to things that matters us. We are too occupied by religious and other supernatural activities that we missed many things that could helped us relate to the reality of life. We strive to be ordained by the pulpit or any other related symbols in our vain quest to be accepted. Tha race for acceptance has already made this world too bloodly and messy. It has made man corrupt and undignified. That makes us too superficial. Too defensive. Taking extra caution not to burn the houses of doctrines that has visibly divided us. That has closed down all spaces that has lately intervene to make situations for changes. I am afraid it might gnaw into more generations as if the whole attempt of existence is to churn out white, holy, religious tribe that history has not seen anywhere. We are bad actors as we try to hide in the burning bush that we have been beating about. Our inclination to the supernatural world has made us too blind to see the real. Our relation with reality is blurred as we sought too much out of this world. We have ruined generations. We have messed with generations. But the blind did not see. The mute did not speak. We are victims of a sin that we are not part of.

The tendency to explain and interpret everything from the door and window of religion has made us weak everywhere. I remember taking my friend, Stephen C Hmar, who had several physical complains, to see a doctor in one of the most prestigious hospital in the Capital city. After thorough examination the doctor told us that Science alone would not be able to treat his diseases. We were at loss as we try to find a way to inject little hope into him. Similarly, the entire attempt to explain everything with a religious approach has closed the door for reason to take seat. The challenges of change before us demands that we exhibit balance in our deliverance of reason. We cannot belong to any clogged house and doctrines that were imported without questioning their temper. If the need be it should be constructively deconstructed to enable every faculty to imagine and reimagine the walk of life. If we don't we would be remembered as cowards. Loosers. Failures. As morally sold out. Unstable. We are not what we are meant to be if we give up the fight much before we negotiate the matter that involved us. Its not about sin. It is neither sinful. It is just that it is humane to know the truth. The prized spaces of freedom and liberty that has been hard won should not be placed in the hands of battered man who resort to religion for their livelihood. It is a greater loss than placing a necklace of diamond in pig's neck. The haste bursting and wrong decisions have blurred our eyes. The mistake is that the green tree is seen as a burning forest. Things that could be save has to be saved so that our existence as man deliver its meaning. Otherwise we are just catching up with everything that we have missed.

(June 15, 2008, New Delhi)

Of Rats and Man

2008-03-31T16:03:00.000+05:30

The year of the rat was predicted long back. It came slow but certain. The package was like opening the Pandora Box. It started with the bloom of doom flowers (gregarious bamboo flowering). The bamboo seed turned out to be a blessing for the rats that multiplied their population after consuming the starch rich seed. The rat boom severely destroyed crops, particularly rice, which is the staple food of the distressed villagers in Manipur’s Tipaimukh and Mizoram. These two constituencies are the epicenter of the natural phenomenon that occurs after every forty eight years. Villages in Thanlon and Singat sub-division were also affected. The rats raided and invaded the rice bowl of the self reliant farmers, who are all dependent on their traditional jhum fields for their livelihood. They were left anguished, distressed, hopeless and shattered after the rats invasion that destroy food security and the prospect for it. Today hunger and famine visits them day and night. The plights of the distressed villagers is moving towards deterioration as there is no trace of proactivity and political will to address their serious situation. That is worsened by the absence of road and connectivity, and public distribution system. Moreover, as the villagers do not have alternative source of income, their pangs of hunger and the fear for it multiplied. They were left to fend for themselves, which is why they are pushed to resort to their forest and jungles to look out for wild yam and other forest produce to relieve their hunger.

It is unfortunate that despite the prediction of the approaching natural phenomenon that hits the distressed villages with clock like certainty, no significant measures were identified to combat the destructive impact of the bamboo flowering. With the advantage of advance knowledge about the famine the Centre as well as the Government of Manipur could have drawn famine codes to identify emergencies and measures to be taken in situations such as these. With the harvest that never took place, the government could have provided wage employment of public works, which could become the mainstay of famine relief. The failures of the government to operationalise public distribution system and food storage have resulted in skyrocketing the prices of rice and other basic commodities that could be purchased. This is worsened by the absence of local food supply. However, with no other source of income, particularly money, the distressed villagers failed to be potential buyers, even of their dire necessities. Price stabilisation is the last thing that would take place in these cut off compartments. The usually sluggard bureaucratic machine would take its good time to put the famine codes into operation even if it felt the need for it. It may take no time at all, which could be the situation when it comes to marginalized constituencies like Tipaimukh, Singat, Thanlon and the fringe villages and sub-divisions in Mizoram, which are the epicenter of the dreaded phenomenon.

In the middle of February, 2008, distressed villagers of Tipaimukh’s Leisen and Parvachawm reached Lungthulien to buy rice with whatever little the villagers could collectively contribute. On reaching Lungthulien their fear of hunger was burdened as they were told that there was no rice to sell or buy. They were not given any choice, but to retreat with their burden of fear and hunger that was added with the inconvenient truth; to tell the villagers that there was no rice to buy at all. Earlier in September 2007, the same villagers collectively decided to lend money from one money lender to buy rice for the entire villagers from the rumoured NREGS promises that could never reached them. I met them in October 2007 when they were stalled with anguish at the brink of fear of hunger and debts. That was when Christmas was awaited. But the entire villagers had nothing more to look up to till the month of Christmas. That was when, for the first time, I heard them say, “We wanted to celebrate Christmas in October when we still have little of our trifle harvest.” That was very disturbing. But the tense situation of theirs speaks out for itself as the fear of hunger and helplessness gnaws them.

The unfortunate year coincides with the Chinese “Year of the Rat.” For once we did not get to hear of the government who tend to side track and beat the bush by looking for some outside hands in all of its calamities that toll the country. The Chinese were not blamed. Pakistan is spared. But the state actors are still in deep slumber when its constituencies and the people who should matter are confronting famine. The serious plights of the long marginalized people were never presented with the will to do the needful. They don’t seem like they were ever represented. Their existence fails to impress anything on the conscience of people who ought to act for their share of precious suffrage that turned the wheels of democracy. But today, they were off the map. Off the conscience. Off the will. Off .

Shall we watch them live the Christian sayings; there is time for plenty, time for hunger and time to bear them silently. The kingdom belongs to them. Or shall we speak like some dirty holy men and say, “Let them repent to end their hunger and famine.” Or shall we speak like some unusual self styled religious men who must have bathed and cleansed himself in some imagery seven holy rivers and sea and say, “They sowed sins and reap hunger, anguish and distress.”

But if anyone thinks this is true, then religion is the most beautiful myth created by man to serve his fear with elusive hope. He dwells in that because he is weak, hopeless and small. He dwells in that because he wanted to give himself the idea of eternity to clothe himself with that absence and feels like superman. He dwells in that because the reality of brevity and the fear of death in this sinful world is inevitable. He dwells in that because he wanted himself to be forever in the summer of life. But he could say that, not because he is religious or spiritual, but because he is selfish and brutish, which are his “state of nature.”

The big question today is, what is required of us in such urgent situations? Public actions, which you and I could exert, could make great difference for the distressed people who are living with famine in forgotten hills and mountain. Distressed villagers of these constituencies were reduced to starvation and hunger by the natural phenomenon that makes it no longer possible for them to acquire anything to secure their hunger. Public action has the strength to avert famines. It requires you and me. It doesn’t need any magical wand to address the challenges. Man has enough. We just have to exercise them, rather than celebrate them in the waste of abundance and uselessness. It is time we give up those multiplying supernatural explanations and looked at the realities of the unique link between food production, natural disasters, hunger and the absence of political will. But I believe, we could be the agent of change. When that happens we would realized that we could end hunger.

(Delhi, March 30, 2008)

Inside the Heart of Darkness-X

2008-03-24T12:03:00.000+05:30

October 14, 2007. Senvon: The morning breaks open with a warm glow clothed in surreal lights. The sun, like a stranger, tries to find a place for itself in the sea of clouds. The sun move with its unusual hesitancy; like Judas Iscariot after kissing the Son of Man. But nothing is stopping it, which was why we had a bright sunny day. The leaves glisten with infectious holiness, as if it has shed its earthly dirt that has layered upon itself. Finally they seem to be breathing with a new life. I wonder whose side they are; the sun or the clouds.

There were many visitors in the morning. One was a tall and lanky hunter from Leisen village. He happens to be a relative of our host. I was told that his family severely distressed by the rats that gnaw every sheaf off his ripe golden field that was once pregnated with fat grain. Vanity Fair’s great expectations is ruined by rats and rodents that are generated by the gregarious bamboo flowering. The hunter told me that he came to Senvon with two of his most treasured possession – his gun and his faithful dog. He told me he came to sell them as he had no other choice in the face of hunger and the inevitable famine that awaits them. His fear and insecurity was loud and clear. It was his first experience of the impact of doom flowers. He was helpless. He took me to the house where he was putting up. He showed me his old gun and the tattered license. The gun was older than I expected it to be. There was a couple of soldering marks on it. He did not expect a good price for his gun. But he wanted to sell it just to secure his fear of hunger. Then there was the dog, which was not around when we reached. He sent out a high pitched whistle and a black dog came running. Waging its tail, the dog jumped in excitement. In that new place the only person the dog knew was his master who was his faithful companion. But it was sad because the dog did not know what his master was already hatching. If his master came across a prospective buyer he would end up in many bowels. The hunter told me that the dog has been his most faithful companion. He said, “The idea of selling my dog hurts me like nothing ever did. I could not even sleep when I started giving a thought to it.” He told me that the dog has been with him through thick and thin. “But it is the only thing that will fetch me money. I have nothing to sell other than my two most treasured possessions”, he said. The hunter’s dog was all black. He called him ‘Blackie’. It was not a big dog. But by the look of it, the dog was more adorable than his master. The hunter asked me to buy them. He asked a price of four thousand rupees. One thousand for the dog and three thousand for the gun. However, after seeing the attachment he had with the gun and the dog, it was a difficult contemplation to exchange hands. But if one has to acknowledge his fear and apprehension, the attachment would be merely worldly. The bamboo flower bloom has forced the distressed Tipaimukh villagers for an inconvenient somersault where they were forced to act against their will. Sell their valuable possession for the small bowel and the big fear of hunger.

I saw their fear and anguish growing bigger and taller than their hills and mountain. Everything cannot be seen. Everything was not made to be seen. But the invisible can be felt. They could be heard. They also have smell too. The political economy of Tipaimukh has been balancing between mild and severe hunger since long time back. Besides the bamboo flowering that occurred after every forty eight years, there is also the yearly recurring cycle of natural disasters that resulted in crop failure, food insecurity and food crisis. The vulnerable people, who are also forgotten, did not stand any chance for any convenient and stable existence with their primitive and traditional methods of jhum cultivation. There is no scent of modern science and technologies injected to assist their decadent know–how. Their deteriorating situation is worsened by the absence of any proactive intervention by the government. There is no public policy towards addressing their decades of deprivation. No public distribution system. No governance. No infrastructure. No health facilities. And worst, no school in good running condition. They are victims of entitlement failure. Small self reliant farmers without any other sources banking on the most primitive agricultural practice hardly find anything in their favour. Not only that the indices of human welfare in this constituency, which is already, off the map and conscience of the authorities, is very poor. Life expectancy, infant mortality and literacy are also in a distressing situation. Man and his might is a mite here.

After meal, we headed for the worship service. There was lots of singing. Dancing too. Some of the dancers were, I supposed, in an unconscious state. They did not know where they were dancing. They did not know where they were moving. They hit whatever stood before them. They fell everywhere. I don’t really know what happened to them. I don’t know either what should be done with them. Since I was a kid, such people concerns me a lot as they tend to disturbed the order of the worship service. Unfortunately, they have been accepted, through the ages, as some sort of unquestionable holy cow.

I remember the quite frequent revival session we used to have in many of our small churches. The same kind of people used to be the dancing kings and queen. I remember they used to start dancing with a song that got faster. The big church drum made of cow skin would thunder louder as the dancers continued without the song. They would run wild. Some climbing just everywhere they could. They used to stir up the dust as they run about, while some rolled on available ground. It would go endlessly. The church liturgy got affected and the conductor would be in a puzzle; to stop the song, to let them be, to beat the heat with another song or to allow the service to flow. I remember the mess it used to be. It was a difficult situation where any man was afraid to judge or take a decision. So it used to end up beating the bush without the fire. I realized the impact of those uncontrollable sessions were disastrous to the health of the Church. After all those celebrated sessions, we witnessed the birth of many sects that were seen to have indoctrinated outside the Church yard. They actually multiply, which we have in plenty today. It has become difficult to situate them. In the end, I strongly believed, religion is between you and God. The rest is a make up in that unquenchable quest for that evading power and glory.

Well, in the course of the service, there was this song that lost itself in the fast beat of the drum that seems to get faster. And you know what happened to those dancers. They just got wilder too. It was monotonous and meaningless for me to keep standing there as if waiting for that something to get hold of me too. I was actually scared that it would. So I went outside and met distressed villagers from different villages. I started the meeting with three elders from Leisen village. One of them, Lalchawilien said, “After the long toil we battled with rats, rodents and birds over our rice field. But there is no way to guard and protect them. We tried every little thing we could, but it was all in vain. That day my family members and I left our field late in the evening with a prayer. I had a bad dream that night. I suspect what it would be. The next morning I reached to find my rice field standing without any sheaves. It was a very dark and disturbing sight. I went back home barred and heavy hearted and every step I took was like a move to an end that I did not want to remember again.” Leisen villagers were made to realize their unfortunate turn as the rats and rodents destroy their field one after the other. Hrangtlunglien also had his share of nightmare when he was left to collect share of his labour that was spared by the invaders. “But they spared me too little that will never last my family for even a month. With whatever little we managed to reap it is our desire that we celebrate Christmas in October”, Hrangtlunglien said. Christmas month December is gone. I wonder how they managed to keep themselves going.

Zarzolien of Tipaimukh’s Leisen village said that the bamboo flowering did not only destroy their food security, but also negates the man in him. He said, “The bamboo flower reduced me like nothing else could. It is a shame that my toil would not allow me to feed my family. It is very shameful. I could never feel like a man anymore.” Lalmanlien (Leisen) also said, “Rats and rodents plagued our rice fields at night. They came like angry and hungry ghost. It took them just few hours to spoil our year’s toil and left our rice field like useless grass. Many of us in the village did not even reap two tins of grain.” Sangneitling of Senvon village said, “We are in vain. We knew much in advance about the bamboo flowering, but we could have no choice at all. What alternatives do you think is here in this god-forsaken place? We toil with hopes and fears. But we were made to realize fear bigger than we could ever imagine.”

The bloom of despair has driven many young men like Lalhmingmawi, Lalditum and Siema, of Sipuikawn village to look for work in Mizoram and Assam. But they move out of their homes to realise the limited avenue available for them. “We have been working all our lives in our jhum fields and we are not really good for other jobs. We came back to our empty homes looking for something like hope to keep us going. The bamboo flowering has created uncontrollable chaos within us and our homes”, Lalhmingmawi said. Siema said that he guarded his jhum field with burning torches for many nights. “I did my best, but the rats won. Today I am left with nothing. They even came to our house and gnawed our blankets, shoes and chappal. I was afraid. I thought they were angry with me.” Distressed farmers like Darkung filled his rice field with traditional traps to get rid of the invading rats and rodents. “It is a vain effort. But what can I do? I did that with a hope, which was shattered in one dark night” Darkung told me. The trapped rats were again consumed by the distressed Tipaimukh villagers. “They eat our rice and we also eat them if are trapped”, Darkung said.

It is a helpless situation despite the pilot-like project that was initiated by the Centre to combat the impact of bamboo flowering, not a single paisa reached the affected villagers. No government officials have visited the Tipaimukh villages to take stock of the situation in the hills and mountains where death looms large. It is shocking that food insecurity and the near-famine situation continue unabated despite the Central Government funding to bail out the region’s distressed farmers. None of the measures adopted at the power corridors to alleviate the plights of the distressed farmers made an impact. The visible insecurity has already reached a crisis situation where the rosy special packages that were announced for securing that right to food and livelihood has no meaning and relation to the distressed lot. Taking into account the money that was allocated to combat the bamboo flowering, the farmer’s distress and the near-famine situation in Tipaimukh is rather man-made than a result of natural calamities.

Hrangtlunglien told me that no one in his village is aware about the Centre’s policy to bail them out of the near-famine situation. “We never knew that the government would act in such situations as we have been living without any form of government for many decades as far as my memory could recall. There is no motorable road inside our village. There is nothing, but just us. We are independent and self-reliant people. We never knew that there is something called the government to represent us. Manipur government has no meaning for us”, Hrangtlunglien said. Zarzolien also said that the Manipur government does not exist for them to be trusted. He told me, “We are unrepresented and forgotten people.”

In Tipaimukh villages the prices of rice and other basic commodities have skyrocketed beyond the villager’s reach. While the issue price of rice at Public Distribution System by the Department of Food and Civil Supplies are Rs. 7.29 (APL), Rs. 6.21 (BPL), Rs. 3.47 (AAY), the same quality of rice are getting sold at Rs. 16 or 17 per kg. However the situation has deteriorated and in most of the cases there is no rice to be bought at that price even. Today if rice is available, no one dare to sell them. Last month, in February 2008, I was told that villagers from Leisen and Parvachawm came to Lungthulien came to buy rice. But there was no rice to sell or buy, so they went back empty handed, except for the burden of hunger.

In October 2007 when their fields were raided and there was no food to eat, Leisen villagers made a collective decision to borrow money from a money lender as they have heard about the National Rural Employment Guarantee Act (NREGA), which came into force in the country in February 2006. “We borrowed sixty thousand rupees from one money lender and bought rice that was distributed to all the villagers.We thought that when the guaranteed wage employment for 100 days under the NREGA reaches us we would all repay again. But we are so worried as there is no talk about the 100 days work anymore and we have nothing to eat again,” Lalmanlien said.

By ensuring guaranteed wage employment for 100 days to any adult in a household who is willing to work, the NREGA is the first legislation that compels the state to provide a social safety net for the poorest people of this country and seeks to address the urgent issues of hunger and rural distress that afflict large parts of India. However, in Tipaimukh villages, there is no awareness of the entitlements of workers under the scheme such as the concept of work on demand, unemployment allowance, and the availability of work site facilities. Despite that, the state is bound to give work on demand and this is a fundamental principle of the NREGA. However, for Tipaimukh villagers to realize that it would need a strong democratic governance to ensure accountability and transparency. Despite the vain wait, NREGA was not launched to combat bamboo flowering. But the distressed villagers are trying to plot their hope in everything in the midst of their biggest fear. Lalditum of Sipuikawn village said, “The 100 days work scheme is just a dying rumour. Do you really think it will reach us? If the government of Manipur is serious about saving Tipaimukh villagers, it should lose no more time and act fast.” Various Church Organisation have come to the aid of the hunger stricken Tipaimukh Villagers. However, with their limited capacity in the face of the gigantic problem they could not sustain their efforts to aid the distressed villagers. There is a big vacuum, which has to be filled in by the State. The Government of Manipur has to step in to aid its citizens by addressing policy issue related to the farmers’ plights. To combat the impact of bamboo flowering in different parts of Manipur, the Ministry of Environment and Forests has allocated Rs. 6.9 crore and 1 crore in the years 2005–06 and 2006-2007 respectively. The State will continue to receive Rs. 1 crore till 2009 for the same cause. However, the funds have not reached the targeted group till today. It is not known if the Centre allocated funds for the distressed farmers were diverted, drowned or drained. In case of Tipaimukh there is a need for the Government to identify the village as distressed villages. Besides, the need for taking stock of the situation, the Government of Manipur is yet to connect and link the villages with roads. Moreover, to combat the deteriorating plights of the people of Tipaimukh and other affected areas in the State, the Government of Manipur could avail funds such as Additional Central Assistance from the Planning Commission, 12th Finance Commission and, if necessary, also from the Calamity Relief Fund under the Ministry of Home Affairs. Moreover, the Government of Manipur has to intervene on war-footing scale to develop regeneration plan, development of necessary infrastructure, survey and mapping resource, spread of epidemic, awareness campaign and more urgently famine control. Not only that, the Tipaimukh villagers need a mass counseling programme on issues such as changing the crop patterns and subsidiary activities other than the traditional slashed-and-burned practice., which is a threat to the environment too. Besides, the government should draw famine codes for identifying emergencies and measures. The Government of Manipur should act immediately knowing that its decisions and actions could save its distressed citizens who are rendered hopeless by its inactivity in the face of the gregarious bamboo flowering.

I spent the day meeting distressed villagers. In the evening I went to buy Darkung’s roasted rats to take it to Delhi. Dinner was early. Kaia invited us for the specially prepared mutton dinner. After the night worship service it was followed by a singing session. Hrangthangvung and I joined the wonderful session, which was one of the best things that happened during the conference. After the singing session, we were told that a girl from a distant village was severely sick. The girl lost consciousness and hundreds of people gathered in the small house; waiting for the girl to wake to her senses again. There was no doctor. No medicine. So they were pouring buckets of water on the girl’s head as directed by the pastors who were there. I was told that one of the pastors poured oil on her head and prayed for her. There was nothing much to do. It was a helpless situation. You have to “just believe”, when inside the heart of darkness.

(New Delhi, March 23, 2008)

Dear Judas Iscariot

2008-03-21T12:01:00.000+05:30

“You will exceed them. For you will sacrifice the man that clothes me.”
– Christ to Judas (The Gospel of Judas, ca 150)

Dear Judas Iscariot. Here's another time again cycled by the inevitable Christian calendar, to also remember your last kiss on earth. This too shall pass. But not until He comes again. You were fortunate to have kissed the Son of Man. But it was that thing you did, Judas kiss, which made all the difference. A difference for you. For the world after Christ. Your kiss will always be remembered. But you will remain the treacherous disciple who sold God’s begotten Son for thirty coins of silver. But Christianity and everyone who follows the religion would not be the same without you.

That is when I said to myself that you were also chosen. Chosen, but to be the traitor. Chosen to be cursed. Like the tree of wisdom in the Garden of Eden. Chosen amongst many. I realised that life is a game of choosing. In the end when He comes again the chosen few would be lifted. Those few would inherit the Kingdom. Not everyone. Many will be missed out. That goes to say that the leftovers would be plenty. Like the plagued quail in the desert. A blessing of manna turned rotten again. This place is already a grave of lust. But the world remembers you, for you were chosen to be one among the faithful twelve, and the chosen one again to “exceed them.” You were the choice of fate. In anger they even pitied the womb that carries you.

Many a times, as a Christian, I resemble you than I did of the Son of Man. When, fortunately, I was chosen and blessed with salvation, I also sold him for no price at all. I am a traitor too. Sometimes, I sold Him for less than thirty silver coins that you took. Many a times, it was for a trifle amount. But I sold Him too. Not just once. I dare not count them. The guilt is all the same. Is there a smaller guilt? A smaller sin? But I won’t hang myself like you did. Sometimes the guilt is too heavy. Just like the burden of the cross. But I won’t choose the noose if I were not chosen to be. Many a times, I tried washing my hands like Pontius Pilate, the Roman, did. The water has changed. I need not wet my hands to wash myself clean. I need no circumcision to become one of the chosen. I am a changed man. Even then, I felt the guilt of you, Judas, the Jew. That is when I used to find myself trapped in two identities - The act of the Roman, which has become an inevitable part of me, and the guilt of the Jew. None of them could swallow my guilt, except for the cross. But I belong to them both. I suppose this will be me as long as my life dwells here on earth. But did Pilate ever carry the burden of guilt like you do? Maybe he wasn’t chosen to feel any sense of guilt too. When you are chosen, you are the chosen. The choice is never yours to keep.

Today people remember you for all the wrong reasons that you lived through. But you were chosen for that. You could really have no choice. From Hollywood to the distressed people who are confronting famine in the hills of Manipur’s Churachandpur, “You will be cursed” again as the Son of Man warned you. That must be the reason why none spoke of the other side of you. Sometimes I wonder if I would ever be chosen to be one of the disciples if I was there during Jesus time. I wonder if our multiplying tribe of pastors, who spoke in tongues and learn to skin the Book, would be chosen for the same too if they were there at that time. When I know I won’t even sound like a cowbell, you were chosen to be one of the disciples. Not only that, you were chosen to take charge of the treasury. That shows you must be good with numbers. That also shows you were most trusted for the job. Honest and worthy too. What if Peter had taken that charge? He might buy the best boat and fishing nets available in Galilee, if not Nazareth, and move far away where he will never become fishers of man. And if he happens to be bowed down by his guilt he would return and still say that he knew nothing about the money that he was supposed to take care of. You never know, for he despised Jesus three times. Serial liar. But fortunate son, Peter was. He was not chosen to be the traitor to sell Jesus. Otherwise he might even take money three times and kissed the Son of Man for more than that. But he was chosen to be the rock despite disowning Jesus in His helpless hour.

You also knew about the dark hour that has its clutches firm on you. That approaching gloom where your part was to be the biggest mole. When the Son of Man honoured you with the bread dipped in sauce, it was an affirmation of the dark path that you were chosen to tread. The Book said that the devil entered inside you after you were served the bread. And the Son of Man, in anguish, had to drink from the cup the Father has given Him. Did you know that he prayed, wishing the cup was not His, but if only the Father wishes? Did you know that after you betrayed the Son of Man, in painful loneliness, cried and asked, “Father why have you forsaken me”? It did not end with the kiss that you planted. That bitter kiss. That kiss that changed the world. Christianity would not be the same without you. Without your kiss.

The Son of Man left saying, “It is finished.” And you became the most hated man in the history of Christianity. You still are. There could be no turning back for you. You were seen as more than an enemy. That must be the reason why there seem to be no love at all for you. You were trapped in the course of time and prophecy. Caught in the path that no man will ever choose to tread. You were chosen to be the traitor. The noose was yours too. Pontius Pilate chose Caesar. Not Him. But I am chosen too. This time salvation is mine, dear Judas Iscariot.

(Delhi, March 21, 2008)

Inside the Heart of Darkness-IX

2008-03-15T11:58:00.000+05:30

October 13, 2007, Senvon: The morning was fresher than the day before. It was because it rained endlessly the last night. It stopped briefly. As if to take a break and breathe. It resumed with a renewed strength, with thousands of raindrops falling in a matter of second on the tin roof that keeps us warm and dry. The yellow village road was wet, slippery and muddy. The wet surfaces almost glow under the heavy rain. We were served milk tea that was sweeter than usual. I couldn’t remember who told me this, but I was told the sweeter the teas, sweeter are the hearts that welcomes you. Good signs. It doesn’t mean that the host have sugar in abundant. Sometimes you can read hearts from what is served. In some places it is said that when courting a woman if sweet tea is served it means that you are stepping inside a court that could be shared. In some other places where the host could not afford sugar, I was told they served salt, which has to be lick. I did not take the liberty to remain blissful in the calculation of our sweet tea for I thought the rain was showing its strength for me. I went to the lifted balcony and watched the rain showering with heavy drops; bigger and fatter than any woman could cry them out.

In Senvon and other Tipaimukh villages October is supposed to be a fruitful, busy harvesting month. But just as expected, the doom flowers (gregarious bamboo flowering) bloom and left them without much to harvest. For many it left them nothing to harvest. So it was a gloomy month that will continue with more distressing time to confront. How they will negotiate is one big unimaginable question that gets clogged if one contemplates from their cut-off situations. There is nothing to resemble the State or government. It has no presence in anything. So there is no scent of welfare or development to take place. Every man is for himself. His life is defined by the swell of his muscles, the sweat of his brows, his traditional knowledge and wisdom of clearing the forest for his jhum fields, and the seeds he preciously treasure in the heart of his hearth. In the end, after all efforts were exerted and invested, he waits for October to come and December to follow. But His dark expectations proved true with the doom flowers that multiply and explodes the rat population that invaded his ripen fields of life. He did not surrender or sacrifice. Rats, rodents, birds and other wild animals were his enemies when the nation “shines” and “boom” in the 21st century that is defined by leaping progress in science and technology. However, in Tipaimukh, man’s science and technology is limited to his usage of spade, Dao, and the matchsticks used to burn the slashed forest. The other science to him is the unexplainable creations of God, which he did not even think of questing into.

I met quite a number of distressed families who cannot help but spill their apprehensions as hunger awaits them. It was a helpless situation for them as well as me. From that moment on, I said to myself that something should be done during our brief stay to give them hope. An ounce of it at least to help them carry on. I knew it would be impossible on my part, as well as ours, to provide immediate financial or material aid. The question was how to do that. What will you say or do in such situation? How will you respond? It was a difficult situation. I could not find a way out. But I have one thing in my mind that says, give them hope. If then, what will be hope in this situation and how do we deliver that hope? That was when I was wishing I was like Jesus, filling their garner with fat yellow grain to rest their worries. But reality gnaws like a boil on the head. So to many that I met, I told them we will do anything to relief their hunger and distress. That was an empty promise, but I could see little glow that appears like some thin brittle glass. So I must act. We must act. Today, hunger has driven them to uproot deep wild ham and other wild foods. We cannot be merry in ignorance and pretension when hunger and the fear of it could not comfort them or lull them to sleep. This is high time you and I act and respond to their distress call. They just need rice. Nothing more.

I remember kids who came for the conference brought along their load of vegetables from far away villages early in the morning hoping to take home something after the conference. They also brought roasted meat of wild animals. However their thin chance of fetching a good price for their goods was spoilt. They went from door to door selling the same stuff. In the end they had to bring down the price to the ground level. They were compelled to do so, rather than taking them back home the same load. Something is better than nothing. That will always be with man here on earth. We bought the dry meat. L Keivom bought their vegetable as well, which we eat them fresh in Senvon. Senvon did not have a separate market of its own. People who have stuff to sell take them door to door. If not they leave it in the available shops. There is another way of making them public, which is done with a written notice that would be placed in places frequented by the villagers. The last and effective practice is when it got spreaded by word of mouth. In Senvon and other Tipaimukh villages, everyone knows everyone. Sometimes one wonders if the word of mouth has everything to defy technology in places like Senvon.

The morning meal was early, heavy and healthy. I was proud not to be fasting or dieting. The time difference has inevitable interference that tends to sneak into our eating time. But I could forgive because of the beautiful rain. After meal we immediately dressed up for the worship cum seminar. We were halted by the rain, but the appointed time was running against us. So we walked the muddy road shaded by black umbrellas to find the congregation hall occupied. One thing Tipaimukh villagers are good at is in keeping time. I don’t know what it would be with other affairs, but for the religious session, they did not seem to give any missing chance.

The worship service was followed by the choir singing competition. Thirteen village choirs participated and battled for the prize money. The competition breathes with a fresh change as the choir did not represent any particular denomination despite its teeming presence. It was for the first time that Tipaimukh villagers came together leaving behind their scarred unseen high walls to worship Him. The change was celebrated. It was visible. I hear many saying that too. When, in the name of religion, their small villages were fragmented, the change is a big leap as they near the centenary of the Gospel. I haven’t seen such a potent dividing force that molests the religion we are professing today. Again, I see this as no handiwork of the masses who were led. It is the creation of the so called “leaders” who are designing differences to carve an identity for themselves. The bigger the differences the better their chance of survival. When it has become a game of survival for their “leaders” the masses blindly sacrificed their reason, integrity, innocence and their belief to find themselves in one of the multiplying compartments that housed outdated doctrines, which actually professed all the irreligious negativities. As they sacrifice, they do so at the cost of shattering bloodlines, love, peace, and what not. These houses of doctrines have presented itself merely as a way of life, where the spiritual quest took the backseat. Sometimes, the battle gets too narrow that the race is to wrest the imported orphans quota and free education that were never really imparted. The situation is one big grave. Forty eight years from today, the impact of the spoilt generation by these houses would be felt more severe than another cycle of gregarious bamboo flowering. When that time comes to wake us, if we are fortunate enough, it would be too late to ask about the fire starters who will all be rotting with their layered sins. My fear is that they might leave behind their infectious virus that will sincerely follow their footsteps to lead us into that Vanity Fair. How long are we supposed to say, “Father forgive them for they do not know what they do.” Do you really think they did not know what they were doing?

After the singing competition, L Keivom’s translated Bible (Baibul, Delhi Version) was released. The new translation of the Bible was presented to all the pastors and elders in Tipaimukh. L Keivom, then, led the seminar. He immediately posed a big question; What do you think is the need of the hour for us as a people? It was interesting as many voices were raised in response. More than fifty people responded. However, I recorded 29 responses as the rest were similar, if not related. Theirs answers were God fearing, obedience, repentance, Gospel, truth, surrendering to God’s will, courage, peace, meekness, unity, road, self examination, good leader, God’s spirit, salvation, education, hardworking, bridge, wealth, God, state, goodness, wisdom, Jesus, trusting God, rice, health, selflessness, and free education.

If we delve into their responses that carries their expectations, one cannot help but weigh them with the challenges of their reality. Their desired approach towards solving their problems were absent of any realist perspective. It was too ideal, where the entire teaching of salvation and deliverance have also wedded their expectations. I wonder if it was because the seminar was part of the Gospel conference. But too much of the indoctrination without any other substantial feeding for the faculties has resulted in what Marx called it an “opium.” That has invaded “the masses.” This has pushed us into expecting the supernatural forces to work on our lives, while we never act to move the mountains.

L Keivom digressed and stressed on two things: the need for establishing good school, which will mould generations and future. Keivom said, “If a school is not in order, nothing will ever be in order. School is the biggest factory.” Keivom said that a good school is the need of the hour in Tipaimukh. He challenged the gathreing to act and report if they know of government aided school teachers who are not doing their duty. He said, “If you dare not do this, you are equally committing a sin.” He said that there can be no bigger thief than such people who are not carrying out their obligation. He reminded the congregation that one has to have courage to do good. L Keivom also said that the mission aided schools today have resembled school of the thieves, run by the thieves. “To rebuild our nation, we need to revive good school that will remain our foundation as we progress. We need a new beginning”, Keivom said.

Keivom also stressed on the great mistake, the misuse of the Gospel. Keivom said that the devil has taken hold of us as we could never wake from the mistake. He strongly impressed of the need to celebrate the Gospel centenary in union, which will take place in the year 2010. He said, “We cannot fail ourselves and above all the Lord our God.”

