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!
________
Wednesday, December 26, 2007
hlahril
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?
"I thiam thil chu sang mah suh se
I ram leh hnam in a ngai che,
Hawiin lo kir rawh", min ti e.
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?
"I thiam thil chu sang mah suh se
I ram leh hnam in a ngai che,
Hawiin lo kir rawh", min ti e.
Tuesday, December 25, 2007
mesjay
zozem
Blog for odds and ends writings in Mizo and English: poems, stories and views on national and international issues, travelogues etc.
Blog Archive
▼ 2007 (2)
▼ December (2)
Encounter of a Different Kind
Zoram Kohna
Contributors
Dad Jay
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
Blog for odds and ends writings in Mizo and English: poems, stories and views on national and international issues, travelogues etc.
Blog Archive
▼ 2007 (2)
▼ December (2)
Encounter of a Different Kind
Zoram Kohna
Contributors
Dad Jay
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
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