January 27, 2007
January 26, 2007
Somewhere I Belong
How can I possibly claim that I ‘belong’ to a place where I ‘never belong’?
It was an usual humid Delhi evening. I was boarding a bus for North Campus. As I got into the bus I heard someone from the back row yelling, “Hey, Bahadur!”. Oh, God, not again! I didn’t look back. I didn’t care. After all, I’m not a “Bahadur.” However, a slight feeling of embarassment and anger began to creep into my psyche. Such insulting words being flung at us – we, the north-eastern tribals - have become quite a common experience. And by now, I’m beginning to get used to it. My take here is that it’s all part of a modern city life.
Racism is a bit too endemic here in New Delhi. Themes like ‘democracy,’ ‘multiculturalism,’ ‘unity-in-diversity,’ ‘secularism’, ‘humanism,’ and ‘tolerance’ don’t seem to find their place in the common man’s world. You maybe holding a MotoRizr phone, a Nokia N70, or sporting the latest in fashion trends, and you maybe far better off in every way, but you just can’t escape these age-old racial stereotypes – as long as you are a ‘chinky.’ The mindset of the mainland Indians are transfixed on the belief that we, north-easterners, are inferior to them in every way which has a deep psychological root from generations past and would continue through generations to come. I often ask myself, why don’t they call us Japanese or Korean instead? Why Nepali? Why Bahadur?
As I rode on the bus, painful memories of all my past experiences began to flood my mind. From the moment I stepped down at the New Delhi railway station in early 2004 - the sneaky auto-driver, the brutal bus conductor, the first day at my college where I was ragged thrice, the cunning landlord, the constant glaring at the market places, et seq. - to this day I have been going through numerous stresses. Why do we have to be targetted and humiliated and abused simply because we ‘look’ so different? All these reminiscences made the blood in me boil. I wanted to scream out loud, “I too am an Indian, stupid!” Well, I’ve got to keep my cool. There’s nothing I could do.
The man who sat right next to me seemed quite a gentleman. He was well dressed and had a friendly, cheerful face. His eyes told me that he genuinely had an interest in me for some reasons unknown to me. The man introduced himself, “Hi, I’m Ravish,” and I responded, “I’m Lun.” After spelling out and teaching him how to pronounce my name, we began to converse intimately.
At some point he said, “You must be from Manipur?”
“How could you say that?” I asked.
“Oh!” he grinned, “I’m just guessing.”
I still wonder how the hell did he guess!
“I’m not from Manipur,” I told him point-blank. You don’t know how I hate to be called a Manipuri, and that I am from Manipur. When people asked me what my native place was, I usually told them that it’s, rather, Mizoram or Nagaland. To be a Manipuri here is a huge liability, what with landlords refusing anyone who they know hails from the god-forsaken state. And Manipur is being associated with all the ills afflicting the whole north-eastern states.
“Then where are you from?” came the next question.
“I’m from Zoland. The land of the Zo people.” Period.
I’m tired by now and thought that, with this he would stop bothering me. I was wrong. He seemed to be more and more enthusiastic about our new topic of discussion, and even told me that Regionalism and Linguistics had once been his chosen preoccupation.
“Where is that place?” I now felt sorry that I talked to him in the first place.
“Well, it’s a long story. You would never know where I come from. Nobody would know that. I too don’t know where I belong. And I’m still working on it.”
He was completely amazed.
“I had never heard of such a place. Is it somewhere in Nagaland, Mizoram, Meghalaya, or somewhere else?”
To me this guy was still a mystery. He was innocent, polite, friendly, humble and truthful. And yes, quite curious.
For the sake of the intimacy we had just created, I began to narrate who I am and where I belong. “We are a people, independent from time immemorial. We lived peacefully in our own land, far away from the bustling world. We had our own chiefs who looked after our welfare. However, our legacy began to fall apart with the advent of western imperialism, like you had faced a couple of centuries ago. By the middle of the past century, when the Queen of England left India our land got demarcated into separate nations. And as of the present day, we are being cut across by three countries - India, Myanmar and Bangladesh. Her Majesty, the Queen had done a terrible mistake for leaving us to our own fate. And worse, she never knew that.”
