Sunrise and Xihu

      

           
We beat him to the spot today. In the last two days, Mita mahi and I have found him  swaying and dipping the fishing net into the brown  water of the Brahmaputra. We were a trio in companionable silence, waiting patiently to be obliged. He, for fish. And us for the perfect sunrise on the Brahmaputra. In our last two attempts,  we arrived a little late to find the sun a few notches above the horizon.

                           
Today we watch him silently walk down the slope towards the water, with long poles over his shoulder. Putting his things down, he assembles his fishing gear. Two poles are positioned as a  cross with a string holding the middle. A net comes out of his bag and its four corners are deftly looped to the four ends of the poles. Holding the third pole from the center he gently dips the billowing net into the water.On the first day he had shown us his catch. An assorted lot of small fish, enough for one meal.

                                         

It is a favoured spot by the circuit house on the bank  of the river. We had arrived in the dark today, hoping to catch the sun emerging from the water, almost chased by stray dogs manning their territory. Sitting on the rocks with cameras ready, the sight of the river is soothing, almost tranquilizing the weary soul. The sinews relax and the edginess of anticipation dissolve and seem to be carried away by the water. Some debris float down in the distance. A crow flies and perches on it. Soon a few more join and enjoy an early morning free ride in the river. And just when they seem to have moved far away from their nest, they fly back to the bank till another one comes carried by the current. Like children running and climbing behind vehicles that come into their village.
 

                               


                                                         
The sky lightens a little towards the east. The horizon has a thin layer of grey. We keep our fingers crossed. Both Mita mahi and I. The fisherman continues with the dip and the sway. A boat comes in from the other end with two men precariously trying to balance it along the shore. It comes quite close to us and then moves away to the other end. Looking out at the vast water the mind expands to let in the thoughts along the time line. Of the past and the present and what the future holds. Mita mahi fills me in as to how these waters abounded in river dolphins when they were young. Ferrying in the country boats, it was a delight to see this lovely mammal jump around. Until only a few years ago, it was possible to buy fish from the fishermen right in the middle of the river while one commuted across the river. Who would believe those stories now, she asked.

                                 

The fisherman patiently continues  his motions with the net. He is yet to catch any today.
Do you get to catch Hilsa now?
No, he replies, I get them only in October when they swim up from the sea to lay eggs.
That's quite a distance they swim upstream from Bay of Bengal to spawn, I note .

The horizon doesn't look too good with the thin layer darkening. The dawn has brightened further and our apprehensions are confirmed. The sun emerging from the water remains hidden behind the layer of clouds. On my last day at Goalpara, I missed the perfect sunrise yet again. I look around to take in as much as possible of this quiet spot. The silver grey water is faintly rouged up. And suddenly there is a sound of parting water. A grey body juts out tossing and turning in the water quite close to the rock where we sit.
" Dolphin!" I squeal.
Mita mahi whips her head around just in time to catch another jump of this lovely animal. We are speechless. Even the fisherman grins looking at where it had splashed.
"Xihu!" he says quietly. There is not a single fish in his net. Mita mahi smiles, so they are still here she says. We wait for some more time. The sun peeps out from behind the clouds. The perfect sunrise eluded yet again. But the Xihu gave us hope for another time.



This post was written for TWTFOW#5 

Meditation On A Drive

                                             

     It was those bunched up bright yellow pumpkin flowers that made me stop. Dipped in rice flour paste and deep fried , the ronga lau phulor bor were a delicacy that hadn't touched my taste buds for many years.   Rumu, whose cab we had hired for the journey from Goalpara to Guwahati, indulged and let me reinstate  my connection  with the land that never ceases to fill me with a warm feeling. The overcast sky threatening to pour down notwithstanding, the car came to a halt .

       This Deobariya Haat, the  Sunday market  somewhere between Boko and Soigaon took me back to another era when these were the only produce we would see. Available in accordance to the seasons, tasting right just then. A common utterance during meal times comes to mind reiterating the importance of seasonal fruits and vegetables,

“ Botoror pasoli  khabo lage…”

So we were told when the nose screwed up at the sight of gourds, gourd shoots, tender drumsticks, ripe jackfruits and all those vegetables and fruits that seemed unpalatable.  The produce of the land is ready to be consumed only at a particular time of the year because that is when it is full of virtues that benefit the body and yield best to those discerning sensors in the tongue. The colours, the sights and sounds of this little bazaar where the fresh seasonal produce of the nearby villages are brought, were a treasure of long forgotten fruits and vegetables. Where it was a part of monotonous lives in the smaller places, chancing on it was like an excitement of discovering  what was thought to be long lost.

