Mizo Writing in English

Ropuiliani in Mizo Historiography: a Postmortem - H. Vanlalhruaia

2012-01-19T14:07:00.007+05:30

The Lushai Hills (now Mizoram) were incorporated into the colonial empire by the last part of the 19th century. Indeed, resistance against colonialism in Lushai Hills was not less intense than in any other part of India. The immediate result of colonial expansion was an increase in widow chiefs. Military officer J. Shakespear noted the condition of the South Lushai Hills in 1892: “It will be noticed that all these villages except Mualthuam and Aithur are now ruled by Widows”.1 The remaining Mizo Chiefs, including widow chiefs, were now in a dilemma and forced to negotiate with and make certain adjustments towards the colonial government. It was under this critical situation that many women Chiefs, including Ropuiliani, emerged in the colonial archives. In the post-colonial and contemporary rethinking of the history of resistance against colonialism in Lushai Hills, Ropuiliani has become an ethnic idol of patriotism, whereas other women (Pi Buki, Lalhlupuii, Rothangpuii, Vanhnuaithangi, Laltheri, Darbilhi, Neihpuithangi, Pawibawia Nu, Dari, Thangpuii, Pakuma Rani, Zawlchuaii and many others) who also struggled against colonialism remain comparatively unknown.2

This paper wishes to raise questions concerning the post-colonial ethnic recollection of the past that has repeatedly focused on an individual character--a female chief named Ropuiliani. Why are Mizo historians so interested in Ropuiliani, but not Dabilhi or other female Chiefs? Is it because there was not much to celebrate in history other than Ropuiliani? What motivates our interest? Is our interest in the history of Ropuiliani truly just a historical one or is our interest in her history a symbol of ‘ethnic loyalty’? How can one account for the reappearances of Ropuiliani in Mizo historiography? Why have the roles of many ‘other women chiefs’ remained relatively unexplored, though their potential contribution in resisting colonialism appears so obviously in both colonial texts and oral traditions? History should tell us; but often it does not. These questions have hardly been asked, let alone answered, in Mizo historiography.

My curiosity about the rethinking of Ropuiliani is particularly drawn from Gayatri Spivak's most influential essay on the Rani of Sirmur, the wife of the ruler of a hill-state in Himachal Pradesh.3 In this essay, Spivak demonstrates that the Rani of Simur emerges in the colonial archives ‘only when she is needed in the space of imperial production’.4 The British East India Company attempted to control the northern frontier of Shimla hills though various settlements and courtly political affairs. “It is within this political and diplomatic framework, where the Company attempted to pacify and subordinate the hill-states through their “Settlement”, that the Rani appears briefly in the Company’s archives as ‘a king’s wife and a weaker vessel”.5 Similarly, I argue that Ropuiliani emerged over and over again for a ‘purpose’ and that she survives in Mizo historiography for the production of those who need ‘her’ for their own respective agendas.

In this paper, my interest lies neither in narrating the oft-told history of Ropuiliani, nor in re-producing her stories. Rather, I would like to problematize the historiography of Ropuiliani in relation to the way in which Mizo scholars imagine and categorize Ropuiliani in history. The main objective of my paper is thus to engage or to inject a more skeptical view towards the historical narratives of Ropuiliani within the larger framework of women history of Mizoram.

I shall begin my discussion with the work of N. Chatterjee, “Position and Status of Mizo Women in the earlier Mizo Society”. Before the publication of this monograph in 1975, there was hardly any research available on Mizo women's history.6 The historical relationships between Mizo women and colonialism have been largely overlooked by scholars. More general studies on Mizo women were carried out by some historians and their investigation into women's roles were largely confined.7 The reconstruction of the history of women, most remarkably in politics, was largely overlooked. Consequently, women and their role in the freedom struggle against colonialism were neglected until the pre-insurgency period (1947-1966), when the reconstruction of ethno-national identity was taking place.

During the course of such ethnic identity reconstruction, the call for an ‘ethno-hero’ from the past went hand in hand with the revival of ethnic consciousness. Eventually, the Mizo National Front (MNF) drew their inspiration from the Mizo warriors (Pasaltha) who had fought against British colonialism in the Lushai Hills.8 In due course, the Pasaltha, such as Zampuimanga, Chawngbawla, Taitesena, Vanapa, Saizahawla, Khuangchera etc., were incorporated by MNF standing troops as symbols of ‘ethnic patriotism’. Surprisingly, not a single woman’s name was included. This is evident also in the historiography of popular struggles in other parts of India, where women were “subsumed...women under the category of man thereby ensuring their invisibility, and created [creating] [sic] the myth of women’s passivity, on the other. It gave rise to the belief that men alone were capable of militant action, of leadership, of changing the course of event- in short of making history”. 9

In fact, the Mizo Insurgency broke out after the first women’s movement (i.e. Mizo Hmeichhe Tangrual) was initiated in the post-colonial period. Ethnic nationalism can at times be emancipating; at other times it is a reactionary force of the subjugation of women. Since its inception, the insurgency organisation (Mizo National Front) was entirely dominated by men. Despite this, many women embraced ethnic nationalism and participated in the insurgency movement, though the actual practice of ethno-nationalism was reserved for men. Some women internalize patriarchal thinking within the politics of over-determined ethnic nationalism.10 Recent histories of insurgency movements have largely dismissed their contributions. Insurgency in Mizo hill thus, appears as a patriarchal war against the larger National State for the restoration of ethnic, patriarchal order in the society. Women are subsumed under the category of ‘Mizo Nationalism’; this had ambiguous effects, not only on the status of women (by confining them as mothers to the home), but also in the broader sense of ignoring women's issues themselves. It also reaffirmed the boundaries of culturally acceptable feminine conduct and exerted pressure on women to articulate their gender interests within the terms of reference set by ethnic nationalist discourse.

Women and politics soon became separate spaces. Mizo historian Sangkima notes in this context that “there was a great change in the nature of women’s participation in politics after 1966”.11 The MNF movement (1966-1986) in the Mizo hills was not only a masculine construction that ignored women's agency in history, but also one that brought about the downfall of women’s participation in present politics. But the present condition of women and politics is not only the result of the insurgency movement (1966-1986), but also of the history of colonial patriarchy that separated women from the political space.12 However, this is beyond the present objective of my paper.

In 1988, the recollection of women’ role in history was initiated by ethnic leaders in their conference at Champhai, an Indo-Burma border town in Mizoram. The meeting created the ethnic “Ropuiliani Award”. Rani Gandiliu, a Nagaland lady freedom fighter was the recipient.13 A Mizo woman hence emerged because she was needed in the space of ethnic identity production.

In the following years, historians explicitly focused their attention on either insurgency or colonial history in which the role of women as historical agents was almost left out. Surprisingly, in 1990, the need to reconstruct women’s role in resistance against colonialism was noticed by the Centre for Adult and Continuing Education and Department of Public Administration at the North Eastern Hill University (NEHU). Then the first seminar on the “Role of Ropuiliani in the Freedom Struggle” was organized on June 27, 1990. The seminar paper was published later in 2005 which included nine empirical essays by a number of scholars.14 For the first time, the history of women’s resistance against colonialism was brought to the notice of a small academic community.

The book stressed the political nature of colonialism as “oppressive” and “repressive”; the impacts of colonialism, which affected men and women in different ways, were overlooked.15 Females who were often subjected to what has been called a double colonization, where they were discriminated against not only for their position as colonized but also as women, was not recognized.16 Ropuiliani, a woman who measured up to the ‘male standard’ in the struggle against imperialism provokes post-colonial scholars curiosity as to why women played such a role.

Then the family background of Ropuiliani as a part of a ruling chief family which enjoyed better status than a commoner was highlighted. She inherited her qualities and her anti-colonial feelings from her father as well as her husband. This construction is strongly influenced by the colonial prejudice that wrongly defined Mizo women as passive and subsidiary inferiors. Her consciousness as a woman was entirely ignored. In the end, one may observe that collections of these articles reflect Ropuiliani as someone speaking through a colonial patriarchy which has been echoed and celebrated by the post-colonial ethnic patriarchy in the name of ‘Mizo patriotism’. While there is of course much disagreement concerning the nature and the impact of colonialism, at least a careful re-reading of colonial sources with other available sources may help us understand the gender complexities in colonial Lushai Hills.

One of the contributors of the seminar, Laltluangliana Khiangte, continued to unearth colonial archives and oral sources in the succeeding years. His efforts materialized in the historical play “Lalnu Ropuiliani”, which earned fame in the Mizo literary circle from 1994 onwards.17 The book was eventually incorporated into a college text book of North Eastern Hill University (NEHU). The character of Ropuiliani as a Chief was built from various angles, from noble to an “autocratic nature”, as her efforts to protect freedom from colonial exploitation were highlighted.

In 1994, PR Kyndiah (then Governor of Mizoram) brought out another interesting book called “Mizo Freedom Fighters”, in which the reconstruction of the legend of Ropuiliani against British colonialism is framed within the nationalist project of the recollection of the war of liberation.18 PR Kyndiah’s work was followed by the publication of “Mizo Chief and Chiefdom” by Suhash Chaterjee.19 Basing it on the on colonial archives, he successfully uncovered the biographies of the Mizo female chiefs from the 19th century to first half of the 20th century.20 Out of 104 chiefs, many chiefs were female and who were either widows of Chiefs or independent in Mizoram. Chaterjee goes beyond other writers by saying that it was not only the male chiefs but also the women chiefs who played key roles in the political process of governing Lushai Hills.

A detailed, empirical work on the history of women’s resistance ‘Tlawm Ve Lo Lalnu Ropuiliani’ was published in 1999 by local writer and poet Lalsangzuali Sailo.21 Focusing on an individual character, the past is perceived instrumentally, investigated and selected, to prove a former glory and to highlight great achievements. This is done to confirm a political project for the future of the Mizo society, without giving credit to the agency of Mizo women. Such projections were made, historian Forbes notes, “because her [Ropuiliani] accomplishments were significant by male standards”. 22

Later, in 2002, Sangkima, a Mizo historian, revived a fresh study on women and politics in Mizo history starting from pre-colonial times to the recent era.23 The first part of his essay brought out a case study of female widow chiefs in the pre-colonial period. He implicitly credited ‘tribal patriarchy’ when noting that women “become rulers or Chieftainess not as a matter of right but as a matter of chance”.24 He skipped the colonial period on the grounds that there were no women who actively participated in politics in colonial Lushai Hills. He then finally gave credit to post-colonial women as “they joined active politics only because of their desire to uplift the status of Mizo women in the society”.25 Despite this, he fails to mention that it was the colonial rulers who were repressive to women, so that the number of female chiefs decreased in colonial Lushai Hills, especially when the patriarchal Mizo customary law was drafted in 1927 for the production of colonial administration.26 The immediate impact of colonialism in Lushai Hills marked a radical transformation of women and politics in Mizoram. British colonial administrators soon assumed that women were incapable of political leadership and provided political roles for men only. These colonial chiefs were given complete authority and the traditional decision making power for both sexes was ignored.

Thus, these works reached different conclusions at times but all of them had much in common. They leave us with only a partial picture of women's experiences in resisting colonialism in the Lushai Hills. Hence numerous tales of women's struggles, negotiation, resistance, pain, and sacrifices, and, most importantly, contributions, are hidden in the background. The shortcomings in these writings could be in part due to an absence of an alternative approach to define the experiences unique to women in history.

Conclusion:
Thus we find that Ropuiliani emerges over and over again in Mizo historiography. She first emerged in the colonial archive for the production of colonial knowledge and for the exercising of colonial power in the Lushai Hills. Secondly, she re-emerged in the post-colonial period, especially when various discourses on the reformulation of ethnic identity were taking place. Her role has been used to justify a post-colonial ‘ethnic nationalism’. Thirdly, she continues to emerge in recent historiography that vigorously clamours around the ‘Mizo nation’ with much popular backing and enthusiasm. The historiographies of Ropuiliani continue to show us the ‘revolutionary movement’ or the ‘war of liberation’ as the only means of being ‘patriotic’ or ‘nationalist’. In other words, Ropuiliani's history is the glorification of the revolutionary movement or of ‘heroic history’ rather than other forms of resistance.27 Needless to say, it overshadows other forms of resistance when the majority of scholars make universalized assertions that leave out much of the ‘other women’ in Mizo historiography. The real problem lies with the ‘grand narrative’ historical approach and the tendency to generalize for all on the basis of the actions of a few. Such impressions need to be reframed and enlarged so that the past is not merely judged through grand narrative history. The greatest challenge to the historians and scholars of Mizoram is thus to incorporate the various experiences of women from all classes in the broader framework of Mizo history. The present brief essay, though partial and incomplete, is a request to these scholars to note the critical challenge of framing a new analysis that will address the various historical complexities shared by different groups of women in Mizo history.

References:
1. J. Shakepeare, Report Concerning Ropuilieni Widow of Vandula and Her Son Lalthuama at Present Prisoners in Lunglei, 1984. Exhibit list, Serial No.28, Government Archive, Aizawl, Mizoram.
2. For further details, please see H.Vanlalhruaia & Hmingthanzuali; Women and Resistance in Colonial Lushai Hills”, in K.N Sethi (ed); Resistance Against Colonialism: The Life and Times of Veer Surendra Sai, Shivalick Prakashan, Delhi, 2009.
3. Gaytri Spivak, The Rani of Sirmur: An Essays in Reading the Archives, History and Theory, Vol. 24, No.3, 1985. pp.247-72.
4. Ibid.
5. Tony Ballantyne; Archive, Discipline, State: Power and Knowledge in South Asian Historiography, New Zealand Journal of Asian Studies, Vol. 3, No.1 (June 2001). pp.87-105.)
6. N. Chatterjee; Position and Status of Mizo Women in the earlier Mizo Society, Tribal Research Institute, Government of Mizoram, 1975.
7. For example, please see L. Malsawmi, Mizoram Kohhran Hmeichhe Chanchin, Synod Publication Board, Aizawl, Mizoram, 1973, Set On A Hill Light on The Lushai Hills After Forty Years Report of Women’s Work, Baptist Church of Mizoram, 1993 and others.
8. For further reading, please see Nirmal Nibedon; The Dagger Brigade, p.
9. Indra Munshi Saldanha; Tribal Women in the Warli Revolt: 1945-47 ‘Class’ and ‘Gender’ in the Left Perspective, Economic and Political Weekly, Vol XXI, No.17, 1986.p.
10. For further reading please see Denise Adele Segor;Tracing the persistent impulse of a bedrock nation to survive within the state of India: Mizo women's response to war and forced migration, Fielding Graduate University, 2006.
11. Sangkima; Women and Politics in Mizoram through the Ages, Historical Journal of Mizoram, Vol. III. Issue I, Mizo Historical Association, 2002. p.35.
12. H.Vanlalhruaia & Hmingthanzuali; Women and Resistance in Colonial Lushai Hills”, in K.N Sethi (ed); Resistance Against Colonialism: The Life and Times of Veer Surendra Sai, Shivalick Prakashan, Delhi, 2009.
13. The ethnic leaders collaborated under the organization of Zo Re-Unification Organization (ZORO) The organization was formed with the aim of promoting the integration and unification of all Mizo groups around the globe who were actually divided by colonialism in three countries of India, Bangladesh and Burma.PR Kyndiah; Mizo Freedom Fighters, Sanchar Publishing House, New Delhi, 1994. p.10
14. Lalneihzovi; Role of Ropuiliani In the Freedom Struggle, Aizawl, Mizoram, 2005.
15. Ibid.p.xiii
16. Feminism and post-colonialism, http://www.qub.ac.uk/schools/SchoolofEnglish/imperial/key-concepts/feminism-and-postcolonialism.htm, accessed on 5 December 2008.
17. Laltluangliana Khiangte; Lalnu Ropuiliani, Aizawl, LTL Publications 1994.
18. PR Kyndiah ; Mizo Freedom Fighters, Sanchar Publishing House, New Delhi, 1994.
19. Suhash Chaterjee; Mizo Chiefs and the Chiefdom, 1995.
20. Ibid.p. 81-171
21. Lalsangzuali Sailo; Tlawm Ve Lo Lalnu Ropuiliani, Aizawl, 1999.
22. Geraldine Forbes; Women in Modern India, Cambridge University Press,2004 (3rd reprinted) p.I
23. Sangkima; Women and Politics in Mizoram Through the Ages, Historical Journal of Mizoram, Vol-III, Issue-I, 2002.p.23
24. Ibid.35
25. Ibid. 35.
26. N.E. Parry, A Monograph on Lushai Customs and Ceremonies, T.R.I, Aizawl, Mizoram, 1988
27. Such historical writing not only distorts our history, but also conveys a message to the student of history that one could be patriotic only when he or she uses violence against the oppressor. Other form of resistances (case of Darbilhi, Lalhlupuii and Pi Buki) in a peaceful means could potentially contribute to the richness of Mizo history.

H. Vanlalhruaia recently received his Ph.D. from the University Of Hyderabad, and loves writing, history and the culture of North East India. He wrote and presented this paper at a history seminar on ‘Ropuiliani and Zakapa’ organised by Govt. Hnahthial College, Hnahthial, Mizoram, on the 8th & 9th December, 2011.

Note: Plagiarism or appropriation of any content herein for any purpose is not encouraged. In the event of interest for usage or partial reproduction of contents, kindly contact me at the email address given on the home page for necessary action.

Winter Fragment - A. Hmangaihzuali Poonte

2012-01-06T17:02:00.013+05:30

A light winter rain.
I can't remember the last time it rained.
October, or was it November..
hard to recall in the aftermath of Christmas.

Today I walked past your hospital
and looked up at the room
you were in this time last January.
It didn't seem to remember you.

Later the soup chow in the little eating place
up the corner steamed so long,
in a burst of idle impatient hunger
I splashed in a splotch of chilli sauce.
It only burned my mouth twice as badly.

I don't think I will eat the broth there again.
Most certainly not in steaming hot mid-April
when this gray sunless day will have ebbed out with the cold.

Picture: James Lalsiamliana

The Pendulum Swings - Dawngi Chawngthu

2011-06-02T20:33:00.009+05:30

You stand in the doorway

Uncertain…hesitating
Enveloped in a blanket of darkness
Come to say goodbye – have you?
Or is it another re-union you seek

Sensing my withdrawal
You retreat…
The right thing for you to do
For you see I’m not so sure anymore
If I want to be with you

What is it you want from me anyway ?
A security blanket…
To keep you warm when it gets cold
And then to pack away
In warmer climate

Tell me what now
You say you love me
You say you need me
But what of him
Who precedes me

He’s an invisible wall between us
A wall too strong to cross
Erected even before we met
I guess you can’t jump over it
I guess you don’t want to jump over it…

Must be hard for you
To compartmentalize your life
A life with him where you feel trapped
And a life with me
Where you claim you are happy!

And what of me…
I swing with the pendulum
Sometimes happy, sometimes not.
When will the pendulum stop
At me happy…with you…forevermore.

Picture: Apa-Lelhchhun

Time Passes - A. Hmangaihzuali Poonte

2011-05-17T21:40:00.006+05:30

Long gone, long done,

long ago yesterdays
live on in the recesses of the mind,
held by tenuous threads of spider silk
spun finely through the hazy distance
of mutating time.

But was it all quite as perfect
as you remember or does
the index of the mind
fudge the reality?

Then again,
does the truth really matter
so long as the illusions
leave you happy.