Ravish listened attentively. I was too engrossed in my own discourse that I didn’t even give him a chance to speak anymore. Whether he was interested in all that I had said or not, didn’t matter. My own enthusiasm let me go on and on. And, thanks to his curiosity, he didn’t lose his interest either.
I said, “Actually, I’m coming from the state of Manipur. But you can’t call me a Manipuri. Our place is called ‘Outer Manipur’ and we are alienated from the real state. “
He seemed a bit surprised.
“See, the mainland Indians treat people from the north-east as if they are foreigners and that too, with pure humiliation, we are being oppressed and treated as different people in our own tiny state. All channels of growth have been barred for us. Our interests, traditions and cultures are different from those of the plain people.”
I awaited some questions from him, but he was rather looking for an answer on my face. So, I continued, “The condition of our land, and our peole is pathetic. Our future looks bleak. The systems of local government run by corrupt politicans chain our people while the rest of the country is shining. And though small, secluded and marginalized, we fight and kill amongst ourselves due to identity crises. Among us. Between us.”
“Which is why I told you I don’t know where I belong. I do know that I’m a Zomi. But the land I referred to as the place I’m from, called Zoland, is just a romanticized aspiration for our dreamland. A dream that someday we would have our own land and live freely.”
He tried to say something, but rather stopped mid-way.
I paused for a moment, and said, “Rest assured, one thing is for sure. I come from a place somewhere I belong.”
Time seemed to grind into slow motion as I went on unveiling layer by layer the intricacies of identity consciousness in Manipur valley and the segmentary hill society to which I belong. The snarling traffic got a sigh and our bus speeded up for a moment. Now we were nearing my stop. We exchanged some more friendly words and then, bidding goodbye I stood up from my seat and rushed off into the busy traffic.
It was an usual humid Delhi evening. I was boarding a bus for North Campus. As I got into the bus I heard someone from the back row yelling, “Hey, Bahadur!”. Oh, God, not again! I didn’t look back. I didn’t care. After all, I’m not a “Bahadur.” However, a slight feeling of embarassment and anger began to creep into my psyche. Such insulting words being flung at us – we, the north-eastern tribals - have become quite a common experience. And by now, I’m beginning to get used to it. My take here is that it’s all part of a modern city life.
Racism is a bit too endemic here in New Delhi. Themes like ‘democracy,’ ‘multiculturalism,’ ‘unity-in-diversity,’ ‘secularism’, ‘humanism,’ and ‘tolerance’ don’t seem to find their place in the common man’s world. You maybe holding a MotoRizr phone, a Nokia N70, or sporting the latest in fashion trends, and you maybe far better off in every way, but you just can’t escape these age-old racial stereotypes – as long as you are a ‘chinky.’ The mindset of the mainland Indians are transfixed on the belief that we, north-easterners, are inferior to them in every way which has a deep psychological root from generations past and would continue through generations to come. I often ask myself, why don’t they call us Japanese or Korean instead? Why Nepali? Why Bahadur?
As I rode on the bus, painful memories of all my past experiences began to flood my mind. From the moment I stepped down at the New Delhi railway station in early 2004 - the sneaky auto-driver, the brutal bus conductor, the first day at my college where I was ragged thrice, the cunning landlord, the constant glaring at the market places, et seq. - to this day I have been going through numerous stresses. Why do we have to be targetted and humiliated and abused simply because we ‘look’ so different? All these reminiscences made the blood in me boil. I wanted to scream out loud, “I too am an Indian, stupid!” Well, I’ve got to keep my cool. There’s nothing I could do.
The man who sat right next to me seemed quite a gentleman. He was well dressed and had a friendly, cheerful face. His eyes told me that he genuinely had an interest in me for some reasons unknown to me. The man introduced himself, “Hi, I’m Ravish,” and I responded, “I’m Lun.” After spelling out and teaching him how to pronounce my name, we began to converse intimately.
At some point he said, “You must be from Manipur?”