          These little markets that spring up along the highway are the best places to source from.  Squatting in colourful mekhelas, the bright faces of the local Rabha and Garo women glisten and glow. The fresh ghost chillies that the world is raving about, tender ferns, cucumbers , banana flowers, bamboo shoots and gourd shoots, those fragrant kaji lemons… and that maddening aroma of pineapples. All organically grown. All arranged in little heaps, in groups and the larger ones kept in singles to be sold thus and not by the scales. You have not tasted pineapples unless you have walked past some of those from the Garo hills. Relishing them begins from the sweet aroma that they tantalise you with. A nick with the knife and a burst of juice trickles down. The best way to get them ready is to wash and remove the peel, core out the 'eyes', salt and wash them and then cut them into chunks over a plate or a bowl so you don’t waste the juice.

                                   

  Incidentally, this is a market where the vendors are women barring aside one or two. These Garo and Rabha women are said to be extremely hard working and enterprising , threw in Rumu as we continued our journey with our fresh vegetables in the boot of the car. He elaborated that these women are up at daybreak tackling the household chores, tending to the livestock, the vegetable patches and field. Whereas majority of the menfolk awaken just before the sun touches the zenith and nurse their homemade liquor through the day between spurts of work.

                                           

 You’ve done well to pick those vegetables here, baido, he continues. You will not regret. Whenever I've passengers on this route I always pick vegetables from here. They don’t spoil for many days unlike the ones picked from the town market. And they taste the best too. For the simple reason that they are not injected with chemicals to help them grow or ripen overnight. What were those bamboo hollows for, I ask. Are they to be filled with rice and slow cooked on embers? Oh those! Rumu explained that the women in these parts, stash a particular smaller variety of fish, caught in their jakois, into the bamboo hollows and leave it to ferment and dry on bamboo racks over the earthen stove at home. Once it is cured, this dried fish is then cooked in small amounts or made into chutneys. It is a popular delicacy and is also said to have medicinal  properties to prevent malaria in these densely foliaged parts of the countryside.


                                                   

      I looked out of the speeding car watching the distant landscape with the rolling hills and young green of the paddy fields  change it’s orientation while the nearby trees and roadside homes ensconced in the privacy of a verdant  buffer offered by the  tall jackfruit,amla, mango, areca trees, mausandas,  zipped past.  My mind went back to the little market again and again, triggering a thought here and there.

      The red bag I’d noticed in the market contained some white cotton roll like stuff. These are eri cocoons , the lady had offered.  Just then a customer had come, checking the cocoons, he tried bargaining but she was not to budge.  Weaving at homes had always been a part of daily life in Assam just as raising a vegetable patch, or cultivating a bamboo grove or fish in the pond backyard. Just enough to fulfill the daily needs of a household. Threads would be spun out of these cocoons on a wooden spinning wheel. These then would be mounted on a wooden loom resting under a thatched shed usually placed near the kitchen that allowed women of the household to alternate between their chores, cooking and weaving. Memories came tumbling down of my grandmother and my aunt in Tipling ; sitting at the loom combing in the warp and the weft; of sliding the shuttle between the threads; clicking the bamboo pedals with their feet in a neat orchestra . Basic mekhelas, gamusas and fabric emerged from these looms for the family then.

  The looms now feed the many boutiques and shops  in the towns and cities. A week back we had dropped by an NGO, Grameen Sahara, at Soigaon that was involved with many self sustaining programmes for the local people. Strengthening eri silk weaving was one of them. Right from developing a system of  providing cocoons and threads on credit, the NGO untiringly supports the local people to weave the eri fabric that has found a niche market in the western world. Their adherence to quality has earned them the stamp of approval of Silkmark.  For the uninitiated, eri is a tenacious warm silk fabric and it’s thread is derived from the Ailanthus silk worm. It is also known as ‘ahimsa’ silk since the cocoons are used after the moths leave them. You can be sure to find an eri shawl stashed in a trunk in every Assamese household that will be brought out with the first hint of a chill in the air. These have been handed down from generations, capturing and bequeathing the warmth of the ancestors in their threads, mostly woven by a grandmother or a great grand mother.

