zozem

My window

2012-01-26T03:07:00.000-08:00

faces west,
frames a patch of sky
grotesque buildings
a few trees.

Some years ago
the scene included
hills beyond;
but the monster structures
swallowed them;
gorging, ever growing
they’re devouring the trees
nibbling at the sky.

The sky at times looks
dreary gray
or ominous dark,
at times deep azure
where one’s spirit may soar.
And sometimes set ablaze
at sunset, flares up
into glorious multi-coloured flame.

What your window shows
i know not,
but dearly hope
you see a span of sky
and way beyond.

At last!

2011-12-01T23:38:00.000-08:00

(Being a little bookish)

For the last few months, i’ve been trying to work at a small book. ‘Trying to work’ is a deliberate choice of words here. There were days i sat for hours at the comp but came out with no more than a few lines. And oodles of distraction cropped up once the project was on.
Some travels, not out of choice though pleasant, had to be done. They took nearly two months’ time off writing when added together. And then came a lot of writing work at the job on subjects totally alien to me, which meant a good deal of time spent on research. Besides, daily chores like cooking, laundry, et al still had to be done. Enjoyable activities, but they delayed my book project and i was left frantic with the deadline for the ms looming. Left and right, i requested friends for prayer.
So it’s done now, and i can attend to my blog again and maybe soon visit others’ blogs to catch up. The book, by the way, is a retelling of the life history of Christ portrayed in the Gospels, in the Narrative Non-Fiction genre. It’s chiefly meant for people who haven’t been too keen on reading the Bible. Of course, the others can read it too. GLS is going to publish it, hopefully before Christmas .
In the last week of September, a book of poems titled Roots And Wings, An Anthology of Indian Women Writing in English, was released in Trivandrum. It contains the works of 42 poets from all over the country, and some abroad. The oldest contributor was born in 1929, the youngest in 1987. 10 of my poems are included, but i couldn’t attend the function though we were in Kerala the week before.
And this Christmas, i’m planning to be in Mizoram, Aizawl or elsewhere, not yet decided. Wonder if some bloggers will be there to meet!

another day

2011-08-18T23:17:00.000-07:00

in middle of muddled dream
truncated by alarm’s scream
you open bleary eyes
to yet dark new day
cawing craws announce.

you turn upon the bed
to give a kick start
a mug of black coffee
hot and strong.

you draw the curtains back
look out on grey dawn.
time to resume
mad rush race against time.

for few quiet moments
book open
on your knees
catch a glimpse of
divinity.

wild flowers

2011-08-11T21:17:00.000-07:00

wild flowers on wayside
purple, white
invite a closer look.

but at 120 kmph
(the speed of older men)
one can’t.

must we move so fast?
i’d like to travel
with no thought
of destination.

chicago

2011-07-29T00:45:00.000-07:00

chicago, i am drunk
on your sun
green rolling slopes
daisies spread out in
wild abandon
blue blue lake.

long ago here
fiery preacher
moody
sought to save
from inferno
many dead
in awful fire
lost wealth and home
built lives.

and chicago, i am drunk
on your sun.

Hello, Mumbai!

2011-07-22T06:44:00.000-07:00

Mumbai, you did not mother me
nor were we neighbours ever.
Coming to live with you
wasn’t my choice either.
When i arrived you didn’t welcome
insignificant me
though the reception, i like to think
was not hostile.

You are a grand but not uppity lady
expansive in an impersonal way.
Some call you ‘soulless’
but that isn’t fair;
it’s just that you’re too busy,
too overworked to be
sentimental.

Though you aren’t my dream city
I like you fairly well,
we may not become best friends
but we’ll get along just fine.
So hello Mumbai, pleased to meet you,
hope you feel the same!

One Sunday

2011-02-25T02:32:00.000-08:00

There’s an old funny song my kids used to love about ‘Jack the Peg’ who had an extra leg:

"Wherever I go through rain or snow
The people always let me know
'There’s Jack the Peg…
With an extra leg'"
sings the character.

Guess many of us ‘chinky’ Indians get the same kind of treatment in some parts of the country. It used to be like that in Kerala where we went for vacations. People on the streets would turn back to stare. Same in Madras where we stayed a few months. Eyes would glare till i was tempted to poke with a finger to see if they could blink! It was like that in Hyderabad. And so on.

It’s not so bad these days, at least not here in Mumbai. I didn’t get it bad in Bangalore either. Can’t say whether things have changed in general, or it’s just the cities.

And in this church we attend in Santa Cruz, i even forget that i’m different. Meetings are in English, mixed with Hindi. The members are from diverse communities like Anglo-Indians, Goans, Maharashtrians, Mangalorians, Malayalees, Tamilians, Telugus, etc. I’m the only snub-nosed, chinky-eyed, yellow-faced one in the crowd. But the loving, caring folks make me forget that i hail from a remote place and have alien looks and ways.

But one Sunday it was brought back to me in a funny way.

After the meeting, a little NRI boy came up to me and said, “Hello, i’m J, i’m eleven years old. I’m from Dubai….”
“Hello, i’m M,” i responded, and we got chatting.

After a while he asked, “Are you Chinese?”
“No,” i replied.
“Are you Filipino?”
“No.”
“What are you then?”
“I’m Indian” i said, curious about how he was going to tackle the question.
“But how come you look like Chinese or Filipino?” he came back.
“Many Indians look like i do,” i told him, still playing the game.
Then he got clever. “What language do you speak with your parents at home?”
I finally told him i’m a Mizo, from Mizoram, a state in Northeast India. I asked him to look up a map and find Mizoram in it.

Hope J’s knowledge of Geography or Social Studies improved a bit that day. Such a sweet kid!

Peace with my dad

2011-02-07T06:55:00.000-08:00

My dad was an army man and a strict disciplinarian. Growing up under him wasn’t easy. And once I was grown up, I couldn’t agree with Dad about a lot of things. Not daring to confront him, I would gripe and gripe behind his back.

Towards the end of the year 2000, I was at a camp for women. At a session, one of the resource persons spoke about how we tend to have unresolved anger against our parents, especially our fathers. She gave us an assignment: “Now everyone go back to your room and write a letter to your father.”

I spent a long time reflecting about my dad and my relationship with him. And with a lot of tears I wrote the following letter:

‘Dear Dad,
I’m so sorry that I have been carrying grudges against you in my heart for words you said to me in anger and human weakness. Yes, you often lost control of your temper, like I do with my own children. How mean and unkind of me to remember all those and still seethe over them! Forgive me, Dad. Forgive me, Lord Jesus.

I’m now thankful to you and to God that you gave me birth, that you and Mum were alive to bring me up, that you did so to the best of your ability and knowledge. I thank you for bringing me up to godliness, to ethical living.

I thank you for loving me, though you were never verbally open about it. I thank you for that lovely red Kashmiri coat you bought me when I was seven. It had pictures of owls embroidered along the button lines. Whenever I wore it I could feel your love embracing me.

But somehow, along the way, I grew hard and ungrateful. I even convinced myself that you don’t really love me. I blew up your faults to large proportions and undermined your virtues. I’m so sorry, Dad, and I love you.’

I’m so glad I made my peace with my dad before we re-located to far away Bangalore in 2004. We visited him before leaving. This is how he was:

When we visited him next in the summer of 2006, he had become like this:

Then he passed away just after midnight between 6th and 7th of February, 2007.

Beyond imagining

2011-01-20T08:37:00.000-08:00

Moonlight streamed into a poet’s bedroom. When asleep, the poet dreamt of a charming silver world. Hills tipped with silver light, birds with silver beaks, everything touched with silver. Then the poem ‘The Silver World’ ends with the stanza:

'But I was glad when I awoke
And peeped this morning through the pane
To see no more a silver world
But find my golden one again.'

We often talk of ‘dreams’—whether waking daydream or of sleep time, as something sweet and desirable. But just think, can any of those dreams be better than reality? Or, say, a landscape painting. However great the artist, can the painted picture be as good as the real scenery?

And to think that the scenery is still so beautiful despite human beings destroying this earth for so many centuries—how beautiful it must have been when it was newly created! And if the reality of this world is so much better than our most fantastic wishful thinking, how much more the world beyond! A country singer sings about heaven as:

'Made by God alone
According to His perfect plan…'

How beautiful such a place must be!

In the story The Silver Chair, one of the Narnian Chronicles by CS Lewis, the wicked witch abducted Prince Rillian and kept him imprisoned underground. With her magic powers she made him forget his family, his people and his country. Aslan the Lion sent a girl, a boy and a marshwiggle to rescue him.

The prince came back to his senses, he and his rescuers were about to escape. Then the witch tried her tricks to make them doubt the existence of any world beyond the dark underground. She made them feel that the country above ground with its sun, trees, grass, moon and stars, and Aslan himself, were only dreams.

Puddlegum the marshwiggle made a sane reply: “Suppose we have only dreamed …. Suppose this black pit of a kingdom of yours is the only world. Well it strikes me as a pretty poor one…. That’s why I’m going to stand by the play world. I’m on Aslan’s side….”

Just like it’s difficult to explain the real world above ground to those living in the underworld, it’s hard to imagine the beauty and glory of heaven. Same with the terror and horror of hell.

The truths revealed to us are too wonderful for human invention. The nature of God and his plan of salvation for mankind through Christ are all beyond our imagination.

‘No eye has seen, no ear has heard, and no mind has imagined what God has prepared for those who love him.’—Bible.

Welcome, new decade!

2011-01-06T21:45:00.000-08:00

So the new year's here. And a brand new decade. Welcome!

We read that many expecting parents wanted their babies to be born on 1.1.11. Well, our next wedding anniversary falls on 11.1.11. Neat, isn't it?

A new year is a time to look at the past and the future. The last decade was a time of a lot of changes and movements for me. A large part of it accompanied by deep sorrow that still continues. But also much joy and blessings.

