DUST OFF - Love, folklife, history: the making of a Mizo novel : Rini Tochhawng

A picture of the Mizo society and glimpses of its historical journey is given to us in the space of the ten years. Biakliana has masterfully woven the intricacies of the Mizo way of life into his story

Hawilopari L. Biakliana

Tlangveng Press, 1983

155 pages

Paperback/Fiction

Hailed as the first novel written in the Mizo language, Hawilopari was the masterpiece of L Biakliana (1918-1941) who never lived to see it published. The story speaks of the love shared by a group of young boys and girls who grow up in difficult times. This love triumphs and the tale ends with the lovers united in matrimony, despite the obstacles each life is made to face. An interesting facet of the novel is the depiction of elements that have close links to the repertoire of Mizo folklore. We find a cruel stepmother who initiates the action from which the main plot of the story springs. Hminga and Liana, unable to live under the constant torture by their cruel stepmother, finally leave home and join the army. The author does not introduce this stepmother without warning. The brothers know of the stereotypical cruel stepmother in folktales and compare their own situation to that of the children in the folktale Pafa Hruaibo. We also find the character of Zema who, although unrelated to the brothers, fulfills the role of a guardian, much like the fairy godmothers or helpful other-worldly characters in folktales. He leads them to find a new life in the army and sacrifices his life to bring about the union of Hminga and Hawilopari (Pari). Another interesting folkloric twist to the story is the rivalry between women – the antagonist in the person of Hminga’s stepmother and Thangi, who poses as a friend of Pari but is motivated by jealousy over Khuala’s affection for Pari.

As is often the case with woman protagonists, Hawilopari’s life is riddled with problems, probably more so than any of her friends – male or female. Her parents are affected by tragedies that make her the sole bread earner in the family, in a society that does not prize women except as trophies for their beauty and practical skills. She is the main suspect over the disappearance of Hminga and his friends and often called to court by the council of the chief and his elders. To add to her misery, Hawilopari’s beauty brings her a curse in the form of Khuala, the son of an elder in the chief’s council. Khuala has tried to court Pari for a long time, but she never wavers from her affection for Hminga. Khuala seeks revenge for his failure leading Pari and her family to despondently leave the only village they had ever called their home. This brings before us another important element in the novel – depiction of the life of its times.

Biakliana is believed to have finished Hawilopari in 1936, but the story is set in the period between 1850 and 1890. While writing the novel, he used historical facts such as the capture of Mary Winchester (1871) and the subsequent campaigns into the Mizo Hills by British colonisers. At that time, the chiefs were the be all and end all of the villages. Their councils of elders had great power too, and we find that loyal citizens such as Pari and her parents could be evicted on the basis of the false testimony of an elder’s son. Moreover, Pari’s mother asserts that their lands will belong to the chief once her family moved – a practice that once again shows the power of the chief. The insecurity of life and the warring nature of the tribes are brought out in the Pawite attack on Pari’s new village and their capture as slaves. It is interesting to note the mention of the biblical story of original sin and of Pari’s prayer to her Maker in a time before the advent of Christianity. Although Biakliana was careful to avoid the use of the word ‘Pathian’, now used for God, the idea of a personal prayer had never been a part of the animistic practices of worship in native Mizo religion. More in keeping with the beliefs of the time was the supernatural nature assigned to the reflection of a mirror held by Hminga and his friends. When Pari speaks of this seemingly unnatural light her mother is quick to put it down to a portent of gloom while their old lady neighbour accepts it as a sign of good things to come.

A picture of the Mizo society and glimpses of its historical journey is given to us in the space of the ten years between the friends’ farewell and their reunion. Although the main plot of the story centres round Hminga and Pari’s struggles, Biakliana has masterfully woven the intricacies of the Mizo way of life into his story. It is easy to identify with his characters, even if many of them appear to be only foils, and realise the ultimate Mizo love story of faithfulness and devotion, rewarded with a union against all odds.

IPEN - Poems by M Jajo and Labiba Alam

Luingamla

There she is!

Clothed in naked simplicity

Lovely isn’t she, in her smile?

A spirited girl they say

Born of the mystic mountain

Pure with kindly thoughts

Full of life

she would sing and dance to the lusty green fields

like the skylark

Heaven and earth be intertwined

she would freely roam.

                     -Then

Rumours were heard a wicked war is waged

on these colourful people.

Soon followed dark browns in olive green

Marched into her land.

To steal the peace

that nature has bestowed.

                   -In that terrified silence

She was robbed and shame

Her dignity taken,

Was left with this lonely will to die

And in that solitary hour

She snapped off her life,

And in silence she’d traced back into the deep.

-Yonder over there lies her grave

with an epitaph “here lies a story writ in tears”

‘Tis all that I know of her.

                 -But why is this salty dew in my eyes at this hour??

*Luingamla is one of the many Naga girls who was molested and raped by the Indian army unable to cope with the trauma she committed suicide. To know more about human rights violation in the Naga Hills you may read "Nagaland file” by Nandita Haksar and Luingam luithui.

--M Jajo , Ukhrul, Manipur

Dance of an Insomniac

I danced like a dream

In your utter silence.

Then came forth your words, like the summer rains

And drenched my soul.          

           I am speaking of those nights when,

           I turned an insomniac;

           Slumber suffocated

           In the dream- dewed eyes.

My nights burned like incense,

Fragrant and tantalising:

In a trance, your words kept pouring

And filled my mind to the rim.

         Winter it was, and foggy was my mindscape;

        You came with a dream, my eyes once knitted.

        I’ve stolen some moments from those nights-

        They lay in a corner

        Smelling of incense ashes.

--Labiba Alam, Guwahati, Assam

NORTHEAST NUGGETS

What is the present name of the organisation which was called Young Lushai Association when it was set up on 15 June 1935?