  As the car nears the outskirts of the Guwahati city, the idyllic landscape is dotted more frequently with concrete structures peeping over distant green canopies or jostling each other. The mind humours the little ideas that bubble up now and then. It is heartwarming to come across spaces that rekindles the bond with the roots. And it is heartening to see the social development efforts striving to provide a better life to the simple rural people by empowering them. Retaining the unique identity of an area while developing it to provide basic amenities and bringing prosperity to it's people without churning out concretised clones of cities and towns, is the challenge. It will be worthwhile to keep in mind that the sight of the pumpkin flowers and fresh pineapples in the roadside farmer's market with the paddy fields and the distant blue hills in the background will continue to charm the travellers in the now and forever.

      

My Tara

                                                                                   


        " Last night I dreamt I went  to Manderlay again..." Only it was not Daphne's Manderlay nor was the mood so gloomy and intimidating. On the contrary, it was of my  home that  I dreamt of, for the last six to seven months, much like the desperate seeking even the faintest signs of succour. Much like Scarlet O'Hara's well of strength in Tara or the promise to herself " After all ...tomorrow is another day."

   Err... I may not be in as complicated a situation as the two protagonists whom I invoke, but let's face it there are times when many of us just want to throw up our hands and  scream " Enough is Enough", to whoever cares to listen to. And so I did. And no sir, I did not feel guilty of making my daughter bunk two  'working days' before the school closed for summers. It was a choice between waiting decently like a good mother for the school to break off for vacations or me breaking down. I chose to avoid the latter.

      Having chugged our way past the bleak, desolate, sun blanched Northern plains and stalled midway on the tracks, we finally stumbled into the verdant North East. Finally, closing in on my Tara,  home sweet home! The crowded railway station and it's ubiquitous stench did nothing to dampen my spirit. We were already damp or rather drenched in all that sweat that a sultry weather can bring on.The familiar sights and sounds on our way home only heightened the excitement. Too many buildings, too many people, too many cars on the roads and along the roads.Never mind, we were almost there. It was the last lap to the finishing line. And when the car took  the final bend, the very sight of home melted all the   fatigue, released all the tensions building up for  months.With a smile on our lips and a spring in my step, we were home at last!

      Have you ever felt a home welcoming you, embracing and nuzzling you fondly as you walked around trying to see if everything is still the same  way as it was in your last visit? The bean bag was still around, only crying for more beans, the chikoo tree had grown sturdier and taller, the kitchen smelt the same, the passion fruit climbed still higher onto the debdaru tree, more foliage enveloped the house, the well and the tap behind the house silently waited for the kids to come and play.

 Oh yes! These books  within whose pages my imagination took flights into exotic lands and fantastic possibilities, were stacked neatly to be devoured by our children. They already have plans of lazing on the hammock squealing away with Archie, Tintin and Obelisk for company and climbing the Faraway Tree. The younger daughter has already warned me she is in granny's territory so my 'no TV' edict does not hold good. I let her be. It's vacation time for all.

   Waking up to the chirping birds, my mother's friends whom she feeds religiously, as they flutter out of their new homes on our trees, is a pleasant way to begin the day. The old bird house of bamboo had given away and so my mother got these earthen pots for them to nest in. I could watch them for hours together, flitting in and out as they go about their daily business of survival. I could afford to. I was on a holiday, miles away from my daily rut. I could lie down on the floor, after a sumptuous mom cooked meal in the afternoon, and let the breeze caress and lull me into that rare siesta. Why the floor? Because it is much cooler especially when there is no electricity, which is a regular story for most part of the day in that part of the country.  And if the leaves were motionless outside, the bisoni ( hand fan) did the needful while fanning in the day dreams. A luxury when  all year around, our lives are pivoting around the hands of the clock, mentally ticking off the to-do list.

 

       As dusk set in, we sat in the verandah sharing the oft repeated  anecdotes, never tiring of the repetitions. My father, of his childhood days about the self made bunkers, the World War soldiers travelling by, the Great Big Earthquake of 1950, the naughty antics. And me, of our childhood spent in our granny's home, of loitering around her fields and fruit orchards like vagabonds, of catching fireflies in the evenings and squabbling and sharing secrets with cousins, of granny's partiality towards the  grandaughters  and shooing away the grandsons. Old friends gathered and we talked and giggled away treading the leaves in the nostalgia filled lanes. Uncles and aunts descended to look up the girls and remark, " Oh! How they have grown!", " Look at  you, you  have lost so much weight and  colour!" although I weighed a sack more than I did in my last visit. Between the sips of the red liquor brewed from garden fresh tea leaves,( always a complementary for almost every household from a relative working in the gardens) hushed tones and sideward glances were dying to share the latest family gossip, scandal and politics. When there is an extended gargantuan family, be assured of interesting notes replete with the unmentionables and the 'tsk tsk' inspiring,  straining to tumble out of the closet.