After Keivom spoke, tea break was announced. However there was no tea, so it was resumed with the response session. A heated discussion follows regarding the date of the Gospel centenary celebration. Two factions were visible. One house strongly opines that the Gospel reached Senvon on February 5, 1910. The other house holds that it was on May 7, 1910 that the Gospel was sowed in Senvon. The learned and men of pulpit drew their historic swords. The ghosts of Coleman and Watkin Roberts, the Whites missionaries, revisit as if it were some unfinished agenda that has to be negotiated again. Efforts and temper were exerted with the ball changing courts. It could not be an easy nip. It could not be a win - win situation for both the groups. The issue was, and it still is, crucial. However, it was sensitive than the surface looks to be. I tell you public memory is not short with everything. I witnessed one side defending its stand in the interest of correcting the blunder of history. The other side defended its dates as if salvation was attached to it. I believed it was more than that. Their entire belief system seems to have been oriented to immerse in that sanctified numbers. I said to myself that Christianity has too many signs, symbols and dates that if we erase them, many would see their faith slowly fading away.

Two things are involved here; the historical evidence and the missionaries propaganda. With the passage of time it has become difficult to separate the grain from the sheaves. That is exactly the American problem today; the nation who were seduced with the distorted history that Columbus discovered America. After the gullible nation was fed with the distorted staple of history, it is trapped in its own wrong that will never be corrected despite the knowledge of the truth. Are we with Bush here who said, “If you are not with us you are against us.”

Fortunately, the heated discussion was put to halt by some sort of divine intervention. It was the conductor, who is also a pastor, who said enough of it. It has become inevitable. The session ended with a prayer. There is an immediate need for a constructive discussion and a secular retreat to our contested history. If this is not done, we will be remembered for our worship of sanctified dates, signs and symbols.

After the service, I met lots of people from different villages of Tipaimukh who were affected by the bamboo flowering. Their stories should shame the government if it exists for them. It should shame their elected representatives if there is any. It is a big shame, soured by helplessness, where hope ended with the visible walls of hills and mountain. I met people who don’t know what a government is for them. I met people who don’t know what a government stood for. Their decades of self reliant and independent existence are threatened by the doom flowers. Every bloom is not a blessing. Every flower is not beautiful.

We (Hrangthangvung, Darkung,our hosts’ son, and I) went to see the jhum fields raided by the rats, rodents and other wild animals. Darkung has his paddy field fillled with all sorts of traditional traps. His neighbours did the same. It did not even seem to tickle the menacing invaders that caused the ongoing famine. The scene in the jhum fields, rich with the colours of nature set in the evening of the day, was a mesmerising sight. The red and fading glow of the sun that slowly slips behind distant hills and mountain could make one lonelier than the solitary sun.

There was the post dinner worship service again. It was still muddy and the crowd gets bigger than before. The dancing also gets wilder. There was always something that feeds the soul. But we returned to our warm room to find the imported spirit runs dry. But it rained.

(Delhi, March 15, 2008)

Inside The Heart of Darkness-VIII

2008-03-10T14:45:00.001+05:30

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)

Inside the Heart of Darkness-VII

2008-02-18T19:16:00.000+05:30

(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)

Year of the Rat: Chinese and Us

2008-02-11T11:56:00.001+05:30

If the so-called “mainstream” Indians mistook us for Chinese, we, Zohnathlak, have many things shared, particularly this year- 2008, with the economic giant, which the country will never catch up. I am not negating India’s economic progress. It is high time. But I doubt if the boom is “shining” or not. If one does a reality check, comparing India and China, the political gurus and their campaigners in Hindustan were successful than the booming theories they propagate as the country will just be running fast behind the Dragon’s tail to catch up every possible thing. The make-believe shine that is confined in few urban compartments would take time to decentralize if it has to. Otherwise if the present pace does not deconstruct itself, the “shine” would dim in the stagnant constituencies, which has been breathing by squeezing the “tribal” and “adivasis” land and resources in the name of “national interest.” The boomers in towering structures are ignorant about the squeezing game and the drain that has been happening since the British days. Only the guards have changed. The rest continues unabated. Well, it is not about the economy or progress that I wanted to stress here. Rather it is about the rat, us and the Chinese.

For the Chinese, 2008 is ‘Year of the Rat’, starting from February 7, 2008 till January 25, 2009. The year of the Rat is the first in the cycle of 12 Animal signs and recurs after every twelfth year. The Rat kicks off the 12 year cycle and this year is believed to be a luck filled year. The Chinese see the Rat as aggressive, charming and well endowed with leadership skills. Besides wearing the colourful red dresses that is believed to be a lucky colour, the year of Rat also associates many superstitions and customs.

While it is feasting time for the Chinese in the year of the Rat, it is doom time for the distressed villagers who are also confronting the year of the Rat in the epicenter of the gregarious bamboo flowering in Mizoram and parts of Manipur’s Churachandpur district. The phenomenon that occurred after every forty eight years has multiplied the rat’s population that feed on the seeds of the bamboo flower. The rat population explodes after eating the starch and protein rich bamboo flower seeds. The rats then destroyed crops causing food crisis and famines. The natural phenomenon of bamboo flowering has been recorded to have happened in 1862, 1881, 1911-12 and 1959 too. All of them resulted in severe famine. According to the Parliamentary Standing Committee on Science and Technology, Environment and Forests 159 the Report, the 1959 famine claimed between 10,000 and 15,000 lives in Mizoram, Tripura, Manipur and Barak valley of Assam.

The resultant distressed farmers in Manipur and Mizoram are a toast for politicians and authorities who are gaining mileage out of their plights. On February 2, 2008, distressed villagers in Tipaimukh’s Senvon, in Manipur’s Churachandpur, formed a forum, Public Demand, with the attempt to impress upon the authorities at all level about their unabated condition that is getting worse with each passing day. I won’t be surprise if the forum merely added more president and secretary to the multiplying mute tribe who are otherwise trying to raise their voices. The efforts have been a desperate one. It is like trying to make the pebbles speak. Their negotiations of the endless neglect, discrimination, exploitation and marginalization in the cut off constituencies did not have any language. It did not have any voice. Not that they did not want to. But because they could not. If they are journalistic orphans, they are also surrogate sons and daughters of the colonial rusted steel frames and elected representatives. Situations have reportedly turned gravely for the forgotten people. Victims of entitlement failure. What else are they? Well, I think they are one of the most presented people. But the big question still is, have they ever been represented? I don’t think they were ever represented. Never fairly. Never justly. The history of their political economy is marred by untold and unreported experiences of sufferings that fluctuate between food insecurity, food shortages, poverty, famines and hunger. Unfortunately, these situations have become too stabilised that it has almost been inevitable to their lives. The harsh times have been considered as “normal” situations. The agrarian crisis, which is deteriorated by the much politicised flowering of bamboo, has pushed them again to depend on wild roots and fruits for their food. Today, many of the families were driven back to the food gathering stage in the absence of any proactive intervention from the government. There have been little efforts from various church organizations, which came in the form of prayers and few kilo of rice to the starving bowels. I have also been told ceaselessly about the narrow denominational biasness and preferences, which the churches handed out along with the grain of rice. Unnecessary bonuses were delivered that need no reading between the lines. The messages are clear without the lines in between. While the misery resulted out of natural calamity, it has also been man made. But the villagers were told by the pulpit lords that it was because of their sins. But their signs are without its science. Without its reason and logic. That’s the missing link.

Despite the celebration and gloom that is attached with the Rat year for the two countries, it is important to focus on the constituencies that confront the year of the Rat without any celebrations. While the need for public action is immediate, it is high time the authorities move towards drawing up “famine codes” to address the decades of agrarian failure and the crisis associated with it. No less Important, in numerous instances, public action has succeeded in averting famines in cases of a serious shortfall in the food supply. However, in the case of Tipaimukh, public action could only be visible with the efforts made by the various church organisations. However, the intervention made by the different Christian denominations goes against the realities of hunger and deprivation, which the unrepresented people are confronting today.

If one looked at the pre-independence as well as the post independence India, it has experienced major national food crisis in the wake of natural disasters. A major historical landmark in the history of public policy towards famine relief took place in the 1880s with the drawing up of the famine codes, which consisted of instructions for identifying emergencies and measures. Despite that, the severe Bengal famine of 1943 was not even officially declared to be a famine. After the independence, the government lauded its “successful” approach towards hunger and famine. However, the signs of distress are showing in other forms and expression that is new. In the wake of hunger and famines that associates the bamboo flower; the Mizos resorted to arms movement in the 60s demanding for sovereignty. Farmers’ suicide in South India was another shocking expression. In the year 2007, in the “most peaceful” corner in Mizoram, the distressed farmers took to the streets demanding for their several constitutional rights that are attached to their hungry bowels and silenced voices.

The dimming and stagnating constituencies in the forgotten corners of India are in dire need of constructive measures. For the thousands of self-reliant farmers who are surviving on their own-produced food and who are without any income, the natural disaster that weighs down their vulnerable conditions is an intolerable fag end. In this year of the Rat when doom flowers, the concerned authorities ought to resort to availing alternative measures: providing wage employment of public works, which later would become the mainstay of famine relief, unconditional provision of food for those unable to work, food storage and price stabilization. For the various hyper-active church organizations, its action, if it could not be Samaritan, should ape Pilate and wash itself before their sins multiply. If emergency measures are not drawn immediately, the unfolding catastrophe will never speak for itself, and it would be too late if the wait is to see them speak with loss lives. It would be an unforgiving shame if the authorities go blind and numb in the face of the rat and bamboo flower when India is “shining” and “booming.” Them, who are doomed by the flowers and gnawed by the rats, believed they are lesser being. The Chinese cannot just go celebrating in the same year of the Rat.

(Delhi, February 10, 2008)

One Winter, Two Weddings and the Big Miss

2008-02-05T13:13:00.001+05:30

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)

Republic Day and Recollections

2008-01-28T12:28:00.001+05:30

I used to enjoy the Republic Day celebration that follows Christmas and New Year’s celebrations when I was a kid. It was like seeing beautiful maiden all in a row. The series of celebrations were what we looked up to when we were kids in the cosy little town of Tamenglong in Manipur. January 26 also coincides with our kite flying season just before school reopens. We used to make colourful kites. Some that would never fly against our expectations. Some fly with flirtatious passion, while some fly scared. Some are quite friendly, flapping their long tail and wings as our joy soars with our beaming pride. Good kite makers were also our seasonal heroes in those days. The lessons that we learnt during our kite flying days were never taught in the classroom. Kite making was art and science in itself. We would make thin sticks out of bamboo, light enough to fly with our precious colourful paper. The frame would consist of one straight stick and another that would gently bow, which would be held together with sticky rice. And when the kite is ready we whistle softly and melodiously to call the wind to lift our kites in the air. We used to wait a while with our pointing musical lips for the wind to respond. It never fails us. When the wind blows, we would burst with shouts and laughter’s. We were not merely kite makers. I realized we were also nature’s children. Seeing our kites fly in high air was our taste of independence and liberation.

Our house, in Tamenglong, sit just besides the district public ground. Small hill stood behind our house, where we fly our kites. The ground served as the venue for the annual Republic Day celebration as well as the Independence Day. The march pass fascinated the band of kite flyers a lot as much as it does to the town folks. It was our dream to march in concert while the town folks gathered to watch. On India’s Independence Day and Republic Day, then, everyone would come to watch the march pass and other events that filled the day. I got the dream chance early when I was chosen to be part of the school contingent. I was just a class one student in United Baptist School, now United Builder’s School. There were little things to celebrate if one is part of the school contingent; one is excused from missing the first two classes, one or two days to school without school uniform, and then there used to be the lightest refreshment that was served for all its namesake.

Republic day was usually greeted with high spirits. The town folks would come well dressed for the rare unchristian occasion in the Christian district. Some would come neat with their Sunday dress. Many of the kids would come wearing their Christmas dresses. I remember my parents would be seated in our front porch taking out all the chairs for our relatives and other audiences too. I knew they were waiting for their little boy and his contingent to march pass one corner of the ground that was closer than a stone throw from our house. Today, the house and the hill, our play-mound, have been already floored to give way for the extension of the public ground.

In 1990 we moved to Churachandpur where my father was transferred. Then came January 26 again. I don’t know what must have taken place as we live far from the district public ground. But I remember its observance and celebration was boycotted by armed groups who are demanding for ‘Homeland’. New assertions and the languages they employed invaded every visible space. We surrender dearly. I wonder if we will ever get them back again. I was surprised then. But today boycott has become a part of the two celebrated national holiday in Manipur. The 59th Republic Day, which ended yesterday, was boycotted again. It stops surprising me now. Rather it has become too routine and usual.

Day before yesterday, on January 25, 2008, I met more than 50 mothers from Manipur who landed in Delhi to campaign against Militarization, Impunity and Armed Forces Special Powers Act that is imposed in Manipur. Bruised mothers brim with grim experiences under the “draconian law.” Mothers who are living big loss life. They pour out their dark and black stories, words of appeal and demand for the repeal of the infamous Act. They said that Republic Day has no meaning for mothers in Manipur who are denied of their rights, security and dignity. Truly, it is no time to celebrate for them. So they came to Delhi with their burden of plights, to find a meaning to their lives and the generations to come.

Through the years, the public has visibly withdrawn from celebrating Republic Day or Independence Day.

Popular democracy and the institutions hatched by constitutional democracy are in irrecoverable mess. Today fear and threats have invaded all the space for any possible celebration. But I have more than one experiences tugged safely in my memories that are getting blurred.

(Delhi, January 26, 2008)

Two Days, Aizawl and Me

2008-01-21T13:54:00.000+05:30

Technology delivers us with amazing speed to distance and diverse spaces. Places actually. One of my New Year resolutions was to make more people, places, faces and issues as my subjects. Everything has become more interesting than before. This is celebration. And I am doing it everyday. There are many things that strike me on my recent visit to Aizawl.

I landed on the lively city again on January 10, 2008. Except for the heavy weary head that the journey has lodged within me, I was trying hard to wake up to the setting evening where I was transferred after all those plastic smiles and compelled etiquettes by those air hostesses with their rainbow like faces spoilt by chemical makeup. I sometimes felt like asking them why they have to colour their faces like a clown. A little would have made them look naturally beautiful. But they would be so brittle with the idea of that little. I thought to myself that they must have earned enough to indulged with colours to enhance their ignorance of beauty culture. But fortunate lot that they did not die of the overdose makeup that has layered their most treasured parts of their body. Diwali like colourful faces equipped with that smile was not very welcoming. They negate the image of hospitality, which they desperately try to deliver. I don’t know if it was the sleepless night that did not help me see the layered beauty that they deliberately hide. I don’t think so. But they are just colourful than beautiful.

The next day was January 11. It is observed as “Missionary Day” in Mizoram. Churches across the state observed the 113th Missionary Day with revered spirits. As if to coincide the observation, I was lodged at Mission Veng. Reaping what the two missionaries, FW Savidge and JH Lorrain, sowed in the year 1894, Mizos flocked to their churches on the day. Worth a holiday as the missionaries introduced the alphabet and laid the foundation of education that empowers them for a humane march and progress. The missionaries were also appointed the Honorary Inspectors of schools for the schools that they opened. Lushai Hills, Mizoram today, got its first school on April 1, 1894. It is interesting to note that from April 1,1904 till 1952 educational administration in Mizoram administered by the church. “Zosap”, the two missionaries, also introduced sanitation and hygiene to the Mizos. Besides, the two pioneer missionaries took up the task of reducing the Duhlian dialect to writing by choosing the Roman script with a phonetic form of spelling based on the Hunterian system of transliteration. The Hunterian system for the writing of proper names was developed in the 1860s by William Wilson Hunter, Director-General of Statistics for India, and published in Hunter’s Guide to the Orthography of Indian Proper Names (Calcutta, 1871). The Government of India accepted the system with some modifications in 1872, and it was used in the official Imperial Gazetteer of India (1881 onwards; 24 volumes), a work initiated by Hunter.

The Duhlian dialect has grown to become a popular language for the Mizo people. Today, even the language is called Mizo.

It was a relief to drive around Aizawl on Missionary Day. The observation immensely reduced traffic flow. Besides, everyone were in their best Sunday dress on that Friday. Besides the rest, the seeds of education, hygiene and sanitation have made the people wiser, cleaner and beautiful. I remember a lady, aged around 40, from the heart of Manipur’s Imphal, who once told me that her mother in law would never allow her to cook or enter the kitchen during her monthly periods. She also told me that she would be served in a separate plate during that inevitable cycle. No one introduced that hygiene or sanitation to them while the catching-up was a sluggish one. I realised how fortunate we are. Small things deconstruct bigger things of all their negativities. Otherwise, another hundred years may not even empower reasonable faculties, as it is evident with others today.

On Missionary day, I got the detail report of the mysterious death of Reverend Chanchinmawi who died on October 1, 2007. His bloody body was found inside his house around seven in the morning. The report was made public by the public prosecutor of the special investigation team, SL Thansang. The report concluded that the reverend killed himself after causing multiple injuries – four cut above his right ear (25mm each), one cut injury stab wound on his throat (40mm wide and 25mm depth), two big cut injury on his left chest (both measuring 50mm and 25mm), three small cut injury on his left chest, nine cut mark on his abdomen and one small cut injury mark on his left elbow. The report also said that the pastor used one kitchen knife, one bread knife and a hammer to kill himself. The report is out, but I wonder if the truth is out. The report, however, doesn’t seem to hush up the views from the other sides. May his soul rest in peace.

It is interesting to note that the late Reverend, besides his service in the Church (Presbyterian Synod), was also the chairman of Mizoram People Front (MPF). MPF worked for a free and fair election in Mizoram. Moreover, the forum is strongly against the prevalent corruption in the State. I was told the forum has a good following.

The report also stated that in early part of the year 2007, the late reverend has been threatened several times over the phone for his mission to sweep Mizoram politics clean. The reverend was earlier accused by one fictitious writer in one of the local newspaper of his intention to join active politics, and to the extent of becoming Mizoram Chief Minister after his retirement. The former soul reaper’s death compelled the investigating team to look at various angles too. But they ruled out all of them. Some of them are seriously interesting, though. Some believed that his wife, Rohmingliani, who never live up to a pastor’s wife life, must be behind the reverend’s death. The report said the late pastor’s wife smokes, chewed tobacco and gamble at times. The report also exhumed the other side of the late pastor’s wife that says that she used to make and sell alcohol earlier. The report also said that their marriage life was not a healthy one. Besides, the report said that Chanchinmawi was living with severe financial problem that must have pushed him to take his life. He was also believed to be living with depression, which made him to attempt on his life earlier. Despite everything else, the axe fell on him. The soul reaper has been made to become his own life reaper.

On the same day, I also attended the 40 days and 40 nights fasting prayer organised by the Mizoram Berampute Convention at Durtlang’s Agape Centre. It was a soul touching and searching session for me as well. The mass prayer seeks for His forgiveness. While the Salvation Army Territorial Band performed a song without the vocals, Carolyn sang Ka Trongtraina Hla in Hmar without any musical instrument. It hit me like nothing ever did. I met Him through the song. I was in peace. The joy spill over my face. I couldn’t help much, but smile. Sometimes there’s no need of tears. Not even words. I met Upa Rokamlo and Lala Khawbung too.

The day after the missionary day was deliberately spent on a lighter route. In pursuit of my desire to document Aizawl, I tried seeing more places and people. I photograph some. My friend Saplientawn Varte took me to Millenium Centre, which has become the pride of Aizawl. Expensive stores spruced up with infectious dignity that has become the identity of Mizoram’s capitalist. There were popular branded stores too. I was told everything is too expensive in Aizawl. If the materialistic mad race and the uncontrolled pace continue it would fail to be friendly to its larger struggling population who are far from the tower of the power structure and State treasury. I witnessed that Mizoram business is run by its women, which I like. They are everywhere from the biggest stores to the smallest one. They are not only empowering themselves but also the State. It is surprising that none of them were elected as people’s representatives. I did not doubt that they would make better leaders and politicians. They were not given any chance in the patriarchal reigned ring. I asked my friend what the men folk does. He told me they are either driving taxis or zipping around the clogged roads on their bikes and cars. Of course they are also the politicians and church leaders too. Whatever, the Christian state is moving towards becoming a citadel of glitz and glamour. Few decades back, the iconic images of the city were of grim faces in breadlines and heroes from the jungle. Now billboards scream Nike, Reebok, Adidas, UCB and showcase expensive clothes to the many window shoppers. The big show does not seem to lure much. The supposed boom time is a privilege of the few. There are also billboards that warns and caution about AIDS and safe sex. Moreover, Mizoram, the epicenter of the gregarious flowering of bamboo, is confronting the threat of famine. Aizawl, however, is no place to see the grim reality of those distressed Mizo farmers and populace. People in Aizawl did not really know what is happening outside the State capital. The city that sits on the edge is a big fair where local celebrities are generated and fashion fluctuates to prick pockets. This time, I was told, Korean movies are moving Mizos to tears. Earlier they were hooked to the Hindi serial, Kasauti. This time Korean movies were shown on cable TV with Mizo sub-titles. That’s not all. I read on January 12 that Mami Varte’s fans have established “Mami Varte Kohran” in Aizawl. Another idol to worship. Aizawl is a city of small gods. It is also moving with ambitious energy that is inclined towards increasingly expensive ways of life and plastic superstructure culture.

In the evening I met Atea (Boomarang’s vocalist) when I was on my way to Aizawl Post office. He introduced me to Victor (ex-Magdalene guitarist), LRa and Tawia. Victor told me about his newly formed band, Scavengers Project with LRa on vocals and Tawia on drums. Victor invited me to his house for tea. We had a long discussion on music, culture and identity. Victor had a cosy small home studio- Scavenger Records. They interest me a lot as they are seriously digressing to find a new sound, a different one for themselves. The boys are also bringing out a purely music magazine, R.O.A.R., with Victor as the chief editor. I was surprised to find my picture of Boomarang on the cover. There were many pictures of mine inside too. No courtesy though. That’s called sharing. I was invited for dinner by one of Aizawl’s most eligible bachelor, a lady lawyer, Mawite. It was another Eve’s ambrosia. The night sparkles again to make the city look like a Christmas tree. I am homely here, I said to myself. But I made it second for me.

(New Delhi, January 18, 2008)

Remembering the Shattered Lives

2008-01-17T12:02:00.000+05:30

In loss and shame they treaded
Heads buried and hearts that still dread
Man and might are just a mite
As he quest vain win with lost sight
They washed their hands to forget
But their sins will ever be wet
Be healed, distressed daughters mourn
Fly free, for you is the bright morn
(To Distress Daughters–DB)

They said public memory is short. This is why I write to remind you about the never-ending nightmare lived every moment by the Tipaimukh raped and molested victims. Forget not also those people who have lost their limbs and lives to the landmines. The girls and women desperately tried erasing memories of that fateful incident that occurred in January 2006 in their forsaken villages in Tipaimukh’s Lungthulien and Parbung. While the armed perpetrators left, the scarred mortals battle to recover. The attempt has been ceaseless and desperating, as they try to shed the memories of pain, shame and helplessness. But they told me that they could never succeed for even a second of the mighty time. The attempt has been a silent one. It was like swimming against the current. The current that favours them not, while they seek to drown their pain and shame.

The Rajkhowa Commision, which was instituted by the Government of Manipur in March 17, 2006 to investigate the Tipaimukh rape case, has once again issued an order for another hearing and cross-examination. The burden routine would take place between January 17-20, 2008 at Parbung. JL Sawmi, President of the Hmar Women Association (HWA) and her colleagues who are fighting for the cause of the raped and molested girls and women, told me that they would be heading for the land of mole and bruises - Tipaimukh a day or two in advance before the appointed days. May God strengthen their selfless efforts. JL Sawmi also told me about the severe difficulties involved in bringing together the victims to their villages every time the Commission conducts its duty. Some of them have move out of their villages that bear dark memories. Today they are scattered in Mizoram, Meghalaya, Assam and Delhi. They were asked to return again with their bags of pain and shame for the cross-examination. Just when they are trying to move on, their wounds and bruises are made afresh. Many are in deep dilemma. One of the victims, who is working as a maid in Delhi called to tell me that she did not want to go back to her village. “It is shameful to return”, she told me. She cried over the phone with her old, but fresh, shame and pain. She said, “My guardians have spent lots of money to bring me to Delhi. How can I tell them that I have to go back to my village for the cross- examination? I am so ashamed.”

Rajkhowa Commission conducted its first examination at Lungthulien and Parbung on April 2006 where 25 rape and molested victims testified. The investigating team flew inside the venue of the crime by two helicopters that were provided by the Government of Manipur. The Manipur government availed the helicopters after considering the state of the deplorable roads that actually lost itself in the pool of mud, rivers and bushes as it run longer. After the examination, the Hmar Students’ Association, HWA and various other organizations demanded the Commission to make the report public without any delay so as to ensure justice to the rape victims. The Commission also said that it would make its report public two months after the investigation. However, almost after two years the report is not made public yet. Just after the Commission’s examination, Imphal based human rights organizations, Human Rights Alert (HRA), Human Rights Law Network (HRLN) and MAFYF demanded for cross-examinations and for roping in the International Committee of the Red Cross (ICRC) to probe the rape case. The involvement of the international organization was not even considered. However, bowing to the demands of the contesting actors, the Commission fixed the dates for a cross-examination on August 20-23, 2006 at Parbung. However it was suddenly called off on the insistence of HRA and MAFYF, on the ground of “insecurity”, despite the unusual privilege of getting helicopter for the journey added with required State sponsored security. The HWA and Hmar Inpui who went two days ahead of the appointed dates by road to reach the assigned venue came to learnt of the cancellation and postpone after reaching Parbung. HRLN, Imphal chapter, then backed out as asked by its headquarters in New Delhi. HRLN headquarters in New Delhi told HSA leaders that they were never intimated about HRLN’s involvement with the Tipaimukh rape case.

The National Commission for Women (NCW) headed by its member, Malini Bhattacharya, intervened and visited Lungthulien and Parbung on May 10 and 11, 2006. Malini and her team reached the fear ridden villages from Mizoram side. Malini met the rape and molested victims in their villages and also visited the refugee camps in Mizoram’s Sakawrdai on May 12 and met the displaced Tipaimukh villagers. NCW, then, made its report public with a list of recommendations for the government to initiate. Besides, there were many organizations that visited the two villages after the forced displacement, landmines and rape. Manipur Chief Minister, Governor, and group of ministers also visited the crippled villages on helicopter.

As is with Manipur, there were few human rights organisations from Imphal who banked and inculcated the culture of doubts, contest and questioning, while the distressed villagers were licking their wounds as displaced people, rape victims and landmine victims. The actors championing human rights made all the possible calculated moves, exploiting their networks and knowledge to negate the inhumane sufferings of the deprived lot. Imagining distanced Tipaimukh and the wretched life of the self-reliant farmers, who still practiced the traditional slash and burn jhum cultivation, from the comfort of Imphal and elsewhere made it difficult to come to terms about the harsh realities of the forgotten parts of Manipur. Similarly, the neglected people knew nothing of the other lives in different parts of Manipur. They don’t even know what the government stands for. They don’t know there is hue and cry over AFSPA, which also covers them. For they don’t know what AFSPA is. They don’t know Manipur’s glorious daughters Kunjarani or Sharmila. The existing gap and ignorance is an inevitable reality that should not be contested or doubted. It just exists. The State is a true picture of different lives. People with different quest and struggles. The blown out miseries and truth have become too inconvenient to swallow. If anyone cannot be fooled all the time, no one can remain silent for all the time. The time may not be for their justice, but at least it has been a time to voice the injustice done to them. The barriers are layered, but the truth remains the same.

Come January 17-20, 2008, as if to mark the second anniversary of the bleeding girls and women, Rajkhowa Commission will be conducting another hearing and cross-examination if it is not called off again. The traditional legal procedures necessitated and imposed by the Commission is in no concern about the vulnerable plights of the raped and molested victims. Public action and any proactive efforts ought to be constructive and remediary even when the pursuit is for justice. The quest for justice should not inflict more harm to the targeted groups, especially when it comes to dealing with women who were severely traumatized. There has been no aid from the government except for the NCW organized medical camp for the rape and molested victims that was organized in Parbung in the end of 2006. The Government of Manipur is also yet to release the promised “interim relief” money, an amount or rupees one lakh each to the rape and molested victims. The government was pushed to the edge of making the promise after the HWA threatened to boycott the 2007 assembly elections in Churachandpur.

Meanwhile, the shattered people do not know about the politics and culture of manipulation attached to their sufferings. They do not know that there are people who are trying to win against them. But they felt that the monotonous act of examination and cross-examination are a spit over their shame and pain. A disgrace to their miseries. It might just help, once again, if we remember the lives in shattered pieces that are still lived behind those shadowed mountains.

(New Delhi, January 9, 2008)

2007: A Retreat

2008-01-07T16:22:00.001+05:30

I remember ushering in 2007 with longing and a brand new zeal. It was in the same old ancient city of Delhi where the exploding population clogged everything. The longing was no doubt for the distance home and few other things that any man is bound to desire anytime. That could be mother or the rib lost. I attended the Delhi Hmar Christian Fellowship New Year service just like this year, 2008. Unfortunately, something seems to have become usual. The words were without the spirit. The songs were without any harmony. Without any soul. The pulpit and the house that it accommodates resembles an old and weary sound box where it attempts to announce to remind the sinner that we are while a coterie of men in all shades of skin desperately tried wearing the sheep's. It fits anyone in this land of dust. It has become a playground where the haves could sanctify themselves with a little more than the widow coins. Well that's everywhere here on earth. But I am always content for God so love the world.

I remember heaving in relief with the cease in seeing Hmar people suffer, unlike 2006 in Tipaimukh where people were displaced, tortured, loss their limbs and lives to landmines and raped. The issues were endless though. The Hmar Women Association (HWA) who are still standing firm for the cause of the Tipaimukh rape victims spearheaded the big fight. They will be heading to Tipaimukh's Lungthulien and Parbung for another hearing and cross-examination in the middle of January 2008 as directed by the Manipur Government's instituted Rajkhowa Commission to investigate the rape case. The misery has been endless for the rape victims and their families. I met two of the rape victims again at Lungthulien and Senvon in October 10 and 11, 2007. I first met them one month after the shameful incident in February 2006 when more than 20 girls and women from Tipaimukh's Parbung and Lungthulien were molested and raped by armed militants. Their sufferings bonded us. I took pictures with both of them at Senvon in October 2007. For the sake of the camera we delivered a dry smile. I am glad they could deliver even that. It was too sad for words to express. One told me that she's still too ashamed to continue to see the day. "But U David I am strengthened by God, which is keeping me alive", she told me. The other came to meet me with her lanky father. Everything about them shows their inconsolable pain. It has become a burden that weighs them down. The other one told me that the continuous stay in the village has been a tortuous one, as everyone knew what they went through. She asked me to help her move out of the village to anywhere. I could manage to do that and talked to Pi Laremsiem about it. The girl is working in one of Pi Remsiem's home in Aizawl. She was also summoned for the tortuous and never-ending hearing and cross-examination, which will be conducted again in her village very soon. I was told she dread to take the trip where the Commission would have another systematic torture of the rape victims, where the entire village would be reminded again of their bleeding daughters. The repetitive system has become too monotonous and tortuous for the shattered and traumatised girls and women who have no idea about the authoritative system that dictates them to rewind their wounded lives. Public action should be remediary, constructive and proactive when it comes to rape victims. The traditional colonial mechanisms were hurled to doubt and question their plights. They are poor and illiterate lot. But they are alive with amazing wisdom and strength. Moreover they have the truth. The truth of their sufferings and misery. The truth of the shameful loss. God be with them when the patriarchal Commission meets them again. May their soul live in peace.

The same misery shifted to our Kuki brothers and sisters in Manipur's Chandel district. They were also displaced and killed by landmines. As their plights deteriorate, their situation also got tense and slipped out of the tense hills and mountains. The Kuki Students' Organisation organised a chain of protest rally in the Capital city, demanding for Government's intervention to redress the plights of the Kukis. One of the rally in Delhi's Parliament Street turned violent that resulted in the security forces resorting to rubber bullets and tear-gassing. More than 100 students were arrested and jailed in Tihar jail. They were booked under exaggerated cases that created another big and small battle for the community leaders. However, the misery of the people that was born out of the protracted conflict was no longer cornered as journalistic orphans. But the problems are endless, which made the Kuki leaders in Chandel declared 2007 Christmas as "Black Christmas."

Then, on July 16, 2007 I was awarded the country's biggest journalism award, Ramnath Goenka Excellence in Journalism Award, by the then President Abdul Kalam. A feather I shall cherish forever. August came. I bought myself a birthday present on the 7, a Nikon D80 with a separate metal lens to seriously pursue photography. The buy prick a hole in the pocket. But I confess I am happier than ever before to look at pictures that I took. Of pictures I long dreamed of. I will be making public my pictures very soon, with Lalremlien's help, on the internet on various subjects that interest me - culture, livelihood, landscape, portraits, strangers, festivals, people and little of abstract photography. He has been asking me to maintain a blog and put a date on everything I write. With the birthday present, I finally stopped using my long time antique like Yashica SLR and Vivitar cameras that required roll films. However, I still make good use of the Canon SLR, which was presented to me by Pu Malsawmthang Keivom before he left for his foreign posting to Garborone.

Delimitation issue that has been stirring for sometime emerged as another battle for the tribals in Manipur. It reached Delhi again. I seriously followed the issue and wrote extensively. Benjamin Mate, who is spearheading the issue on behalf of various civil societies, became a close friend after all the discussions and sharing. Be it reservations or delimitation, it has been severely unfair and unequal. But the might of those in power could make anyone mute and a mite. The battle goes on and the Supreme Court intervened and compelled the Delimitation Commission and the Manipur government to exercised delimitation in Manipur, which is likely to finish sometimes in February 2008.