“How could you say that?” I asked.
“Oh!” he grinned, “I’m just guessing.”
I still wonder how the hell did he guess!
“I’m not from Manipur,” I told him point-blank. You don’t know how I hate to be called a Manipuri, and that I am from Manipur. When people asked me what my native place was, I usually told them that it’s, rather, Mizoram or Nagaland. To be a Manipuri here is a huge liability, what with landlords refusing anyone who they know hails from the god-forsaken state. And Manipur is being associated with all the ills afflicting the whole north-eastern states.
“Then where are you from?” came the next question.
“I’m from Zoland. The land of the Zo people.” Period.
I’m tired by now and thought that, with this he would stop bothering me. I was wrong. He seemed to be more and more enthusiastic about our new topic of discussion, and even told me that Regionalism and Linguistics had once been his chosen preoccupation.
“Where is that place?” I now felt sorry that I talked to him in the first place.
“Well, it’s a long story. You would never know where I come from. Nobody would know that. I too don’t know where I belong. And I’m still working on it.”
He was completely amazed.
“I had never heard of such a place. Is it somewhere in Nagaland, Mizoram, Meghalaya, or somewhere else?”
To me this guy was still a mystery. He was innocent, polite, friendly, humble and truthful. And yes, quite curious.
For the sake of the intimacy we had just created, I began to narrate who I am and where I belong. “We are a people, independent from time immemorial. We lived peacefully in our own land, far away from the bustling world. We had our own chiefs who looked after our welfare. However, our legacy began to fall apart with the advent of western imperialism, like you had faced a couple of centuries ago. By the middle of the past century, when the Queen of England left India our land got demarcated into separate nations. And as of the present day, we are being cut across by three countries - India, Myanmar and Bangladesh. Her Majesty, the Queen had done a terrible mistake for leaving us to our own fate. And worse, she never knew that.”
Ravish listened attentively. I was too engrossed in my own discourse that I didn’t even give him a chance to speak anymore. Whether he was interested in all that I had said or not, didn’t matter. My own enthusiasm let me go on and on. And, thanks to his curiosity, he didn’t lose his interest either.
I said, “Actually, I’m coming from the state of Manipur. But you can’t call me a Manipuri. Our place is called ‘Outer Manipur’ and we are alienated from the real state. “
He seemed a bit surprised.
“See, the mainland Indians treat people from the north-east as if they are foreigners and that too, with pure humiliation, we are being oppressed and treated as different people in our own tiny state. All channels of growth have been barred for us. Our interests, traditions and cultures are different from those of the plain people.”
I awaited some questions from him, but he was rather looking for an answer on my face. So, I continued, “The condition of our land, and our peole is pathetic. Our future looks bleak. The systems of local government run by corrupt politicans chain our people while the rest of the country is shining. And though small, secluded and marginalized, we fight and kill amongst ourselves due to identity crises. Among us. Between us.”
“Which is why I told you I don’t know where I belong. I do know that I’m a Zomi. But the land I referred to as the place I’m from, called Zoland, is just a romanticized aspiration for our dreamland. A dream that someday we would have our own land and live freely.”
He tried to say something, but rather stopped mid-way.
I paused for a moment, and said, “Rest assured, one thing is for sure. I come from a place somewhere I belong.”
Time seemed to grind into slow motion as I went on unveiling layer by layer the intricacies of identity consciousness in Manipur valley and the segmentary hill society to which I belong. The snarling traffic got a sigh and our bus speeded up for a moment. Now we were nearing my stop. We exchanged some more friendly words and then, bidding goodbye I stood up from my seat and rushed off into the busy traffic.
[This piece has been webcasted in December of 2005. With the recent fuss and furor over Shilpa's racial thing, let's give a big shout here again - with some minor changes]
January 18, 2007
Zodawn Shining: Dawn of a New Age
Home coming, for me, is a bittersweet idea - the sweet memories of past years faced off against the nagging fear that the outcome could be the total erasure of those very memories. Pleasant memories.