          The days stretched languorously and peace descended with nights. Gradually, sanity returned. Amidst all this, and the wining and the dining, we managed to visit a few places, meet some interesting people and catch a special play. The play is very close to me aptly titled "Photo". It's a play that took me to Sibsagar, a place where I spent my first  year of existence. More so, it's a play where for the first time my girls and my husband watched my septuagenarian  father perform on stage in his decades old pursuit of his passion for the theater. A geologist by profession and an actor by passion. I would cherish this memory forever. Memories of  holding back my own lumps in the throat while  answering my daughter's tearful query, "Why does Koka have to die?", of sniffling an indignation "she is so rude to koka!" and the resounding applause at the end of it all. Blessed did I feel to be a part of this moment.                                                                                    

     

  This annual pilgrim to my home, my Tara, leaves me glistening, purging away all the dust and grime that settle obstinately in layers till a good shower shakes it all off, to once again  resurrect the foliage and let it dance in the wind.  

     

                                          

 
  

Xatras in Majuli

                   

                                                     
     

            Imagine yourself walking along the periphery of Majuli in Assam, with the swirling and swiftly flowing Brahmaputra and Subansiri all around. This swiftly flowing water can turn tempestuous and carnivorous during the monsoons when it is in spate, chomping off large chunks of land with heart sinking sounds. This is  one trip I am yet to make although it has long been on our list. And  we had better make it fast.

            Now the question is why would anyone want to visit Majuli given the perilous picture painted? That people of this river island stoically endure  massive erosion facing a grim future of painful displacement, is a truth. However there is another truth. Majuli is the cradle of Vaishnavite strand that is a dominant part of Assamese life. It is also home to the many Xatras, the Vaishnavite monasteries that feed not just the spiritual aspirations of the Assamese people but also clothe them in a distinct cultural ethos.

        Having seen my grandfather disappear into the 'naamghor' (prayer room) every morning and evening for the prayers and heard his voice rising into a crescendo with clashing cymbals keeping the rhythm, Xatras have been an enigma. We have had many bhokots (monks) from Kamalabari Xatra visit us to help in conduct the family religious occasions. They were allotted a separate quarter in the house who cooked for themselves and fed us also. They would converse with you but will not touch you. I remember placing uncooked rice, lentils and vegetables on the floor from where they picked up and turned into a makeshift kitchen with separate utensils. And believe me the tastiest and healthiest meals sans any spices or onions and garlic, turned out from those quarters. All the family members across all ages waited eagerly for the meals.    

          I have forever wanted to visit this largest river island in the world to watch the bhokots (monks) conduct the naam (prayers) and also to understand the very core of the teachings of Srimanta Sankardev who began this movement as a way to reform the society against the mindless rituals of the Brahmins by which they dominated the society at large. Srimanta Sankardev's idea was to bring God closer to the common man without the rigid rituals and also to make people understand that there was just one God for everyone. And to this effect this great reformer, saint and  scholar utilised dance, music and drama to bring the diverse society together.

           These Xatras are monasteries where bhokots, the Vaishnavite monks stay to study and perpetuate the teachings of this great saint. It is also home to the classical dance form Xatriya, that the bhokots performed to spread the teachings of the guru through the integral medium of dance, dance drama (ankiya nat), music (borgeet, deh bisar geet) and devotional songs. These art forms have been democratised since and  have been brought to public domain to witness and pursue as a profession. There are many Xatras in Majuli like the Auniati, Kamalabari, Dakhinpat, and many more. The fear of being washed away in soil erosion have prompted many to move to the mainland to escape obliteration. I believe there are now around twenty two Xatras here.