*Footfalls echo in the memory
Down the passage which we did not take
Towards the door we never opened ~ T.S. Eliot*

~~~

Winter shreds

the leaves from the trees;

denuded, desolate, defenceless,

they stand in silence.

But Spring comes

and out of the bleak nothingness,

a new life breathes.

The old things are passed away; behold, all things are become new.

Photograph: A Wooden Rolls Royce by RC Fanai.

A. Hmangaihzuali Poonte aka Zualteii Poonte teaches English lit. at college and is the owner of this blog.

Mizo Women in Myth and Reality - Vanlalveni Pachuau

2011-05-04T16:20:00.013+05:30

There is a Mizo saying which, roughly translated, states, "The same story differs with the one doing the telling." This is in reference to the fact that Mizo folklore is of the oral tradition and therefore, a story may have several versions. However, the basic elements remain the same. While it may be easy to dismiss folktales as fanciful tales spun by old warriors and housewives, there is, in fact, a deep correlation between folktales and social reality. Lily Kong and Elaine Goh have explored this relation between folktales and reality and have surmised that these tales are not just ‘fictive constructs’ but represent ‘fictive, historical and projected realities’:

'Fictive reality' is a construct of the narrative imagination and is bound by the rules that govern each genre. In the folktale, this fictive reality is presented as apart from the narrator's world. However, far from being purely imaginative, fictive reality can be a part of transformed 'historical reality'. Past customs, beliefs and social organisation 'survive' as fictive reality in the folktale, although to the narrators, they may have ceased to be either historical or current social reality. Hence, they may have undergone a transformation from history into fiction, from reality into fantasy. Apart from historical realities, a third kind of reality-'projected reality'-results when the present is incorporated into folktales. This projected reality can be seen in the variations that occur in the same tale told by different narrators who project their own culture, social class and personal psychology into the fictive realities of the folktale. [Kong and Goh, p. 261-2]

This paper aims to show how the treatment of Mizo women in folklore reflects social reality through the stories of three women, namely Mauruangi, Tualvungi and Zangkaki. Mizo folktales have an abundance of women characters, but since these stories are generally viewed through the male perspective, these characters tend to fall into a standard precept- either the woman is a hopeless victim or a cruel victimiser. The feminist dictionary defines fairytales as, “a harmful cross-cultural educative story told to unsuspecting children that shows women as passive, opportunistic or cruel” [Cheris, 149], and while this may be applicable, to an extent, to the projection of women in Mizo folktales, the purpose of this paper, however, is not to dwell upon sexism or the repression of women, but rather on the representation of women in Mizo folklore. Through this, this study attempts to explore the social realities of Mizo culture pertaining to the status of women and their societal roles.

Mauruangi - the Mizo Cinderella:

Mauruangi’s story is similar to Cinderella’s in that she too was a helpless victim under a wicked stepmother, a jealous stepsister and a neglectful father. She also had help, though in the form of her dead mother’s spirit rather than a fairy godmother, and she also escaped her hard life through marriage to a ‘prince’. Mauruangi’s story is a magical one, with her mother’s spirit alternately taking the forms of a catfish and a tree, and giving Mauruangi food when she was overworked and starved by her step-mother. Mauruangi grew into a lovely maiden whose hospitality and kindness impressed the servants of a vai lalpa1, who took her home to their master who married her. Her step-mother invited her back home, and there, she murdered Mauruangi by pouring boiling water over her. Her dead body, however, was found by a serow who, by blowing over her, brought her back to life and took her home to be his babysitter. Meanwhile, Mauruangi’s step-sister Bingtaii had persuaded vai lalpa and his servants that she was Mauruangi, and despite their doubts, they had grudgingly accepted her. However, vai lalpa’s servants found Mauruangi rocking the serow’s baby, and they brought her home. Vai lalpa made the two women fight a duel, and Mauruangi, who had been given better weapons, killed Bingtaii and she was finally reinstated to her rightful place.

Mauruangi has often been cited as the epitome of the ideal Mizo woman. Humble, subservient, hospitable, kind, and skilled in spinning, farming and weaving, she is in direct juxtaposition to her step-sister Bingtaii, who is lazy, vindictive, manipulative and unskilled. While Mauruangi’s fantastical story may seem other-wordly, it is representative of the qualities valued in Mizo women. Mizo women were a hardworking lot - they had to get up early to fetch water and kindling, then perform their domestic chores before they set off to work all day in the fields. Then when they got back home, after preparing and eating supper, they had to spin or weave by the light of the fireplace. All the while, they had to entertain their inleng2 who usually stayed till midnight. As such, the qualities exemplified by Mauruangi were seen as the ideal of Mizo womanhood, and her story served as a lesson to young women on the merits of conforming to that ideal. Fairy tales often consolidate the belief that it is in a woman’s best interest to get married and beget children. As such, Bingtaii’s unwed state exemplified the perils of not submitting to these ideals.

Interestingly, while most western fairytales have only a neglectful and ineffectual father as the counterpart of the wicked stepmother, Mauruangi’s father serves as a perfect foil to his murdering second wife. He had pushed Mauruangi’s mother into a river where she had drowned, perhaps because he had grown tired of her. He had also been complicit in the maltreatment of Mauruangi by agreeing to kill the catfish and to cut down the tree which had housed his previous wife’s soul. While we may now be shocked by the callousness of Mauruangi’s father and her step-mother, their behaviour is indicative of the status of wives and of orphans in Mizo society. The matter-of-fact way that the murder of Mauruangi’s mother is narrated reveals that the loss of a wife was not that devastating. A constantly warring race, sons were prized in the Mizo community. Women were necessary to beget sons who would ultimately help to protect their lands. But if a wife died, men could and often, remarried, so that sons would be born to help propagate their race. Mizos also tended to regard orphans and widows as third-class citizens. Mauruangi, though technically not an orphan, was clearly unwanted and the fact that no one intervened in the harsh treatment meted out to her is indicative of the lowliness of her station. Mauruangi’s story, therefore, though it might seem entirely fictional, is actually reflective of past Mizo society and its social customs and beliefs, especially pertaining to women’s social roles.

Tualvungi - the trophy:

Tualvungi and her husband Zawlpala are famed lovers in Mizo folklore. A happily married couple, their happiness was marred/ended when Phuntiha, a rajah from Tripura heard stories of Tualvungi’s beauty and came to see whether the stories were true or not. When he saw Tualvungi, Phuntiha, thinking that Zawlpala was her brother, immediately asked Zawlpala for Tualvungi’s hand in marriage. Zawlpala, who was inordinately proud of his wife’s beauty, proceeded to play along so as to see to what lengths Phuntiha was willing to go to secure Tualvungi. Zawlpala demanded an exorbitant amount of goods as Tualvungi’s customary bride price, confident that Phuntiha would never be able to meet it. However, Phuntiha was an exceedingly rich man and he arrived a few days later with the requisite amount of goods. Tualvungi begged and pled with Zawlpala to not let her be married to Phuntiha, but Zawlpala had given his word and he had to honour it. And so the young lovers parted sadly. Phuntiha had by now realised that Zawlpala was indeed Tualvungi’s husband and he grew extremely jealous of him, especially since Tualvungi continued to pine for him despite his showering her with affection. Phuntiha, therefore, decided to have Zawlpala killed and with this purpose in mind, he invited him to visit. When Zawlpala arrived, Phuntiha had him poisoned and the grieved Tualvungi told him to go back to his village at once. There, Zawlpala managed to tell the elders what had transpired before he died. A messenger in the form of a wood pigeon was sent to Tualvungi to break the sad news to her, and on hearing of Zawlpala’s death, Tualvungi sought out ways in which she could evade Phuntiha so that she could visit Zawlpala’s grave. She managed to make her way to his grave, and on reaching there, persuaded an old woman to kill her so that she too might forever rest beside her dead lover. Phuntiha had followed Tualvungi and unable to relinquish her to Zawlpala even in death, he also persuaded the old woman to kill him so that he might follow them. The spirits of Zawlpala and Tualvungi turned into butterflies so as to escape Phuntiha, but his soul too took the form of a butterfly, and he followed them relentlessly, though never quite catching up.

A romantic tale of star-crossed lovers, the story of Tualvungi and Zawlpala is another tale that reflects the status of Mizo women in society. Though Zawlpala was deeply in love with her, his honour meant more to him than she did. Tualvungi had absolutely no say in the matter of her marriage. Her fate hung entirely on the whims of the man responsible for her - whether it was a father, a brother or a husband. Admittedly, she took matters into her own hands by defying Phuntiha, but her defiance was not borne out of rebellion but out of the desire to be with the man who had sold her for a boast. Tualvungi was in actuality a trophy to be wrested and fought over, herself having little or no say over her own life.

A woman in Mizo society in fact, had little say over who she wanted as a husband. She might be given to anyone of her parents’ choosing, and she was to accept without demur. When her inlengs came calling, she was not in any way, by word or deed, to indicate any preference for a particular man. To do so would label her as forward, shameless and self-governing, qualities which were highly undesirable in a wife. She also was not to appear to be rude to any inleng, no matter how undesirable; if a man said that a maiden had not treated him hospitably, the young men of the community tore down the maiden’s hut. In indulgent families, though, daughters were asked their opinions about the choice of husband that her parents had made for them. However, even in the most indulgent of households, a daughter could never directly give assent or dissent. She could either say, “As you wish”, if she found her parents’ choice acceptable or, “You can have him yourself if you want him” if she was displeased with their choice. However, the ultimate decision lay with the father and to go against his wishes was unthinkable. That Phuntiha approached Zawlpala instead of Tualvungi on the matter of marriage, and that Tualvungi acceded, albeit reluctantly to Zawlpala’s decision, indicates the lack of say that women had in the matter of their own marriages.

As mentioned before, women needed to possess certain qualities if she was to be deemed fit for marriage. Apart from that, in cases where the prospective husband came from an important family, the prospective bride had to undergo strict scrutiny before she was declared eligible. Prospective brides of important men were stripped and their bodies were examined minutely to check for birthmarks or moles. Their genealogy was also examined to weed out any undesirable traits like kleptomania, epilepsy and madness, since those were considered to be heritable. Sometimes, the excrement was also checked since it could be an indication of her health, which determined whether she might be fit to bear many sons. In cases where two or more men asked for the same woman in marriage, she would usually be given to the one who would pay the highest bride price - the highest bidder, as it were. Daughters were married to strengthen familial ties, to elevate one’s social position, or to form alliances. Her choice was rarely taken into consideration.

Zangkaki - the sorceress:

Zangkaki is actually not a central character, but a villainess who entered the story of Lalruanga towards the end of his life; in fact, Zangkaki was a powerful sorceress who outwitted and killed Lalruanga, the most powerful sorcerer in Mizo folklore. Zangkaki is a powerful female character who, through feminine wiles and trickery, managed to outwit Lalruanga the master trickster himself. Lalruanga was a Quixotic character, noted more for his powerful magic and cunning rather than any heroic quality. He first proved his magical prowess against his father, who was also a noted sorcerer. He then captured and wrested magical secrets from Vanhrika, a heavenly being, before killing him. He then outwitted Keichala, a ferocious were-tiger, and his whole tribe of were-tigers. When Keichala’s brothers killed Lalruanga’s brother, the two declared war on each other, with the promise that the victor would honour the defeated with Hrangsaipuia’s famed bullhorn3. Lalruanga used his cunning to defeat Keichala and went to take Hrangsaipuia’s bullhorn. Hrangsaipuia was also a famed sorcerer and the two dueled using all the magic they had at their disposal. Lalruanga inevitably defeated Hrangsaipuia resoundingly and so, he seized the famed bullhorn.

While it was that Lalruanga seemed invincible, he met his defeat at the hands of a sorceress who was less powerful but more cunning than he. Zangkaki was a beautiful sorceress and she lured Lalruanga with the secret purpose of defeating him. Lalruanga took his most powerful dawibur4 with him and Zangkaki knew she would not be able to defeat him just then. So she lulled him into a false sense of security by pretending to fall in love with him. A few days after Lalruanga went home, Zangkaki sent word, asking him to visit her again and telling him that she was expecting his child. This time Lalruanga, suspecting nothing, took his less powerful dawibur with him and he had a pleasant time with Zangkaki, who had been secretly observing him. Sensing that he was no longer as powerful as he had been before, Zangkaki imprisoned Lalruanga inside a stone fortress that Lalruanga, with his limited powers could not break through. He sent an ant to fetch his strongest dawibur but the ant dropped the dawibur into a river where it was swept away by the current. Lalruanga, unable to defeat Zangkaki, finally met his end in the stone fortress in which she had imprisoned him.

Zangkaki in this story is pojected as a licentious seductress who used her feminine charms to defeat the hitherto undefeatable Lalruanga. Her very name is indicative of her amoral nature- Zangkaki’s name is actually Chhuzangkaki; however the first syllable has been dropped in subsequent retellings of the story since the word is a derogatory term referring to the female genitalia. Zangkaki epitomises the destructive feminine stereotype, whose sexuality is cunningly utilised to bring about the downfall of the male species. Folklores and legends are replete with this image of the powerful temptress who, like Delilah, could deceive even the strongest of men like Samson. The fact that Zangkaki’s name contains a derogatory word for the female genitalia is indicative of past Mizo society’s mistrust of women whose sexuality is obvious.

Virility was much prized in Mizo men, while chastity in a woman was highly desirable. A telling Mizo joke recounts how, when asked about their youth, all Mizo men claim to have had lovers, while all Mizo women claim to be virgins. The question arises - which one of them is lying? Mizos believed that Pu Pawla stands at the gates of Pialral5 where he asks each man whether he has been tried or not, and if the man is untried, Pu Pawla would inflict a telling injury on the man which would publicly proclaim his lack of virility. Women, on the other hand, were expected to be chaste and modest, and any woman who did not conform to this expectation was regarded as unnatural, immoral and dangerous. A Mizo woman’s reputation, once damaged, can never be repaired, and a fallen woman, even if she finds a man foolish enough to marry her, carries her shame over to the next generation, where her children and her children’s children will forever be tainted by association with the unfortunate woman. It is therefore, telling that the only person able to defeat Lalruanga is a woman who does not hesitate to use her sexuality to attack a man where he is weakest- his sexuality. The derogatory name given to Zangkaki indicates Mizo society’s vilification of such women.

Early Mizo religion was a mixture of Pantheistic and spiritual elements, replete with superstitious beliefs. Closely attuned with the natural world, the Mizos believed that nature was infused with spirits, good and bad, both of them needing to be appeased. They also believed that spirits of dead persons often took the form of animals or resided in rivers, mountains or forests. Hence, though these tales may seem fanciful with their talking animals, magic and fantastical acts, they also depict the religious and superstitious beliefs of the past Mizos. Mizos also had a strict moral code which dictated valour and bravery for men, and submissiveness, chastity and domestic prowess for women. This paper seeks to demonstrate that folklore, though they have often been relegated to fantasy or children’s tales, actually contain within them a rich source of information pertaining to a society’s culture and their beliefs. The stories mentioned here are not mere imaginative stories but are actually indicative of what Kong and Goh call fictive, historical and projected realities. The stories told here of three Mizo female characters give a very accurate picture of the social status of Mizo women in Mizo society, and lend support to the feminist belief that gender roles are socially and not biologically constructed.

References:
Christopher Rollason, Modern Criticism. Rajeshwar Mittapali (ed). New Delhi: Atlantic Publishers and Distributors, 2002.
Fungki: B.A Mizo Zirlai. CTBEB P ublication. Aizawl: Gilzom Offset, 2007.
Indian Folklife: A Quarterly Newsletter from National Folklore Support Centre. Serial No. 34, Nov 2009. Jan 21, 2011. http://indianfolklore.org/nfscpress
Kramarae Cheris and Paula A. Treichler, A Feminist Dictionary. London: Pandora Press, 1985
Lily Kong and Elaine Goh, “Folktales and Reality: The Social Construction of Race in Chinese Tales”. Blackwell Publishing on behalf of The Royal Geographical Society (with the Institute ofBritish Geographers). Area, Vol. 27, No. 3 (Sep., 1995), pp. 261-267. Feb 17, 2011. http://www.jstor.org/stable/20003582 .
Nuchhingi and Zirtiri, Serkawn Graded Reader: Mizo Thawnthu. Aizawl: Mualchin Publications and Paper Works, 2004.
Rosan A. Jordan and F. A. de Caro, “Women and the Study of Folklore”. The University of Chicago Press. Signs, Vol. 11, No. 3 (Spring, 1986), pp. 500-518. Feb 17, 2011.http://www.jstor.org/stable/3174007 .

Vanlalveni Pachuau completed her Masters in English Literature from Mizoram University and also recently earned an M.Phil. degree from the same. She wrote and presented this paper at a seminar on folklore organised by the International Society for Folk Narrative Research at NEHU in Shillong in February 2011. I am indebted to her for allowing me to reproduce it here.

Note: Plagiarism or appropriation of any content herein for any purpose will not be tolerated. In the event of interest for usage or partial reproduction of contents, kindly contact me at the email address given on the home page for necessary action.

Poems - M. Vanlalhumi (Mahumi)

2011-04-23T15:13:00.011+05:30

Thoughts of an Invigilator

sleepy i aint
nod off i caint
a pressure from within
and i gulp mouthfuls of air in.

is sitting so tiring
that i keep on yawning?
will scribbling and writing
make less of the yawning?

I sure do hope that it be so
'coz where i am, i have to stifle so.
round and round and round i stroll
if only i could rock and roll.