As for the future, i look to it with hope. Not because of circumstances, but because of Christ who's in charge of my life. It's such a thrill to think i'll live for eternity with him in heaven. That because he loves us so much, he gave his life to save us all.

poetry

2010-11-18T22:31:00.000-08:00

it falls with morning dew
it drops like feathers shed
and sails as silent as the moon.

it whispers in the breeze
it whistles in the wind,
may blow and roar with thunderous storm.

sometimes i sing
of flowers around my feet;
at times the muse may roam
on fields beyond the farthest stars
to pearly gates and golden streets.

i love to dance to merry tunes,
to hop and frolic on downy green grass,
but stone weight in the heart
iron shackles on the feet
may drag me down.

my music softly sighs
or groans with anguished soul,
may plumb the depth of darkness
or view a rainbow in the sky.

the canvas may be small
portraying a ladybird,
or seek to paint the universe
with myriad colours, bold strokes.

in school of poetry learners can explore
the backyard, mountains, oceans, outer space and more.

weather

2010-11-09T01:28:00.000-08:00

the sky is sullen today
the woods are quite dark
the fields take a different hue
even flowers fail to cheer
bright swords flash in the clouds
rain beats hard on the windshield
the way ahead is wrapped in mist
where has yesterday’s sun gone?

the clouds are lifting now
a patch of blue sky shows
the brooding trees raise up their heads
the sun will shine again.

lost songs

2010-10-14T00:11:00.000-07:00

In the buzz and din of daily existence
I have lost my music, I have lost my song;
In the rush and crush of scurrying crowding
They have gone and stolen away.

Gone is the dawn’s whispered melody,
Piano of morning, noonday’s violin,
Afternoon’s soothing tune on the flute,
Twilight’s tinkling bells.

Gone is the choir of evening
Cricket singing soprano;
Late night’s sound of silence
Is mute, muffled by city noise.

With all those voices grown dumb
I have lost my music, I have lost my song.

hanging on

2010-09-30T21:30:00.000-07:00

hanging on the brink
of the rock cliff
over abyss
i could hurl headlong
into the pit
of eternal night.
i’m hanging.

flight

2010-08-31T21:49:00.000-07:00

it’s time to prepare
for goodbyes,
tie loose ends
shed extras
concentrate
on the point
the diamond tip
of being.

time to bid goodbye
to pain, joy, hope
concentrate, concentrate
on the one
the point

and so take wing
to the unknown yet known.

lost

2010-08-13T02:20:00.000-07:00

lost on these mountains,
night has caught me.

they say there’s help
on the mountains

so i cry out
cry out

“help elp ep ep eh....”
stone walls echo
breaking eerie silence.

silence.

some more pics

2010-07-30T05:13:00.000-07:00

Our beautiful two months’ excursion has come to an end. It’s back to the buzz and grind of Mumbai now. But a few reminders of the trip here.

In Native American section of Smithsonian museum, Washington DC, we saw some weaving with striking similarity to Mizo designs.

We bought a miniature Cherokee Indian drum from a craft shop in East Virginia. It looks very much like Mizo drum.

Inside Luray Caverns in East Virginia, there is a wonder world of fantastic stalactite formations.

When we came back to Canada, before leaving for India, we took a last walk on this route:

And had this dinner:

Then on our way home.

fireworks plus

2010-07-13T15:30:00.000-07:00

21st June night was the annual fireworks over Detroit river. It’s a joint show from three boats by Canada and US. We drove to the river side from Windsor, carrying a sleeping bag and loads of munches and drinks, and settled down on a spot.

A carnival atmosphere there, and for the first time after landing in Canada i get to see a big crowd of people.

After quite a wait, the sun began to set.

It was 9 o’clock by then. In about an hour, it became dark and the show started. It was grand. Here are some of the shots.

Then to US--New York and New Jersey. We went out on a ferry.

Ellis island.

Here’s us in the boat.

Heading towards the Statue of Liberty.

The same night we drove to Time Square, New York. This is how it looked after 11 in the night.

They say the city never sleeps.

Later an outing to Manhattan Central Park

by Metro.

And then to Jones Beach on Atlantic Ocean

Getting quite wet

Followed by a big Mexican dinner.

Life is fun at times, isn’t it?

I’m immensely thankful to God, people from churches, and family members, who gave us this wonderful vacation

trip pics

2010-06-20T13:06:00.000-07:00

One thing that hit me about Canada is the houses, quiet clean green streets and spaces. In that sense it feels like the land of dreams.

Here’s our sister’s house we stayed in in Waterloo.

We are now staying in this house of our brother in Windsor:

This is the street and house just across:

It’s so good going for walks in places like these:

Niagara Falls was overwhelming.

We had to wear raincoats for going in a boat under the falls.

One day we went to Farmers’ Market.

We watched a cattle auction. I was horrified to think that this was how they may have auctioned human slaves in olden days, though not in Canada.

And bought a tiny musical instrument from this Native American.

In the afternoon we went on Lake Ontario in a relative’s boat like one of these on the right corner:

We towed this little machine (skidoo) along:

We took turns to pillion ride on it, with Ron driving. My turn came too.

It was huge fun.

The other day a friendly neighbor invited me to drop in. Her friends came visiting too.

And so on. But it’s getting too long, more later.

canada arrival

2010-06-03T08:25:00.000-07:00

at last i set foot
on this land
dreamt of in childhood
uncle tom’s cabin days.

a brother’s bounty
bright summer sunshine
pansies at sister’s door
welcome us to waterloo.

a treat of quiet streets
brick and timber houses
blue spruces in backyard
salmon barbecued on cedar wood

and aah, treat of treats—
niagara falls!

Eagle and Sparrow

2010-05-14T04:29:00.000-07:00

Eagle said to her sparrow friend
"Come on, let's fly;
Fly and soar, up on high‚
Beyond the hills, beyond the sea,
Let's see what's there to see.”

Sparrow replied
"Farewell, my friend
Fly up high
To the sky.
How can I
Sparrow with broken wing
Keep up with you?"

“Don’t worry, my little friend,
I’ll carry you on my back.
Tuck yourself in my feathers
And hold fast.
So together we will fly
On my wings.”

Parting

2010-04-29T03:08:00.000-07:00

He’s left her and gone.
She’s all alone
in the nest they built together
furnished with Persian carpet,
upholstered sofa set,
a marble statuette,
and countless bric-a-brac.

Every item
reminds her of him –
bead curtain bought
on a holiday in Goa,
terra-cotta candle stands
from Pondicherry,
giant conch shells
from Juhu beach.

She goes up the terrace,
watches the sun set
beyond Bannerghetta.
She waits
with breathless longing
to join him
beyond sunset.

locust years

2010-03-24T06:10:00.000-07:00

honey in a broken jar
summer breeze caught in a net
flowed blowed away
towards lunglo* stream.

treasured glowing golden dreams
sunlit days and starlit nights
rolled scrolled away
never will return.

but the silver strands in hand
pretty pattern yet may weave
hide the scars
of locust years.

*Lunglo is a stream on way to the world of the dead in Mizo myth. It was believed that once the dead people drink from this stream, they forgot their earlier life in the world of the living.

Verse or Worse?

2010-02-26T23:24:00.000-08:00

On relocating to Mumbai in 2007, i got this job that’s quite interesting in its own way though the salary isn’t great. It involves editing, writing articles, book reviews and synopsis. This means i can browse, and sometimes even read books at work. I also get a chance to interview some personalities and travel once in a while.

But of late, i find myself often looking back with nostalgia at my teaching days in Bangalore. My old students have all graduated, some are in good jobs, some married, and some doing their higher studies. But in my mind, they remain those young students—sometimes irritating and sometimes amusing. Here’s a sample of a mixture of both.

While doing 18th Century Poetry (Alexander Pope) with the Literature students, i gave them a slightly crazy assignment to drive home the points we studied. I told them to compose a verse in Iambic Pentameter Couplets. They claimed to have understood what we did in class, but when they submitted their assignments it was disappointing.

So the next day, in order to challenge them, i put up the following verse on the board:

Teacher’s Woe

I tell my students “Heroic couplets write”
But come unheroic lines by oversight;
Forgetting even what’s an Iambic foot,
Like aimless arrows in the dark they shoot.
Whereas I tell them “Please Satire pen,
Your subject may be college life or men,”
They wander far and wide in dreamlands wild
Away quite off the mark and get me riled.

Why do these folks ignore what they are told?
Is it because their hearts are hard and cold?
But no, that can’t be so; they’re sweet and kind,
And yes, the reason is not hard to find;
It’s just because they find it hard to keep
Awake in class, for poetry makes them sleep.

They were quite surprised and asked, “When did you write it?”

“Last night, while cooking” i said.

It was my turn to be surprised at their next so out of the point question: “What were you cooking, Ma’am?”

Travels, a book release and...

2010-02-04T05:03:00.000-08:00

Due to laziness and busyness, i haven’t been able to update on my doings for quite a while. Well, 2009 ended and 2010 began with travels. November-December of last year we (hubby & me) went to Northeast—Guwahati and other parts of Assam, Shillong, Aizawl & Lunglei on a combination of work and other visits. On first of Jan we set out for Kerala on a week’s trip. And later the same month we were in Bangalore for three days. Right now i’m almost travel weary though we had great times in all the trips.

To avoid making it a long post, i’ll talk of only a few things that happened during these times. I had hopes of meeting some of the bloggers and the ‘elusive poet’ Mona in Aizawl but it didn’t work out. But i did meet another ‘elusive poet’ Lalzuahliana, who hid his face with a book when we tried to take his photo. But he’s really worth meeting and we had a good time discussing poetry.

Dr. Laltluangliana Khiangte invited us to dinner. One of the invitees was a journalist guy who, on seeing me for the first time, exclaimed “Hei hi maw Malsawmi Jacob!” (Is this----!) and walked out of the room. He came back only after dinner was served. Obviously badly disappointed with my looks!:(

And then on 28th Jan we had a book release at Crossword, Bandra, Mumbai. It’s a collection of poems, short stories and interviews of women writers in Assamese, Bengali, Garo, Manipuri and Mizo languages, translated into English, published by SPARROW and titled 'Being Carried Far Away'. Sadly, i was the only contributor present and had to read out my poems in Mizo and English. Some were quite fascinated by the Mizo language sound though they couldn’t understand a word. One of my poems i read is given here in Mizo and English. I’m quite nervous to show this, as some of you may snigger and chuckle at the poor translation, but here it is.

Kawl zawl Bungpui

A khi ral tiang mual lian,
Chhaktiang Kawl daiah khian
Bungpui a ngir an ti.

Belh ve ka nuam ngei e
Zing zin theih chang teh se—
Her chhuak ang maw, tur ni?

Hmasanga pi leh pu
An tuan chaina mual chu
Chul iang va fang ve i’—

Tuk zan siang an lawina.
Tawng i maw, an rauthla,
Chhingmit thla an zem si.

Fam chu chan lul suh u!
Zofate lung lentu
Chhak Kawl zawl Bungpui khi.

The English rendering (laugh if you must).

The Banyan Tree

On eastern plain afar,
In the land of Myanmar
There stands a Banyan Tree.