The organisation is now called the Young Mizo Association. It was set up by Christian workers as a substitute for the traditional Mizo institute for education of boys called Zawlbuk (boy’s dormitory) which declined with the coming of Christianity. It was registered in 1977 and is active in social work. It has been effective in significantly lowering the expenditure during elections.

 The Mizo Students Union observes 1 March as Zoram Ni (Mizoram Day). What is the significance of that day in Mizo history?

When Mizo Hills was a part of Assam state the people were angry with the poor Government response to the famine in 1959 and the attempt to impose the Assamese language. The Mizo National Front (MNF) declared independence on 1 March 1966 and tried to take over Aizwal. On 4 March 1966 the Indian Air Force bombed Mizoram– the first time in Indian history that the Government bombed its own citizens. MNF signed the Mizo Accord in 1986.

Source: Haksar, Nandita (ed.). 2011. Glimpses of North East India. New Delhi: Chicken Neck

FRONTISPIECE - Mizo literature: Opening the door : Laltluangliana Khiangte to development

Laltluangliana Khiangte takes a close look at the history and development of Mizo language and literature

The original inhabitants of Mizoram are known by the generic name Mizo. They form several major and minor tribes in the state. Mizo is a word of the Lusei language. The Luseis seemed to have used the term ‘Mizo’ while referring to themselves and kindred tribes, who have adopted the Lusei language discarding their own dialects. ‘Mizo’ has gained a wider meaning through the ages.

Mizos are an important hill tribe of the Indian subcontinent. A pioneer missionary, James Herbert Lorrain, in the introduction to his Dictionary of the Lushai Language, wrote, “…their speech belongs to the Assam-Burma branch of the Tibeto-Burman family of languages.” There is a quirky story about how the traditional tribal group of Mizos lost their original script. The script was written on an animal skin which was one day eaten up by a stray dog, leaving the Mizos without a script that they could call their own. However, after setting foot in what was called the Lushai Hills, missionaries started the process of ‘Christianisation’ of the area. In 1894, the Christian missionaries compiled what is referred to as the Mizo alphabet, using the Hunterian system of Roman script, in line with the script used in the writings of Lt Col. TH Lewin in the 1870s.

Although there are some minor dialects like Hmar, Lakher, Pawi and Ralte in Mizoram, Duhlian or Mizo Tawng is the official language – lingua franca – of the state. Many of the Mizo tribes have forgotten their original dialects as almost all of them speak Mizo, a language that binds them together. ‘Mizo Tawng’ was called ‘Lushai’ during the British regime, a corrupted term of ‘Lusei’. It is sometimes referred to as ‘Duhlian’ or ‘Zotawng’ as well. According to Pastor Vanchhunga, who made a contribution to the October 1916 issue of the popular Christian monthly magazine, Kristian Tlangau, “...there were as many as 46 tribes that could be identified as Lusei...and 40 dialects of the tribe have died...”

When a reader goes through
any of these tales, she sees a
vivid picture of what the rural
Bishnupriya Manipuri life
looked like and to some
extent, still does

In fact, the state is characterised by a unique example of a true tribal harmonious pattern. It is also a very ordered society with clearly defined social roles and responsibilities for all. Mizo society values and maintains its customs and lifestyles while at the same time accepting modernisation and global influences even on its language.

Mizo is mainly spoken in India, Myanmar and Bangladesh. The total Mizo population in 1961 was three times bigger than that in 1901. From the figures thus projected, no less than 96% of the population wanted to be called ‘Mizos’. As per the Imperial Gazetteer of India (1908), since 1908, 87% of the population had spoken the Lushai dialect. It is observed that in the course of half a century only, the Luseis who wanted to be called Mizos had dominated the entire population, with only 4% remaining non-Mizo. The Ralte figure was not available in 1961, which showed the total submission of the clan to Mizos for nationhood. The process of ‘Mizoisation’ may be a welcome sign for the integration of the different Mizo tribes.

Present status of the Mizo language

Though the Mizoram Official Language Act 1974 was passed by the Mizoram Legislative Assembly, it was not implemented immediately. The so-called Mizo Language Board, formed by the Government of Mizoram, met once or twice without much significance.

After twelve years, the government of Mizoram, following public pressure, notified Mizo as the official language of the state on 15 August 1987. According to the Census of India 1991, 5,37,527 people speak the Mizo language. It is the 30th most used language in India which means that 0.064% of Indians use Mizo. The Census of 2001 puts the population of Mizoram at 8,91,058, showing a growth rate of 2.92%. Moreover, about 3,29,480 people in neighbouring states and other parts of India speak Mizo but not as their mother tongue. The estimated figure of Mizo speakers in India, Myanmar and Bangladesh exceeds 26 lakhs. The Mizo language, considering the number of people who use it, should be included in the Eighth Schedule of the Indian Constitution.

The leading literary organisation in the state, Mizo Academy of Letters, which was formed in 1964, has been taking major steps for the development of the language, literature and culture. It brings out Thu leh Hla, a monthly magazine which carries stories, articles, essays, poems, reports and critical writings in the language. Since 1989, the Academy has been giving the Book of the Year Award to the best book published in a year. About 200 books are published in Mizo every year. In 1993-94 alone, more than 200 new books were published, mostly by the churches, on the occasion of Gospel Centenary Celebration. Books related to music, science and computers have also been published recently.

Mizo in educational institutions

The vernacular Lushai (Mizo subject) began to be taught in 1930 at the matriculation level under Calcutta University. Gauhati University introduced Lushai at the intermediate stage in 1961 and then in its degree course in 1962. Mizo was introduced as an elective subject at NEHU, Shillong in 1983. The hill university made Mizo part of its honours course in 1993. The Mizoram Campus of NEHU introduced master’s degree in Mizo during the 1997-98 session. Since the birth of Mizoram University on July 2, 2001, its Mizo department has been functioning as a full-fledged post-graduate institution.