~~~

Crushed Love

you often wonder
what life has dealt you,
happiness eludes you
joy evades you
you curse life
you curse those who scorn you
damn judas, damn them all
life is like an elusive butterfly
you reach for it and it flies away.
damn love, damn life,
damn all butterflies.
you feel irrefutable love
you give irrevocable love
you dream of utopia
of walking down the aisle.
shattered, crushed, trampled
what was is no more
what used to be can no longer be
what was within reach is miles away
together is no more, you now go solo.
loneliness, solitude, emptiness
your only consolation, your companions
you hug them, you embrace them
like you'd never let go.
at times you want to have a fling
most times you want to crawl under the bed
and be a rip van winkle.
you put on a brave face
you smile while you cry inside
you always feel the pain -
the crushing squeeze in your heart.
time heals they say
but time crawls.
patience, courage - a distant dream
no silver lining anywhere.

~~~

M. Vanlalhumi, also known as Mahumi, is a school teacher as might be guessed from her light-hearted piece on the inertia brought on by exam hall duty. She is happily married with two young children. Her poem Remembrances of Dad was posted in December 2007 here.

Poems - C. Lalawmpuia Vanchiau

2011-04-12T22:41:00.003+05:30

SILENCE SPEAK

Silence, the voiceless voice -
it speaks volumes
it triggers a strong
voice
it narrates a long
verse

silence soothes the heat
it makes mild a hot wind
and warms a late cold
tea

but not always..

sometimes it just
crazes oneself
without leaving
a footprint...

A LOVE LETTER

my beloved one,
i don't
know
why i
waited
so long
and then
drunkenly
attacked you
mindlessly.
may be
i just
wanted
to be sure
and not
to promise
hollow words,
and
it seems
to me
then
and now
LOVE
was there
since the very beginning
but now
is it
still there?

i am
happy
because
i know
you are
unhappy too,
and it is sweet
to be part
of the same
sadness
with you.
pleasure
was LOVE
and now
pain in
LOVE too

we must
know every
kind of
LOVE
through pain.
we'll know
the joy
of
meeting again
i want it,
i need it
and
i'll try to
get it
back.

(This poem was inspired by a letter written by Simone de Beauvoir (1909 - 1986) to her lover, Nelsen Algren)

C. Lalawmpuia Vanchiau completed his MA and M Phil. at the Central University of Hyderabad, and is currently working on a doctoral thesis from Mizoram University. He writes a regular literary column for a local monthly magazine and is deeply involved in birthing a new genre of Mizo literature that he calls Rambuai fiction, which deals with the traumatic Mizo pro-Independence movement of 1966.

Paper Boat - Dawngi Chawngthu

2011-04-04T12:14:00.011+05:30

A boat

A tiny paper boat
Blown by winds of destiny
This way
and that way
Sometimes high
Sometimes low
Depending on the velocity of the winds
Quiet, peaceful winds
bring on the unexpected
yet welcome moments
too good to last…
for the sometimes-happy-paper–boat
Happy
yet knowing that
rough stormy weather
Would soon show up
And as expected
Dark clouds
With darker winds
Play havoc with
the small paper boat
ready to sink…

Dawngi Chawngthu was recently invited to present her poem Motherhood at a National Women Poets' Meet hosted by the Sahitya Akademy in New Delhi. The poem was also translated into Hindi and is now available to a wider reading audience in the country. Way to go, Dawngi!

Picture: Paper Boat by Mama aka Jiksaw

Poems II - Zosangliana

2011-03-09T22:35:00.002+05:30

NIGHT

The night moves against curtains
to pass my trespasses for judgement
and the insects emerge
to move with the flicker of the filament.
I am alien, uncut and unkind when the night submerges.
I am faithless, fast falling but undying when the city the colour of
kerosene sleeps.
I am at the downs where you take me.

You take me to the end of myself
a measure before the flood on the floodplain,
before vast fields that stretch till they turn into walls of the unseen
where you stand a few paces from the pain
to canopy me from the muted screams of our destruction:
the insects and the kills that we push in to the night
with the shame of the futilely of sought absolution
for the shapes of the night.

I sleep to wake to wait with insects
for you take me to the downs
to put me in your killing jar butterflies.

(19/10/2005)

THE REASON THAT IS YOU

I have taken all that I have -
hurt, hope and held sentiments coloured by television lust,
to be between these walls that
that separate me from the sounds of Pilate's last dice falling.
Hell is only a heartache away
and heaven in a summer's downpour is falling
down on this world and its nicotine stained sunsets
that lovers share without knowing.
Love me, Love me, you cry
Without knowing why that shade of yellow in the sunset
makes you reach out (only to pluck)
when you don't understand the chemicals that fuel your soul.
There is no beauty,
and no moment still enough to hold it
even with all of heaven raining down on
us like in the movies.
There is no pain
and no denial strong enough to hide the glare of it
even with the thickest sunglasses on
like us in reality.

(2004/12/04)

Untitled - Dawngi Chawngthu

2011-02-21T14:07:00.004+05:30

The fading lights
Of the city of joy
Flicker in the distance

And approaching lights
Of the city of pearls
Growing brighter every second

Promise a new beginning:
Beginning of unknown
Things to come.

I embrace the beginning
Though it leaves me sad
And apprehensive

But there really is no choice
Time has come
To let go…

Let go of bits and pieces
of trivia…
Enough to fill a dustbin maybe.

A memo from a lunch
That rainy June
To let you know…I care

A ticket torn in half
From the movie
That had us in splits

A letter signed with love
Not really a love-letter…
Nevertheless, full of love.

Dark shades…now broken
Sent all the way from the old city
You remembered….

Looks across the dinner table
Winks across the room…
Blank stares…yes, that too…

Little acts of kindness
Words of care
Whispers of love

Forget the dustbin…
The abstract
Outnumber the concrete.

A decade holds a lot.

Catch the Star - Sawmteii Ralte

2010-09-14T18:25:00.001+05:30

Only these beating hearts
Ebb against this tranquility:
I love this moment with you
In all its naturality:
I do not feel beyond myself
This is my home.

Butterfly kisses and feathery gaze
Now break the silence:
Claim me, I am here
Lying with you vulnerably.
Nest me in this warmth
Not foreign to mine own;
As I breathe you in
Every air is my contention.

This is it: my destiny
This is my complacency:
Every heartache and broken dreams
Were leading me to you -
I should have known I was better then.
No more white leaves under my pillow
No more tossed coins across the rivers
No more wishing at the falling star:
You are with me,
This is my fairy tale.

Causatum - Lalrinmawii Khiangte

2010-07-22T20:16:00.004+05:30

I am in my Gethsemane

I sweat out blood
The pain of Joseph's forgiveness.

Dying I live
losing I gain
such profound death and life
loss and gain.
I have not lived in vain
to experience this
resurrection from the pit to glory
the peace after the tempest
the joy after the pain
the light after darkness.

Lalrinmawii (Mamawii) Khiangte has been writing poetry in English all her life, and works at Govt. Aizawl College.

Picture: Dawn over Champhai, photographed by Lalrinmawii (Teteii) Fanai.

Silence - Somte Ralte

2010-07-05T18:59:00.005+05:30

Time slips away ever so slow

In the vastness of this vacuum

--- All is still.

I lie awake

Too tired to sleep:

No more anticipating

For things I thought I knew

Or things I had wanted.

The whole world has ceased

Yet I am still here -

Engulfed

By the sound of deafening silence:

A trickle or a whisper

Could only collapse the heart.

This eerie comfort

Is mine now

And I have got

Nothing left to lose.

Lalmalsawmi Ralte graduated with English honours under Gauhati University in 2007 and completed her Masters in English from Mizoram University in 2009. She presently teaches at a mission school for tea-tribes at Khelmati, Assam.

Photograph: Zualteii Poonte

Inside A Womb - Bd Chawngthu

2010-06-07T20:36:00.007+05:30

Inside a womb darkness is a friend
Of day and night the difference is none
I can barely think but I can hear
Sad grieves in my seven months of stay
I sleep to the tune and live within the tune
Is this what they call a cry!
Mother who bears me sound
I am a part of you, part of your grief
Two months then I shall join your world
And then I’ll see with my senses
If your world is indeed sad.

Inside a womb your grief is a friend
Of day and night the sound is all I hear
Am I your grief? Am I your relief?
A fetus in darkness learns what is hurt
But what lies beyond, is there a counter-hurt?
Inside a womb I can barely foresee
Mother who bears me sound
I am a part of you, part of your hurt
And if your world is all that you have cried
Then why should I plunge to interrupt
And truth be seen which is indeed sad.

Lalbiakdiki Chawngthu lives in Khatla, Aizawl and is presently doing her MA in English at Mizoram University.

Picture: Untitled, oil on canvas by Laltanpuia

The Wait - Dawngi Chawngthu

2010-05-26T20:49:00.007+05:30

I wait

Wait for what

I dont exactly know

Wait for

Maybe the world to change

I really dont know

But I do know

That I wait

Wait..wait..wait

Wait for

Maybe a miracle.

Picture: Waiting

Cross my Heart and Hope to Die

2010-03-26T13:23:00.020+05:30

(A translation of chapter 1 of Thih Sak Pawh Ka Ngam, a novel written by DARROKIMA,
translated by A. Hmangaihzuali Poonte)

“Stop them, stop them, somebody!” hollered the old woman as she came hurrying up the road. A group of noisy children were standing in an excited huddle around what was obviously a spectacle of no mean entertainment. At a child’s wary cry of “Rema’s grandma!” the group broke apart sharply, every child casting cautious eyes around as to which direction the old lady might be approaching. As the tight circle loosened, the source of their entertainment became plainly visible.

A girl of about 13 years of age was tugging on the hair of a boy, yanking it so hard that he stood bent low before her as she rained thumps on his back. With his face only inches away from the ground, the boy was valiantly flailing his arms around but since he couldn’t see much from his disadvantaged position, it wasn’t of much help. The old woman was upon them now and in a loudly scolding voice, pulled apart the two deadlocked combatants.

The boy straightened up, his hair standing in a shock in the upward and forward directions of the yanking it had received, his mouth set in a pugnacious scowl. With the air of a victorious military general returning home in great triumph, he glanced around in the silence that followed. His opponent too stood, feet still aggressively set apart, and for a moment there was complete silence. The first sound that broke the void was not of human voices but something quite different. A resounding smack sounded on the back of the boy’s head, followed by a loud thwack on his back. “Lalremthang, how many times do you need to be told not to get into a fight? You just cannot learn!” As she scolded, his grandmother raised a threatening fist again and the boy threw up his hands in puny self-defence. His grandmother still hit him anyway but the blow that fell was a considerably softer one.

Things being what they were, the watching children began to wander away although a few more avidly curious stragglers stayed on in the hope that something might happen again. But with Rema’s grandmother firmly dragging her errant grandson home, the last remnants of the crowd too disappeared.

It was early summer and the most pleasant time of the year. The biting cold of winter had passed and the rainy season was still three months away. It wouldn’t be too far wrong to say that the weather was close to, if not, idyllic. It was perfect for the young and unmarried, and for all parents as well because there wasn’t really anything yet to worry too much about. As for the children without a care in the world, these were truly precious times. At noon when the sun was at its highest, it grew almost hot, but Sialsuk being located high up in the mountains where there was always plenty of breeze, it was never oppressively hot.

As supper time approached, Rema appeared at the threshold of their house. That he was less than eager to enter was quite obvious as he stood unhappily eying the two cane walking sticks placed upright by the door. They told him clearly that his parents were home from their day’s work which explained his reluctance to go in.

As he thought back to his fight earlier that day, he carefully cast around in his mind a good explanation for his behaviour, swiftly thinking up and rejecting one story after another until he felt he had a suitable excuse to offer. He was naturally adept at this kind of thinking. He straightened the front of his shirt, thoughtfully eyed the sticks again and knew there was no way he would escape two knuckle raps on the head. But as long as his father didn’t cane him with the big stick he stored above the hearth, he didn’t mind so much. Convincing himself that he just had to take the two knocks his mother would most certainly give him, he finally went in.

His grandmother was sitting by the fireside, puffing on her tuibur¹, and spinning yarn with smooth, easy movements, while his mother was stacking firewood on the low roof of the hearth. The minute he stepped into the house, he came face to face with his father who was just coming out of the bathroom. From his expression, Rema could tell his grandmother had already reported everything. He noticed that his mother wasn’t eying him very amicably either.

In a slightly raised voice, his father demanded, “Lalremthang, have you been fighting with Rinawmi again?” Rema only answered, “Yes,” mentally going over the story he had concocted and feeling quite reassured by its believability. His father glowered down at him and continued in a distinctly unfriendly tone, “Why do you keep on picking fights? We’ve all told you often enough not to but you just cannot seem to stop. Perhaps I haven’t whipped you soundly enough.”

Toying with the knot of elastic around his waistband, Rema voluntered in his defence, “But she hit me first.” His father was looking at him with skepticism plain on his face. His mother, still busily stacking firewood on the hearth, broke in, “What nonsense! I don’t believe that for a minute. Why would she just hit you for no reason? You’re a bad boy, that’s what, a bad bad boy.” Without missing a beat, Rema said, “She tried to grab Lalzira’s marble, the one that’s his favourite, and when Lalzira wouldn’t give it to her, she hit him and when I said, “Why did you hit him?” she said, “I’m going to beat you up too,” and slapped me.” Trying to see whether his father believed his story or not, he stole a glance at him but his father had turned away in another direction. “From now on, if you get into another fight with your elders, I will really whip you so hard you’ll regret it sorely.” And with that, his father disappeared into the next room.

Rema breathed with relief that his father had not whipped him but he suddenly remembered something else. He looked down at his shirt and quickly went to open his trunk by the wall on the other side of the room but he was too late. In an angry voice, his mother called him back. “Are you trying to change your clothes again? And when you can’t even wash your own clothes. Just stay put in what you’re wearing now.” Saying that, she came down the room quickly. Trying to avoid his mother, Rema made a crooked beeline for the window but she instantly realized what he was upto. “Turn around here. Oh, for goodness sake!” and two slaps landed on Rema’s head. He played guiltily with the two buttons that remained on his shirt, the lower two having nothing but empty buttonholes.

As they had supper, Rema waited for another tongue-lashing but to his surprise, no one said anything more which left him quite discomfited. He hurriedly ate his meal and got up, and while he usually just threw his plate into the wash, this evening he laid down his plate with great care, quickly dipped his hands in the basin of water, brushed them half dry on his pants and was all set to go rushing outdoors like any other evening. The calm but decidedly cool voice of his father stopped him. “Rema, don’t go out tonight. Stay indoors quietly.” Rema looked back, glanced at his father and with a disgruntled look, went to the backyard.

As it grew dark, he gazed raptly out of the window. He could hear his friends calling out to each other and soon, the exaggeratedly loud cry of “Tiiiaaammm”² that reached his ears made him long so badly to run out and play that he could hardly sit still. He listened, completely engrossed in the sounds of his friends’ play, hearing a shrill war cry and an answering cry coming far away from their house, somewhere near Pi Mawii’s school, and understood what was going on. Liansanga’s gang and Chungnunga’s gang were playing at war and right now they would be cautiously stalking each other.

The urge to go out and play was so strong he felt he was going to die so he took off to bed. But he could not fall asleep. He looked at the clock on the wall which showed it was 10 minutes to 8 and still much too early to sleep even though he hadn’t slept for ages. He could no longer hear the sounds of his friends playing and guessed they had gone home but was puzzled as to why they had stopped so much earlier than other evenings. Then he remembered something and his mind buzzed with conflicting emotions. Of course, it was Wednesday night which meant Chitrahaar³ at 8 pm. He realized all his friends had left to watch TV. He began to sorely regret having got into a fight earlier that day because it had stopped him from playing with his friends and also having to miss Chitrahaar. Never again, he promised himself, would he ever get into a fight again on a Wednesday!

************

Saturday dawned, the sunrise lovely and the air fresh and crisp. The summer crickets had been at their song since daybreak, and the rays of the early sun cast a softly beautiful light on the hills of Hmunchung and Sabual.

As the sun climbed higher and all the able-bodied left for work in the fields, the village fell still and silent. When lunch time approached, a somewhat disheveled Rema appeared at the threshold of their hut. He kicked aside the stick of firewood that stood supporting the door from intruders and walked in. He made straight for the pot of rice from which he lifted out a large chunk of boiled rice, and then clambered up the table to reach the high shelf where his mother kept a secret stash of kurtai4. Breaking off a huge chunk of it, he then contentedly walked out of the house again.

As he got back on to the main road, holding the big chunk of rice, he was soon pursued by a mother hen, eagerly hoping for falling crumbs. He itched to throw a stone smartly at it but with both hands occupied, could only manage a few futile kicks in its general direction. The fowl was undeterred. After a while, he reached his friend Lalzira’s house but just as he was about to enter, Lalzira came tearing out, holding a chunk of rice even bigger than Rema’s. In his hurry to get away, he almost knocked down Rema as his grandmother came running after him, brandishing a broom at her grandson and yelling, “Catch him, get that imp of a child and beat him up!”

Rema instantly grasped the situation and raced after Lalzira, although without any intention of catching him. Even as they had almost disappeared from sight, Lalzira’s grandmother could be heard screeching, “Don’t you come back, let’s see you try, don’t ever come back, go be a vagrant!” After a considerable distance, Rema asked, “What happened?” Lalzira gave him a quick glimpse of the fistful of sugar in his hand and burst out aggrievedly, “She said why do you always grab that without asking? But if I ask her nicely, she never lets me have any. Ooooh grandma, I bet I wouldn’t even cry if she died.” Rema understood completely.

But Lalzira’s woes did not occupy them long. They had hardly gone a tobacco spittle’s loss of flavour distance when they were at Thlihiau hill. With tightly curled fists, they began to solemnly and cautiously stalk each other. Eyeing the other as grimly and formidably as possible, they stood there, not directly facing each other but somewhat aslant, jaws clenched in fierce concentration. Then Rema gave a sharp cry and came launching himself at Lalzira, bombarding him with quick lithe kicks. Lalzira let out a similarly shrill yell and expertly dodging the kicks, landed one neatly on Rema’s backside.

They then retreated from each other again, carefully striking what each imagined to be as professional a stance as possible. The high mountain breeze flapped wide open their unbuttoned shirts but they were so engrossed in their play world, nothing in the world could have distracted them. Like a kung fu pro, Lalzira came bounding forward again with a shrill cry and delivered a kick at Rema who held his leg and kicked him back. After throwing each other to the ground several times, they both held fast to the other and began to tumble wildly all over the grass. When they sat up again, they were panting breathlessly, their gazes fixed on Tawih mountain louring in the far distance while the wind teased and played havoc with their hair.

After they had rested for a short while, they got up and collected the dung beetle tin can and little spade they had hidden in the bushes close by. They then made their way up to Hmunchung hill to dig for dung beetles. As they walked, Rema said, “Lalzir, do you think the bad guy last night could have defeated the hero in real life?” Excitedly, Lalzira replied, “Nah, I don’t think so at all. Bruce Lee is the bravest man in the whole world, isn’t he?” And the conversation continued somewhat in this way:

“Not really the bravest. In a film, the hero always wins all the fights.”
“Even so, I don’t think he could have beaten Bruce Lee. And he was a lot better than Chak Naris (Chuck Norris).”
“If all the grown men in Sialsuk fought Bruce Lee together, do you think they could beat him?”
“Of course not…but Pa Khuanga reckons he can beat him, I heard him say so yesterday. He said, “He doesn’t scare me one little bit.”
“Just because he’s not scared doesn’t mean he can beat Bruce Lee.”
“But even a grown bear didn’t scare Pa Khuanga, remember? And if all the grown men in Sialsuk were fighting with him…”
“Even then I don’t think they could beat him. They wouldn’t be able to get in a serious blow, or throw punches hard enough.”
“That’s right, if only they could fight together on the same side…they would be both be so brave.”

Talking animatedly in that vein, they finally reached Hmunchung hill. Rema led the way, spade in hand, and Lalzira followed with the tin can. They had not gone very far when they caught sight of a nicely swelling heap of animal dung and Rema immediately sat down and began digging into it with his spade. From the depth of the tunnel, he was certain it was a male. When he got to the epicenter of the beetle’s dung stash, he scrambled at it furiously until he could see the glint of a small black body. He began digging again with greater care and after a lot of poking around with his forefinger, succeeded in prising it out. His face, when he first caught sight of the beetle, however, was a sight to see. The adult male he had been so sure it was turned out to be only a useless Raltuithawl5 which annoyed him so much, he flung it to the ground, chopped it into two, and they carried on walking.

Soon they came across another heaped mound of dung pat and Rema again quickly dropped to his knees beside it. As he began spiritedly digging again, Lalzira, anxious to have a look, came creeping around in front. Rema snapped sharply, “Don’t come around the front…..if it turns into charcoal…” and Lalzira made a hasty retreat.

But as Rema continued to dig, he somehow lost track of the beetle’s burrow. He kept spading on, his finger inching around for the tunnel and eventually, his spade hit on a piece of coal. With a look of utmost displeasure, he glared at Lalzira who stood gazing back at him with an expression so abjectly wretched, it was hard to even think of berating him. In injured tones, Rema complained balefully, “I told you so, you came creeping round the front, and I was so sure it was an adult male.”

Despite it getting late in the day and time to cook rice for supper, they continued to dig and the can was now almost half filled. But since they still hadn’t found their ideal, a full grown adult male which could stand up to Sawma’s prize dung beetle, they kept digging. As they continued hopefully, Lalzira suddenly exclaimed, with the air of someone just struck by a great idea, “Hey, we forgot all about it but the dung pat we saw the other day must have swelled up good now.” “Oh yes, let’s go. Would anyone have got there ahead of us?” Rema wondered. Hurriedly they raced down the hill towards the village. Slightly beyond the village, at the foot of the hill was a fairly large area filled with nothing but bushes and grass. When the two boys got there, panting from their exertions, their eyes widened on hearing the sounds of other children. They continued to leap and bound down the hillside towards the direction of the sounds.

There they saw three little boys with a lactogen tin full of dung beetles. One was preparing an invasion of the little hill of dung that stood before them by patiently clearing the area around it. In an authoritative tone of voice, Rema boldly declared, “Te-a, that’s ours!” The boys all turned around to look at him in startled surprise and Te-a declared, “This is the poop we made the other day. We said we’d get it when it was ready.” Rema replied aggressively, “Don’t you lie, Te-a, that’s our poop. That’s Lalzira’s poop and mine was right over here.” Roughly pushing away Liankima who was standing quietly to one side, Rema looked around for his supposed poop but didn’t find any.

Te-a remained undaunted, repeating, “This is definitely our poop. Mapuia and I both defecated here. I’m not sure whose this is exactly but it’s definitely ours.” Rema walked right back over to the dung pile and exclaimed, “Here, I’m absolutely sure of it, this is Lalzira’s poop, I memorized the way it curved and curled. And this pointy end. It’s his alright, isn’t it, Lalzir?” And Lalzira agreed with great enthusiasm. There was nothing left to say for the less stout-hearted so Te-a and his friends left the scene, defeated.

A somewhat intriguing superstition widely held by children in those days was, “Dung beetles formed from human faeces make the fiercest fighters,” which explained why they would often go to the outskirts of the village and discharge there, going back later to collect the beetles that homed in and bred there. And that was exactly what had caused the little altercation between the two groups of boys. After Te-a and his team left, Rema energetically dug into the dung pat, and just as he had anticipated, found a fully grown adult male beetle with a pronounced horn. The joy of the two boys at that moment cannot be adequately described. Rema kept looking at the beetle he had found and could not help smiling broadly with the greatest satisfaction. He did not even have the heart to put it away in the tin along with the rest but clenched it proudly in his fist all the way home.

¹ A tobacco pipe used by Mizo women in the past
² Ready!
³ A popular Hindi movies program on mainstream TV in the early 80s
4 Jaggery
5 A large dung beetle, not known for its fighting ability and accordingly scorned by young boys

Darrokima is one of contemporary Mizo literature’s most promising young writers, having published 2 novels and a collection of essays and articles, which are primarily in the humour genre. He established himself in 2007 with the publication of Thih Sak Pawh Ka Ngam, a novel inspired by Mark Twain’s Adventures of Tom Sawyer. As he puts it, he felt challenged to write a book based on Mizo childhood experiences that he felt were equally, if not more so, humorous and boisterous. An Economics graduate, he decided to follow his inclination for literature and completed his MA in Mizo Literature. He is presently teaching at the secondary level of Mount Carmel School in Aizawl, while quietly working on his third novel.

This translated extract which forms Chapter I of Thih Sak Pawh Ka Ngam depicts a rural childhood and lifestyle that seems to have altogether disappeared in these rapidly changing times.

Photograph credit: Hmunchung Tlang and Sialsuk village by Zara Ralte, a childhood friend of the novelist.

Translator's note: It took me the winter months to complete the translation of this highly engaging novel (albeit just the opening chapter) and I have to admit that its time setting made me aim for a post-winter, early summer publication. I am deeply grateful to Dara for kindly allowing me to work on this, as well as for all the help and cooperation he extended in the course of it. I feel privileged to present his work to a wider reading audience.

Disowning Myself - Dawngi Chawngthu

2009-10-25T19:15:00.007+05:30

Goodbye...
was what i said
to myself
on that July morning
in 2002
i watched myself stand
along with the rest of my folks
as i waved goodbye
and drove off...
i felt myself disintegrate
saw myself torn in two
and the process of
disowning myself
had only just begun

Hello...
i later said
to my new self
a self made lighter
with disorientation
and self denial
but so much more heavier
with added responsibility
of a new role...
since then i have now
functioned as a protective mother
to my four children
and a somewhat laid-back wife
to my equally laid-back man

Irony...
the process of
disowning myself
had not after all
been a difficult task
my carefree
head held high walk
has been replaced
by a careful tread...
hugely approved by my children
you see
they've always complained
of my proud walk
as they would call it

I beliefs...
Strong ones
a couple of them
are now replaced
by we believe
safe ones
conventional ones
palatable ones
non-controversial ones...
yes, its been easy
to re-schedule
my thoughts
my time
my priorities

meanwhile...
my old self
smiles back at me
from photographs
of yester years
testimony
of a life i left behind
with the other me
i said goodbye to...
in July '02
my clothes of those days
that no longer fit
lie neatly packed
in my old suitcase

ceremoniously...
i go through them
every now and then
with half a mind
to do away with them
telling myself
they've served their purpose
and made me feel good in the past
but i stop and say no...
these are things
that take me back
to a time
when i was whole
and undisowned

and so...
i lie trapped
somewhere deep inside
my old suitcase
wrapped carelessly
in an old green dress
suspended between what was
and what will be
ready now for a resurrection...
i tentatively reach out
to reclaim lost identity
and steer myself towards the unknown
waiting for the new beginning
to unveil itself.

Picture: Models, oil on canvas, by Laltanpuia

Zawlpala's Lament

2009-08-04T21:32:00.005+05:30

A reworking of the old legend from Zawlpala's perspective by Lalrinmawii Khiangte

With fury directed at himself
He felt his insides bleed in agony:
This is self-annihilation.

He made a bargain over a lie in jest
Surely no man was rich enough to pay
Such an exorbitant amount for a bride.

The lie - this priceless beauty is my sister, not my wife.

The suitor delivered the goods - the price intact.

Alas, he had given his word of honour
His integrity and principle to uphold
Surely he could not take back his word.

It was death - to watch his beloved led away
To become the wife of the ardent, wealthy suitor.

He saw the betrayed look in the eyes of his wife
he heard the crying of her soul.

Pride goes before a fall; it tore him to shreds
It led him to his grave.

Such a hideous, ugly, gross mistake
Such self-loathing, such bitter remorse and guilt.

Epilogue:

A pair of butterflies - a couple- fly in unison- happily
The aery spirits of Tualvungi and Zawlpala - lovers united after death.
And in their merry trail - follows forlornly
The spirit of the much maligned suitor Phuntiha
And the legend lives on.

An Impression Of Being Alive - Mona Zote

2009-06-21T20:44:00.009+05:30

All day we have watched the street shift
and careen, shed skin, refill, crest and yaw,
corrected our taste for oranges
packed by other hands from other places, bought
tokens of summer and the coming happiness —
we paused at the Korean romances: A Tale of a Prince,

Over Rainbow, Tree of Heaven. And the corporate type
who went mad for a girl.
No prince arrived with a piece of fax.
You said Plainly, it’s all money and for-
nication, just like everywhere else. We smiled
at the notion of moon bases and hummed a tune
from the movie we figured
we were still living in.

All day the sun kept tangling and stumbling
among bright open windows while the shopgirls cheered on,
and the pavement singers, and those women
fingering black laces in Foreign Lane
and we lived in and out of restaurants, smoking nonstop,

plate after plate of consommé
not thinking or speaking, our nerves
shattered by the urge to depart. All day
we have waited and waited
under heaven’s wide and lovely tree
for princes, advisors,
even some flannel postman to come and say
that the ship’s sailed, the bus
has left, all families look for us.
Have we said too much? Or not enough –

And here we are, the day gone
to its usual brilliant bedtime, the astronauts gone, the rain
now cadencing in our heads. The restaurant must close.
We have learned nothing. You wisely add: Really,
there was nothing to learn.

This poem was first published on www.poetryinternationalweb.org in the February 2009 issue of the Indian edition.

Despite the somewhat intellectually arid landscape of her homeland which occasionally threatens to stifle her creativity, Mona Zote here provides insightful reading of a society and people caught, like most of the rest of the world, in the thrall of mammon. Small, sleepy, non-happening town or not, from the Korean romance DVD hawkers, the blind, dark-glassed pavement singers, the giddy, hired shopgirls behind glassed windows to the Foreign Lane smuggled ware sellers and tiny, crowded shops that serve chow swimming in gravy, and all closing at dusk, it’s all money and fornication, just like everywhere else.

Rairahtea

2009-04-18T21:09:00.004+05:30

A long, long time ago, there was a poor little boy in a village by a river. His name was Rairahtea. He lived with his stepmother who was very cruel to him and always made him do the hardest of work.

One day, all the boats on the river near his village were stranded in water and unable to sail. The sailors had never had any major problem because they had a bahhnukte, an axe which had magical powers. But it had now been stolen by a python so the sailors, helpless without their magic axe, decided to offer a human sacrifice. When Rairahtea's stepmother heard of this, she sold him to the sailors in return for a bowl of money.

Rairahtea stayed with the sailors and guarded their stores of rice. One day, as he was on duty, a python suddenly crawled towards him. It was the same python which had stolen the sailors' magic axe and was running away from them.

The python begged Rairahtea to save him but he refused saying, "I am also a captive and you are too big for me to hide. So if we must die, let us die together." But the python said, "I can make myself smaller and I will give you anything if you hide me." He then made himself smaller and smaller until he was reduced to the size of a needle. Rairahtea then took the needle-sized python and hid him in his hair.

The sailors soon came in search of the python and asked, "Rairahte, have you seen a python?" He replied, "No, I have not. Why do you ask?" They did not believe him because the trail left by the python ended next to Rairahtea. But Rairahtea insisted, "I have not seen any python and even if I did, how can I possibly hide it?" The sailors believed him and went away.

After they left, the python came back to his original size and crawled down from Rairahtea's head. "You have saved me from death so I will give you anything you want. Just name it, " he said and vomitted out jewels and money.

But Rairahtea did not want the jewels or money. Instead he said, "Open your mouth wide." As the python opened its mouth out wide, Rairahtea saw a shiny object in the corner. When he realised it was the sailors' magic axe, he said to the python, "I want that shiny object in your mouth." The python was very reluctant to part with the magic axe but in the end, he agreed to let Rairahtea borrow it for a while in return for saving his life.

Rairahtea was very happy to have the magic axe and immediately ordered it to set free all the stranded boats in the river. This made the sailors very happy and one of them even decided to adopt Rairahtea and bring him up as his very own son.

So Rairahtea grew up as the dearly beloved son of the sailor and his wife. Many years later, he asked his father to get him a wife and said the girl he wanted to marry was the daughter of the great Chief of Tripura. When his father heard this, he was not very hopeful. However, he set off for the Chief's house with a proposal of marriage. The place was heavily guarded sevenfold by soldiers. At the gate, they asked him why he wanted to se the Chief. The old sailor barely managed to say, "We want your princess..." before he was struck down and killed by the soldiers. They then threw his body into the river.

Rairahtea became very worried after his father failed to return from the Chief's house. Taking his magic axe with him, he went along in search of his father. When he could not find him, he realised he must have been killed. He ordered his axe to bring back his father to life. The old sailor at once reappeared beside him and was very surprised to be brought back to life. He decided to go back to the Chief's house where he was killed once again. Rairahtea again restored him to life and the old father again went back to the Chief's house. When the soldiers saw him reappear for the third time, they were filled with fear and let him into the house. The father then informed the Chief the purpose of his visit to which the Chief replied, "Your son can marry my daughter only if you change my house into a golden palace with the river of life flowing beside it." Rairahtea's father became very sad because he knew his son would never be able to do such a thing. He went home and told Rairahtea what the Chief wanted. But his son was not at all worried and went to sleep peacefully.

The next morning, Rairahtea's father woke him up before sunrise. Rairahtea ordered his magic axe to turn the Chief's house into a golden palace with the river of life flowing next to it. And there it was, golden and shining! The Chief was overjoyed to see it and at once asked for Rairahtea and announced, "You may now marry my daughter!"

Rairahtea had some very faithful animals and he sent them off to test what kind of girl the princess was. When they reached the Chief's hose, they tried to make the princess angry in a number of ways. But the princess remained calm. Back at Rairahtea's house, they told him that the princess was very kind and gentle. So Rairahtea married the princess of Tripura.

Unfortunately the princess was in love with a man who lived up in the sky. She knew that Rairahtea had a magic axe and she was always looking for a chance to steal it so she could go away up in the sky and live with her beloved. One day, she had the opportunity to steal the magic axe while Rairahtea was taking a bath in the river. She quickly grabbed the axe and flew up into the sky.

As soon as she was gone with the magic axe, the power of the axe disappeared and the Chief of Tripura's housde returned to its original form. This made the Chief very angry. He sent his messengers to Rairahtea. They told him that if he did not turn back the Chief's house into a golden house within eight days, the Chief would kill him. Rairahtea was very worried. He sent his animals in search of the magic axe and they soon realised it was with the princess high in the sky. Using a long chain made by the monkey, the climbed up into the sky. When the princess saw that they had come for the magic axe, she quickly put it inside her mouth and went to sleep. So the animals sat down and worked out a plan. The rat tickled her nose with his tail and the princess sneezed. Out came the magic axe and the rat quickly grabbed it and ran away.

After many difficulties, the animals were finally able to bring home the magic axe. But Rairahtea was not at home. He was being kept a prisoner in the Chief's house. The animals headed towards the Chief's house but could not give him the axe because he was guarded by the soldiers. The animals again sat down and wondered how they could give the magic axe to Rairahtea. In the end, the cat was chosen to pass the axe to their master. Since a cat is a familiar sight in any household, the cat easily got inside the house and left the magic axe in a place where Rairahtea was sure to find it. Meanwhile Rairahtea was rolling on the floor in pain. When he felt something hard under him, he reached out to see what it was. He saw it was his magic axe. Gladly, he took it in his hand and ordered it to fill the place with mosquitoes. Immediately, the place was filled with mosquitoes and the soldiers all ran away.

The next morning, Rairahtea once again ordered his magic axe to change the Chief's house into a golden palace. At the same time, the soldiers had returned to the Chief's house to kill Rairahtea. When he saw them coming, he quickly looked out of the window and shouted, "Magic axe, bring down the princess and her lover!" At once, the princess and her lover fell from the sky and were killed instantly. That was the end of Rairahtea's wife and her lover from the sky.

On seeing his golden house once again, the Chief was overjoyed and offered his younger daughter to Rairahtea for his wife. Rairahtea again sent his animlas to find out what kind of girl the younger princess was. Just like before, they tried to make the princess angry. The younger princess was very angry with the mischief caused by the animals. They then ran home and told their master that his prospective bride was very short-tempered. However the two were married.

A few days later, one of the animals came to Rairahtea and said, "Master, it is time for us to return to our old master, the python." So Rairahtea, thankful for all they had had done for him, released them and sent them back to the python with the magic axe.

Taken from Selected Mizo Folk Tales, 2008, published and edited by the English Language Teaching Institute (ELTI), SCERT Mizoram.

A Mizo Star (A Letter Written with Love)

2009-03-14T14:58:00.001+05:30

- Raghu Leisangthem
Translated from the Manipuri by Robin S Ngangom

James Dokhuma, I’ll come and see
Your hunting rifle one day
In Mizoram’s museum with my own eyes,
Traversing the paths of your soaring hilltops.
You’ve seen, haven’t you
In the thick forests of the Mizo hills,
Small streams of little ravines
In your novels,
In your poetry,
Amidst the broken stones of your gliding rivers,
In the gestures of dancing leaves of trees growing there.
From the windows of little huts
Covered with dark clouds
You’ve watched, haven’t you
How small red birds
Soared freely in the sky.
Padmashree,
You’re a comrade lifting your hands together
With your hilltops in solidarity,
With animals, birds, forests, and
With hills, lakes, rivers.
Inside a dark prison cell you are
A writer, rebel, who opened his eyes and saw light.
The scars made by bullets
Which struck your body
Are indelible moles of that beautiful face.

The inspiration behind this poem, Mizo writer James Dokhuma (b. 1932, d. 2007), played an active part in the Mizo insurgency movement of the 60s and was made to serve a prison term, during which he wrote a number of poems and novels. In 1985, the Govt of India awarded him a Padmashree for his contribution to literature.

Raghu Leisangthem (b. 1959) is a Manipuri poet, and I am deeply grateful to my old friend Robin Ngangom for allowing me to reproduce here his lovely translation of this generous poetic tribute to one of our greatest literary stalwarts.

Chhura and his enemies

2009-03-02T19:44:00.002+05:30

Transcreated by Margaret Ch. Zama

One day Chhura made a trip to Mawnping village only to discover that it was like no other. People did not defecate because they had no anuses, and when asked how he acquired his, Chhura replied, “When we were little, our parents applied a red-hot iron skewer, and then put us all in a big basket which they opened only on the third day.” At this, everyone wanted the same operation performed on their children, and so brought them to Chhura. Chhura followed the procedure he had told them about and asked them to come for their children on the third day. When they did so, they found that only one lone child had survived, but not for long as it too was killed by the rush of parents claiming it.

They then realized that Chhura had duped and made fools of then, so directing their anger at him, they gave chase. But Chhura had foreseen this and hidden himself inside a hollow log. Soon his pursuers reached the place and sat upon the log to rest. In his anger and frustration, one of them hurled his spear at the log exclaiming, “Had this been Chhura, this is how I would spear him!” At this the foolish Chhura replied from inside, “Take care! You might really spear me!” They then arrested him. “Alright,” he said “you may hold me by the elbows as our forefathers did with their captives.” As they did so, Chhura suddenly wriggled out of their grasp and violently flayed about his arms, hitting them in all directions, then made his escape.

Realising they had been tricked, his enemies now came after him in a large group. Just before they caught up with him, Chhura quickly climbed atop a huge banyan tree. As they collected in a group below deciding on their next course of action, he walked along a branch and flapping his puan (traditional lungi) about him exclaimed aloud, “I am going to fly across to the distance yonder.” At this , his enemies quickly dispatched a group shouting, “Quick! run ahead of him! Run ahead of him!”. Chhura then walked along another branch in the opposite direction and did the same thing. His gullible enemies quickly dispatched another group in this direction.

Now only a handful of them remained and believing that all exits were blocked, they decided to cut down the tree. As they proceeded to do so, Chhura realized the tree was about to fall, so he called out, “Wait! Let me come down and help you with the task.” They did so, and completed the job with his help. They then suddenly came to their senses and firmly got hold of him. But he again tricked them into holding him by the upper lip, and when he suddenly blew his nose they released their hold in disgust. In this way he once again escaped them.

Chhura’s enemies were now angrier than ever and determined to catch him. They lay in wait for him in his jhoom hut, but secretly aware of their plans, he outwitted them into thinking that his hut could respond to his call. When he loudly addressed his hut from a distance, they at first keep silent. Then, as though thinking aloud, he said “How strange that my hut should refuse to respond today. I will call once more and if there is no reply, then it will mean that there are enemies hiding in it, and the hut is afraid to call out.” So he once again called out, and this time, the enemies within were compelled to make response. At this Chhura shouted, “Enemies! Enemies!” and once again evaded them.

Chhura however, was finally caught and imprisoned inside a huge basket which was hung under a bridge. Below flowed a deep river. Before long a merchant belonging to the Pawih clan came to cross the bridge and Chhura called out threateningly, “Pawia, if you don’t release me I shall kill you,” and saying this he brandished his knife from where he was. The man did as he was told. Then Chhura told him, “Why don’t you try out the basket, it is really quite comfortable,” and thus tricking him, imprisoned him in his stead. He then cut the rope from which the basket hung and the poor merchant drowned in the river while Chhura took possession of all his money and merchandise.

Loaded with his treasures, Chhura made his way into the village of his enemies. Everyone was surprised to see him. “How did you manage to escape from your imprisonment and acquire all these riches?” they asked in wonder. He replied, “Well, being a man I tied a big empty vessel round my waist and jumped into the river. As soon as it made the sound ‘bi bi birh birh’, I exclaimed ‘great riches are found! great riches are found!’ and then gathered as much riches as I could from the river bed.”

Excited, and their greed aroused, Chhura’s enemies decided to do the same. All the men tied empty vessels round their waist which they hoped to fill with treasures, and rushed off to the river, with Chhura escorting them. At first no one dared jump in, so Chhura pushed over one of them, and as soon as his vessel started filling with water, it emitted the sound “bi bi birh birh”, and hearing this the rest of them exclaimed “great riches are found! great riches are found!” and jumped into the river without further ado, unwittingly drowning themselves.

Chhura returned to the village alone and when the women inquired about their husbands, he urged them to go and help their men folk who were on their way home with their heavy loads. They all excitedly set off. Meanwhile Chhura went round the village and doused the fire at every home. Only he had a huge fire going and when a widow who stayed behind went to ask for fire, he made her earn it by sleeping with him.

Late in the evening the women returned from their futile errand, tired and cold from the pouring rain only to find their homes cold and without fire. When they asked the widow for fire, she refused them saying, “I earned my fire. Go and do the same.” So it was that all the women had to pay a price to Chhura for their fire.

Dr. Margaret Ch. Zama is a professor in the English dept. of Mizoram University. She is deeply involved in the transcreation of Mizo folk literature and bringing it to national and international audiences.

Chhura’s Horn of Plenty

2009-02-18T20:44:00.008+05:30

Transcreated by Laltluangliana Khiangte

In a certain village, there lived a very straightforward, courageous man called Chhura. His best friend was his brother Nahaia, alias Naa, who was cunning enough in all respects to take advantage of Chhura’s ignorance and stupidity.

As was the practice of the day, both brothers were jhum farmers. Their paddy fields lay adjacent to each other a fair distance away from the village. At the bottom of Naa’s plot, stood a big hollow tree where many birds would roost. Naa could not tolerate them and would often throw stones at them. At times, he would hunt them down with a catapult or sairawkherh.

One day, the stones hit the hollow of the tree occupied by a Phungpuinu¹. She was enraged and threatened to take revenge by using her supernatural powers. She chanted unintelligible words which scared Naa out of his wits. He then decided that if the field could change hands, all harm would fall upon the new owner and he would be free from danger.

So Naa approached Chhura and proposed that the land should be exchanged. He cleverly showed his brother a groundview of his own field while asking Chhura to look at his field from the top of a tree. Chhura was easily convinced and went to his new plot the next day. He quickly saw the big tree with many birds and began throwing stones at them to drive them away. The female spirit within the tree immediately reacted with her mysterious utterances once again and warned him to stop because he was hurting her children. But Chhura did not heed the warning. Instead he ignored the phungpuinu and continued to throw stones at the tree. Realising that the new owner could not be frightened away, the spirit escaped from a corner and went down the brook.

In the meantime, Chhura had reached the big hollow tree from where the mysterious utterances had emanated. Looking into the hollow and not finding the spirit, he forced her children to swallow hot ash, as a result of which they all died. He then quickly left the place.

The phungpuinu wept plaintively over the loss of her children. Meanwhile, Chhura made plans to capture her. He erected a swing on his farm and pretended to leave for home. After a while, the phungpuinu stealthily approached the swing and sat down on it, singing a dirge of mourning. Chhura then seized her by the hair and threatened to capture her to be paraded for the pleasure of the village children.

The phungpuinu begged him to set her free and promised to give him a good axe in return. Chhura declined, saying he already had one. She then promised her a hoe which Chhura also refused.

The phungpuinu dared not imagine what her plight would be once she was in the village. So she made a last offer and that was her most prized possession – a magic horn called a Sekibuhchhuak.

Chhura gladly accepted the last offer for he knew that the magic horn could produce delicious, well-prepared rice from one end and ready meat from the other. After testing it, he set the spirit free and went home happily with his new possession. He and his family now stopped working and lived without a care in the world.

When Nahaia came to know about the horn, he was filled with envy. He warned Chhura that should there be any fire, he should first pick up the horn and leave the house quickly.

Within a few days, he thought of a way to dispossess his brother of his magic horn. He went near Chhura’s house, gathered a big heap of dry leaves and set it on fire. He then shouted, “Fire, fire, Chhura, your house is on fire! Come out quickly with your horn!”

As Chhura came rushing out, he fell down by the door, as Naa had planned, dropping his precious horn on the ground. Nahaia quickly picked it up saying, “Let me have what Chhura has rejected!” Thus Naa tricked his brother and got the magic horn.

Chhura was very displeased and thought of a way to get the horn back. He went to Naa and advised him that in case of fire, he should first get hold of the horn. Then soon after, he arranged a fire just as Naa had done and shouted, “Fire, fire, Naa, your house is on fire!”

But Naa was not so easily fooled. Instead he picked up a pestle and pretending to fall, threw it directly at Chhura’s shin. So instead of getting back the magic horn, Chhura received a severe injury on his shin and he left saying, “Let me have what Naa has forfeited.”

Legend has it that the magic sekibuhchhuak has remained with Nahaia ever since and he partakes of its delicious repast day and night.

