The Quest Interview

This interview in The Quest, print literary journal, of December 2016 issue is uploaded with permission from the Editor, Dr. Ravi Nandan Sinha.

Malsawmi Jacob and Zorami: The Novelist and the Novel

D. Yogananda Rao

Dept. of English [PG]

Jain University, J C Road Campus,

Bangalore

“Zorami” the first Mizo (literary) novel in English, tells the story of a Mizo woman, after whom the novel is titled, who is subjected to rape and displacement during a time of violent political upheaval in Mizoram and her journey towards personal healing and discovery of a new identity via a spiritual encounter. The novel takes the reader through Zorami's traversal of her zones of darkness and shades of grey to a final explosion of the 'colours of acceptance and love'. At the same time, it vividly describes the Mizo culture and ethos.

Ms Jacob tells her side of the “story” and shares her views and experiences that went into writing the novel in this interview.

DYR: Ms. Jacob thanks for accepting to spare some time for this interview for the journal The Quest.

Could you introduce yourself to our readers by giving a brief background about yourself, your education, upbringing etc….?

MJ: My siblings and I grew up mostly outside Mizoram as our father was working in the Indian Army. For a few years during my childhood, we were in Mizoram, where I joined school in the vernacular medium. I studied there up to Class II, and imbibed a love for Mizo folklore and poetry that we were taught. Our family moved to different places. But I finished high school and studied up to MA in English in Shillong, Meghalaya. Then I taught in Aizawl College, Mizoram. Since then I have lived and worked in different cities – Guwahati, Mumbai and Bangalore.

DYR: I must begin the interview proper by saying that working with you, though for a very brief period, was a rewarding experience for me and more importantly congratulating you on the publication of Zorami : A redemption song,  the first novel in English from Mizoram. That leads to my first question: why has it taken so long for a Mizo writer to publish a novel in English?

MJ: Thank you very much, Sir. And thank you for deciding to interview me for the esteemed journal. Working under you was a very good experience for me. As the HOD you were a good guide, but never breathed down my neck. I really enjoyed working in the department.

As for the question, why a Mizo novel in English only now, there can be several reasons. (Incidentally, two young women had written Young Adult Fiction before me, though they may not be classed as ‘Novel’ and a young man working in Gujarat produced a mystery a few months after my novel was out). To begin with, we Mizo people have been literate for only about 120 years, in our own language. English education came even later. Besides, novel writing itself is quite a recent thing. So I should say it’s not surprising that we’re only beginning to produce novels in English.

DYR: One of the problems that the early Indian novelists in English such as Mulk Raj Anand, R K Narayan and Raja Rao had to deal with was the anxiety concerning the choice of the English language. Do you think Mizo novel writing in English could also be going through that sort of an anxiety, considering that Mizo novel writing in English is in its infancy stages?

MJ: That anxiety is probably there, in two ways. The first one would be the writer’s own command of the English language. The second anxiety would be about readership. For serious writers – by ‘serious’ I mean those making it their main occupation – living within Mizoram, since the majority of readers there prefer to read in the Mizo language, to write in English must be quite a difficult decision.

The few writers who choose English as their medium have mostly been educated, or living, outside Mizoram, and are actually freer with English than with the mother-tongue, at least for writing.

DYR: Could you tell us how the scene has been in other genres like poetry, drama in English from Mizo writers? I do know that you had published poetry and short stories quite extensively in English before you published Zorami in 2015.

MJ: Poetic compositions in the form of songs are the oldest form of Mizo literature. So when we started writing in English too, poetry was the first genre that we took up. There is a good number of Mizo poets writing in English today. Mona Zote is a widely known name among them. I have published a collection of poems and short stories as well. But the drama is yet to take off as far as I know.

DYR: People in general and writers in particular from the Northeast have been complaining about the reluctance of the Indian academia and media to accept them into the “mainstream” Indian politics, literature and culture. Indeed, various reasons have been attributed to this reluctance. What in your opinion is the reason for this reluctance?