I would rest in its shade
(O, do notlet itfade!)
Could I take the journey –

Where our fore-fathers stayed
And worked, and danced, and played
I would a pilgrim be.

Could I make the visit,
Would I meet their spirit?
Here they come to haunt me.

Oh, do not let it die!
Don’t let it fall to lie!
The grand old Banyan Tree!

And then the icing on the cake is that my little book for kids titled 'Magic Mirror Stories' has come out at last. I started writing the stories for my son when he was about three or four, added girlie ones when my daughter came, and upgraded the age level as they both grew up. They have way outgrown them now but some kids just might love them. So...

Winter tree

2010-01-17T02:11:00.000-08:00

A winter tree,
Bare branched, i stand
Naked, shivering in
Cold wind. Birds have
Deserted me.

But Spring is on its way;
New leaves will clothe me,
I shall bloom again.

home no more

2009-12-24T07:09:00.000-08:00

little cottage on the hill
lime washed walls, timber frame
holds a million memories

only memories.
father’s gone to sleep
beside mother under stars.
children have flown away.

the pine tree is cut down
the poinsettia too,
red geranium, gladioli and dahlia
they all died, one by one.

and though it’s christmas time
we’re not going home
there’ll be no christmas tree
for home is home no more.

when spring comes
wild daisies may bloom again
but we won’t be going home
home is home no more.

mother's revenge

2009-11-19T22:39:00.000-08:00

mother,
i broke your heart
i made you cry.

was that why
you didn’t say goodbye
before leaving?

if buckets of tears
could compensate—
but it’s too late.

and now i walk
the path you walked.

if you had wanted revenge
just to let me know
how it hurts
you have it.

it’s my turn to cry, mother.

roadside roses

2009-10-16T00:44:00.000-07:00

roses, lovely roses—
pink like babies’ cheeks
yellow like morning sunbeam
dark red like lovers’ heart blood;

five rupees a piece—
beauty for money
joy you can buy
on the roadside.

grubby tattered children
worn out women with rough hands
peddle roses, lovely roses.

rolling stone

2009-09-20T22:20:00.000-07:00

a rolling stone, i
gather no moss,
only coloured gravel —
some drab, some dark, and
few bright gems.

The boy and his vehicles

2009-09-05T01:40:00.000-07:00

Remembering my mother

2009-08-26T00:06:00.000-07:00

My mother passed on many years ago. She left in the wee hours of 19th. August, while i was on way to see her. The combination of bad road, vehicle breakdown and our Mizo custom worked together to deny me the sight of her body. Perhaps because of this, i can never picture her as ‘dead’.

And she is very much alive in my mind. She lived just for 54 years, and had to bear much physical suffering and heartaches. My biggest regret is that i didn’t do more for her, didn’t try harder to ease her pains.

My mother has given me a heritage beyond evaluation. I still miss her acutely, but rejoice that she was there to bring me up.

Some old pics here: 1) Parents, kid sis & me (big girl)
2) My mum with my baby

co commuter

2009-08-09T04:16:00.000-07:00

every work-day morning
she’s there
in the eight thirty three local
ladies’ first class compartment

sometimes we sit side by side
chugging along together
but our lives never touch—
not even by a glance
or a flicker of a smile

she slumps down on a seat
eyes closed
wakes up just as we pull in
at dahisar station

we get down together
cross the subway
then she turns right
and i turn left
never acknowledging
each other’s existence.

what else?
this is mumbai yaar.

Working from home?

2009-08-01T02:49:00.000-07:00

(Why i took up a job again)

Working from home sure got advantages, at least in theory. You can keep your own time. No hassle of dressing and going out. No worry about traffic snarls and jams. No boss breathing down your neck.

I had been working at home for years. Now the kids are grown i thought i’d start working from home. What’s the difference, you might ask. Well, a woman working at home is called a housewife or, ‘home maker’ by some folks who feel bad to call a spade a spade. In other words, when the home is your work, you’re working at home. But when you’re working from home, you could be a doctor, architect, whatever.

Having had enough of housewifery or homemakery, i dub myself Freelance Writer and start tapping on the keyboard whenever i can. Today, the family’s all gone out and i have the house and the PC all to myself. Great!

But soon as i sit down, there comes a loud cry from the washing machine. Someone had loaded laundry and left. The machine, (bought at a discount sale) often gives these distress calls when left alone with the washing. I rush to help.

Then the phone rings. “Mamma, i left a number on a piece of paper somewhere on the dining table. Please find it and call me,” said my daughter.

After doing that, i just manage to type a couple of sentences when the phone rings again. It’s my husband this time. “There’s a file called ‘corrections’. Find it and mail it to me. It may be on the desk top or in E drive or....” I search all over, among lots of folders and files. I find it at last and mail it.

Another call. It’s now my son’s turn. “What was the name of that Titan in Greek myth who gave fire to humans?”
“I don’t remember.”
“The gods punished him for it. They tied him to a rock and....”
“Sorry.”
“I need it for my debate. Please find the name and call me back.”

No question of I-search on a slow dialup connection with constant worry about phone bills. So i think hard, and remember we had a book of Greek myths somewhere. I try the bookcase where books are shoved in and piled up anyhow. Searching for a book in our bookshelf is like the proverbial search for a needle in a haystack. I proceed to turn the cabinet inside out. I find it after a long search and call up my son.

The doorbell rings now. The moment i open, a sales girl rattles off “Madam, beauty care instruments for ladies, for removing unwanted hair...” demonstrating a battery run razor.
“I don’t use such things”, i tell her.
“Just try it, madam; for shaving eyebrow.”
“My eyebrow doesn’t need shaving.”
“Or armpit.”
“I don’t want to shave my armpit, thank you.”
“Or you can give it as present to someone.”
After about twenty minutes of point counter point, i buy the razor i’m never going to use.

Just as she leaves, there comes a signal from the washing machine; washing done. I lug the clothes up the stairs to the terrace and hang them one by one. So many small pieces—socks, hankies, etc. It takes a long time.

The moment i sit down again, the doorbell clangs once more. A young man flashes his card saying “I’m from the gas agency, i’ve come to check...”
“No need. They’re all right.”
“Better check, madam, there’s danger of cylinder burst”, he insists.
He manages to scare me enough to let him step into my kitchen. He lights a match and holds it under the stove knobs, smells the pipe, peers at the regulator, and so on. Then he takes out a new tube, a cleaning kit and other knick-knacks and tries to sell them. But i had no money, having given all the cash at hand to the sale girl.

He leaves reluctantly. I go back to typing.
The phone. “How do you pronounce c-h-a-r-a-d-e?” my daughter asks. I tell her how i pronounce it.
“See the pronouncing dictionary. I’m arguing with my friends.”
Once more, i turn the bookcase inside out. I pull out Daniel Jones after a patient search, and call back my daughter.

I sit down before the comp again, now wondering what on earth i was trying to put down. I sit staring at the screen, but all ideas have flown away. And it’s getting late. Time to start cooking.

Working from home is not working out for me.

A break and a haircut

2009-07-17T05:49:00.000-07:00

Those are pics from a campus where we spent a few days in Bangalore last week. Must be familiar to many.

Rather frayed by the stress and strain of daily work, hubby and i were glad to get a chance for a short break. We didn’t go to some exotic resort or tourist destination. We just headed for Bangalore, where our family of four lived together for two years after staying apart for many years. Perhaps because of this, i sort of consider the city as ‘home’ though we don’t own an inch of a place there.

Actually, the break came because we had a small work to be done. Then we thought we’d stretch it to a few days for rest and meeting friends. Both our bosses granted us leave, so we took the 24 hours train ride. It’s quite a treat for the eye and mind to look out the window and watch the scenery. For this purpose, i deliberately desisted from packing books except the Bibles and Daily Bread. Hubby did take a book and slept for hours with it on his chest!

Landing in B’lore was a bit of a desolate feeling as our children had left town and gone far away. We put up at a guesthouse to avoid disturbing relatives and friends, though some of them were quite open to accommodate us. They called us for meals all the same. The five day stay was a happy, refreshing time of catching up with dear ones, of relaxing, meditating, conversing and taking long walks.

One family member had reminded me to have a haircut in Bangalore. (Why in Bangalore, is a long story). So i went to the Chinese parlour. Just before my turn, a white haired lady of about 80 had her haircut, short and neat. I asked the hairdresser to cut mine too like hers. She couldn’t quite believe me.
“Are you serious? Do you really want it like that?” she asked.
“Of course,” I replied. “And please make it as short as you can, because it’ll be a long time before i come back for the next cut.”

When i went back to work after returning, my colleagues’ re-actions to my haircut were interesting. Pradeep said, “Your new hairstyle looks nice.” Sharmila remarked, “It’s a bit too short. It doesn’t look good.” And when Priya saw me, she exclaimed “Oh, my goodness!!”

MJ & ND

2009-06-28T04:01:00.000-07:00

The news of Michael Jackson’s death did not affect me much. Of course it’s sad he died, it’s sad when anyone dies. Well he was great, i suppose. He had it, he definitely had it. World famous. An icon. A king in his own right. They said he had it all—talent, grace, professionalism and dedication. A great success since childhood and into middle age. No one could undermine that. He had taken the world by storm. In his heyday, the late nineties, it was almost impossible to watch a news channel without seeing him. He was omnipresent in the media world.

But i just wasn’t one of his fans. When i first heard him singing ‘Bad’—here i’m not denying his skill—it just irritated me. I simply didn’t like his voice or his stuff, never really watched him dance. Perhaps that’s why i didn’t feel anything as such when he died, for all his name, fame and following.

On the same day that the king of pop died, an 84 year old woman died quietly of cancer in a corner of Mumbai. This death affects me more, much more. She’s neither my relative nor my friend. I had not talked to her even once, though i once saw her at a function.

Neera Desai, whom my boss affectionately calls ‘Neeraben’ was a person who did her bit to uplift the downtrodden and underprivileged. She was a pioneer of women’s studies in India. She had set up the country’s first research centre for women’s studies at SNDT Women’s University and wrote several books on women’s issues. She was especially concerned about dalit and tribal women.