~~~

¹a spirit, ghost, bogey, spook, ogress, goblin, hobgoblin (generally regarded as female)

The most interesting and memorable personality in the world of Mizo folklore would undoubtedly be Chhurbura. A reading and study of Mizo tales would be incomplete without Chhurbura who must be considered the undisputed hero of Mizo folktales. There is a great paradox in his character which makes him all the more interesting for young and old. He may be considered the silliest of simpletons but on the other hand, he can also be considered the cleverest of all.

It has also been claimed that Chhura played an important role in the creation of the universe. He shaped the world by beating and hitting the solid earth with his big stone club, leveling parts of it and in the process, he created hills, mountains, plains and valleys.

Even accounts of his demise are many. One version says he died in an accident while others suggest he died as a rich and powerful ruler. Another version says he died while playing an interesting game called Nghengtawlhah Saiawnah. Legend goes that he was so absorbed in this game that he forgot to eat anything and eventually succumbed to fatigue and exhaustion. According to yet another tale, Chhura was still alive in the 14 century AD. He reportedly lived in the eastern part of Mizoram and monuments were erected in his honour which can be seen even today.

Professor Laltluangliana Khiangte works in the Mizo dept. at Mizoram University. He is a prolific writer with an immense volume of output, both in English and Mizo, and has several publications to his credit. A prominent folklorist in North-east India, his contribution to the documentation, growth and development of the Mizo language and literature is tremendous.

Tualvungi and Zawlpala

2009-02-09T14:39:00.008+05:30

A Mizo folktale transcreated by Margaret Ch. Zama

Once upon a time there lived a young man named Zawlpala who fell in love with Tualvungi, a maiden renowned for her beauty. They eventually married and were very happy together. At this time lived a raja from Tripura holding sway over a small principality called Theihai Ram. He was named Phuntiha by his subjects, a very apt name really since it meant that no one dared to complain in his presence. He was of a tyrannical disposition, always wanting to possess the best of everything. It was no wonder then, that when he heard of Tualvungi’s great beauty, he at once set off to visit her village with the intention of marrying her should her beauty please him. On Zawlpala’s village, Phuntiha found Zawlpala happily keeping his wife company at her weaving loom.

Setting eyes on Tualvungi, Phuntiha found her beauty far exceeded his expectations, and fell in love with her. So he inquired of Zawlpala if she was his wife or sister, to which the latter replied “my sister”. Zawlpala answered thus because he knew full well that Phuntiha wanted Tualvungi for his wife, and was quite capable of killing him if his true status was revealed. To the “brother’s” reply, Phuntiha at once offered a proposal of marriage, inquiring about her man, the Mizo customary bride price quoted by the bride’s family before marriage. At this, Zawlpala deliberately quoted a stupendous sum which he hoped the raja would be unable to fulfill and thereafter leave them in peace. The brideprice he quoted was thus : enough mithans to number every post and pillar of his house to which they will be tethered; beaded necklaces and Mizo puans (traditional woven cloth) so great in number that they break every railing and clothesline in the house with their weight, and lastly, Mizo chempui or big daos numbering every crevice of the woven bamboo walls into which they shall be tucked. To Zawlpala’s great chagrin, Phuntiha accepted his terms without much ado, and left immediately for his village to make preparations.

A few days later, Phuntiha returned not only with Zawlpala’s demand, but with a huge entourage of villagers as well, all eager to escort home the new bride. Tualvungi was the first to sight them while they were yet some miles away, with Phuntiha in the lead wearing a bright red lungi which stood out brazenly even from the distance. Distressed greatly, she turned to her husband and pleaded with him thus:

I can see them yonder
Herding in countless mithans
And carrying great numbers of puans
Tell them Tualvungi is with child
O my love Zawlpala

But her desperation was matched by Zawlpala’s loss for words at the turn of events and he was unable to offer her any consolation. So the now hated Phuntiha arrived and proceeded to fulfill his obligations with great gusto. Mithans were tethered to each and every post of Zawlpala’s house; beaded necklaces and woven puans were hung on to every available railing and clothesline in the house, snapping them all in no time with their weight; and lastly, the Mizo daos were firmly tucked into all the visible cracks and crevices of the bamboo walls. Thus Phuntiha claimed the unhappy Tualvungi as his lawful wife and led her away to his village. Zawlpala stood helpless, watching them leave and bitterly regretting his folly but all too late, for he had spoken as a man, and had to honour his words.

Now, although Phuntiha had feigned ignorance, he knew that Zawlpala was Tualvungi’s husband and not her brother, and knowing of the great love they shared though now parted, his jealousy was greatly roused. This determined him to do away with his rival. In spite of his shortcomings, Phuntiha truly loved and cherished Tualvungi, and catered to her every wish in the hope that she might forget her beloved. But Tualvungi never ceased to pine for her beloved, and this made Phuntiha even more possessive of her and jealous of Zawlpala. One day, Phuntiha said to his wife, “I suggest you invite your brother to visit us for as long as he wishes as we have not seen each other for a long time. And now seems to be as good a time as any, besides my pigs are fat enough to be slaughtered.” Too naive to comprehend his true intentions, Tualvungi eagerly sent a messenger to Zawlpala with the good news.

When Zawlpala received the message, he too was taken in by Phuntiha’s supposed goodwill, and wishing to reciprocate, at once set out for their village. Phuntiha played the perfect host to his guest, but before long, Tualvungi began to have her suspicions. So she warned Zawlpala to beware and not accept any food from Phuntiha’s hands. But due to his prolonged stay it soon became impossible for Zawlpala to continually refuse his host’s offers and so one day accepted rice beer and arum bulbs that the latter gave him. Immediately after having them, he started experiencing stomach cramps, for the food had been poisoned just as Tualvungi had feared. Greatly grieved and not knowing what course to take, she sent him home at once, and doing so, Zawlpala was able to reveal the true circumstances of his condition to the village elders before he finally died. He was buried with due honour, and his grave was decorated with numerous mithan skulls that had been slaughtered in his honour. This Mizo tradition is called thlaichhiah, which means sacrificing of animals for the dead, so that the spirits of the slained animals may accompany the departed into the next world.

Now came the task of finding a messenger to break the sad news to Tualvungi. But no one dared to volunteer as all were afraid of Phuntiha whom they knew would not hesitate to kill in his jealous rage.

In the hunt for a messenger, the first candidate was a Chakai (crab) who, when asked how it would address Tualvungi replied ai, ai. This displeased the villagers and they stamped it aside, which is why, we are told, the crab still walks sideways today. Second came a Choak (raven) who was asked the same question. It’s reply ak, ak disgusted the villagers and they threw indigo dye on it, which explains the blue-back colour of the raven today. Then along came a tlaiberh (bul-bul bird) whose call berek, berek again failed to satisfy the villagers. As punishment, they impaled the bird on a fence, which is why the feathers under the tail of the bul-bul remains red till today.

Finally, a vahui (wood pigeon) turned up and its performance so pleased them that they elected it to be the bearer of the tragic news. After feeding it on rice and meat, they sent it on its way. The bird flew for many, many days before arriving at Tualvungi’s village. On reaching there, it perched on a nearby tree next to her house, and began to plaintively warble out its song, telling her to go and pay her respects to her dead husband Zawlpala. Tualvungi, who was busy weaving in the verandah, heard the song and exclaimed to the bird, “If you are singing to me, come closer and repeat your song”. So the bird flew closer and perched on a railing nearby. After it had sung, Tualvungi was heartbroken but still unable to believe the sad tidings, again asked it to hop even closer and sing its song again. So the little wood pigeon sat on the bars at the end of her loom and sang its heart out. After this, Tualvungi could no longer doubt the message, and broke down with grief for her lost love.

Tualvungi thought out of ways in which she could deceive Phuntiha, and leave for her old village as soon as possible. She finally came up with the excuse that she wished to vist her ailing brother Zawlpala, as he was quite unwell when he last left them. Phuntiha of course knew that Zawlpala was long dead by now due to the poison, but not wanting to seem inconsiderate to his wife by refusing her outright, he invented a string of excuses in order to prevent her from leaving. The first of his excuses was that he wanted her to wait for their newly hatched chicks to grow big, but when this was done, he insisted that their dog give birth to its litter first, and when this too came about and the puppies grew big, he was still reluctant to let her go. So once again, he asked her to be patient and wait for their goat to give birth, then next came the sow giving birth to her litter, and finally came the mithan having her calf. During this long delay, Phuntiha hoped that Zawlpala’s body would decompose completely and Tualvungi’s feelings of tenderness towards him gradually wane. Meanwhile, Tualvungi patiently tolerated the delay, but her feelings for the dead Zawlpala remained ever strong.

Phuntiha, having run out of excuses to delay Tualvungi, sought other means of preventing her from leaving as he was still extremely jealous of his dead rival. So, his reasoning clouded with envy and jealousy, he sharpened his dao and placed it edge facing upwards, just outside their main door, which Tualvungi would be sure to step upon, on leaving the house. As intended, Tualvungi cut her foot deeply and was unable to do anything for many days. This put Phuntiha’s mind at ease and he departed for game hunting for a few days. Tualvungi, on her part, sought to avail of this opportunity and daily nursed her wound in order to be fit for the long journey ahead. It was not long in healing, and having bandaged it thoroughly, she packed all her more valuable possessions and puans in a bundle and set off on her own.

The journey was a long and difficult one, and Tualvungi suffered and grieved for Zawlpala all the way. Once she came across a group of children playing kawibah (a popular game among Mizo youngsters, played with the large bean-like seeds of a species of hardy creepers), and asked them,

You little children playing yonder,
Have you seen Zawlpala’s grave,
My beloved Zawlpala.

to which the children replied,

The open space round Zawlpala’s grave
Is filled with trees in bloom
And solemnly lined with mithan skulls.

A short distance away, she again passed by some children tending their grazing herd and made the same query thus :

You little children tending your herd
Have you seen Zawlpala’s grave,
My beloved Zawlpala.

and they replied

The open space round Zawlpala’s grave
Is filled with trees in bloom
And solemnly lined with mithan skulls.

When Tualvungi finally arrived at her beloved’s grave, there was no mistaking it. It was just as the children had told her, lined with mithan skulls and trees in full bloom. Weary from her long journey, fatigued from her wound, and now, the sight of Zawlpala’s grave, proved too much for her. Her spirit broke and she began to weep bitterly over the grave. An old woman who happened to pass by, took pity on her, and tried to comfort her. But Tualvungi would not be consoled, and instead pleaded to the old lady thus, “If you truly pity me, do away with my life instead as I know I am not going to survive this anyway. You may take my belongings and keep them for your own.” The old lady reluctantly agreed, and together they started digging up Zawlpala’s grave in order to make room for Tualvungi to lie down. When his bones were sighted, so the story goes, they moved over in order to make room for her. Lying down beside the remains of her beloved, Tualvungi gave up her life to the old woman.

Meanwhile, Phuntiha on his return from his hunt in the deep forest, flew into a jealous rage when he realised that his wife had slipped away. He at once set out after her, but all too late, for Tualvungi had achieved her union with Zawlpala in death. Not to be outdone by the two lovers, he too lay down beside them and got the old woman to kill him. But the spirits of Zawlpala and Tualvungi, determined never more to be parted by Phuntiha, flew out of the grave together in form of beautiful butterflies. The persistent Phuntiha flew out after them, and this is why today, a butterfly couple flying together are always followed by the third behind them - never quite catching up.

Dr. Margaret Ch. Zama is a professor in the English dept. of Mizoram University. She is deeply involved in the transcreation of Mizo folk literature and bringing it to national and international readers and audiences.

Picture: Zawlpala thlan in hmu em, oil on canvas by Tlangrokhuma

Locked Doors - Dawngi Chawngthu

2008-11-22T12:31:00.003+05:30

The indignity
of being stranded
outside a locked door
locked from inside
is something one could miss

especially
when the door
that locks you out
is the door
that belongs to you

it leaves you helpless
slightly clueless
and angry
wondering what
you should do next

knock on it?
no way,
one shouldn't have to knock
on one's own door
locked from the inside.

then what?
kick on it?
bring it down?
ring the bell?
oh, why bother.

locked doors
are maddening
mysterious
infuriating
slightly insulting

but hey
it's a different
ballgame
when you're on the inside
safe and sound

safe
for snuggles and cuddles
and whispered sweet nothings.
locked doors feel so cozy
on the inside.

Picture credit: Jackie Weisburg on flickr.com

Chhura's Babysitting - Dr. R. Thangvunga

2008-11-12T16:57:00.007+05:30

Once upon a time, there was a simple but honest man Chhura. He was gifted with this rare quality of comic commonsense which places him on a level not below the best of Shakespeare’s fools. He is a veritable treasury of tribal comic tales for the Mizo people.. This is one of those escapades that will not only make your tongue roll in your cheeks, but might render you look foolish for grimacing without pain if you do not, by his method, de-brain yourself.

One day, Chhura was obliged to take turns with his wife baby-sitting while she went to work in the jhum. Till noon, things went smoothly. Then the urchin started whimpering. Like every daddy, Chhura tried several diversions but to no avail. The sobbing became a cry, and no amount of coo-cooing helped to pacify him. Suddenly his stomach rumbled which made him realize that the baby might be hungry. He had seen old crones mashing cooked rice in their mouths and feeding their babies. In no time he had a frothing paste in his mouth which he ladled with his finger to the baby’s crying mouth. But the baby refused to swallow the food, as it most likely smelt different after being mixed with the tobacco in daddy’s mouth, and cried with a new key that spelled frustration. As he lifted the baby’s head for another mouthful, he felt the soft frontal lobe with a shock. “This be it that makes you cry. What a nasty boil it is! Let me pry it open.” He took a sharp knife and cut through the skin of the forehead till the milky gel oozed to the last drop. “All this pus should have made you cry so,” he murmured. The cry stopped immediately. Thinking the baby was asleep, he laid it down on the bed, and waited eagerly for the mother to come home to brag about his strange but heroic adventure.

This explains why his descendants, the public leaders, ever since take care of their subjects by the cry-management method of brain-lullaby.

Dr. R. Thangvunga is a reader in the Mizo department, Mizoram University. He particularly enjoys tongue-in-cheek retellings of the Chhurbura stories.

Chhura or Chhurbura is a legendary figure in Mizo folklore, famous for his absurd antics and escapades.

Amid these hills where once we lived I retrace my steps...

2008-10-26T17:17:00.014+05:30

By P. Rohmingthanga

PART - III

So the native had returned to relive the dreams of his boyhood, and to savour the happiness associated with his first visit. But as you would have seen, this was not to be. No doubt there was satisfaction in being able to come back after 25 years, to physically touch the places which could not be reached the first time, to actually drive on the roads one had initiated, and see that at least a few of one's suggestions had been implemented. At the same time, I was sorely disappointed.

By this time you will have appreciated that the romance and mystery of all these places are closely interwoven with the encircling environment, in particular the trees and foliage surrounding them, the thicker, the richer, the bigger; the better. The variety and richness of the fauna, in turn, depend on the size and quality of the flora. Unfortunately, the loss of forest cover has been accelerated ever since the abolition of the Chiefs who were fiercely protective of their forest lands. Since then I saw, as some of you have also seen, the extensive damage to forests caused by jhumming, fire, badly planned and even worse executed developmental programmes, reckless exploitation, indifference, selfishness and greed. Even as far back as the early 70s, as one flew by helicopter throughout the length and breadth of Mizoram, it was rare to find a good forest stretch except in the far-flung areas. I had thought that my sensitivity on this score was, to some extent, blunted to such destruction. I, therefore, accepted as inevitable the fact that, between Seling and Champhai, there is no more forest, no more blooming Vaubes, nor a single orchid to be seen.

Still, I was totally unprepared for the shocking discovery at 'Lianchhiari Lunglen Tlang', 'Tan’, the two sites of 'Fiara Tui' and 'Rul Chawm Puk', where some of our most precious non-tangible heritage sites have been vandalised and ravaged so wantonly by the complete destruction of their environment. It was as if our inner-most recesses had been forcibly prised open and exposed to the forces of destruction, and our very roots being severed. The beauty, the romance, and the mystery of these places, and yes, that indescribable 'presence' of the spirits associated with them have all been irredeemably diminished. How did we allow things to come to such a pass? Was there no one who cared? How many more of such cultural and heritage sites have met a similar fate? Have we been conducting ourselves so dismally in other fields as well? Where do we go from here? Would we be able to have a change of heart, undergo a process of transformation, and begin the task of restitution?

Various conflicting thoughts had then crossed my mind. And I hoped against hope that there would be a comeback, a restoration, that it would come to pass in the next century. Then the flora and the fauna would return. Fiara would come back to his spring, which would no longer be dry whatever the season. Lianchhiari would remain undisturbed in her dwelling place, shaded from sun and rain by the woodlands, and comforted by the chirping of birds and the buzzing of bees. Chawngtinleri and the 'lasis' would be back, riding their mounts. She would resume weaving at her loom from the rocky cliffs of Tan and Lurh, and the Vamurs would once again criss-cross the skies towards Ramzotlang, and thence onwards to Zopuitlang.

