Guun Lui Khenlam Ah

KUM 6 LEL a upa, naupang Pauminthang in atung a bangthil tung ahia, chih a theisiam kei diing. A ngeina daan in a u te’ gamkuanna a zui a, a ngeina daan mah a inn tungkiik mai di’n a kikoih hi. Himahleh a naupang lungsim’ ngaihtuahna khenlam pek ah thil a hongpai ta. Gamlak a sing laa a a kuanna mun ua pan Kawl sepaih te’n bangmah geentam lou in a pimang ua, tuni tan inn a tung naikei uhi. Bang hihkhial ahi ua chihleeng a thei tuansaam kei diing. Atheih ngeilouhna gam ah zaan bangzah a tuun ngai in a kapta dia? Bangzah vei gilkial-dangtaak in a nu a samta dia?

Huchibang mah in kum 16 mi, Pauminlian in chickchiang a a lawm te toh skul kaikhawm theinawn diing ahi ua, chih a theibaan kei diing. Aman tulel in JNV Tuinom ah pawl giat (VIII) sim hi. Pauminthang ahihleh Hiangtam(K) a Thangsuandal’ ta hi a, Pauminlian peen Haiyang a Soilal’ ta ahi.

Hiai naupang nih te tel in Indo-Myanmar gami zuul a sing laa a kuan mi 21, Kawl sepaih te’n May 6, 2006 in na mantaang ua, tuni tan khahkhe nailou uhi. Amun ahihleh Myanmar gamsung a Aisih ahi. Amau bel Singngat apan suahlam gamgi zuul, Theigotang leh simlam, Salap leh Lunjang khua a sing pua a neekzong ahi uhi. Tua gamte ahihleh gammang thupi taktak, sing lian leh hoih taktak omna ahi a, gamgi chiamtehna leng hoihtak a omlou in tuplouh pi a Burma gam tun pahpah theihna mun ahi. Guta, gamsung a phalna bei a luut chih ngohna pansan a mat a om ahi uh. A tamzaw Muallum khomi hi ua, a dang te Sumchinvum, Haiyang, Belpuan, Tangpijol, Hiangtam(K), Suangphu, Lunjang khawng apan hi uhi. Hiai khua te bel Singngat khokiim a om ngen ahi. Baan ah, shaktiman gari thum toh leng matkhawm in om ua, tua gari neitu te Hausuan, Kaitom, leh Suanthang ahi.

Atuung in hiai thu police ah tutpah ahikei. Singngat police station a OC, Kamzathang, SI’ panlaakna ziak in May 24, 2006 in case chiamteh in ompan hi (Section 447/342 IPC & 27 Armed Act). Ahilel a geen in Singngat SDO, DC leh MLA – hiai te’ nnasep khiat kichian tak a muhdiing tutan om nailou hi. Bialtu MLA, Thangso Baite in atuunglam in kitheih mohbawl sim mahleh, mat a omte’ innkuante’n MLA pa’ kiang ah palai sawl ua, thu omdaan va geenpih uhi. Aman, “DC leh MP (outer) kiang ah a thu ka na tun dia, pan i la diing uh” chi hi. Ahia, bangchi daan a panla ahi ua chih bel theihbut ahikei. Hiai taangthu in koimah a deengbaan kei a, niteng tanchinbu te ah leeng mun a tangzou kei.

Hiai thu gelh ahihtan in mi 21 te Tonjang (Myanmar) khua a sepaihte’ lock-up ah omlel uhi. Neek-le-taak piak in a omkei ua, gari neite’n a sikvek uh angai hi. Huaibel, niteng in mikhat tung ah Ch. 30.00 – Ch. 50.00 seen in omleh, a gawm in Ch. 630.00 – Ch. 1,050.00 kikaal tungbaan chihna suak hi. A omna khua uh sawt lota ahihman in gari neitu te’n haksa sa peetmah ta uhi. Hiai sum te leh vanneen, kisilna diing sahbon khawng sum a guai in Cikha (Myanmar) mi te’n va pe zeel uhi. Ann huantu diing nasan kiloh a mi alaak uh angai hi. Gam tuantual tak, Myanmar a taaninn a om a gentheih huaidiing daan i ngaihtuah khiattheih mai uh ka ging.

