The Himalayan Arc
Page 22
(How long back was that, oi?)
I was reading Marx and Lenin and Che
It was the climate – everybody you met
Wanted to be a revolutionary, a guerrilla fighter,
Or at least a poet.
Khagenda (now no more) defied my mother
To take us to see the crater the bomb left
And the flesh and bloodstains
Sticking to the windows of nearby buildings.
If you want the honest truth,
I was excited, not appalled.
And did not know what Khagen da meant
When he said: ‘This is us now.’
Many more bombs have exploded since
And quite a few in Bamunimaidam, Guwahati,
And we all fear, but we also laugh
Till somebody close dies and then we cry.
Some write stark poetry about children bombed
Or metaphoric ones about rivers of blood
Some live, some die, many cry.
And always, bombs keep making a lot of noise.
LETTER FROM PAHAMBIR
Desmond L. Kharmawphlang
At sundown we set out in a car,
past silent, dark huts,
cicadas buzzing the dusk.
We have left the church far behind,
glowing strangely in pallid
arrogance, through the dust kicked up
by our passing.
Village curs turn quarrelsome
as we city men await
the verdict of reception, smoking uneasily
outside the village chief’s abode.
‘We come,’ I plead, ‘to learn, not to teach.
We come with longing, we are the
forgetful generation, our hearts tapping
a rhythm spawned in shame, a shame
that splits our present from our past.
We have suckled for so long
on a wisdom of falsehood – we are ourselves
our own worst enemies.’
A fire dances crazily, throwing
shadows on the hard mud floor, and good
laughter swells like moonlight.
Someone breaks out in song
and hardened feet tap unsteady punctuations
around the weird tune.
Voices intone, hands fashion leaf plates
to hold food for the men
from the big city. I shove more brushwood
into the fire.
U Di squats on the floor,
gnarled hand extended, hooded eyes
stealing tiny lights from the fire.
‘See the diplin1, spattered with
good red mud? It has stored centuries
of prayers for harvest, a hunt…
Our bellies understand hunger, our hands
are shaped by it. It is black, as only
good smoke can make it; it has
told my children stories for
countless years now. So wait for the night
to grow and endure our
difficult ways.’
U Di strips to loincloth and bares
a hunched back, scarred like
a honing stone, upon which hungry
blades lick like tongues.
With trembling voice, he gazes blindly
at the night, tension cording his
throat, like vines tying everything
into a knot of one race of skin
and blood, chanting the songs.
The stories burn our memories like
a distant meteor searing
the unnamed gloom; by their light I examine
the great hurt I carry in my soul
for having denied my own.
NATIVE LAND
Robin S. Ngangom
First came the scream of the dying
in a bad dream, then the radio report,
and a newspaper: six shot dead, twenty-five
houses razed, sixteen beheaded with hands tied
behind their backs inside a church…
As the days crumbled, and the victors
and their victims grew in number,
I hardened inside my thickening hide,
until I lost my tenuous humanity.
I ceased thinking
of abandoned children inside blazing huts
still waiting for their parents.
If they remembered their grandmother’s tales
of many winter hearths at the hour
of sleeping death, I didn’t want to know,
if they ever learnt the magic of letters.
And the women heavy with seed,
their soft bodies mown down
like grain stalk during their lyric harvests;
if they wore wildflowers in their hair
while they waited for their men,
I didn’t care any more.
I burnt my truth with them,
and buried uneasy manhood with them.
I did mutter, on some far-off day:
‘There are limits,’ but when the days
absolved the butchers, I continued to live
as if nothing happened.
YOUR CONSTITUTION HAS NOTHING FOR ME
Akhu Chingangbam
Blood-soaked streets
That’s my ground
That’s where I play around
Sound of gunshots
That’s my song
That’s my lulla- lullaby
Your revolution has snatched away
My right to education
Te te tenouwa
Kangleipakki tenouwa
angang na mullaga
tenouwa na haraoiwi
oooooh ooooooohhhh
Uhdei saba nongmeini
mana pangba makhoini
Blood-soaked body
That’s my daddy
You just shot him
You just killed him…
We don’t need your guns and bombs
We just need songs of love
Your Constitution has nothing for me
All you do is kill my innocence
Te te tenouwa
Kangleipakki tenouwa
angang na mullaga
tenouwa na haraoiwi
oooooh ooooooohhhh
Uhdei saba nongmeini
mana pangba makhoini
Fallen bodies like
Fallen leaves of October
But you don’t care
You bomb a town
That’s my town
That’s where I play around
Don’t fill our lives with throes of pain
Share a smile so we can bloom again
THE JOURNEY
Indira Goswami
Translated from the Assamese by the author and M. Asaduddin
Indira Goswami (1942–2011) was among India’s most celebrated contemporary writers, whose work spoke boldly and evocatively for the marginalized sections of society. Writing under the name of Mamoni Raisom, she won, among other honours, the Sahitya Akademi award in 1983 and the Jnanpith in 2001. The quest for justice was a theme that echoed across all her work. She used her public standing and influence to mediate between the separatist group ULFA and the government, paving the way for talks between the two sides. Perhaps she was the only person both sides could trust. Her desire to bring back the ‘lost boys’ of the generation invited people to look at the militants with a new perspective, as products of the unjust 1980s.