         The Auniati Xatra hosts the famous  palnaam festival in the winters. Samaguri Xatra is famous for masks fashioned out of bamboo and clay which are then used extensively for the Raas Leela. Besides the Xatras, the island is home to the Mishing, Deori and Assamese people whose culture and traditions have further added colour to this island. The Mishing people, who live in quaint stilted bamboo homes, are excellent weavers whose typical motifs and bright thread combinations weave magic into fabric and are very much in demand. Irrespective of their religion or traditions they follow, every villager of Majuli is proud of the Xatras and the Vaishnavite culture of Majuli.

    Two French architects have gifted this island a stilted guest house made on the lines of the traditional Mishing homes with thatched roof lined with Ikorai (reed) and yet with modern amenities. I believe there are village stays also that lets one have a peep into the local people's way of life. I can imagine myself in one of these homes looking out into the twilight with fireflies flitting around. In the distance, the nagada would boom  and faint sounds of a voice rising in a naam ( prayer), reminding the faithful to spend some time to connect with God.

      Will we be able to save this island and preserve the rich culture in it's place of origin in it's natural ambience? Or will all of this be washed away by Brahmaputra or expedite their relocation. I wonder. We need to make this trip fast.

( Dhekiakhuwa Naamghor at Jorhat )

 

This post was written for A to Z Challenge.

   

Goalpara

                                                     

An Early morning View

134 kms away to the west of Guwahati in Assam, lies the sleepy town of Goalpara., literally translated into 'milkmen's village'. Another town on the banks of the river Brahmaputra. As one enters it from the National Highway, flanked by the paddy fields and teak forests, it emanates an old world charm although the number of vehicles on the road belies this. Personally I prefer to approach this place from Mornoi as the undulating land is covered with thick growth and one needs to cross a picturesque stream     .

                                       

A King fisher, Water Lilies And A Pond

     It is the quiet beauty of this town that emerges early in the mornings when the people are barely roused from their slumber. The lilies in the ponds where  the blue kingfisher repose; hummingbirds flitting in and out of the fragrant Kamini Kusum  trees; platoons of monkeys barging down from the Hulukanda hill and racing across the roof tops acting as raucous alarms; the quiet afternoons caressed by the river breeze on warm sultry days with rumbling clouds darkening the evening sky. 

    The culture here has more of neighbouring Bengal's influence. It is evident in their dialect, food habits or the folk songs. The food is more spiced up as compared to their Upper Assam counterparts. Freshly ground cumin paste and mustard paste find their way into the dishes more often. And every Goalporiya worth his salt is a gourmet especially when it comes to fish. You will often find them in animated discussions about the best way to prepare a particular type of fish, of which the Brahmaputra gives them in abundance. 

                                       

Moored Boats

           The earthy Goalporiya Lokogeet ( folk song) with foot tapping rhythm and absorbing melody mostly speaks of love, longing and separations. Frequent allusions to elephants and mahouts ( elephant trainer) suggests that this area once abounded with pachyderms, raised and reared for various activities, mostly lumbering. 

  "Are gaile ki ashibe, mur mahout bondhu re!..."

" Bachcha haathi pushilom ami, dudho bhato diya..." 

       A lesser known archaeological site is located at Sri Surya Pahaar, 12 kms away from Goalpara, that is believed to have 99,999 carvings of Shiva  by Saint Vyas in his bid to make a second Kashi that has 100000 of them. Apart from an annual fair that takes place here  it is frequented more as a picnic spot during the winters. Sri Surya Pahaar is also witness to evidence of three religions Hinduism, Buddhism and Jainism. It is a wonderful place to climb and potter around these relics shrouded in dense growth. 

      Then there is the Paglatek Shiv temple, 7 kms away, bang on the river Brahmaputra. As one climbs down to reach this shrine situated on a rocky surface, the sound of the river gushing by and the sight of it fills one with a quietude. I've always found this place soothing not in the religious context but for it's location. 

     Has any place ever enticed you with it's quiet charm?

This post was written for A to Z Challenge 2014

    

April, Assam And Bihu

                  I begin my April Challenge with my home state Assam. I greet you all with a 'nomoskar' and welcome you as 'alohi' to this land of green valley, blue hills and the red river.

                                        

                April is the time to be in Assam what with the entire state caught in the frenzied preparations to usher in the New Year with Bohag Bihu. It's that time of the year when the cuckoo's sweet voice tugs at your heart, tender leaves sprout on the branches, the orchids tied around trunks of areca nut tree burst forth with mauve and lilac blossoms.