Hiai thiltun a khatveina ahikei. A tawpna leeng ahisam kei diing. Tuma in Muallum khomi 3 Theigotang gam ah Kawl sepaih te’n na manngei ta uhi. Huaiziak in a meikuang phelhmit mai sawmlou a, saupi a diing et a panlaak poimoh mahmah ta hi.

I loubawl daan leh sing phuuksiat te ziak in tu in i gam ah singkung tawm in a keugawpta. Vuahtui a hongtawm dia, leihoihna kiam in leisai tolhkhia in kho omdaan a hongdang sot mahmah diing hi. Tu nung sawtlou in. Hiai gammaang sing te ahihleh khopi lam, Lamka leh Imphal veel ah meichih diing, innbawlna ding leh thil tuamtuam di’n kizang hi. Meivaak ginna lou ahihman in meihol leh sing deihna a pung hulhul a, lut leng a luun mahmah. Hiaibang a singsaat a neekzong in (adiak in) Muallum leh akiim a singtaang khua te akum a sim na khosa ta uhi. Huchiin, i gam ah sing hongtawm deuhdeuh ta a, i gaal lehlam a gammaang te luh louhngaal lampi dang a omnawn kei hi. Hiai in buaina a hontun ta.

Tua mat a omte’ pawtkhiat theihna’ng lampi i ngaih poimoh kawmkawm un ikiim-ipaam a thilsiam te kepbitna lam leeng i ngaih poimoh a ngai hi. Hiaibang buaina Mizoram, Madhya Pradesh leh China (tumlam gam) in leeng na tuaktham ta a, himahleh amau hiai buaina te ana mualsuah thei uhi. Solkaal apan panpihna tungtawn a loubawlna lam a thilthak kisinsakna ziak in hiai gam te ah migenthei tamtak te’n zawnna kol na suutkhe thei ta uhi. I gam ah leeng bangzah hiam te’n khopi lam leh Tuivai Lui’ gaal lam a peemkhia in zawnna dai na kaanta ua, himahleh nuutsiat a om Zodawn mite’ makhua diing i geel uh kisam hi.

I khosak daan, neek-le-taak dinmun khansakna di’n khobing a kigawmna (grouping) hiai ah phattuam thei di’n a lang hi. Ahia, kumteng a louneihna mun khengzeel i hihman in a gamlei in sawt ahon dawlzou tuankei diing. Huchih kawmkawm in i loubawl te’n kum khat khamdiing ann a piangsak zou nawnkei uhi. Baan ah, hiai loubawlna in nasatak in i gam, leh a sung a sing-le-lou leh gamsa te, susia in hih mangthang a, hauh naaksaang in mipi te zawnna kokhuuk ah awlawl in ahon keniamsak hiaihiai hi. Atom a geen in thaang lauhuai pi kikamkhum i hi maimah uhi.

I loubawl daan khengkhiak a, a tamzaw a piankhiat theihna diing lampi i zon a poimoh ta hi. Hiai kikheekna hunsung in i hintheihna diing lampi dang leeng i ngaihtuah a ngai. Ahia, i gam ah vanzat kiningching bangmah omlou ahihman in a haksa mahmah zeel hi. I lampi te a hoihkei a, tui a hoihkei a, bangmah hoih a omkei. Gamnuaimi te’ kigolhna ziak in bangmah saitheih ahikei. I vek ua i kihilh pil phot uh ngai leh kilawm abang hi. Farm bawlna, gankhoina, ngasa khoina leh lam chi tuamtuam a sumdawnna pan ut ei lak hileh, gamdang apan hileh, mi omtham hi. Himahleh, amau te’ nnasepna daal diing a kisalah thei i tam ziak un bangmah pichin theih ahi ngeikei hi.