This area falls in the territory of the militants. It is entirely covered by thick forest. Professor Mirajkar and I were returning after a visit to the Kaziranga National Park. Both of us work in Delhi University, in the Department of Modern Indian Languages and Literary Studies, and had to come to attend a conference organized by the students of Assam. We were anxious to reach Guwahati before dark. Mirajkar was not afraid of wild animals, he said, but he was definitely afraid of terrorists. One of his best friends had been killed by the extremists in Punjab. He kept asking me, ‘Have you b
een able to control terrorism in this beautiful land of yours?’ I really did not know what to tell him, especially since on our way we had crossed quite a few check-posts where we were examined and had torches shone on our faces.
I sat in the car, looking out of the window, trying to imagine myself back on the veranda of the Kaziranga tourist lodge, listening to the wind rustling the thick clumps of bijuli bamboo as if it were muga silk. I remembered the moon spotlight a huge owl that sat on a chatyan tree, its head disproportionately large, like that of a newborn baby. Mirajkar sat worrying about terrorists. Someone had told him that terrorists owing allegiance to Babbar Khalsa and the JKLF (Jammu and Kashmir Liberation Front) had managed to infiltrate the jungles of Assam to join local groups of extremists.
We were speeding along the National Highway. On either side were distant hills. The paddy fields were a riot of brilliant colours, flaunting gold; then they would grow modest and hide in Buddhist ochre, or shrink and fold into darkness. Every now and then Mirajkar would jump up, straining his ears for the sound of gunfire. Then he’d lapse into a reverie again, looking gloomily out of the window at the fields or at forests that teemed with cotton, khaira, sisoo, holong, poma, bogi poma, bokul, and teak trees. Evening wrapped the teak in shreds of silk that the stippling sun seemed to turn magically into deerskin.
The driver broke the silence. ‘Last year, this road was smeared with blood. There was always crossfire of machine guns, exploding grenades. Now it’s all quiet. No one is seen with a gun any more. Yes, no guns.’ As if a soft carpet covered it all – the bloodstains, the dumps of arms and ammunitions, the smell of gunpowder.
Mirajkar said, ‘Maybe we can’t see firearms, but didn’t the officer of the forest department at Kaziranga, Mr Ahmed, say that the poachers were carrying foreign arms – .303s, 500 double-barrels and 470 US carbines; that some smugglers had been caught at Mori Diphu; that two poachers were shot dead?’
Mirajkar had made a serious study of firearms and now started telling us stories about the First World War. Ramakanta, the driver, also became eloquent with various tales of poachers from the bordering areas. He was a middle-aged man with a Nepali cap to protect his balding head from the sun. He was sturdy and short with a neck that disappeared into his shirt collar. He had small eyes, like the other Bodos of the valley, and a thin moustache. He was a good driver; he rarely used the brake or the clutch.
But my mind was elsewhere and I did not pay any attention to the talks of guns and terrorists. I was watching the forest flit past outside the car window. I saw the grand veloe trees draped in moss that grew like the hair on the legs of long-tailed monkeys. There were many different trees, some with wild creepers twining themselves around trunks of muga silk. Some trees looked like majestic ruins dressed in shimmering gossamer. All around was monochromatic green, ranging from the richly succulent to those that reminded me of puthi, the tiny fish. Some leaves were round, like the heavy silver coins with Queen Victoria emblazoned on them. And the birina trees were smothered in white blossoms that looked like clouds flirting with the earth.
Mirajkar was still staring through the window. The sound of gunfire here? No, impossible! Compared to Delhi, this was heaven! Delhi, ah, who can live there any more? The bountiful Yamuna of the Afghan and Turk poets has turned into a stinking sewer. Sadar Bazar, with its teeming crowds, was a battlefield.
Gently, almost invisibly, the sun’s rays turned mild, as if a huge python had shed its glistening skin and was slipping away into the darkness.
…Hrr, hrr, kut, kut, krrr! The car jerked to a halt in front of a thatched shop by the wayside. Ramakanta jumped out of the car. He opened the bonnet and then came to tell us that the radiator was leaking and all the water in it had evaporated. Nothing to do but take the car to a garage.
Mirajkar and I got down from the car to walk towards two small dimly lit shops that sold tender coconuts and tea. Mirajkar said, ‘It’d have been terrible if the car had broken down in the forest. Look how dark it is already.’ I nodded in agreement, while Ramakanta paced up and down and in and out of the small roadside shops, making enquiries about a garage.
All of a sudden a scrawny figure came out of a shop a little further down the National Highway. He held a kerosene lamp in his hand and wore a loose kurta and a dhoti that stopped at his knee. I couldn’t make out if he wore slippers. He came up to our car and stopped. He looked old and feeble. Raising his lantern, he said, ‘You have had a breakdown? The workshop is seven miles away. Wait, I’ll stop a car for you. The driver can go and fetch a mechanic, while you will sit in my shop and have a cup of hot tea – maybe some betelnuts, too?’