On October 7, 2007, Baibul, Delhi Version, translated by Zoramkhawvel Luther, L Keivom, was released at the Delhi Hmar Christian Fellowship. I embraced the translation as a revolution, a literary garner, and a potent politics. It was a feat that will inspire my life on earth for another beautiful hereafter. The same version was released in Manipur's Senvon on October 11, 2007. The village was where the Gospel first reached the Hmar people in 1910. I also stepped inside the heart of darkness – Tipaimukh – on Keivom's invitation. I went with several objectives: to witness the historic release of the Baibul, to take stock of situation of the distressed people confronting famines in the face of the gregarious bamboo flowering (mautam), and to photograph people and lives. By God's grace I could do all that. But it was sad when the plagued villagers told me that they desire to celebrate Christmas in October while they have little of the meager harvest. That was when I wish that atleast rice could be generated from the pulpit just as any single verse could be extended for hours to the despaired sinners. They already have too much from the pulpit's mouth. But they never have any fish or bread from the hands. They are overdosed with the preaching. But never any feeding. Can man live by the words alone? I realised that Hmar people are narrowly religious. To everything they readily extended religious approach, interpretations and judgment. Religious interpretation and judgment to history, science, politics, culture, art, music and what not. They said the displacement and Tipaimukh refugee in January 2006 was because of their sins. They also said that Tipaimukh rape was because we are sinful. They said again that the food crisis that the distressed Tipaimukh villagers are confronting today is also because of their sins. But bring me one without the stain of sin. I will not cast the first stone. But the stone in my hands will speak out. It would be a desirous deliverance if the society is not Talibanised. I only pray that He will forgive their ignorance. When it comes to the Word, just believe. But when it comes to the self styled interpreters and preachers don't just believe.

November came and we were stirred alive by the 1st RN Tamchon Memorial Football trophy at the Ambedkar Stadium. The tournament exhumed immeasurable spirit and collectivity that inspired everyone who witnessed us. HSA FC exerted the best of efforts, but i was so sorry we let down everyone, who cheered and stood for us. I am yet to shed the hangover; which doesn't seem to be an easy one. I still tell myself we could have done a little better. The game has to speak and save us next time we play again. But we are remembered for many things that we delivered for the love of the game: the best supporters, known for their loud and colourful flocks and the highest scorer in a single match (HSA FC scored 13 goals against Arunachal Students FC). Well they said our anthem (Tinkim ka dawn changin) was too long. Val Upa Samuel Darsuolal's reply to that was a beautiful one. He told them that the anthem was long as we have to remember our brothers and sisters in Mizoram, Manipur, Meghalaya, Assam and Tripura.

On December 11, 2007 we (L Keivom, Samuel Darsuolal, Lalremlien and I) headed to Mizoram's Vairengte for the 51st Hmar Student's Association General Assembly. It was a celebration on culture touching, while discussing various other issues and subjects. Keivom and I went on an extended trip to Shillong, Tura and Baghmara on Rohminglien Buhril's invitation who hosted us. He is presently the DFO of Meghalaya's Tura and Baghmara districts. We witnessed the cultured practice of the Garos who treasured their forest to make it a sacred golden forest. Their forest bears no bruise. It blessed them with abundant water and the cleanest air in return. If nature is pleased with them God must also be on their side. Seeing the Garos preparing and expecting for Christmas was Christmas to me. Returning to Delhi was a dry spell. Soul less. As I picked up the threads of life, it was already New Year again. So I told myself to read more, buy more books, write more, love more, pray more, help more, see more, listen more, travel more and photograph more. Happy New Year to all.

(January 6, 2008)

Christmas, Boxing day and the Leveller

2007-12-30T13:04:00.000+05:30

Brevity is the breathe of life (DB, Life)

One long year wait for Christmas ended in a single day. The celebrated day trickled down to exit in a brief second. Like martyr it left when other calendar days were not expected or feasted upon. It doesn’t take time for anything to end while the rest seem to be in a never-ending journey. Many a time the beginning is never seen or known, but the ending is too obvious. Too evident. Too inevitable. But brevity adds to the pleasure of life. It is all that make things matter. Better too. If everything were eternal, it would be so ugly.

I started the day trying to save all the SMS Christmas wishes I received. After sometime my mobile screen was blinking with the message that said: no space for new messages. To create space for the incoming messages I deleted those that have no sender’s name. It was a desperate move trying to save some while deleting others. The might and power of religion has attached unquestioned value to the messages of the day while technology delivers them with assured certainty. Then I wonder what the day would be to different people who are negotiating pale uncertainties. In Manipur’s Chandel, Kuki brothers and sisters have called this year’s Christmas as “Black Christmas.” Their land continued to be an uninvited battlefield with the Indian Army fighting against the United National Liberation Front (UNLF). The protracted conflict in Chandel has once again resulted in severe internal displacement of the Kukis from their homes. Their lives are trapped in the dictate of the barrel of guns. Their lives are on the run. Their lives remain shattered in the broken State that house many broken hearts. However, their plights, as human being, are never address as there is no governance and order with the Government. In the process they have become “refugees”, “landmine victims”, “displaced”, as they continue to lose everything in their own homes.

Then I thought of the distressed villagers in Manipur’s Tipaimukh who told me in October that they desire to celebrate Christmas in October with the little harvest they have as they were gnawed by the impact of gregarious bamboo flowering. They knew they have so little to last them through December 25. I saw fear in their eyes. Their words quake with waning hope. Of helplessness. They, who battle with rats and rodents, also wish to have a wonderful Chrsitmas. As doom flowers, they bred hope in silent prayers. Their faith is not moving mountains, but it is making them see the unfolding days and nights. A grim situation where they are compelled to hope against every possible hope. They are victims not only of natural calamities, but also of man made disaster. While the Government at the Centre has pumped in money to combat the impact of the dreaded flowers nothing reaches the marginalized villagers who are living a near famine situation. They don’t know that someone somewhere is getting filthy rich with their share of money that was designed to fight their hunger and the fear of it. They don’t know that the food shortages and the crisis were man made and not merely nature’s cycle. But they keep blaming the bamboo that flowers and not the corrupt insatiable lot who will never bell the cat. I wonder how they would be facing another day.

Then on the night of the Boxing Day I was woken by Robert Sanglora Khawbung. He told me our friend Mesak L Sinate breathe his last at AIIMS hospital. I got to know of Mesak through Robert in Delhi. I remember we shook hands and greet each other on Christmas night after the dinner in the Church. He said it’s almost late but we still can shake hands for Christmas sake. That was about five hours before he met with the accident. From what I was told Mesak met, greeted and called all his near and dear ones on Christmas day. His father told the congregation at the funeral service that Mesak telephoned home early on Christmas morning, which his father said was very unusual and unlikely of him. Mesak cried over the phone saying he was feeling homesick. Then he spoke to everyone in the family. One by one. His father said that it must be his way of saying goodbye to the family. We also shook hands, and as he said, before it was late. I must also believe that must be his way of saying goodbye. The hungry leveller had his way on the Boxing Day.

Christmas again

2007-12-22T13:27:00.000+05:30

Tura and Baghmara in Garo Hills geared up well in advance for Christmas. The forest town were decorated with sparkling multi-colour lights as it ready to celebrate the memories of the birth of the Son of Man. Rohminglien Buhril, who hosted L Keivom and I and who is also the Divisional Forest Officer of Meghalaya’s Tura and Baghmara districts, told us that the town would be witnessing a Christmas decoration competition very soon. The competition has become an annual affair for the Garo protestant and catholic Christians who populated the eco-friendly districts. Like the hidden lamp Tura and Baghmara celebrates the beautiful season unknown to the outside world. Everything beautiful hides while the ugly and the beast lord with evils. If the wait for the Messiah is still on, it should be over for that evading beauty is already wagging its tail in Garo Hills. When man comes to his realization he would flock to the virgin hills and mountains to see the already revealed power and glory. There would not be any need to wait or preach with doctored doctrines and fanatic religion. The power and the glory is more than enough to make the blind see and cease the long wait. The sights and sound are honest than any truth of the embraced religion. They are alive ever with His breath and touch.

We left Tura for Baghmara on December 16 evening. Baghmara is about four hours away from Tura. On the way we were gulped by the majestic night with sparkling stars that flooded the sky. We passed through “No Mans Land”, between India and Bangladesh. Rabbits and deer leaped away from the piercing jeep headlight. They don’t seem to find any comfort in it. We passed through many sleepy villages that were, otherwise, awake with homecoming like celebrations. I wonder not who came, for I think I know the unseen visitor. That’s salvation for me. Band of caroling boys and girls dotted the serene road in the cold and clean night. We passed them undisturbed. Sometimes four or five teenage boys would be sitting in the middle of the silent empty road with the traditional Garo drum. They seem to know no fear, but only the spirit that has shine through. Some were not clothed enough in that chilly night. But they seem to have more than enough. Their overflowing hearts shine in their faces. They don’t seem to be in want. They seem to have everything, which the mad world is racing for. Be it peace. Joy. Contentment. Rivers and water. Trees. Nature and all its beauty. Nations will war for them tomorrow while the Garos sacredly preserve them in their lap.

Coming back to Delhi is no joyful retreat. The mess and chaos with the angered ancient city does not seem to bear any resemblance to that blissful expectation that lifted Garo hills. The journey was Christmas. But we save the stirring spirits within us, undisturbed by the magic of many Black Dog nights. The best is still saved. So merry Christmas.

Inside the Heart of Darkness – VI

2007-12-07T13:30:00.000+05:30

11 October 2007 : We left Aizawl for Tipaimukh a little later than expected. There were two reasons: One, the “religious team” said they took a good while trying to wake up L Keivom who, I know, slept later than usual. Aizawl hills must have faintly seen the early morning light when he hit the bed. The religious team was indeed waking the sleeping mortals, just like the miraculous act of waking the dead to life again. Sometimes I wonder if waking the dead to another life is Christian at all, despite the act that saved many teardrops. I somehow felt that the mortal flesh, which will inevitably turn into dust again, was given abundant importance. I sometimes wonder if at all it was inculcated and challenged by another inevitable provocation, which must be frequent for the Son of Man. But the life that Lazarus got for the second time did not last like salvation, as the act was committed before He was crucified for the sins of mankind. Anyway, Keivom was woken as we still have miles to go. The second reason was that the sumo jeep that we were travelling in ran out of fuel in the middle of Aizawl city. The driver was all red with wordless uncomfort for causing the inconvenience. He ran to the nearest gas station with an empty bottle to fetch diesel to make the wheel box run again. The unexpected dry fuel tank in the middle of the street caused severe inconvenience for everyone. At one point of time the traffic came to a standstill as our lifeless wheel was blocking the entire life that has to pass through the congested road, which Aizawl is popular for. It was geography blocking science. I stood wondering what the future holds for Aizawl road, as they seem to be getting clogged with each passing day in the face of unquenchable materialistic race that multiplied wheels and engines. There cannot be many options left for the State to widen the road. Otherwise, it would have to put a ban on all the multiplying private vehicles. Something like the “Total Prohibition”. The people did not seem to like the total ban imposed on alcohol. But majority might celebrate the total prohibition on private wheels, which has almost become a show of might and power in the “most peaceful state” that is awaiting for another unfortunate tag, “disaster zone”. Introducing flyover or underground road will not also work out. That would forever label Mizoram as the “Disaster State”. The other alternatives would be to be like good Roman in Rome and become a good Christian in the “Christian State” by giving and helping the uncounted poor and needy instead of buying more for a future chaos. The materialistic race has to be negated to save Mizoram roads. Otherwise, the State would standstill with big oiled wheels. That would still be mistaken as signs and evidences of progress and development in this blind vested race. If not, the city has to be shifted somewhere. The concentration of everything possible in Aizawl is already making the city vulnerable.

We halted at a place called “zero mile” in Seling for lunch. A couple of rice hotel stood by the roadside. The modest hotel was airy with big pane- less windows. Big black pots stood by the fireside. The sight was like homecoming. They were reminders of beautiful things that I fondly recall in quite sigh. They were not merely pot. They represent memories for which they stood like a clear milestone. The table was set with all the foods they have in their unprinted menus. Not many, but enough. After the meal, thin bamboo sticks that were dried for agarbati sticks served as toothpicks. I was told that Mizoram produces agarbati sticks in plenty. The house besides the hotel played music continuously, a little louder than usual. Loud enough for many to hear undisturbed. Pu Hrangthangvung told me it was RTC Lalduhawmi’s house. RTC Lalduhawmi is a popular Gospel singer, whose songs I have listened to when I was in high school. I went to Chibai (greet) her. She was sweeping the house then. Another bright and airy house again. I told her I used to listen to her songs in my bad but improving Lushai. She told me she is working on her Christmas album, which she hopes to release sometimes before Christmas. It is always a joy meeting artiste. Life on earth would be too lonely without them.

Our jeep was covering the endless snaking miles like the hungriest machine that science has invented. The long run across the hills and mountain was hardly interrupted. The sights and scenes changes with all its nude beauty. It was like running across the longest chain of the biggest beauty pageant ever held. We passed through many sleepy villages. Some of the smaller ones seems like they were actually sleeping. The sights stirred in me revival-like feelings. But not like those wild and noisy ones they had in those houses of worship. I said to myself, “How great thou art.” That’s my testimony. It is easier to see nature and realised His greatness, than deriving from man. Atheist should travel more. Even if they did not change, they will see a change.

We reached Vervek before sunset. Vervek is one of the last villages before reaching river Tuivai. It situates in Mizoram’s Sinlung Hills Development Council. We met one Independent Church of India’s (ICI) elder who volunteered to show us direction till Tuivai. After the brief introduction, he discovers to his utmost surprise, that he was sitting with the worshipped Zoram Khawvel author, L Keivom. He could not believe himself. He shook Keivom hands again for the second time. If the first one was the sweetest, the second seems to be sweeter. If the elder was Columbus, he would, vainly, but still, say that he discovers Keivom. The spirit suddenly soars for him and spill over all of us. He shared many things about New Vervek. He told us that he was one of the pioneers who erected ICI at Vervek. He also told us that the bamboo flowering severely affected their village. He became more energetic than ever as we discuss several issues. I enquired him about Laltuoklien, King of Sinlung rock, folk and blues, as his village that sits on the top of a mountain could be seen from Vervek. He knew the king, which was no surprise. In this beautiful part of the country, everyone knows everyone. The level of acquaintance resembles the biblical sin, something that cannot be hidden. No one can take a hide. They would still know even if you hide.

The road after Luok, a deserted place, reveals the tip of abject neglect by the governments of Mizoram as well as Manipur. The road is National Highway 150. On the side of Mizoram the road that is actually in its deteriorating mess is a short stretch. On Manipur’s side, the deterioration worsened, which seems endless. The church elder told us that the Government of Mizoram finds it useless on its part to work and repair the neglected highway unless Manipur government does its part, which is much longer. Our driver, who is from Mizoram, was also shocked to discover the state of the poor road. He told me that he has been driving everywhere, but have not seen such a bad one. Almost after every three minutes good run our jeep ran into deep pool of mud. Everyone has to get down to push and pull the jeep from its deepening pool. If one is in it, one cannot just sit and watch. In most part of the road, it has deepen alarmingly where the wheels run so that the engine sometimes stand on the protruding ground while the wheels make a vain attempt to find a hard ground as it slips. I told the driver that he has to bring along a spade, shovel and big rope next time he travel to this forsaken place. Many a times the driver said that the jeep won’t be able to make any inch forward again. Many times he dip his right leg into the pool of mud and water and find them too deep to give any test-drive again. He even suggested that we walk with our baggage, which was impossible in that middle, a part of the heart of darkness. We actually have to challenge him to make all those attempts that were fortunately not in vain. The National Highway was travelled with faith and by deeds. Many deeds actually. Before reaching Tuivai bridge our jeep got stuck in another trap like deep pool again. After desperate attempts we did not want to give up. So L Keivom, the Church elder and I walked more than 5 kilometers to reach river Tuivai to ask for help from friends who were waiting for us. During the long walk, we were surprise not to hear any birds chirping. We did not spot any birds too. The little raindrops moved the leaves to life. Otherwise, it was like a sad mourning day. The deep jungle was silently alive. They walked back with spade and shovel while Keivom and I sip many cups of sweet, milk tea flavoured with Tipaimukh grown tea leaves in the hotel besides the flooded river that was running wild yellow. Keivom’s words still lingers as he said, “Home again, at last.”

Inside the Heart of Darkness - V

2007-11-24T13:32:00.000+05:30

Vanity Fair: While Aizawl was a glory revisit for L Keivom, we happen to be a witness to that for the first time. I cannot help but say that the city loves its small gods than the big One. It is inevitable for the State that thrives on superstructure outburst while its economic base could not be situated even after more than thirty years of its birth. Mizoram became a full fledged State in the year 1972 from the ruins of insurgency and unrest. Very recently, the authorities have taken another extra mile to declare the State as “disaster zone.” If it succeeds, the Centre’s injected money would be used to celebrate the growing superstructure culture that has lord the State. Then, there would be “disaster concert”, “mister and miss disaster contest”, and all those beautiful disaster celebration to hide the real disaster again. The search would be endless as the vacuum left by Keivom, who cultivated a soul searching journey with his serious books, remains unoccupied. The State needs to be saved by the real saviour and not by the growing idols and icons that lacks constructive originality in their entire medium. But in their search for that eluding real, the illusion of reality wrapped them through.

October 9, 2007/ Aizawl: We went to Zalen Cabin to pay tribute to (L) R Vanlawma, one of Zoram Khawvel heroes. I came to learnt about him only that morning when L Keivom narrated the lives of the unforgettable hero. The man was remembered for his integrity and immense contribution towards nation building of the Zohnathlak people. Zalen Cabin was one of the nodal centre for the Mizo National Front during their struggling days. A shelter as well as a decision hatched centre. The modest cabin, with bamboo walls, raised with the support of many decaying poles stood to speak of the movement that saw many forgotten and few remembered martyrs.

My Aizawl visit resembles an intrude into familiar museum and history. Mizoram is still alive with many of its pioneers that represent its existence today. Many of them are gnawing the levers of the State power structure while many others are sharpening their teeth to fit into it. The rest of the least active are vocally resilient lots. Acting as underground critics against their comrades, whom they said have long lost the flame and the vision that they once struggled for. I saw in them the burden of the failed State, which is dragged by blind powerful men who again readily bartered Mizoram’s tag as the “most peaceful State” for a State inflicted with “disaster.” The latter suits the unholy State in almost all matters. However, like India’s advertisement gurus, the State excelled in image making and delivering them beautifully, which seems to save its face from the stark realities that it is not even challenging. However, if the realities did not remain, than it is deteriorating. I was not shock or surprise to see many new labours, workers, poor, farmers or exploited people organizations that recently came into existence asserting for their rights and dignity not as Mizo or Christian, but as equal human being. Their birth is inevitable. The pain has been too long. The muted voices represent the collective, than the band of actors who could silence them. The ruling actors cannot ignore them for long. They won’t. Time will anyway bring about a responsible peoples’ government. When that could be realized, the State can be proud to call itself a “Christian State.”

We visited NEREF’s office at Millenium Centre, which is Aizawl’s first mall. The employees, who were all Hmars, saved my bad lusei language that I am otherwise improving. The mall also house big label stores. Their intrusion is a coincidence with the uncontrollable materialistic progress. I was wondering if they would ever deliver the bread than the snakes that the State have already in abundance.

October 10, 2007: We met Mizoram ex-Speaker, Rokamlo over tea at his unfinished house. Another interesting veteran of life and lives who is of L Keivom’s contemporary. Keivom’s trusted friend. A man confident of his experiences and religiousness. He was introduced as an academician before he joined the Congress and politics. He took his time, a good amount of it, justifying his stray into politics when the State runs out of productive intellectuals. The State treasury seems to be the biggest pull factor for the band of politicians, surrogate sons of the gregarious bamboo flowering. His justification could be related to Hobbes’ “State of Nature” where man was portrayed as ‘naturally selfish egoistic and self-interested’ seeking always for ‘more intense delight.’ However, Rokamlo was branded for his honesty, uprightness and clean hands during his political career for which his eyes glow with restricted pride that sometimes almost spill when the MNF government or Lalthanhawla’s reputations are crucified. His silent, but affirming smiles, sometimes, are louder than his calculative words that were carefully dressed to impress and convince his guests. His honesty seems unmerciful than the truth itself. And he seems to love to speak them louder without any dread of lies. He was also full of humour. But rarely celebrates his well crafted humour. He gave his long unseen and new guests a good amount of time to cherish his words. The humours are, but, sharper than any swords for his enemies if he would have any. But his free attitude says that he was not with any of his enemies when we met him that afternoon. His wife, the daughter of one of Mizoram’s wealthiest businessman Pachhunga, a Hmar, known for her cooking skill seems to have added more flab to his uncontrolled waistline. But Pu Rokamlo never seem to lack the energy to give another good run for the teeming power hungry actors who have designed to climb the power ladder next year. Mizoram could certainly do better with fortunate son like him.

Aizawl Post Editor, Lalrambuotsai took Hrangthangvung and I for a sightseeing. We went to see the famous “Mizoram Taj Mahal.” A heavy structure with a heavier cross that weigh like a burden. The rare structure was built in memory of (L) Rosangpuii Varte by his husband, Khawlhring. The structure was beautiful as it was born out of love. I realize again that only love is beautiful here on earth. We were taken to Aizawl Theological College and then to Beraw Tlang where Isaac L Hmar was murdered. The mount is also called Golgotha by the locals. Isaac was not the first mortal to die in that beautiful mount. It was all unfortunate, but it was a lonely and beautiful place to take the long sleep.

Inside the Heart of Darkness – III

2007-11-01T12:35:00.000+05:30

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.

Inside the heart of darkness – II

2007-10-27T12:36:00.000+05:30

Zoram Khawvel publisher, Pu MC Lalrinthanga and Aizawl Post editor Pu C Lalrambuotsai were all smiles when we met. The unseen attachment speaks of old friends. Old lovers. Unquestioned loyalty. We immediately headed for Aizawl, which is almost forty kilometers from Lengpui airport. We pass through many sleepy villages bathe with the red eyes of the drowning sun. The villages were fresh and clean. Most of the time the chain of voluntary hills and mountains blinded the sun. I spotted many village men walking without shirts. Not that they do not have any to wear. I believed it worked unconsciously to walk shirtless in the villagge. Carefree with their six packs firm on sun baked chisselled bodies. They did not seem to have much to impress.

There were big signboards that announced about the threat of bamboo flowering. Some about malaria. If one has to judge the signboards, it seems Mizoram government is well prepared to fight the threat of the death flower. But the newspaper of the following day speaks a different story of corruption with the farmer’s share that was allotted by the government at the Centre. I realized nature is a weaker threat compared to corrupt man. Man is just like death. He can never quench his thirst.

It was a relief driving along long winding road that was only disturbed by curves and curl. The air was too clean. It is a blessing that air is still free of cost. I dread to imagine the future where fresh air would be a commodity in the hands of multi-national giants. We finally reached Aizawl to find the narrow clogged road filled with Maruti-800 cars. Pu Lalrambuotsai told us that Aizawl is also known as the “city of Maruti.” Trains of Maruti cars could be spotted anywhere at the cosy city. I love the city for various reasons. One, there is always a sense of coming home. Second, it is homely too. The other reasons are also intimate.

Reading the wall
There are many man-made concrete walls in Aizawl. They must have been built to give a support to the loose soil from sliding off. The walls were smeared with posters. I could make out two kinds of posters. One that announced concerts, idol/icon related campaign posters, album release, fashion show and all those “superstructure” culture Mizoram is famous for. The other digressed to speak against corruption that is getting rampant with the bamboo flowering. Many new actors representing the farmers multiplied to fight against the present MNF government who were accused with corruption and siphoning off the farmer’s share of money that was allotted by the Centre to relieve them as the bamboo flowers and rats, rodents and wild animals multiply.

The sad vacuum is that there is no movement to plant the serious issues to the consciousness of the public as well as the government. But the rocks and bricks on the wall still does.What i observed was that there seem to be too many actors for the one big issue, which otherwise deserved a concerted move. In the highly acclaimed Chrsitian state, the poor and needy are made to fetch for themselves while the able, haves and those close to the power structure reap and rip beyond fairness and truth. The black shepherds in wolve's clothing exploited them to score political mileage for selfish ends. If Jesus was around in Mizoram today, he would lead the farmer, whom the government as well as the public merely called mirethei (poor), loneitu (farmers) and thingtlangmi (hill people). Responding to the plights of the farmers did not seem to be the interest of the already established Churches too. The Churches seem to have lately appreciate Pilate's stand and his hand washing act too. If the water could have cleansed Pilate, the multiplying tribe of powerful reverends and theologians in Mizoram would also be cleansed by the unmerciful rain that wet the days and nights. But the poor and needy were left in the wilderness. Clueless. Helpless.I still remember Zoram Kuthnathawktute Pawl (ZKP) president, who, in its protest rally, warned the Government of Mizoram that it would be seeing darker days if the plights of the farmers are not addressed. Their voices are drenched on the wall. But the Bible is right. If no man speaks, the pebbles would.

Inside the heart of darkness - I

2007-10-20T13:45:00.000+05:30

The Word that was with God in the beginning was translated by L Keivom into Hmar. A third version in the language. The Book led us into the heart of darkness - Tipaimukh. Bible is Baibul in Delhi’s Edition. The air- tight packed, thick black book with Baibul inscripted on its cover is a courageous digression from the “sacred” and “holy” imagination of believers who would “just believe” without questioning. Without reasoning. The usage of Baibul rather than the globally popularized Bible is a negation and deconstruction of the colonial interest and design of cementing everything within their reach and even beyond. The new translation would spark a big change in the linguistic and literary world. It will heal the soul too. It will also affirm faith and belief. Moreover, it will remain as a leviathan teacher on translation, interpretation, conception, culture, reasoning, questioning, doubting, relation and inter-relation and correcting. If we dare to fail to learn, I doubt the unseen holiness of the baptized believers we labelled to our mortal flesh that feeds the soul.

The Call
In early September, Keivom, who bear my trip, called to make sure that I witness the historic moment, which he planned at Senvon. Like the child that leaped within Elizabeth when Mary greeted her, the child in me also leaped when Keivom told me his plans. I wonder whose child leaped higher, Elizabeth or mine. There can be no words for the favour, which I dearly honoured. Besides getting my pages ready in advance in my office, I chalked out subjects and issues that I decided to focus during the trip. My priority list includes life and livelihood, mautam (bamboo flowering) and its impact on Tipaimukh villagers, the state of churches, education and politics, culture, nature, and the expectations and aspirations of Tipaimukh villagers.

I geared up with added lens for my camera. I borrowed an extra zoom lens from our chief photographer that I never used. The reason was our people’s problems need not be zoomed to be seen. The approach was to stay closest and nearest to them so as to see and understand them. To zoom close the realities is possible, but their deplorable situation demands getting closer than the possibilities. They have voices behind their anguish weaved faces. Behind the eyepiece image, there are unheard voices that are untold, unreported and trampled. There are struggle, pain, desperation, fear, helplessness, isolation, neglect that are never represented or raised. The telescopic lens was invalid. It was then I realized the many similarities between my borrowed telescopic lens and the distanced Tipaimukh “concerned” people. Be it the politicians, the church leaders, and leaders. We all are what Jesus called “snakes”. We zoom to update our love, concern, understanding, sympathy and empathy for our blood brothers and sisters. But all the actors are robbers, exploiters, liars, sinners, and murderers. I will come to that in detail as this series unfolds.

The Flight
We (L Keivom, Pastor Lalditsak, Hrangthanvung, and David Buhril) left Delhi early on October 8. The small team divided into what Keivom called the “secular” and the “religious.” I don’t know which one was on the left and which one on the right. I don’t really know which one holds the snake and which one holds the bread. But I suppose and pray we all fit into His will.

We halt and waited for over five hours at Kolkatta’s Netaji Subhash Chandra Bose Airport. We kill time reading newspaper, calling near and dear ones, and straying into various subjects over expensive breakfast in one of the airport’s restaurant. The European and Hindustani menu was designed for European travellers who could multiply their privileged dollars into many Indian rupees. It was also made for the growing desperate Indians who wanted to build and maintain superficial image, class and standard rather than eat to their bowels fill. The meager and expensive foods were not enough for Indians who are not good in toying and fore-play. Indians are more suited to ice-cream like food where the ice, cream and the con could be attacked and gulped at one go. But for the sake of that sick image they try to learn the art of fork and spoon. That culture is visible everywhere we go. It is not beautiful. But the quest and struggle is an interesting one.

Air hostess Lalramthar came to join. She also bought the Baibul and dedicated to the unknown recipient with a prayer request. Her prayer request was a beautiful, honest and intimate one - “Let him who receive my present pray that I get a good life partner.” It would be an extended blessing to readers who could fit into the prayer request.

We check in again for the Kolkata-Aizawl Flight. Sour surprise awaited us. The Air Deccan customer service agents worked on certain ambiguities and standards to charge us extra-money for carrying overweight. While we faced no problem with our baggage in the Delhi-Kolkata Indigo airlines, our confrontation was one we were never prepared for. One of the reasons was that it was not mentioned in our tickets about their standards. Secondly, they found our cabin baggage too big for their plane. Thirdly, they are yet to become customer friendly. Despite the long explanation and request, they nailed us with their inescapable “standards”. They failed to win four customers. A good number to have a relook at what they deliver. Finally, we pay extras for the parcels of Baibul. I remember Jesus pray: “Father, forgive them for they know not what they do.”

We boarded the small Air Decccan aircraft. A stern looking, slightly overweight and boring hostess greeted us with plastic smile. Her make-up was deliberately over-done. She looks like one of those Durga Puja gods that are drowned on the last day. Lucky I did not ground her for that clowny make- up and exposed flabs. I said to myself that the airline have a serious weight problem. No doubt. But I am not. Passengers were few. We all numbered about fifteen. The small aircraft took time to start. It looks old and weary. The engine started and then stopped again abruptly. There are two big fans on the aircrafts wing that work on and off. Under the drizzle it gnawed into my confidence. I wouldn’t have fly if I were their first customer. I just could not help to win myself after all that. After the hour-long flight we reached Lengpui airport. A sleepy little airport with running hills as its wall. Tall grass grows thick besides the runways. The landing was a relief. We stepped out to be greeted by Keivom soldiers. Three maruti gypsy and dedicated Keivom disciples. I saw them all. Hello Zoram Khawvel, we are at Keivom’s capital city.

Freshers and Recollections - IV

2007-09-29T13:47:00.000+05:30

Ten years ago, the concern was for feeding the unquenchable faculties and scoring well in the monotonous exams. It has changed for many today. For me, it has digress out of the mark scoring game to extend beyond and outside the annual affairs. Besides the proletariatquest for bread and butter, the inevitable life's struggle has brought us in confrontation with things that ought to matter. Rights. Plights.Under-reported as well as unreported issues.Reasoning vision.Visioning reason. Unrepresented people. Unaccounted people. Juggled lives. The youthful dream of "settling down" in the old man's manner took a backseat. It would be a dead man's choice from the depth of the pond to repeat the blunder as the ideal one. New time. New generation. Everything new. That's what awaits the fresher's today. CCR would call us fortunate sons and daughters. No time for war. No call for war even. Not ready to become a warrior even. The bloody battle cannot fit into the new consciousness to seduce anymore. The war and battle lines and scenes have changed. We have stepped into the new war. Now we are already part of it too. Bloodless battle. Colourless war. We have arrived. Have we? The question still has to be asked. However, coming to Delhi alone is not a fit case to announce our arrival. It takes more than seeing a congested city, big and wide metalled flyover, metro train or eating ice-cream from McDonalds to have us arrived. Arriving is an endless journey where, at times, it is more difficult to say where we are. From the royal-game of peacock hunting to cyber-romancing and getting the Book translated and making the seat of the white and brown Mughals into our own's nest, the journey is taking us to certain arrival points. From the "dark" "head-hunting" days to the speedy cyber transitions, the shift is already outside the stagnation. Cross- cultured Eves and resilient Adams are the new offspring.From withstanding the angered "Bahadur" or "Chinese" phase to educating the ounce of the billion race about us with our presence, we have come to a point where we could say that we have seen them all. Many a times i told myself that the billion race resembled the Biblical Thomas. They still could not believe us to be from the other parts of India even after seeing and hearing about it. Ignorance is not blissful always.
Our arrival to the Capital city and other metros coincides with the Chinese dumping of commercial goods that still flood Indian markets. Sometimes i wonder if the cheap and easy availability of Chinese goods has anything to do with the others perception of us as a "cheap" or "easy" tribe. The hurdles that freshers today may not get to experience was negotiated with a harsh bargain. It was negotiated the rough and tough way. If we could add colour, it was more than the black and white or grey. It was red too. Too red that it becomes racist. Despite the decades that it has taken, it would be too early to say if it was a win-win situation or a give and take barter that we have carved out of it. Many a times, the exchange negates humanity or any human touch. Sometimes it is a wonder how we could afford to exercise them without reminding ourselves of the human we are. The new generation bear the responsibilties to stress on living a more human life. Imagine life without the need for a barrelled justice. Without hate and threat. Without poking differences to make a bruise and scar out of it. It is the fresher's turn to make a beautiful change.

Fresher’s and Recollections - III

2007-09-21T13:48:00.000+05:30

Back in 1997 when we were freshers in Delhi, most of us come to study. The hallowed halls of Delhi University pulled us to this ancient city to study sciences and arts. Today, majority of the freshers are already working in globalised BPO’s and other service and hospitality sectors. A big leap, if we have to consider our background. The uncontrollable pace reminds me of Eagles’ song, Life in the Fast Lane, which I used to listen back home, where time seems slower and peaceful. I used to imagine how fast it would really be in the city. Our maturity, integrity and sophistication are put to test in this new world, while it generates young economically independent generations. The new generations. People from the North East seem to be doing well in catching up with the changing times. An inevitable necessity if we have to play the survival game. Sometimes I do wonder if the good, the bad and the ugly have also become inevitably ours. Inevitable for all of us. We justifiably gulped them down in the name of sacrifice and in the guise of accommodating ourselves to the new soil.