Gamdang mi te’n i gam a sum hongdawn diing deihlouhna lungsim i khotaang ah a uang mahmah hi. Hiai ah saptuam in leeng moh a pua. Kum 1991 malam tan a India in ana paipih, Nehruvian Socialism zui i batna chiang a om hi. Hiai ahihleh i khanmohbawk khat ahi. Polam mite’n i gam ah sum hong peikual le uh a daandaan hongom diing ahi. A puakkhiat tam dungzui un a kivei leeng a tambok diing. Lampi dang omlouh ziak in solkal a sepna, leh sanction neuhneuh i pumdelh uh angai maimah hi. Bangtan hiam ah, i paihkhiat moh, i khotaang lungsim putzia leh i kisinsakna kumlui tak te’n eima’ zawnna diing lampi sial abang.

Hiai i buaina te khota a teeng mi te leh phaizaang a teeng te’n a kinlam a i sukven a poimoh hi. I thuakdiing ulah a kibang ngaal a. Hiaibang a panla theidiing makai mipi te’n i tasam hi. I elekson azenda te’n a veng ngeilou diing i politikal buaina te saangmah a i ekonomik buaina te a kawkzawk diing ahi. I taang a ding heutu te’ neekguukna leh nelhsiahna ziak in tu in i gam in nasatak in a thuakloh. Mipi te’n i thuakloh. Adiak in Tedim Road leh Guite Road dung a teeng mizawng taktak te’n. Leh mualdawn a teeng mi te’n. Hiai khoveel vaihawmna a i thaangtatna te’n ‘neektaak dinmun’ a zawnna, ‘khoveel gou leh gammeang’ lam a zawnna, baan ah ‘taksa’ leh ‘khalam’ a zawnna hontun a, huai in awlawl in manthatna liimguam zuan in a honpi hi.

Huchihlai in laizom mi 21 mangbang tak a kikou te’ awging a dai naikei. Mahleh, zaak in a om naikei lai uhi. Tua Guun gaal ah.


© vaphualization june 22, 2006

Just Where is Thangso Anyway?

AS THE WHIRLING wind of the legislative assembly election starts blowing, stories of ministers promising hefty developmental funds and distributing the popular ‘red shawls’ among the deserved lots begin to do the rounds this time over again. I fail to grasp the reason why this hullabaloo has to wait all these four years only to be revived now. And at the end of every five years, the same old story continues.

They said this is politics, this is Manipur. And worse, this is outer Manipur. I hope I don’t get that wrong.

When I was a small school kid, I dreamt of becoming a politician one day. I could see just how mighty politicians were, with myriad of ‘yes’ men hovering around, and a substantial amount of money at their disposal. They were being venerated as idols and everywhere they went, they carried the airs of a celebrity. Oh, how I wished I could become one someday! However, this perception began to drift away as time went on. Be it politics or politicians themselves. We were told that ‘politics’ is the art and science of governance, and that government must be people-oriented, transparent and efficient. But from our own experiences we come to learn that politics is a dirty game, an arena of the struggle for power and more powers. And the essential qualities for any political system like people-orientation, transparency and efficiency don’t seem to find their place in the present state of affairs. Politics tend to be considered as a mere means of securing income. Or let me put it quite this way: it is a means of occupation. Now, this is the politics of Manipur I am talking about. This is how politics has been played in Churachandpur. You grab it, you have it, and you want to have more.

Singngat happens to be one of the most devastated arenas where political gladiators – using ethnicity as a political tool to mobilize support and gain power – are engaged in a real mortal combat. Their games are pretty high, played by maverick players. With eyes wide shut, the people followed the path laid by the leaders at any cost, to any extent, and in the process they went too far without knowing the fact that an iron curtain had descended across them marking a wide communal divide. The rule is clear here. You are a Paite, go for him. You are a Zou, go for him. You are a Thadou, go for him. Perhaps, that day isn’t too far when the ‘go’ gets changed to ‘kill’. (Hey, that thing happened once or twice in the past, right?)