Justice cannot be done to a description of the spurt of Mizo literary works in recent years without a full-fledged study. Suffice it to say that the literary award given to Rev Liangkhaia, a prolific writer, by Mizo Academy of Letters in 1979 and Padma Shri to James Dokhuma by the President of India in 1985 show that the doors are now open for a massive development of Mizo literature.

Thirteen litterateurs have been honoured with Padma awards for their contribution to Mizo language and literature. Nine writers have also been awarded the Academy Award in literature by Mizo Academy of Letters. The greatest impediment to the growth of Mizo literature is lack of funds for printing of books on a large scale. Publication of a literary work, unless it happens to be a text book or is supported by the government or church organisations, is a losing proposition for a writer in Mizoram.

Under the Mizoram Publication Board Bill 1993, which has been made effective during the last ten years or so, more than 200 new books have been published with 75% assistance from the government. Mizo has now become an important subject from primary to master’s degree level. The Mizo Language Committee which came into existence in the last part of 2006 has been functioning effectively for the promotion of language and literature under the wings of Mizoram Board of School Education. Today the Mizos have a good number of poems, plays, essays, novels,articles, critical reviews and other prose works which can be translated into different languages of the world and circulated outside the state of Mizoram.

As the Mizo language is the lingua franca and official language of the state of Mizoram, due recognition should be given to it by the leading literary organisations as well as the government of India. It is high time that the government included Mizo in the Eighth Schedule of the Indian Constitution.

INKPOT - Small state, big hearts : Uddipana Goswami

We flew from Delhi to Calcutta over Bangladesh and into Mizoram in a small plane that navigated its way through the clouds between large mountains and finally landed in a small airport – the Lengpui airport, 32 km from the Mizoram capital Aizawl. Lengpui reminded me of other smaller airports I had seen, boutique airports, in the numerous islands of Thailand or the Maldives. Except that Mizoram is no island, it is a highland state – the word Mizo in fact means ‘highlander’ – and Lengpui would not have been built so small if the Mizos could find a larger area of flat ground to build an airport in.

In fact, apart from the size of their airport and indeed, the size of their state, there is nothing small about the Mizos, neither in their hearts nor in their history. The story of the formation of the state of Mizoram has been one of a long struggle against a huge dose of neglect and repression, and the immediate provocation was a large scale famine or mautam caused by bamboo flowering in the 1950s and 1960s to which the state government – till 1987, Mizoram was a part of Assam – as well as the government of India were largely apathetic. So the Mizo National Front (MNF) began its long insurgent battle for the rights of the Mizo people, in the course of which the social fabric of Mizo life was totally changed by village regrouping schemes undertaken by the unsympathetic government, and a large number of people were killed in military repression and aerial bombings – one of the darkest chapters in the history of ‘post’-colonial India. We got a glimpse of what Mizo community life must have been once upon a time when we visited Reiek, the model Mizo village constructed by the government as a tourist attraction. When we went there, an 80 km drive from Aizawl, we were the only tourists that day. I was glad because it gave us the opportunity to soak in the peace of the environment, a peace that had once been so cruelly shattered amidst bombs and gunfire. It has been a while now of course since the gunfire has fallen silent, and a peace accord was signed between the rebels and the government. This accord proved to be one of the most successful peace initiatives, one that has worked in such a big way and lasted for so long. Today, the state of Mizoram has many claims to fame, not the least of which is with regard to its human resources – Mizoram has one of the largest numbers of literate people in India. But literate or not, the people of Mizoram also have very big hearts. They are very hospitable and friendly, and so long as you respect their individuality, they are always willing to welcome you into their midst.

Take for instance, our friend Pu Sailo, director of information and public relations of Mizoram, who invited us to the state and provided us with every form of hospitality we could wish for. Or consider his colleagues, Tetei and Mina, who have become such good friends, and who also helped plan our trip and showed us around Aizawl, giving us the insights which a first-timer like me could never otherwise have acquired. With them we went bargaining at the many markets of Aizawl with their variety of foreign goods, or sight-seeing in the late evening – night falls very early in Mizoram, and the city shuts down pretty early too – to the view point from where you could see the lights twinkling in the chain of hills that make up the city. Walking around the city, sometimes in the morning and sometimes in the early evening, we could feel how fresh the air was and experience the thrill of walking on the undulating hilly streets. However, whenever travelling in a car, I couldn’t help but scramble to hold on to whatever I could get a hold of, because the curves are too sharp and the roads so steep that I felt it was a wonder gravity didn’t taken its toll on our vehicle and send it, with us in its belly, sliding downhill, off the cliff and into the deep gorges below.

In the city itself, just opposite the street vendor from where I bought so many additions to my DVD collection of Korean movies, I saw the Assam Rifles headquarters. On the boundary wall was inscribed ‘Assam Rifles: Friends of the Hill People’. Mizoram is one of the few states of the Northeast where the paramilitary force can now perhaps claim to be friendly. However, I did also remember the atrocities being committed by the same force in the neighbouring states, for instance in Assam and Manipur, where the Armed Forces Special Powers Act 1958 has given it sweeping powers to kill at will, and it exercises that power indiscriminately killing civilians as well unarmed or arrested insurgents. In Manipur, the same force actually claims to be the ‘custodian’ of the people. The Mizos have experienced their share of state and military repression, and today, if they are a proud people, it is because they have fought for every right they now enjoy. Indeed, the Mizoram government website proudly proclaims on its homepage:

Mizoram is our homeland

It is not given or gotten as a gift

It is not acquired by privilege

Or potential contracts

It is not bought with gold or held by the force

No, it is made with us the sweat of the brow

It is the historic creation

And the collective enterprise of a people

Bodily, spiritual and moral

Over a span of generations.