And as for me, I will then retrace my steps once more....

~~~

I am deeply grateful to P. Rohmingthanga for allowing me to reproduce his deeply-felt, beautifully-written travelogue on this blog. New readers may refer to Part I and Part II in previous posts.

Picture credit: Hmuifang Tlang, photographed by Zara Ralte, 2008.

Motherhood - Dawngi Chawngthu

2008-10-18T21:49:00.005+05:30

Lower your voice, Ma
You don't have to shout
So it is now their turn to criticise
Like all children
They find fault
Anyway when did I start raising my voice
I can't seem to remember....

Motherhood
One never learns
Or else how could one explain
Why a rational thinking being
Could repeat the process
Of giving birth
Again and again....

The best part was always the beginning
The pregnancy
The pleasure of anticipation
Even though short-lived
I still cherish the feeling
When I felt truly complete
And didn't really require anyone

Of course all this is forgotten
During the first year of childcare
Spent in a blur of headaches and backaches
Washing ang drying nappies
Snatching fistfuls of naps
Waking up to wails
Of a wet and hungry baby

And the next year
Just when I would begin to feel human again
The whole cycle would repeat itself
So much for glorious motherhood
Today, all I can remember of those times was
An undiluted feeling of envy
Of all mothers with grown up children

But when children are young
The exhaustion is only physical
There are certain pay-offs
Their dependence being your reason
Of being in this world
Looking at their innocent faces while they sleep
Gives you a fierce sense of ownership

And then they grew up
Demanding care and also justice
Through endless accidents
Illness and greivances
I had been their Ma
With power to withhold pocket money
Or give permission to go out

But maybe my time is up now
Their needs and my capacity
To fulfill them have been exhausted
Yes, perhaps in this process
I had started raising my voice
Does one begin to shout
When one starts to lose control?

Dawngi Chawngthu lives and works in Aizawl, Mizoram, and is a happily married mother with four lovely children.

Picture - Mother's Love VI, oil on canvas, by Tlangrokhuma

Chawngmawii and Hrangchhuana

2008-10-10T21:17:00.003+05:30

Once upon a time, there lived a beautiful girl named Chawngmawii. She had a secret friend, a handsome young man named Hrangchhuana. He was from the neighbouring village which was at war with Chawngmawii's village. Both of them were very popular in their two villages because of their good looks. Although the two of them lived in different villages at war with one another, they met very often because they loved each other very much.

In those days, when villages were at war, it was very dangerous to move from one village to another. But as Hrangchhuana was very much in love with Chawngmawii, he often secretly went to her village to meet her.

Alas, the villagers came to know that someone, perhaps an enemy, was visiting their village at night. "He must be caught," they said. So they built a wall surrounding the village and spread ash at the foot of the wall so that they could trace that person's footprints. But Hrangchhuana was very clever, he walked backwards when entering the village and they could not catch him.

As time went by, Hrangchhuana became more and more careless. One day, he was finally caught. The village chief was very angry and said, "Tie him up and let him lie on the road." He then ordered all the girls to come out and walk over him. This was done to humilate him and to find out the girl who had betrayed her village by loving an enemy. The girls walked over him, some even jeered and made fun of him and then it was Chawngmawii's turn. Instead of making fun of him, she covered Hrangchhuana's face with her shawl and held him tenderly, crying, "My dearest, what have they done to you?"

Thus Chawngmawii gave herself away. The people of the village became very angry with her and as punishment, they tied her up and let her watch her lover Hrangchhuana being tortured and put to death. He was beheaded and his head was displayed on top of a tree near the village gate. People threw mud on his face and made fun of him. Poor Chawngmawii watched with sadness. At last she could no longer bear to watch the muddied face of her beloved so she climbed up the tree to clean Hrangchuana's face.

Before his death, Hrangchhuana had told Chawngmawii, "If I am ever captured and put to death, please take my head to my parents." So Chawngmawii began to look for a chance to steal Hrangchhuana's head. One evening, she finally got the chance she had been waiting for. She climbed the tree and removed Hrangchhuana's head and fearlessly set out for his village .

When she reached Hrangchhuana's house, she told his parents how their beloved son was killed. It broke their hearts to see their son's lifeless face. They were very grateful to Chawngmawii for risking her own life to come to their village and bring home their son's head.

When the people of Chawngmawii's village came to know that she had taken Hrangchhuana's head to his parents, they were very angry and brutally killed her.

It is said that the souls of Hrangchhuana and Chawngmawii changed into stars believed to be Jupiter and Venus. These two stars come together every now and then in their journey through space, and at such times, folklore has it that the souls of Hrangchhuana and Chawngmawii unite.

Taken from Selected Mizo Folk Tales, 2008, published and edited by the English Language Teaching Institute (ELTI), SCERT Mizoram.

Poems - Zosangliana

2008-10-05T21:46:00.003+05:30

Amongst the Velvet

These slow decaying evening days
have made me familiar with narrow streets
and tiled pavements that pass.
I walk under half moons and shy stars
until I'm at the broken down theatre in the old neighbourhood
where outside the street boys on their street bikes are accelerating
faster away into the night.
Combusting fuel and reflected white noise are followed by silence
followed by my friend who from a thousand miles away calls on the phone.
But I can only answer with wooden words
because my thoughts can't quite mesh together
when summer exhales in this little town in the hills
because I'm the room that hasn't been opened in a long, long time,
because I'm still waiting for my ride
repentant yet still hesitant.
Because I don't want to move from order to chaos
like the street boys in fourth gear breathing in equal parts
of numbness and speed.

For New Beginnings

All is well

I wanted to tell him, but I couldn't
To pry fingers into scars
into trances of cleansed inboxes,
passions and anger and ambivalence
for each other
To break his spell, where all is well
is whispered into ears
and poured in sleep
Don't make a fool of a Paris
of yourself
to think you and yours
can be removed to
a city of good and gold
and roam the cornfields of imagined heavens
in sleep together
Remember who you are
without her,
and what all that you can be
without her.

Windows - Andrew Ruolngul

2008-09-27T17:09:00.010+05:30

I

Open the windows
And let me see,
What the world wishes
For me to see.

Smiles, yes, smiles.
I see children
Coming back from school
Swinging their bags
Back and forth,
And also on the swings
Their faces alit with glee.

I see two lovers
Sitting next to each other
With that look
Of utter solace and
Not a care in the world

So now close the windows,
For I have seen enough

II

Open the windows
And let me see,
What the world wishes
For me to see.

Clouds, a dark haze
That blind my eyes.
I see a black raven
Perch itself on the sill.
It stares at me
As if trying to read me,
Like I would a book.
It stood motionless.
As if struck by fear.

I see a man.
Sulking in his solitude.
Embracing a single black rose.
An emotionless face.
A tear rolls down his cheek.
I sit still
As the dark figure passes.
And disappears into the mist

For maybe I have seen too much
I must now rest my eyes
But keep the windows open
For the day has not ended…

Andrew Ruolngul is 18 years old and lives with his family in Tokyo, Japan. This poem was published in his school's literary magazine. Keep it up, Andrew!

Aspects of Mizo Literature - Dr.R.Thangvunga

2008-09-21T17:38:00.005+05:30

This paper was presented under the title ‘Mizo literature in relation to other literature’ at the Poets’ Meet cum seminar on Mizo literature in Aizawl between the 3rd – 7th October, 2001. I am indebted to Dr. R. Thangvunga for generously allowing me to publish his essay online.

It may be assumed without fear of much controversy that the literature of the Mizos sprang up independently of the myriad native literature flourishing in this culturally rich nation, an assumption justified by the fact that Mizos are of Tibeto-Burman stock having little or no socio-cultural affinity with either the Aryan or Davidian races or the Austrics who form the bulk of the Indian populace. The long migration of the Mizo people from the T’ao valley in China to their present habitat had matured their cultural and religious life sufficiently for distinction from their neighbours. The long years of isolation from other more civilized people had a preservative effect. The pristine simplicity and naïve innocence of the people is in sharp contrast with the sophisticated and complex attitudes of the more progressive people around them from whose poisonous contact Providence seems to have kept them for a special purpose. This age of innocence is the early period of Mizo literature, a vast oral tradition and valuable heritage which a miracle of gospel event has captured in indelible pages of literary history. It is impossible, in the narrow confine of this introductory essay, to open up the panorama of the virgin songs of a people who are, perhaps, after Wordsworth’s own heart. It is a tempting thought that the earlier pre-Christianized literature possesses more human spirit than the Christianized literature which offered a sheepish hope of an underserved heaven in exchange for the more heroic idea of an earned Pialral (incidentally corresponding to the heroes’ Valhalla or Elysium of similar warlike people elsewhere).

If we assume the soul of all literature to be the whole-blooded expression of man’s heroic response to an environment hostile to his dreams and ideals, one may bravely
assert a pagan literature as superior to a literature of higher inspiration; for heroism remains the highest standard of human worth, and literature “the thought of thinking souls.” G.Wilson Knight observed: “A strong faith tends to render tragedy impossible.” The truth of this statement seems to be only too apparent. This humanistic position, owing allegiance to the empirical or Aristotelian precept, justified itself against the intractable and pontifical ideology of the medieval Church as a pristine force of enlightenment working through th powerful pen of a Milton or a penitent Donne. Christianity and its attendant Faith in the the heroic expiatory sacrifice of Christ had been a popular literary subject of the Renaissance, as exemplified by Spenser’s The Fairie Queene. The spiritual struggles of a believer have never been minimized as an easy pilgrimage and Bunyan’s Pilgrim was not found among the Canterbury pilgrims.

It therefore is essentially inadequate to assume that “a strong faith” is incapable of cathartic experience; for the road to faith is never easy, and many shun it. Religious literature is replete with spiritual conflicts of epic grandeur that the adventures of flesh and bones can never match. It is true, physical pain is usually subordinated when the spirit is elevated in the transcendental experience of a more enduring truth for which the sacrifice is being made. But it is true also that the inner struggle to accept physical pain for a principle, the price of the choice has not been a pleasure either. It is on these twin streams of critical viewpoint that the following lines attempt to highlight a few samples of Mizo literature for your evaluation on a more universal platform. To facilitate such an exercise, we have to rely heavily on available versions of the canon and critical works on the same in English. The following works are indispensable:

1. Tribal Folktales of Assam (Hills) by S.N. Barkakati, containing 69 pieces of Mizo folktales.
2. Folklore I – Folktales of Mizoram by Dr Laltluangliana Khiangte, 1997.
3. Anthology of Mizo Literature by Dr Laltluangliana Khiangte, 2001.
4. Mizo Literature by Dr R.L. Thanmawia, 1998.
5. The Lusei Kuki Clans by Lt. Col. J. Shakespeare, 1988.

A comparative study of Mizo literature with those of others, so desirable and imperative, is beyond the scope of this paper and of my abilities. Any accidental light emerging from random analysis of literary samples below which may reveal certain affinities with the literature of other peoples, kindred spirits showing the elements of common human nature, will more than afford the satisfaction looked for in having accepted this task of making intelligible our native voice.

THE PEOPLE: It is not the place here to decide on a creditable history of the Mizos from available research. Subsequent researches seem to have no better recourse than the pioneer British administrators but available oral folklore and tradition as their source materials. Reference pointing to Mizos in their generic name ‘Kuki’ was made as early as 1512 A.D. by Col. Lewin in his ‘Progressive Colloquial Exercises’ showing that it referred to the dwellers of the so-called Lushai Hills irrespective of clan names.

Mizos lived in a community of 50 – 300 houses with a hereditary chieftain who rules by counsel of advisers called “Upa”(s). Livelihood being dependent on agriculture and hunting for meat, shifting from hill to hill every decade or so, security and development were not known by the Mizos. Surprise raids being the method of war, every young man, even married ones, was on constant alert, and slept in the ‘Zawlbuk’, a kind of club for communal discipline.

Like most tribal communities, Mizos synchronized their agricultural calendar with a number of festivals and religious observances which punctuated their hard life with entertainment, relieving the burden of their hard labour and martial apprehensions. Otherwise, their life was physically, emotionally and spiritually exhausting, a vicious cycle of existence under the shadow of superstitious and moral fears from beast, man and evil spirits.

Contrary to conventional practice of dubbing the religious life of the Mizos as Animistic¹, a comprehensive examination of their religious activities leads me to regard them as being primarily deistic². For they believed in a God of goodwill who is responsible for the creation and preservation of all things, one who is not perturbed by the events of the human world, apart from his having ordained the temporal and spiritual systems which all creation may observe willy-nilly. The moral precepts and taboos bearing on human actions were imputed not so much to God as to a system not unlike the Greek idea of Nemesis, and possessing as impeccable and implacable memory and purpose as the latter. The main rituals of the community were directed to this God. Sacrifices made to appease various evil spirits who caused illness would not constitute a religion because it was not a form of worship, but a kind of anathema or exorcism – items of religious practice.

THE LANGUAGE: The language or languages spoken by the Mizos belong to the Tibeto-Assam branch of the Tibeto-Burman family. The major clans speak different dialects but having strong and direct links to one another. In time the Duhlian dialect of the politically dominant Lusei clan became the lingua franca of the majority of communities under the umbrella of the Mizo nationality. This dialect received a further boost when Christian missionaries arrived in 1894, namely, Rev. F.W. Savidge and Rev. J.H. Lorrain, who reduced the language into writing, using a simple and effective phonetic Hunterian system of Roman script. An earlier attempt to use the Devanagiri script had been made but met with poor results. Though, as Pu Buanga himself confessed, there is something to be desired for a fuller and more developed system of writing, their endeavour has remained totally successful to this day. The language has a phonetic nature like many other Indian languages which, in a script other than the missionaries had rendered it to, would have an array of phonetic characters beyond the ability of the then Mizos to master, with the effect that the present status would never have been attained.

THE LITERATURE: What has come to be admitted as Mizo literature, the older portion of which was in the oral tradition, is a medly of deiifernt dialects unintelligible to modern students. Profuse notes on vocabulary and cultural history cannot be dispensed with. Classification is another problem. Different approaches are possible: chronological, generic, thematic, stylistic or functional. The older, pre-Christian literature is more diverse in nature than the literature after conversion to Christianity. In common with other tribal communities of the country, the very life of society was throbbing with the rhythm of folk literature. The telling of legends and stories, enthusiastic singing of fresh (un-weather-beaten) songs celebrating the latest victory and exploits, riddles and moral fables, reverberating with the sound of guns, and the merry, merry festival days of singing and dancing days and nights, were the central focus of their social life. No joy, no sorrows, no victory, no success in hunting was not but a communal affair. It was all for one, one for all kind of existence the modern world has almost forgotten. Even if Mizo literature does not make itself known for a new and fresh philosophy for man, no one can deny its place at the center of the people’s life for generations as repertory of their inner lives recorded in endless streams of songs. What nation is there who has not a poet for every individual or public occasion? The Mizos are second to none in their love for a song to sing their thoughts!

Folk literature offers tempting historical and anthropological research. Mizo folk literature is no exception: perhaps more tempting in the need for a historical certainty of roots. Beyond that there are legends and myths echoing down the ages pointing to a common knowledge of cataclysmic events like creation, universal flood, universal darkness and cold, dispersion of races and languages, as well as giants and angels, superhumans, giant snakes and birds, dragons, ghosts and hobgoblins, magic and witchcraft, etc. Here are samples of such folklore:

1. The myth of Chhinlung, a cave or stone wall, whence people issued (imputed to be of Mizo origin).
2. The myth of Thim zing, a great darkness enveloping the world, when people were transformed into animals.
3. The myths of Pialral (Elysium), Mitthi khua (Hades), Lunglohtui & Rih Lake (Styx), Pawla (Acheron), all corresponding to belief in after-life.
4. The legend of Palova ( No father) adventuring in quest of his unknown father.
5. The legend of Ngaiteii and her father’s spirit causing a flood to claim her.
6. The legend of Mualzavata, superman.
7. The legend of Chhura with its comic cornucopia.
8. The legend of seven brothers, the youngest Tlumtea, paying court to the lady of the sky. (An allegory of the ideal character for a young man)
9. The legend of Lalruanga the magician.
10. The legend of Chawngchilhi and the Serpent.
11. The story of Liandova and Tuaisiala, orphans triumphant by virtue.
12. The romances of Chala and Thangi, of Duhmanga and Dardini, of Raldawna and Tumchhingi, masterpieces of plot and realism.

Apart from this narrative heritage, it seems appropriate to treat the poetic heritage of the early times as a continuous stream of literary activity.

POETRY: The main characteristic of Mizo poetry is the couplet and triplet stanza forms, with the tune being a kind of formal distinction. Another poet (who is not a singer-poet) may add to the existing poem any number of stanzas. The earliest extant poems correspond to nursery rhymes, a number of them actually used by children at play, chanting them with accompanying actions in play. e.g.
Pang aw inzial inzial, pangpui aw inzial
(Children joining hands would roll into a bundle, and at the line…)
Pang aw inphelh inphelh, pangpui aw inphelh inphelh
(they would unroll again).

Another is accompanied by the music of a number of bamboo tubes of different length being blown upon, each giving the correct pitch. The bamboo may be substituted by small gongs.
Chhimbu leh peng peng intu
A lu lam kawng lu lam kawng.

Liando te unau unau,
Dar ze nge in tum in tum?

It is a common feature of primitive society to possess war-cries and hunting-cries. Mizos had several such cries in the form of proud declarations of victory over a conquered foe whose head was a proud trophy. Such is Bawh hla:
Kei chu e, ka sentet an sa leh doral ka pianpui e,
Ka do e, rimnampa e, thlangchem e, aikim min ti u law.
(Born was I with game and foe,
I kill whom I fought, the smelly one, ‘kill all’ I am.)

And after a successful hunt, Hlado is declared:
Mi an e hrang chi awm e, saah hrang chi awm na ngei a,
Tiau dung e, ka zui changing, kawlkei e, than hawl ka vak liau e.
(Of men heroes there be, of beats wild ones there be,
Along Tiau, on the trail of the tiger, fame follows me)

Tribal communities are rich in festival song and dances. Some such songs are nicely accompanied by appropriate actions or mimes. The Assamese and Garo dances exhibit such virtuosity. Others show the agricultural life-cycle of the community in action. Mizos appear to have had their cultural life abbreviated from attaining artistic elegance of such nature, or that their occupation was too rough and insecure to indulge in the more peaceful art of eurythmics. The most popular dance was Chai performed on really big occasions by young men and women locking arms and shoulders in a big circle, swaying and shifting, singing the song of the day, eg Lalvunga zai:
Lalvunga’n ka lian a ti Farzawl a luah,
A luah sual e changsial sawmthum an la e.
(Lalvunga proudly occupied Farzawl,
A grave mistake, thirty mithuns taken away.)

Songs of victory are heavily tinged with sarcasm and lampoons. Even the plight of a prince became a song:
Ka sen in e, ngunkual ka bun e,
Zoah siahthing Manga’n ka bun e.
(When I was a babe, a brass bangle I wore,
A redwood becomes Manga’s stock.)

There was absolutely no limit to the number of themes for there was a song for everything. Here is a song on the swings:
We made a swing here and everywhere,
Brave is he who slashed it down.
I spied below the plum tree,
The handsome prince Phunchawnga.

We may have seen now that the couplet form was very popular. A triplet became popular with star-crossed romance, the maid usually singing her heart out:
Pining for you the sweet birds’ song I reply,
E’en the soundless night
Refuse my eyelids rest. (Darlenglehi)

A bereaved mother pines for her dead:
Death comes along every hill,
Stopp’d by our ill-fated home,
Dragged my sweet one by the arm. (Darpawngi)

Once a poet/poetess had instituted a new form, it was hailed on every hill, the chiefs enthusiasthically patronizing it. Any number of stanzas on any theme could be superadded.Perhaps the most important factor for the popularity of poets and their songs was that they were sung vocally, and it was a social obligation to keep up with the Joneses of another village.

A late development that became very popular was adaptation of sacred tunes for secular songs. A number of Christian hymnals had been translated, and native worship and praise with local tunes had been ushered in by waves of spiritual revivals. Education and broader outlooks tended to encourage a carefree life. Earlier the still unconverted enjoyed parodying Christian hymns with sarcastic mockery of the converts’ abstinence.Typical themes of literature like love, death, time, and other life exigencies appear in Mizo poetry but in a very brief, unsustained manner. The finality of the triplet seems to exert a strong pause on the thought pattern of a poem so that even a single stanza often contains the wholness of a poem. As such, despite their oral character, the problem of fragments is hardly felt.

Christianity lifted Mizo poetry to a new height of thought and style. The missionaries who came to evangelize the Mizos happened to be good linguists, and their pioneering works on the language and literature helped to put these on a sound footing. Missionaries and their aides began with the translations of English hymnals, and the new converts lost no time in taking the cue. A succession of spiritual revivals produced great religious poets of such powerful visions that would make Milton envious. The vivid and powerful imagery of their poems greatly boosted the faith of believers with beatific visions of the Promised land and the River of Life in the Golden City.

Life on earth was no paradise for the early Mizos. Toil and fear, social inequality under autocratic chiefs, high mortality, taboos and omens took their toll on their minds, weakening them spiritually. It is not to be wondered if the bias of Mizo spiritual songs leans towards the beatific vision, and made little of mortal life. A new convert came to a village apparently for a routine visit, but to witness purposely. Knowing him, the chief denied entry. He could not go through the tiger-infested way back home. While waiting wistfully for the sun to set and darkness to allow him to steal into the village for food and safety, this song came to him:
Ni tla ngai lo Zion khawpui,
Ngaiin ka rum, ka tap chhun nitinin,
Puan ropui sinin an leng tlansate,
Ka tan hmun a awm ve, chu ramah chuan. [Rev. Lianruma]
(Zion city, no setting sun,
With sighs and tears all day long I pine,
In royal robes the redeemed they walk,
A place there is for me in that bright land)

The weight of the poem falls on the acute realization of his plight and suffering, the good fight he was putting up on his way to that final place where he was sure of a welcome. But not all believers are faithful
An nghilh rei lua thing krawsa I tuarna,
An thinlung sual thim rawn chhun eng leh la,
Kian tir ang che, an lawman lei pangpar,
I hruai theihna tur. [Siamliana]
(Too long have they forgotten thy death on the cross,
Illumine their hearts full of sin,
Remove their joys the world’s flowers,
That thou can lead them on.

With such maturity of spiritual concern, Mizo poetry has come of age.

Higher education and readings in great literature fostered a new dream. A new stream of poetry flowed from the minds of educated young men who felt a new calling, altruistic enthusiastists who desired to build their new Jerusalem in these pleasant hills of Mizoram. Their poetry oozes the love of their native hills, rejoicing in the peace and harmony of its nature. Euphoria of discovering a new patriotism is the key of Rokunga’s songs:
Kan zo tlang ram nuam hi chhawrpial run i iang e,
Hal lo ten lungrual a kan lenna,
(Our pleasant hills are like a mansion in the sky,
Where in peace and harmony we live.)

A significant characteristic of this new poetry is the conspicuous reduction of the usual “poetic diction” which, not very unlike the Wordsworthian controversy, has come to be used as a matter of rule, making it somewhat unwieldy. Perhaps in the songs of Rokunga is Wordsworth’s ideal most fulfilled. For there the medium is almost transparent, and invisible, and the poet can speak directly to the heart.

Comparatively, there is something to be desired in Mizo poetry. Superficiality, easily excused as simplicity and spontaneity, is the most obvious. Long isolation had developed an almost impermeable defensive crust in the mentality of the Mizos, rendering them unsophisticated in life and thought. Even the most poignant expression of a wounded heart, such as

Ka chun leh zua suihlung in mawl lua e,
Kan sumtualah Thangdang thlunglu hawihte’n in tar le! [Laltheri zai]
(How unfeeling can you be, parents mine,
To dress our courtyard with the head of my Thangdang!)

spends itself in the too too obviousness of the situation. But in contrast,

Rauthla lengin kan run khuai ang a vel,
Chhunrawl ring lo, ka nu, sawmfang a belin hlui rawh [Laltherei zai]
(A spirit like a bee circles our house
A starved soul, mother, give it the pot of rice)

gives the feeling soul something to feed on. [It was common belief that spirits of the dead, before departing for Mitthi khua, frequent the house in the form of the carpenter bee or a butterfly.] Such allusions are not exceptional as the literature has a rich culture and history to draw upon.

DRAMA: Drama in Mizoram, as in England, began in religious entertainment. Till today, the use of drama is limited to charity shows with social or moral lessons. In this age of home media, there is no expecting people to go to a theatre. However we have a few plays on the lives of historical figues, prominently Pasaltha Khuangchera, Lalnu Ropuiliani and Darlalpuii by Dr. Laltluangliana Khiangte. Mizo colloquial speech, to be realistic, is not the best medium for the quick, witty dialogue of standard drama, especially as used by the characters in these plays. Still the language serves well for the goal of the story and the plots are well managed.

FICTION: Mizos then and now are inverterate lovers of stories, perhaps to the extent detrimental to a profitable life. Handwritten copies of translated novels were often read in groups by young people. World War II facilitated local composition on love themes. The few novels bearing on life in society, however, bear testimony to the writers’ understanding of life and their narrative skills. Of these, the novels of Lalzuithanga Thlahrang and Phira leh Ngurthanpari deserve mention, the former for its skillful plot, and the latter for sustained interest despite its loose plot. One is wistful, however, for a novel sharp enough to slice through layers of frozen moral pretensions and guarded reticence, for a character to explode the unconscious.

Books consulted:

1. Mizo Hun Hlui Hlate, B. Thangliana, Aizawl, 1998.
2. Mizo Kristian Hla thar Bu, Synod Publication, Aizawl, 13th ed., 1988.
3. Mizo Poetry, R.L.Thanmawia, Aizawl, 1988.
4. History of Mizo in Burma, B. Thangliana, Aizawl, 1978.
5. The Lushei Kuki Clans, J. Shakespear, Aizawl, reprint, 1988.
6. Tribal Folktales of Assam, S.N. Barkakati, Guwahati, 1970.
7. Comparative Indian Literature, Vol. I, (Ed.) K.M. George, Macmillan, 1984.

¹ Animism: a belief that within every object dwells an individual spirit capable of governing its existence. Natural objects and phonema are regarded as possessing life, conscience and spirit (soul).

² A system of natural religion which recognizes one God but not a divinely revealed religion.

Dr.R.Thangvunga works in the Mizo dept. of Mizoram University. He had earlier been a Reader in the English dept. of Govt. Aizawl College for several years.

Juvenilia - Mona Zote

2008-09-13T17:15:00.010+05:30

The Idiot Goes to Hell

He marked the spot
with a precise cross
and brought a chair
to place it there.
He tied the rope
up round the hook
and put the noose
around the neck.
He kicked the chair
down to the floor
and presently
he went to hell.

It had to be
(his mother said)
in all his life
the only thing
that he did well.

Home Going

Making landfall by intimations alone
On the lunatic fringe, in a paper ship,
I fold the accordion of my selves.

Rehearse the fruitless grammar of queens,
Here in the motionless latitude of Ma'rib
That sulks in silence like a rebuked putto.

I sit and finger the apple of my youth,
Turning a face as though blindfolded
To the imprint that a menstrual sun

Has left on the inner scroll of my eye.
The dialogue of two will continue
Unchecked, in the oil-press of the mind
Under the formalaic shade of reason.
At Knossos, having tea with the minotaur,
I saw lightning sew the purses of the sky

And against my will recalled that man,
Reputed for wisdom, as last I saw him,
Seated with the harp smashed across his knee.
Thoughtful, scratching the pale more on his hand.

~~~

Editor's note: As the post title indicates, these poems are very early works of the writer.

The Great War of Animals

2008-09-07T19:40:00.004+05:30

Once a python asked a tortoise to guard her eggs. While the tortoise was guarding the python's eggs, a deer came passing by. The deer said to the tortoise, "Come, let's see if we can jump over the python's eggs." But the tortoise said, "I don't think I can jump over the eggs. If I fall and break them, the python will kill me." The deer replied, "Don't be afraid. If you break the eggs, I'll save you from the python." The tortoise then agreed.

The deer then jumped first and easily jumped over the python's eggs. But the tortoise could not jump over the eggs. He fell on them and broke all the eggs. The deer, who had promised to save him, said, "I am also afraid of the python. I cannot help you. Please run away as fast as you can." But the tortoise could not run fast. He tumbled down and fell on the wall of a bear's house. The bear shouted, "Who is it?" The tortoise answered, "It's me, the tortoise." The bear asked, "Why are you running? What are you afraid of?" The tortoise said, "I am running away from the python. I broke her eggs and I am very afraid. Please help me." But the bear said, "I am also afraid of the python, I cannot help you."

The tortoise went everywhere for help. He went to a tiger, a wild boar, a stag and a wild goat for help. But they were all afraid of the python and could not help him. He tumbled and rolled everywhere. At last, he knocked on the door of a big eagle. The eagle asked, "Who is it?" The tortoise answered, "It's me, the tortoise." "What do you want?" said the eagle. The tortise replied, "The deer and I were trying to jump over the python's eggs. I fell and broke all the eggs. I am very afraid of the python and no one can save me from her anger. So I came here hoping you will save me." The eagle said, "Don't be afraid, I'll help you and save you from the python."

The python went searching for the tortoise everywhere, and asked all the animals she met if they had seen the tortoise. At last she crawled towards the eagle's house with a dreadful sound. The eagle asked, "What's that noise?" The tortoise answered, "It's the python! What should I do now?" The eagle asked the tortoise to quickly hide under his wings. When the python reached the python's house, she asked, "Have you seen the tortoise?" The eagle replied, " No, I have not." But the python did not believe him as the tortoise's trail ended at his house. So she asked him to spread his wings. The eagle spread only one of his wings. The python asked him to spread the other wing as well. But the eagle said, "I cannot spread it because it hurts very badly." The python insisted that he should spread at least a little of it. The eagle then spread the other wing slightly and the python immediately saw the tortoise's tail. She was so angry that she immediately declared war between animals on land and animals on trees.

All the animals that lived on land gathered together to plan the war. And at the same time, all the animals that lived on trees gathered together on a big branch of a banyan tree. They were very busy planning the war. And so began the great war of animals! It started with the python standing up and smashing the branch where the birds were sitting. The birds were so frightened they flew over to a branch on the other side of the banyan tree. Animals that lived on land were so happy that they shouted and jumped with joy when they saw what the python had done.

The python rested for sometime. Then she stood up and again smashed the other branch where all the birds had shifted. The branch came down with a crash! Animals on trees were feeling very defeated and sad while animals on land were shouting with joy. A bat, who was with the birds, thought that the animals on land were going to win the war. He cunningly decided to join them. He flew down and said, "Look at me, look at my head and teeth, I should be on your side." So he fought against animals on trees along with animals on land. They fought the battle very hard. Smaller animals on land were fighting with smaller animals on trees. Bigger animals on land were fighting with bigger animals on trees. All of them fiercely fought the war.

After they had battled for a while, the eagle began to violently shake the python. The python became tired and could hardly move. When the animals on trees saw what was happening with the python, they sang and danced with happiness. The bat once again wanted to belong among the animals on trees. He flew up to them and said, "Look at me. look at my wings. I should be with you."