From Gouzadou to Thangkhanlal down to N. Zatawn, et seq., I had watched them grace social functions, misleading the public with ornate promises which were never really realized. They emanated supreme control over the hypnotized crowd who were swaying and applauding with the promise of a better tomorrow, and of building Singngat into a kind of "New Jerusalem." Their motives were to garner vote banks. Just that. When the results were out and all things said, the newly elected MLA zoomed down the Imphal valley reneging on the promises he had made to the people. But long after the excitement died down, the innocence still lingered in the minds of the people. And they still continued to hope that their representative would, somehow, make a noble appearance once again to shower upon them the light of the new age he had articulated sometime before with fervid eloquence.

Their wait seemed to last an eternity.

Nothing has changed. Singngat still lays a moldering ruin. In fact, the 1997 ethnic clash has left a clear mark on these once beautiful, serene Singngat highlands - dark and deep. Through this day the people of Singngat, who are now scattered across the globe, still recall with fond memories the good old days when peace and tranquility prevailed. Life was so good and the town was prospering exceedingly well, with different ethnic people living together harmoniously. Oh, but those were days never to be seen again.

A decade has passed. Yet the breaking of the dawn is still a far cry for the poor Singngatians. Apparently, they are lying low awaiting the return of better times. Here I am, lost in reverie, looking out over a now-turned-into-a-small-hamlet so quite and still and dark it could well have been a sort of post-apocalyptic. And the words on the street are clear. Empty. Desolate. Neglected. Abandoned. The government machinery has completely collapsed and there is little, or no, sign that this place is part of the Indian state. Gone are the days when well-equipped doctors and nurses attended to patients under the sprawling expanse of the hospital building in downtown Singngat. The building is now a little more than a colossal wreck, standing in a forgotten corner, slowly wasting away as time goes by. The Singngat SDO office complex had given out long ago and the office guys had been working somewhere in New Bazar, the heart of the district headquarters for quite sometime. The situation now begins to improve a bit. But the SDC, who is in-charge of the office, still continues his oh-so-religious trait. He seems quite reluctant to miss the Sunday worship services at home. I am wondering what future has in store for those poor students whose school – the Singngat Govt. High School – had been occupied by the Army though it may seem a fringe benefit for the teachers working there. And the people would call it their lucky day when doctors made an occasional fleeting visit, that too once every two months or so.

Obviously something is wrong somewhere. But in the end who gives a damn anyway? Water scarcity and dilapidated Singngat-Lamka road condition had been grappling the people of Singngat since time begun. I am aware of the hardships people have to undergo in fetching water to as far away a tiny stream as over one to two kilometers, everyday, which is flowing in barely more than a trickle. I am aware of the overwhelming fear and uncertainty that is running through their minds when people take a bus ride down Tedim Road, especially during the rainy season. Through this day, the infamous ‘Zezaw tou’, the most terrible part of the Tedim Road stretch, continues to haunt travelers using the roadway. Just imagine how the bus fares between CCPur-Imphal (over 60 kms.) and CCPur-Singngat (barely 30 kms.) could be the same. But their deafening voices are unheard, their dying cries are disregarded.

Meanwhile, Thangso Baite, the constituency’s MLA, resurfaced on the limelight recently after having been hibernating for years, with a far different reason. While the people are wailing with a soulful anguish over their condition, the MLA seems just as interested in conferring meritorious awards to the successful first class candidates of this year’s HSLC examination from within the constituency. And that too within the comforts of his posh home in Lamka. His passionate interest in education may be attributed to his having an MA degree and his serving as the principal of Christian English H/School in Sugnu in the early eighties. In the meantime, 22 villagers of the sub-division are being incarcerated somewhere deep within the Myanmar’s military regime. The safe return of these men to their loved ones depends entirely on the diplomatic policy of the MLA, only if he is still the same ‘master strategist’ as he had been in the 2002 election. In some way, his assumption of power quite reminds me of the way Benito Mussolini rose to power way back in 1922.