Unlike many other states of the Northeast where there are constant complaints about outsiders – illegal migrants from neighbouring countries and non-locals from other parts of India – coming in to usurp the economic activities and livelihood options of the people of the state, the voices of discontent in Mizoram are relatively muted. For one, many of the illegal migrants to Mizoram come from nearby Burma, and they are ethnically allied to the Mizo tribes. Although there are sporadic complaints of anti-social activities and criminal conduct by these migrants, opposition to them is yet to reach the fever pitch anti-migrant oppositions have assumed in Assam or Manipur, where even ethnic cleansing exercises have been known to have occurred. The number of migrants who come from elsewhere in India is somewhat checked by the Inner Line Permit system, although in many cases this system has proved to exist in name alone. But what I found most admirable about the Mizos is the fierce pride with which they guard their language – anybody who does business in Mizoram has of necessity to learn the Mizo language. Their second option is to be able to communicate with the Mizos in English. Those who cannot communicate in English, have to be at least familiar with that pidgin form of Hindi which is so prevalent in most parts of the Northeast and is entirely different from the Hindi spoken in Northern India. Since I did not know much Mizo beyond a few basic words, I unleashed my Northeastern Hindi wherever English wouldn’t work, and tried to pick up a few phrases from the book my new found friend – nay soul sister – Thari gave me. “Chiangnu” she called me, which means something akin to a soul sister in Mizo and Pu Ruata explained to me that it was a privilege to be accepted into the close knit Mizo community so intimately. I was touched.

Commandant John and his wife Thari, and Pu Ruata and his family all made us feel extremely welcome, and in the dry state of Mizoram, we could never leave their places till we had drunk all the alcohol they offered us, or we would be offending their hospitality. And every time we met them, we would have to shake off their generous offer to spend the rest of our visit with them. We had to move on as we had decided to go see Champhai, a few kilometres from the Burma border. Unfortunately, our trip there was a disaster, with the roads being in a sad state due to continuous heavy rains and by the time we reached the Champhai tourist lodge, we were too exhausted to go any further to the border. The lodge itself was lovely but the rains prevented us from exploring the area around. Exhausting as it was, the highlight of the journey back and forth remained for us the two plain meals of boiled rice, green leaves, bamboo shoots and excellent pork – something Mizoram produces in plenty – at a small homely roadside hotel our driver introduced us to.

When we left Mizoram, we brought back with us a lot of bamboo shoots and smoked pork. I am crazy about the pork from that place; it is as fresh and tasty as pork from the Northeast – where it is the staple of many communities – can get. Little wonder that,because  from what I hear, many Mizos love their pigs so much they feed them cod liver oil to keep them healthy. We also brought back so many lovely memories with us, but what we did leave behind was a prayer that the rest of the Northeast should also experience the peace that Mizoram has earned for itself.

(Source: Muse India, Issue 25)

FIFTH WALL - Before the pale horse : Uddipana Goswami

The Mizo hills are lovely and they are peaceful. For nearly 25 years now since the formation of the state of Mizoram, the guns have been more or less silent in the hills – the same hills that once resonated with the outcry of violent insurgency against the State. This peace was however, bought at a very high price. Many of course know the history of how the mautam or bamboo flowering led to famine, and how political apathy towards the famine-afflicted hill people led to their rising up in insurrection. The process by which the Mizo people emerged from the shadow of the gun holds up a few lessons for the other nationalities in the region that are warring against the State. Ideally, it should also have given the State some valuable insights into conflict resolution here.

As it happens, the war-torn years have left their mark on the psyche of the people and on their way of life. The civilian bombings and village regrouping exercises for instance, have changed the traditional way of life – our guest for the Page Turners section this week, JV Lhuna, has written about those years of terror and strife.

A generation after, many young poets and writers from Mizoram are today trying to reclaim their lost heritage and tribal ethos, travelling back through their writings to the pre-Christian era even. They are the voices that are often heard in the various forums celebrating literature from the Northeast nowadays. This tendency, and the nostalgia for a past that can only be recreated in fictional narratives, is however not something entirely new to Mizo literature. We revisit a Mizo classic, the first ever novel written in the language, to see how history and folk tradition have always allured the creative mind.

Mizo literature has come a long way since the missionaries first gave the language a script. There are many problems however, and Padma Shri Laltluangliana Khiangte who has been active in the fields of literature and education in Mizoram for the past so many decades, speaks of a few in this issue of NELit review. The hope remains though, that the language should be included in the Eighth Schedule of the Indian Constitution. 

PAGE TURNERS - JV Hluna Recommends

Founder member of Mizoram People’s Conference, JV Hluna has authored five books in Mizo and English: Education and Missionaries in Mizoram, Church and Political Upheavals in Mizoram, Khandaih harhna, Zoram Walsh Missionary te chanchin,  Zawlkhawpui Senmei chan Ni and Brig T Sailo chanchin. He tells Sanjana Baruah that it is important to ground literary creations in reality and Northeast abounds in such writings

What does literature mean to you? Do you think it has any relevance in our day-to-day lives? According to you, does it have anything to do with all that is happening around us?

Literature as they say is an imitation of life and an expression of what is experienced and witnessed in our day to day lives. As such, it offers a reflection of life – or a picture of life as one among us has understood it. It also provides a lesson for those who are willing to learn.

How close is your relation with literature in general, and with literature of the Northeast in particular?

As a student of history I have been particularly interested in literature that displays strong historical links, even if they are creative works of fiction. Although this is a personal preference, I also believe it is important to ground our creations in reality. The literature of the Northeast is particularly fertile in this aspect, probably because of our many social and political trials. Two out of five among my own books are biographical while two others were recollections on events that took place in Mizoram.