The war was fought harder than ever before. The python, for the last time stood up and tried to snap the branch once more. But this time she could not break it and instead her body hung loosely on the branch. Just then the eagle saw his chance. He bit the python's spine, broke it and finally killed her. All the animals on trees happily celebrated their victory shouting, "Hurrah! We won!!"

Many years have passed, animals on land and trees have made peace with one another. But the cowardly bat who kept changing sides during the war did not know where to stay. He was so ashamed that he decided to live in a cave during daylight and come out only after dark. This is why we see bats only at night even today.

Taken from Selected Mizo Folk Tales, 2008, published and edited by the English Language Teaching Institute (ELTI), SCERT Mizoram.

Mauruangi, Ideal Woman of Mizo Folklore

2008-08-18T19:54:00.011+05:30

There are some human qualities that Mizos of all times value highly. These qualities are epitomized in Mauruangi, a folklore heroine. The tale is retold here by Malsawmi Jacob

Folklores express the ethos of a people. They are means of passing on value systems from one generation to another.There are some human qualities that Mizos, both ancient and modern, regard highly.Some of these are courage, patience, perseverance, diligence and skill with work. Along with these, beauty, humility, hospitality and skill in spinning and weaving are considered very desirable in women in particular.

Mauruangi, a legendary heroine, is perhaps the epitome of ideal womanhood. In spite of all imaginable suffering under a callous father and true-to-tradition wicked step mother, she grows up into a lovely woman. She possesses all the virtues, triumphs over all odds and has a happy ending. Here is her life story.

Mauruangi was a little girl who lived with her parents in a village. One day, the parents went out to fetch pumphir (a type of bamboo). On the way they had to cross a wooden bridge that was soft with age and rot. The wife remarked, "How frightening it will be to walk on this bridge when we come back carrying burdens!" The husband responded, "When we come back, whoever is afraid to cross this bridge must be pushed down."

They reached the field and began to pack their loads. The husband tied a heavy bundle for his wife to carry, while he took a light one for himself. When they came to the bridge again, the husband crossed it easily but the wife was afraid to cross. "Remember what I said? The coward has to be pushed down," said he, and pushed his wife down into the river. She fell in the water and turned into a giant catfish.

Meanwhile, Mauruangi was impatiently waiting for her parents to return. When her father came home alone she asked him, 'Father, where is Mother?"
"She is washing my turban in the river," he replied.
Some time later she asked again, "Father, why is Mother taking so long?"
"She is washing clothes," he answered.
Mauruangi kept looking out for her mother but she did not come even when it got dark. She asked her father once again, "Father, why hasn't Mother come home?" He finally told her, "I pushed her into the river because she was afraid to cross the bridge".
At this Mauruangi was heart broken and wept dejectedly.

The next morning, Mauruangi tried to start the fire but all the embers in the fireplace had died out. So she went to the neighbour's house to ask for some. The neighbour was a widow witha daughter named Bingtaii, about Mauruangi's age. When she asked for fire the woman replied, "I will give it only if your father promises to marry me."

Mauruangi ran home and told her father what the woman said. He replied, "Perhaps we will marry some day."

After some time, Mauruangi's father and Bingtaii's mother got married. At first the stepmother treated Mauruangi kindly, but gradually began to ill treat her as time passed. There came a time when she became outright cruel, and did not allow Mauruangi to eat normal food but gave her rice husk. Of course, she could not eat that, and so grew thinner day by day.

One day Mauruangi, grieving for her mother, went to the river. Her mother the catfish saw her and said, "I am your mother. Your father pushed me down here so I became a giant catfish. How are you managing without me? And why are you so thin?"

At this, Mauruangi told her mother all about her life, how her stepmother mistreated her and starved her. The giant catfish gave Mauruangi a good meal of rice and meat and sent her home, telling her to come back whenever she was hungry.

The stepmother pampered and spoiled her own daughter. Bingtaii slept when she pleased, sat when she pleased, and went roaming when she pleased. But Mauruangi was given harsh treatment, made to do all the hard work and starved. In spite of all this, she looked healthy and well fed. This made the stepmother curious, and she said to her daughter, "How is it that Mauruangi looks so fat and healthy though I give her only husk to eat? Find out and tell me."

So Bingtaii started spying on Mauruangi. When she saw her stealing away towards the river she followed at a distance, and watched as she ate the food served by the catfish. She went back to her mother and reported, "I have found out how Mauruangi got fat. She goes to the river, where a big fish gives her rice and meat to eat."

On hearing this, the step mother persuaded her husband to call the men together to catch the giant catfish. When Mauruangi heard it she ran ahead to her mother and told her their plan and said, "When they come to catch you, if I shout 'Run up the river', run down it. And if I shout 'Go to the middle', go to the side."

When the men arrived and chased the giant catfish, Mauruangi shouted, "Mother, run up!". The men ran up the river on hearing this, but the catfish ran downstream. Then she shouted "Run to the middle!" but the catfish swam to the side. This went on. The men were confused by Mauruangi's directions and the catfish would escape meanwhile, so they could not catch her. At last some one shouted, "It's because of that little girl. Gag her with a rag and take her away." So they gagged Mauruangi and led her away. They soon caught the giant catfish after that.

The village folk feasted on the fish's meat but Mauruangi refused to eat it. Instead, she collected the bones and buried them in the garden. A plant sprouted out of the bones, grew into a phunchawng¹ tree and bloomed profusely. Mauruangi, starving again, would stand under the tree and sing :
“Bend down, O, my mother,
Mother phunchawng Darnghiangi,
Bend down, O, my mother.”
At this, the branches would bend down low enough for the girl to reach, and she would suck nectar from the flowers.

Once more, the stepmother noticed that Mauruangi was looking healthy again. She said to her daughter, "Mauruangi's fish mother is dead and eaten. But some one must be feeding her, she is growing fat again. Find out and tell me". Bingtaii again spied on her stepsister and found out the secret. She ran to her mother and said, "Mauruangi sucks nectar from the phunchawng flowers in the garden, that is how she gets fat. She stands under the tree and sings, then the branches bend down and she drinks the nectar."

On hearing this, the stepmother persuaded her husband to cut down the tree. He called the neighbours together and they chopped at it with their axes. All the while Mauruangi stood near by singing—
“Hold on, O, my mother,
Mother phunchawng Darnghiangi,
Hold on, O, my mother.”
The tree held on fast and refused to fall. The cuts they made on it kept filling up again. Some one shouted "Gag that girl with a rag and take her away". So they gagged Mauruangi and led her away, and they felled the tree without any more trouble.

Though ill treated and starved, Mauruangi somehow grew up along with her stepsister Bingtaii. It was now time for both of them to start cultivation work. The stepmother said, "Now it is time for you both to cultivate crops, so go and choose a patch for yourselves". Then she gave the best seeds to her daughter to sow in her field, but gave the worst, worm eaten ones to Mauruangi. They both set out to the fields.
Bingtaii, used to being idle, did not work at all but lay in the shelter, fried and ate the dry maize meant for seed, and lazed about all day. Mauruangi, on the other hand, laboured hard. When evening came and they went home, Bingtaii told her mother, "I was working hard but Mauruangi did not work but lazed all day." The stepmother scolded Mauruangi and called her a lazy good for nothing. But she just kept quiet.

As Mauruangi worked diligently every day, her field thrived and yielded crops. But Bingtaii's field had nothing but weeds growing. One day, some men passed by Mauruangi's field while she was working. They were the servants of vai lalpa (lord of plains men). As they were hungry, they asked Mauruangi if she would let them have some cucumber and maize. She replied, "By all means, eat as much as you wish". She plucked some of the best ones and gave them. They were very pleased at her kindness and hospitality. Before parting they said, "We are in search of a wife for our master. Would you be willing to marry him?"

"My stepmother will not allow me, as she has her own daughter to marry off. So the only way out is, come to our house and ask for Bingtaii's hand. I will follow to see her off, and after passing the village you can leave her and take me along instead."

So that evening the men came and asked for Bingtaii to be their master's wife. Her mother was very pleased, and sent her with them the next day. The mother told Mauruangi, “See your sister off, Mauruang. You can’t even get a husband for yourself, so be happy for her!” So Mauruangi followed the party as if to bid Bingtaii goodbye. When they passed the village, the men dropped Bingtaii, whom they were carrying, and carried Mauruangi instead. Bingtaii went back home crying.

Vai lalpa was very happy when he saw Mauruangi. They got married and started living together happily. But the step mother was burning with anger and jealousy at Mauruangi's good fortune, and plotted evil against her. She sent a message that said, "Let Mauruangi come home for a few days, we are going to kill a pig." Mauruangi went.

One day, the stepmother was sitting at her loom when she called out to Mauruangi, "I have dropped my quill under the house. Go and pick it for me." (Porcupine quills were used for picking and straightening thread while weaving. Mizo houses were built on stilts, with crushed bamboo for floor). As Mauruangi was looking for the quill, the stepmother poured boiling water on her and she died. Her body was thrown out among the bushes. A serow found the dead body, blew on it and brought it back to life, and employed her as his baby-sitter.

Meanwhile, vai lalpa missed his wife who had been absent for such a long time. So he sent his servants to bring her back. When they reached Mauruangi's old home and asked for her, the stepmother presented Bingtaii to them. "Here is your master's wife, you may take her back," she told them. The men answered, "No, this one is not our master's wife. She is different." But Bingtaii's mother insisted that she was the person, so they had to carry her home to their master.

One big toe of Mauruangi, which did not get wet when the stepmother poured hot water on her, turned into a little bird. As the servants carried Bingtaii, the little bird flew behind them and sang—

“Don't carry her, don't carry her,
She's Bingtaii, not Mauruangi,
Bump her bottom, bump!”.
The men then bumped her on the ground. Bingtaii scolded and cursed the little bird.

When they reached home, their master looked at his supposed wife and said, "No, this is not my wife. Just see how round her face is, and how red her nose!" Then he had an idea. "My wife was very good at weaving. Give her the loom and see how well this one can weave." So they gave her Mauruangi's loom, but Bingtaii could not weave at all. The little bird came and sang to her :
“The top strands, put them down below
Lower strands, bring them up above
I say ir liak ir liak e.”
Bingtaii was annoyed and tried to hit the little bird with a stick saying, "You noisy bird, keep quiet!" But try as she might, she could not work the loom at all and had to put it away.

One day as vai lalpa's servants were passing through the woods, they heard a woman's voice singing inside a cave. The voice sounded like their old mistress's, so they looked in to see. Sure enough, there was Mauruangi, rocking the serow's baby to sleep and singing :
“Once was I a vai lalpa's wife.
But today a serow's nursemaid.
A i e i u aw aw.”
Greatly surprised but happy, the men addressed her and asked her how she came to be there. Mauruangi narrated how her stepmother killed her and how the serow brought her back to life. They tried to take her home at once, but she said, "Please wait for the serow to come home and ask his permission." When the serow came back from work, he was afraid to get into the cave when he saw the men. But they called him in a friendly tone. When he finally came in they said, "This lady, your baby sitter, is our master's wife. May we take her back home? We will give you a lot of money in return." The serow replied, "If she is so, take her back. I do not care for money. I will be satisfied with a bunch of bananas." So they gave him a bunch of bananas and carried Mauruangi home.
When they got back to the master's house, he was very happy to see Mauruangi. He wanted to get rid of the impostor, and decided to let the two women fight a duel. He covered Mauruangi with a thick new blanket and gave her a sharp sword. But he wrapped Bingtaii in thin clothes and gave her a blunt sword. When they were ready, Mauruangi said to her step sister, "Cut me first." Bingtaii hit her with the sword but could not hurt her at all. Then Mauruangi attacked and killed her with the sharp sword.

Then Mauruangi and vai lalpa lived together again.

The theme of a lovely, sweet natured, virtuous girl harassed by a wicked step mother seems to be of universal interest. Mauruangi may be seen as representing her western counterparts, the fairy tale heroines like Cinderella and Snowwhite. Like them, she also finds escape from her hard life in marriage to a 'prince'.

¹ Silk cotton tree

Poems - Lalbiakdiki Pachuau

2008-08-14T09:52:00.003+05:30

Kernel of Truth

Bits of spark start the fire
We both add fuel to the flame
But both love quenching one’s desire
Nobody can tell who is to blame.

It is awful to be unlawful
Terrible deed leads to an ineluctable,
It was very harmful; but beautiful
An affair sensible; but not reliable.

You give words which write in three
I give love and set you free,
You want freedom which I agree
Mesmerize new waves; enjoy the spree.

Besotted with Love

Like a bird without its chant
Like a flower without its scent,
Oh, where thou art my strength is!
Like a feather floating in the air
My aimless heart follows you everywhere.

Call me fanciful
Call me flimsy
Call me a flirt,
They all suit me fine.

This sweet terrifying flavour
This fearful fun verve
This living death life
Is the Niche I dwell,
But somehow I like it.

Picture: Acrylic on canvas by Tlangrokhuma

Kelchawngi

2008-08-04T14:52:00.002+05:30

Translated by Dr. Margaret L. Pachuau

Once upon a time there lived a little girl called Kelchawngi. One day her parents were about to set off for the jhoom and her mother instructed her, “You must cook some pumpkin for dinner.” Kelchawngi queried, “Cook my sister for dinner?” But her mother thought that she was only fooling around and so she went to the jhoom without bothering to clarify to Kelchawngi.*

However it turned out that Kelchawngi had actually thought that her mother had asked her to cook her sister. So she obediently killed her younger sister while her parents were at the jhoom and cooked her for the evening meal.

Late in the evening her parents came home from the jhoom and as they entered the house they asked her, “Where is your younger sister?”
Kelchawngi was too frightened to tell them the truth so she mumbled, “She has gone to take a look at our neighbour’s gayal.”

After a long while, as her sister did not show signs of returning her mother asked her yet again, “Where is your sister?”
Kelchawngi replied, “She has gone to fetch water.”
Later she said, “She has gone to fetch some firewood.”and much later, “She is doing something some chores,” and so the excuses went on.
Even after the last of the jhoom workers returned there was no sign of her sister and by then her parents were very worried.

At length her parents said, “All right then, serve us the pumpkin you have cooked.’’ Kelchawngi did so and she began doling out her sister’s head and arms. Her parents were aghast, “Is this not your sister’s head? And are these not your sister’s limbs?” And they began chiding her. But she retorted, “Of course not…these are remnants of the head of the animal slain by my grandfather…remnants of the limbs of the meat slain by my grandfather.” After a while her parents realized that Kelchawngi had indeed cooked her sister and they were enraged.

One day her parents placed Kelchawngi atop the roof in order to dry some tobacco and they refused to take her down even after she had finished the task. Kelchawngi then cried, “Mother, take me down…father, take me down!” But they did not relent and declared, “This is your punishment for cooking your sister.” And they refused to lower her down.

Later Kelchawngi in despair looked up to the skies and implored,
“Pu Van¹, please lower your string of ropes
that I may climb atop the heavens.”

Immediately Pu Vana lowered his string of ropes and Kelchawngi caught hold of them and went up to dwell in the heavens.

Pu Vana bedecked her with the very best of garments and ornaments.He gave her the choicest necklaces, bangles and apparel. Attired in these Kelchawngi once again clambered atop the roof of her house. As she lowered herself upon the roof her armlets and trinklets made a great sound.

Her parents called out,“Who is that atop the roof?” and she replied, “It is I, Kelchawngi, the daughter you have rejected.” At that her parents cried out, “O…we do want you,come, we shall lower you down.” And saying this, her parents rushed out of the house.

But alas…Kelchawngi no longer wanted to stay with her parents. She refused to be lowered down to the house and instead she went up to the sky once more and legend has it that she spent the rest of her life in great comfort up in the heavens.

¹The God of the heavens

* Note: The Mizo for pumpkin is mai and a younger sibling is nau.

Poems - Dinkima Sailo

2008-07-27T14:13:00.005+05:30

The Narrow Path

Silent screams, past and present
Frozen ice slowly simmers
And the chicken enters the shell
Back from where it came
And barren lands bear fruits.

Illusions no longer fool
And dreams are lived
Where words from depths of times
Speaks and thus be
“Let there be life”.

Drowning men seek out
And charlatans win.
As we tread the straight path crookedly.

To rein kalokagathia
Holy, Holy, Holy.

~~~

We Will Rise Above

Sing again , the song you sang
Lovely in the field
With swaying women
In crimson and pink.

Plucking paddy before the dew
Sift the shaft
And dance and sway
I will meet you late at night.

Hold my hand and we will run
Far away and plough a field
For we need to warm the pot
Millions will feed on what we reap.

If the village elders bare us both
And tell us, nigh and nigh….
Many fields will wait for us
Sundari, shall we meet by the paddy fields?

We are feeders of the Nation…above all else.

~~~

Laldinkima Sailo has published a book of poems titled Spectrum: A Plethora of Rhapsody.

Picture: In the Dark by Tlangrokhuma

Poems - Dawngi Chawngthu

2008-07-11T19:45:00.004+05:30

The Mask

Your voice
Coming over the telephone
Across measureless miles
Still remains a mystery
As always

I am
Once more at a loss
Searching for, maybe, a hint of tenderness
Into polite enquiries
Of how things are with me

I try
To decipher
Hidden meanings
Into words you speak
So effortlessly - hats off to you

I fail
Miserably...
None the wiser
As to how things are
With you and me

Voice

Each morning
I awake to a day
That promises nothing new
Just a vague question of
What for breakfast...
The day then drags on
To a finale of
What for dinner...
But sometimes
On luckier mornings
I awake
To a faraway voice in my head
That says
I care...

Photograph: AH Poonte

Chepahakhata

2008-06-29T18:09:00.007+05:30

Translated by Dr. Margaret L. Pachuau

Chepahakhata was a very ugly young man. So ugly was he that no one wanted to marry him and so he remained a bachelor for many years. At long last he found someone who was willing to marry him. However, it turned out that she was actually a witch and after they were married she turned the entire foliage of wild plantains where they lived into a marvelous town. Much to his fortune, his wife also belonged to royal lineage and so Chepahakhata lived in great comfort.

After some time a daughter was born to them and so the three of them lived together happily. One day, Chepahakhata went out for a stroll. The people of the town treated him with great respect and they even slaughtered an animal for him. He enjoyed himself thoroughly and very soon he forgot all about the time. A great deal of time ensued and by then his little daughter had grown into a young lady. Her mother told her, “My dear, your father is still not back from his jaunt, do go and ask him to come home.” So his daughter called out to him, “Father, do come home. Mother has asked me to call you home.” He replied, “Alright. I shall be on my way shortly.”

However he did not go home even after a long while and his wife became very angry. She told her daughter, “Dear, go and call your father yet again.” Her daughter went once more to do as she was told, “Father, do come home right away for mother is very angry.” He replied, “Alright! I shall come home directly.” Yet he did not do so.

His wife was greatly enraged by then and she told her daughter, “Dear, go and ask your father to come home once more and tell him that if he does not do so, we will go away from this place.” So his daughter implored once again, “Father do come home, or else mother and I will go away from here.” Chepahakhata replied, “Alright, I promise you that I shall be home right away.” Alas! he had no intentions of returning home. His wife was livid with fury and so she turned the entire town back into a foliage of wild plantains. Then she took her daughter up to the heavens and went to dwell with Pu Vana¹.

At that time Chepahakhata was fast asleep. When he awoke from his slumber he realized that he was surrounded by the wild foliage. “Ah…is this all a dream?” he wondered.

Yet it was all too real. He wandered aimlessly without food for several days. His daughter saw her father from the heavens in his hapless state and felt very sorry for him. She pleaded with her mother, “Mother, I can see my father wandering about in search of food.”

Her mother replied, “If you are feeling sorry for him you may send down the bottomless pot for him.” His daughter did so and soon he had enough food to eat every time he was hungry.

One day he went into the village of a vai² chieftain, and the chief took a strong aversion to him since he was very ugly. He challenged Chepahakhata, “Let us compete with one another. We will both dole out rice from a pot and you must dole out more rice than me from the pot, or else you shall be put to death.”
They both began doling out great mounds of rice and soon the chief exhausted his share. As Chepahakhata was doling out the rice from his bottomless pot, it was impossible for him to exhaust his share. The chief was enraged and he declared, “Break his pot into pieces!”
The attendants did so and after that they tied Chepahakhata atop a banyan tree.

At that time within the banyan tree, the hill mynahs and the drongos were gathered together. The hill mynahs were on the side of the vais, while the drongos were on the side of the Mizos. The debate that was underway was, “Who are more clever? The Mizos or the vais?” To this the hill mynahs replied, “The vais of course. Very soon a mother and daughter duo will appear on the scene and the Mizos will not be able to distinguish the difference between the pair.”

The drongos replied, “That is easy, just give them a few lashes and the mother will cry out, “Ah, my dear daughter!” while the daughter will exclaim,
“Alas! Mother!”

The hill mynahs retorted, “Mizos will not be able to denote the difference between the two ends of a cow.”
Yet the drongos said, “That is easy.They will merely chase the cow and observe the direction in which it runs. As such, they will be able to make out the head of the cow very easily.”

The hill mynahs challenged once more, “The Mizos will not be able to make out the difference between the top and bottom of a thul³.”
The drongos defended, “That will also be an easy task, they will just have to upturn the thul and the lid will fall off.”

The entire debate was overheard by Chepahakhata and he listened with great attention. After a time the birds flew away. Later, the Mizos and the vais gathered together in a bid to test their wisdom. Everything that had been debated upon earlier by the birds took place. Chepahakhata then put all that he had overheard from the birds to good use. He outwitted all the contestants each time. Thus, the villagers marveled at his wisdom and very soon they no longer strapped him astride the tree!

¹ The God of the heavens
² Foreigner
³ A large basket with a close fitting conical lid or cover

Rimenhawihi

2008-06-19T16:44:00.004+05:30

Translated by Dr. Margaret L. Pachuau

Once upon a time there lived a beautiful damsel by the name of Rimenhawihi. She was married to a man named Zawlthlia. They were an extremely loving couple. Rimenhawihi was very good looking and her beauty was legendary. Apart from her exquisite countenance she was noted for her lustrous locks of hair. She too was well aware of the attractive sight that her locks of hair presented and she was proud of them. She would often bathe in a river near her home and whenever she did so, she would never tire of gazing at her lovely reflection in the water.

One day while she was having a bath, a lock of hair fell into the water and it was washed downstream by the current. Soon a huge fish swallowed the lock of hair but as the strand of hair was very long, the fish soon became swollen and bloated up. It so happened that some distance down the river, there lived a chief who had ordered his servants to catch some fish. Strangely enough the servants caught the very fish that had swallowed Rimenhawihi’s strand of hair. The fish was still bloated and puffy and the servants wondered as to why it was so and they decided to cut up the fish in order to find out why. When they eventually cut up the fish they found out that it was stuffed with the strand of hair from Rimenhawihi’s locks. They pulled out the lock of hair and even then it was so lustrous that it filled an entire pate¹. As the servants wanted to display the strand of hair intact to their chief, they carried it carefully all the way home.

When the chief saw the strand of hair he was greatly astonished and he sent his servants to seek out the damsel who bore such locks. The servants went upstream and carefully searched every nook and cranny of the land till finally they arrived at the house of Rimenhawihi. Her house was built of iron and it was difficult to enter and so they had to first seek permission in order to enter the house. However, it so happened that Rimenhawihi had locked herself up securely inside the house because her husband Zawlthlia had gone on a journey and so she staunchly refused to let them in.

In the meanwhile, the chief’s servants were very persistent and so they appealed to her in song:

O you inside the house of iron, inside the house of brass
Pray do tell us your name

As soon as she heard these words, she replied in song:

A name, a name I do not have
I am one who feeds on water
One who feeds on vegetable broth

The servants then paid immense heed to the song, and they tried to memorise the song in earnest and finally they headed swiftly for home. When they reached their village they reported the incident to the chief. The chief was annoyed and he stated, “There can be no such name. You must find out what her name really is.”

Once again he commanded his servants to seek out the name of the damsel with the lustrous locks and so very soon, they set off to do as the chief had ordered them to.Yet again, they appealed to her and she too chanted the same lines to them in response. However, the chief could not be placated and so he sent them to her several times over. Finally Rimenhawihi relented and told them her name.

Rimenhawihi is my name
Menchanghawihi is my name

The servants of the chief were very pleased as they had finally achieved their task.However, they were worried that they would forget the name so they decided that the best way to remember her name was to chant it continually on the way back home. As such, they walked back home, earnestly chanting, “men men men.”

So fervent was their concentration that even if they tripped upon the way, they would still get up and continually repeat the word “men”. Unfortunately, by the time the entire group reached their village,there was not a single person who could repeat the name in full to the chief. All that everyone could repeat was, “She told us that her name was Men.”

The chief was furious. “There can be no such name. All of you must set off once more and this time you must make sure you seek out her name in full. If you do not learn of the same, you shall all pay dearly.”

And his servants beat a hasty retreat and proceeded once more to accomplish the task. They reached Rimenhawihi’s house once more and they began to cajole her as before. Once again she gave them the same rejoinder. However this time round, fortune favoured them and they could actually remember her name. So they went back to the village and told the chief all that he wanted to know. The chief commanded, “Ah…now that would be the name that I have been seeking. Now, you must all go back there once more and you bring her here to me. I do not care whether she is married or not.”

As it was orders that came from the chief, his servants had no choice but to obey. When they reached Rimenhawihi’s house they discovered that her husband had gone away on a journey. As he was afraid that his wife would be captured by miscreants in his absence he had locked her up very securely. He had bolted the doors so firmly that even she could not open them from inside. The chief’s servants then made several attempts to enter the house from the outside and they began circling the house in order to seek a way in which to break in. Eventually, they decided to climb atop the roof in order to lure her with the choicest fruit. They began to drop luscious fruits that the chief had sent for her. At first Rimenhawihi did not pay any heed. At length they dropped the most delicious fruit that they had brought with them — the orange! The lure of the orange was all too great and she could not resist it. As she reached out hesitantly for the orange, one of the servants grabbed her by the hair and as she was too vain and too scared of even losing a strand of hair, she allowed herself to be captured.

But as she was being led away, she racked her brains in terms of disclosing her predicament to her husband. So she hastily told the dogs and the fowl in their courtyard on how she was taken captive. She also disclosed that she would leave an easy trail by throwing a strand of thread upon the ground. Saying this she hastily walked alongside her captors.