I’m going to miss ND more than MJ, although he and i share the same initials!

flute player

2009-06-10T01:12:00.000-07:00

at the station
sweltering heat
milling crowd
engines roaring
loudspeakers blaring.

a soft sweet sound
bringing to mind
cool mountain breezes
green pine forests
rippling brooks
youthful dreams.

i searched
wading in the crowd
and found him
stark blind
gray haired
creased care worn face
a rupee coin in a bowl
making music
on a flute

tears stung my eyes.
does one who gives such delight
get so little?

i gave him a note
and listened on
dreaming of
grassy hillsides
singing winds
dancing streams
and happier times.

at andheri

2009-06-01T02:45:00.000-07:00

shoulder to shoulder
bumper to bumper
bodies jammed

crammed
inch crawl
slug rush
rush rush slug
the train! the train!

masses of flesh
wriggle squirm
hurry burry
hurry scurry
scurry scurry
oh the train!

masses masses
no faces
yeh hai mumbai
meri jaan!

life journey

2009-05-17T03:59:00.000-07:00

our life’s journey
is a forward move
never we retrace our steps
never we visit
the same place twice.

though the path may wind
even to loops
within view of where we’ve been
we don’t set foot again
where we did before.

we move on, move on
not pausing, not relenting,
towards
eternity.

Ah, books!

2009-05-09T04:49:00.000-07:00

I belong to the generation that grew up before TVs were quite accessible in our country. Those days, we got most of our info-tainment from reading. There were occasional excursions to the cinema hall too, but these were very rare treats. So the great rage was comic books and novels, circulated widely among friends and strangers.

Nothing could compare to the pleasure of reading ‘School girl’, ‘Western’ and ‘Classic’ comics on the way back from school. Parents frowned upon reading anything other than school lessons, so it had to be done when they couldn’t see you. Novels had to be hidden under pillows and read on the sly. Oh, the half guilty thrill one got out of Ivanhoe and The Black Arrow at age 14! Such magical experiences!

When my daughter was six and in class one, she asked, “After finishing school, do we have to go to college?”

“What else do you want to do?” i counter questioned.

“Stay home and read stories,” she replied.

I do connect with the sentiment.

Once you enter adulthood with all its responsibilities, finding time to read becomes harder than ever. Several weeks ago, after dithering a long time, i picked up Shantaram. I’ve reached only half of it till now.

When it takes so long to read it, how much time and energy it would take to write! No wonder the author spent thirteen long years at it.

My little book has come out at last. It has only 189 pages with the photos and all. But it took me nearly a year to finish. It often felt like hard work as i tapped on the keyboard at midnight, bleary eyed, after a full day at office. And i’m glad, so glad, that it’s ready for reading now.

It’s published by GLS Publishing, Udyog Bhavan, 250-D, Worli Colony, Mumbai 400 030, india. They can be contacted by e-mail: glsindia@vsnl.com or by phone: 022 2493 0116/6662 7243.
Here’s it’s cover picture.

My funny friends

2009-04-17T23:38:00.000-07:00

La tops the list, easily. When computers started becoming popular in our Northeast region, she took to it with gusto. Later, when i got my own machine, La would e-mail me frequently. But, believe it or not, that also increased the frequency of phone calls! “Check your mail, i just sent you one,” she’d say over the phone. And then in a long conversation, narrate all that she wrote.

La’s response to most suggestions is ‘Why not?’ “Come, let’s go swimming,” she invited me one day. “No, you’ll float like a fairy and i’ll sink like a stone,” i replied. “Why not?” she quipped.

And when her husband bought a new car, she kept the older car. “Next time you come to Shillong, i’ll take you out in the car. I’ve learned to drive,” she promised. But added, “i can drive only forward, i haven’t learnt to go backward yet.” She daily drives to work moving only forward.

Puja is another one. She gave us direction to the new office in Dahisar when we were shifting from Andheri. She drew on a paper as she explained. “Get down at Dahisar station, come out on the west, cross to the east through the subway, walk towards the left and at the forking take the right,” she told us. “And keep going, keep going (jaate raho, jaate raho). When you see a restaurant on the right, ask for Patel Apartment. They’ll show you the direction. Aur jaate raho, jaate raho…”

By this time we were quite put off. We had been told that the office was close to the station and this endless jaate raho was becoming discouraging. “It sounds very far!” some of us exclaimed. “Not far, only five minutes,” she assured us. And then continued, “After some time, you will see a bank. Ask around there, and they’ll say ‘aur aage jaao.’ Go on, jaate raho, jaate raho….”

When would we ever reach? The walk felt like at least half an hour from her description. But it’s actually about eight minutes at a normal stride.

Of late, the office computers have been having problems. Puja thinks she can coax her machine to behave by sweet-talking it. She would press the start button, do a namaste to the monitor calling it sweet names like “mere bhaya, mere lal.” It works sometimes!

Manik, another colleague, is a shy, quiet guy. But i’ve learnt about his secret passion: living creatures, especially those that home in water. The other day he showed me pictures of his new beautiful acquisition—a dragon fish from china. What i find funny about this friend is, he always refers to each fish as ‘he’, never ‘it’. Can’t blame him, though, the creatures are so close to his heart.

I too confided to him that i christened my computers. Now, some people think that funny! The moral: When you think others funny, remember that others may think you funny too!

Who is Dr. Lizette D'Souza?

2009-04-05T00:06:00.000-07:00

‘Who is Dr. Lizette D’Souza?’ is one of the questions on Wiki Answers. Well, she is a scientist working in NIO (National Institute of Oceanography), Dona Paula, Goa. She heads the Bio-organic Chemistry group that conducts research on drug development. A colleague and i went to interview her on 25th March.

Despite our former President Dr. Kalam’s reputation, i always pictured scientists as made mostly of brain cells. Reading stories (mostly fictional) of crazy science professors conducting weird experiments doesn’t help in dispelling the image either. So it was with some awe and apprehension that i went to meet Dr. Lizette. But after spending a couple of hours with her, that idea has taken an about turn.

Though she certainly is brainy and has scientific achievements to her credit, she is very human. Like any of us, she has her struggles. Career, home, and other responsibilities bug her too. She daily travels 30 Kms to work and back. She had to bring up two daughters. She managed without a full time maid.

How did she overcome the great challenges? She has a truly supportive husband. He too was a scientist working in the same Institute. But when their children were born, he resigned and started his own business near home, so he could be close to the children. He’s a great cook too. He encouraged his wife to continue with her work. A great man, don’t you think?

Because in our country, it’s the woman who’s always expected to make sacrifices. To leave her job. To see to the home. Do all the house chores. It would seem that a majority of men think that their wives live to serve them. Not the other way round. But there are rare, refreshing exceptions. It’s good to see some husbands (mine included), working to bring out the best in their wives.

the hills are calling

2009-03-28T10:04:00.000-07:00

it’s spring
the hills are calling;
tender new leaves on trees
peach blossom
plum flowers
they are calling, calling.

it’s spring
the sky is blue
winter clouds have sailed away
the breeze soothes, not bite,
they are calling, calling.

it’s spring
sparrows are nesting
the cuckoo calls
from his green hiding place
wind music in pine woods
they are calling, calling.

it’s spring
my heart flies to the hills
on wind’s wing
it dances
to pine music
cuckoo’s song
for the hills are calling, calling.

Prescriptive note

2009-03-17T09:38:00.000-07:00

Poetry should be lean,
rippling with muscle;
not flabby, or squelchy like
gutter mud.
Poetry should be clean,
hard and bright, like
polished diamond;
shaped of sifted words,
purged of dross, like
refined gold.

A memorable trip

2009-02-22T08:45:00.000-08:00

These days i’m sooo longing to see Mizoram again. It’s been a long while since i last went there, back in May, 2004. I was on a visit after having lived outside for many years. That day we were travelling in a Sumo from Lunglei to Aizawl. The jeep which usually takes eight passengers had only five. It wasn’t a lucky day for the young man who owned the vehicle he drove.

Zartea, the owner driver, greeted us all cheerfully. One unusual thing about him was that he neither smoked nor chewed beetle nut-and-leaves, both common habits among drivers.

And when we stopped for tea and snacks around noon at Serchhip, he insisted on paying for all. “All the bills are on me,” he announced. We protested and tried to pay, but the stall owner wouldn’t take our money as Zartea had told her he was going to pay for all his passengers. When we asked him why, he laughingly replied that since we were so few he wanted to treat us well.

In the evening, when we reached Zemabawk, some policemen stopped our vehicle and asked the non-Mizo passengers where they were going. One of them said he was getting down at Bawngkawn. The other one kept silent. The police must have assumed both were getting down together. We moved on.

A little later, a shop keeper told us that there was a riot in the town and we had better hide the non-Mizo guy who was in the front seat. A local girl had been murdered and the suspect was a man from Bihar. Angry miscreants had beaten up some outsiders. All of us became greatly concerned for our co-passenger’s safety. We were nervous and everyone became quiet, including the driver who had been chatting and joking most of the way.

Inside Aizawl, shops were closed and traffic was thin. Police vehicles were patrolling the streets. We asked a policeman whether they could conduct the non-Mizo passenger to Kulikawn, his destination. They agreed and took him in their jeep. Then the joking and laughing re-started.

Happy 2009!

2009-01-31T08:24:00.000-08:00

Happy New Year to you all!

Whew! The last few months have been quite crazy. Work, housework, and trying to finish the first draft of a small book. It’s a spiritual biography of a guy from Rajasthan. Done at last! I can get some sleep now, yipee! Couldn’t celebrate Christmas or New Year, i was working away like a clock. Even forgot our wedding anniversary! The children remembered, thankfully. Wonder how people manage to write huge books, when a little one takes so much effort.

And then hubby had to have angioplasty. There were two blocks in his heart. He’s okay now, though he has to take heaps of medicines and we have to watch his diet. It was such comfort having caring friends and family rally round. Can’t imagine how we’d have managed without. They were God’s angels sent to help us.

Our book My Mother, My Strength, published by Rupa, was released in Hyderabad in December. (I couldn’t go). It’s a collection of women writers from different parts of India writing about their mothers. They invited me to contribute as a Mizo writer. Do pick it up if you happen to see it.

By the way, are computer viruses multiplied ten thousand times these days? Our office has been blighted for a couple of months. Our triband connection kept conking out too. Then hubby’s laptop got very sick. It had 400 viruses.

What about New Year resolutions? I haven’t made any, am still working on last year’s.

Hope you all have a cheery, blogy, virus free year.

Who's innocent?

2008-11-09T06:59:00.000-08:00

Are children innocent?
Cute, cuddly, chubby cheeks with cherubic smiles, kids can win your heart at a glance. But those angels' faces may hide imps' hearts. Dennis the Menace, Calvin and Hobbes and Lord of the Flies, though fictional, are true to life. Check it out with some real life samples here.