What future do you see for literature from the Northeast?

The great increase in the volume of works published from the Northeast in itself is evidence of its growth and development. Literature from the Northeast is also being increasingly read by a wider audience. More and more people are now interested in learning more about the relatively unknown region and looking at what this unique region has produced. With the emergence of younger and more talented writers, literature from the Northeast will soon find a place of pride, especially if more books are translated to reach a wider audience. Also, we have to offer opportunities for comparative study.

Name one book that had a lasting impact on you. In what way?

The Bible. Whenever I read it, I found new teachings for life, for the individual as well for the nation.

What book would you recommend for our readers and why?

I would recommend the Bible. It is a good literary text. It also has historical importance and moreover, the book contains moral teachings.

CLOSE READING - Reflecting folk life : Ramlal Sinha

Ramlal Sinha takes a close look at DILS Lakshmindra Sinha’s collection of folktales that mirrors the community’s life accurately

WHEN a reader goes through any of these tales, she sees a vivid picture of what the rural Bishnupriya Manipuri life looked like and to some extent, still does

The folklore of a community comprises its traditional beliefs, myths, tales, and the practices of its individuals, being transmitted orally from generation to generation. If one wants to know a community better, the surest and most effective route to that is through understanding its folklore. Folktales are an essential component of folklore, and the oral tales of the Bishnupriya Manipuris are no exception to this.

Treasury of Bishnupriya Manipuri Folk Tales

DILS Lakshmindra Sinha (ed and trans)

Pouri, 2011

BD Tk. 200, 115 pages

Paperback/Fiction

The Bishnupriya Manipuri folktales, called Babeir Yari or Apabopar Yari (the tales of forefathers) by the community members, can be categorised as (1) Apangor Yari (tales about simpletons), (2) Raja-Rani baro Rajkumar-Rajkumarir Yari (tales about royal family members), (3) Bhootor Yari (tales on ghosts), (4) Soralelor Yari (tales about the Rain God, Indra and his seven scions), (5) Pahiyapolei baro Jibojantur Yari (tales of birds and beasts), (6) Porir Yari (fairy tales), (7) Etihasar Yari (tales from history), (8) Myth and Legends, (9) Funny Skits, (10) Thogoar Yari (tales of frauds), (11) Pabitra Yari (sacred tales), (12) mucky tales or mucky jokes and the like.

This collection and translation by DILS Lakshmindra Sinha, founder president of the Bishnupriya Manipuri Writers’ Forum (BMWF), has enough tales that depict the wit, intelligence, fancifulness and sense of humour that Bishnupriya Manipuris are richly endowed with. Poetic justice — an outcome in which vice is punished and virtue is rewarded in a peculiarly or ironically appropriate manner — is glaring in most of the tales in this collection. This indicates that the Vaishavite Bishnupriya Manipuri community respects justice and disapproves of logical fallacy entirely.

This collection comprising 26 folktales in English is the first of its kind among writers from the community. It gives readers the taste of a wide variety of folktales from Bishnupriya Manipuri folk literature, and from this point of view, the collection can be termed an inclusive collection. It is indeed a valuable documentation for posterity.

It is worth mentioning here that G A Grierson had collected three Bishnupriya Manipuri folktales from Manipur and included them in his Linguistic Survey of India (Vol. I, part IV, published in 1891) along with their English translations. Sinha has incorporated all the three folktales collected by Grierson. The author has also adopted and translated the folktale ‘The Lawyer and the Merchant’ that had been collected and published by Upendra Nath Guha in his Kacharer Itibritta’ (1971).

From my personal contact with Sinha, I have come to know the modus operandi followed by him while collecting these folktales. He had to wander from village to village and arrange some sort of story-telling competitions among old women, who got a meagre remuneration for each story told. Often, the same story would vary in its telling from region to region. Sinha has taken these variations into account while collating the tales.

The success that this collection has achieved is obvious from the fact that when a reader goes through any of the tales in it, she sees a vivid picture of what the rural Bishnupriya Manipuri life exactly looked like and to some extent, still does. Characters found in ‘The Idle Woman’, ‘The Silly Peasant’, ‘Two Brothers’, ‘Apang the Thief’, ‘The Tale of a Bitu-Titu’, ‘The Story of Pani’, ‘Gokulsena and His Wife’ and the like, look no different from rural Bishnupriya Manipuri folk.

This collection has added yet another feather to Sinha’s cap. He has as many as ten volumes of poetry to his credit already, besides a volume of short stories written in the Bishnupriya Manipuri language. Some of his poems have also been translated into Assamese, Bengali and Hindi. A select number of his short stories have also been published in English translation. Treasury of Bighnupriya Manipuri Folktales only goes to prove the versatility of this noted writer.

INKPOT - One Page Mahabharata and A Tale of Cities : Smriti Kumar Sinha

One-Page Mahabharata

THE otherwise sky-high, royal, gorgeous and long-living banyan tree was now a laughing stock. Its challenge was to reach the TV on the stand. Thanks to those who had cut its roots to size

SUNDAY morning. Cleansing his spectacles with a soft cloth, Narendra sat in front of the television in the drawing room.

“Has it started?” His wife, Surabala, asked him from the kitchen.

“No.”

Surabala was busy preparing breakfast. With the serial about to start, she was in a tearing hurry.

“Hasn’t it started yet?” She repeated.

“No, not yet. I will call you. The background music will let you know,” said Narendra.

At the very moment, a scooter stopped in front of their gate. Narendra peeped through the window.

“Hey, do you hear me? Sunanda and Surendra have arrived!” He rushed to open the door. “What a pleasant surprise! Welcome, welcome. I hardly believed that you would come,” said Narendra.