MJ: This seems to be a fact, but I really can’t see the reason. Perhaps it’s due to the chronic human tendency to always create an “other” to be prejudiced against, either mildly or violently. But I do see a healthy interest coming up too, and this is encouraging. Easterine Kire winning the Hindu Literary Prize, hopefully, will pave the way for the rest of the Northeast writers to be regarded as part of Indian writers without the regional tag.

DYR: It is a common critical practice to club all writing that comes from the seven “sister states” under the broad category of ‘writing from the northeast’. Surely, the experiences that shape the literature of each region are different and hence the writing too, no matter how geographically proximate these regions are. How different is Mizo writing from the writing of other states of the region?

MJ: This clubbing must be purely a geographical convenience, as you have suggested. There is no homogeneity among the peoples of the Northeast as such. The only access we have to writings from other states and language groups is through English, whether written in it or through translations. From what we can see through these, our writings, our tales and our outlooks are all quite different. But I don’t feel capable of making a large scale comparison of Mizo writing with other writings of the region here. It would require a careful study, which I haven’t done yet.

DYR: In one of the interviews you gave, I am referring to the MUSE INDIA interview; you say that the reception of the novel has been good. I am extremely happy to hear this. Would you please elaborate on this and tell us how the reception has been in other parts of India apart from Mizoram and the Northeast?

MJ: Let me clarify that statement; when I said the reception of the novel has been good, I meant in terms of comments by readers, not necessarily sales. And these feedbacks came from different parts of India. There’s the opposite response too; some people can’t even bear to read it through. These probably dislike the non-linear form and my ‘native’ style of story-telling. Those who have appreciated it are mostly, though not exclusively, people associated with art or literature as students, teachers or writers. And they are from different parts of the country. Besides, a few newspapers and magazines from different regions have carried write-ups and reports, or included it in their book racks. And Ambedkar University in Delhi has prescribed it as part of an elective course on Northeast Literature.

DYR: In a write-up on the novel published in The Indian Express recently, you say that you broke down frequently while writing the novel. Clearly you must have been passionately involved with it. Could you tell us something about the kind of the research that went into the writing of the novel?

MJ: When the trouble started, my family was outside Mizoram and I was in school. My father was terribly upset when we got the news. So we knew this was a grave matter. Later, we kept hearing about the horrible happenings there, so we were always mentally involved. After finishing my studies, I went back to Aizawl and worked there for over nine years, getting further exposure to the situation. When the MOU, popularly known as ‘peace accord’ was signed in June 30, 1986, I was out of Mizoram again. In May, 2004, I went back to do the research for the novel.

In Aizawl, I visited a friend whose family member had died a few weeks before. There were several other visitors. As we sat chatting, I asked them to recount their memories of the early days of the insurgency movement. One by one they all narrated their experiences. I recorded them in the cassettes I had brought. I did the same in Lunglei, where a relative had died some time back. In this way I got diverse stories.

Next, I made an appointment with two writers, well known thinkers, in the home of one of them. They discussed Mizoram issues, past and present.

Finally, I interviewed some persons – former MNF officers who were now political leaders, and a pastor who started the process for peace-talks between the government and the undergrounds. I also read books and documents. Yes, the research was quite intense.

DYR: As I read through the novel I couldn’t help being reminded of Chinua Achebe’s Things Fall Apart. Just like Achebe, you make an attempt to force the language to accommodate the native rhythm interweaving it with Mizo oral culture. And let me not forget to add, in the use of proverbs and the folk songs too. Moreover, just like the protagonist’s (Okwonkwo) destiny in Achebe’s novel is meant to be an allegory for Umofia, the novel’s protagonist Zorami too is meant to represent the whole of Mizoram. And the patriarchal nature of Umofia also finds a parallel in the Mizoram of the novel. How influential, if at all, was Achebe’s writing practices on your own?

MJ: Now that you mention it, I see the similarities with Achebe’s novel, and it’s very interesting! But there’s an explanation for it. Starting from the last point; the Mizo society is strongly patriarchal, I just portrayed it as I saw it. The idea of making the protagonist Zorami represent Mizoram was conceived way back in 2004, long before I read Achebe’s novels. Employing songs is a traditional Mizo story telling style, the folktale characters often speak in songs. And quoting proverbs to strengthen the speaker’s point is a common practice as well.