What worries me most, as a fresher, was the difference in time that we stepped into. When one could not go to sleep at 2 AM in the morning, I enquired myself many a time, if my system has gone wrong? I started relying on alarm clock to wake me up for classes. It shocked dear folks back home too. Few of our girls, who were, then, working late into the night in restaurants, did deliver negative images to people back home. People back home used to think that their girls must have lost everything. However, it was a situation the girls could not help. Infact it was already a culture that is still spreading its wings to toll on us too. Folks back home could never understand why they have to return by 1 or 2 AM in the morning. The single time zone for the big country failed to educate us. Instead it gnaws into us. Sometimes I blamed the one time zone that we seem to be sharing with all unity. If there were different time zones, the radical change would not push many of us to the brink of unanswered questions and explanations. I remember one of my fresher friend resorted to Cypon syrup to sleep on time. However, it acted too effectively on him that he failed to wake up early in the morning again. That spoils everything for him. He could never be fresh since then. Today, the new generations of the working class are enduring and negotiating different time zones in their work place. That deconstructs our practice of sleeping at night and working in the day. If the pace continues, we all might end up working at night and sleeping in the day.

I’ve heard many complaints with the sudden change. A seven year old boy who came to Delhi for his winter vacation complained that he never get to see the moon or the sun. He must also be negotiating the change on his part. King of Sinlung rock and blues, Laltuoklien has a different story to tell, when he was a fresher in Delhi. He said that time is too slow in Delhi. “A day is like two or three days”, Laltuoklien said. Not only that, he also said, “There is no sense of timing here. We only eat when we are supposed to be sleeping. We sleep when we are supposed to be climbing the stairs of many dreams. And we wake up when we are supposed to be eating again. I won’t be able to be creative to write any songs here.”

Since day one, till today, the game is about negotiating the change. We shed everything that we once embrace religiously without much choice. We realised that we cannot be like the firm moulded clay. We created space within ourselves for change, while the boundary could not be fixed. But what if we sacrifice every little bit of us in the process of change? What if the fresher’s stage is the last stage that we get to see about our real self?

Fresher’s and recollections - II

2007-09-15T13:50:00.000+05:30

Back in 1997, when we were fresher’s, party, dancing, Coke and Pepsi was a very in-thing in South Delhi. Back then, our Delhi's geography was somehow confined to North and South. Today it has extended to East, West, Gurgaon and Noida.Our reporter, after a weeklong vacation in South, would narrate to us minute details of endless birthdays. Some birthdays were created. I still remember, some birthdays got due attention and extension. Unconsciously it delivers them to another weekend. Then to the years-end.The brief beauty passed away with the wisp of the night without any inheritance for the next day. For the freshers' community in a new place, it created a resort to shed our baggage of longings and build new attachment. On our part, we would listen with rapt attention and retreat with overblown imaginations over a cup of milk tea. For a change, milk was readily and easily available in Delhi that made tea-making a faithful affair. It was the cheapest indulgence we could afford with a king-size spirit on our shoestring budget.

In North, the party affair hardly happens unless Stephen C Hmar’s birthday recycles to add him more years to his age. That happened once when I was in my second year. I remember, the dancing was wild, uncultured and rustic. But we enjoyed them in our own way. For the majority of us, it was our first attempt that exhibited awkwardness. There was no finesse to our moves. There was no magic touch to our dancing. It was as if the fresh murdered street dog has run over us before we bite its flesh. It usually ended with overflowing sweat and all the wrong moves. The beautiful thing was that we discover to laugh at ourselves. To hide them from any mortal's sight, the light would be switch off. Then we make our move like hungry spirits over sick techno music that blare out of borrowed tape and cassettes. Techno music was also the in-thing then in Delhi, which I hated so much. But if Bryan Adams was there in our party, he would say that they happened to him as the best days of his life. If not, it happened to us like that. After all the crazy moves, we would resort to a safe corner to watch Daniel Shakum and Reuben Thangsanglor dancing. They were good. There was a sense of comfort and beauty in their dancing. They saved us. They would say that they could dance better if there were girls around. I did not doubt that. I still do not. On my part, to save myself from unnecessarily multiplying the wrong move that’s already abundant, I would volunteer to do all the cooking and serving. But still then, there was always that pulling, which I staunchly resisted with much uncomfort. I know that was not polite at all. But i dread the dancing so much. North was, then, like a Tarzan’s cave. There was hardly any long hair for the Tarzan’s tribe. That scarcity in North made South look like the land of Eves. Beautiful than Eden.

Since day one, homesickness was like a mole in the skin to everyone of us. It would not leave. It could not be left behind too. Like the sweat. Like the prickly heat and all those endless seasonal irritation. There was nothing more faithful than them to have greeted us.Except for everything, the feeling was not strange. The familiarity rather made one at home than sick. However, I realized that it acted to be very creative.

As time passed by, we found our dear reporter from Muolzapui Run getting hooked to the sub-culture or Marxs' "superstructure" rooted in New Delhi's Hmar youth society. After the fresher's meet was the chain of birthdays. That was then followed by the unquestioned song practices under the Thralai Pawl banner. Song competitions. Traditional dance practice for Sikpui Ruoi. All those time-buyers we never question in the guise of "nationalism", "blood", "history" and "culture". If not we dare not. Suddenly that would consume precious time to transport us to December at the gate of the year's exit. If the "thralai" did not explain it was then in the name of "tlawmngaina." The opium were too holy to be questioned. Too imposing. We cultivated them in vain imagination and assumption without much return. Those hallucination years. And we embrace them like free manna to feed the blind quest. The manna turned stale as time passed by. Many returned like wounded, beaten soldiers. Many returned without deriving salvation from the expensive quest. Did we learn? If not, do we have enough to give selflessly? Do we have enough to give endlessly? Should we give endlessly?

Fourth Estate and the Kuki people

2007-09-01T14:11:00.000+05:30

(A brief of the paper presented on KSO seminar at SSS, JNU, on September1, 2007 )

“There were Three Estates in Parliament; but, in the Reporters' Gallery yonder, there sat a Fourth Estate more important far than they all.”
- Edmund Burke

Today, I am compelled to stress on the necessity of the fourth estate, which is the other name for the press or journalism, than merely dishing out the list of multiplying institutions that are offering the courses. Not that I will not be touching them. But, after much analysis of our social mindset, social expectations, our education and the prospects that we attached to it, I strongly felt that I must stress on the subject with a bold underline to every word, which will be more a critical analysis of our society with the fourth estate.

When I was asked by the President of the Kuki Students’ Organisation to speak on Journalism and its prospects for the students, I was flooded with too many questions, with many unanswered. I would like to raise few questions here so that we seriously inquire for the answers. I reminded myself that the Kuki people stands out to own the biggest number of bureaucrats, politicians, and pastors in Manipur. But why is that there are no journalist? That led me further to investigate the state of our society. I cannot help, but say that our progress as a people is yet very incomplete for we missed out that fourth pillar, the Fourth Estate, which should otherwise act as the voice, ears, eyes, nose, strength and image of us as a progressive people. I am reminded of Thomas Jefferson’s saying on the necessity of a free press. He said: “The basis of our government being the opinion of the people, the very first object should be to keep that right; and were it left to me to decide whether we should have a government without newspapers, or newspapers without a government, I should not hesitate a moment to prefer the latter.”

The significance of a newspaper or the fourth estate and the people who runs them was greatly acknowledged by Thomas Jefferson who prefers a newspaper to a government. A retreat to our current history as well as the present scenario reveals that we have been severely exerting all our efforts to grind out bureaucrats, politicians and pastors, but not for newspaper or journalist. Why, is the big question here. Is it because of our ignorance? Is it because our society did not glorify the job and its service as worthy? Is it because our education systems are not oriented to it? Or is it because our knowledge and understanding of the might and power of the Fourth Estate is limited? Or is it because we don’t have the need for the fourth estate?

I believe that if we could delve into these questions and seek for its answers, we would exhume the importance of the fourth estate, which will further enthuse and enhance us to be a part of the significant four.

Comparing traditional European society and modern Kuki society
In traditional European society, there were usually three estates that enjoyed a specified share in government – the nobility, the clergy, and the commons. The functions of the nobility were to defend society from foreign aggression and internal disorder. The clergy attends to its spiritual needs while the common people work to produce the base with which to support the other two orders. When parliaments and representative assemblies developed from the 13th century, their organization reflected this theory, with separate houses for the nobility, the commons and the clergy. The fourth estate is the press, which the British politician Edmund Burke coined the term in the 18th century.

By calling the press a "fourth estate," Burke meant to stress on the press abilities to influence public opinion that made it an important source in the governance of a nation. In modern times, we see the role of a free press differently, but still in quasi-institutional terms. It has gone beyond what Justice Potter Stewart saw, the role of a free press, as essential in exposing corruption and keeping the political process honest. Today we need the press to talk about everything imaginable.

The fourth estate was and still is seen as the voice and eyes of the people vis-à-vis the government and the society at large. However, the absence of that in our society necessitated question again. The question is, are we living with the absence of the fourth estate because we did not have the government, the clergy or the common people?

In the traditional European society, critical utterances about the government, either written or spoken, were subject to punishment. The English law also does that. It did not matter whether what had been printed was true. However, the government saw the very fact of the criticism as an evil, since it cast doubt on the integrity and reliability of public officers. Progress toward a truly free press, that is, one in which people could publish their views without fear of government reprisal, was halting.

The same seems to be our reality today with the Kuki society, with fear and apprehension dominating the prospect of freedom of ex-pression. Has that become a threat to situate itself permanently in our society to further murder the significance of the fourth estate, making itself a no appealing avenue for the new generation?

Today, our society’s burden of small arms race, internal displacement, under-development, neglect and marginalisation, corruption, lack of awareness and ignorance, and degeneration in all areas are partly a result of the absence of the fourth estate. The absence of it fails to access us with that necessary platform where opinion could be initiated, expressed or mobilise. Many a times, we counted on our elected representatives to raise our issues and plights, which they failed to respond. Many a times we looked to the government to provide us with all sorts of security for our welfare and development. In our progress with time, we ended up as poor reactionists and weak negotiators despite the power based on us. The reason again is, we don’t have the fourth estate to plant all these necessities in the consciousness of the people, authorities and all who matters. As a result, we, as a people, today, are suffering from any sense of collectivity to talk about our issues, politics, and visions for our future.

Fourth Estate and its importance
The fourth estate has been a recourse against abuses of power within the democratic structures of our societies. It is not unusual for the three traditional areas of power - legislative, executive and judicial - to make mistakes and operate less perfectly than they might. In a democratic framework the press have often seen it as a duty to denounce such violations of human rights. Sometimes journalists have paid the price - they have been physically attacked, murdered or have disappeared, which is still happening everywhere. This is why, in the phrase attributed to Edmund Burke, journalism is the “fourth estate”. With the civic responsibility of the media and the courage of individual journalists, this fourth estate has provided a fundamental and democratic means for people to criticise, reject and reverse decisions that are unfair, unjust, illegal and sometimes even criminal against innocent, helpless and voiceless people. The fourth estate represents the voice of those who have no voice.

Over the past years, while the acceleration of globalisation confronts the global village with the fourth estate negotiating with new actors that grows out of capitalism - the industrial and the financial, the market and the state, the public services and the private sector, the individual and society, the personal and the collective, egoism and solidarity. However still, within this geo-economic framework there has been a decisive transformation in the mass media, striking at the heart of their structure as industries. This is never missing with the progressing time, despite the big miss on our part. The mass communications media (radio, newspapers, television, internet) are today being realigned to create media groups with a world vocation. The growth of media groups have realised that the revolution in new technology has greatly increased the possibilities for expansion. The digital revolution shattered the divisions that previously separated the three traditional forms of communication (sound, text and images) and allowed the creation and growth of the internet. This has now become a new form of communication, a means of self-ex-pression, information-access and entertainment.

On the other hand, on our part, while we are confronting the issues and problems of food shortages, insecurities, militancy and armaments, ethnicity and its politics, environmental problems, deplorable health conditions, poor traditional education and agriculture system, etc., we do so without the necessary fourth estate. In the process, we failed to rise to become a significant actor, as we have no strength of the fourth estate to accelerate our efforts.

If we critically analyse our problems as well as the prospect for it, they are all intimately linked with the fourth estate. However, in our case and context, we failed to establish any relation with the necessary fourth estate.The conversion of plights and issues into representative policies is accessed and enabled by the fourth estate. Creating a space for the fourth estate would require the force of ideas for which the new generations should be prepared. Changes in media coverage can effectively exercise an effective influence on political transition, welfare, development, education, economy, etc. Besides, the existence and development of the fourth estate is associated with the whole process of democracy and shaping of public opinion. If not, it still helps to reinforce mobilization that was already underway.

The state of the fourth estate is one of the elements that reflects and determines all aspects of society. In many countries it is the fourth estate that stand to represent the country’s modern and democratic hue. While societies outside us are celebrating the benefits of the fourth estate, we are severely suffering the absence of it. It is time we bring about a change.

How do we react to all of these challenges? How can we defend ourselves? How can we resist, negotiate, bargain and present ourselves? The answer is simple. We need to invest our resources towards establishing and securing a healthy fourth estate to which I call upon the new generations to make the necessary difference by being a part of it.

Freshers and recollections - I

2007-08-24T13:51:00.000+05:30

Ten years ago, I was a fresher in Delhi. I reached the ancient city with sweat and the rusted smell of the patient Avadh Assam Express. I remember I was too homesick. Worst there was no medicine for it. I did not stop asking myself why it has to be like this? The monotonous university registration process was endless. My topper marks led me to the hallowed Delhi University’s Kirori Mal College to study Political Science. However, being a topper from Manipur makes little sense as CBSE was raining marks like manna. But, knowledge and the quest for that eventually define one in the long run. What matters ultimately is what one knows without the marks. Everything was a lesson bigger than what I learnt in the university’s syllabus.

Unlike the last freshers’ meet that recently concluded, the freshers’ meet in the year 1997 was a small and cosy affair. I remember it was held in RK Puram in a small room that snake a little longer than the usual rooms that we rent to live in the Capital City. For the dinner one long queue with soldier’s like discipline served everyone without any trouble. Our chef’s strength today would outnumber the fresher’s in 1997.So many things have changed. Many things also did not change. But I remember the warmth as I was new and a fresher then. I like that feeling of newness, which is already missing. It is already monotonous with the usual and routine affair. Also with the faces and the stale issues that we are cornered with. Man, I believe, love a change. We need change too. Whatever, going back, I remember people like Pu Hrangthangvung, Pu Lalchungsiem, Pastor Lalsiesang, Pu Patrick Infimate, Pu Lalhmingthang Joute, Pu Lalringum Inbuon were single and slimmer. I am not sure if they were mingling then. I don’t know, as I was not acquainted to them as much as today. Fortunately the electronic keyboard, then, did not define music. All the songs were pluck or strum with the six strings, which I will always love, than the destructive convenience that we never seem to realize. It was impressive to see every singer play the guitar for themselves. In the recent fresher’s meet, there was not even a sight of the guitar. Its sweet sound was far from the great expectations.

Almost all the freshers during those days came for pursuing further studies. Options were still limited. Our horizons appeared like the pond’s view. We never examine ourselves to understand our capacity and potentialities. So everyone talked about UPSC that could only multiply the number of rusted steel frames. There was nothing like call centre or BPO’s and the other boom that are already consuming immense global human resource today. We used to hear people talked about working part time in Delhi’s hot summer at McDonald. Otherwise, we, in Delhi Unversity north campus, could not imagine anything beyond class, library, studies and going home for long holidays in the summer to forget Delhi. I still remember the immense joy I derived in the privilege of finding my favourite newspaper, The Hindu, on my doorstep, which I used to read religiously. Reading and underlining the big, black and white newspaper and then cutting them were the routine indulges. It would take all the deserved good time. I used to tell myself that if I were an idol worshipper, N Ram, The Hindu editor, would be one of my small gods. I finally got to meet him when I was awarded the 2007 Ramnath Goenka Excellence in Journalism Award, which is the country’s biggest award in journalism. Ten years on and I am still faithfully reading The Hindu besides the others, which I do to keep track of everything that matters.

Delhi University’s north campus was like an island then. Not to others but particularly for the Hmar speaking community. Munirka, for us, was like the capital of Delhi in those days. That does not seem to have withered even today. I made a point to attend the DHCF service on Good Friday and Christmas only. I have a problem traveling in buses. Moreover, I don’t believe in securing heavenly seat by running after all the drums and bells. Everything else starts from the within. I remember getting down from the bus, many a times in the middle of the road, to puke all the irritations away. It was a torture to go to south. Moreover, it was too expensive an affair for my shoestring budget. My principle, then, was to avoid everything but to read everything. The Thralaipawl or choir and all their endless affairs did not affect students from north campus. We were like the untouchables. We were beyond its reach, for God so love us. It still is today, for God’s mercy sake. I remember Alan Thiek, who is today studying in Pune’s UBS seminary, coming to north campus in the year 1998 and was full of surprise to find us, Hmars, studying in this part of Delhi. I realized then that Delhi was the capital village. Atleast for us. We seem to be good in discovering villages. But as it is still, students with good academic records would only get to study in north campus colleges then. Like Naipaul’s many small battles inside a battle, our circle was a small one even in the north campus. There was hardly visiting or visitors. No courting. No song practice. No silly or dirty manipulations by Dr Jekyl or Mr Hyde. But it was rich enough to be widen with books, which was instrumental. I realised that was healthy and productive than the large and unquenchable circle of friends that has become of us today.
One of my batchmate, Lalthanglien Ruolngul told me lately, in the year 2005, about the early days as freshers in Delhi. He said: “Those were conservative days for our friend’s circle in south Delhi. Some of our friends did not even wear jeans.” The yardstick is interesting. South Delhi or Munirka was considered too far for us from north. Bus numbers 621 and 750 served to bridge the north and south distance. Every student in north were well acquainted with the routes. We all would treasure our bus pass in those days. I remember I and a couple of friends took 750 bus to reach our fresher’s meet venue in that year. We all had the colourful Thangsuo Puon scarf with us. Those routes hardly take us to any impressive place of the Capital City that we grew up imagining about Delhi. No sight of skyscrapers. No Mercedes or big wheels. Instead, the road was clogged with snarling traffic that took almost eternity to make a move. Sometimes it is a surprise that ten years have passed when memories of those pregnant buses stagnating on roads is still fresh in the mind. Not only that, cow and pig could be spotted in the middle of the road too. Potholes. Pollution. Population moving to score a billion. What not? My fresher’s days were greeted with all that. CNG was not there yet. The flyovers and the subways too were still absent, except for those in ISBT and Bhikaji Cama Place. Metro, which is today running like the celebrated Christmas toy, must still be a distant plan in papers then.

There was no cyber café or internet. No mobile. Unlike today, one has to take all the inconveniences to fix a time with our neighbour’s telephone to talk to our family members. That would be once in a month if it were necessary. Our financial situation mostly determines that necessity. Otherwise it was a costly affair and a very inconvenient one. Letter writing and the postal system was the only means to connect the distance between home and Delhi. The postman was more important and significant to us than the Prime Minister or the President. I used to have a good stock of white and brown envelope and postal stamps. That was when people would be identified by their handwritings. One could make faces out just by reading the scribble on the envelope. Sometimes I would not open the envelope if I don’t have good tea to read alongwith. Many a times, I used to read sweeter letters over several times. Today it is just a matter of click from one’s own mobile. Instant and easy. Like courting a prostitute. But letter writing was full of all the good things. There was art. Creativity. Nothing could be sweeter. Every word was read like the faithful counting the blessing and naming them one by one. Things have changed. They almost seem like antique and ancient today. Not my choice. Never yours either. Technological revolutions did not seem to spare anyone. Everyone is digitalised today. Our identities are chipped inside numbers, which would cripple us anytime if we are cut off from it.

Mizoram: On Tense Clutch

2007-08-18T13:53:00.000+05:30

The growing tense complexities underlined by movements and assertions in the wake of new consciousness of rights, deprivation, corruption and political marginalisation have been Mizoram’s reality today. This brought to focus the forces of fuelled antagonism sprayed on unaddressed plights acting as the strength for the multiplying dissidents, be it the Zoram Kuthnathawktute Pawl and the opposition parties. The supposed peaceful State in the hands of the Mizo National Front (MNF) wakes to the puzzle of serious accusations of gun running, siphoning of service arms, converting the State into militant’s haven, corruption, and for its inability to make the State sufficient or peaceful. MNF government is faced with the challenge of identifying and understanding the more powerful interest of its citizens who are raising their voices with varied assertions in the quest for new accommodation and adjustment. This quest is seen by the growing voices as the unfinished agenda of the promises that the MNF party made before they came to power. The more powerful citizens who voted the party to power felt the need for a new negotiation and consultation to redress their plights. The inheritance of that defect by situating in new context, where they are threatened by famine and shortages of all sorts that is further deteriorated by rampant corruption has resulted in the developing chaos. Well, it was followed by the inevitable game of pacification, which seems to have silence the issue rather than solving the crux of it. The real danger, however, lies in merely silencing the problems. It will inevitably result in opening the Pandora box if the silencing act is seen as a success.

The celebrated peace becomes a mess in the face of boiling dissidents, which has been whetted by politicians for their power bank. Peace and democracy’s sanctity is dwarfed in the sink of the multiplying plights of its citizens, the growing insecurity of the State and various other forces that are breeding at an alarming rate. While the success of all these active forces was hidden in the guise of democracy, the function and existence of the same has been stabbed to bleed profusely. In the process it reveals the confusion and failure of the top tower where the crux of all decision making process is initiated. The problems seem to be persisting at its undisturbed pace with crucial decisions getting nipped from the narrow power corridors of the MNF party, when the fringe corners shivered with disturbing and fluctuating temperatures. That is when the present continuous tense in the state has to be understood not merely through the party lenses, but through the humane aspirations that it represents.

One inevitable question is, is it necessary to blind the challenges and demands of the collective in the pursuit of scoring for the party? That ought to be raised, as the State’s future is sacrificed in the dim of a party’s obsession that would only continue to take an immense toll on the peace, welfare, development, education, culture, human resources and generations, if the practise continues. The history of violence, unrest, insecurity and bloodshed, then, would be closer than a distant dream if that occurs. That is when, instead of putting the party’s interest first, the need to convert the poor and marginalized hope, desire, aspirations and demands and challenges to grow along the larger interest of the State would be the inevitable quest. This becomes more necessary in the context of the plural realities of the state, where the unfortunate divide of the haves and haves-not mars it. If our current history had failed to act as the filter towards understanding the marginalized people, the present misery and realities, which is a result of the political failure, should be the inevitable filter today. That does not mean that the historical defect could be ignored altogether. However still, that would not be an all out solution to the blown out situation, but it would very much act as the panacea than the mere inactivity with unforgiving excuses.

The years of collective ennui in the face of the growing divide and corruption has severely stirred the democratic establishment. Not only that, the supposed face of democracy in the State is faced with the danger of losing its charm over relatively unexamined anti-democratic forces in the hands of the State itself. The installation of elected representatives in the power structure has already become the problem in itself. Moreover, they are not evidence of the existence of a healthy democracy. Their ability to dominate the political process with amazing survival skill has, otherwise, snared the democratic space where they failed to represent the people’s interest nor understand them or deliver governance. We still haven’t seen our politicians extending their dogged struggle beyond their quest to wrest power for themselves. As the wheels of democracy remain rusted in their power basking game, we are confronted with too many questions. Are not the growing dissidents because of a massive failure by the ruling government? In either case it is appalling and it would be the last possible resort to make an excuse and blame the people, which otherwise is the practice. Tomorrow we would blame Myanmar or Bangladesh, if not the ISI or Taliban, though Pakistan is too far not to be ignored too. The growing assertions that are directed against the government in power are encouraged by failure in the political leadership and structure itself. That holds enough water to let us look within. The question today is, what are peace chances in the State?

The Talibans were America’s brainchild to fight the Russians. It aided indulgently but later turned out to be its haunting Frankenstein monsters. Mizoram is left with not much option but to walk the plank to meet the same monster at the other end. The party that grows out of the bamboo flower gained more mileage with its ginger policy, but it could not help much. It has to resort to find salvation in turmeric. However, it is not the turmeric that failed to seduce. Rather, it is the MNF party that failed, with its undelivered promises in the face of the cyclical threat that gnaws into their ginger and turmeric dreams.

Many a time we have been accorded with burnt out strategies, call it policy, to negotiate the big one- time promise. These policies are, however, residues of power hunger politicians. The people with their solo suffrage have sacrificed abundantly for that promise. Today there are compelling reasons to talk about the need for more people centric government than merely hinging on preferential party politics strategy. The party politics have successfully cultivated preferential treatment of the few privileged at the cost of the larger collective. Therefore, the failed elected democratic limbs have no relation to the demands and challenges of the interest and people of the State. There is a need for real representation by shedding the old powerful spectacles of the old Leviathan that is used to scan its own loyal compartments, when the greater collective composed the deprived lots. There is also a need to revive the sick state of education, agriculture, economy, sports, infrastructure and what not, instead of oiling its party loyalist to gnaw the State’s treasury in the name of the people. Otherwise, the images of insecurity, unrest, dissidents, and militants would continue to grow to blur the needful aspirations and visions of the State. If that were allowed, the state would, very soon, come under the “disturbed” tag, which its neighbours are already popular for. The State has to be saved from its decadent dance of democracy. Otherwise, the people would be left with nothing more than deprivation and the remains of democracy, but also to helplessly clutch the sliver.

On Sekibusuok

2007-08-10T13:54:00.000+05:30

When the Delhi Hmar Students' Association leaders intimated me about their desire to come out with a magazine and the privileged endowed to me to be responsible for it with a supporting team, I took it as a challenge. However, the challenge was confronted with inevitable questions that i still ask till the time of going to the press, just yesterday. The questions are many. But i would like to share a few, which were earlier acting as a discouraging factor, but has slowly become the crux of the challenge. The first question that surfaced was, who will read? I raised this question in the context of Delhi student’s community, particularly the Hmar speaking group, who must seriously catch up with the reading habit. Sometimes i find no meaning writing in the absence of reading. However, i was reminded by one of my favourite English writer, DH Lawrence who said that any writer should derive contentment not from the readers and their responses, but from the work that he does. There is abundant meaning in that, which writers should understand. This, i feel, is more relevant in our context, where most of the time, any writing get a blank toast in the wind than inculcate the faculties. The questions that follows are many, which i raised with equal concern as i do not want the magazine, Sekibusuok, to pile up in dusty corners in the midst of Delhi Thurawn, Lelte or those colourful newspaper supplements that seduce than knock the reason's gate. Whatever, they have been religiously feeding us more than anything else. Sometimes, I feel like asking, what more do we read?

Sekibusuok is a child of visionary resolution and evolution, which the name itself manifests. The name was given by the acclaimed author and former diplomat L Keivom who stands out like the great big mount with his communicable strength, enthusiasm and knowledge. I cannot help, but count on him anytime. A being for his equal in all aspects would remain the last to find in Zoram Khawvel. If anyone could find the beauty in Sekibusuok, which will be released on August 18, the acknowledgement belongs to Pu Keivom who ploughed through every sentence of the articles. I have been wishing, on many occasion, that he could leave behind his tireless strength and his knowledge garner when nature embrace him.

Unlike the Holy Word, Sekibusuok would not be able to see the light of the day by itself if not without the immense contribution made by the Isaac Hmar Memorial Foundation (IHMF), the publisher of Sekibusuok. I indeed reminded the Foundation that the return, if they expect, would come along with the second coming, which might be a long wait if the grace period extends. Even if it comes early, the materialistic would have no place anymore. But they did with no expectations for any return. Man ought to carry on with all his might for which Sekibusuok Editorial board as well as HSA, Delhi would remain grateful to Professor Lal Dena and Pi Linda Haas of IHMF for publishing HSA Delhi Sekibusuok. Isaac L Hmar, who once was a significant member of HSA, Delhi is well remembered through the Foundation's ceaseless and beautiful efforts. Through their contributions, the words could breathe with life today, which i believe would put Isaac to smile wherever he is.

The articles in Sekibusok with its rich and diverse content are indeed an amazing collection. The articles are not picked or chosen. Instead they are all that we received after the long and endless call and invitation. Very few of the contributors wrote in direct response to the call and invitation. It resembled VS Naipaul's early understanding of India that has with it million mutinies and battles within a mutiny and battle. Sekibusuok could also take its form only after numerous calls, invitations, reminders and not to forget the begging and soft threats that I deliberately made to people close to me. The threat and begging was not fruitful. Do I need a gun? Whatever, I am sure it would be an interesting journey for all readers. The articles contained volumes of lessons, struggle, experiences, wit, wisdom, knowledge, humour, questions, concern, and issues that were weaved by different lives in various parts of the globe. From the amazing young girl writer, Immanuel Lalsanhim Keivom to New York Post Photo Journalist, James Keivom and to the enlightening wisdom of Professor Lal Dena and several remarkable contributors, Sekibusok is an intimate garner. Sekibusuok gained its completeness with four women contributors, who unlike the men contributors, promptly respond to the invite for articles. Their articles overflow with the beauty of a woman and the concern of a mother. If Sekibusuok could flaunt its pride, it would be so because of the women contributors. However, as a student's organisation magazine, it remains a big disappointment to receive too little from the student's community. But still, the bigger contribution could be made by reading the articles, which is the last expectation related to all the beautiful efforts. The bi-lingual content is deliberately adopted to serve the quest of diverse readers as well as to acknowledge the beauty and importance of ex-pressions, which is already popular in Hmar as well as English. Our greater desire remains unfulfilled with our inability to avail the articles in other dialects and languages of Zohnathlak.

Sekibusuok, which is a magical and productive instrument, occupy an immortal place in Hmar folk tales. In the story, a woman called Phungnu owned Sekibusuok. Sekibusuok fulfilled the wishing well as it could produce rice and meat when it is strike on each end. It was a source of wealth and treasure. A desire. Beautiful and enlightening articles on the subject were written by Lal Dena, L Keivom and RH Hminglien. Whatever it may be, the wonderful thing is the interpretation and situation of the relevance of Sekibusuok in the 21st century, which L Keivom focused and handed over the significant role to the new generations, who are the new Sekibusuok. Finding this relevance would go a long way to enlighten us not only about our cultural memories, but also with the need to realise one’s potentialities to enrich the progressive generations. This is our time. And the role is to be instrumental as Sekibusuok was. As the world race progressively towards attaining greater heights in knowledge, reason and wisdom, Sekibusuok, as it was conceived, is dedicated to the new generations to inculcate and realised the greater quest for our land and people. The underline is, be the Sekibusuok.

August: My Cradle

2007-08-04T13:55:00.000+05:30

August, seed of my breathe
Suitor of my tears and dust
Though grave gate in hunger awaits
You are beautiful than all
Rest my flesh when the breathe leaves
- (To August, DB)

August. Blessed month. Dry dust set to rest. In wet baptism. Leaves and birch too.The dry wets. Like the time in Bible's Ecclesiates. The time and season has the rain to lord. While tempest wind could stir no more. Like the firm faith after forty days fast.Swift monsoon winds chased rain pregnated clouds. The canvas-like sky turned muddy and heavy.Like the work of nervous brush. Sometimes with a sinner's haste. But a seasonal sign expected with clock-like certainity. While few mortals with scientific temper read with alarm. They say global warming. As the hole in the ozone layers depletes.The deterioration crossed the boundaries of season. As drought and flood threatened reason and conscience. Negating the cycle of expectations and reason. Sciene could no longer help the uncontrollable depletion. Faith prays but what if the time has come? But August, my gate to the brief mortality. The month that endowed me with the knowledge of the dew's brevity. And of the wisdom of vanity. The month that clothed me with flesh and blood. And with joy and fear. The month that breathe me with a life to thrive through age and wrinkles. The month that led me to sneak and seek meaning in the void of unquenchable life.

While mortal's expects a Hercules feat, life progressed to incline like ancient scimitar. And the kiss is a chance and not a choice. Lamentation and mourning awaits his glory. Though thousand wreaths may wait like white virgins. I and we are the victims of life. But the glory of creation. What more has man to uphold than the veil of vanity that breeds pride? Never knowing that we are mere sacrifice to vanity. The sons and daughters of unforgiven sin. As we enter with tears and leave no tears dry either. Like the inevitable cycle. August was chosen. Like the inescapable Jonah in the Bible. Or Judas. Chosen. A decision prior to the "concert of democracy." Prior to the mad Bush rush. But fortunate that it was not a mortal's chosen time. You, holier than them. Unscathed with the scars of politics and unforgivable rivalries. Untouched by the quest for power and dark glories. I choose your darkness hidden in rain packed floating clouds than in the sour of man's pride and falsity. I choose you than the pandering woman that submits to the temptation of the forbidden fruit. When will she fight temptation? The womb was a mistake, but I am blessed. For it was you, August. The only place for life to conceived. Men has no place for pride. For the mightiest is her son. And the meekest is hers too. And you housed them all. Like the life in the rain that you seasoned. It is not only in the womb. But in the cloud and dust too. August, month of life. Like the horn of plenty, your garner bulged bigger than December. The canon must be wrong. For the saviour must be your son too. How could the canon ignore your fertility? Where is his reason? Where is his conscience? Has the stolen rib gulped them all? But man, as surrogate sons and daughters of clogged propaganda and dim vision could not even blink to see that you were chosen before any being was created. Silver locks and golden age could wake him not. It wouldn't. The mystery and magic is in you. The beauty too. But before the grave, life's unbeaten suitor, attained its hungry glory, let her know that you, August, are my cradle.

Insecuring Cultures - II

2007-07-27T13:57:00.000+05:30

Robin Hibu, DCP West Delhi, security tips booklet that was particularly prepared for the progressive population of North East in Delhi severely ired the targeted group. The booklet is seen as an ignorance of the treasured culture and identity of the diverse North East people with blind unfounded accusation that seeps out of imagined notions. The booklet cannot be ignored as a threat as the population have been continuously disturbed with their experienced of the wrath of unquestioned imagined notions fixed upon them. It would be a mistake to merely ignore the booklet as an “elder brother’s advice”, when the population from the region are, if not silently then helplessly, negotiating and braving the “discrimination”, “alienation”, and “racial profiling” that was imposed on them. Even though it was not intended, the booklet reflects the underlying worms that remain untouched. The Delhi Police security tips booklet is seen as an attempt to deliberately exert unnecessary pressure to undermined and deprived the living strength of the progressive population from the region who are also silently negotiating and battling the varied differences in the Capital city, which is new to them. The “information booklet”, which Robin Hibu said was intended as “an elder brother’s advice” has ired the targeted group even as the author said, “I was not trying to interfere in their lives.” The booklet with its strong negative introduction, where the boys from the region are unsparingly portrayed as “drug addict” frequenting in “drunken brawl” and girls of North East with ever “revealing dress” “molested and thrown out of the moving vehicle”, missed the reality and the envied ladder of the progressive population who are, otherwise, carving significant place in diverse avenues in the Capital city. While the exaggerations are not convincing, the sight from the rusted steel frame does not seem to appear any greener.