Surabala, on the other hand, poured two more cups of water in the kettle. In haste, she made a couple of omelettes too.

“Has it started?” Surendra too questioned as he set foot in the verandah.

“About to. We too are waiting,” said Narendra.

While Surendra sat in the drawing room, Sunanda went straight to the kitchen to meet Surabala. After a while, the two women came out with tea and snacks to the drawing room.

“Have you lost your way and landed up here?” Surabala took a dig at Surendra.

Surendra smiled and replied: “Oh no, not like that. We have been planning, you know. It’s to have a glimpse of your newly-built house and, while at it, to enjoy The Mahabharata serial together.”

“It’s nice that you have come,” said Narendra.

“Maybe the birth of Krishna will be screened today.”

“How can that be? In the last episode, just the fourth child was born, while Krishna was the eighth.”

Sunanda, on the other hand, had her eyes on the bonsai banyan tree near the TV. She studied it keenly and said: “Where have you brought this bonsai from?”

“From the horticulture firm at Zoo Road.”

“Beautiful! With its prop roots hanging down, it looks like the old gigantic one near the Mahabhairab temple.”

They all burst into laughter. The otherwise sky-high, royal, gorgeous and long-living banyan tree was now a laughing stock. Its challenge was to reach the TV on the stand. Thanks to those who had cut its roots to size.

The day’s episode of the Mahabharata started. The room wore a mantle of silence. At first, a recap of the last episode was telecast… Daibaki gave birth to her fourth baby in captivity. She was making efforts not to let the guards on duty in the prison know of the newborn. However, a spying guard came to know of the infant and passed the message to King Kangs late at night. The day’s episode started… A beam of light from the dawning sun illuminated a corner of the prison cell. Daibaki, who had to pass a sleepless night, was taken aback by the light. Bewitched by the newborn, Vasudeva, on the other hand, kept looking at the baby in bewilderment. A restless Daibaki was on a desperate lookout for a safe hideout, but to no avail. The guards were about to reach her cell. She was crestfallen when she thought of the fate of her baby when her brother Kangs would…

“Let’s do something. It’s morning. Where to hide the baby?” Daibaki said, and brought Vasudeva back to his senses. He kept looking at her and the newborn. Raising his chained hands up, a helpless Vasudeva kept praying at the beam of sunlight. The oracle went that the eighth son of Daibaki would be their saviour. Oracles always come true, but it’s all the same to parents, whether first or eighth. “Oh God! What an ordeal is this!” Vasudeva rued, and kept gazing at the sky, a piece of which could be seen through the small hole.

“King of Kings, His Highness, King of Mathura, Maharaj Kangs is c-o-m-i-n-g…” an alert sounded by a royal guard. A frenetic Daibaki kept running from one corner to the other to hide the baby. Her chained legs were bleeding profusely. At last she lay on her side and started lactating the baby. She pretended to be oblivious to Kangs, who entered the room and said: “Daibaki, hand over the baby.”

“Baby? What baby? There isn’t any.”

“Don’t hide it. I came with a confirmed tip-off.”

“I’m bowing down to you, spare the life of an innocent infant,” she said. Kangs was bewildered, looking at his most affectionate sister. But he soon came to his senses, and thought: “That can’t be. For my life, the death of Daibaki’s babies is a must. Defending oneself is no sin.” He laughed in her face and took away the infant from her lap, raised it up and smashed it against the wall. Fresh blood kept dripping down the wall…

A commercial break followed. The TV’s volume was low. Pin-drop silence enveloped the drawing room. Only the tic-tac, tic-tac… monotone of the wall-clock continued.

“Detestable!” Sunanda broke the silence indignantly.

“No character in the Mahabharata is as sadistic as that of Kangs,” Surabala remarked.

A commercial advertisement was playing on the screen. Silently the ad showed the preparation of tasty chocolates by the milk collected cooperatively by the women of Gujarat. A success story! The ad, however, failed to accommodate the tale of the calves, deprived of mothers’ milk. 

“A sadist, you know,” taking a piece of the omelette, Narendra continued, “It’s the height of cruelty. For the sake of his own life, so many innocents were slaughtered. Horrible! The director has done the job well, symbolically showing the patches of blood on the wall…a balanced shot.”

“Wait, wait. The omelette is delicious. The taste isn’t like that of firm eggs,” said Sunanda.

“Yeah, we have reared a pair of local fowls. You know, it’s a must for our protein deficiency,” said Surabala.

The commercial break was over. The serial resumed. The fade-in on the screen was the prison of Kangs. Bereaved and wailing Daibaki was slowly losing her senses. A helpless Vasudeva was sprinkling water on her eyes, and kept on massaging her head as a solace. Thus the Mahabharata episode of the day ended there. But a lively discussion on the character, Kangs, continued, till Surendra and Sunanda got up to depart.

“Why have you got up? Let’s have lunch together,” Narendra proposed."

“No, not today. We will, some other day. We have an appointment with the doctor today. Why don’t you hold a feast? We expect such a treat as you have completed your house,” said Surendra.

“It’s great. We will hold one on a holiday,” Narendra said.

“Wait, wait. In the doctor’s chamber too, we will be kept on waiting. Let’s have a look at the newly-built house. We too have a plan to erect one,” said Sunanda.

“It’s our pleasure to show you around.” Narendra and Surabala led the guests to the dining room, the kitchen, bedrooms, the in-house mandir ‒ one by one. The bamboo basket in front of the images of conjugal Radha-Krishna was full of freshly plucked flowers. Half-bloomed or about-to-bloom flowers hanging from their necks reeked off the mundamala with chopped-off baby heads! What was dazzling on the cheeks? Tears? All of them bowed down together.