However, I now suspect Achebe may have had a deeper, more subtle influence on my writing, though I was not conscious of it. This leads to your first point. I read the trilogy Things Fall Apart, Arrow of God and No Longer at Ease around the same time that I was working on Zorami. I remember thinking of how he tells the stories in a unique way, in his own style. He must have emboldened me to tell my story in my own way, with all its rough edges, and “force the (English) language to accommodate the native rhythm.”

DYR: Yet another thing that struck me about your novel is the way most chapters end. Events in the chapters are narrated almost like an eye-witness account striving for a conscious dispassionate objectivity. However, they end with a one line comment which sounds as if the narrator is consciously stepping in to remark. This is almost like a choric intervention we come across in the classical Greek plays…

MJ: Each chapter ending with a kind of toll was my editor’s idea. He made me do it.

DYR: While the novel is ostensibly about Mizoram at the macro level, it is also about a woman who has been subjected to a sexual violation. When a reading of the novel foregrounds this aspect – as a feminist reading would – I think it is an attempt to dent a patriarchal society by raising the question very subtly: if a woman has been violated by one man, why should she seek succour from another man? The conclusion of the novel is indicative of this. I mean, Zorami’s problems – psychological and marital – are seemingly resolved – when she accepts the prevailing nature of patriarchy. Would you like to comment?

MJ: Whereas the novel is critical of the unjust and prejudiced practice of patriarchy, it does not advocate a toppling of it. There has to be a healthy, fair balance. Zorami’s biggest problem is internal, though brought on by the sexual assault. When she finds inner healing through a spiritual experience, she is able to fully accept her husband’s love, not necessarily the prevailing nature of patriarchy. Her husband, who is also psychologically wounded, finds relief and joy in her new-found state of mind. So it’s a mutual, not one-sided, giving of succour.

DYR: One of the observations made in the context of “literature of real conflict” – a genre to which Zorami doubtlessly belongs – is that it treads a thin line between fiction and non-fiction. Do you think this opens up a possibility of reading and understanding history in new ways?

MJ: This is true of Zorami. It does tread a thin line between fiction and non-fiction. Several of the characters and incidents are taken from real life, though fictionalized. And yes, I would say this kind of conflict literature is part of history in a sense, recording deeper human experiences beyond dry facts. The official history records only external occurrences, whereas fiction of this sort deals with what happens inside people’s minds as well. History is incomplete without an understanding of the inner stories of people.

DYR: And, again in the context of trauma induced by the painful events, it is a general opinion that trauma results in repression of suffering by internalizing it in memory leading to the silencing of it. Were you at any time of the writing of the novel aware or conscious about this? And would it be right to say that your novel is a conscious attempt to break out of this trauma induced silence?

MJ: I was not aware of that in a theoretical sense, but found out that people had been keeping their pains locked up inside. When I asked questions during my research, they came out with their overwhelming stories. And I do regard my novel as a voice of the Mizo people, where their so far untold stories are narrated to the outside world.

Note: The MUSE interview alluded to in this interview can be accessed at: http://www.museindia.com/regularcontent.asp?issid=63&id=6049#

We believe in mending

Whether it’s a thing or a relationship, I believe in mending, patching and restoring rather than discarding.

I learned this years ago from my then fourteen-year-old son. We couldn’t afford good furniture, so we bought cheap ones made from discarded wood. Shelves, tables and chairs bought from wayside workshops served our needs; including study tables for our two children. We covered the tables with plastic sheets for smoothness and good looks.

        

With time, the table covers started tearing. So hubby and I went and bought new ones. My teenage son refused to use the new cover, saying, “The old cover has a lot of battle scars, I’d rather keep it.” So he patched it up with black tape and continued to use it.

Our daughter has the same philosophy. She’s begging us to keep some old cane furniture we considered getting rid of.

Now, we have this old suitcase which has travelled far and wide, has suffered wear and tear. Recently, it was under threat of being chucked for a new one. But a bit of needlework has made it travel-worthy again. Thus we get to keep our old friend and it escapes being thrown out to become another environment pollutant. And we save a few grands too, which may be put to good use.

Even difficult human relationships can often be restored, depending on how much we value them and how hard we’re willing to try.