                                           You can hear the bihu songs in the air wherever you maybe. It could be from the radio, televisions, the shops or the rehearsals on in full swing for the various bihu functions to be held throughout the state. You will hardly find an Assamese who has been able to resist the rhythm of the dhol or the sway of the pepa at this time of the year. The bihu dancers attired in the muga mekhela sador smile radiantly flushed with with all the twirling and spinning in the bihu dance. 

                                                 
                                                  courtesy wallsave

               Let me take you to a village where you can hear the click clacking of the looms,women  weaving feverishly to finish the gamusas that will be presented to relatives and friends. And if you go to the fields you may spot some village belles engage in jeng bihu around a tree. A word of caution though, this is strictly not meant for the male eyes. 

                You are in time for Bihu so you will be treated to a variety of pitha ( rice cakes), sira doi gur (pounded rice with curd) and jaggery, sticky rice, wood fire roasted in bamboo hollows, a variety of fish dishes, duck meat with cumin and black pepper paste and a host of other accompaniments and dishes. You could wash this down with the most amazing pink hued rice beer, ruhi,  served in bell metal bowl. And what do you do after this? Feel happy. You might come across some who are too 'happy' for their own good but generally they are  benign.
                       

                                             
              Having kick started your visit with a feast you could take the elephant safari in the Kaziranga National Park and sight a couple of one horned rhinos if you are lucky. Or you could combine a river cruise on the Brahmaputra from Guwahati to Kaziranga with a trip to an ethnic village thrown in. That amounts to shelling out quite a bit though. There are host of other places to visit like Orang, Pobitora, Majuli, Nameri Reserve Forest etc. Then there are the tea gardens of Upper Assam some of which offer the garden experience with a tour of the estate and stay in the spacious bunglows.

           
                    This was just a cursory glance at the state that is home to numerous ethnic groups of people.  I hope to take you through few of these places in my later posts.  For now, thank you for honouring my invitation and visiting my state. Would love to hear about your home town!


Other images were taken from Wikipedia

This post was written for the A To Z Challenge 2014    

A Letter From A Chinki

                                                         

Dear People Of Mainland

     Let's have a heart to heart talk. Honestly and sincerely unless you want to continue living in a vicious environment where each act of aggression provokes retaliation. This is not going to let anyone exist peacefully let alone co-exist amicably. 

   So what is it about  us that intimidates you? What is it that puts the fear of such magnitude that it compels you to take an offensive? Is it merely our 'different looks' or our liberal upbringing and culture that benumbs you with shock that there could be a possibility of a society where boys and girls are treated equally? That it challenges your sole chauvinistic prerogative? Or our 'looks' remind you of those ruthless raiders across the mountains ages ago and whose fear is ingrained in you?

    We are a people who have always been gentle and content, for our land and forests had given us enough. Down the ages we have never really had to till the land like most of you have had to struggle with the impregnable soil and harsh climate. Is this frustration and fear so deep rooted  in you that it brings out the aggressor  to see a 'threat' where there is none? Of an 'outsider' appearing to take your share. No, seriously I am trying to understand the cause of your vitriolic attacks on us because there has to be solution. 

    It is human instinct to be wary of strangers. Granted. But does it justify your pathetically juvenile prank of tying the leash around a girl's boot? So you got the kicks watching those helpless girls screaming their guts out with terror while you guffawed on the sides? Have you tried the same stunt on yourself ? How many Nidos have you ridiculed, taunted and then beaten them into submission or worse still, death? How many Reingamphys are yet to be molested, raped and killed before you understand that they are all humans just like the your mas and behens? But is there any point in recalling these horrendous incidents? I guess not, for you don't leave alone a Nirbhaya or the Dutch tourist and the countless others who forever live in the dark constricting shadows of your lust.

    Let me tell you why the Reingamphys and Nidos come out of their once content regions. It is for the very same reason that your ancestors pitched their tent here in Delhi many years ago. For a better livelihood. The Nidos. Reingamphys and the women like those, to whose boots you tied that damn leash with a dog at the end of it, have stepped out because there are no more opportunities and growth in their regions. Because they also aspire for and deserve a chance to a better life. Because there are not many decent educational and professional education institutes that can nurture their dreams. And also there are not many industries and employment opportunities that can provide for a decent life.

       Is it our fault that the Center decided to have the best of everything in the Mainland? The beleaguered people of this region are caught between a militancy gone awry, formidable military and corrupt politicians. Decades of insurgency that took its roots from the Center's apathy to the region's issues which are peculiar and bear no resemblance to those of the mainland, have left the people disillusioned.