Despite the “good intention” behind the booklet, it has acted like salt to fresh wounds as the people from the North East negotiate with the inevitable differences attached to the cultural diversity, which is worsened by the different features that the people from the region bear. If one recalls the year, 2005, when a girl from the North-East was raped in Delhi, the Vice Principal of Kirori Mal College, University of Delhi boldly said that there should be a separate dress code for North East students, particularly girls. According to sources, many pubs and discotheques in the capital city are closing their doors to people of the North East, which was usually done by judging the features and colours that the people carry. Besides that the endless restrictions imposed upon their food habits and lifestyle by the landlords, the expectations that were demanded of them and the prejudices that has been attached to them by people outside the region have been raising silent concern on their part. The experience of the people from the North East has been that of a cultural struggle in a clogged space, which the booklet failed to reflect.

In the context of the larger diversity and plurality of the country’s reality, the need for a separate security tips booklet for people from the North East is seen as “unwise and discriminatory” by the acclaimed writer and former diplomat L Keivom. “I sympathise with the intention, but this is not the way to do it,” L Keivom said. He also said that it is not unusual to see a booklet on do’s and don’ts. “The main purpose”, he said. “is to educate and instruct newcomers so that they respect the cultural sensitivities of the people. For example, there is a very useful booklet on Saudi Arabia, which gives basic norms on how to behave while in the country so that one does not unwittingly offend the cultural sensitivities of the people. But the booklet is universal and not targeted for any particular people or region. It is also applicable to all Arab inhabited regions. But the booklet in question is not only an insult to the targeted people and the region but also to the basic intelligence of those who have thought it necessary to issue such patronistic piece of advice.” L Keivom also adds: “It is prerogative of any administration to issue advice on any subject within the bounds of their jurisdiction and purview. But some of the contents of the booklet in question are vicious, misdirected, insulting and discriminatory. It should be condemned by all.”

Moses Kharbithai, a JNU research scholar and convenor of Forum for People’s Rights personally felt that the spirit in which the booklet has been written in which North East girls are unfoundedly accused of returning “as drug addict”, boys caught in “drunken brawl” and girls with “revealing dressed up” for which she is her own reason for being “molested and thrown out of the moving vehicle” shows how the so-called “mainstream people” have justified themselves whenever people from the North East are victimised in the Capital city. Moses said, “Such ethnic profiling should be condemned in the strongest term by all the students’ community and the public. Such booklet I don’t think is a security booklet at all, but a dangerous assumption that will only make us more vulnerable to the uncontrollable crimes in the city. If it was intended for the security of the North East students, such booklet should have rather been addressed and distributed to auto and taxi drivers, landlords, property dealers, etc., warning them against discrimination to any North East student who might be facing language and cultural barriers in Delhi.” Moses added that if such booklet is at all required it should be brought with full consultation and unanimous support of the elders in the most unsegregated manner.

Moses also said that food habit to a great extent defines culture. “Dictates on food habit is a dictate on culture”, Moses added. “This is very imperial in approach. If Delhi Police want us to inculturate, they should simultaneously encourage the people of Delhi to acculturate”, Moses said. He also felt that the booklet is one of the most racial and discriminating booklets ever distributed in the pretext of security. “It is a shame for the police of a Capital city to act so unprofessional on such sensitive issues”, Moses said.

Lalparmawi Varte, a lecturer, said: “We are not from Mars to require a separate security handbook. I am not sure with the intention of the Delhi Police with the booklet, but with all due respect I think they have forgotten that we are living in a democratic country.” She also opined that it would rather help if the Delhi police could invest their time in doing more productive work than indulging in further deteriorating the rift between people from the North East and the mainland Indians. Lalparmawi said, “The booklet will do more harm than good. It would rather subject us to a feeling of hurt and further alienation which we are already facing in the Capital city.”

Zuchamo Yanthan, a lecturer in IGNOU, said that the intention of the writer may be positive, but, “unfortunately, the booklet is reflecting a very poor understanding of the writer on the young generation of the North East. Almost 80 per cent of the guidelines are irrelevant to the young generation. The people of this generation are intelligent and smart enough to adapt with the changing times much better than anyone else.” Zuchamo felt that differences should be respected and everyone should strive to accommodate one another. K Yhome, Associate Fellow in Observer Research Foundation, said that there are huge differences between the two worlds and therefore a few tips would be good if not necessary. But Yhome opines that food habits and dress culture are sensitive issues and need to be seen in the context of individual rights. He also said that in dressing matter, “the debate here is around responding to the sensibility of the local people. There are two dimensions to this issue- insider or the locals and the migrants or outsiders. The best way to understand this proposition is to see oneself as a local.” Yhome felt that there are other ways to deal with these issues, rather than issuing a booklet. “One way of doing it is to inform through community meetings and social gatherings. I think such approach would carry more weight and avoid the risk of running into a controversy as the current one is embroiled in”, Yhome said.

Alana Golmei, a research scholar, said that people from the North East are not different human beings to be singled out and impose with strict rules. “The booklet is to defame and discriminate the indigenous people of the North Eastern region”, Alana said.

L Keivom strongly felt the need to understand the multi-cultural context of the country. He believed that the mingling and blending of all the diverse cultures would slowly but surely form a beautiful mainstream, but that the process would take a long time. “We are a nation of 60 years young only and the process of integration is progressing well due not only to what we have been doing but also to external and other factors too”, Keivom said. He also adds: “The booklet in question is an evil distraction and will not help our national integration.” Keivom also believed that education and social integration would only bridge the big gap of ignorance and understanding that is missing in the face of India’s reality of plurality and diversity. “The people of North East India understand the people outside the region much more than the people outside their region understand them. This cultural as well as psychological gap is born out of ignorance and lack of close contacts. It took me 20 years to accept and enjoy the taste of chapatti and masala-based preparations, but my preference as well as of my children living in different parts of the world is always our home food that originates from the North East. Sense of smell is perhaps a genetically ingrained sense which has been passed on from generation to generation”, Keivom said. He also said that the people of North East India are blessed with various sense of smell and taste, which he said, “Delhi should respect.” Keivom also adds: “Delhi should also know that racially and culturally the people of North East India are our bridge with the rest of Asia.” B Lalzarliana, president of Mizo Zirlai Pawl said: “To bridge the gap, an endeavour from both sides should be made to understand and know more about the other. Lack of knowledge about others helps creates lots of misconception and stereotyping. To avoid this, more social and cultural intercourse is needed.”

Moses Kharbithai also opines that for the rest of India to understand North East culture, food habits and way of life, “The writings on North East should find more space in the Indian school text books so that the new generation would learn more from our rich culture, history, tradition and our democratic values.” Moses also said that people of North East are the most honest and sincere people in India. “However, for one reason, the booklet has made us realize that our political leaders are extremely irresponsible and helpless not to have reacted in the interest of the people they represent. Not even a single MP from the region has come forward till today to condemn such controversial booklet on the floor of Parliament”, Moses said.

While Lalparmawi Varte believed that the booklet, with its racial profiling, is merely a waste of time and effort, K Yhome opines, “It is a humble attempt to make people aware of celebrating difference. It was done with a good intention but everything in it should not be taken seriously. It need to be seen as a guideline from an experienced person and does not in any way impose rules on anyone.” Grace Don Nemching, president of Siamsinpawlpi and a lecturer in Jesus and Mary College felt that the booklet has many good points, “which is why it should not be limited to only North East students but also to other students from other parts of the country who come to study in Delhi. The booklet, i feel, is regionally biased which should not have been because it is not only northeast students who face security problems but other students as well.”

Moses Kharbithai, on the other hand, felt that the booklet has become an instrument for more discrimination. “In its present form”, L Keivom said, “It will invite only anger. It provokes a clash of civilisations. I do not doubt the sincerity of purpose of those who issued the booklet. But you do not win people by insulting them.” L Keivom also feels that if the administration is really keen to deliver such messages, “they should better contact the heads of various community, church and student organisations, brief them and appeal to them to convey their concern to their respective members. It will work.” He also said that Delhi as India’s Capital city does not belong to any particular community. It is also the seat of representation of all countries in the world. “Delhi should be treated as it should be and not as a colony of a particular community”, Keivom said. He also adds: “The booklet will not serve its well intended purpose. It is a mistake, a cultural breach and the product of a misguided enthusiasm.”

As the booklet written with “good intention” stirs concern, it raised the need for a constructive debate and discourse on the underlying but disturbing prejudices that have been associated with the people of the North East. The imagined notions percepted by people outside the region are in the process of getting unquestionably fixed. While there is a challenging role for education, the issue hinges on a larger cultural context, which should be discussed and debated to secure the unity in the midst of diversity. Otherwise, people of the North East would continue to appear to be the “strange tribe.”

Insecuring Cultures

2007-07-20T13:59:00.000+05:30

The security tips booklet written by Robin Hibu, West Delhi Deputy Commissioner of Police, with overflowing good intentions, particularly for the North-East students and visitors from the region raised serious questions. In most compartments where the “strange tribe” are, there is strong resentment and boiling anger. One wonders if the same booklet was also made for the equally multiplying population from South India or for that matter for others from the rest of India. If not, it truly deserves a serious discourse and debate on culture, race, difference, accommodation, understanding and what not, which must have compelled the need for the booklet. In the absence of that necessary, the booklet is more a talibanisation effort than the celebrated democratic one, despite the good intentions. The history of good intentions is not a beautiful one. Jesus Christ was hanged because of his good and loving intentions to save the world. That was when the “concert for democracy” was far from coming of age. However, it ought to be different today in the context of the proud populous democracy in India’s capital city. Or is that just a farce mask? Or is the population so big that it looks democracy-like without exhibiting the true principles of democracy? A make-believe unseen glitz to please George Bush. If it is, it won’t be far from a mosque full of terrorist. Is India’s democracy housing Talibans? The booklet is far from drawing applause in the background of unhealthy prejudices and the ever-growing gap of differences and discriminations.

The tips are stressed with strong and authoritative restrictions: what to do and what not to do in the sea of unacknowledged plurality and diversity. I don’t know if we are diluting the purity of national food, if there is any, with the smell of our unique foods. I also don’t know if the dressing sense of our girls is leading the unholy mainstream Indians into that sinful fantasy. But I doubt. The deteriorating and degenerating cosmopolitan is not negotiating merely on what smell should be allowed and what should not be. It is much destructive than that.

The People from the North-East cannot be blamed for the hardened prejudices that have been attached to our existence. It is unfortunate that we are a prey to that prejudices. But it is obvious. It seems to be restrictive at times, but it is also dominantly revealing. This prejudices, if correctly understood, is unnecessarily framed by the set of issues that relates to the context of India’s diversity and plurality and the ignorance that follows. On the part of the people from the so-called “mainstream”, who bear and breeds the prejudices, there has been a big failure on their part. This failure can be translated to their failure to understand the diversity of India, its people, culture, tradition, language, dress, taste, smell, etc. In their failure to confront the reality of our continuous existence, they were cornered to adopt a hardened and fixed picture and character of the people from North East that actually digress from the reality of the population who belongs to the region. That point of digression is the point where prejudices begin.

The picture and image imagined by the mainstream and extreme Indians also never seem to include the visage, structure and colour of the North-East people. Our food, smell, flavour, dressing sense and taste, no doubt, remain a mystery or junglee, if not strange. The image which people from the North bears, then, stands out to question the picture of the “Indian” they have been imagining. The image of the people from the North East actually shifts away from that imagination by the man from the mainland. He, then, started raising too many questions, which is draped and wrapped by his ignorance, understanding, and reason. But does ignorance have to be racist or discriminating?

Our claim to be Indian is a surprise statement for their acceptance, despite the imposition through the unholy union. We still are not yet melted. They still could not smelt us too. This difference has created a big wall of indifference. And when the racial difference is followed by differences in our culture, approach, inclinations, etc, whatever we do become strange, surprising, different and many a times unacceptable to their pattern of standard they have narrowly fixed. This could be exploited by anyone who blindly talked about assimilation to please their higher ups in the rusted colonial hierarchical structure. However, such exploitation act as the breeding ground for enhancing the existing prejudices that has already brayed with racist tones. Do we necessarily need to fit into their ears, eyes, nose and senses to be counted as one or equal?

In the year, 2005, a girl from North-East was raped in Delhi. The next day, the Vice Principal of Kirori Mal College, University of Delhi boldly said that there should be a dress code for North East students, particularly girls. How do we define such prejudices today? How do we justify their categorisation? Shall we say it is a regional discrimination? Or a little harsher and say it is racial. Today many of Delhi’s pubs and discos, I was told by those who have experienced, call them ‘victims’, would not admit or allow people from the North East. They did that by judging the colour of our skin and looks. Now we cannot just call that a regional discrimination. Rather, it about this overblown prejudices that is getting uncontrollably bigger. I must say again that our space is getting clogged. It has pricked our tolerance, reason and conscience, which is not fair or acceptable. We are not to be blamed. There is no denying that from our experience as a people in the mainland India, there is always a tendency, if not to belittle, then to dehumanise us.

The inclusion of tips for not cooking our beloved food in a security tips booklet will remain an ignorance of what security is all about. For that matter I don’t know what becomes insecure with our food and smell. Changing our food habits and dressing culture would not improve our relationship with the so-called mainstream Indians. It would not change anything either. If we have to change, they will also have to change their clogged mindset and vacate their sink of traditional prejudices. That will also have to affect the curriculum and syllabus in schools and universities. Otherwise, if the ignorance persists, let us doggedly continue to educate them with our presence, colour, dressing sense, tastes and smell. The new generations should rather find ways for marketing and patenting the unique smell. Look East for that. The grass is green there. At the same time, besides the need for mentioning the neglected North East in the national anthem, the good officer(s) should immediately train and educate it’s boys (Delhi Police) about the diversity and plurality of India without forgetting the North East too. If the capital city could not appetite or tolerate the smell, sights and presence of us, the institution that published the booklet should better propose to the HRD Minister to restructure education by keeping North East also in mind. Understanding and acceptance should be accompanied by understanding and accepting our food habits, dressing sense, besides our identity and culture. Any culture or identity is defined by smell, taste and colour. There is a need to acknowledge and accept us by understanding our culture and not through their culture. Otherwise, whatever the intentions, it would remain an indifferent tips that would not bridge the inevitable gap. But a small tips to the eight sisters and the rest of Indians: dress comfortably and eat healthily, while you uphold your identity and integrity.

Slinging Contradictions

2007-07-13T14:05:00.000+05:30

In a recent conference on “State Violence and Women: Survivors, Defenders and Leaders”, organised by The Other Media in Delhi, various women’s organisation from the disturbed areas of North East as well as Jammu and Kashmir expressed shared concern on the growing militarisation that impacted women miserably. Human rights violations, which is illustrative of the situation in these region, was discussed at length. Demilitarisation was collectively seen as the viable solution to check the excesses of human rights violations.

While the negativities of “acute militarisation” was heavily stressed, followed by uncontested resolution for demilitarisation, there are also growing voices from the same disturbed compartments that demands for militarisation. These voices were hardly raised or represented in the hallowed seminars and conferences. The “disturbed areas” has stirred a more disturbing situation where representations on the various issues that it confronts failed to be collective. Meanwhile, Defence Minister’s firm stand on having no immediate intention to repeal AFSPA would enhance the tone of these ex-pressions to gain conflicting momentum. The persisting realities, if it continue with all its negativities would not only involved the state forces as perpetrators, but also the non-state armed actors too. That will become a point where concern for demilitarisation would also be followed by equal concern for militarisation. Manipur stands in the crossroad where the civil societies are cornered to identify which of the necessary evil would suit them. The Leviathan could not help much, but watched the other actors run a parallel government in the growing liberated zones despite the democratic staple of elections with questionable suffrage system. Faced with this, the demand is for demilitarisation as well as militarisation too.

In the early part of 2006, Hmar organisations demands for the presence of security forces and in some it demands for permanent military post in several Tipaimukh villages in Churachandpur, Manipur. Similarly, various Kukis organisations have been continuously demanding for the setting up of permanent military bases at New Samtal and Khengjoi block in Manipur’s Chandel district. Moreover, Mani Charenamei, MP, Outer Manipur, after visiting Moreh on June 20, 2007, met the Home Minister on July 4 and demands for securitisation of Chandel’s Moreh on the lines of the Kuki organisation demands. The MP asked the Home Minister to sent more central security forces to flush out the underground elements from the border areas and set up security camps at New Samtal, Molcham, Gamphajol and Yangonlen. His demands also include permanent stationing of central security force for maintaining law and order in Chandel’s Moreh. Not only that, the MP also demanded for replacing the IRB by the Central Security Forces. The MP said that these demands are of utmost necessity keeping in view the genuine problems of the tribal population of Chandel district in general and the Kuki’s in particular. Not only that after the rape of lactating women at T Phaijol village by militants on July 10, 2007, the Kuki Students’ Organisation immediately demand for establishing an Assam Rifles post at T Phaijol village in Churachandpur. All these voices strongly inclined towards militarisation.

There are many inescapable questions that recently grow from the affected peoples perspectives, which contradicts the otherwise growing movement for demilitarisation. While questioning that “collective representation” becomes inevitable, generalising the North East context would be a mistake, despite the shared draconian law.

Meanwhile, the joint resolution drafted by the group of women on July 8,2007 stated, “We have lost entire generations to the war unleashed by unbridled power given to the security forces…The impact on our lives over decades of militarisation has been particularly acute…We also understand that the state has encouraged non-state actors as a part of its counter insurgency operations leading to further undermining of democratic rights of people.” Their demand also includes for the repeal of AFSPA and all other draconian laws and demilitarisation in Jammu and Kashmir and North Eastern states.

As conflicting voices grows, it is getting complicated to identify the real interest that would represent the people’s interest. Earlier, there were voices for the repeal of AFSPA that was followed by the same not to withdraw the army from Manipur. While the authorities are cornered to find the balancing act suitable for a more humane situation in the face of the growing movements for the repeal of AFSPA, the NGO’s, and people’s representatives are confronted with the challenge of identifying a clear stand beyond the loud assertion that it is championing. The NGO’s cannot afford to sacrifice its credibility by raising voices that goes against the interest of the people. Even though many of the seemingly representative organisations have failed to be representative of the people or the issues, the core interest of the unrepresented people cannot persist. A negotiation with the new development and changing realities has to be made so as to develop new working principles in the interest of the people that it stand to represent. The error would be to see multiplying actors with no relation to the demands and challenges of the grass rooted people.

Representative form overtakes and differentiates from the portrayal. Not only that, the techniques of form also overtakes the representative form. The question is, are we still representing or representative? The growing voices for militarisation cannot be seen as a calculated move to negate the popular movement for demilitarisation. It is not. It is rather a desperate and distressed voice. However, it raises the otherwise realities of the usually unrepresented constituencies that are negotiating the threat of the same militarisation too. What matters to them is the same issue of militarisation and its threat. The actor did not seem to matter much when the threat equally gnaws into all aspects of their life. A hesitation or a softer approach to the relative militarisation would be a botch for any activists who are straining excessively to curb state sponsored militarisation alone. A comparative look at Iraq’s alarming prospect with demilitarisation should also caution anyone to be cautious, as small arms have already flooded the disturbed areas in the North East. A long-term approach has to be whetted out by striking a balance with the peoples interest after weighing the contextual demands and challenges. Otherwise, it would be a confusing war of slinging contradictions.

The sop

2007-07-07T14:06:00.000+05:30

Remember when you were young, you shone like the sun
Now there's a look in your eyes, like black holes in the sky
You were caught on the crossfire of childhood and stardom
You reached for the secret too soon, you cried for the moon
Threatened by shadows at night, and exposed in the light
Well you wore out your welcome with random precision
Come on you raver, you seer of visions
Come on you painter, you piper, you prisoner, and shine!
- (Shine On You Crazy Diamond- Pink Floyd)

The protracted simmer in Manipur has taken great toll on everyone. It affects the largest unconcerned lot. Today, it has multiplied the affected people where the situation has become a compulsion for a more collective concern. Are we living the burnt-out case? Or the blown-out? The situation has extended its arm so wide that even if one is not part of it, it has made one a part of it. A group of students who recently came to Delhi to pursue their studies said that the situation had made the new generations of Manipur “coward, timid and inferior.” The effect that the unabated unrest has on society is an undeniable reality. In the year 2006, the number of teenagers coming to Delhi from Manipur’s Churachandpur alone is quite alarming. Alarming because they did not come to study or work. However their reason for coming was more to escape the unfortunate climate of unrest, instability, violence, and its related threats. Delhi has become a sort of haven for those who could manage to escape. Many parents are just more than happy with the assurance that their children are safe in Delhi. It’s not Delhi alone. Most of India’s cities have become that. Ringo Pebam, a friend from Bangalore, shared about the disturbing way of life of the North East people. While the relative negativity of a city life has become a threat, the definition of “safe” or “safer” has to be widely debated. If not, many of, not only Churachandpur’s youth, but also of Manipur and other Northeast states are confronting degeneration from the edge of the capital city.

Zuchamo Yanthan, a friend from Nagaland, complained, more than often, of his “tiredness” of seeing girls from the North East in the company of blacks. A friend from Pune told me that our girls are “faithful beautiful toys” for the blacks. There is no denying that girls from the region are also doing the same with the ‘vai’ or ‘mayang’ from the rest of India. In some pubs and discos, the number of girls from North East is enough to make one feel at home. But the sight delivers a different picture where one is compelled to question, than bask in the home-likeness din of techno driven music and lightning-like flashes of multi-coloured rays. On the other hand, in the other growing public places in Delhi, girls and boys from the region are not allowed entry. The insult has become more than alarming or disturbing. Boys are not spared either. In many of Delhi’s rehab, boys from the region are not missing. In some places, they not only overpopulate but also rule and lord. Moreover, the growing places of employment have become centres of exploitation too. Girls are more vulnerable. But they are more tolerable. The imposing tag on our girls is defined by “cheap”, and boys are “hip” and prone to “anger and fighting.” These are not to be tossed with a hurrah! That is when the concern gnaws one day and night.

I explained to my friend about the relativity of change, despite the helplessness. Good and bad go together everywhere, I told him. If not they come together. Otherwise, they will still go together. But who are we to deserve and expect all the good things alone? That seems to explain. But I am far from happy to find solace in that explanation. Another friend from Nagaland, Khriezo Yhome, opines that if the present situation of unrest, violence, instability, unemployment, etc., persists in the North East, “Tomorrow, there will be a bigger race to move out of the region.”

The new population movement needs to be explained and understood in the context of the socio, economic and political situation of the region than merely shoving them under the guise of education, job or those beautiful upward mobility explanations. I tend to be optimistic and see the possibility of inter-culture, inter-racial or inter-colour marriage as the future of the new generations, of North East people too. However, that would be a leaping conclusion if the present trend continues. The practice is not going to deliver that “new generation.” The unconscious celebration only reminded me of Pink Floyd’s Shine on You Crazy Diamond. We have stepped into a grave time when father and mother bury sons and daughters. The reasons are an open book that we have not seriously read. The reality is that the changing time is gnawing into us. We have embraced the blind race of exporting our future to destinations far from home in the quest for momentary sigh. We do that at every cost with unquestioned lapse of reason too. Sacrificing our future, moral, values, dignity, integrity, and identity in the grope of that glitzy. How do we bargain? Meanwhile, militarisation is the latest development in the region. Small arms race is getting acute. The population of weakened immune system is soaring. Our rivers are targeted to be tapped. It’s not the school building alone that is burning. We need to find the relation of the growing alarm to convert them for the obligations of our family, society and government. Otherwise this is just the beginning of the sop.

Clutching the Sliver

2007-06-29T14:07:00.000+05:30

The growing tense complexities underlined by movements and assertions in the wake of new consciousness of rights and identity have been attached to the North East region with a negative connotation. The focus on Manipur further brought to light the forces of fuelled antagonism sprayed on unaddressed plights acting as the strength for the multiplying armed actors, who resorted to the extent of expressing with violence in pursuit of their interest. The once colonised region wakes to the puzzle of identifying its own interest with varied assertions in the quest for new accommodation and adjustment. This quest is seen by the growing voices as the unfinished agenda of the history that was not negotiated, consented, or consulted. The inheritance of that, by situating in new geographical context of nation state, under a new constitution has resulted in endless chaos followed by the ceaseless game of adjustment and pacification. The celebrated unity in diversity becomes a mess, which has been eventually whetted by politicians for their power bank. Democracy’s sanctity is dwarfed in the sink of caste, class, language, identity, ethnicity and various other forces that are growing at an alarming rate. While the success of all these active forces was hidden in the guise of democracy, the function and existence of the same has been stabbed to bleed profusely. In the process it reveals the confusion and failure of the top tower where the crux of all decision making process is initiated. The problems seem to be persisting at its undisturbed pace with crucial decisions getting nipped from the distant power corridors of New Delhi, when the fringe corners shivered with disturbing and fluctuating temperatures. That is when the present continuous tense in the region has to be understood not merely through its historical defect, but also through its humane aspirations.

One inevitable question is, is it necessary to blind the challenges and demands of the diverse interest of the region in the pursuit of that ambiguous national interest? That ought to be raised, as the region’s future is sacrificed in the dim of a militarised prospect that would continue to take an immense toll on the peace, welfare, development, education, culture, human resources and generations, if the carved policy and approach continues. The history of violence, unrest, insecurity and bloodshed, then, would be long ingrained if that occurs. Militarisation, armaments, and the employment of the most sophisticated weapons in the North East are evidence of the pursuit for “a technological solution to a political problem.” That is when, instead of putting the national interest first, the need to convert the region’s hope, desire, aspirations and demands and challenges to grow along the larger interest of the nation would be the inevitable quest. This becomes more necessary in the context of the plural realities of the region. If history had failed to act as the filter towards understanding the marginalized people, culture should be the inevitable filter today. That does not mean that the historical defect could be ignored altogether. However still, that would not be an all out solution to the blown out situation, but it would very much act as the panacea than the mere inactivity with the excuse of the existence of a larger diversity outside the region.

The decades of instability accompanied by militarisation and ceaseless counter-insurgency military operations, which has already been stabilised and constitutionalised, has severely stirred the democratic establishment. Not only that, democracy is faced with the danger of losing its charm over relatively unexamined anti-democratic forces in the hands of the State. Despite America’s failure in Iraq, the principle enunciated in the US Army’s Counterinsurgency Manual should also guide the country’s hawkish policymakers who are supposedly acting as North East think tank, when it said: “The primary objective of any counterinsurgent is to foster the development of effective governance by a legitimate government.” The installation of elected representatives in the power structure has already become the problem in itself. Moreover, they are not evidence of the existence of a healthy democracy. Their ability to dominate the political process with amazing survival skill has, otherwise, snared the democratic space where they failed to represent the people’s interest nor understand the national interest or deliver governance. We still haven’t seen our politicians extending their dogged struggle beyond their quest to wrest power for themselves. As the wheels of democracy remain rusted in their power basking game, we are confronted with too many questions. Were Manipur or other states of the North East militarised because of a massive failure by the intelligence agencies, or a leviathan failure by the so-called politicians? In either case it is appalling and it would be the last possible resort to make an excuse and blame the people, which otherwise is the practice. Tomorrow we would blame Myanmar or Bangladesh, if not the ISI or Taliban, though Pakistan is too far not to be ignored too. KPS Gill, in 1984, said, “Terrorism is encouraged most by weakness in political leadership and confusion in the security forces.” While the statement holds enough water to let us look within, the question today is, what are democracy’s chances in the region?

On June 26, 2007, Defence Minister AK Anthony reiterated that the Armed Forces Special Powers Act would stay. His tone sounded firm with no immediate intention to repeal the “draconian law.” The Defence Minister’s concern about the human rights condition and the need for a more humane touch to the existing Act, AFSPA, in the North East only reflects the absence of those democratic substance, which otherwise should function as the foundation of any democratic set-up. Many a time we have been accorded with burnt out strategies, call it policy, to negotiate the defected history, culture and aspirations. These policies are residues of suspicion despite the supposed Centre-state relations. The region has sacrificed abundantly with its dwelling in that suspicion. Today there are compelling reasons to talk about the need for more Centre-state cooperation than merely hinging on the old relations. The perception from outside the region that comes in the language of policies, laws and acts, as well as the failed elected democratic limbs has no relation to the demands and challenges of the new people of the region. There is a need to see the region as new by shedding the old powerful spectacles of the old Leviathan that is used to scan the old geography. There is also a need to revive the sick state of education, economy, sports, infrastructure and what not, instead of oiling the politicians with never delivered promises. Otherwise, the images of insecurity, unrest, dissidents, and militants would continue to grow out of suspicion to blur the needful aspirations and visions of the region. If that were allowed, the region would certainly move towards bigger and heavier militarisation that would only lead to the decadent dance of democracy. The people would be left with nothing more than deprivation and the remains of democracy, but also to helplessly clutch the sliver.

Wrestling Insecurity

2007-06-22T14:08:00.000+05:30

The fire fighting game that followed the recent mayhem in Chandel’s Moreh ought to raise collective concern. Despite the heavy militarisation of the state and the small border town,
the authorities still cry of “security lapses.” The lapses must be like a big black hole. The state of security is faced with inescapable questions once again. But who will answer? Bob Dylan would say that it blows in the wind. While the Assam Rifles were accused of inaction, the irate IRB, on the other hand, came close to revolting as they were severely restrained from resorting to retaliate with available resources to counter the invading militants. The IRB were then compelled to vacate their post even when residents belonging to a particular community were displaced to Myanmar. Did their superior or numb political muscles deliberately create the abject wait for orders? The Assam Rifles would be facing a magisterial inquiry for the alleged inaction. It will have to be proved if there was slack, negligent or biased approach that allowed the situation to grow when it could have been nipped in the bud. Whatever is, we have successfully moved from individual aberrations to a more generalised and dangerous institutional collapse.

The plights of the people who experienced the “lapses” was only saved by, call it the hands of god, which otherwise could have escalated with grimmer gravity. The magisterial inquiry would only, if it works, resulted in checking the loopholes, but what reason would it inculcate to explain or justify the irreparable damage. Despite the vulnerability, the communal fire not spreading outside the border town is evidence of the surge of popular sentiment for reconciliation and peaceful co-existence. It also showed the fatigue that everyone bears in the mad race. That saved us from the spiral of justifying a killing by citing the killing that preceded the last one. The positive development should not be allowed to escape unconsciously. Rather it should be read as Manipur’s collective stand to question the seemingly inevitable forces of illogical sink in communalism or ethnicity. There should be a greater movement towards empowering that compartment. The response succinctly delivered the desire to freeze the usually hot winds of hostility that has gnawed into our peace and security bank. Even though the layers and tracks of diplomacy were not pursued, situations limp back to normalcy, though under tense expectations. The whole development is a telling fact that we, who celebrates the dwell in amazing diversity, are victims of the vulnerable veil of the same plurality. In Manipur’s context the thin thread could be exploited more easily than anywhere else. But it should never be misread because this inevitable diversity is not a threat. It has acted as the bond towards understanding the complex ingredients that accompany the diversity and its differences. That bond remains the instrument for peace building. It is only when the actors, State as well as non-State armed actors, supposedly representing our rights, peace, security, dignity, identity and freedom toys with the complex fabric that we are sacrifice at its bloody altar with all that we have. Otherwise, we are peaceniks and not communal beast compelled by the push and pull factors into unwanted crossroad. Our situation is only deteriorating under the menace of the same actors. With the big global village behind us, we are equal victims of widespread deprivation, drastic economic cleavages, corrupted system, rapacious elites, decreasing human security and misplaced law and order. One of the threats in the midst of this diversity would be to uphold the destructive idea of the winnability for greater power or superior identity in the sea that could show up anytime with its divide and differences. The civil society should also avoid itself from bandwagoning with the various strains outside its own sphere. Otherwise we are not left with much to choose. Either it would be to quest for peace or tread the path of chaos, insecurity and militarisation. Worst, we could descend into the abyss to realise ourselves lesser than our belonging to a community and ethnicity. The civil society in Manipur is, today, faced with a greater challenge to influence public policy by activating new avenues of reason for long-term interdependence. We cannot allow ourselves to fail and blame on the “lapses”, which otherwise we ought to occupy as our obligations and our own space.

Despite the odds, Moreh’s experience is a lesson for the plural constituents as well as for the authorities who are increasingly strengthening the presence of security forces in the State. Moreh’s mayhem has been grafted on to this peace less structural setting, transfiguring it, making it more violent and repressive, and multiplying the suffering of the already suffering people. The State should not fail anymore. It cannot afford to fail in the face of intense and expensive militarisation. If it is already facing a dead end, send the boys home and build school, playground, roads, trade and business centre, hospital and all that is missing. Besides, lay bare the table for dialogue unconditionally, instead of sacrificing our peace, lives, rights, dignity, freedom, future and generations by sticking to stale conditions. In its attempt to stop militancy, the State has also become a repressive militant actor. The only unexplored potential lies with the people of Manipur. Reclaiming that power to carve a space for our peace and welfare is the biggest challenge before us. Stability and durable peace can only be achieved if the security operation includes an economic, educational and cultural dimension including human rights, democratic values and fundamental freedoms. It is true that the dominant militarist, statist and masculinist theory and regime of “national security” or “international security” should be replaced by one that is de-militarised, peace loving, feminist, universal, and people-centred. Otherwise it will be a different survival game for us where the winner would continue to wrestle a vain myth.

Plaintive Echoes

2007-06-15T14:09:00.000+05:30

The unwanted tense in Moreh is not only a return to the state of nature. It is also a gullible celebration of the state of nature that we have been nursing fervently. The nurse needs a bad nursing. That is when the bruise got bigger with an insatiable vacuum that thirsts for all that we barely have. Be it the brief visible life. Be it the unseen breathe. Be it the fluctuating pulse. Or the thin and brittle surface of the lurking peace that hide as we continue to seek. Much before we could ask if it would be worth quenching them, it tolls on us. We bled with tears and blood. Bled the little corners and incites them further in the name of blood. And in the name of narrow and dirty bloodlines. The more we bled, the more we become blinded. We plant olive between thick walls. Too thick that we cannot see them grow. Too thick that we never knew it was planted. Too thick for the plant to grow big. Just too thick. Never knowing that when it grows big the shade would be for everyone’s bliss. If the bliss were not what we are seeking for, it would still deliver us salvation. Salvation, not only of some sort, but all sorts. If even salvation were not the quest, then it would be at least for peace.