After a long while her husband returned home. Upon his return he was greeted by the fowl and the dogs who narrated the entire incident in the manner that Rimenhawihi had instructed them. Her husband then asked of the dog, “O dog, where is my wife?” The dog answered, “You must follow the strand of thread.” Then her husband asked of the hen, “O hen, where is my wife?” And the hen replied, “You must follow the strand of thread.”

By then, Rimenhawihi’s husband was in a tearing hurry to find his wife. He rushed out of the house and sure enough his wife had left behind a trail marked by a strand of thread. He continued to follow the trail and after he had followed the trail for quite a while it became dark gradually. However the darkness did not deter him. He soon overtook his wife and her captors. He killed all the servants of the chief and soon both husband and wife returned home and they spent the rest of their lives in great happiness.

¹The name of a small bin or basket for storing tobacco, cotton, rice.

Picture: Art by Tlangrokhuma

Chemtatrawta

2008-06-14T11:41:00.008+05:30

Translated by Dr. Margaret L. Pachuau

One day a young man by the name of Chemtatrawta set off on a hunt. He began to sharpen his dao along the length of the river. Suddenly, a prawn bit him on his testicles. He was greatly enraged and in his anger he cut off the large bamboo from where the khaum¹ creeper hung. The khaum was furious and in turn, he landed atop the spine of the jungle fowl below. The jungle fowl was very annoyed and in turn, it scattered the nest of the large ants. The large ants in turn, bit the testicles of the wild pig. The wild pig turned livid and it scattered the wild plantains where the bats nestled. The bat was furious and it flew up the elephant’s trunk. The elephant in turn, was infuriated and it destroyed the house of an old woman nearby. The old woman was incensed and she defecated by the mouth of the village well. This angered the entire village and the villagers began to rally in great rage.

After a while the villagers gathered together and asked the old woman the reason as to why she defecated at the mouth of the village well.

“Old woman,why did you defecate at the mouth of the village well?”
She replied, “Why did the elephant destroy my home?”

The villagers went across to the elephant,“O elephant,why did you destroy the old woman’s home?”
The elephant replied, “Why did the bat fly up my trunk?”

They asked the bat, “Why did you fly up the elephant’s trunk?”
And the bat replied, “Why did the wild pig destroy my hamlet?”

They asked the wild pig, “Why did you destroy the bat’s hamlet?”
The wild pig replied, “Why did the large ants bite my testicles?”

They asked the large ants, “Why did you bite the testicles of the wild pig?”
The large ants replied, “Why did the wild fowl destroy our home?”

They asked the wild fowl, “Why did you destroy the home of the large ants?”
The wild fowl said, “Why did the khaum hit my spine?”

They asked the khaum, “Why did you hit the wild fowl on his spine?”
The khaum demanded, “Why did Chemtatrawta slash away the large creeper from where I hung?”

They asked Chemtatrawta, “Why did you slash away the creeper from where the khaum hung?”
And Chemtatrawta said, “Why did the prawn bite me on my testicles?”

They turned to the prawn and realised that he had no excuses whatsoever. He was at a loss for words and so he merely said, “Ih, ih, ih if you roast me in the fire I will turn a fiery red, much to the delight of the children, and if you drop me in the water I will turn white and pale.”

So they did likewise and roasted him in the fire and he turned a fiery red, then they took him out of the fire and placed him in the water and he turned white and pale. But he soon regained consciousness in the water and declared, “Ah… nothing compares to the home of one’s parents!!”

And saying this, he glided away to freedom. He swam inside a cave and they continued to chase. They poked him about with the leaves of the hnahthial² plant. They prodded about the edges of his mouth and eventually it became scruffy and grungy. And that is why till today the prawn’s mouth still retains such a shape!

¹The name of a climbing plant and its fruit.

² The name of a plant and also its leaves.

Picture: Detail from "Mami pa, hmanhmawh teh", acrylic on canvas by HK Jerry

For a light-hearted reworking of this folktale, check out this link

Nuchhimi

2008-06-09T16:07:00.005+05:30

Translated by Dr. Margaret L. Pachuau

Once upon a time there lived two children. The older of the two children was a young girl by the name of Nuchhimi. One day her mother told her, “Today you must go to your aunt’s house and give her some pork.” Nuchhimi replied, “I do not know the way to my aunt’s house.” Her mother said, “You must walk as the crow flies, until you come to a fork at the end of the path. You will find two paths and one path will be neat and clean and the other will be very dirty and unkempt. You must follow the path that is neat and clean. It will lead you to your aunt’s house while the other path will lead you to the house of Hmuichukchuriduninu. Make sure that you follow the right path.”

Unknown to them, Hmuichukchuriduninu was listening carefully to the entire conversation, so she ran home and cleared up the path that led to her house. She then piled up all the dirt and the debris along the path that led to Nuchhimi’s aunt’s house. After a time, Nuchhimi and her younger brother set off towards their aunt’s house. They followed the instructions which their mother had given them and very soon they came to the path which was neat and clean. And because they thought that the clean pathway was the path that they had to follow, they went up the path and finally they reached the house of Hmuichukchuriduninu and delivered the pork to her.

Nuchhimi became suspicious from the very beginning because she felt that it was the wrong house that they had come to and so she was very puzzled. But Hmuichukchuriduninu was very cunning and she spoke well to them and treated them just as their own aunt would. “How nice of you both to visit me. Keep your luggage aside, you must be very tired.”

When it was dusk and as night fell gradually, Hmuichukchuriduninu told Nuchhimi, “I will cradle your little brother in my arms at night and you can sleep by yourself in the corner.” And in that manner they went to sleep.

A little while later Hmuichukchuriduninu tried to devour Nuchhimi’s younger brother by digging her sharp beak into the little boy’s head. He cried out in pain and called out for his elder sister. Nuchhimi asked, “What is it dear brother?” But Hmuichukchuriduninu said, “It is nothing. It is only the ants that are biting him.You may go back to sleep.”

Saying so, she dug her sharp beak into the little boy’s head and killed him in the dead of the night. She laid the bones from his head and his limbs in a trivet. When dawn broke, Hmuichukchuriduninu rasped to Nuchhimi, “Go and light a fire at once.” Nuchhimi rose to do as she commanded and in the process of lighting the fire she saw the bones of her younger sibling and she began to weep. Hmuichukchuriduninu called out, “What is the matter? Why are you weeping? Just light the fire.” She replied, “I am not weeping, the smoke from the fire is making my eyes water.”

After the morning meal, Hmuichukchuriduninu caught Nuchhimi and strapped her inside a basket and tied her to the crossbeams of the house. She then shut the doors fast and went off to her jhoom. Nuchhimi could not get out and she was in great dismay. At that very moment a mouse came by and Nuchhimi pleaded, “O mouse, please gnaw away at the ropes that bind me for I want to escape.”

The mouse then bit away at the ropes that held her fast and so very soon Nuchhimi was able to flee to her own house. When Nuchhimi’s parents heard about the manner in which Hmuichukchuriduninu had tormented their children, they were enraged and they declared, “We will take revenge.”

And they thought up of a plan to torture Hmuichukchuriduninu. They went to her house while she was still away at the jhoom. They hid an egg inside the hearth and placed a nest of white ants inside her blanket. They also placed a snake inside her water jug. Then they hid a bamboo knife in the wall of her hut. After that they placed a number of tiny red ants inside her oil can. They smeared her bedpost with all kinds of filth and grime. By the opposite end of the door they placed a large wooden pestle. And finally they put a ferocious huge dog under her ladder. Then before they left the house they instructed the mouse very carefully, “You must respond every time Hmuichukchuriduninu calls out to Nuchhimi.”

In the evening Hmuichukchuriduninu came back from her jhoom. She had caught a barking deer that was pregnant with child and she was all wet and bedraggled after a heavy thundershower. When she reached the front porch, she called out to Nuchhimi, “Open the door fast.” And the mouse responded, “How can I open the door for you? Have you forgotten that you have strapped me to the crossbeams of the house?”

Hmuichukchuriduninu was beside herself with rage and she broke open the door in fury. The mouse then quickly scampered inside a hollow bamboo tube. When Hmuichukchuriduninu realized that Nuchhimi was not in the house she was greatly perplexed. She grumbled and began to light a fire to warm herself. As soon as she did so the egg burst in her eye. She rushed to get a drink of water from the water jar but the snake bit her hard and she howled in agony, ‘Awi! Awi! Awi! how painful this is …let me rest awhile upon my blanket.”

She pulled the blanket over herself and the white ants bit her all over her body. She grabbed hold of the bedpost in a bid to escape, only to smear dirt all over herself. She then tried to clean herself by wiping her hands on the wall of her hut, only to be pierced by the sharp bamboo knife that had been cleverly inserted in it. She then tried to smear some oil over her wounds but the moment she poured the oil over herself, the tiny red ants began biting her.

In alarm she cried, “There are too many pests inside my house. I must escape.” And as she ran out the large wooden pestle hit hard against her.

At the platform in front of her house, Hmuichukchuriduninu wept copious tears, “Nuchhimi has run away and so has the barking deer that I captured.”

And she began to jump about in painful frenzy. Soon the platform gave way under her weight. The ferocious dog and the equally wild goat began to bite her viciously. A little later Hmuichukchuriduninu died, much to the delight of Nuchhimi and her family, who headed for home and lived happily every after.

Picture: A u, pangang a mi, acrylic on canvas by HK Jerry

A Frog's Frock - Vanneihtluanga

2008-05-13T10:37:00.002+05:30

Translated by Dr Margaret L. Pachuau

I am quite the boss, but since I am not the kind to sing praises of myself, I will tell you about my friends. And by then, if you are not a fool you will be able to decipher exactly where I stand in life. On my left, sat a man who was a media person cum industrialist, and he was probably as profound as the Rihdil¹. On my right, there sat a man who was quite punctilious and absolutely eloquent to the hilt. He was well versed in the nuances of prose and verse and as for the word sluggish, why, it never existed in his dictionary. So you see, exalted men such as these sat by my side. Let me tell you that sitting in the centre is actually a kind of prestige. A lamb on the right and a goat on the left, and lo and behold, the one in the centre will remain the undisputed king. In fact, if you recall, even at the time of the crucifixion, the men on either side of the cross were remembered only because of the one man in the centre. In my case, the ones by my side were neither lamb nor goat. Nor were they criminals who deserved to be hung. As I have indicated before, they were illustrious people, who had been able to stand on their own feet for over the past forty years. They were the kind of men who were consulted by people, on matters related to the home, the hearth and the state. So the fact that I was ensconced between the both of them like their beloved youngest child, was for me a matter to remember always and I was proud of that. Mind you, I was not merely sitting in the warmth of the living room couch, rather I was actually on my way to Guwahati, inside a vehicle of great speed, popularly known as a Gypsy.

The friend on my right held on to the handle of the vehicle tightly, even as he drove, and it was evident that he had my safety in mind. The friend on my left was equally poised and on guard to defend me from wild animals. You see, he sat as though he were my bodyguard. In fact when I first embarked upon the vehicle they both cautioned, “Lest you be the one to meet danger head on.”

And so obviously they did not permit me to sit up front. But after a while when things were seemingly more stable, they made me sit up front, flanked by the both of them. Although the prospect of sitting with the gear box between your feet seemed uncomfortable, they assured me, “Kings and gentlemen do not sit with their legs crossed while traveling, and in fact, sitting in the manner that you do now, is a sign of greatness.”
And so I sat likewise in a most contented manner.

None of us spoke much during the journey. Yet we conversed about the ginger export rates in Mumbai, how it was not the wise to make a crown out of hnahthial², the magnitude of the Subash project, and the fact that there was no interconnecting strand between AIDS and soyabean. We delved into the aspects of total prohibition, the
efficiency of the CBI, the invincibility of the Rajput carriages, the magnificence of Bill Gates and the Microsoft company, and eventually in that manner we arrived at Guwahati.
I must confess that we were not there for any particular reason. In fact, the three of us had decided to get away because we were fed up of being under the thumb of our wives, so we decided to go ‘camping’ without them. So thoroughly did we enjoy ourselves that we did not even feel the heat of the summer. We passed the zoo, went across to the press, and visited the offices of the Sentinel and North East Times. Why, we even met with the editors and shook hands with them. We purchased tobacco as well. There was one thing though…we were not avid shoppers and so we were uncomfortable with the ordeal. At length we trudged through the market, and the rickshawwallah zoomed us right across town, and very soon he deposited us amidst a throng of people. We gawked around for a very long time when the friend on my right spotted a sign in the distance that said,
“BUY 2 SHIRTS, GET 1 FREE!”

All three of us scrambled into the shop in search of the great bargain offer. Both friends to my right and left purchased two shirts of a matching colour, and that great buy actually got me two free shirts. We stepped out into the light, and perhaps because there were no other shops that could quite meet our expectations, we ended up once more stepping inside into the “BUY 2 SHIRTS” store. My friends repeated their purchase of buying two shirts of an identical colour and once again I ended up with two new shirts on the house. We went back to the hotel and freshened up and wore our new shirts of similar colour and we meandered about the streets of Guwahati. Again, we stepped inside the store where we had purchased these very shirts and got yet more shirts. The salesmen were wise to the fact that we were wearing the shirts that they had sold us, just about three hours back and they kept smirking slyly at each other.

Of course, we did not dare to go back without buying anything for our wives so, we decided that we should buy a ‘pawnfen’³ for them. Yet we were apprehensive about the purchase. Since we were not at all expert in buying clothes for women, we pondered about whether they would be offended by what we got for them. Yet we shuddered at the prospect of going back home without getting them a gift. So we approached what seemed to be a shop selling ladies’ apparel. It was a huge air conditioned store, with very smart sales ladies bustling about. And the man who opened the door for us was elegant enough to pass off for a Major in the army. While we were walking astride the marble steps of the shop, attired in shirts of the same colour, the friend on my left whispered,
“Hey, I do not know what they call a ‘pawnfen’ in English, how on earth do we buy one?” I replied “Isn’t it pretty god…no, pettygoat is what it is… I think…” I was miles away from the Chambers’ Dictionary which I had left at home.

But the friend on my right was a know it all, and he was actually very deft in the nuances of translation, so he confidently argued, “Of course not, prettygod refers to a beautiful god, while a petty goat is a small goat; it doesn’t refer to a petticoat at all. I think it is called petty guard”.

I felt it was not quite right but since I myself did not really know the right word, we decided to agree upon that term amid much apprehension, even as we confidently sauntered forth.I, being in the centre, was regarded to be quite fluent in English. So I bolstered my confidence and approached a lady ,whom I regarded to be the smartest and the most attractive salesgirl. Very politely I said, “Madam, I have the honour to say that I want to know whether you have a petty guar…”
When the friend on my left broke me off and hissed, “Stop speaking to her, she will never reply for she is only the mannequin.”
And I took a good look and realized that I was indeed speaking in earnest to a wax figurine. I took a lingering look at the figure I had spoken to, and before I could recover I noted that the friend on my right was speaking to a sales girl in a high pitched voice,
“Do you have Petty guard…petty guard?”

I felt his tone was most impolite, but then assured myself that it was allright, just as long as it fetched us what we wanted .So I sauntered forth to his side. Just as we feared, we realized that the salesgirl was totally unaware of what a petty guard was. Most diplomatically she queried “You want petticoat?”
“Yes, pettyguard,”he replied.
And not content with that, he even spelt out the word for her. She was most astonished and she whispered a hasty, “Excuse me” and went to fetch the manager.

The manager was a man, endowed with a flowing beard and whose countenance was as stately as that of Rabindranath Tagore. It was indeed daunting that we should have to explain what we wanted to him. After sometime, with explanations rallying back and forth he decided to show us a sample. There were samples galore! Apparel that were designed in myriad ways; trouser like-skirts, school uniform skirts, saree-like skirts, dhoti -like skirts … yet none that could remotely resemble the kind that our wives would wear.

The man on my left asked in dismay, “Tinbo, Sike, Siphu, Elevenday
hai?” (Actually, ‘hai’was the only word he knew in Hindi) At this everyone in the shop grew more and more perplexed. In utter consternation they called for the owner of the shop. At her approach, all the salesgirls stood ramrod straight, akin to all their mannequins. She was a huge lady of a rotund frame. We spoke in what we felt was, to the best of our knowledge, in the tongues of men and angels, but we still could not make ourselves understood. We even wrote down the term ‘pettyguard,’ and baffled them all the more. In despair I turned to the friend on my left and declared in a conspiratorial whisper, “My friend, instead of “prettyguard” I think it should be ‘pretty-God.’”

At that the owner of the shop declared triumphantly, “Ah! Now I know what you want.”
And saying this she led us to an inner room where the gods were kept. “Shree Durga or Lord Ganesh or Hanuman?” she offered.

It was way off the mark and did not feel right at all. In utter dismay, our friend on the left, took off his pants and demonstrated the manner in which his wife wore the required garment. He gestured wildly both upwards and downwards, and pirouetted back and forth. After he had done all that he could, the owner of the store took a deep breath, looked at us with folded arms, and declared, “I think what you want is …frock,”
“Frog?” we cried out in unison. So astounded were we. “Yes frock, a woman’s frock,” she pronounced confidently.

We rolled our eyes in horror, and were no longer interested in the purchase. In despair and utter bewilderment, we walked out of the magnificent store, leaving a host of equally perplexed people behind. How we reached our room at Guwahati Mizoram House I am yet to decipher. The words, “Yes frog; a woman’s frog” was enough to diminish our morale.

The man on my left declared, “When that lady saw me gesticulating wildly, she must have felt that we wanted to seek out a prostitute. And in all her wisdom, must have realized that a woman is actually a frog. Being unable to bear the fact that we were about to lie abed with frogs, she must have decided to tell us the truth.”

As for me, I, have always placed women on the same pedestal as God, and I have always treated my wife with great tenderness. So it was an even more greater hurt. I mustered up all my knowledge about the English language but yes, there was no doubt about it, she did say, ‘Yes, woman’s frog.”

There was no other way to interpret it. Surely such a noble woman belonging to a learned community was far more intelligent than us. I thought of the wedding vows I had taken and became mortified. The friend on my right, being well read and profound counseled, “It could be true. Even Europeans say that women are frogs. If my reading of history serves me well, then I recall reading about a prince who could not find a wife. Eventually, he kissed a frog nestling in a lake and she turned into a beautiful damsel. And he married her. But alas…she always needed a kiss to retain her human shape.”

By now, we had spent four nights in Guwahati, and it was true that it had been quite a while since we had last kissed our wives. We were horrified at the thought of them turning into frogs while we were away. There was no time to buy garments for them now. And secretly we were all apprehensive about kissing the frogs we had left behind, but we reminded ourselves that we were indeed chivalrous men, who had to rise to the occasion. Why…if others could do it, there was no reason why we could not do the same. We packed our belongings in the hope of rescuing the women who were about to turn into frogs… and raced away from Guwahati in tremendous haste.

¹the name of a lake,to the east of Mizoram, said to be passed by departed spirits on the way to the abode of the dead.

²the name of a plant and also its leaves.

³petticoat

Amid these hills where once we lived I retrace my steps...

2008-04-24T08:35:00.018+05:30

By P. Rohmingthanga

Part II

The saying goes - 'Man proposes, God disposes'. I stayed on in Mizoram for another six years, and was given various assignments. I also came back for a short stint some years later, but my plans for a second visit to these places came to nought. So it was that long after superannuation, but still in a post retirement assignment in Delhi, and persuaded by my wife's yearning to visit 'Rih Dil', that I did retrace the route, however fleetingly. So, at March end of 1999, we left for Champhai, accompanied by our 'baby daughter' who had since grown up and Lalthianghlima (Pu Hrangthiauva’s son). At Champhai we were joined by Vanlalsawma, the forest chief of the district. Our first stop was at Keifang where we had a look at the 'Rul Chawm Puk', the cave where a big reptile which used to be fed by some of our forefathers was said to inhabit. I had seen this ‘puk’years earlier, while undertaking the long trek - Seling - Champhai - Thingsai – Keitum, mentioned earlier. Then, it used to be just above the main road (Lam lian). There used to be thick foliages all around, creating the impression that the "Rulpui" was still inside. It was therefore with some trepidation that we had then peeked at the 'Puk'. In fact, we could not see through the foliage properly. This time though, it was completely bare of any growth, not even a blade of grass. Houses had since been constructed in the immediate vicinity. As a result, the wonder and the mystery of the unknown had disappeared, it had become just a small roadside cavity, and one felt saddened as if something of value had been lost. From Seling onwards, all the way to Champhai, we kept looking for the blooms of Vaube and Fartuah - since it was the right season, and a familiar sight on our earlier trips on this route. But it was most shocking to discover that there was no green patch anywhere along the road, not to speak of blooming trees. These disappointments were the first two of a series to follow.

The third was with the once beautiful forest of 'Lianchhiari Lunglen Tlang' (the hill where the damsel Lianchhiari was said to be pining for her lover), the forest which since times immemorial enveloped the heart broken maiden and from which she surely must have got some solace. I think there is a song which asks "where have all the flowers gone"? In this case the question is where have all the trees gone, and the flowers too. Obviously, someone had allotted a big chunk for cultivation leaving just a fraction of the forest in the vicinity of the rock. How tragic. It was as if a beautiful woman had been reduced to a mere skeleton because of the ravages of men. Though I was happy that at long last I had come by the road I prepared some 25 years ago, and was actually sitting on the rocky precipice, my joy was shaken by the knowledge that something beautiful had gone forever, never to return.

The fourth was with both the locations of 'Fiara Tui'. In the case of Farkawn 'Fiara Tui', the area above the road, along the upstream, was jhum land, and having been burnt recently, it was completely bare. The foliage below the road was also badly burnt. The result was that the very appearance and environment was unfriendly. One could hardly entertain the thought that the most delicious water in the world could be down there and of course, there was no water, not even a trickle, the forest cover having been so completely denuded. So it was with Vaphai 'Fiara Tui'. The entire area had since been allotted for a garden (huan). No trees are left. But the source being so good, there is still a pool of water at the base of the rock. To add to my disenchantment, a villager let it out that the water was not hygenic - probably as a result of domestic animals drinking from the pool, of which we saw one as we were approaching the spring.

The fifth was at 'Tan Tlang'. The mountain itself continues to be spectacular, majestic and changing colours as the sun moves across the sky, exuding an aura of mystery all around. Sadly though, all the trees, greenery and foliage which, like a woman's sparkling necklace, used to adorn the foothills, had vanished. The rich hinterland, the abode of the spirits, the 'lasis', the birds and the beasts, had been decimated. No wonder the inhabitants had faded away without any trace, probably led by Chawngtinleri herself to greener pastures, perhaps, to 'Buannel Ram', the paradise of the creatures of the forest.

I visited 'Lamsial Puk', and saw the bones still well preserved. The approach road was also good, and I was glad it stopped well short of the cave. We had to walk a fairly long distance through the jungle to reach the cave which, to my great joy, appeared to have remained undisturbed. I hoped they would preserve it that way. I also hoped that at certain steep stretches they would fix some support with local timber materials to prevent someone slipping off the track. But now I would not recommend construction of a jeepable road to reach the ‘Puk’ itself.

Inside Lamsial Puk

I also revisited 'Thasiama Se No Neihna Tlang'. The small hillock was now easily approachable by car, and mercifully it still retained the nearby trees and foliage, probably because it was too steep for cultivation. I made an attempt at climbing to even the score with my wife, but finding the track too steep, I became dizzy and had to give up. However, I was successful this time in discouraging my wife from repeating her feat. We passed through 'Lam Thuam Thum' and saw 'Kungawrhi Puk', the latter was ominously fenced with a barbed wire, which gave an impression that someone might have been allotted a ‘garden’.

Thasiama Se No Neihna

I also visited two sites with commemorative stones recently erected honouring people who were considered to have distinguished themselves by their outstanding achievement in their profession (I was told they were considered to have achieved the status of thangchhuah), and to literature and the arts - the former at 'Lianchhiari Lunglen Tlang' and the latter at Khawbung. I also saw the tombstone of Pu Hrangthiauva, who was no more.

All this and much more were covered in the course of a day, and when we came back we had a good night's rest. The next day we went down to Tiau (the river which flows near Thingsai and gave me so much enjoyment in my youth) by the newly constructed PWD road, hence the drive was smooth and relaxing. On the Myanmar side of Tiau, our papers were cleared in no time thanks to our escort, a DSP from Champhai. From there we were transported by a noisy old one tonner. My wife and myself shared the front seat, the rest of the party were at the back with an escort. The drive itself, initially along the river followed by a steep climb, was rock and roll at its best, still much better than the ride to Hnahlan some 25 years ago.

At last, 'Rih Dil' came into view. Even though there was a village close to the lake and the adjacent lands on one side were cultivated, the first view of the heart shaped lake struck one with its sheer beauty and the stillness of its waters. The surrounding environment was, however, bereft of its original greenery. One had to close one's eyes to imagine the landscape of long ago, of dense forest and rich animal life, including the legendary 'Rih Ar' whose eggs could immobilise anyone who dared try taking them away. It was no wonder that for people who lived in constant fear of evil spirits residing in all manner of things, and spent a great deal of their lives in propitiating them, the lake was revered as the passageway of the spirits of the dead on their way to 'Pialral' and 'Mitthi Khua'.

I had always been apprehensive of swimming in the lake because of the myths and stories associated with it, told to me so many times by my grandmother. But tempted by the sight of a few boys swimming in the lake, I also took off my clothes and joined them. To me it was a record of sorts, even if it might not have really measured up to my wife's.

On the way back, we took a detour to the new Hruaikawn village. The villagers directed our attention to a red tinged mountain far across the river Tiau, which they said was 'Buannel ram' the abode of the birds and the beasts. Having left the vehicles in the village, they also took us downhill for about a kilometer to see 'Rahbuk' and 'Lungloh Tui'. I must confess that for a moment, I suspected the authenticity of the site because I had always regarded 'Tiau Ral' as being on the eastward side of the river and it seemed to me unlikely that the spirits of the dead would retrace their steps after having crossed the river Tiau and reaching 'Rih Dil'. But then I realised that our ancestors could very well have regarded the westward side of the river as 'Tiau Ral' since they had migrated steadily from Myanmar towards the present Mizoram. And I know that the debate about the location of such mystical places could never be satisfactorily resolved.