   Do you know what AFSPA is? Have you ever lived in an atmosphere of fear and scrutiny 24x7 for the last 56 years? Do you know what it means to pass through manned barricades day in and day out to reach your own home? How could a mother sleep fitfully at night after a hard day's work knowing anyone can barge into her home to take her son or daughter away for "questioning"? Many times never to return. Do you know what it takes to breathe the air of this draconian, out-dated law that the British brought up to squash the Quit India Movement? It has no place in a democracy.

   And I am not blaming the Armed Forces. How can I, having seen the other side of the fence too? They did not bring the AFSPA into existence. They follow orders that come from the top.  Or else India would have been another Pakistan.They are the favourite punching bags or heroes whenever there is a natural or an internal crisis. But the stories of rape, violation of modesty, assault and plain simple gunning down abounds. Despite all this, we do send our boys and men into the Forces just like you do to guard the nation. But has the nation or it's people stood by us? They don't even know us. Majority of them still believes we live in forests and bamboo houses with wild beast for company, if not in China and Burma. Not that we mind living in these eco-friendly abodes. It is just that the inference drawn thereafter is laced with contempt and derision.

   Tossed between all this, is the youth of our region. Their mothers have fought many bitter battles relentlessly to salvage the next generation from being misguided and spiraling into the abyss of despair. Have you heard of the Meira Paibee or the Naga Mother's Association or Manipur Women Gun Survivor Network? You must listen to their heart rending stories. It is a mother's anguish and fear forming a gritty resolution to take the shaping of the future in her hands. Can you feel this painful desperation? It is the same as your mother's when she sees you being dragged away (maybe she never saw this happening to you), going wayward or not given a deserving chance and being wasted. It is the hope of a better future that drives these young men and women away from their homes.

    And it is these young men and women, sons and daughters whose dreams you trample upon and whose body you violate. Only because they are different from you.

   Can you, once and for all understand and get it in you that Meghalaya, Manipur, Mizoram, Arunachal Pradesh, Nagaland, Tripura and Sikkim are a part of India? Delhi belongs to all. We have as much right to it as you do. So stop this singling out and violence once and for all.

                                                                                                                  from
                                                                                                          A Proud Chinki

                                                                                     

 

 

   

   

" See see, Imli!"

                                           


                                                   
                                                          

                                              

                                                                     courtesy wikicommons

         " See, see, Imli!" pointed Roma hesitantly to the tamarind tree. The other girl looked up from her heap of stones which she had collected to aim at the tamarinds hanging from the branches far beyond their reach. The ones nearest to the ground were already gone. It was one of the many trees that dotted the perimeter of the school's playground. Those tamarinds have always enticed the children, peeking through the swaying pinnate leaves. Raw green ones, to half ripe ones with their yellowing insides or the brown hollowed ripe ones with the sweet and tangy pulp. No amount of warnings during the morning assembly could ever deter the children. The mere vision of it was enough to send them into salivating raptures. It was this power of tamarinds that made Roma cry out,

    " See, see, imli!"   

    " You wantah ?" the other girl made signs like she was talking to someone mute.

    " Yes..." Roma managed nodding shyly.

   This was the first time Roma was attempting a conversation in her new school. She hated it here. She hated it when the sun rose with the sounds of water sprinkled on the courtyard of the ground floor apartment. Someone swept with the broom making an unnerving scratchy sound on the wet earth. But she liked to watch the white kolam being designed out of dots and criss-crossing lines and curves. She often stood fascinated at her window  watching the maid downstairs make elaborate ones with complicated twists and turns of the white powder. 

   " Malli poo, malli poo!" cried the flower seller every morning carrying a basket of spirally heaped fragrant jasmine flowers. Roma had seen these strands adorn every girl or woman's hair here. Well! She liked those and she liked the kolam. That was about all she liked in this new place. She hated going to school and she hated sitting in her class. She always had this impulse to run back home to her mother when she saw the green PTC 47B approaching the bus stand. She listened hard to understand what her classmates were speaking. Roma pretended not to hear their questions and when she could no longer avoid them, she answered in monosyllables. They spoke only in an English that sounded strange and Tamil. No Hindi. She was frustrated for she could speak only in Hindi and Assamese. Where she came from, these were the only languages spoken in school and every where around her. It didn't help that her curious classmates asked," Are you from China? Is Assam in China?"  Didn't they ever see a map of India? She felt alienated. With schools invariably shut down half the year in Assam, she realised she was at the bottom of the class in her new school. The bandhs, the class boycotts which they eagerly looked forward to then, had only made matters worse. She was shocked to hear her father say, " You'll have to attend Remedial  classes after school till your final exams. Your teacher suggested this."