Two Muses

The two are so un-alike it’s hard to believe they are sisters. They share the same father but their mothers are different.

Pi Fangi,[i] the elder one, is magical, whimsical and totally wild. She is thin and wrinkled with white flowing hair. She is full of fun and frolic. She laughs merrily, sings merry tunes and dances in the meadows. She gets quite crazy and scary at times, though. She runs a race with the wind, howling and hooting. Or drives down the river, swooshing and swashing and gurgling and galloping. Sometimes she screams like a banshee for no reason at all. Or she may sulk in silence like a sahuai ni do,[ii] no amount of poking and prodding will make her talk or respond to you in any way.

Pi Fingi[iii] is the younger one. She’s sober, sane and sensible. She’s tall and straight, with black hair neatly tied, never a strand out of place. She’s a lady in every sense of the term. Quiet, dignified, never speaks out of turn. Sobriety, Sagacity and Serenity are her catchword. Her feet are firmly planted on the ground and she never goes on a wild goose chase. She has a solution for every problem. She’s always right. She commands and demands immediate and full obedience. She doesn’t allow you to make noise or to sing loudly.

I’ve been keeping company with Pi Fingi. Pi Fangi scares me, so I’ve mostly avoided her. I’m quite fascinated with her, though. I’m a little afraid of Pi Fingi too, but with her, one always knows where one stands.

Sometimes, Pi Fangi looks at me, winks, and beckons with a glint in her eyes. But then Pi Fingi glares at me from the top of her specs, waxes a finger and says “Shalt Not. Not Safe.” I have to agree. If I follow the elder sister I may end up on a mountain peak or the bottom of a pit. Who knows?

But then, I’m now wondering. Maybe, just maybe….

---

[i] A good witch in a Mizo folktale

[ii] A small creature who refuses to look at the sun in a Mizo folktale

[iii] Madam Wisdom

Chhinlung

That’s where I came from: a cave of stone with

Jagged edges, its belly dark and dank; joined to

Earth’s boiling bowels.

One day, they say, out of this cave

Our ancestors emerged; out they marched

in groups, tribe by tribe.

First came the Sailo tribe, with bearing proud

Their faces grim, set with intent to reign,

That will no resistance brook.  

The Luseis came in sight, their lordly stride

And genial mien a courtly role portend.

Their dialect rules the roost, unites the state.

The Lais appeared a humble lot at first

Yet eyes belie a fearless warlike race

Who fight to the death and know no flight.

The Hmars have magic in their blood;

To rule or conquer not their aim,

Shaman they were to play a priestly part.

At last surfaced the Ralte tribe

With cheery chatter, merry clatter

They filled the cave with jolly din.

The first-come tribe, who claimed superiority,

Curled their noses at such frivolity,

Decided it must end.

They commanded all the tribes

To shut the cave-mouth and at once!

Before more noisy crowds advance.

And so they took a boulder huge

They closed the cave – a heinous deed!

Shut their brothers in, denied them daylight.

wild flower of Mizoram

Formal Trouble

What can an elderly woman wear at a wedding?

 When i was teaching in a Bangalore college, the dress code for women lecturers was the saree. It was tough going for the likes of me who weren’t born into it. But i did manage somehow. Once we moved to Mumbai and i took up a non-teaching job, dressing became free and easy. We don’t deal with customers; we don’t have to impress anybody. So we can wear what we please—within a level of decency and common sense, of course! A pair of corduroy pants, bought from the men’s clothing section at a mall, became my favourite wear. [It’s hard to get women’s casual trousers since they come in tights and slim fits, which i don’t want to wear. Same is the case with footwear, men’s section has interesting sandals and things while the women’s side is filled with silly, icky designs. Isn’t this part of gender harassment?]

But then, thinking of clothes for formal functions is such a headache! Some time back, we went for a Northeast hill folks wedding. Wanting to highlight regional solidarity, i went dressed in ‘puan’. But most of the other guests were in Westerns, and i felt so conspicuous in my ethnic. There’s another wedding coming in a few weeks. Someone is telling me to wear a silk saree. But i don’t want to, especially in this wet season. The situation reminds me of the lines from TS Eliot’s ‘The Lovesong of J Alfred Prufrock’: Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare eat a peach? I have heard the mermaids singing each to each. I do not think that they will sing to me.