Communal killings. Shoot -at-sight orders. Curfew. Protest. Charged ex-pression follows. They seem to have been necessary staple in our everyday lives. Unfortunately. Evidence that our peace lies in shallow drying puddles. Looking murkier than ever as blood-hawk multiplies. When will the multiplying small arms be silent for peace? The celebration of the unfortunate discovery drives peace away. The vain celebration. But the dove fly so high that it is hardly visible. Never visible anywhere. In desperation, mortals confessed to be leaders laid tables. Round, square, oval and blunt tables were laid to broker peace. They negotiated and doctored to fit the fragile quest. Communally fuelled and clogged air pollutes the dove’s flight. Peace rains no more. It drained with a toll on precious irreparable lives. Innocents were sacrificed willy-nilly. They die in their blooming youth. Warm tears shed when peace dries up. When will we see the last drop of tears and blood in our stricken vales and hills? The looming sophisticated negative accessories that are exported dwarfed us all in the absence of peace. We become elf-like. Unnecessary make up clothed us with insecurity. Reducing the men and women we are. Reducing the human in us. How shall we rescue our traumatised psyche from the spiral that numbed us? We need peace, not merely to relief the evident vacuum, but to cease our communally ignited mindset. We need peace to revive our society, education, economy, culture, and history. We need peace to revive our progress, hope and aspirations as a people. Peace, which is absent, is suppose to be our biggest resource. Otherwise, if this persists, we will be wavering in bleaker pursuit of more bloody battles. The winner will not occupy the land. Misery will. Poverty will. Unemployment will. War hawks will. Incompensable battles resulting in losers multiply. The winner seems to be an eluding myth. Who will win when there is bloodshed? Who will win when tears overflow? Who would dare say, “I am the winner”, after killing his own brother? Our moral climate is deteriorating. Is this an effect of global-warming, taxing not only on our climate but other resources too? If not, then this is man made too. Our made. Have we patented it to squeeze ourselves dry?

The Leviathan has mastered to distance itself. Today it is concerned with making its shoe size bigger than before. No matter even if its head and feet did not fit into. The thirst fits everywhere. Their game is limited to the belief that size does matter. That is our government? Our problems have blown out to become untouchable for them. Law is never in order. The order never reaches anywhere. We are compelled to choose with nothing much, but to adjust ourselves to the blown-out cases, which has become ours. Meanwhile, like small-uncelebrated gods, politicians continue to scuffle for power. The thirst for portfolios is bigger than that of peace. Power has become a means and an end in itself for the holders. When will it reflect in work, responsibilities, obligations, truth, justice, fairness, welfare, progress, development and all that is miserably missing? A begging government dependent on people’s vote but independent in all it’s functioning. What about its role and responsibility? What about its obligation? Does it have any credibility and integrity as a government? Does it ever realise that it is directly as well as indirectly responsible for the present tense in Chandel’s Moreh as well as all the other stale mess that we are compelled to live with.

We have been accommodating failures and blunders. We have mastered the art and craft of it too. Accommodating them to the extent of surrendering our suffrage for no good at all. Accommodating them with our silence. Accommodating them with our bruised reason. Accommodating with our ignorance. Worse, never questioning the corrigible. It would be good to be reminded that the power to change lie within us. Otherwise, does this democracy, if there is, have any space left for us to make decisions. Old bottles with the spirit of new wine have left us with a clogged space. Degeneration speeds up under the nose of grey corrupted hair. Their supposed power is a mite. Their supposed might is a myth. And their promise limps with all the bruises that would, if we still allow, gnaw into our own generations to ruin. Shall we continue to allow?

The State has resembled a labour room that fails to deliver. It rang with frantic ex-pressions. Of pain and desperation. Of anger and restlessness. Of shock. Of the misery of sin. They have become a normal routine though. The vices are masked in a hood. They hold the sinful power and the gory glory. What we beget is in the hole. The barrel. Justice in the barrel. Peace in the barrel. Power in the barrel. Freedom in the barrel. Democracy in the barrel. ex-pressions and suffrage in the barrel. The past and present numbed in the barrel. The only question is, will the future remain in the barrel? Our might bowled and bowed in the barrel. Our strength freezes in the barrel. Generations infested in the barrel. Generations invested in the barrel. All actors resorted to the barrel. State actors as well as non-state actors too. The barrel State. When empowerment is through the barrel, it draws bloody lines. It draws communal lines. Ethnic lines. What not? It draws all unwanted lines by erasing peace and the desire for it. The residue is a plaintive note that echoes over the hills and vale.

On Long Quest

2007-06-08T14:09:00.000+05:30

The pillar to post efforts made by the Hmar Women Association (HWA) in the interest of Tipaimukh raped and molested victims remain a ceaseless endeavour. This is a telling tale of Manipur’s extraordinary women who are standing upright for the cause of truth and justice. Irom Sharmila Chanu’s name similarly stands out to represent the same. While the issues they represent differ, the quest is for that undelivered justice that still eludes them. However, what is interesting is their dogged belief in the midst of a system that could only loom large with all its ambiguous characters. What more could the Leviathan mean to them? Like Sharmila, who humbly told the Court in Delhi: “Fasting is my only instrument. I have no other means”, HWA also said the same of the seemingly ceaseless relay race they are made to run. In the process, they were made to confront, if not a post that is bigger than a pillar, then, a pillar that is bigger than any post.

The mathematic calculation would read their efforts to be a zero sum game. But the cause that these dauntless women stood for, represents a win- win battle. They don’t have too many words to say. But they have the undying flame to burn out obstacles that are critically imposed on their paths. They have exercised all possible language to assert their voices. Be it fasting, rally, sit-in protest, petitioning and other old as well as new social movement languages. Languages that they have mastered to realise justice. Consequently, law takes its course, if not to investigate, examine and cross-examined the gravity of truth, then to charge them with an attempt to commit suicide. One never knows how the ambiguity of law would be interpreted and translated to strike them back in the course of their movement. However behind that, the unshakeable truth looms to enhance and enthuse them in their journey, however long it would still be.

Reality showed its grim face when it seems to say that sufferings and truth are not enough. That is when the might and strength for social movements become important than the sufferings or the truth of that. That is when a sophisticated stage like drama becomes a necessity. Like it was said in the Book, “Man does not live by bread alone”, the issue is not going to be addressed as long as it feeds only on the staple truth of sufferings. Shakespeare who, before saying that all men and women are actors, said that the world is a stage. However, the access to that stage becomes not only an expensive affair, but also a bigger problem for the victims and any affected people who are confronting situations in the fringe periphery. That is when issues from those locations, if not negated, remain not merely under-reported but unreported despite all their deservedness. Many serious issues that spilled out of Manipur’s periphery not only failed to get the necessary attention, but also will continue to remain so merely due to our own reality of the centre and periphery divide. Many in Manipur called that as hill and valley divide. The hill districts remain to be the smaller canvas of political battle and social movements. If this continues, Manipur will very soon see more fragmented and compartmentalised issues on the streets that would pitch in more diverse actors, even the impoverished against the privileged. Otherwise, even today several issues have been divided on similar lines. Even if with time, the already excluded are finding a voice beyond the periphery neglect, the strength that it garnered to represent that collectivity remains. Similarly, on the part of the privileged actors from the centre or valley, who are championing languages and other urban advantages, the question of representing the collective need to be answered with the reminding remainder who fits easily into the “exclusion” compartment. Championing an issue for one compartment fails to represent any collectivity even though it is attempted desperately. The unfortunate reality remains to be that little of this is discussed in the deaf and slumber of not only the periphery, but also even the excluded in several sections of the centre.

A week ago, the delegates of HWA who met the President, along with the rape issue, also raised their concern over the unabated plights of the tribals in the hill districts of Manipur. The issue is still alive with the displaced Kukis who are still taking refuge in Manipur’s Moreh. What about the landmines victims? What about artificial limbs for them? These issues remain unaddressed. Do we care if these people were never repatriated? Do we care if their lives are not secured?
A team of the National Commission for Women (NCW) who visited the Moreh displaced people settlement on May 21, 2007 reported that there are 27 pregnant women in the camp, 227 minor girls, 136 children of the age group 0-6 years, and 150 lactating mothers and 306 men. NCW took serious note of the running out of and absence of food, medicine and safe drinking water in the displaced people camp. The humanitarian lifeline for the displaced Kukis is more fragile than one could imagine. How can we develop humanitarian operation when needs are growing while our ability to help is severely curtailed? If one imagines these unwanted realities to affect the population in the centre or the valley, the outcome and the response that it would have sparked would be predictably different. It would be a big relief to the issue as well as the victims to have a backing force in such dire situations that is turning to become grotesque. It is alarming to witness our ability to reach people in need shrinks dangerously low. It would be a grave situation for the State if we could silently sustain this climate.

Today the need is for prioritising the gravity of the issues and not the geography, people or community. On the part of the State, the need is to do away its heavy foot-dragging exercise that it has been successful and popular for. The government is showing little interest in saving lives. On the part of the civil society, individuals as well as groups, the need is for admitting and upholding the universality of human rights. The need is for deconstructing fragmented compartments defined by dialects, language, and potentialities. The need is for looking to one another and conferring to one another. The need is for interdependence. We need to do away with efforts that sapped morale and limits freedom. That would draw the collective reality on demanding issues that remain debated, questioned, ignored, neglected and excluded. Otherwise, be it the pillar to post running, or the sophisticated symbols and languages, our quest will remain longest.

Marx opium overflows

2007-06-02T14:10:00.000+05:30

The 3:00 pm affair on the seventh day has tolled our 24X7. Sacrificing everything at the altar of signs, symbols and memories that has become popular. It tolls the best of our time as well as the last penny from the empty state treasury that was supposed to aid our education after it trickled down to our parents. We sacrificed. Beyond belief. Beyond our needy need. Are we doing it in the name of the Word? Pilate would wash his hands here if he were still around. Nonetheless, it has become our washbasin. But the question is, is there cleansing here? Can there be? Will there ever be? It has only become an effective tool for carving social acceptance. Fake disguise hatched the congregation. The liturgy too. Lifeless, despite the uphill attempt to revive the unseen to be made seen. Clogged minds act as narrow projectors. Rusted leverage demanding reverence squeaks like old horses. Hungry for the obscure. Hungry for the vain. And for that mite. If not then, they vetoed to pick and choose mortals who would fit into their sink of coterie. What will we inherit, than the bags of shame and degeneration? With no stand in credibility and integrity, halleluiah, saying this is the time. The chosen time. And there it is, the celebration. There it is, the devotion. There it is, the defining line. The corner of embracing the surrogate sons or daughters of that supposed holiness. It reminds me of the struggle for power before the light and darkness was cycled. The vain grope. The elephant seems to be a big pillar if not a big thick leaf. Shakespeare was right, for all men and women are mere actors. The act that made Pharisee see vanities. Sweet words flow. High sugar but less spirit. The overdose sugar milked the diabetic spirits. It is not good for the soul. It did not even reach the soul for which the Word was sown. And for which the Word still is. Man’s failure would be to reap time and emotions without touching the soul. But the whole design was to become soul winners. Not emotions.

Generation of sinner’s celebrates in unquestioned delight. In the name of the Word that light the darkness. But the ceaseless celebration resembles Stephen Hawking’s black hole where even the biggest white glaring beam is gulped into total darkness. Never asking the dwell in the light or dark. High sugar turns diabetes blind. We forgot to reach for the bread. We took the snake. Maybe the venom has blinded us. Checking reality demands that we choose the bread. Otherwise, where our bloodlines flow, the toil and expectation is not to be the snake charmer. But breadwinner. In the Book it was the act of multiplying the bread and fish for the hungry bowels. Preaching follows. There is not much recorded what was preached. But the act is the biggest recorded message in that mount. We still failed to see.

Meanwhile, we are helplessly observing sub-culture growing out of it. We rejoice in the mute of the alarm bell. Justifying oneself and forgiving oneself cost lesser than the thirty silver coins. Sin is not the apple-eating act alone in the forbidden garden. Losing the light, which Home’s hearts hope to see, is no lesser than any sin. Dimming hope and expectation in the sink of the overflowing brevity is no lesser too. Maybe life is too short to realize its brevity. The last penny was while away. While weary brows and salty sweat bend and gray in the dusk. But there is no worship holier than work. The spiritual wild-goose chase is not the route to the Kingdom. Have we lost the shared glow for the glory? Have we dimmed them all? If this persists, degeneration would one day weaken the soul. The soul will also need bread. If not a victim of the thirty silver coins, it would be of the kiss of the flesh. That Judas kiss. It was never said: Blessed are the needy, they will see the Kingdom or live happily ever after. The threatening culture or subculture has the good strength to digress vision, aspiration and interest. It will then digress and substract focus, will and determination. The grace period of the Holy Spirit is not that merciful. We could leave without a trace before the Kingdom comes.

It is not a doom saying. But not that it shouldn’t be read with that flavour. Exported mortals feeding on fractured economy wasting time and youth to fancy whims. And that in the name of religion. It would not please our earthly gods who nursed us from the foetus. Let us not forget their toil. When the world outside our village booms with reason, knowledge and wisdom, we drowned beautifully in ancient belief that still requires translation to our context. Tasting the buds of superstructure culture where some sort of spirit dwells, the sight dims. Drunken reasons murdered with the supposed unquestionable sanctity. What if we represent the generation that inherits the loss? Will you be responsible for starting the fire? But the power and glory is not housed in those empty structures with decorated wooden pulpit and upgraded music softwares. They are like empty accessorized tombs. The temple is there in you. The frontier seems borderless. But it is there right within us. Within you and me. The Kingdom will come there and nowhere else.

Death Flower

2007-05-26T15:57:00.000+05:30

The green hills and mountains turned yellow in Mizoram, Manipur and different parts of the North-East states. Mizoram is the epicentre of the dreaded natural phenomena, the gregarious bamboo flowering. They called it the return of horror. Fear, apprehension, and anxieties grow bigger for the villagers with the gregarious bamboo flowering (mautam) threatening them. The gloom blooms. Scientists explained them in hallowed halls and expensive seminars and platform without much solution. What the villagers knew is that the menace has returned. Fear of hunger is immense. Insecurity grows taller and bigger than their hills and mountains. It gnaws them day and night when immediate alternatives and solutions, though desirable, is far from sight. When no one is responsible for the natural phenomena, who would be responsible for the plights of the affected people that will persist for a while? But a while could render them, if not lifeless, helpless and hopeless.

The natural phenomena has been recorded to have happened in 1862, 1881, 1911-12 and 1959 too. All of them resulted in severe famine. According to the Parliamentary Standing Committee on Science and Technology, Environment and Forests 159th Report, the 1959 famine claimed between 10,000 and 15,000 lives in Mizoram, Tripura, Manipur and Barak Valley of Assam. In the midst of hunger and helplessness, Mizo National Famine Front converted Mizoram’s sink in misery to gain political mileage, which was also followed by the 20 years of insurgency that wrest the State. The ghost of the death flower returns not only to render the villagers hopeless, but also to rap MNF government who are the surrogate sons of the same flower that bloomed in 1958-1959. On Apri19, 2007, Zoram Kuthnathlawktute Pawl (ZKP), which is Mizoram’s largest workers, labours and farmers union took to the street in Aizawl to protest against the corruption of fund that was allocated to them by the Centre in the wake of the impending famine. The protesting farmers were called “poor” (mirethei) and “peasants from the hills” (thingtlang loneitu), when they arrived at Aizawl to protest. The President of the organisation said that Mizoram will be seeing darker days if their plights are not addressed. Does it make any sense for Zoramthanga who is in blissful hangover after the State hosted chains of fashion show, concert, anthurium festival, supermodel hunt, peace festival and what not. The demands of the protesters are humane and valid as they asked the government to release the funds that were provided by the Centre to counter the famine threat that they are already confronting. They also asked the government to buy their ginger, which MNF has promised to do so for Rs. 10 per kilo from their doorstep. MNF government prepared a three-pronged action plan under the project dubbed Bamboo Flowering and Famine Combat Scheme (BAAFACOS) amounting to Rs. 500 crore to stall the impending famine. The central government has sanctioned an interim amount of Rs. 60 crore pending a thorough examination of the detailed action plan by its experts. The farmers in Mizoram indeed celebrated when the MNF government announced that they would buy ginger from them for that prized price. It encouraged the farmers to grow ginger too. But today, the MNF government is not buying the ginger. Besides, they are not using the funds to reach the affected people’s plights. To add salt to their wounded plights, H Rammawi, Agriculture Minister recently asked the farmers to grow turmeric.

Villagers in Manipur’s Tipaimukh, situated in Mizoram border, are also helplessly watching their hills grow yellow. Everyday, they wake up to be reminded by the threatening colour that put a big question to their life. After confronting the threat of landmines and displacement in the end of 2005 and early part of 2006 respectively, they are now threatened by famine. I was told that in Parbung, one of the biggest villages in Tipaimukh, a little less than 100 families only have enough grains to last them this year out of the 500 families. The cases are worse in other villages. Meanwhile, newspapers in Imphal and Churachandpur reported that Churachandpur PDS food items are not going anywhere beyond Imphal. What about the funds that the government of Manipur received from the Centre to combat famine in the hill districts? Unlike their counterparts in Mizoram, farmers in Tipaimukh have no idea and access to resort to protest language. Does it make any sense for Okram Ibobi Singh whose silence over everything that should matter continues unconcerned?

It is fortunate that there is no farmer’s suicide to associate the death flower. In the two states, farmers still practised the primitive jhum cultivation. If we stumble on what Article 48 of the Indian Constitution says, it mentioned that the State should endeavour to organise agriculture and animal husbandry on modern and scientific lines. However, any knowledge and know how with modern and scientific strength and leverage has not even visited the place. The question of that desirable spark staying there is still a big challenge before the state. I don’t know if those people are also counted for the nearly 50 percent of the world’s hungry population that India shelters according to recent UN report. Even if they are not taken into that statistic, the villagers who are feverishly observing the bloom of the death flower are in hunger.

Translation, version and memories

2007-05-20T16:03:00.000+05:30

I never asked if I was born when the moon was brightest. Or if it was raining when I was born to be stamped the innocent sinner. But August in Tamenglong, where I was born, received heavy rainfall and hail that melt to lose its whiteness. If my grandparents happen to be one of those Israelites during the Biblical time, with their bloody hands, it would have justified the belief that I was a sinner when I was born. Otherwise not. But my father would not be free from sin when I was born. That, then, would be enough to make me a sinner. As I grew up, not in Monday school, but Sunday school, I was injected the sinner’s doses in beautiful dramatic lessons. That was further substantiated by the doomed warning that I would be in hell if I remain to be what I was when I was born. That not only scared me but also disturbed me a lot when I was a kid. I did never overdose for the simple reason that it could not be. Even if one could, the beautiful game is that one would not see the Kingdom come by being good. I was given the right dose that becomes a strict affair in the family too. But my innocence never asked or questioned. My conscience did not. My reason did not. Everything was accepted with without. Without questioning. Without reasoning. However, to not question or reason would be to fulfill Marx’s explanation of religion as the opium of the masses.

I remember it gnaws more conservatively where I was born. Translation in search of the truth would take many decades more out there as the first one was accepted as something that had the touch of the hand of God. Or that holy breathe. Even the mistaken punctuation becomes holy and untouchable. As if romancing the saying that the sweetest is with the first bite. That not only had a degenerating impact on their literature, songs, but also on their mindset. Meager would be more polite to speak about the absence. There is, no doubt, the abundant error, and unclear texts, though translated. Even then, His love still has salvation for us. But the need for translation would, even if it were realized, would have to negotiate the terrain of numb and paralysed conservativeness, if not the sink of doctrinal fundamentalism. It was not strange when L Keivom, translator of Delhi Edition Bible, found himself standing alone, though not lonely, when he pursued the calling for translation.

Last week, HSA Delhi and Sekibusuok editorial board organized a seminar on Translation, Literature and Vision at Jawaharlal Nehru University. That was an almost, if not it, Marx superstructure topic, when our people are struggling for unbuttered bread. It led one into serious thinking, questioning and introspection. What interest me were the strong foreign cultural memories that are embedded firmly in our belief system, which has already become a part and parcel of our culture and value system. It has actually become our worship system. There are many questions. Can a globalize religion do without a tribal culture? Is it necessary for a globalize religion to inherit and survive on a tribal cultural memories? Does faith have to thrive and live on a worldly culture?

Do we need to decolonize our religious mindset? Too many things are embraced blindly without any question. We allow distortions of history. I don’t really know, but I haven’t seen any dry aged skull in any Hmar or Mizo villages. I have seen them adorning the houses in several Naga villages. But the despised history, which is ours, has it that our forefathers were headhunters in the days clogged with incurable darkness. Does that mean there are skeletons in our closet? Otherwise, our celebrated dances portrays volumes about overflowing love, courting, and all those sophisticated moves any Romeo or Juliet of the time would have exhibit to win their preyed heart and soul. The question again is how did we translate those oral history, which we still have traces of them in our inherited cultural memories, to our understanding of our past. For us culture transmits or imparts our historical reality through the oral ancestors that are reflected in our songs and dances. The rest is composed to invade and win the land and its people that Columbus has long discovered. But our version of history that is winning hearts beyond borders, which has us as headhunter is very recent. Another question is, are we telling this history because it is too convenient?

If the Lamb of God was translated as the pig of God in Papua New Guinea, something must have been done with us too. If not, it won’t be right. If not, it won’t be true. If not we may even have to. There is valid reason in Martin Luther’s saying that literal Latin is a great obstacle to speaking good German. It certainly would do worse for us. In Papua New Guinea any pig is holier than ten lamb or goat. Maybe hundred. There is a reason to speak in the language of one’s history, culture and value system if we desire to deliver understanding and acceptance. Like turning the water into wine. There is a need for it so that the message of salvation is delivered. Imagine failing to sow the seed of salvation to a ‘dark’ and ‘dim’ continent merely because of the choice of lamb over pig. Culture should act as the filter to our understanding, which was rightly practiced in Papua New Guinea. One desireable evidence where the Son of Man could win, but not Columbus. It would be an unrecoverable loss to sacrifice one’s identity, history and culture to the embedded seduction of an imagined superior and glorious culture in the name of salvation. L Keivom also acknowledged that Hmar is no inferior to English or Hebrew. Cultures that are foreign slipped in the guises of the words and songs of salvation. It is no surprise today when we quest for white, shining and glittering Christmas with cakes, Santa Claus and jingle bells. But Oh! We also have children running around with sophisticated toy guns in combat dresses for Christmas. Besides, we have every sort of cult group multiplying. Some of them have even gained popular acceptance. Sub-culture and call it sub-history also grows along them. Sometimes I wonder if they are also the sons and daughters of the failed translation. Once bitten twice shy. Unknowingly, we treated them as sacred, sanctified, sacrosanct and untouchable. I wonder if this cheap version is due to our failed translation. Or due to weak memories of our history and culture. Or due to the weakness of our history and culture.Or merely because of the supposed holy man whom Martin Luther called “incurable fellows.”

Journalistic Orphans

2007-05-11T16:04:00.000+05:30

The headlines making race in Imphal’s newspaper is an interesting observe. There is a growing feeling that many a times it left behind deserving news and issues of the hill districts, which is unexplained. It doesn’t need any explanation for that matter. However, it is always compelled to accommodate as news when it is overblown. But when it could reach Imphal, though lately, which is due to compelled “inaccessibility”, the stale news is contested and questioned. The popular game always takes the front seat while the voiceless and helpless victims are cornered in the backseat. I realized that we have been acculturating the game of contesting and questioning of our own people’s sufferings. There are strong unwanted reasons for the adopted culture. One, the truth is too inconvenient. Second, the absence of convenient accessibility and connectivity makes it difficult for the news to reach Imphal, which is the place that matters, if the sufferings of the helpless lot are to be converted into news or issue. Thirdly, the inability for any local reporter to track news or issues and reach the affected areas in the hills. That’s almost unimaginable in most of the situations. Unfortunately, if the late arrival of the news cannot be strengthened by some sort of popular ex-pression in the form of protest, dharna, bandh or strike, the gravity of the situation is ignored if not negated. On the other hand, the local newspaper in several dialects/languages that are available in the hill districts failed to deliver anything to the larger population.

There are many questions attached to our adopted culture. Are we doing what we are doing because we have communalised issues? Or ethnicised issues? This could be reason where we have practically stopped seeing the collective representation of issues and sufferings of the voiceless people from the fringe areas. If there is something called the clash of civilizations in the global village outside Manipur, the evidence of the clash of understanding the gap created by our own imposing geography, diverse culture and social realities is written large in our adopted culture. These are reasons that carve our embedded identities, where we live with another layers of unreason mentality. Unquestionable at times. This is when we allow two sides to grow and pitted them as if to watch the game of survival of the fittest. But such adversarial system has flaws that show no mercy to any miseries. In the process of the contest that actually get systematised, corruption creeps in where power of all sorts is exercised, leaving no space for truth or justice. It seems that adversarialism has become the predominant strand in Manipur. As a result, competitive contestation and questioning practices have become institutionalized norms in any public sphere. This always dimmed the prospect of identifying any constructive alternatives and options in this age of demanding interdependence, where we severely lacked. What we have failed to do is our inability to question the practice of adversarialism. We desperately try to play the winning game, if there is any, than see the real situations affecting the grass roots, which blinded us altogether.

Manipur is pregnant with different tribes and community who vary in their way of presenting plights and issues. The potentialities as well as the access to that are also one stark gap, which we must care to understand. This is when our situation demands a relook, not only into our realities but also in our human nature as well as social structure. For instance it is easy for anyone to bring anything to everyone’s attention in any constituency in the valley than in the hill constituencies for the simple reason of easy accessibilities and connectivity. For those constituencies in the hills where there is no road connectivity, newspaper or telephone, the village runner or crier still serves the means of inter-village communications even today. There is a tendency for the brilliant contesters to situate such realities to some African lives, but we should be reminded about such relevant practice in many hill districts of Manipur. The science of telephone, now that it has popularly become mobile, and its usage or the privilege of doorstep newspaper delivery is a thing of strange if not absent or new to these people who still barter many of their daily needs. Imagine a situation where the pulpit serves closest to something collective. Imagine a place where their elected representative come seeking for merciful votes once in five years on helicopter. They are people who still did not know that they are living with big news and issues. They did not know the importance of news or issue even. Many of them did not even know that they are living in Manipur or India. The village is a world to them.
Everything outside that remains as outsiders. They indulged in the absence of everything, if it could be. In that context, the resort to conventional evidences in the form of FIR or medical report in any situation that affects such people lives, dignity and rights reveals more of our ignorance than our intelligence in dealing with issues and matters that affects them. It is a scathe. The demand for such documents when many of the affected people have not even seen a police station or hospital is a big disgrace to their untold miseries. The approach is a deliberate exercise of shielding them from receiving the desired trust, understanding, sympathy, empathy or justice. They are at big loss. There is no winning for them. Even if they could, we created no room for it.

As a result news or issues, in the fringe hills and mountains of Manipur, about the loss of lives from landmines, displacement, sexual molestation and rape, malarial death, the horror of bamboo flowering, famine, unemployment, absence of law and order and governance, absence of welfare and development, primitive agricultural practise, and the absence of things that enhance degeneration remains unaddressed. Unaccomodated. Unrepresented. They just remain. Similarly, the serious issues of drug abuse, wildfire like spreading of HIV, gun culture, which is rampant in the more urban areas of Manipur also remains untouched. The issues as well as the affected people-journalistic orphans.

All things cruel sans beautiful

2007-05-04T16:05:00.000+05:30

One block away from where we live I saw men in Khakis and a crowd that keeps multiplying. They have been gathering since 4pm in the evening. The drama, whatever it was, went late into the night till the next morning, which was 2:30 am to 3am.

Post dinner I went to enquire as local medias had even arrived with reinforcement like strengthening on the part of the police. As if they had save the best for the last, I got a place where I could have the best view of the events and its developments.

Not only that, there was an overweight lady just next to me who seems to have difficulties moving. But her detail report to me was delivered perfectly as the swiftest runner would have run a track. I was too sorry for what was taking place with that big audience that was getting bigger and the media who will never spare the story.

The fittest runner-like reporter told me that in the house that everyone was facing lived an old mother and her only son. The old lady’s husband died few years ago. She also had a daughter who is married. The fateful thing was that the only son was driving her only mother away from her house.

After the intolerable fighting and threats by the son, the mother was asked to leave the house. That was when the police intervened. The neighbours showed good population, as if it was to show off the proud billion nation.

But not good neighbourliness. It was painful as they were just waiting and expecting to see off the next development. Indeed our ability to reach people in need is shrinking to an alarming low level. Our reactions are getting limited to watching them silently. Foot dragging. What more?
The poor lady was seated on a chair in front of her gate as the policemen were wrapping her clothes and belongings with bed sheets. She sat lonelier than a broken heart. I was wondering if those bed sheets were used to lull the son to sleep when he was born.

The old mother had white hair that looks milky under the candescent bulb that is already consuming too many power. Dim, yellow output of the banned bulb formed a good mood for what the old woman was going through. I realized the good reason behind its banning. But she needs brighter light. She deserves the brightest.Something that could light her towards a new life. Her hair must have been shining black when her only son was a foetus. That celebrated foetus. Still a quest for the productive billion race. It is unfortunate to see a race in that quest. Women are merely seen as girl-bearing wretch.

The old woman sat besides a policeman, who was writing her report. Her aged face shows inexpressable emotions. Her face was weaved with lines. Old lines. Those lines showed heavily on her face. They look heavy and weary. Like the garden of burden. I said to myself, all things cruel sans beautiful.

The following day I scanned for newspapers that would carry the report of the sad event. It was not reported anywhere. Maybe it was too small an issue when there’s popular brutal practice of female foeticide. Like the selective abortion of female foetuses, life is a brittle verge of all things beautiful for the old woman too.

It is disturbing when girls are not even welcome to be born and when mothers are driven out of homes. Is this the celebration of patriarchy? I thought we are already products of generation that saw the defeated patriarchal figure that was hidden everywhere. Is this memory coming back to life? Or is this a cultivated culture of the sick memories.

I resorted to reading the alarming reports on how human beings have been destroying our vulnerable environment. Rivers running to a thinning trickle. Clogged dirty air. Unstable weather and climate moving extremely appalling. Man made detrimental pollution.

What’s ahead, then? Environment related wars and conflicts. What else? The prospect is predicted to be worse. I saw that as more than a complaint or doomsayers prediction.

But the last that any man could do after finding his helplessness. The concern has lately attained a core collective issue. In swift response Sydney deliberately switched off its lights for an hour to deliver the message of saving resources and cutting down on the greenhouse effect. Manipur is always switched off. Shall we prize ourselves for doing the best in cutting down greenhouse effects? Recently, the United Nations Security Council also discussed on saving the world from all sorts of depletion and scarcity besides the alarm attached to that. What have the sons done again?

As I reflect, I was reminded of the book of Genesis where the first woman was portrayed as the first sinner and blamed for that first bite that changed eternity.

Is this why her foetus goes to the drain? Or is this why she was driven out of her house. Is that man on work again? But the desperate eligible hormones bursting Adam’s tribe are multiplying everywhere.They have invaded the newspapers. Some with black and white advertisement. Some with poor colours. But they still seem to be making their choice.

If it were not for the fair, it would be for the lovely. But all things cruel sans beautiful.

Thingchom: The small in global fever

2007-04-27T16:08:00.000+05:30

One night I hello Thingchom. A small village defined by beauty. She has a river running besides her. Sometimes rushing away like excited children. She wakes up everyday to still dew. Faithful nature would still be there to greet her. Hills and mountain tower by her side. They slumber in their decades of undisturbed sleep. So peaceful their sleep was that one never knows when they would wake. One place where cow grass in peace as they were milked. Passion fruits, mangoes, papaya and sugarcane grow in plenty. She has the best jaggery in Churachandpur. But she was not in peace when I last called. She couldn’t speak. I was told that she was shot from across the river, Tuithra, the other night. I was told she was heavily guarded because the expectation was not good. That means it was bad. I thought to myself the heavier the security, the insecure she must be. Today security comes with guns and armaments. Not without. I tried imagining her in fear and unrest. She was ugly. The conceived image was dark and heavy. Big white gothic-like eyes. If the white did not show it was all black. And the colours were disturbingly unknown. If sin have a colour, that would be hers. Not her sin. Call it an inheritance again. The sin of the apple. It was difficult to imagine what ex-pression she would bear in such situations. Would she still be the one I knew? Would she still be the one I love?

Imagine love lost in the guess of imagination. Imagine holding a brush and a rich palette without being able to strike even a single stroke. The colours spilled and overflow with the desire to express. But nothing comes out. Not even a thin line. The blank canvas would only house imagination. If that were a warrior, he would be the least celebrated one. Armed to the teeth without meeting any enemies. A warrior unto the grave without a fight. Without any battle. Without a sight. Worst, without a cause. But a celebrated martyr. What do you call that? Fortunate son? Unfortunate son? Magical son?

That question reminds me of one of our pastors who retired from the service of the pulpit few years back. On his retirement the institution that employed him presented him with more than one, but two big silver pots and a traditional shawl, Thangsuo Puon that ended with a prayer. Nothing more than that. No pension. No savings. No investment other than what is hopeful in heaven. The sombre ceremony was no place to tell him to go and live peacefully. That was another cradle of his worries. All I could say was, God be with us. Throughout his service he struggled with a frugal life, if not broke. When he was not on fast, his diet was never balanced. After more than thirty years of faithful service he was not seen as a martyr. He left for Mizoram to become a cultivator to save his life from hunger and all insecurities that gripped him.