One year old Sylvie had a serious occupation: pulling clothes down from the bed and putting up shoes on it. Then she retired for the night at late afternoon and got up at 2 a.m., regularly.

My own four year old wasn’t an angel either. He assigned himself a daily chore of re-arranging shoes: all wrong pairs together, facing away from each other.

Kim, three and half year old, made her friend drink Amway liquid soap. But she was smart enough not to drink it herself.

“What does Mummy call you”? I asked three year old Ashwin.
“She calls me Da...” then changed his mind in mid sentence. “She calls me 'Monkey',” he said instead.

Zac, a wee little boy, had just started school.
When Zac's dad heard someone calling his son “Jackson”, he corrected him. “He's not Jackson, his name's Zac, short for Zachariah,” he said.
“But he told me he's Jackson,” protested the other.
“I'm his father, I gave him the name. So I know better,” Zac's dad had to assert.

Aby and Beny, two brothers, are a classic. They fought constantly. Then came time for Aby to start school. At the admission interview, the teacher asked “Do you fight with your brother?”
“No,” Aby replied. “I love my brother. Why should I fight with him?”

Beny also joined Nursery. One of the class boys said he was going to marry the pretty teacher when he grew up. Aby told that to Beny at home.
Aby, older and wiser, said, “By the time he's old enough to get married, the teacher will be in her grave.”
“What will she do in the grave?” Beny asked.
“Nothing. She'll just lie down,” Aby replied.
“Instead of that let her get up and cook for him,” was Beny’s judgment.

Then Beny got tired of studying. “When can I stop going to school?” he asked.
“When you get married,” they told him.
“When can I get married?” he asked.
“When you finish all your exams,” they answered.
The term exams came and were finally over after a week. Beny came back from school greatly relieved. “Mamma, I've finished my exams, now I can get married,” he announced.

The two boys were so boisterous their mother longed to have a little girl for a change. Her wish came true and Christie was born. But Christie didn’t behave much different from her brothers. When she started toddling, she drank distilled water. Her mother took her to the doctor. Soon after coming home, they had to run back. Christie had eaten mosquito repellant.
Their aunt, whom they address by her first name without any pre-fix, had an operation. As she was recouping, the kids sat on her bed and had a conference.
“The doctor cut Mamma’s tummy and three of us came out. But when they cut Bina's tummy, how come there’s no baby?” wondered Beny.
They thought very hard. Then Aby, the eldest, got a brainwave.
“In the old days, doctors were honest. They gave the babies to their mothers. But nowadays they keep the babies for themselves,” he explained.
Serious allegation!

Another kid told me he wants to become a dacoit when he grows up.

Well, these are our ‘innocent’ children. How about the rest?

(Some of the names have been changed to protect identities)

Trophy

2008-10-29T01:17:00.000-07:00

It had been a tiring day for me, so my husband graciously offered to make the afternoon tea. Telling me to lie down and rest, he buzzed off towards the kitchen. I gratefully slumped down on the bed and was halfway in the process of closing my eyes when his head popped in through the door. "There's some used tea leaves in the pot. What shall I do with it?" he queried.

"Throw it away and rinse the pot", I replied patiently.

He buzzed off a second time. I was once more about to close my eyes when back he came to ask "How much water's to be boiled ?"

"Two cups", I said and resolutely proceeded to close the eyes. A few moments later he reappeared with the question "How much tea should I put in?"

"Two teaspoons." Off he went again.

Some moments passed. Then came my hero's voice again with yet another question "What's to be put first in the cup ?"

"Sugar, then milk powder, then pour the tea." He hurried away again.

By this time I was really longing for tea. I sat up and waited eagerly. Minutes ticked by. The tea-longing became feverish. Still it kept me waiting.

At last, after some ten minutes' wait, back came my husband, yet unaccompanied by tea cups. Instead, he was shaking a scalded hand. We frantically looked for the elusive Burnol tube that was never found twice in the same place. We tried all the places it had resided in before—under the bed, behind the bookshelf, on the dressing table, inside the shoes, under the pillows —all in vain. In sheer desperation I happened to look into the medicine box where it had never been found before. There it was, playing hide-and-seek. I grabbed the thing by the neck and squeezed it out on the scald. Then the chivalrous knight marched back to the kitchen, determined not to give up the fight though wounded.

At long last he marched back, triumphant and beaming, carrying the trophy—the much awaited tea.
"It calls for a celebration", I said.
"Yes, it's a great victory", he solemnly replied.

Alien

2008-10-08T02:25:00.000-07:00

Rajan whistled as he walked briskly out of his one room and kitchen rented house. His cheery mood was further brightened by the mid-November morning sunshine. His dark face and bright eyes looked radiant with delight. Indeed, Guwahati looked beautiful under the autumn sun. Houses, trees, roads, even garbage heaps on the roadside seemed to wear a hallow.

He reached the Zoo-road bus stop and waited. The first bus that came was overcrowded, with several passengers hanging over the footboard. He boarded the next one that followed immediately. Here, too, he had to stand along with several others as the seats were all occupied. By the time they reached Chandmari Colony the bus was jam-packed. When they stopped at Guwahati Club a girl's voice behind him said "Please let me pass." He moved aside the best he could to make room and turned to look at the speaker. He caught sight of her as she passed him to get down. A slim figure of medium height, clad in mekhela-chaddar, long hair worn in a single braid. A fair, sweet face. Inexplicably, her picture etched itself in his mind.

He reached early, it being the first day of his work. Cotton College was no new place to him, as he had studied for his degree there. Many of the lecturers, now his colleagues, had taught him. He was warmly welcomed. Some shook hands with him, some thumped him on the back. Some commented jovially "Aha, you have sported a mustache. Grown into a man, eh?"

But then, someone struck a discordant note. He overheard a remark "How come they appointed bahira manuh (outsider)?" That stung. But he set it aside as he got busy meeting people and attending classes.

On the way back home in the afternoon, he assessed his day. He was happy on the whole. He managed the classes alright in spite of his nervousness. His new colleagues had been kind and encouraging. But then, with a twinge he recalled the discordant note—'outsider'. It struck a nerve. Why was he always an outsider everywhere? When he was a child his cousins in Kerala, his father's native place, used to call him 'Hindi walla' because he spoke Hindi with his parents. And in his mother's hometown in West Bengal he was a 'Madrassi'. In Assam, his family's adopted land, where he was born and brought up, he was called an outsider by some of the 'local' people. His father had taught him since early childhood to be an Indian at heart. But no one else he knew seemed to recognize the existence of an Indian in real life.

Perhaps his parents were responsible for his plight. By their inter-cultural marriage they had offended their respective families, and caused him to belong nowhere. His father, a Convent School teacher in Dibrugarh, upper Assam, had created quite a furor in his family circles when he decided to marry his colleague, a Bengali girl. Being very 'Indian' minded, the couple had adopted Hindi as their family language which became their only son's mother tongue. But growing up in Assam, Rajan spoke Assamese also as well as any local. In fact, he unconsciously identified himself as an Assamese.

Life went on, Rajan liked his job and was becoming quite good at teaching. Saturday was his off-day from work. In the afternoon he went to the District Library to read. As he walked in, his heart missed a beat. He saw her—the same girl he had noticed in the bus the other day. He passed her by as he would any stranger. But on the spot he made up his mind to come here every Saturday, in the hope of seeing her again.

All through the next week he was restless and impatient for Saturday to come. His thoughts were dominated by dreams of a fair, sweet face and graceful form in mekhela-chaddar. Sure enough, she was there again the next Saturday. This time a half-smile of recognition passed between them but he did not dare talk to her yet. The next time they met again he summoned up the courage to address her.
"Excuse me, are you a student?" he asked lamely. He cursed himself inwardly for his awkwardness, for his lack of the dashing romantic hero's air. But she answered politely "No, I'm a teacher. I work in P.C. Girls' "
"I see. I work in Cotton. My name is Rajan Nair. May I know your name?"
"Dipika Das"
They parted, neither having anything more to say.

But meeting 'accidentally' every weekend at the library, they soon became 'friends'. Once they even found an excuse to visit a restaurant together and then went for a stroll in Nehru Park. They chatted and laughed, looking into each other's eyes. From that day Rajan classed himself a happy lover.

The next Saturday she did not turn up at the library. He was crestfallen. He sat there a long time pretending to read, in the hope that she might show up. At last he despaired and went out. He had no way of contacting her either. Naively confident of meeting her every time at the library, it had not occurred to him to ask for her phone number or address. He spent a tormented weekend.

Come Saturday, he went to the library as usual, hoping to meet her. As he entered the compound a young man accosted him asking "Are you Rajan Nair?"
"Yes, I am. What was it?" he responded.
"I've brought you a message from my younger sister, Dipika. She does not wish to see you any more. Her marriage has been fixed."

In shock and pain Rajan blurted out "I was hoping to marry her!"
In polite words but cold tones the man replied "I am sorry. She could never marry an outsider."

Rajan's world became dark. He rushed home, fell flat on his bed and sobbed like a child. "Dipika, am I an outsider to you, too?" he murmured to himself. Then a thought formed in his mind. 'Was her brother speaking the truth? They may be only forcing her to keep away from me'. He decided to meet her by hook or crook and find out the fact from her.

On Monday afternoon he took leave from later classes and waited outside her school. When she came out he begged to have a word with her. She hesitated, but agreed on sensing his desperation. They found a quiet restaurant and went in. The moment they were alone he asked "Is it true that you are getting married?" She looked down and did not answer.
"Tell me, Dipika, just tell me the truth", he urged.
"Yes".
"Is this your own wish or is your family forcing you?"
"They are not forcing me."
"O Dipika, how you fooled me! I have given you all my heart", he sighed.

"I'm sorry, Rajan. I like you a lot too. Had you been an Assamese I'd never marry
anyone else. But it can't be helped. We have to consider what society would think."

That harsh, jarring note again. Coming from her. It tore his heart. They walked out with a grim air. He escorted her to the bus stop.
"Take my best wishes. Happy marriage!. As for me, I'm an alien here as anywhere else. I can't stay here after this. I must leave the country."
She looked at him with pity. "Where will you go?" she asked.
"My uncle in Canada has been inviting me. I had refused, saying I wanted to stay here and serve my country. Perhaps I should reconsider and try my luck."
"But if you feel an alien in your own country, will it be any better in a foreign land?"
"It will be different, at any rate. You'd go there expecting the alien treatment."

The bus came. She boarded. He walked off in the opposite direction.