Chatting about the vastu of the house, they all stepped into the kitchen garden in the backyard. Narendra and Surabala briefed the guests with all the details of the house. Surendra and Sunanda were glued. The blueprint of a dream house seemed to flash in their eyes. Adjacent to the left corner of the boundary walls stood a small poultry shed. Its roof was of abandoned tin cans of mustard oil, embossed with the trade-mark, Tripti ‒ complete satisfaction! The walls were of wire mesh. A pair of snow-white fowls was inside.

Not one or two, but a brigade of four was approaching them. The scared hen in captivity became frenetic. She moved from corner to corner fluffing out her feathers, shedding many of them. She poked the cock and warned it of the impending danger. Finding no way out, the mother hen went round the just laid egg ‒ once, twice, many times, in quick succession. At last, she covered the egg with her bosom and started incubating it. Like every other day, the cock kept gazing up, with its beak pushed out through a grid of the mesh. He kept gazing at the fragment of the sky, looked like a rag of a denim, seen through the juncture of the two moss-covered walls. It gazed and kept waiting, maybe still with the faint hope of an oracle.

 

A Tale of Cities

 

YES, it’s a tale of cities, not of one or two. Take Mumbai, Chennai, Kolkata, Guwahati…as a case study ‒ it’s the same basic storyline. From Google earth, let’s zoom in on any of the cities, say Guwahati…

It’s a sweltering noon. It’s the hustle and bustle of city life, with honking cars lined up. The road on the left leads one to Fancy Bazar. A billboard stands erect on the right. Rich in carbohydrate, vitamins and minerals ‒ reads the advertisement of a baby food. No substitute for breastfeeding, maxim of the WHO, written in a small font size, almost invisible. Oh no! What a stark contrast! A corpse, on the footpath! Could be of a mother. A baby is sucking its breasts, breathlessly. A bagging bowl is lying near, upside down. The crying baby is standing up. Limping… a baby boy. A mass of tangled and matted hair on its head.

Mercy coins keep falling from the pedestrians chatting over mobile phones and commuters busy surfing Internet ‒ broad band Wi-Fi. A digital divide! What else can they do? The kid starts walking over the coins, making thuds. The metallic sound stops. It looks at the other side ‒ a glimmer of hope. Crossing the main road!

The speeding cars break to a halt, with an awful screeching. Oh God! You’re really omnipresent. The kid has crossed the road. The swamping traffic has resumed free flow. The kid is craning his neck to have a better view of a green hoarding. A rhino is grazing in foliage of wild grasses in the Kaziranga National Park ‒ a tourism department’s ad with a tag on the top ‘Incredible India!’ Incredible indeed!

Limping a few steps further, the kid has stood in front of another hoarding. A few kids of his age are playing with colourful toys. ‘Kids’ Dreamland’, an English medium nursery school. A red missed ball is falling down. The kid on the footpath has forgot his stomachache, and extended his hand to catch it ‒ beyond his reach.

The crying baby is limping ahead, thumping against the roadside wall. Stopped! An eye-catching cartoon on the wall. A boy and a girl are playing see-saw sitting on a long and striped wood pencil! Written atop is ‘Let’s all go to school’… Sarba Shiksha Abhiyan… a government mission. The kid has rushed to catch the pencil ‒ a fake one!

It keeps limping till another poster ‒ gloomy orphan faces, matted hair. Tears dripping down their cheeks. Known faces? It has turned back and stood. On the backdrop, fellow faces and a tag ‒ UNICEF HELP. The kid is slowly extending his untutored hands.“Stop it. I’m here,” a street teen has rushed to the spot in a whirlwind. He has held the hand of the kid. A mobile phone in hand, his is a known face. A beggar-turned service provider through his mobile public call office for phoneless pedestrians. An innovation, thanks to Mahammad Yunus!

The kid bursts in hunger. The teen has taken him to a pilfered water pipe, offered him a palm-full. No, not a substitute. A solace? Relinquenched, the kid is clinging, a passionate hug in return ‒ an age-old bond of eMotion amidst eBusiness, eLearning and eGovernannce hoardings.

Let’s zoom in on, say…

 

Note: The story is especially dedicated to famous economist Prof. Mahammad Yunus, Nobel Laureate from Bangladesh, who changed the lives of street children and the poor of South-East Asia.

Smriti Kumar Sinha teaches at Tezpur University and has authored three anthologies of short-stories in Bishnupriya Manipuri.

PAGE TURNERS - DILS LK Sinha Recommends

Dils LK Sinha is the president of the Nikhil Bishnupriya Manipuri Sahitya Parisad and has authored numerous poems, books and plays. Talking to Gitanjali Das, he says that he fears the extinction of his language

What does literature mean to you? Do you think it has any relevance in our day-to-day lives? According to you, does it have anything to do with all that is happening around us?

Dils LK Sinha

Literature is the reflection of life in terms of humanity. It is a means to the ultimate truth in the inner soul of man. Through poetry, I try to spread knowledge about the Bishnupriya Manipuris, which is on the verge of extinction, and at the same time I try to express feelings which are hard to share in other mediums. Literature mirrors  society. We learn about things that happened in the past through books. In the same way, our posterity will find out what we feel now through our writings. Everything happening around us, from terrorism to price rise, finds an outlet through literature.

How close is your relation with literature in general, and with literature of the Northeast in particular?

I won’t classify literature because I feel it is general. The word mother, in whichever language you utter, addresses the same person  everywhere. I feel folk literature in Assamese, Bodo, Rabha, Mising, Manipuri, Mizo and others are very developed. I have a collection of Bishnupriya Manipuri folktales to my credit. Folk literature is a very interesting genre. It attracts readers of all ages. Bishnupriya Manipuri is a marginalised community, but we feel we are very much a part of literature in general.

What future do you see for literature from the Northeast?