It was November the 3rd, 2006. Our bus slowly crawled, gentle in its motion, up the rough, bumpy Tedim Road, spewing clouds of dust behind. As I stared out the window, I was appalled to see the dreary condition of the surrounding land. The place looked so forlorn and desolate. All I could see was the detritus of poverty. No more fresh green vegetation. Small huts, made of thatches and bamboos dotted along the dirt tracks. Dirty children, dressed in rags, waved at us with pigs and dogs. Then I paused for a while, trying to inhale the fresh and fragrant Zolei breeze that I had longed for. But all I could inhale was the rough scent of dry dirt lingering in the air.
As we rode on, I began to ponder: what had become of us, of our land? A couple of years had gone by since I was away from home. Nothing had changed. In fact, the land just got poorer, much poorer than when I last seen it. The condition of the road was simply horrendous. How the hell did they drive here? Electric wires hanged loose from the poles. When was the last time these carried current up here? Some women passed by, carrying pots of water on their heads. Their faces bore a haggard look, their skin weathered from hard work.
A co-passenger said, "Is there any government here?" But I was too tired, then, to respond.
I think it's about time, now for every responsible citizen to answer that question. Elections are coming up. And they offer the only opportunity to interrogate our representatives. It is the responsibility of the new generations to expose and question the wrongs committed by our leaders. That is the little mite we can give back to the society - and poor Zoland - that has nurtured us.
It is now time to ban the shameful custom of receiving red shawls from our MLAs. That was a historical symbol of our colonial subjugation and oppression under the British rule. Britishers tricked our tribal chiefs by giving them red shawls. And now our MLAs still wish to perpetuate this shameful legacy. It is time to educate public opinion on such issues. Our people no longer need red shawls and empty promises. What we need is any explanation for misgovernance -or rather non-governance.
The paralyzing spirit of cynicism is very annoying in present Manipur, where the bandh addict public and corrupt politicians out perform each other in pulling down the fabric of development. The colonial-style of power equation and feudal system of local government chain our people while the rest of India is flying.
However, we are not entirely doomed. I am very optimistic about our future. If history of the West has a lesson for us today, the surging tide of India's roaring economy will eventually lift up everyone. And I hope it wouldn't spare us either. I don't think that government will improve overnight. Anyway, the success story of the new India is created not by the government. It is private entrepreneurs and market forces which are guiding our country to new heights. For example, the entry of market-driven players like Airtel and Aircel in Lamka qualitatively improves even the sarkari BSNL. And now, they are making their way up the Tedim Road and Guite Road, to Singngat and the hill horizon beyond.
The most existing development in 2007 will be the entry of foreign Retailers in India . They may eventually arrive in Manipur with some time gap. Then to Lamka. And it will generate new jobs while changing the expectations of consumers by cutting cost and adding value to products.
The only obstacle is our political dinosaurs and outdated Left "intellectuals". These people had vested interest in poverty as their vote bank. They can't digest the idea of transforming India into a country of a rich or (at least) middle class consumers. But that process is happening right under our own nose. Our corrupt politicans will do their best to slow the process; but they will no longer be able to stop the wheels of change. Beware, the genie of market reform is out of the bottle!
Our MLAs have an illusion that they can go on cheating voters and stealing funds. But common citizens will sooner or later learn how to use the recent Right to Information Act (RTI). This will be the last nail in the coffin of the stinking of bureaucratic secrecy and political corruption. If our country maintains the current rate of economic growth (around 8%), I believe you and I may be the last generation to witness "absolute poverty".
[With inputs from David Lalpi, Moderator, ZWC]
This piece has also been webcasted on YouTheJournalist, Zogam.com and ZogamOnline.com
January 06, 2007
Lung honleen e
h a u s a p i v u u m
Singngat taang pan gaaldot
Suih lung honleen e, aw,
Lummei kaai ziilzial nuai ah
Miimbang pianna vaangkhua pan gaal in don veeng;
Tua mual etlawm, mual saang
A sak minthang Hausapi Vuum.
Chikchian' na etlawmna te maimit in k'ong suanthei nawn diam?
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