Well, what does a female Prufrock do? Any suggestion?

Evening

The evening sun so softly shines
No more in glaring noonday heat;
‘Twill soon go down beyond our view
Its journey done, its work complete.

When day is done and dusk descends
Some creatures seek their homes to lay;
When night is here and darkness reigns
Elsewhere begins the reign of day.

It’s now the evening of my life,
Which soon may close in darkest night;
And then will break the sweetest dawn,
That turns to day forever bright.

Limerick-ing

There’s this e-literary journal that also has a page called ‘your space’ where anyone can post their works. At one stage, the poets there were doing limericks. On one of those, i commented that limericks are delightful to read but too much of a challenge to write.

The poet responded by not only challenging, but actually coaxing me to try a hand at it. As it is, i’ve always been fascinated by the anapaestic beat (da da DA). So i decided to try it, and with egging and helps from the others, the following verses were churned out. Please do read and laugh :)


There was once an old girl gone frenetic
She was anxious to write her first limerick;
So she tried and she tried
Till she hopelessly cried,
And alas, she became an eccentric!

*

There was once a young boy with a bag
Which he lugged, caused his shoulders to sag,
So he trudged to his school
As required by rule
All his knowledge thus packed in a bag.

*

There was once an old dame, oh so poor
She did beg for her food door to door;
Then you know, one bad day—
It’s so sad to relay—
All her gold was exacted by law!

*

There was once an old maid who would nag
At her neighbours whose morals may sag;
She saw John in a bar
She got out of her car
And he said, “Here you are! Now let’s drag!”

Winter trips, etc.

Summer’s already on its way and my blog still looks at winter, slow coach that i am! Anyway, it’s been good times though i’m a bit tardy at updating blogs.
My nephew in Aizawl got married on 20th December. So my daughter flew in on 18th, we left together on 19th and landed there in the evening. What with the joy of meeting siblings and others, we got healthily hungry and gorged on the rarely-come-by Mizo food. Yum yum!

Wedding next day. Missed the official family photo with bride and groom as i was busy talking with an old friend. My little camera conked out on me so i couldn’t take any pics. Daughter, sisters, nieces, sister in law and i posed for what would have been beautiful pictures in our dressy tops and puans, shot by brother in law’s brother in law. I was impatiently waiting for the copies when news came that there was no photo to be seen as bro-in-law’s bro-in-law’s camera’s memory card was run over by a vehicle. On getting news of the disaster, though i greatly miss the photos, i couldn’t help laughing my head off as the accident was so unique.

Starting the wedding night, i was down with tummy upset for a few days probably due to over eating. But i had company in my misery. Bro-in-law’s bro-in-law whose memory card later got run over also suffered the same fate, hehe!

Christmas was in Chaltlang, we stayed in my brother’s place. Just before the community feast, my friend’s sister in law died so i couldn’t join it. Big loss(es). And then we went to my parents’ old village. A nostalgic, lovely trip that deserves to be blogged about all by itself.

On every trip to Mizoram, i love to comb bookshops. But time ran out this time and i could only do one, in a hurry. I bought the novel 'Zodinpuii', and was shocked to find that the author was dead and that he was the son of Pi Vanramchhuangi, whom i interviewed for our organization just two years back. I also got 'Mianglo Sulhnu', a recently published collection of Mizo short stories, that i was looking for. So far i’ve read only ‘Kutdawh Puia’ by TS Khupchong. The theme is interesting, dealing with love of a different kind than the usual favourite, the sexual one. The execution too is pretty okay, especially considering the writer’s age; he’s only 22 plus according to the bio-note. It’s hopeful that this guy will make great contributions to Mizo literature.

*
Early Feb, another few days’ trip to Bangalore. It was really good but a bit too short; lots of things to do and lots of friends to meet. Got to ride the Metro there for the first time, pretty cool. Friends, family, etc were simply great.

*
My book, 'The Messiah', to be published by GLS, has gone to the press. I’m quite excited about it.

My window

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!

(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

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

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

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!

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

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

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

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!

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

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.