Confession

2008-09-29T04:12:00.000-07:00

Wherever i go, whatever i do, there’s one quality for which i’m usually easily number one among the people i’m with. Yeah, i always knew i had this, but didn’t quite realise the number one factor until a colleague pointed it out. This guy was appointed to tell jokes at a function in our college. He listed a few of the teachers who could be labelled ‘-est’ in different ways, like the tallest, best singer, best draught player, and so on. And then he announced my name as the short-est.

Yes, i have to admit i’m vertically challenged. In fact, people keep rubbing this in. Colleagues, friends and family like to tease me about it. But you know, i don’t really mind it. Not even during the sensitive teenage years. True, were it possible, i’d love to add several centimetres to my height. But since it can’t be done, i don’t fret too much.

But the real sore point, the lack that really hurts, is in the matter of the brain. I feel soooo deficient in knowledge and intelligence. My ignorance is abysmal. And my grey cells are in the habit of taking French leave.

Like once, when we went to a zoo, we came to a gate marked ‘Pre-historic animals.’ I looked in and saw two huge dinosaurs towering high. I was delighted. How wonderful to see these creatures in flesh and blood! But to my great disappointment, they just stayed in the same position and didn’t move. Why, they were only dummies!! I could cry in despair while my friends laughed at my silly-ness.

And then, we had a scooter that we kept for sixteen years till it practically fell apart. And in all those years, i just couldn’t remember its registration number. And not for not trying. And to this day, i can’t memorise our landline phone or our car number.

My brainy kid sister once called me mentally retarded in one of those young-days sibling squibbles. And i’m still trying hard to disbelieve her.

night lights

2008-09-21T07:35:00.000-07:00

Happy Birthday to me!

2008-09-13T18:53:00.000-07:00

Please wish me, people. But don’t ask my age—i’ve lost count of it. Never was good with figures any way. Doesn’t matter. I’m glad to be alive and—if not exactly kicking—still walking and talking. Let me take this chance to share some of my life’s motto, hope you don’t mind. Here we go:
1. Honour God, give Him your best.
2. Do good to others as you can. Try not to harm anyone.
3. Live simply and travel light. Cut out fussy frills.
4. Laugh at yourself.
These, in short, are my goal posts.

This year’s birthday is a little lonely, with the children grown and away. Just a cake with hubby, that’s it. O yeah, i’m expecting a bouquet from my colleagues tomorrow. I’ve usually avoided birthday bashes. But it used to be an occasion for family time.

Like once in Bangalore, when i got up in the morning, the hall had become alive with plants and flowers. The family was waiting to wish me. My two children, who normally had to be woken for breakfast, had got up early to decorate the house. They had secretly bought all those potted plants the day before, i’ve no clue how they did it and hid it. That was a glorious day!

Another time, this too in B’lore, the guys were out of station and only daughter and i were home. She asked what treat i wanted. I chose an excursion to a bookshop. So, late in the evening after work, we set out on her battered, rickety kinetic and bought books. Then she treated me to dinner at a posh restaurant. By the time we came out it was 11pm. Then we found the back tyre had a puncture. So we pushed it to the workshop quite a bit away. Traffic had thinned, and the road was quiet. We were thankful for the workshop that stayed open 24 hours. It was midnight by the time we started back for home. I wouldn’t like to repeat such an adventurous birthday, but it sure was a memorable one.

And then last year, they bought me the latest Harry Potter—wasn’t i glad!

Okay then, Happy Birthday to me!

my rival

2008-09-06T01:56:00.000-07:00

Martha and i are fairly good friends now. But our first acquaintance was on an unpleasant note because she started off as —
My rival

Life has not been the same since Martha came. She was originally supposed to be our servant. She was invited home one day in late September, a couple of weeks after my birthday, by my husband and our son. My husband, who had conveniently forgotten to give me a present for my birthday, decided to dub her my belated birthday present.

My birthday present? Servant? What a joke! She became the queen of our lives. She was put up in the better bedroom of the house. Right from day one she started ruling over our family. She captivated the hearts of my middle aged husband and twenty-ish son. They simply adored her. They wanted to spend all their time at home with her. In the pre-Martha days, my husband used to call me (when he was in a good mood) the heart of the home. Now Martha became that. Rather, the queen of hearts of the home. Before she came, both my husband and son used to 'Hi' me and sometimes even stop to chat when they came home. No more. They would rush straight looking for her. Or if they address me at all, it is to ask about Martha. Is she alright? Is she comfortable? What did she do today?

Disgusting, really! Of course, Martha is young, pretty, brainy. In all honesty i have to admit that though i can't help casting the green eye on her. She is charming. I can well understand my son's feeling for her. He is a young man. But my not-young husband, shouldn't he have a bit more sense?

After days of hair-pulling and nail-biting, i decided to put on my thinking cap. Then light dawned: the saying “If you can't beat ‘em, join ‘em.” I decided to join them. Make friends with Martha too. Love her as they do. Kiss her feet, figuratively.

I approached gingerly as she was sitting regally in her room. I talked to her, sweet words hiding a bitter heart. I requested her to do some work. But Martha is no fool. My sugar-words did not deceive her. She repulsed me bluntly and flatly refused to do my bidding. I was stymied. In a panic i called up my son, telling him Martha's rude to me, is misbehaving with me, and so forth. He, the boy i had borne and brought up, had the cheek to reply that Martha would not misbehave if i treat her right!

Anyhow, i swallowed my pride and asked him what i should do. He told me. Then slowly, with a lot of bungling on my part and rude rebuffs on hers, we started to get along. The animosity between us melted gradually. She is learning to tolerate me and i am trying to forgive her for stealing my family's affections from me. We may never become the best of friends but we can at least learn to live under the same roof. I am even beginning to be glad that Martha came home. After all, she is a good PC (HCL Pentium 3).

terror

2008-08-12T07:39:00.000-07:00

Terrorism by militants, political or religious extremists, communalists, government forces... is growing and growing. Why is there no sight of an end? Because violence begets violence. And more violence. It keeps multiplying.

We were in Assam till the first half of 2004. The deeds of those who called themselves ‘liberators’ of the people were horrendous. The retaliation by government agencies was the same. The worst sufferers were mostly innocent people caught in between.

Here are some protest verses i wrote back in those days.

Blast

Full of life and fun
the little boy
just turned seven
looked forward to future
to do grown up things—
ride a bike, fly a plane,
bring mummy and daddy presents.

A loud burst
silenced
the spirited chatter
for ever.
Only
a bloody mess
and deep pain
remain.

Republic day 04

i’d love to celebrate;
fly the flag,
sing and dance;
but i’m scared.

scared of those who
silence songs with
guns.

sound of bomb is
louder than
music.

but louder still are
cries of orphans and
ravaged women.

what price liberation?

Drowned

our homes are drowned in
flood of blood
and tears.

they come from jungles,
loot, shoot,
commit carnage.

then come bigger guns
from cities;
more carnage,
more cries.

those on higher grounds
watch it all in a
mirror.

they cluck or chuckle
while our homes are drowned in
flood of blood
and tears.

Sorry to offend your tastes and sensibilities with this ‘bloody’ stuff. But reality needs to be shown, however unpleasant.

the trip

2008-07-25T02:48:00.000-07:00

My boss wasn’t happy to grant me leave as she was going on work tour just around the same time. I felt like crying. The daily hurry to work and back was driving me nuts, i badly needed a little time to breathe. Besides, the visit was crucial for other reasons.

She thought it over for two nights. “So, what have you decided?” she finally asked.
“I can’t go if you say ‘no’, and i’m too old to throw a tantrum”, i replied.
“You feel like throwing a tantrum?”
“Yes.”
“Okay, go, but next time make sure we’re not away at the same time.”

I could’ve grinned from ear to ear and whooped and jigged. Instead, i demurely thanked her and walked out sedately. But i couldn’t contain my excitement while saying bye to my colleagues.

D received us (hubby & me) at Ajmer station though our train was two hours late. The half hour drive to Pushkar was on winding road through rocky hills. It felt so good to be free of Mumbai heat and jam.

D had booked us a room on the second floor of Lake Palace with spacious balconies overlooking the lake. We could see both sunrise and sunset from there. On one end of the compound was a music school.

The first evening, after bath and refreshments, the music teacher treated us to desh raag and guzzar toda in the music room. Listening to Indian classical live was quite an experience. Then he took us on a walk round the lake, explaining as we went. On the way we passed ruined durbar halls where Shah Jahan had sat in olden times.

Around nine thirty, we came back to the hotel for dinner on the rooftop restaurant. Several locals and firangis were hanging around on the terrace, some strumming guitar and crooning in turns. They greeted the music teacher loudly as we sat down. We asked for a Rajasthani thali but it would take a long time to prepare so we had to settle for an ordinary Indian one.

Next day D took us home. His original house was a chief priest’s haveli on the lake bank. But he gave it away to relatives and now lives in an ashram his father built in a harijan colony when he followed Gandhiji around during the freedom fight. Lovely family. D’s elder daughter had taken leave to cook for us. Sumptuous Rajasthani meal starting with ‘bati’.

Evening we sat on the hotel balcony and listened to live music from the school and dined on the rooftop again. Next morning we had breakfast at D’s old haveli. Malpua sweet was a new delicacy. Then we roamed around the ghats, D telling us old stories about them. Gaughat had been visited by Queen Victoria and other dignitaries. We went into Brahma temple, supposed to be the only one in the world. (The temples of his two wives overlook from the tops of two hills on opposite sides of the town’s outskirts). Our guide lamented that policemen are now guarding the courtyard where in old days rishis used to sit meditating.

We went back to D’s house for lunch. The grown-ups told us that the teen aged grandson and granddaughter had nicknamed me ‘Chinese Aunty’ and liked me because they like Jackie Chan!

Sunday we went to church in Ajmer and then sightseeing. Each of the places we visited could fill a page to describe, so i won’t try it here.

Pushkar is a geographical interest. It has lakes, gardens, and sand dunes within a small area, and is surrounded by hills. It is also rich in temples, myths, history and many other things. It’s getting too long for a blog. I’ll tell you the stories in another form some day.

Sorry, i can't figure out how to put in labels for the pictures. Just guess it!

Give me a break!

2008-06-29T05:20:00.000-07:00

The alarm rings. You open bleary eyes with great effort and get up. You shuffle into the kitchen and brew strong black coffee. Sitting by the window, you sip from the steaming mug. As the hot liquid glides down your throat, you begin to wake up slowly. Opening your Bible, you read a short passage and try to meditate, praying for guidance for the day. Then the day’s rush starts.