He stood right in the middle of the road, swinging his lantern, his hair-knot loose on his shoulders. In the flickering light he looked spectral.
Mirajkar and I walked into his shop. One hurricane lamp hung from a bamboo pole. Its chimney was cracked and dirty. Under a wooden bench we could see an old stove, some rusted tins. On the mud wall was a calendar with a picture of a white woman smoking a cigarette.
We sat on the bench. An old woman emerged from the room inside, holding a lamp. She said, ‘The whole of today went by as if we were fishing at sea … not a soul in sight.’
‘No customers?’ I asked, surprised.
She said, ‘There are many shops now on either side of the road. They know how to attract customers. They even play music!’ She sidled up to me and whispered, ‘They sell evil stuff. But we are Bhakats. Even that picture there. My husband and I had a bitter quarrel with our children about it.’
She then took a kettle and shuffled out of the room to fetch water for our tea. In the light of her lantern we could see her torn blouse. She was wearing a cotton mekhala and an old embroidered chaddar stained with betel juice. She came back and lit the stove. Perhaps it had no kerosene and soon a pungent smell filled the room.
I felt bad when I saw the old woman arranging the glasses and pouring the tea and the milk with quivering hands. ‘Grandma,’ I said, ‘is there no one to help you?’
‘My daughter-in-law used to, my elder son’s wife. He died during the floods last year, of some unknown disease. We couldn’t get any medicine for him. The doctors have turned dacoits. She was pregnant when he died and now she has a son. She’s very weak … can’t even stand on her own feet!’
‘Is there no one else?’
‘I have two sons and a daughter. They used to go to school. Once. Ah, things are different now. The girl fell in love with a soldier in the Indian army which had to come here to flush out the terrorists. The local boys beat her up. She’s limping back to normal health. The last seven years have been hell, daughter! The treacherous river had eaten our land. Now there is no rice to…’
The old man returned, still holding on to his lantern. Perhaps he had been successful in stopping a car and sending the driver to fetch a mechanic. He called out to his wife from where he stood. ‘Ai, mother of Nirmali, don’t bore the guests with your sad tales. They’re tired. Get some tea…’
The old woman got up abruptly on seeing him. She went to him and whispered, ‘Manohar and some others have seen him near the railway tracks today.’
The old man froze for a second. Then, ‘Last time too, some people said they’d seen him near the railway tracks. Don’t listen to such rubbish!’ he said. ‘Go and get the tea for our customers. They’re returning from Kaziranga and must be very tired. Are there some biscuits?’
‘Biscuits? All the money went into buying sugar and tea leaves last week.’
Mirajkar and I cried out together, ‘No, no don’t bother. Even black tea will do.’
The old woman mumbled to herself as she prepared the tea, ‘God alone knows how I run this shop. Over the last seven years, the river has swallowed up so much land. That Flood Relief Committee set up their office by the roadside and stopped the mouths of us people with a mere one hundred rupees.’
The old man shouted, ‘Hold your tongue, you old woman!’
She continued as i
f he had not spoken, ‘This old man feels ashamed to touch the feet of those officials who have gobbled up the money sanctioned by the government for flood relief. Oh! What hasn’t happened to this family in the last seven years and this man struts around, his head stuffed with past glories. So what if there was a Borbarua in the family who went about with a gold-tipped walking stick and an umbrella with a silver handle, who sat on a magnificent couch … so what? I prod him constantly, yet can’t get him to go see the government officials … and so we’ve been suffering for seven years… Please tell the government about our pitiable condition. When you…’
The old man looked angrily at her. Turning to us, he said, ‘Please ignore her. She starts babbling whenever she sees customers. She’d rather have tourists go see the wretched flood-affected people who live like animals than go to Kaziranga.’ He glared at her. ‘Go, get the tea, fast. Don’t forget to add crushed ginger. If there’s no ginger, put in one or two cassia leaves.’
It was at that moment that I caught sight of a dotara, hanging from the wall. I had not noticed it till then because it was behind the bench on which we sat. I was surprised to see it in the midst of other odds and ends like sacks, tins, and coconut shells. The traditional two-stringed instrument had carvings on it and looked well cared for. ‘Who plays this dotara, dada?’
A beatific smile spread on the face of the old man. I couldn’t have imagined a little while ago that he could smile like that. He said, ‘All the people visiting the Namghars on the bank of the Dipholu were familiar with this instrument of mine. Alas, the river has swallowed up many of the Namghars on its bank – Arimrah, Holapar, Kohara, Mihimukh … people in all these places knew my dotara. Why, even the people of Behali, beyond the Brahmaputra, appreciated my songs.’
The old woman had finished crushing the ginger. She said peevishly, ‘The old man will now start bragging about the carved and mirror-studded palanquin… The lad has been gone for two months now and might be waiting near the railway tracks, hungry and emaciated. This fossil doesn’t want to hear about that!’
The old man snarled, ‘Shut up, you old hag. Taking aeons to make two cups of tea!’
Professor Mirajkar spoke up. ‘I’d like to hear you play the dotara.’