After having been elected as the MLA, Mr. Baite has made just two visits to his constituency till date. That’s a whole four-year period. The fact is that he just made occasional noises to demonstrate that he is still there, somewhere, chilling out. The first visit was in early 2004 and the last one was in April 23, 2005 as part of the CM team, where the CM laid the foundation for a 33 kV sub-station in Singngat. And everybody knows that the project wouldn’t be completed till the foundation stone withers away. Yet, the Singngatians still have a reason to smile amidst the hype. During the recent Assembly session, Shri Devendra Singh, the then Works Minister, in an answer to a question posed by the MLA, announced that – a whopping – Rs. 112.04 lacs has been spent in Churachandpur to Singngat road construction for the last three years. Plus, the CM, on the occasion of the Congress Workers’ Meet held in Lamka on June 10, 2006 said that a sum of Rs. 2.5 crores has been sanctioned on Singngat-Lamka and Lamka-Sugnu roads combined.

And now all I can ask is just what the hell are the CM and the Works Minister talking about? The above-mentioned amounts could nowhere be seen in the entire 30-km stretch of road from Lamka to Singngat. Where has Thangso Baite been all these years? Perhaps, if he made just one last appearance to the people of Singngat and see their conditions with his own eyes, that would sure bring a sigh of relief to the people, even if it’s for a fleeting moment. The people, bogged down by neglect, deprivation and hopelessness over the years surely know not to ask for more. Just one more visit and they would gladly clap their hands. And he would, perhaps, win his second term hands down.

© copyright vaphualization june 17 2006

Because It’s Good Friday

THERE’S A GIRL who sits right next to my cubicle in our office. We used to have casual talks whenever we’re free. Our discourse mainly concerns certain client-related things since we both are dealing with the same client and at times it tends to slip away from these usual office gossips into the secular world, and then onto some mild religious talks. If she’d found a real nice story on the net, she would tell me the URL of its page. And I would do the same for her.

I remember giving her some inspirational and moving Christmas true stories which I’d downloaded in my system last December. I’d asked her about them, inquiring how the messages struck her and she said she liked them.

Last Friday, after we were done with our workload, I was reading some da Vinci Code-related articles. She too was browsing the net, goggling the words “da Vinci”, “Dan Brown” and all. I could see she was wholly engrossed in it, with her eyes intently fixed on the blinking monitor screen.

After some time, she said to me, “Lunte, what do you do on Good Friday?”

“Hmm, I guess you’re caught in the middle of this da-Vinci-syndrome. Right?” I grinned back at her.

“No, no. Just, what are you gonna do this Good Friday?” She sounded serious.

“Well, I will certainly go to the church, worship and thank God for everything He did for me…”

“And why do you celebrate it? “ she persisted. “Like the purpose, importance, and all, you know.”

“Oh, Good Friday’s the commemoration of the crucifixion of Jesus Christ. You know, He was crucified horribly at the Cross some 2000 years ago.”

“Then why do you call it ‘Good’? It’s not good at all. It has to be a Bad Friday.”

“Uh huh, you and your good old skeptical ways,” I laughed. “It’s good because He died to save us all from our sins, not only Christians, but for everybody in this world…”

At that moment the team coordinator came up and gave us another job. I felt like the world caved in on me for I’d just let a great opportunity slipped off through my fingers. I couldn’t continue, though I wanted badly to go on and tell her that Jesus died for us to save us all. That we are now free. That if we believe in Him, we will have an eternal life. And that it’s good to celebrate Good Friday.

Having been unable to find the time and pick up the topic where we’d last left, I gave her a copy of an article by Josh Harris, “The Room” (see below). It’s a story that helps explain what the Lord accomplished when He died on the cross for the sins of the world. It’s just too motivational that it moved me to tears the first time I’d a grasp on it.

But I don’t know if it answers her query. And I don’t know if she ever read it.

© vaphualization april 13 2006

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T H E R O O M
by Josh Harris

In that place between wakefulness and dreams, I found myself in the room. There were no distinguishing features except for the one wall covered with small index card files. They were like the ones in libraries that list titles by author or subject in alphabetical order. But these files, which stretched from floor to ceiling and seemingly endlessly in either direction, had very different headings.

As I drew near the wall of files, the first to catch my attention was one that read "Girls I Have Liked." I opened it and began flipping through the cards. I quickly shut it, shocked to realize that I recognized the names written on each one.