As fast as you can move you cook lunch, get breakfast ready, make tea, and pack the lunch boxes. You gobble a sandwich that refuses to go down as your gullet is constricted with tension. You force it down with tea. You dump all the dirty plates, cups, etc in the sink and sprint to the loo. The dentist had told you to brush each tooth at least ten times, so you count each stroke, making the movements fast. You take a hot shower and dress with hands trembling for fear of not moving fast enough. You quickly run a comb through your hair that’s been cut short for the sake of convenience. No time to apply make-up. How often have you envied a well-turned-out face and resolved to try for it! But that Lacto Calamine lotion and Lakme lipstick are still lying unused. Congrats, you managed to dab on some moisturiser (though sweat will wash it off in no time) and eye-liner (that’ll at least leave some trace). You grab your bag, chunni and sandals and race for the door.

“Have you taken your phone?” hubby asks. “Your watch? Glasses? Train pass? Umbrella? Bus fare?”

Oh no! Both lifts are moving and in wrong directions. The one below your floor is going down and the one above going up. You press the button and wait, hardly daring to breathe. One stops at your floor at last....

The bus is crowded as usual. ... You somehow manage to wedge your handbag between you and the man’s paunch rubbing against you. “Itna bada pet leke kyong aaya?” (“Why did you bring such a big belly?) you complain in your mind....

At the station, you edge your way to join the current of human mass moving the way you wish to go. If you happen to be caught in the wrong one, you’d move in the opposite direction. Crowds, crowds, crowds. Whew! You make it to your platform just on time. The train’s already there, about to move. You slump down on a seat and shut your eyes to catch up on a bit of sleep....

After the day’s work, you retrace the steps. Human jam. Traffic jam. Your nine to five job takes up twelve hours of your day. Piles of washing, cleaning, and cooking waiting at home. And writing to do.

Guess i need a break. Got to slow down. Or break down. Keep your fingers crossed.

afterglow

2008-06-19T05:10:00.000-07:00

As we rush

2008-06-11T22:14:00.000-07:00

With apology to James Thomson. His rushing in a train with a travelling companion seemed so sweet and peaceful. But then, that was way back in early part of 18 C. Compared to his, our daily rush to, and with, work sometimes feels pointless.

As we rush as we rush for our train
Our bags in a hurry we pack;
But at times all the haste is in vain
For traffic jams hold us back.

As we rush, as we rush with our work,
Our friends and our families keep moving back;
But the threats that in dark corners lurk
Will never leave our track.

We will rush on in tension and fear,
Though machines are fast, and our brains we rack—
For we carry the back-logs with us, dear,
On our way more and more tasks stack.

Feh-kawng

2008-05-22T04:10:00.000-07:00

Kan nitin feh mual a hla,
hun indaih loh reng a na.

Mup mup, nuai nuai,
huai huai, luai luai,
thlarau nei lo an ti
he khawpui hi.

Kiltin ah, nitin in
khawi lam atrang in,
hei zat engtin nge
an punkhawm le?

Hei ang zozai zingah,
hetiang mipui karah
hmelhriat awm si lo,
biangbiak tur awm lo.

Che rawk rawk,
kal hmawk hmawk,
tlan dawr dawr,
thawk bawrh bawrh,
hmanhmawh reng reng
ni leng!

Tlai hlau ke-pen an,
thawkmawh zing-hmel an
‘welcome’ an ziak lo;
‘min hnaih suh aw,
muthilh ka la mamawh,
breakfast ka la ei lo,
ka khuih hman lo sam pawh,
lipstick hnawih ka la ngai,
kan buai ngei mai!’

Feh kawngah hei zawng kan tlan,
Enge kan um, enge kan man?
______

Duhthu Sam

2008-04-23T01:52:00.000-07:00

.

Samah sam luat a awm em ni?
Sam zel mai dawn lungruk duhai—
Duhai tin kim tawng mah lo i'
A dam mah na a riang thinlai.

Theih chang teh se hnu chhawn ka nuam
Lun lua, ri luai vangkhawpui hi,
Chungmu iangin sa huai phairuam
Kirtiang rel san ka nuam a ni.

Len lai rel in va tum i la
Lentu chawi vel tukram dai an,
Tah chuan run rem a rem mah na
Kum tluang hluan hring siahthing hnuai an.

Va zai, tui thiang, ri mawi ngaiin
Tuan va rel i', tlai ni tin in.
__________

a little kindness

2008-04-06T04:12:00.000-07:00

On March 24 afternoon, we landed at Pune railway station to attend a seminar. We asked an auto-wala to take us to YMCA. “Seventy rupees,” he said. We bargained and he came down to fifty rupees. We felt we were being cheated, but couldn’t help it as we had no other way of getting there.

Quite a different experience on the return five days later. A Muslim driver in white kurta and cap took us. At the station, the metre read 2.10. We thought it told the fare too as in Mumbai, so my husband took out twenty rupees. “It’s only fifteen rupees,” the man said, “the figure is for kilometres.” Hubby was so touched by his honesty he complimented him and they shook hands.

In the train, a young shoepolish-wala came round offering his service. Hubby shook his head. But on seeing the expression on the polish-wala’s face, i asked hubby to hire him. His fee was five rupees. We had a ten rupee note, no one had change. So we told him to keep it all. His face brightened as he said “thank you.” After another round as he was getting out, he again thanked us. A gift of five rupees had made him that grateful.

This reminded me of another incident in Bangalore station a couple of years back. Hubby and son had gone to fetch some stuff while daughter and i waited. Porters were mobbing us and we shooed them away as best we could. But one chap hung on, practically begging us to let him carry our things for only twenty rupees. But we didn’t. When the guys came we just picked up our bags and left. We’re in the habit of travelling light and carrying our own baggage. Habit won, and so deprived that poor man the chance to earn a little income. I still feel bad when i think of that.

Each day we’re faced with many small decisions that have to be made in a moment. To cheat or be honest. To be kind or indifferent. And a little kindness has such a way of brightening the day.

Good Friday thoughts

2008-03-20T07:18:00.000-07:00

Well, Good Friday season is here again. Perhaps some folks are in church tonight, and will be going for zaikhawm (singing fellowship) after. But i aren’t, though i’d’ve loved to. Our church is going to meet tomorrow, Friday, but not tonight.

I’d been refusing to watch the movie 'The Passion of Christ.' Couldn’t bear to see even the bits of clippings on TV. I avoid such painful sights as much as possible. And to think it’s real—not just fiction! But the Gethsemane scene shown by someone at a seminar impressed me so much i bought a CD and watched, but had to stop half way.

No wonder even the traitor Judas regretted his betrayal so much that he committed suicide. If only he knew Jesus would still forgive and welcome him if he turned back to Him!
This poem is my interpretation of Judas’ character and motive, see if it makes sense to you.
Judas

He tried to use the Lord
as a means
to gain his end.

He followed Him about
with heart set on
riches.

He saw Him at work—
turn water to wine,
feed the hungry,
heal the sick,
raise the dead.

Wouldn't such a powerful leader
multiply gold
to make His followers
wealthy?

But that wasn't His plan.

So he stole
from the common fund.

Growing greedier by degrees,
he sold the Son of God
for thirty pieces of silver.

just thinking

2008-03-04T02:06:00.000-08:00

Fighting alienation

Once while travelling in a train the TT, seeing my face, asked whether I could get him a khukri. Another time, on a guided sightseeing trip in Chennai, a vai guy gave me a friendly greeting and asked “What country are you from, Madam?”

“I’m an Indian, from Mizoram,” I answered.

The chap’s face fell. “We’re neighbours then. I’m from Silchar,” he said in a sort of despondent way. He lost all interest in me after that.

We were invited to attend an annual meeting of a particular clan of Keralites in Bangalore. They requested me to come in my Mizo dress and sing a Mizo song. I’d never dare sing a solo among my own community but believe it or not, I called up enough guts to actually sing ‘Kan zotlang ram nuam’ before a crowd of pure Malayalees. I grabbed the chance of publicizing my people and our lovely songs.

Outside the northeast region of India, we people of the Mongoloid race are called ‘Chinkies’, ‘Nepalis’ or ‘Assamese’. Or we get mistaken for foreigners. Most of us who come out of the region have lots of experiences to recount, irritating or amusing, depending on how one takes it. We could either react by drawing back into our shells, or go ahead and face it, making our marks in the process. Like HT Sangliana, MP and ex-super cop of Bangalore, has done.

Pu Sangliana is a chink like us, was placed in the tough job of a cop. He faced racial prejudice and taunts like any of us. He had to fight crime and corruption, both on the streets and in high places. No easy task among your own people, doubly difficult in a big city where you’re considered an outsider. But he did it! And won the affection and admiration of a ‘strange’ people. They even made Kannada films on his life. A Kannadinga guy told me that when he was a child, his elders used to tell him stories about Sangliana.

Let’s listen to his message to us North-easterners in an interview with the writer some years back:

“The Northeast as a whole is very beautiful, fertile, and only if they work harder there's no difficulty in eking out a livelihood. And they should accept that Indian citizenship is an absolutely beautiful citizenship. We should all have a full sense of belonging to India. The more we feel Indian, the more we'll become owners. And nobody can call us second class citizens. India is a big and free country.
“Insurgency has to stop. People in the mainland are surging ahead; living condition and per-capita income are improving everyday. The Northeast is behaving like a small village. All of us should have broad mind and determination to fight for our own future, not by taking up arms but by working harder. We have a great opportunity to come up in every aspect of life. Let us have quality young men and young women who can stand on their own feet and lead the North-eastern people.”

Sound advice, don’t you think?

poem

2008-02-25T08:10:00.000-08:00

when dream dies

when dream dies
it's hard not to cry.

so shed tears,
grieve a while,
then bury the dead
out of sight.
___

2008-02-17T09:36:00.000-08:00

Parody

Indian Shore
(With apology to Arnold's 'Dover Beach')

The sea is calm tonight,
But on the land
Lies restless fear,
And on the streets
Stalk evil and dark deeds —
Lying, cheating, stealing, robbing,
Stabbing, shooting, grenade-lobbing.
The sea of faith
Was once a soothing balm,
But now the so-called 'faith'
Only brings contention, superstition,
Fanaticism, and terrorism.

Are the leaders' hearts
Made of lead and stone?
In their power game
They scatter rage and hate
With not a thought for the people's fate.