Thingchom was also a victim in that she happens to be the battlefield for people who were not supposed to fight. Or fighters even. That’s a trap where we all are entangled. Everyone is on the wrong side as we seek for the triumphant glory with small arms gnawing all our resources. Be it the little money that we earn. They gnaw and bite. Be it lives and youth. They rotted. Hope and peace too. Trust and values are ragged. All wane and went. They left without a trace. But fear grows in abundance. How can we export this for a good price? Are there buyers and market for those excesses? Or is this just a beginning for the perdition? Sometimes we are compelled to see the doomsayer’s dream. The nightmare is not far from what we live with everyday. The worst could be ours anytime. What about the best then? That doesn’t seem to be close anywhere yet.

We breed generation of fear. Generation of unrest. Generation of struggle. Generation of victims. Generation of reactors and protesters. That’s not all. Those generations represent the future. They represent us and them if there would be tomorrow. Imagine them shivering into new time and place. What would they tell their children if they were to situate their pride and bravery? Where would they be if they have to situate themselves somewhere? Will that puzzle the emerging sons and daughters? Will they blame us for not teaching them what it is?

Thingchom, the village that still house traditional knowledge and tools to seek their livelihood, boom with sophisticated guns. The catching up with things “outside” or “global” is miserably disturbing. I was told it even resulted in displacing and migrating the villagers at one point of time. The small barrel is not a mite. It is a might. The discovery was genius. But it serves everything that is unwanted. Blood peace. Blood trust. Blood understanding. Blood death. Blood martyrs. Everything is just bloody. People who believed might is right trampled the good-hearted villagers. If the incoming technology could only turn their soil, protect their cattle from all sorts of viruses, clean their water, deliver them latest news, and all that are still missing, the village is ever ready for green revolution, white revolution, and all that sort. The productive villagers that used to overflow with energy need no push to activate those revolutions. They just need a touch. That is enough to spark them for catching up. I could only ask from a distance, what have they done to my love as my small corner is caught in global fever.

Mizoram:Peace in Peril

2007-04-21T16:09:00.000+05:30

The manna-like bonus for being the most peaceful state has not made Mizoram any peaceful, nor “self sufficient”. The tag, otherwise, peacefully remains. And so does that tag mints money for the state. Even if Mizoram find enough reasons to celebrate that, it should rethink what the state is doing or going through. For many times the Congress who are at the opposition bench have been accusing the MNF led government of harbouring and sheltering all sorts of armed groups in the state. The local medias have also been raising the same issue every now and then. Those are not new, nor sudden. But the inherited image of being peaceful, which is bigger than the reality, overshadowed the peace that is actually in pieces. While the state basked in the fading tag, the pieces gnaw the thin blanket that heaped the peace bonus. The shade is lost as it reveals telling truth that put Zoramthanga and his government on the defensive. But the situation has already reached a point where it cannot just be saved by safer explanation. That would not anywhere change the gravity of the situation that may burst anytime. Once that happens, the state is certain to grope amidst the shambles to adjust, pacify, and accommodate the Frankenstein monsters it raised for itself. What is conceived today is more than the tip of the dormant undercurrent, which have spilled out of the closet that veiled the supposed peace.

The opposition parties strongly came out against the MNF led government in the recently concluded rally under the banner, “Chhanchhuahna Kawngzawh” (March for Salavation) that was held on April 3,2007 at Aizawl. The CM of Mizoram, Zoramthanga was called “not normal” by the Zoram Nationalist Party chief, Lalduhoma. Lalduhoma also accused the MNF led government for failing to make Mizoram a “self sufficient state.” The MNF led government was blamed for its “policy less government” by the Congress leader and ex -Chief Minister Lalthanhawla. Brig. T Sailo, former Chief Minister and MPCC president, also said that the MNF led government in Mizoram should be “ashamed” with the repeated “revelations of underground nexus and resign on moral grounds.”

It would be a severe downplay of the grim situation if the rally was to be interpreted merely as a political exercise. With many identity and sub identity movements and assertions swarming the state, the accusation rather hold tight water on the ongoing development within the state. Recently, 6 cadres belonging to the Hmar National Army (HNA) were killed at Tinghmun, Mizoram, which was immediately followed by the Congress legislator, Lalzirliana accusing the MNF led government, particularly the Home department of Mizoram, of having gifted 12 AK 47 assault rifles to an insurgent group during January 2007. The legislator goes to the extent of mentioning the registration number of the vehicle that was used for transporting the arms. The elected representative came under serious warning by the HNA, which was more seriously taken by the Congress party. Moreover, Chief Minister Zoramthanga’s power potent was brought into light with the revelation of his alleged support he received from an armed group during the 2003 general assembly elections. To assume these developments as ambiguous would not serve to erase the negative connotations that have already been drawn by the people of Mizoram.

Mizoram seems to have suddenly woken to the lesson of learning to live with the brokered peace as it has already found itself threatened. Is the state peaceful because several of the armed groups that the MNF government is alleged to be harbouring are under good control? What would the state be if any succeeding government did not maintain that thread? Is Zoramthanga architecting a win-win situation for himself by banking on armed groups for securing political fights, while he also secure their stay in the “most peaceful state?” Newslinks, the leading English daily from Mizoram, in one of its editorial said that the MNF party, through Zoramthanga, had close contacts with insurgents from the North East as well as those from Myanmar, which it said, “is a known fact.” The MNF party has also not denied this, but saving itself with the excuse of “facilitating dialogue” with the attempt to bring the underground to overground. How seriously it is doing is for the government to answer. But when the government could not establish itself a “self sufficient” economy, its selfless efforts to facilitate dialogue by booming the state with armed actors is too big a task for itself at the moment. In the absence of a sound economy, further threatened by Mautam’s (Bamboo flowering) famine, the attempt is seen as an indulged in unneccessary accessories. It is more so when many of the “dialogueing” groups it is harbouring did not belong to Mizoram. However, the efforts, if it is true, is worth appreciating for obligating the challenge of making peace. But if Zoramthanga is taking the rein unto himself for “facilitating dialogue” with the various armed groups that it is hosting without the knowledge of the government at the Centre, it would serve no one’s interest. If it is facilitating dialogue as it claimed to be, has he bridged any of the armed groups or their interest to the concerned authorities at the Centre? For any of the armed groups in the North East, it would be their last choice to have Zoramthanga or any of the MNF leaders to act as their mediator. Therefore, it is doing more harm than better if Zoramthanga is using them to establish his political playground.Even if the state happens to be peaceful, that does not make the state or Zoramthanga any better actor in peacemaking. The attempt to champion peace merely because its neighbours are declared “disturbed” is not a reason valid for the mission. MNF, once a seperatist group demanding for sovereignty, and today feeding on some bonus scheme from the Government of India, is rather a telling example of power hungry, if not money hungry actor. That alone is good enough for any of the armed groups to see the colour of the MNF led government in upholding their interest. This also becomes the point when the Mizoram public conscience fails to understand Zoramthanga’s extra mile attempt to be the peacemaker. Unfortunately , it has breed too many armed actors within itself. Finding a safe valve for these actors would be Mizoram’s burden anytime in the future. On the other hand, if the historical performance of Mizoram in peacemaking efforts has to exhume and examine, the peace still remains half baked. The accords that it has signed with various armed groups are still awaiting solutions. Assam, Manipur and Nagaland fares better in that respect despite the numerous movements, conflict and unrest they confront. If this is how peace is to be moulded, Zoramthanga is not the potter.Everyone knows the peace brokered is in peril.

Seized Conscience

2007-04-13T16:11:00.000+05:30

The culture of doubt and contest has invaded our reasoning space quite recently in the background of inhumane sufferings. Call that the Thomas game. That has actually numbed us from exercising any proactive efforts in a very demanding time. Our sympathy and apathy seems to be too hard earned and reserved as our inclinations to our own community and unquestioned interests become more sacred. When militarization in Manipur is followed with gross human rights violations that also multiplies insecure constituencies, the unwanted culture that is overtaking our reasoning faculties act as an instrument of insecurity, rather than security as it is supposed to be. This has eventually resulted in defining who we are. This culture reflects the evidence of fragmented integration that we are living with.

We have been witnessing the strong movements to assimilate and “integrate” the Naga districts of Manipur into Nagaland. On the other hand there are growing assertions that also poke and bank on the baggage of identity and geography. That enhanced the insecure constituencies and multiplies them with non-state armed actors equally occupying the militarized zones. That actually makes militarization complete, with constituencies getting partitioned to become “liberated zones.” That is when people from mainland India, on their visit to the state, actually find the “end of India” when they stepped into these zones. It is no surprise when the end of India, they said, begins in Manipur. This is when I found militarisation delivering two meaning. One it shows the presence of India through the armed forces. However, the presence of the armed forces again delivers the question of “force” and “occupation.” Secondly, militarization also explains the absence of India too. But only if it is “forcefully occupied.” If then, the beginning of India is also seen in the military bases and outpost manned by the security forces. The unfortunate thing is that this geographical compartmentalization did not end in itself. Instead it takes to toll on seizing the collective conscience and further processed it to limiting them on those constituencies defined by community, ethnicity and what not. The individual as well as the collective, then, grow, cultivate and tuned their reason to serve their respective interest. If our ex-pressions were to be counted as mutinies, our “disturbed” compartments would be called the land of million mutinies.

Lately, the serious issues of landmines, forced displacement of the Kuki people from their land, and their alleged abduction have gained national and international concern. They also rap and ragged our reason and conscience. There was a strong denial on the part of the actors who were blamed for the acts. On the other hand several Kuki organisations went extra mile to prove that their unfortunate sufferings are true and real. When the context, Khengjoi block and New Samtal range in Chandel district, Manipur, situates in a fringe corner, situating them in one’s imagination so as to relate the grim reality becomes a difficult task. That becomes a point where the game of questioning, doubting and contesting becomes an inevitable affair. Do we need to make that an inevitable affair? Or are we doing this because the truth is too inconvenient for us at the moment? Or is it because this will better serve the interest of Manipur? We see three types of know-it-all species here. One who knew and speak out. The other, who knew but choose to be silent. Thirdly, who knew but choose to play that Thomas game. The videos of the Kukis displaced people and their testimonies, which were prepared by the Fact Finding Team comprising of Kuki Movement for Human Rights, Kuki Students’ Organisation, and Kuki Chiefs’ Association (Chandel) is packed with volumes. The videos have travelled far and wide, which is also doing the round in Delhi. They weighed with hard evidences that put a big question on the blame game. In a culture overwhelmed by the volume of promiscuous representation, there must be some practice by which the real and the truth is given a place of special attention, a demarcation that insists that it be seen and heard just exactly as the affected people are going through. We have cultivated a culture where it is impotent, though important, to satisfy human needs for an account of our dignity as creatures, less able to treat the human experiences of violence and suffering with the respect it deserves. One cannot help, but say that the truth is trapped as conscience is seized. This situation reveals how naive we are as a people. That old adage – the first casualty of war is truth – applies here. Doing this, we are corrupting Manipur’s historic capabilities of negotiating with inevitable differences. We are corrupting Manipur’s integrity and rationality. Corrupting Manipur’s conscience.

However, this actually comes as no surprise, when the state has been reeling under tense and compartmentalised situations that are costly. Costly on our peace. Costly on all our values and systems. Costly on our hopes and expectations. Costly on the suffering generations. Costly on our plural existence. Costly on our reason and rationality. We tend to pick and choose the others to be blamed, but that is not. No one is playing the win-win game here. But what if the seized conscience happens to be our heights of desperation where it blurred us from seeing the truth? What if this are signs of our helplessness? What if they reveal our adopted irresponsibility? What if they happen to be what will be cultivated and inherited for tomorrow’s Manipur? What if this is how we all accommodate the changing time that we all are negotiating with? How long shall we allow our embedded characters to continue?

It is stunning how we could quickly recast them and accept them as something about us. Is this evidence of abandonment of our treasured character? Call it the “collective responsibility.” We have with us a strong military presence that is, I don’t know, assigned with “peace keeping”, “war- fighting”, “flushing operations”, or “containment.” Neither of them really shows. But ever since those missions, they have gnawed into our lives. And we have not only aped, but has been victimized, marginalized, neglected and discriminated. Worst, our consciences are seized. This threatens our values, which we have collective chipped in to characterise Manipur. I just wonder who will be willing partners in remaking Manipur with the seized conscience. But it still has to be you and me. That should immediately grow to represent the collective space to cease the seized conscience.

The thing itself

2007-03-17T16:12:00.000+05:30

There is no war in the insecure constituencies that has multiplied internally displaced persons, landmine victims, torture, and all sorts of events resulting in gross human rights violations. But there is a strong battle. Battle to live as human. Battle to realise ones rights. Battle to exist as free and independent individuals. Battle to be free from fear. Battle to celebrate the beauty of life. Those constituencies are the danger zone described as "disturbed areas" and what not. Those constituencies are in our own treasured land, Manipur. Sad but true. Are we progressing to ruin? Yin? Or yang? Everyday grow new enemies. New warriors. New identity. Is this the reason why the defence budget keeps increasing every year? Small things, called it issues, blow out of proportion. But they seem to reflect the reality as they ooze with blood and loss of lives. The grim reality that we have been living with for many decades. They comprised the unclaimed baggage. Ignored. Unrepresented. This sudden outburst, many a times, put a big question on the reality. Questions like, are they possible? Or are they real? But they are where we are. It is, but entangled in the web of ignorance. Well, there is no war, but everyone knows there's a strong move towards armaments, taking into account the implications of security and power factors seemingly hidden in them. The state is a militarised compartment. There is no need to ask what the Jammu and Kashmir regiment or the Rashtriya Rifles are doing out here when the cow belt are also not actually celebrating peace. However, they believed they are exactly where they were raised to be. In this midst, there are actors who are trying to champion interventionism with a mixture of moral solidarity and hubris leading them to embark on the adventure in attaching the inhumane experiences to the issues of rights. But above everything, there ought to be a strong moral obligation to save Manipur so as to save ourselves. My concern, today, here is with moral obligation beyond our tribe, beyond our nation, community, beyond our families, language, dialect or religion.

In the movie, Blood Diamond, one of the character wished that oil were not discovered in the blood inflicted diamond rich land. There is reason to ask if we had discovered diamond or oil in Manipur? It is too bloody already. During the more than fifty years of the Cold War, the presence of one superpower's agents, spies or mercenaries in any ethnic war guaranteed the presence of the other on the opposing side. Does the end of Cold war means an end to the presence of imperialist or superpower interest? Can we say that there is no narrative of imperial rivalry or ideological struggle that stirs the once secured constituencies to become insecure and make those zones their business?

This taxing process has churned out Shakespeare's "thing itself" within us. Despite the swell of interventionist internationalism, it still is "Am I my brother's keeper" with us. That’s morality swinging strongly with us. Obligations to human beings beyond our language, identity, community and what not, has become the most difficult thing to exercise. We have become a corner in ourselves. Too cornered, at times, to be reached. Unaccomodated. Irresponsible. Insensitive. "The thing itself" has been accepted deliberately. Without any question. That's when the modern universal human rights culture found its up-hill task in finding its route into our small geography, but big challenges and issues. Everyday there are some sort of protest ex-pressions, though. From nude protest to self-immolation and hunger strike. The ex-pressions overflow. But it is cornered to be, now, a thing in itself. That's the irony.

The more sad truth is that the civil society seem tired and burnout by resorting to disengagement. Disengaging from the chaos as well as peace. That's more of fulfilling that "thing itself." That throws the question, can we be someone other than the victims. The question that follow is, can any engagement make things better? Those questions are inescapable in a failed state that is caught between the barrel of armed state actors as well as armed non-state actors. This is the reason why the growing insecure constituencies, despite no war declarations, are living with war torn effects. But we still need to ask what and who should represent our moral stakes in these grim situations? Will the new government that is installed with supposed democratic levers be representative? What should be anyone's first move here? Well it would be to move out of the particularist ethics and culture of narrowing our attachment to one's own language, community or identity. That would save us all from the ride towards degeneration. On the part of the state, it ought to be responsible, transparent, accountable and sensitive. Not just governing by hook or by crook. In this desperate context, we all should engage ourselves to find the moral vernaculars and options for the seemingly incorrigible tribalism and miseries. Otherwise, we are extending the insecure constituencies where we continue to create perilled strangers to fulfil that thing itself.

Lalruotmawi: Glory astray

2007-03-02T16:15:00.000+05:30

The news of Lalruotmawi, the gospel singer, entangled in a sex scandal has been screaming for quite sometime in different states of the North East. It shocked some constituency. Some compartments were taken by surprise. Some find it difficult to believe. As the misery of disgrace tails the miraculous singer there seem to be more speculation on what would happen to the singer than the gospel. No doubt about the singer, but the gospel would, if there were no man, still speak through the pebbles. He planted and He uprooted. The Bible said that. If there was sex and the city, it is sex and the gospel this time. The gospel singer who stormed Mizoram with her unimitated simplicity and who could sell whopping 40,000 copies of her album in a single day delivers her darker side. Not deliberately though. The dirty linen hangs out. The lapse of momentary bliss continues to cast its long shadows. Like the bite of the forbidden fruit and eternal vain toil by man. The newspaper and local TV channel in Manipur and Mizoram lick every dirt of the sex scandal just as expected. It has to when the act was not done by some fame hungry mortals like Paris Hilton or Pamela Anderson, but the gospel singer.

When nothing is stronger and bigger than the truth, it cannot leave like a stranger. It must have gnawed every stem of her life. It has its grip firmer because she was seen as gospel daughter, moulded by none other than the Church where sanctity supposedly underlines everything about her songs, if not her. When I heard the news, I said to myself that this stuff should be drowning somewhere in Hollywood. Not here. But everywhere, man we are with flesh, blood and bones. Sex is not only made for Hollywood. Or by Hollywood. Similarly, rape and landmines does not happen somewhere in Africa alone. But there are still many inescapable questions. What if Peter and Mary have those fleshy interactions under dirty linens and it leaks? What if this is just a tip of the reality of people who took the shade of the sanctified institution? But that shade should be challengeable. Questionable too. The already painful public scandal is not palatable to the pulpit. Some asked if man should decide who is man to decide? However man has to decide in the interest of the sanctity of the institution. Every man is a panderer. Some with flesh and blood. Some with the eyes. The rest with the rest.

These are not new though it happens to us now. Sex in a temple. The White House affairs and what not. That thing is one universal celebration. But Clinton was impeached accordingly as he was too small before the constitution of the country. If America believes that Columbus discovered America, I would believe that Hilary Clinton discovers the Biblical teaching of forgiveness for America. When the pale of White House needed a whitewash, it was done with Hilary’s forgiving. Imagine if the impeachment was followed by a divorce. Every time something like this happens everyone raised a finger. Some raised their bloody finger. Some raised their sordid finger. Some their corrupted finger. Some with the smell and colour of their dirty linen too, pretending like virgin who have been sleeping in the whitest linen in lame numb all his life.

When popular public figures attached to the pulpit, authority and power are found pandering out of their married or unmarried life; it becomes a plank in everyone’s eyes. It cannot be merely a straw, though we tend to oversee the same reality within us. However, there are certain things that ought to be exhumed to talk the talk or walk the talk so as to fine tune things for all future purpose. If that moment escaped or is let off, we fail as human beings. Therefore the Church cannot be silent in this matter although it must forgive the actors in the union act. I said this because any man should not be higher or stronger than the credibility and sanctity of any institution, which is collectively accepted. If then, it will run hollow of its hallowed character. No man, with reason, should try to overshadow that sanctity. If today that sanctity is sacrifice or is bought to naught to save fame, fortune, individual, or any vested interest, that institution will die a slow death. A fast death is also valid though not desirable.

Here we are not talking about any architected structure, but the Church, which is the belly of Christian faith, moral, ethics, values and what not. This is the moment for every individual to have an insight into the seemingly concealed intricacies that surround the sanctity of the Church. We cannot toast our tendency of casualness to make up the deficiency with an excuse of the straw before the sinners eyes. The Church or for that matter any institution should not be made to bow from being what it ought to be. But let anyone, who is not a sinner, throw the first stone.

AFSPA: The Question to Democracy

2007-02-16T16:17:00.000+05:30

The Armed Forces Special Power Act, AFSPA, popularly called the “draconian law” has, once again, become the favourite toy in the politicians’ cradle. As the fever of the 9th Manipur Legislative Assembly election grips, AFSPA becomes the catchword. As if it is the soul of their political salvation, politicians swear on it without any hesitation. AFSPA becomes the shared agenda for the contesting candidates.

As “democratic election” gears up in Manipur, the operation of AFSPA poses a big question to the kind of democracy we are living with. Is free and fair democratic election really valid under such circumstances, when “inhumane” law prevails with unbridled power given to the Armed Forces? If the conduct of election is seen as a continuity of democracy, we are not far from accepting the continuity of AFSPA as democratic. The election, which is supposed to be a democratic means of empowering the people, is, however, a big contradiction as the secret ballot hangs on the draconian law. The whole drama is a face saving exercise for the mysterious democracy, whose face we have not yet seen. The “concert for democracy” swings without any democracy. If today democracy is seen as following formal procedures to allow dissent and multi-party election, democracy is, then, alive without its heart and soul. India as a flawed democracy is rightly said. The flaw being the inability of its institutions to be accountable and efficient in its operation. What we see in Manipur and in different parts of the North East is a deficit of trust in everything. What not?

The party politics or say the electoral politics has stirred with a temper and tone to repeal AFSPA after the election forms its own house. But with a condition, if they are elected to power. AFSPA has posed a big political challenge not only for the politicians but also for the authorities as well as several NGOs. As everyone battles with what comes first, peace and development or AFSPA, the tone and tenor becomes promising in the ambiguity. Manipur Chief Minister Okram Ibobi Singh belongs to the tribe who believed in the return of peace as the condition for repealing the Act. AFSPA is hidden in the most ambiguous excuse of the absence of peace, when it is already clogged in the spiral from the offshoot that gripped the entire North-East. When that becomes evident, one cannot, but wonder whether the meaning would be delivered with the politicians poking a small but sensitive constituency. When the killing spree in Assam could have a spillover effect on the prospect of AFSPA in Manipur, the campaigning chorus will face more orchestration even if everyone sits with power. The politicians’ race for mileage would turn out to be a mute tirade when none of them has a concrete design to repeal the Act.

That, once again, proved that the AFSPA chorus is situation created. It has to be when they failed to provide regular electricity, road and connectivity, safe drinking water, healthcare, institutions, playgrounds and what not. I was told only about 15.1 percent household in Manipur get access to safe drinking water. Nature is good to the rest. Imagine two hours of power supply in forty-eight hours. Imagine also the spine chilling record of over 400 cases of bloody violence in Manipur in the last four years. In the year 2006, there was a record of 418 cases of violence by undergrounds accounting for death of 73 civilians and 27 security personnel.

The question is what and where is the leverage? There is a need to test and run in every situation, which should be the alternative. A realist approach should substitute the soft stand that has been representing the region with AFSPA hatching no change at all. That would eventually allow any change a chance to take place in the space clogged with inhumane colonial Act stagnating the prospect for democracy and development. Fifty-seven years of swaying to merely fit into the political game of power quest has delivered nothing. The Act seems to be taken as a dead end in itself. One thing very clear is that peace or stability would not be established by strengthening the Armed Forces. But the land has been militarised. The rest is supposedly seen as militants if not victims of that. The unbridge gap of distrust grows evidently bigger. The only progress actually.

Prime Minister Manmohan Singh had earlier expressed his desire to relief the draconian act by giving a humane touch to it. AFSPA is the new untouchable item in the democratic space. Even though the authorities had shown compelled concern to touch the seemingly untouchable Act, the concern and motives are always suppressed. BP Jeevan Reddy Report as well as the numerous movements from the civil society for its repeal has been putting reasonable pressure. The protest is moving promisingly from Irom Sharmila Chanu to the United Nations. But will it be what it will be. Or is this what it really ought to be? So far a lukewarm response seems to be what it begets as “democracy” is cast once again into the ballot. One thing very popular with the general public in Manipur is the often-asked question, whether things, as they are, are real or not. Right now, politicians battling for power are baking their cake with AFSPA. As the ballot inked the finger of the right hand, AFSPA also wave on the left hand. A big reminder that right is not right. The question remains, is this democracy real or not?

The Gnaw

2007-02-10T16:18:00.000+05:30

I was told the rape and molested victims who testified before the Rajkhowa Commission would be provided with a contemptuous amount of one lakh rupees before the election takes place. Unfortunately it has become a tool for political mileage. The usually promising words were not delivered. It is still a mute tirade. Meanwhile the quest for justice is still voiced in the midst of silence. But how long can silence be silent? How long can we be blind to our brother’s who are maimed and killed by landmines? Our daughters and sisters who were raped and molested. Our brothers and sisters who were displaced to seek refuge outside his hearth and home. There is a rampant corruption. Politicians cornering our share of rights and privilege. Triggers ever ready to get burst. How long can we carry on like unrepresented people? Or are we unrepresentable? The issues that should have been gnawing us day and night are actually lying untouched and ignored.

Today it may be my turn to suffer. But you are not standing far enough. The spillover never leaves anyone free. Everyone is to be blamed for the mess. The Church is silent. The youth organizations. Students’ organizations. All the leaders and presidents. Politicians. The authorities.You and me. Just everyone are silent as if in collusion to the wrong and sin. If we stand up, it would be different. If we all speak out against what is unjust and wrong, the silent voices would have a tremendous influence on any injustice. We see, yet we are blind. We touch, yet we did not feel. But how long?

There is an ongoing discussion about the role of the Pope and the Church during the Holocaust. The Pope was fully informed about the extermination process, but deliberately refused to protest or even to condemn the Nazi atrocities. In Italy, where the Church opened its door to the persecuted Jews, the Pope did little to warn the Jews about the impeding danger. There is no doubt that the Vatican and the Pope knew beforehand about the impending deportation of the Italian Jews. There is evidence that the German Ambassador to Rome Mollhausen alerted the Vatican about the impending deportation. They believed that a strong stand by the Vatican, could forestall the deportations, but the Pope did not act. He was silent. If he utter, it would have been different. He would have saved the spill of thousand drops of blood.

The sin of silence would be the biggest.I understand that there is a certain element of being overwhelmed by the variety of problems we are facing, which is a sort of activism-fatigue. But, though this is our reality, we cannot turn our backs any longer. There are things we could do. We ought to do them. We need to galvanize ourselves around the issues and bring it to the forefront of our consciousness. This can be done by speaking against the ills and evils that is destroying lives and humanity. We need to build coalitions with individuals and institutions to build a critical mass of people supporting a resolution to put and end to all sorts of injustice trampling us. It is a grassroots effort, but it should be a key part of our efforts to make some sort of end to the unfortunate situation.

We ought to represent that challenge. Silence is a big betrayal. The danger, if there is any, won’t free anyone, not even one who is good in keeping silent. If silence could solve, more than six million Jews would have been saved. We could also have saved a lot. David Ben Gurion’s statement is worth pondering. He said: “What have you done to us, you freedom-loving peoples, guardians of justice, defenders of the high principles of democracy and of the brotherhood of man? What have you allowed to be perpetrated against a defenseless people while you stood aside and let it bleed to death, without offering help or succour, without calling on the fiends to stop, in the language of retribution which alone they would understand…”

Manipur: Through Yin and Yang

2007-02-03T16:19:00.000+05:30

I always asked, what had drawn the delusion to dwell for so long in Manipur? Are the perils ours to keep? The long night have hatched for too long. When will dawn set in? When will the promising light drive the brooding night away? When will the lullaby lull the whimper of the vale? Will the mother’s prayer stop the trigger-happy son from pulling just one more time? When will the government stop militarising our only nest? The latest technology imported to the state was some machine that can end lives. Not for the slaughterhouses. But for man to keep him at ease and peace. But? The mean machine knows no innocence. No gender. No age. The expensive technology floods in the face of hunger, drought, pain and all sorts of misery. Mother we don’t even have safe drinking water. No connectivity. No green or white revolution. There is big absence.

Beautiful vale, hills and mountain. Veil your eyes. Let vain mortals fight behind your hidden eyes if they still have to. But allow us no more if your silence could speak to reason us together. Drinking from the well of false pride we are quenched with narrow visions. Visions smaller than our eyes could see. Visions that eyes haven’t seen. Some blurred. Some bright. Some real. Some glitter but clatter. But they all seduce the travelling man. Clogging small remaining spaces with sharp edges, where everything remains a distant from the shelter. Man in quest and hunger. Everyone ready to die for something else. Even the unwilling die for something else. Something they they don’t want. Something they don’t believe in. Blood flows. Fear looms. Desperation sweeps. The quest stagnates in confusion. The warmth of home fades. Home’s lesson die unlearnt. But he was their son. Some, the only son. But all were loved and dear ones. Father and mother wonder the teacher within them. As they realised the lessons sowed on their beloved son comes out alive the other way round. The valve is still sought. But the seek is still a sought for the big elephant with blinded eyes. Unless we reason together the bleak will tweak. The beak will sweetly chirp no more. It will bray coarsely. The naked twig will shiver in the blank sky. What will happen to the songs? Who will bring the warm feathers to sit on the birch?

Will time or chance deliver the quest? Fair hands, draw closer. Your merciful grace be with us. Like the beauty of season that never fails, embrace us in peace. Leave none in pieces. Give the beast his lion’s skin. Let the sheep graze in the vale and hills before the milky grass dry. Let the weary flesh see the sunset undisturbed. Let them leave to tell the souls beyond that we dwell in peace. Heaven would sigh, then. And hell would be shamed.

Mothers’ nursing time with the “when” expectation lay shattered. Levelled to the ground. Some already hidden by the ground beneath. Heroes or martyrs? The leftover, today, beat with the asking. The expectation is different. Not their will. Or wish. The time of expectation is but never over. Expectation is the richest garner. So many times I wish we could end there. The joy of expectation. Man quest for more so he drives it till he sees the orgasm peak. But the life that grows from that end set the means for the vain.

Unseen fences all stood in a row. Some bigger than wall. Some higher than the sky. Some thicker than the minds. Us and them, unfortunately, matters. But, given thousand years, we need to live as one. Cold feet stood frozen facing untouchable like fences. But the skin is the same. The blood is all the same. The eyes are the same. Nose too. Even the little brain is the same. But are we any closer to where we ought to be? I won’t fight for freedom. Or any bigger words. But give me peace. Give me love. Let us share. I will, then, embrace the last moment with pride. I will leave, then, leave like a king. Content with no crave for more. With quest for no more. But what have we sown to reap that? Can any man reap what he did not sow? Can any man leap without seeing?

Heavy brow wades directionless. They bow and mourn. The days end as if they would be the last. And it begins again as if they were the first day to last again. Some hope we will eventually grow out after burning out. Some hope we will see the light from the cracked view after tiring out. Some believed in ten to fifteen years. If faith is religion, we seem to have no god here. Nothing certain. Blind everywhere. Not even a smack of believing. Everyone doubts. Doubt everywhere. Doubt every moment. Doubt everyday. That spills over to doubt oneself. Thomas’ tribe multiplies. To believe is to see. But how do we see peace to believe? When the peace within is doubted, the peace is without. Without trust.

Where is the explanation? Where will salvation come from? How shall we tell the generations about these lives? Will you dare tell them that you were silent all this while? That silence was more valuable than gold. Will you tell them you were too small for the big problem? Will you tell them you were ignorant about it? Will you tell them you did not start the fire? So you are not responsible. Will you tell them that you just let things be as they are? Practising Daoism unconsciously. The philosophy, in Wu Di’s time in China, which evolved into a religion. Let things be as they are. The scholars at the Han court in ancient China, when China rivalled the Roman Empire in power and prestige, made a good attempt to explain all events by an inevitable cycle of Yin, dark and cold, and Yang, light and warm. I don’t know if this profound turning point of ours ought to be applauded, celebrated or lamented. But hang on. Maybe we are just passing through that inevitable journey. Through Yin and Yang.

India: No stranger to racism

2007-01-27T16:20:00.000+05:30

As a person from the North East of India, bearing Mongoloid stature, feature and colour I cannot help but say that my personal experiences in Delhi, the capital city of India, have witnessed numerous slurs of racist fork. They were not soft ones. I am not alone to be subjected to such indignities. Everyone from the region has his or her own stories and experiences, which have been rather silently buried. I know such vocal attacks have, on many occasions, resulted in violent anger, arguments and fights between the so-called “mainstream” people and the people from the North East. Mother, they are racist lot. Unfortunately, I have actually accepted the inhumane practice as a part of the culture of the “mainstream” people. A culture cultivated by the “sink of localism and den of ignorance”. But that doesn’t mean I accept racism.

The outrage explosion over the “racist attacks” on one Bollywood actress, Shilpa Shetty by her white housemates on British reality TV show are an exaggerated one, even when racism ought to be condemned everywhere. The drama that has been unfolding for about two weeks made it obvious that Indians are ready to talk about Indians being racially discriminated outside India. But what about the equally serious condemnable racial discrimination within India? Did we ever care to raise the issue and put a question to ourselves? Are we blind to it because we practise it indignantly? If Shilpa Shetty was called a “Paki” by her white’s housemates, the Indian citizens from the North East states are still called “Chinese”, “Chinky”, “Japanese”, “Koreans” or “Nepalese.” If Shilpa Shetty was poked for her poor chicken cooking style, the North Easterners are poked for their “dirty”, “foul smell”, “stinking”, and “junglee” food habits. There were times when North East students living in the Capital city of India had to actually ask their landlords or hostel warden, “What smell is allowed to cook and what is not?”

Through all these years, it was not an easy ride. I realised that it resulted out of the much-celebrated diversity of India, which is quenched by ignorance and chauvinism. As culture clash, the ride demanded tolerance and understanding, which was not an easy one. I have accepted the discrimination that is, otherwise, getting negatively popular in the ancient city. Day in and day out, friends, acquaintances or people who are new to the city would narrate their experiences, which are more than enough to put the nation to shame. I was lately wishing there was some sort of reactive internal ministry, like the Ministry of External Affairs (MEA) that reacted immediately for Shilpa Shetty, to look into the disturbing situation of racial discrimination in India.

I wonder if the media, general public who overflow with sympathy and empathy for Shilpa Shetty, or the authorities in the government are aware about the pubs, restaurants and discotheques in Delhi showing no entry to people from the North East of India? The grim situation does not care even if you have money. They care about your colour. That’s how they made the judgement and decision. You bear the Mongoloid look and the door is closed before you. So don’t be surprised when those bouncers did not let you in. India’s democracy has too big a space that it grows racism too.