" I am not a dumb student!" 

" No, you are not. But you have missed out on a lot. Here the students have almost completed their syllabus."

" I will not go for Remedial classes! I will not stay in that school more than I have to! I will not sit with the dull students, I will not..." she choked her eyes brimming with tears. She had always been near the top of her class. What was this new place doing to her? 

      Roma was bewildered, sad and lonely. She longed for the open clean air of Nazira. The beautiful little colony with the British bungalows, the bamboo grove, the river that flowed by the Club with the soft flowering reed grass in clusters. She longed to rush out with her friends in the evening to play; she loved the thrill of going for rehearsals for the functions that kept springing up every now and then. Why the other day, they were on stage, lustily belting out the " Do Re Mi..." that Borthakur uncle had translated into Assamese. Roma was given the high pitched "Dha Ni Ni..." in a segment of the song. What fun!

   She now lay on her bed looking out of the window of their two bedroom flat holding up the maths notebook in her hands. From the corner of the eye, she saw the clock ticking away, the hands approaching the dreaded hour of 7.30. Her time to take bath before going to school.She suddenly developed stomach cramps.She could feel  a hollowness in her chest and her stomach churning and tying up in knots.

  " Ma, my stomach is feeling weird!"
  "Weird? Where? Show me" said her mother placing her ironed uniform on the bed.
   " It's paining everywhere."
  Her mother looked at her thoughtfully.
   "Drink some water, you should be okay."
   "I can't go to school today, Ma."
   " But you have a maths test, don't you?"
Roma turned her face towards the wall. Silent tears seeped out of the corner of her eyes and rolled over the bridge of her nose, creeping into her ears.
   " I can't go to school. I don't want to go to school. I hate it here. I don't like the school....I have no friends....I have no friends...I don't understand what they say..." she sobbed rubbing her eyes with the back of her hands. Her mother looked at her and then at the doorway where her father stood with a towel over his shoulders and half lather cheeks, holding a shaving brush in his hand.
   "Get her ready. I'll drop her at school today and have a word with the teacher."


      Few weeks later, Roma sat in her after school public speaking class. She was comfortable here. All the students, like her, were not familiar with English as a spoken language. She was not afraid of making mistakes here. In fact her instructors encouraged them to make the mistakes!They recorded their speech and made them listen to the replays over headphones.She enjoyed these sessions. She felt herself loosening up gradually. Her class teacher was happy with her progress. In her final exams, she was back, not at the top but near the top of her class. The other day, after her little talk in the house assembly, which her speaking instructor insisted on, the Shivaji house captain had asked her to join the sub-junior inter house speech competition! Roma's face shone with excitement.
    " You think I can do it?"
    " You'll never know till you have tried, Roma" smiled her captain " Let me know when you are ready so we can have a few practices."


     Few years later, Roma eased her bicycle down the steps of their ground floor flat's  verandah, careful not to disturb the beautiful white kolam  that gleamed in the morning sun against the clean wet ground .
  " Romba azhaga irkuh, amma" she beamed at their maid who was gathering the broom, the bucket and the kolam powder tin.
Roma straddled her blue Hero bicycle, bought with her scholarship money, when paathi, Jyoti's grandmother called out,
" Roma, inda poo catch panna! Un venile potako!" Roma caught the jasmine strand dropped from the second floor, a ritual before she left for school. Deftly lifting a strand just above her braid, she inserted the flowers leaving it dangling on either sides of  it.
 " Nandri, paathi! Bye!"
Just then, Tripathi aunty came rushing to her fourth floor balcony.
 " Roma, come over in the evening. I'll make you some papdi chaat and plus a new maid is coming."
Roma grinned waving at both the women as she pushed her bicycle forward. Tripathi aunty, just a few months old in Madras, had trouble with the language. She was communicating mostly in sign language similar to the Sunday afternoon sign News on Doordarshan. Feeling the breeze caressing her face, Roma turned left to reach the main road, bustling with the morning school and office traffic.