And then without being told, I knew exactly where I was. This lifeless room with its small files was a crude catalog system for my life. Here were written the actions of my every moment, big and small, in a detail my memory couldn't match.

A sense of wonder and curiosity, coupled with horror, stirred within me as I began randomly opening files and exploring their content. Some brought joy and sweet memories; others a sense of shame and regret so intense that I would look over my shoulder to see if anyone was watching. A file named "Friends" was next to one marked "Friends I Have Betrayed".

The titles ranged from the mundane to the outright weird. "Books I Have Read," "Lies I Have Told," "Comfort I Have Given," "Jokes I Have Laughed At." Some were almost hilarious in their exactness: "Things I've Yelled At My Brothers." Others I couldn't laugh at: "Things I Have Done In My Anger," "Things I Have Muttered Under My Breath At My Parents." I never ceased to be surprised by the contents. Often there were many more cards than I expected. Sometimes fewer than I hoped.

I was overwhelmed by the sheer volume of the life I had lived. Could it be possible that I had the time in my years to write each of these thousands or even millions of cards? But each card confirmed this truth. Each was written in my own handwriting. Each signed with my signature.

When I pulled out the file marked "Songs I Have Listened To," I realized the files grew to contain their contents. The cards were packed tightly, and yet after two or three yards, I hadn't found the end of the file. I shut it, shamed, not so much by the quality of music, but more by the vast amount of time I knew that file represented. When I came to a file marked "Lustful Thoughts," I felt a chill run through my body. I pulled the file out only an inch, not willing to test its size, and drew out a card. I shuddered at its detailed content. I felt sick to think that such a moment had been recorded.

An almost animal rage broke on me. One thought dominated my mind: "No one must ever see these cards! No one must ever see this room! I have to destroy them!" In insane frenzy I yanked the file out. Its size didn't mattered now. I had to empty it and burn the cards. But as I took it at one end and began pounding it on the floor, I could not dislodge a single card. I became desperate and pulled out a card, only to find it as strong as steel when I tried to tear it.

Defeated and utterly helpless, I returned the file to its slot. Leaning my forehead against the wall, I let out a long, self-pitying sigh. And then I saw it. The title bore "People I Have Shared With About My Belief In Jesus." The handle was brighter than those around it, newer, almost unused. I pulled on its handle and a small box fell into my hands. I could count the cards it contained on one hand.

And then the tears came. I began to weep. Sobs so deep that the hurt started in my stomach and shook through me. I fell on my knees and cried. I cried out of shame, from the overwhelming shame of it all. The rows of file shelves swirled in my tear-filled eyes. No one must ever, ever know of this room. I must lock it up and hide the key. But then as I pushed away the tears, I saw Him. No, please not Him. Not here. Oh, anyone but Jesus.

I watched helplessly as He began to open the files and read the cards. I couldn't bear to watch His response. And in the moments I could bring myself to look at His face, I saw a sorrow deeper than my own. He seemed to intuitively go to the worst boxes. Why did He have to read every one?

Finally He turned and looked at me from across the room. He looked at me with pity in His eyes. But this was a pity that didn't anger me. I dropped my head, covered my face with my hands and began to cry again. He walked over and put His arm around me. He could have said so many things. But He didn't say a word. He just cried with me.

Then He got up and walked back to the wall of files. Starting at one end of the room, He took out a file and, one by one, began to sign His name over mine on each card.

"No!" I shouted rushing to Him. All I could find to say was "No, no," as I pulled the card from Him. His name shouldn't be on these cards. But there it was, written in red so rich, so dark, so alive. The name of Jesus covered mine. It was written with His blood. He gently took the card back. He smiled a sad smile and began to sign the cards. I don't think I'll ever understand how He did it so quickly, but the next instant it seemed I heard Him close the last file and walk back to my side. He placed His hand on my shoulder and said, "It is finished!"

I stood up, and He led me out of the room. There was no lock on its door. There were still cards to be written.

© Copyright New Attitude 1995