When I was first told about these public places and their sick practise in Delhi some four years back, I was taken aback. Shocked actually. But I said to myself who cares when I will never be seeking comfort or chilling out at these places even if I have money for the purpose. On the other hand, my second thought resulted in anger, desperation and helplessness over such harsh inhumane practice. It is still alive and going strong. For me it is not about these places, but the racial discrimination practised in these places, which is getting more popular than before. It affects me as I also bear the same colour, feature and stature, which are used to judge a person. If you don’t fit into their scheme of colour, you cannot be a customer. In the growing urban Indian market the password is defined by the colour of your skin. I thought it would be colourblind. I thought it would be race-blind.

So I asked how they made their options. They told me that they have to find a place that accept and admit them despite the colour of their skin. Even then, how can we enter, eat, sit, and dance away as if we never care? As if it is nothing. Is this a surrender to racial discrimination? When we learn to accept that one cannot enter that place, eat there, dance there, or sit there because the colour of one’s skin is different, we realized that the other Indian is much alive. The others in the village.

The situation is grimmer for the girls and women from the North East. Due to the colour of their skin, they were popularly believed and supposed to be an “easy” and “cheap” sex prey. They were victimized lot. Delhi is a living witness to that. Asked them? Everyone has a story. A story untold. A story filled with shame and anger. They represent the silent untold stories. My cousin’s white husband was shocked and surprised when he found that his wife and her friends, all from the North East of India, were not allowed to enter to eat and dance in one of the city’s public places during one of their visit to Delhi recently. The reason was out of a judgement where the colour of their skin was already used to decide them to be a customer or not. Delhi never seems to care as places like these multiply with inhumane norms and rules defined by race and colour.

I am not talking about stray or isolated incident. This is about everyday life and struggle in Delhi. Shilpa Shetty’s experiences and the feelings and sympathy that we have, as concerned citizens, exported to England should be immediately imported back to Delhi to understand and redress the racial bruise of the other Indians. They are being discriminated more than what Shilpa Shetty could imagine. Worst, they are not paid for it. It is beyond the MEA’s jurisdiction to talk about the racial discrimination that is seriously taking place in India. But on moral and humanitarian ground, it could if it is so concerned about racial discrimination and not just Shilpa Shetty. If not, authorities of the several internal ministries, media, NGO’s and concerned activists should immediately step in to kill the colourful game that has already become shamelessly popular and dirty. The celebration of diversity has no meaning if the nation remains silent to the domestic realities of racial abuse and discrimination. India is no stranger to racism.

AFSPA: Chained in Chain Reaction

2007-01-20T16:21:00.000+05:30

Sharmila’s quest for the removal of the draconian Armed Forces (Special Powers) Act, 1958, from Manipur and other parts of the North East states got a jolt with the massacre of innocent Hindi speaking migrants in Asom by the United Liberation Front of Assam (ULFA). Unfortunately, the unwanted incident in Assam has, once again, muddled the image of the North East as well as the civil society organisations movement for the repeal of AFSPA from the region. It has justified the “mainstream” understanding of the region as a “disturbed zone”, even when that understanding has to be questioned. The understanding seems to attain more justification when the victims are “Hindi speaking people”. I wonder what the government, media as well as the diverse civil society would response and react if the victims were non-Hindi speaking people. Well, the killings of innocent non-Hindi speaking people at the hands of armed state actors as well as armed non-state actors, in the North East, always go unnoticed when such serious cases really deserved equal concern and attention. Unfortunately, they always got wrapped under the blanket of “disturbed zone” and AFSPA. The attitude ought to raise serious questions, which are otherwise neglected or untouched. Any democratic interest should never compartmentalise issues or questions on the lines of touchable or untouchable. The state ought to open itself to confront, discuss and negotiate issues where its actors, armed as well as unarmed, create a hindrance to the people it represents.

When the region sits on the mapped “disturbed zone”, the recent ULFA’s inhumane act has its immediate spillover effect in other parts of the North East states. The prospect of the much debated and controversial AFSPA seems to be decided once and for all again. When the Prime Minister, Dr Manmohan Singh, after his visit to Imphal, was mulling over the future of AFSPA to rub its teeth and claws so as to prepare for a more humane AFSPA, the draconian Act, however, will continue with its “special powers” after the ULFA massacre. Even after acknowledging its inhumane nature and character, the Act will be allowed to operate with all its “Special Powers” again. The disturbing thing is that the Act has become an accepted rule for the region and not just an exception. In every manner, when the deployment of armed forces or para-military forces of the Union to restore public order, peace and security in any part of the country ought to be an exception, the continuous strengthening of armed forces in the region, which has been going on for decades, is an indication that the problems of the region deserve more than a military solution. The recommendation outcome from the report of the Justice (Retd) BP Jeevan Reddy Committee will be awaiting a “kind consideration” again.

In the case of Assam, the Government of India declared the state as a “disturbed area” under the AFSPA on 27-11-1990. The authorities felt the need to resort to the use of armed forces in aid of civil power in the face of the threats from the ULFA. The areas falling within 20 km of wide belt in the State of Arunachal Pradesh, Nagaland and Meghalaya along the border of the State of Assam was also declared as “disturbed areas” on 17-09-2001. Since 20-08-1997, the Government of India has been reviewing the extension of the Act after every six months. On 04-11-2004, the Act was extended for a period of six months till 03-05-2005. However, the Act continues to operate as the state found itself under “tremendous strain”, which was pressured by the ULFA and NDFB then. Dr BK Gohain, Commissioner and Secretary to the Government of Assam, Home and Political Department, in his letter to the Secretary to the Committee to review the AFSPA wrote on February 11, 2005: “ … the Armed Forces (Special Powers) Act, 1958 remains a critical requirement for augmenting counter-insurgency operations under the ‘Unified Command’ grid to meet its objective of combating militancy by increasing the pressure on militant outfits with a view to veer them around the mainstream.”

Defence Minister AK Antony recently ruled out the repeal of AFSPA in the wake of the ULFA massacre of Hindi speaking migrants. This has again authorised the Army to celebrate as they prepare themselves for an environment of more frequent sub- conventional warfare and for longer periods. As Assam gets set for an “all out operation” against ULFA, Army Chief JJ Singh has in his mind a multi-pronged counter-insurgency military operation and not purely a military approach. JJ Singh was right when he said, “The problem in Assam has social and economic dimensions…” The same implies to the AFSPA mapped region beyond Assam that still awaits revolutions from white to green even after more than 50 years of the nation’s independence. The much talked about “humane face” should be addressed at such time. The face and image of independence, freedom and liberty are yet to show itself to the populace who are living with all sorts of exemptions and expectations. The region seems to be attracting more heads and minds of the defence specialists than that of the economic or educational specialists.

The celebration about India’s economic triumph and the endless talk about India as the emerging global economic power have not even reached the region. Welfare and development approach of the government has been that of an exclusive one, which restrains the region from any relative celebration. The North East is a real picture of the Other India where welfare, development, security, governance, democracy and all the other big words still have to find a space for itself.

Who is responsible?
As the mayhem has also stirred alive political parties to lift the political leverage for their share of the vote banks, the unusual blame game takes its own turn. The blame game, however, will never lead to clue the desired solution. This has once again made it obvious that the government failed as it indulged in the blame game. If the political parties did not blame one another, the finger will, without any hesitation, point to outside actors like ISI, Bangladesh and Pakistan. Of course, we should not rule out the probabilities, but the problem is homegrown and the solution has to grow from within. The observation of the Administrative Reforms Commission (ARC) deserves special attention when it said that the reason behind the ongoing unrest in the North Eastern states resulted out of the failure of the governments. ARC chairman, Veerappa Moily said, “The main cause of the conflict in the region is the failure of the Government to initiate dialogues and discussions on issues confronting society. There is no problem in constitutional and legal aspects of the country, but the problem is the failure on the part of the Government to understand the ground realities in the region.” The Commission members also said that the laws enacted by New Delhi were not in line with the ground realities in the North Eastern states. Moily was right when he said, “We cannot afford to look into these conflicts at a micro level.” That is when the need to look into the social and economic dimension becomes needful. The talk about India as one of the emerging global economic powers should have a meaning to the region that is alive with resources, human as well as natural. Focussing on a military strategy alone to curb the decades old problems would fail to identify and uproot the real problem.

On the other hand, we continue to hear the accusation of people like Mamoni Goswami about the “insincere” attitude and approach of the Government towards the ULFA in the appointed dialogues even when India extends its arms wide open. The language of ULFA’s inhumane killings was also interpreted and read along the line of that Government’s attitude. Even if the ULFA, on their part, resorted to deliver their message by hit and run violent method, they cannot finally deliver themselves without any dialogue. Similarly, the Government of India should realise that the solution could be realise by welcoming a sincere dialogue and not merely smoking them out through an all out military operation. A bad decision has been putting the innocent civil society at the worst position whereby they have to stand defenceless to negotiate the faceless enemies. The spillover eventually trickled down to gnaw the freedom and security of the civil society.

The need of the hour is to make a digressive move from out-of-the-box thinking. As militarisation gets strengthened in the region with the unfolding of the New Year, the government also ought to immediately put into war-footing effect a well-designed and crafted educational, economic, and administrative policy to touch that still untouched “social and economic dimensions”. It would heal all if we could wake up to realise that they are not untouchables. Peace first approach will not work out if only the armed state actors are involved. The all-out operation should also be equipped with equally “ignited minds” to impact the “social and economic dimensions”. Only then, the “humane touch” would be realised peacefully. Until then, the spiral would continue to limit any understanding and policies behind the veil of “disturbed zone” and AFSPA. What a botch.

Democracy whining

2007-01-11T16:23:00.000+05:30

As the clock strike ushering the New Year, I wondered what would follow with worn out citizens. The expectation was embraced with apprehension as the developing events got quenched one by one with mortals fulfilling vanities. Everyday of the New Year has been greeted with chilling news. It began with the hanging of Saddam Hussein. That was not polite in the age of democracy to the once elected leader who was dejected by the US. The walk of US foreign policy is itself a threat to its campaign for democracy. But nation states were clogged with the fire from the Bush when he said, “If you are not with us, you are against us.” India ought to realise that the statement, without any consideration, abruptly closed the door to its age-old policy of Non-Alignment. The statement itself was an attack to the crux of India’s foreign policy. Saddam Hussein’s hanging was not even strongly criticised. I wonder why India voices itself too softly. But India seems to know that its son, Narendra Modi and his tribe, who could be clubbed with George Bush anytime, was harboured with power and dignity in its democratic umbrella. Saddam Hussein would have been very much safe, alive and in power if he was one of the chief minister, union minister in India. He could have sought salvation in the veil of India’s democracy. That puts a big question on the kind of democracy we have been practising in India. A democracy where we were dictated and prohibited from making a choice and opinion. A democracy where orders were imported on how it should function. India is still hanging on to the love for everything foreign. A democracy where rulers were partners to riots and bloodshed. If this is what democracy is living with today, isn’t it time we redefine what democracy ought to be? Bush dictated definition of democracy was a desperate reaction to the war against unseen enemies who, otherwise, operated with a resort to unreasonable tactics of terrorism. When institutions like the UNO failed to stand up against Bush and his supposed saviour of democracy, Saddam put a big question on Bush. The UN could look up to Saddam Hussein as someone who made a check and balance to the US foreign policy. But it could not. It did not. The UN as well as India were also indignantly silent on Saddam Hussein’s hanging. Is this a result of being a part of the “concert of democracy”? Fitting and isolating nation states into and from the democratic space has resulted in immense human suffering. If this happens in the name of democracy, what difference will democracy exhibit after the war against terrorism surface with the winner? As the assumed beauty blots our eyes, democracy takes a backseat. But in its name.

The next day there was the macabre news report of the psycho paedophiliac duo who not only celebrates in sexually assaulting and kills children but also try to eat their flesh in Noida. As the poor parents were made to realise their powerlessness with every passing day, the exhumed bones and skeletons were far from delivering them the expected justice. The big question in India’s democracy is, will the culprit find the safety valve again? It won’t surprise anyone if the gruesome events collect dust in stagnated files and the culprits go scot-free.

What follows was the massacre of poor and unsuspecting Biharis by the ULFA in Assam. The toll has reached 70. As the poor and helpless Bihari workers from different parts of Assam started fleeing Assam, the sleeping Leviathan missed the fire-fighting challenge. It is not about handing out two or five lakh rupees for compensating lost lives. As the government is oiling its barrel to give back an eye for the eye, it should also learn paedotrophy – the art of rearing children. Its celebrated democracy has produced and raised too many spoilt children. Start simple. Talk to them sincerely. Let them also respond honestly. The hit and run or shoot at sight game will lead nowhere.

Then again, the Midnapore land grabbing resulted in killings. The men in power must be saying, all these problems are opportunities in disguise. What about the North East beyond Assam? Khengjoi block in Chandel, Manipur is still gripped by the threat of landmines. The Indian Army is carrying out counter-insurgency military operation. In the process, it is the innocent villagers who suffer. As limbs and lives were lost, the authorities continue to show irresponsibility and insensitivity. The region is accepted by those in power as a disturbed zone. Whatever comes out of the place justified their understanding. Come what may, it is expected of the region. Therefore it affirms their expectation. While the syllabus in schools and colleges are packed with the concept of democracy, the region is alive with draconian law like the Armed Forces (Special Powers) Act, 1958. The region also teems with the armed forces. As men in guns and weapons populates the region to make peace and security, the blanket of that gets thinner. No economic security. No human security. Just no security at all. The land and people are deprived of governance, employment, institutions, roads, electricity and the biggest resource, which is peace.

The plights of the region and its people multiply as it only remains geographically mapped, but unreached and far from the “Ignited minds.” The region hardly knows if the urban villages are talking about India as the emerging global economic power or overtaking China sometimes after 2010 or ten or fifteen years after that. But the region is already flooded with Chinese goods. The most underwear items, the sound, lights, sight and taste of everyday use in the region comes from China. Shall we still talk about free trade? Or the Look East policy? The walk will take a long soft way still. Shall we blame the Chinese for discovering the gunpowder, with which the region is booming? State actors as well as non-state actors all up in arms. But in India’s democracy, number game matters. The region, when compared to the fertile billion zones, is too small to move the hands of its democracy. Weak representation raising voices in a politically divided democracy has weaker impact. Merely pumping budgets and funds will not help. That is not the only way to do. But it is already becoming an excuse to say we did. There is a need for a sincere tilling of the land as one’s own if the interest is for peace, welfare, and development. The region is packed with potentials, which can be converted to become winners and champions in every sector. Till as your own. Only then the panacea will grow. Until then, the New Year seems sicker with the import and imposition of democracy everywhere. That will validate them to further extend the claws of Armed Forces (Special Powers) Act, 1958. Democracy is whining

Tribute to the living

2007-01-06T16:24:00.000+05:30

It is just one year after the rape of young girls and women in Tipaimukh. The sore still lingers. Not just a trace. But in pain. In helplessness. In anger. Dejection. And shame. Memories will never forget. Nothing is healed. It will go down as the sore bruise in the history of Zoram Khawvel.

I remember our visit to the Tipaimukh villages in the early part of February 2006. The rape victims were nursing their shame and pain in the deserted villages. Many left for Mizoram to seek refuge. Some of the rape victims too. Those left behind, unable to flee, remained owing to various reasons. Some were too poor to even flee. Some dare not leave with their bags of shame and pain of being raped. Some did not leave saying it would be too difficult to start a new life in a new place.

The village was wet with tears. It was high dry from any help. It was just empty and hollow. Some brought the snake when they needed the bread. Those were their brothers. Their fathers. Their mothers and sisters. But they had to bite the snake too. Misery was printed large everywhere. The village was silent with the grip of fear. It was shivering with anger. It was on the verge of bursting out with desperation. They thought and wonder, who would care?
The man and human in me were reduced. I was so small that I almost forgot I was alive. I almost see myself fading away as I was confronted with victims and their sad stories. The eyes were moistened and blurry. The voice mutters and croaks. The body was moving against the science of what was normal. Silence was all that I could afford as I listened to their stories.
They were young. Just about to flower to the beauty of youth. The age of hope and aspirations have embraced them. Their dreams of woman-to- be have touched their innocence. They were clothed with the pride and dignity of woman. It was the time when their head was held highest. Queens of the local hearts they knew they were. The magic of love and life has started to tail them. They were the shelter of young hearts. They, the source of beautiful songs and music that grows from the village. It was that age they just started to open to. It was supposed to be their time. The moment was waiting for them.

Unfortunately, the spillover of men draped in disguise of political salvation robbed them of their innocence. The heart of life was torn for them. It was a loss. The biggest loss. The night turns darker for them. They wish no more for the sun to rise. Unlike the day before, there was no longing to see the day faithfully following the night. It ripped them apart. The glow fades. It shocked them to shame. There was no other word to define the act that was done to them. They were raped.

We started our visit from the first victim’s house. The house was a pastor quarter. She, the pastor’s daughter. We entered from their kitchen. The house was glowing with fire from the hearth. The fire dance wild with yellow flames making larger than life shadows of us on the wall. It was not the dance of joy. The restless flames seem to be burning with the desire to express what the victims parents must have shared as they tame the fire. If today voices were given to the voiceless, the world would draw closer to hear the truth. If today the voiceless were allow to speak out, many of the wolves would be naked with their sheep’s skin ripped. Meanwhile, our shadows seem to grow bigger as we struggle to find words. The victim’s father was also badly beaten by the same perpetrators so that they went to Silchar for medical check up. Her mother told us that she’s been isolating herself since that fateful night. The Pastor, a humble and polite one, told us her daughter has been waiting for us in her room just above the kitchen. We went up to find her sitting bowed and alone with a Bible in her hand. Our footsteps were loud in the quietness of the isolated house. Like the march of ten thousands foot soldiers. The Bible in her hand seems to be her last resort. The Book was at ease in her hands. She was seeking peace in The Book. The Book had a red lining and black cover. She was holding the Bible as if to find an answer to what she was thirsting for. I wonder what she must be praying for at that time. Was it for forgiveness? For strength? For His blessing? Or for helping to forget. Will it be: “Father, forgive them for they know not what they do.” We started talking. Words flows with tears. It flows with shame and anger. It flows with the desire to hide forever. The desire to die. It was not fun at all for the listeners.

I struggled so that my tears did not find a way outside my eyes. It was not very good time to wet the eyes. I thought to myself that it would be more shameful if I return to be silent. I would do them more injustice if I only listen to their stories and did nothing, which I ought to do. I would cease to be a man if I dare not stand up for what is right against the wrong. I would cease to be human if I cannot call wrong as wrong and right as right. If I remain silent, what will I say when the merciful providence ask me where my brothers and sisters are? What will I say, if, tomorrow my sisters are also raped? Will it be fair if I remain silent today and expect others to speak out against it? What will I say if today I remain silent and others also do the same tomorrow? Where would I hide if I remain silent today and others speak for the same sufferings tomorrow? Will there be forgiveness if that takes place? Will I be forgiven? Will I be able to forgive myself? If I were silent today, the sins of silence would haunt me till the grave. Pilate would not be there to help me wash my hands. It would be unusual to sleep the long sleep with dirty hands. I would not be able to forgive myself for that. God will sulk over such creations. Black Eyed Peas have a question for everyone: Where is the love?

Boxing Day and the following days

2006-12-29T16:25:00.000+05:30

The first day after Christmas is called the Boxing Day. The day originated in England. It is a significant day that follows Christmas. On Boxing Day, the rich and haves of the society take time to present their employees who worked for them even during Christmas. These presents, which are Christmas leftovers, were made in boxes, giving a name to the day.

Back home, in our land, the Boxing Day is still Christmas. It is the second day of Christmas. But good that we did not have the Boxing Day. The good thing is that we do not get to wrap leftover food in boxes to present it to the poor and needy. It is not that we do not have leftovers. Eventhough secondhand clothes suit our taste, economy and fashion quest, the leftover foods are not seen as something to be presented. Is that because our foods are not wrappable? Or is that because leftovers are leftovers? Not presentable. The rich, the not so rich and everyone could feast together once again in celebration of Christmas on the Boxing Day, which is more a leftover day.

I was once into a discussion on where the leftover foods, which Jesus fed to the five thousand men, not counting women and children then, on the mount of Olive must have gone. It was a difficult attempt, as it was not recorded in the Bible. Did they go rotten or presented? It was not written that way either. All that we could say was, Peter must have taken them on his fishing trip. But what is important here is that the poor and haves- not of the society also get to be fed or celebrated on the same day that is supposed to have collective significance. If the trend becomes a popular one, it would be disheartening to see the poor and needy giving more importance to the Boxing Day than Christmas itself. That would be very un-Christian. Or very un-Christmas.

Friends from Tipaimukh Hills often told me about their extended Christmas celebrations that sometimes stretched till the fifth, sometimes tenth of January of the next year. There was no Boxing Day to brake their extended Christmas celebrations. Even the poor and needy contribute their chicken and pig for the unending celebrations. When the rich and haves in England were generously giving out their “leftovers” as presents, our folks in the hills and mountains of Tipaimukh gave whatever they own or possessed to celebrate the birth of the Son of Man. The longer it gets the louder the song was sung. The louder the song was sung, the wilder the dances turns to. That goes a long way to fulfil the long awaited season and reason.

The giving spirit is still so different. Jesus much concern was centred on this issue too. The Pharisee’s giving and the poor old woman’s giving was a big lesson in The Book. That has to say that it is not merely about giving. There is more to it than just giving, which goes beyond the man and human within us. Imagine receiving a Boxing Day present? That would raise too many questions, which is why I could not send you any. But the day follows for good and I say, “Blessed be the New Year to you.”

Laltuoklien: The Romantic Rocker

2006-12-02T14:18:00.000+05:30

Laltuoklien songs fume with the battered tones of shattered romance and relationships. That relationship, with not just a woman, but women happens to be the resource of his songs, which he memorized to mesmerized his audience. His songs, particularly the love songs, speak about his immense love for the woman and relationship, which he, at one point of time hated with regrets. “It would be a great inconvenience to live this world without woman,” said Laltuoklien. If the Word had not say, “It is not good for man to be alone,” Laltuoklien would have made a chorus out of that. “ Without woman,” Laltuoklien said, “The world would limp with strange passion in the quest for that incomplete inconvenience, which man will never understand for himself,” What will be beautiful, then, without woman? He popped, “The beast.”

For a man who learned to appreciate the beauty of woman when he was barely fifteen years of age, it is no surprise that his songs reflects his experience of the rock bottom and peak of love and hate for the Eves tribe who bleeded him blue. However, the sweet misery turns out to be his biggest resource. They actually transform the hopping lover to a composer whose poetic derivations springs strongest from the bruise and scars of the relationships he had with many of his lover. His first love was a girl from Taithu village, Tipaimukh, Churachandpur. He courted her for two years and married her. “My love was the one with the biggest thigh and breast in the whole village,” Laltuoklien said. Those assets are what he called “beautiful” in a woman.

Cupid striked the young lover in his jhum field, where the “beautiful affair” bended his strong knees kneeling. “I was a changed man once and for all when I learnt to love,” Laltuoklien said. The farmer rocker who had loved the most beautiful woman from different villages in Manipur and Mizoram has married three women. The veteran lover, however, is still in the quest for defining love. “Love is,” he said, “about just loving, happiness, contentment, and meekness.” Laltuoklien did not ignore the undeniable presence of the seed of the passion of flesh and blood in love. He believed that love glows with all its beauty with that passion. Laltuoklien, the son of Adam, believes that man would be a poor lover without the strength of what he called “flesh and blood.”

“I have courted many woman and many words need not be said to win them. I really have nothing to advertise myself with. So I used to say the three most important words to them.” Guess not the three most important words. They sound so common to win the queen of the village hearts. But that makes it all for the king of Sinlung rock and blues as the strongest weapon. “The three words can melt the heart,” Laltuoklien said with the youthful confidence.

The lover rocker cannot imagine life without woman. If women were suddenly removed from the surface of the earth, Laltuoklien said, “The world will grow dim and dark and man will groan in loneliness.” That is the most painful situation the farmer rocker could imagine here on earth. Laltuoklien believes that old flame die-hard. For his many lovers, he still treasure the softest corner, which he did not dare call it love. He said that there is a word called “faithfulness,” which everyman should uphold with a wife. The pandering game sets out of his life as he is happily married to Ramdinthar, his wife, with four kids. “All that it was, it was love. But now, it is love. That’s the difference?” Laltuoklien said of his past and present.

(02 December 2006, New Delhi)

Laltuoklien: The Farmer Rocker

2006-11-25T14:23:00.000+05:30

Laltuoklien has been working in the jhum fields since he was fifteen years old. His first jhum field was at Khawhnawng in Hmuizawl, Tipaimukh. “That place is one real rich soil I have tilled in my life,” he said. Laltuoklien said that working in the jhum fields is a “sweet but tough affair,” which he inherited from his parents, who, he said are “poor and ignorant.” “Working in the jhum fields was an inherited one and it ultimately became a necessity as we were not schooled by our poor struggling parents,” he said.

Living the harsh realities of life, the chance for eyeing other profession becomes a dry and dearth ground. To make a choice for a switch to other profession is not theirs to do. They bow to that “impossible” like hill that occupy them. The choice, then, was to decide whether to own and cultivate a bigger jhum field or whether to grow brinjal and chillies in the rice field. “I used to work so hard and I grow not only rice but also chillies, brinjal and other vegetables also,” Laltuoklien said. The farmer rocker boast of his hardworking days and the prize he beget of reaping abundant harvest. “I sow my part with all my strength and sweat, which with God blessing I reaped a good fruit. My garner used to look like a fair and beautiful pregnant woman.” Laltuoklien have toiled in his jhum field in Damdei,Tipaimukh as well as in his present village,Damdei,Vervek,Mizoram. He still remembers the richest harvest in his life when his jhum field produced four hundred and eighty trin (Tin).

The jhum fields made the rocker felt the importance of nature and environment in the face of its deterioration. “I have been toiling since I was a kid and I am slowly witnessing the soil losing its richness. The ground beneath is getting old and they no longer produce as they used to be,” Laltuoklien said. He said that toiling in the jhum fields are not worth the efforts anymore. Despite the harsh life in the jhum fields, Laltuoklien discovered the romance of the swaying paddy fields, which keep him longing for that life. “Everything was clean and healthy there. Everything was just fine,” he said.

Laltuoklien spent his farming days appreciating sharp farming tools as well as composing songs. The fairest woman in the village has been Laltuoklien’s biggest quest both in his life and in his songs. He grew up as a shy and silent human, but his love and appreciation for the tribe of the lost rib rings the loudest in his words and songs. From his courting experience, Laltuoklien have a word for the Romeos, “Say only the most important three words when courting a woman. The rest will settle perfectly.”

Laltuoklien cannot imagine himself living in a city like Delhi. “This place is absent of romance and the beauty of nature. It would be difficult to compose good songs and music out here,” he said. “Out there in the green hills and blue mountains,” he said, “everything is a story, everything is a song,” Laltuoklien said. Unlike William Dalrymple, the old, dry and weary city did not enchant the farmer rocker from Sinlung Hills. Growing up in the lap of rich and beautiful nature, “Delhi” he felt, “would be groaning with all the pain and loneliness. But woman saved the city.” Laltuoklien, although he has not seen enough of the city and its Eves, does acknowledge that women are beautiful in Delhi. That also saves him from missing his wife and four little children.

(25 November 2006, New Delhi)

Laltuoklien: King of Sinlung Rock

2006-11-19T14:26:00.000+05:30

Talent and creativity find its own man in Laltuoklien, the singer and composer who cannot read or write, but has composed more than fifty songs. He had recorded two albums, Pistol Puokruok and Sinlung Disco. Pistol Puokruk, which was recorded in Vanso studio, Imphal, in the year 1995, was a hot-cake like album that never ceased to impress. Sinlung Disco is filled with simple candid lyrics bordering on his experience with life. The sound of Pistol Puokruk is defined by gutsy classic rock, which affirms that Laltuoklien was born to sing, and live in the passion for that music. Most of his songs contained strong message that reflects his immense concern for the society, which Laltuoklien sees as heading towards the "unwanted decadence." The down to earth musician said that he couldn't change the wrong therefore he has his opinions that reflect his wishes for a better world. The rest of his songs are humorous, exciting and appealing. He also has about fifteen Gospel songs, which the rocker said, "They are my testimony of my faith and belief." Laltuoklien said that he couldn't imagine life without God's gift of songs and music. He felt that they are his biggest source of strength.

Laltuoklien was born at Senvon, Tipaimukh, Churachandpur, Manipur, which was the first Hmar village in Manipur where the Gospel was preached by the White missionaries. He attended UPC School at Senvon. However, in the isolated village where education lacks facilities and teachers, young Laltuoklien's inclination to music gets stronger without even getting to learn to read and write. The poor facilities in school where everything was almost absent, added by poverty to the struggling family never seem to encourage Laltuoklien to pursue the school life. That did not, however, restrain him from composing songs. He actually developed a language, call it a methodology that still is unique if not totally weird and strange, which help him remember and memorise his composed lyrics and tunes. Strange that he has not lost any of his songs prior to his album. He said, "I just treasure them in my head."

When Laltuoklien and his Sinlung Gurup started on the road, they bagged low brow and decadence identity firmly attached to them. But the fire of Sinlung rock burns the ice that could have frozen them. "We rented a house in Hmuizawl village, Tipaimukh to practice our songs. We must be the first band in Tipaimukh to rent a house just for the sake of playing what we created." Sinlung Gurup bassist, Hmingchunghnung , whom Laltuoklien considered "excellent" with the guitar is no more. He died of malaria few years ago. Thlamuonthang, the drummer, is in Vaitin, Mizoram, "catching river fish and growing ginger." Chawngthanglien the lead guitarist is also in Damdei, Tipaimukh growing what he called "the money plant", ginger. Sinlung Gurup's rhythm guitarist, Hrangtinai is serving as a pastor in Tripura with the Independent Church of India. Sinlung Gurup draws inspiration from the Zohnathlak rock band from Myanmar like Zodi and Vulmawi.

"Poverty", the farmer rocker said, "taught me all the precious things in life. Life is tough but it is also fun." Laltuoklien has been cultivating his jhum fields in the Tipaimukh hills for his livelihood growing rice, chillies and brinjal. He said, "I work real hard in the fields and I used to be among the biggest grain owner in my village. But today the soil we tilled is getting old and they are not as productive as it used to be." The farmer rocker said, "Even this year I worked real hard but I have grains for my family that will suffice for about six months." With the bamboo flowering Laltuoklien have no plans to work in his jhum fields next year, 2007. "Even this year rats and other wild animals have multiplied to destroy the crops. It won't be worth the efforts," He said. Laltuoklien hopes to tour and perform wherever he is demanded and invited. Laltuoklien and his family that is always on the move, seeking for greener pasture, shifted to Damdei village in Sinlung Hills, Mizoram. "The Government of Mizoram gave us a little over twenty thousand rupees to built a house. They also provided us with six kilos of sugar for my family. The Mizoram Government is very different from that of Manipur." Laltuoklien said. "Comparatively the governments in Mizoram and Manipur are like heaven and earth, day and night," he said.
Besides working in the jhum fields, Laltuoklien have also worked as "Painar", building roads in Tipaimukh. "Those were hard times. We get paid only six hundred rupees a month. But the poor man cannot have a choice," he said.

Laltuoklien said that music flows in his veins. In the year 1992 he and his friends formed a rock band, Hmuizawl Gurup, at Damdei, Tipaimukh. "We did not have a drum set," Laltuoklien said, "so we headed for the forest and find ourselves logs and wood to make ourselves a drum set. Then we used cow-skin and rubber band to make the drum." That was the ripen years when Laltuoklien composed some of his songs with rich meanings and messages. Songs like Zinga Zana is a strong critique of the chauvinistic drunkard who lives in Damdei, Tipaimukh, who is none other than his friend. Laltuoklien said that he composed the song for his friend on the request of his wife who wished him to quit his drinking habit. Laltuoklien songs never run out of the challenging relevance of a society undergoing change.

His second album, Sinlung Disco, was recorded at Parbung, Tipaimukh in the year 2004. Sinlung Disco was recorded without a recording machine. "We fitted a keyboard to a tape recorder and then we recorded the whole album," Laltuoklien said. Strange but true, Sinlung Disco was another hot selling album with its music video pepped up with the Tipaimukh villagers dancing to the disco beat of Sinlung Disco. Laltuoklien hit songs like Pistol Puokruk and Sinlung Disco were specially composed for a movie. Sinlung Disco sold many copies but I was paid only two thousand rupees. "In the year 1992," Laltuoklien said, "We were up to making a movie. I composed those songs for the movie. Unfortunately my friend, a kungfu master who was supposed to act in the movie was murdered. We were compelled to back out." Pistol Puokruk is a rock heavy song that is strongly influenced by the Wild West and cowboy culture. On the other hand, Sinlung Disco is a big shift from the rock laden Pistol Puokruk, where Laltuoklien and the dancers from Tipaimukh discoed under yellow flashing lights.

Laltuoklien expressive love songs are composed for his girlfriends, who, he said, are the queen of the village hearts. "Woman is a beautiful creature. But they hurt," Laltuoklien said. They are not only beautiful but also happen to be the source of his love songs as well as hate songs. Laltuoklien's mesmerizing songs like Thlasik Tawllawt, Zoengmawi, and Ngaizawng Hmelthra born-out of his heartache with his girlfriends. Had there been no woman, no doubt, Laltuoklien's songs would be leaking with emotions. Laltuoklien is one person who cannot imagine life without woman. "The world will be a dark unwanted place without woman," he said. Today Laltuoklien is happily married with his third wife, Ramdinthar. He is blessed with four children. "Besides other reasons, I had to part with my first two wives because they could not bear me children. Now that I have four kids, I am happy and content." Laltuoklien represents the voice and image of the old rocker peppered with the new world correct mix of the issues and challenges of modernity and tradition seen from a villager eye that imagines and travels through his songs and music. Laltuoklien continue to compose songs with the purest strains of rock and roll. He certainly is one of the legends who lives on.

(19 November, 2006, New Delhi)