Ah, Love, let us not grow
Too close together,
Lest we care for one another
And feel bad to exploit each other.
For what is life, unless
One can further one's ambition, and climb
Up and up the success ladder
By standing on another's shoulder?
What is love worth?
After all, what matter most
Are power and wealth.
What if one's soul be lost?
________

2008-02-03T04:22:00.000-08:00

poem

in search of images

what image can i draw
for this pain,
this despair?

what image for
lost possibilities,
should-have-beens?

what image for
regrets with
no consolation,
no second chance?

what image can express
the emptiness,
the silence?

journey

2008-01-08T00:22:00.000-08:00

journey

a patch of rain washed sky
palms waving in the wind
sunlight streaming

bumpitty bumpitty
three legged cart

abarram parrillakalla kandillagarra
attention please
duk chuk duk chuk duk chuk

billboards garment shops
suburban houses
crossing gate
dammed up traffic

green fields coconut palms
red roofed cottages
ducks in a pond

dadak dadak dadak dadak
undulating hills
green forests
rocky walls
waterfalls

tunnels long and dark
long

and

dark

long

and

dark.

Ring out, ring in

2007-12-26T09:17:00.000-08:00

New year resolutions (again)

Have you made your New Year Resolutions? Or are you like me, having broken so many resolutions in the past, hesitate to make any more? But, I say, better resolutions than none, even if you do end up breaking them. Like they say, if you aim at the stars, you may land up on the treetops. No goal, get nowhere. Have goal, reach somewhere.

So, let me confess my resolutions for the coming New Year. Number one, to clean up cobwebs from our house ceiling and walls. What with a lot of busy-ness the last many months, and a good doze of laziness, the house has become a veritable pigsty, looking like a witches’ den. (Though I haven’t seen one, I guess this is how a witches’ den looks) Cobwebs hanging all over, spiders having a gala time.

Actually, the blame for my tolerance of spiders goes back to my son when he was in his teens. He used to call me cruel when I went about cleaning cobwebs and killing spiders. “The poor spiders just stay home quietly. You destroy their houses and then beat them to death, what a cruel person you are!” he would say.

But I’ve wised up now. I’m not going to listen to my boy’s advocacy of spiders’ cause any more. The creatures are messing up my home, invading my space and destroying my peace of mind. They’re not worth showing mercy. They’ll have to go.

Along with that I’ll tackle figurative spiders in my mental house. There are a lot of them. They enter my mind, crawl down to my heart and occupy space that doesn’t belong to them. The little demons that look pretty harmless, but keep weaving cobwebs, messing up the place and becoming real nuisance. The resentment over little hurts someone gave me, the insults, snide remarks and slights, real or imagined, that I kept collecting. They reside in the corner of my thoughts. They dirty up my mind and embitter my life. Their main work is to make me suffer and keep me away from enjoying myself and doing good. Of what use are they? For what purpose have I been keeping and cherishing them? They’re not worth it. I’m going to throw them all away now. Out! Best to forget them completely.

Resolution number two: exercise and lose weight. Over the last year I’ve gained a lot of flab that’s slowed down my body movements. Several of my clothes have become tight so I can’t wear some of my favourite ones. I really need to shed. This, of course, is easier said than done. It involves getting up a bit earlier when your eyes long to close for a while longer. It means holding yourself back from biting that extra titbit. Self control. No easy task.

Along with the body weight are other weights to shed. The extra baggage. For instance, my wardrobe is overflowing with clothes I don’t really need, but have been unwilling to part with. Some of them are costly, some real pretty, but I don’t need them. They’re just clogging up space and weighing me down. There are some who need but can’t afford them. I must learn to give, to share. They better go. Give them away. Perhaps they’ll make someone happy.
And so, I’m looking forward to a clean, light, bright new year.
How about you?
Happy New Year!
________

hlahril

2007-12-26T02:55:00.000-08:00

Zoram Kohna
Kum tam Zoram, kan ram pel in
Chhingkhual kan chang, mi ram bel in
Kirtiang rel bil lo, ngir zel in.

Dawn lungruk chu leng thin mahse
Lungtum pau khauh tuah lai rel e,
Hnutiang hawi zai reng rel love.

Mahse vawiin ralbiak lo thleng
Lungloh biahzai maw a rawn keng,
A rawn tho ta, lairil verhbeng.

Zoram min koh aw maw lo ni
Lelte rawl iang min zem tu hi?
Kei lul hian chhang zo ang maw i?

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mesjay

2007-12-25T20:16:00.000-08:00

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Blog for odds and ends writings in Mizo and English: poems, stories and views on national and international issues, travelogues etc.
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Encounter of a Different Kind
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Wednesday, December 12, 2007

Encounter of a Different Kind
On a fine summer morning of 1975, I landed at Kumbhigram air port at Silchar, the southern tip of Assam. I was on my way to Serchhip in Mizoram, to join my first job as a lecturer. That day there was a private airlines flight for Aizawl the capital of Mizoram. But the travel agent said: ‘I have to ask the pilot whether you can be accommodated’. What!! This was just the beginning of surprises on entering a new world.The Jam Air flight arrived. The pilot in a multicoloured bush shirt came out. I paid the fair of fifty rupees and hopped into the Second World War vintage Dakota, belonging to Biju Patnaik. Was this the one he had used for escorting out Sukarno from Indonesia. (For the new generation: Biju Patnaik who became Orissa Chief Minister later, was an ace pilot and when Sukarno of Indonesia was in trouble, he was sent by Indian Prime Minister Nehru for the rescue mission.) No tickets, no checking, no boarding pass! The entrance was at the rear end. The floor of the plane was at a twenty degree angle to the ground. The passengers occupied the front part and the baggage was tied to the rear seats by strong ropes. Won’t they get dislodged when going through air pockets? Thankfully, that thought didn’t occur to me then. A steward came around with some stale tea in a flask. After a smooth take off, we entered the land of the hill ranges, where one acquires a new sensibility for things beautiful and simple.Soon we were at Tuirial air-strip, a hundred metre long, four lane highway sized tarmac tucked away in the middle of high hills. The ground control, one man squatting on the side of the tarmac with a small radio set. Looking around I wondered, how on earth we managed to land there! Every time I landed there in later years, it was a thrill.A mini bus with ‘pilot’ boldly written on the back of the driver’s seat was waiting. We got in for our twenty kilometre ride to Aizawl – the city on a hilltop. Occasionally one saw a bulge on one side of the road. Only much later, I realized the significance of this. As the roads are narrow, two vehicles cannot pass each other. So on seeing another vehicle coming from the opposite direction, whoever came to the bulge first moved in there for the other to pass. It was a common sight in later years to see the drivers of the ‘Indian’ Armed Forces, not used to the ways of the hills studiously keeping to the left and causing traffic jams.Passing through the uninhabited jungle road, the bus suddenly stopped at an unexpected place. The conductor, who looked like a thug with his head-band and well built body, got out and gave a yell. There was a reply from somewhere in the jungle. A cold shiver went through my spine. Were they signalling some ‘Mizo rebels’, the infamous head hunters? Soon the mystery was solved. A lassie came out of the jungle with a basket, full of fruits and vegetables, dangling on her back. How effortlessly she carried the weight! She was coming back after the day’s work in the farm. Because of the insurgency, the villages were re-grouped by the armed forces. This kept the farmers far away from their farmland and effectively destroyed the Mizo economy. These bus drivers were probably the saving knights of the people.The bus continued through winding roads by the side of deep gorges and at last reached Aizawl. Got down near Aizawl Lodge, where many non-Mizos were staying. As night approached, many looked scared. A stout Mizo man staying in one of the rooms had got drunk the previous night and made a ruckus.In the evening, a fellow lodger asked me: “Have you got your pass?” What pass? In my own country? Every non-Mizo, Indian or foreigner, entering Mizoram needs to get an inner line permit. This system introduced by the British to protect the outsiders from harm is now used for protecting the local people from outside exploiters. With my appointment letter, I could proceed to Serchhip and apply for a permit later.My destination was another 110 kms away. But being a Sunday, no transport was available the next day. All roads lead to the church on Sundays. Monday morning I got up at 4-30 in the morning for the two km walk to the bus station. So bright at 4-30! The place is so far east that the Indian Standard Time is irrelevant here.It is not only the IST that is irrelevant, but much of the Indian mind set and even Indian-ness. Culturally, linguistically, racially, historically, or politically, Mizos have nothing in common with mainland India. A fiercely independent people, they are part of India by a quirk of history. Brought up in schools where we adored ‘Chacha Nehru’ and sung Jana Gana Mana lustily every morning, I was entering a world where going to Silchar, the nearest town in Assam, meant going to India. For Mizos, India is a place of dirty beggars, bullying rickshawallas, and cheating businessmen.The last stage of my trip took me once again to Tuirial area. My heart once again missed a beat; not for fear of guerrillas this time but the breath taking scenery. The tops of the dark green hills were brightly lit. The clouds which were nestling in the deep valleys for the night slowly came up to meet and embrace us, causing a thrill in my heart. But this brought along a deep longing for the home down south I had left a week earlier. Just as the dark thoughts came, someone started a hymn. Soon the whole bus was singing. A whole choir in a moving bus! I hadn’t realized then that any four Mizos formed a choir! The tune was familiar though the words sounded like gibberish.Revived by the hymns, I was once again looking forward to the life in my new adopted land. Soon a large stone quarry was in sight. No way forward! The Border Roads people had just blasted the quarry and it would take hours to clear the road. But not for the Mizos! The passengers got down and cleared the road in fifteen minutes. The only men who did not pitch in were the two vais (plains-people). Shamefully, yours truly was one of them. Since then I have seen the whole community including ministers and top bureaucrats joining in church or school construction, or cleaning drains. Not for the photo session, but doing real labour!Life is hard for the average Mizo; a daily fight against great odds. Unfriendly terrain. Water, hard to get. Farms not very fertile. Communication with the outside world difficult. But they are undaunted. From an illiterate head hunting tribe at the turn of the 20th century, they have emerged as one of the most literate states in India. When Mizos put their mind to doing something, they just do it. In later years when they decided to put an end to insurgency and to go for development, Mizoram became the most peaceful state in the region.Soon we were at the village square of Serchhip, my ultimate destination. It looked like one of those towns in the cowboy stories. Houses and shops made of wood, bamboo and tin sheets, and a well maintained market place with notice boards and urinals at various parts of the village. To my disappointment, the horses were missing.Where was I? In a dream or dream-come-true world?
Sam Jacob
Posted by mesjay at 10:15 PM 1 comments
Labels: Travel
Thursday, December 6, 2007