The future of Northeast literature is very bright. With book fairs like the 13th North East Book Fair being held and books focusing on the region being published, the future ahead is bright. However, I fear that Bishnupriya Manipuri literature will become extinct. More and more elite litterateurs and scholars are joining our cause. But our literature is not as developed as Assamese, Bodo or Mizo, because it does not get financial support from any quarters. Moreover, there is no political patronage from the state. People associated with Bishnupriya Manipuri literature have translated many books into this language. The Gita has been translated a number of times by different writers since 1920. We are working with zeal without pondering much about how the future unfolds.

Name one book that had a lasting impact on you. In what way?

Rabindranath Tagore’s Gitanjali, TS Eliot’s poem ‘The Wasteland’ and the Upanishads have made an impact on me. They have given my life some sort of a direction. Eliot’s poem is an amalgamation of the East and the West. His philosophy of life has really inspired me. He has taken so much from different cultures.

What book would you recommend for our readers and why? 

I would suggest they read the Upanishads and the Vedas. I don’t feel they are religious books. They reflect love for humanity. I would also ask them to read Eliot. Terrorism and the emptiness of our society are evident in his poetry.

FRONTISPIECE - Why I am a poet : Champalal Sinha

Bishnupriya Manipuri poet, Champalal Sinha, traces the origins of his poetic consciousness

Cultivation of poetry, study of poetry, service to the nation, society and the like are all that my life is exactly about. I am still alive because I was attracted to all these virtues at the right age. Many a cyclone of distress, shock and penury blew over my head, and keeps blowing even now; but against all odds, I am indifferent and unshaken only by virtue of my cultivation of poetry, study of poetry, and service to the nation and society. Among all these, cultivation and study of poetry inspire me the most to be resolutely self-confident.

Champalal Sinha, Poet

The study of any branch of literature shows one the right path of life, gives immense pleasure, inspires one to work and leads towards light. However, no other branch of literature can be a parallel to poetry in providing one with the pleasure of creation, awakening in him a sense towards his work or duty, and making him rich in metaphysical wisdom, which is why poetry is the origin of any literature in the world. Though I was inspired immensely to write poetry by the melodious songs of Ojha Senarup (a poet and singer of repute), I was attracted to poetry since childhood. My Baba (papa), more often than not, read out and sang the poems of Rabindranath Tagore, Nazrul Islam, Jogindranath Sarkar, Rajanikanta Sen, Kusumkumari, Priyangbada, Mankumari and others. He also sang the songs of the Azad Hind Fauj and that of the Swadeshi movement. Baba was blessed with a melodious voice, and was enviably skilled in the art of tune, note, measure, speed, ascend, descend, and such other nitty-gritties of songs and music. That way, if I say that his name Surasingh or Surachandra is significant enough, it will in no way be an exaggeration.

It was a Friday in 1966/67. It was my birthday. After his catnap in the afternoon, Baba  washed his face and sat on a low floor stool on the verandah. He yawned and stretched. I was lying prone on a cot near the left side of the door, and reading. “Master, fill a hookah of tobacco, and give me. Where is your mom?” Baba said, and yawned again. Baba used to call me master, fondly.

I filled a hookah with tobacco and handed over the hubble-bubble to him.

“Fan it with your mouth till smoke comes out,” Baba said, and started to hum a song, that, after a while, came out in a free-flowing voice —

Aamaar saadh naa mitilo, aashaa naa purilo,

Sakali phuraaye jaai maa…

(My desire remained unfulfilled, hopes remained unmet,

Mother (Shakti), let me go exhausting all)

The lyrics of the song, its sentiment, meaning, Baba’s sweet voice, the sweetness of the tune and the accurate maintenance of musical note, time and measure kept me spellbound within moments, and an imaginary world started to engross me.

Tears kept dripping down Baba’s cheeks, and he was wiping them out while puffing the hubble-bubble. He started another song —

Brajeswari Raaikishori

Aamaai dayaa karla naa

Aamaar sanger sangi sabaai gelo

Aamaar jaowa holo naa…

Brajeswari Raaikishori

Aamaai dayaa karla naa

Aamaar sanger sangi sabaai gelo

Aamaar jaowa holo naa…

(Radharani of Brajabrindavan has not been generous on me. While all my colleagues have got her blessings, and departed, I have got stuck)

Tears kept dripping down his cheeks.

Baba was a man of a contemplative turn of mind. He was too emotional. I have inherited a great deal of his emotion and sentimentalism and perhaps that could have been the true inspirations which inclined me towards poetry.

Be that as it may, I shut the book remembering that, since my mother was not around, it was my duty to offer Baba a cup of tea. I rushed to the hearth, ignited the fire from paddy husks kept nearby as firelighters and put the kettle over it. The remnant of the song, on the other hand, kept humming in my ears.

I was filtering tea with a wire mesh. “Master, where does the smoke come from?” Baba asked me.

“I’m preparing tea,” I responded.

“Hari, Hari! (Oh God! Dear me!) As if my throat is wet. Bring it soon. I have to go to the front hamlet. I have something important there.” Baba left for the hamlet after taking tea. Baba is no more, but his sweet voice still overflows on the verandah, the yard and the entire house. Wherever I tread, I hear his sweet voice that still touches me. Why will I not be a poet?! Why will I not write poems!

Heirloom

I am not immortal

Like everyone else,

What will I leave behind

As my parting gifts?

Who knows

when will the void

A shedding flower leaves

On the branch be filled?

I know not who my heir is,

Or would be.

As heirloom, I have only

My unfulfilled wishes,

Pen, papers, rivers,

Canals, streams, the sky,

Factories, machines,

protests, agitation,

Love, affection,

And the entire world.

I will take my lethargy

With me, of course.

Oh, my ‘heir’,

Have you born, or not?

I am waiting for you,

Day in, day out.