I recalled that some time in the mid 70's, the then headmaster of GMHS, a culture buff, reported that an expedition led by him had discovered 'Rahbuk', and apprehending mischief including theft, broke the stone in two pieces, removing one piece to the school museum. Though I did not say a word, I was a little upset with what had been done to the stone, but it was too late in the day and in any case, I realized it had been done with the best of intentions. The other half was still in place. Close to the stone was 'Lungloh Tui', a tiny pool of water formed by seepage through the rocks. Enroute, we were also shown what they said could be the spot where Pawla stood with his pellet bow. The lay of the land was, however, such that it was difficult to visualise the spot as the convergence of the seven trails. There were 'Hawilo Par' among the foliage. This is a flower which the spirits of the dead plucked and wore on their head; and just like Lungloh Tui, they then lost all their desire to return to earth. The forest around was still in good condition, except for a small patch. The advice to preserve the forest was repeated. The villagers also wanted a motorable approach road, but this time, I responded with reservations. We also stopped at Ruantlang, where we found the main 'Chhura Farep' had since been shifted and erected in front of the YMA office.

Chhura Farep

P. Rohmingthanga is a distinguished bureaucrat, having worked under the governments of Assam, Mizoram, the Delhi administration and the Government of India. He was the District Commissioner of Aizawl in the early 70s, Chief Secretary to the Govt. of Mizoram in the latter half of the 80s, and superannuated in 1996 from the post of Secretary to the Govt. of India. His post retirement assignments were State Election Commissioner (for some UT adminstrations), and member of the Delimination Commission of India (representing Mizoram).

Picture credits: Marii, 2005

An interesting link here on Chhurbura and the impact of his legend on Mizo life and language.

Two Sky-Women and Two Earth-Men

2008-04-10T19:17:00.007+05:30

A folktale retold by Malsawmi Jacob

Two lovely girls, Lasiri and Lasari, lived in their sky house. They were sisters. Many young men courted them, but they gave their hearts to Thangsira and Thangzaia, two brothers living on earth, who visited them frequently. Just after sunset when the sky was lit up with many colours, the young men would stand on a spot under their house and sing—

Lasiri and Lasari, let down your twined rope
For Thangsira to swing up, for Thangzaia to swing up.

On hearing this, the two young women would drop down a rope and haul them up. They would sit together on the smooth, well-polished crushed bamboo floor and chat, laugh and sing together happily. Then when roosters crowed before midnight announcing the time for visitors to go, the young men would leave by sliding down the rope.

Now Bakvawmtepu (Bear-man), an ugly, lonely person, had heard about the two beautiful girls in the sky and fallen in love with both of them though he had never seen them. He made up his mind to marry one of them, never mind which! When he came to know that Thangsira and Thangzaia were courting the two sisters, he started spying on their movements. He would hide behind a tree and listen to their song, watch them swing up the rope, and wait around until they came down again. In this way, he learned the song and how to reach the house of the sky-women. One night, soon after the young men had returned from their visit, Bakvawmtepu went to the same spot and sang the same song. But his voice was so hoarse and out of tune, and the time was so wrong, that Lasiri and Lasari at once knew that it was the voice of an impostor and they refused to let the rope down.

Bakvawmtepu understood his mistake. He diligently started training singing. He would get up early every morning, stand neck-deep in the sih stream and sing, till he sounded like Thangsira and Thangzaia. So when he went under their house and sang again, Lasiri and Lasari let down the rope and heaved him up. He was so heavy that the two girls said to each other “What’s the matter with them today? Why have they become so heavy?” And when he finally landed at their door, they were shocked and repulsed to see him. But custom demands that all visitors are to be welcomed, whether you like them or not. So they invited him to take a seat and talked to him politely.

Bakvawmtepu refused to go home even when the roosters announced the visitors-going-home time. And as young women are taught to be always courteous even to people who behave rudely, they could not directly tell him to go. To give him a hint, the younger sister, Lasari said “The roosters are crowing already! I was feeling sleepy without knowing it was so late!” “I’m feeling quite sleepy too”, Lasari responded. “Goodnight, Bakvawmtepu, do visit us again.”

But Bakvawmtepu merely replied “I am not going yet.” What could the poor girls do? Lasari lay down on the floor and pretended to sleep. As he still did not take the hint, Lasiri also lay down next to her sister. And then Bakvawmtepu shamelessly lay down too and fell asleep. To get rid of him, Lasari woke him with a song —

Move, move a little Bakvawmtepu,
My sister needs more space to lie.

At this, Bakvawmtepu woke up, moved a bit and went back to sleep. After a little while Lasiri sang the song again. Again Bakvawmtepu moved a little. She kept on singing the same song every now and then through the night. Bakvawmtepu kept moving little by little, closer to the open door on the floor. He finally fell down through the hole.

After this incident, the two sisters became very afraid of another visit by Bakvawmtepu. They decided to be very careful. When Thangsira and Thangzaia next came and sang their song, they did not let down the rope but wanted to verify their identity and asked in song –

Are you truly Thangsira? Are you truly Thangzaia?
Bakvawmtepu is not welcome here.

On hearing this, the young men were sorely offended. How could their sweethearts suspect them to be Bakvawmtepu with his ugly hoarse voice? Then and there, they decided to go away and never return. They bid them goodbye singing

Bakvawmtepu we are not,
We turn around and go away.

When Lasiri and Lasari realised that Thangsira and Thangzaia were gone, they set out in pursuit. They hurriedly came down from their sky house and followed the road the young men took. They walked so fast that they were soon about to catch up with them. Thangzaia turned back and saw the girls at a short distance behind them, and said “What shall we do, brother? I cannot walk any faster, and they will soon reach us at this rate.”
“Let’s disguise ourselves,” said Thangsira.
“How?”
“Let’s turn into hair-combs. If they pick us, we will be re-united with them. If not …”
So the two brothers bent down and hid themselves, and turned into hair-combs and lay on the path.

When the girls reached the spot, they were surprised to see two hair combs in the middle of the path. Lasari wanted to pick them and sang to her elder sister –

See my sister, what good combs,
Let’s pick them up for our hair.

But Lasiri was in a hurry to go on, so she said brusquely “No, let’s go on fast.”

After they left, the young men returned to their natural shapes. They took a short cut that the girls did not know of and overtook them. Both parties walked on as fast as they could. After some time, the men heard footsteps behind them. When they looked, they saw that it was the two women coming close. “What shall we do now?” Thangzaia asked his brother.
“Let’s change ourselves into glass bangles. If they pick us, good. If not…” Thangsira replied.
So they turned into pretty glass bangles and lay on the path. When Lasari saw the bangles, she longed to take them and sang to Lasiri —
See, my sister, pretty bangles,
Let’s wear them on our arms.

But Lasiri was in a hurry and told her sister “No, we can’t stop. Let’s go on.”

After they left, the two young men again changed back into their true selves, found another shortcut and overtook the girls again. All the four had walked a long way by this time and they were all tired. The young women were spurred on by their fear of losing the two young men, who in their turn did not really want to get away but were too proud to make up with them.

The road led to a plain. By then, the sun was high in the sky and it became very hot. There were few trees to give them shade, and all were thirsty. “My brother, I can’t go on any more. I don’t mind letting them catch us”, Thangzaia panted.
“That will be a shame. We are men and they are only women”, Thangsira responded. Then he had an idea. “As soon as we turn that bend on the road, before they come close enough to see us, I will turn into a river and you turn into a bridge across me. If they can cross safely, we will show ourselves to them. If not…”

So as soon as they reached the next bend, Thangsira turned into a river cutting off the road. And Thangzaia turned into a bridge over it. When the two girls reached the point, they were dismayed to see the road stopped by a big, swirling river. Lasari wanted to walk on the bridge and sang —

See my sister, a good strong bridge,
Come, let’s walk across it.

But Lasiri was afraid and looked all around for some other way. But there was none. The river cut right across the road, and the road led straight to the bridge. There was no escape.

Lasari led the way and went on the bridge. But as soon as Lasiri stepped on it, the bridge began to sway and the wood started cracking. She screamed in fear and ran back. Lasari said, “Watch me cross it, then you can come after.” And without any problem, she walked across and stood on the far side. But whenever Lasiri stepped on it, the bridge started swaying and creaking. Finally, Lasari said, “Don’t be afraid, I will carry you.” So Lasari carried Lasiri piggy-back, and they moved on. But when they reached the middle of the river, the bridge suddenly broke and the sisters fell into the water and drowned.

After their death, the brothers changed back to human form and grieved for the loss of their loved ones. They said, “There is no more reason to live as humans. Let’s change into something else.” So they thought of what to change into. “Let’s turn into cows and graze together”, Thangzaia suggested. “No, cows grow old or die”, his brother protested, “let’s turn into roosters and crow together.” “No”, Thangsira argued. “Roosters get killed and eaten.” They thought of many creatures to turn into, but could not agree. Finally, Thangzaia said,

You turn into Fartruah tree,
I’ll turn into Vaube tree,
And let’s bloom together every year.

His brother agreed. So Thangsira turned into a Fartruah tree, and Thangzaia turned into a Vaube tree. The two trees bring out their beautiful flowers at the start of summer every year till now.

Chawngchilhi

2008-04-03T20:48:00.012+05:30

Translated by Rini Tochhong

Once upon a time there was Chawngchilhi, who with her younger sister would go to their jhum to guard their rice plants from birds. Their father was greatly pleased with their work so everyday, he would pack for them a sumptuous lunch, enough for the both of them. Even so, the father noticed that the younger sister was getting thinner everyday and he was so greatly worried by this that one day he finally asked her why she was getting so thin even though he packed them lunch everyday. The younger sister would not come forth with a straight answer, and clearly embarrassed she said, “If I tell you the truth, I know for sure my sister would cane me, so I can’t speak the truth.”

Her father grew even more concerned and insisted that she speak the truth however undesirable it may be. The younger sister did not have any choice then, so she spoke - uncomfortably and highly embarrassed- she told the truth to her father. “My sister has a Serpent for her lover. She makes me call him in the day and when he comes, they would sleep together completely naked. I get so scared of this Serpent that I would run out of the house and am even unable to eat- this is why I have grown so thin.”

The father at once became angry and highly agitated over what the younger sister told him. He devised a plan to go to the field himself taking Chawngchilhi’s younger sister with him. Once they reached the field, he sent the sister to go call Chawngchilhi’s lover as she always did whenever Chawngchilhi desired to spend time with him. The sister went off and called the serpent:

“O Chawngchilhi’s beloved one,
My mother begs for you to come,
My father begs for you to come.”

As soon as the Serpent heard the younger sister’s call, he answered with his usual amorous reply:

“I am coming, quick as I can,
Combing my hair to look my best,
Wearing my turban to look my best,
To rest as if dead in your loving bosom.”

The Serpent majestically made his way to the farm house, expecting, as always, to spend time with Chawngchilhi but much contrary to his expectations, he found instead, Chawngchilhi’s father with a sharp dao. On finding that the sister had spoken true, he cut the serpent into pieces in great anger. He buried the pieces beneath the farm house and its genitals inside the stove. The next day Chawngchilhi went with her sister to the jhum and heard from the snake’s spirit that her father had killed it. Beneath the farm house, she found pieces of its flesh and inside the stove, she found the genitals. Being so in love with the snake as she was, she kept the genitals piece in her crotch and the sisters then set off for home. When they reached home, Chawngchilhi found her father lying at the foot of the door with his dao. She said, “Father, move away or I might spill dirt on you.” But her father was adamant and he said, “I don’t mind the dirt of my children” and he would not move. As Chawngchilhi stepped over him, she did spill the snake organ she had kept in her crotch. As the organ hit her father, he got up in anger and killed Chawngchilhi with the same dao he had used on the snake.

Now Chawngchilhi had become pregnant by her serpent lover and she was near delivery. When she was killed, several baby snakes made their way out of her body and started slithering towards the wilds. Her father did his best to kill all the baby snakes and managed to do so except for one which escaped his knife. This solitary snake grew large and dangerous, often devouring human beings in later days. It lived in a cave which came to be called ‘Rulchawm kua’, which can be seen to this day. In time, a new settlement grew in the area surrounding this cave and a village with the name ‘Rulchawm’ was thus born.

Raldawna and Tumchhingi

2008-03-27T17:51:00.016+05:30

Translated by A. Hmangaihzuali Poonte

Long ago in a little village, there once lived a handsome young man named Raldawna. One day as he was clearing a plot of land with his mother, he saw the ruddy red fruit of a nightshade plant. Thinking it was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen, he said, “Mother, could there possibly be a girl as beautiful as this fruit?” His mother replied, “Yes, certainly, Tumchhingi lives just down that way.” Raldawna said, “Then let me go look for her,” and getting his mother’s permission, set out to look for Tumchhingi.

He came across a sturdy house and shot at its walls with his sling. The owner called out, “Who shot at our house?” “I, Raldawna,” he replied. But since Tumchhingi did not live there, he went on his way. Whenever he came across a house, he enquired if Tumchhingi lived there but she was in none of them.

Finally, at the end of the village, he came upon Tumchhingi’s home. She was sitting on a gong, weaving a puan, with a gun placed at her feet. “What are you looking for?” she asked. Raldawna explained how he had wanted to meet a girl as ruddy and beautiful as the nightshade fruit he had seen with his mother, and that he was looking for her, Tumchhingi. She replied, “If you want to marry me, you must talk to my parents.” So Raldawna met her parents and telling them the reason for his visit, asked for their permission to marry their daughter. They happily gave him their consent.

And so Raldawna and Tumchhingi were married. Taking all her possessions, Tumchhingi left her parents to follow her husband to his home. After they had traveled a long way, Tumchhingi said, “Raldawn, I thought I had taken all my belongings but I just remembered that I have forgotten my bronze comb.” He replied, “Alright, I’ll leave you on that bunyan tree and go back for your comb.” Lifting Tumchhingi to safety up on the branches of the tree, he then went back the way they had come.

Soon afterwards, a Phungpuinu¹ came trampling on cucumber peel right under the tree where Tumchhingi was hiding. Seeing Tumchhingi’s shadow on the ground, the Phungpuinu thought it was her’s and greatly admired herself. Muttering,
“Though my self carries nothing
My shadow wears bangles jingle jangle,
Necklaces jingle jangle,”

she stood under the tree, rocking herself back and forth. Tumchhingi watched from her perch high up in the tree. After a while she called out, “Phungpuinu, that is my shadow.” The Phungpuinu then looked up and saw Tumchhingi. “How did you climb up, Tumchhing?” she asked. Tumchhingi replied, “I climbed up on my back.” The Phungpuinu tried to climb the tree backwards but kept falling down with a heavy thump. “Tell me seriously, how did you climb up?” she asked again. “I climbed up sideways,” Tumchhingi replied. The Phungpuinu tried to climb up sideways but could not. Once again she asked Tumchhingi and this time, Tumchhingi told her the truth. The Phungpuinu then climbed right up to where Tumchhingi was sitting. “Let me wear your puan for a while,” she said to the girl and Tumchhingi gave it to her. Next she asked for Tumchhingi’s blouse, her necklaces and her bangles, and soon she was dressed in everything Tumchhingi had been wearing. Then she swallowed the terrified girl and turned herself into Tumchhingi.

After a long while, Raldawna returned. He thought Tumchhingi looked very different and said, “Tumchhing, how elongated your eyes have become.” She replied, “I kept telling myself there in the distance will Raldawna come, and straining my eyes watching for your return has made them elongated.” And so Raldawna took the Phungpuinu home. People had been waiting for his return, telling each other, “Raldawna is bringing home the beautiful Tumchhingi” and they swept the pathways and spread out their puan on the ground. But as soon as they saw the Phungpuinu, they exclaimed, ”Oh no, I will not let the Phungpuinu walk on my puan.” And they all hurriedly took away their puan, and so Raldawna took his new bride into his home.

Later the Phungpuinu went out to the outskirts of the village and vomited violently. Tumchhingi popped out and turned into a mango tree. She grew tall and strong and bore so much fruit that many people would come picking them. Eventually Raldawna too came to get some but only managed to get a small, misshapen mango. Saying, “This is not even good enough to eat,” he tucked it away on the bamboo-woven wall of his house.

Every day Raldawna and the Phungpuinu would go out to work in the fields. And whenever they were away, the little mango would jump down from the wall, turn into Tumchhingi and prepare the evening meal for them. After she had finished cooking, she would then turn back into a mango and tuck herself into the bamboo wall. Raldawna asked all his neighbours if they had seen anyone who had come into his house but nobody knew anything. So he finally decided to hide and see what happened while the Phungpuinu was out working in the fields.

When evening came, Tumchhingi jumped off the wall as usual. And as soon as he saw her, Raldawna caught her in his arms with great joy. Tumchhingi said, “No, let me go. I must turn back into a mango,” but he would not let her go. As they were struggling, the Phungpuinu came home from the fields. “Raldawn, let me in,” she called but Raldawna would not open the door.

The Phungpuinu then angrily broke down the door and came in. When she saw Tumchhingi, she became even angrier. So Raldawna prepared the two of them for a fight. He gave Tumchhingi a very sharp knife and the Phungpuinu a very blunt one. Tumchhingi easily killed the Phungpuinu, and she and Raldawna lived happily ever after.

¹a spirit, ghost, bogey, spook, ogress, goblin, hobgoblin (generally regarded as female)

Translated from the Serkawn Graded Reader - Mizo Thawnthu, Serkawn Centenary Edition, 2003, compiled and written by R. Nuchhungi (Pi Nuchhungi) and E.M. Chapman (Pi Zirtiri) in 1938.

Picture:Autumn in Jhum, oil on canvas by Tlangrokhuma

Politik Gypsy - Thanseia

2008-03-20T13:59:00.007+05:30

Translated by Dr Margaret L. Pachuau

Several men set out from Lawipu (a locality situated within Aizawl city) to go hunting amidst the forest at about ten in the morning.The group headed towards Reiek village and went across the Tlawng river. They proceeded enthusiastically towards the mouth of the river. Barely had they taken a few paces, when they noticed smoke arising steadily from behind a huge rock. The leader of the group said, “Hey, who could it be that goes ahead of us? Can it be that they have set up camp overnight? Could they have destroyed our hamlet?” A young man from the group commented vociferously, “If they have destroyed it then we shall fight them all.”

They all gazed down and atop a rock they could perceive a man as he sat sunning himself. He was busy creating ripples in the water that raced past his fingers. He was almost naked, and it was difficult to decipher whether he was male or female, especially because he wore his hair in long tresses. The distance between them was quite far off and besides they had to pave their way behind huge rocks. Eventually by the time they reached the spot where they had first detected him, he had vanished. It was not possible to decipher where he had taken off. Upon close scrutiny of the fire that he had stoked as well as the place occupied by him, it was clear that he had spent the night there. Yet it was almost as if he had no bedding or utensils. It was indeed very difficult to trace his steps. Yet it was clear from his footprints that he was a full grown man. What remained unclear was as to whether he had traversed further downstream or whether he had disappeared in the thick forests. Thus the men who had gathered there began to ponder reflectively and some of them declared that was they had seen could have been a spirit, and yet others felt that it could have been someone who was mentally unstable.

Someone from the group commented, “I seem to recall that last year, at about this time, some young men had gone travelling, and they spoke about a man they spotted in the river between Tuipang and Serkawr. They said that they had seen someone very much like the man we spotted just now. In fact they had even spoken to him, but he had not replied. They saw him moving steadily away upstream. That itself convinces me that the man we saw was human.”
Even as the group proceeded further, all of them queried themselves, “I wonder who it was that we spotted”.

A month later a hunter from Chhingchip village, was lying in wait for a wild boar. It was the season when the wheat crop was nearly ripening. He saw a person sitting inside his jhum hut. “Who could it be sitting inside the jhum hut? I wonder if he is also lying in wait for an animal. And is he wearing clothes at all? His hair seems to be really long…”
And wondering thus, he continued to gaze at him even as darkness arose. The wild boar was nowhere in sight and so he eventually headed for his jhum hut. It was desolate and yet the fire was brightly lit. On the walls of the jhum hut he could perceive these lines written beautifully in charcoal:

Difficulties and misfortunes are truly precious!
Akin to an ugly frog bearing gold.

The man declared, “I wonder who this could be? Has he gone back to town, or is he lying in wait for his hunt? It appeared as though he was almost naked, I wonder if he was human…’’ those thoughts amidst his mind, he set off for home.

In different places, amidst the plains and forests, many reported that such a man had indeed been spotted. In fact there were reports about the same in the daily newspapers. While some wrote about how the man was a very pitiful figure, some others carried stories about how dangerous and gruesome he was. Eventually he became the talk of almost every town and village.

Once a group of young girls on their way to gathering firewood chanced upon him. He was walking about silently. Standing by the side of the road, he presented the group with orchids. Even as they observed his countenance it was clear that he was not dangerous, rather there was a kindly, benevolent aura about him. His shock of long hair, and his heavy beard, and his tattered clothes made him all the more pitiable.

After barely half a month later, some women from Champhai Hmunhmeltha town were proceeding someplace. At Keilungliah, which was a place where the rhododendron were in full bloom at the bed of the river, they spotted him as he was plucking the flowers while tucking the same into his hair. His beard was thick and overgrown and due to this some men actually pitied him, but there were others who found it a bit difficult to fully come to terms with him. Before they could speak to him he had disappeared by the other side of the valley.

A woman remarked, “O that I could follow him, his lifestyle seems to be so enchanting…but if I speak too much he would be the envy of my husband…”So saying they laughed in amusement.

This youth, who later turned out to be a Mizo Politik Gypsy, had arrived in Aizawl after completing his I.Sc. examination from Cotton College, Gauhati. He was a reserved young man, with a good personality. He spoke ill of none and was liked by his friends. While he was in college he loved reading tales about the Gypsies in Europe. At home, both his parents had passed away and he had two sisters who were already married. His elder brother was serving in the Assam Regiment and so he lived with his uncle, who sold charcoal in an obscure corner of Aizawl.

His uncle advised, “Now that things have come to such a pass, we must try and locate some work for you, you must seek work, for I am highly inexperienced and there is little I can do to help you. You must seek out politicians and other influential people of Aizawl to come to your aid. Adhere to the path of righteousness and God will be your guide.”

Accordingly, the young man spoke to the politicians as well and other seemingly influential people. He was greeted with encouragement from all sides. “I must appear for the exams as soon as possible” he decided. Yet such a possibility was hard to come by. At the same time, some of his acquaintances would secure jobs here and there. Upon his query they would reply, “These are only temporary appointments, but the job will be regularized later.”

He even appeared twice for the exams.In fact he performed meritoriously. At times he was even placed in the panel list. His dream was to serve as either teacher or clerk within Aizawl and help his uncle. However he would stop just short of getting a job. He felt that those who had fared worse than him, yet had influential connections were steadily securing employment.

He was steadily disheartened. He was disenchanted as well.Mizos have become pawns in the game of politics, he thought. It has eaten us away like poison, as though we are severely ill, yet we are unaware of the same. When will this lead us to total ruin and damnation? He would steadily ponder upon these aspects in great dilemma. In like manner, he felt that Mizos in general and the residents of Aizawl in particular could be classified under three distinct categories: (a) The rich and influential (b) The middle class (c) The poor and the marginalized

The divide was getting wider steadily. He realized that in a short while the divide would be so wide that it would not suffice even if a ladder were to be placed as a bridge to narrow the same. “Mizos are one and the same, our status can be likened to a hen’s tail that is more or less of the same width, our clothes, food, are the same, and we are blessed”. Those were merely sayings that he could recall of an era that was gone by.

The first group that he had classified was a group that bonded only with one another, and even marriages were conducted amongst themselves only. They looked after one another at times of happiness and sorrow. Even their children cared little for the under privileged classes. He saw them as a group that embezzled money. They were corrupt, yet at the same time they were a very securely established group.

The second group was a predominantly middle class group. They were an average lot, and they could manage to make a semblance of existence in terms of food, clothing and shelter. They sought ways in which to best fend for themselves and in the process they often sought favors from the first group in order to secure work. Very often they would project themselves as more economically viable than they actually were.

The third and the last group however, were actually the largest group in Mizoram.They were the underprivileged lot, who were oppressed and could barely eke out a living. This group was deemed of value only at the time of the elections, and they were often appeased by mere word of mouth. As the young man spent a larger part of his life with this lot, the terms Communist and Socialist were often music to his ears. However, as they did not dare to protest against the corrupt practices of the first group, especially in terms of the manner in which they dealt with their land revenue and taxes, and because they could not really arrive at a semblance of unity he felt that this group could actually be termed as “a group of cowards”.

He also condemned the political parties. He felt that they were only insane about their own ideologies and were often swayed astray by the corrupt winds of politics. He was often disheartened. He felt that these were factors that were largely responsible for his lack of employment. If one was not a member of a political party, and did not have political leaders as acquaintances then it was evident that life hung at a dead end for him. After spending a considerable manner in Aizawl in that fashion, there was little he could do. So he sought work as a Middle School teacher in the villages. He was recruited as a headmaster on a temporary basis, in a private middle school in a village located in the Western part of Mizoram.He was delighted. With a newly found colleague he worked very hard towards the progress of the school. He stayed with a Church elder who was ill of health and decidedly poverty stricken. After he had worked for a span of one and a half years the school also made remarkable progress. It even began to receive aid from the government. And he was overjoyed. He had also begun to develop a close affinity for a young lady.

At this time, a politician’s son who had recently passed the Pre-University examinations was being nominated as Headmaster of the school. The corrupt winds of politics were about to blow once again, and petty gossip,criticism and malicious slander were on the rise yet again. Some people remarked, “Our Headmaster…is actually a supporter of the opposition party, he does not support the policies of the present ruling party …he doesn’t pay enough attention when our party leaders visit…”

The winds of political change were about to blow once more. He would often chat and spend time in prayer with his host at night. “How politics has corrupted our community as well as our lives. It has turned friends into foes. It has done away with the aspect of love, and shattered mutual compatibility and healthy competition. It has rendered the poor who are unable to pay for medicines to the status of the terminally ill. Yet we are unaware of the fact that we are ill, unable to pay for medicines, because the corrupt winds of politics have rendered our senses blind.” These were aspects they would discuss till very late at night.

“What can be comparable to the corrupt winds of party politics? They could be akin to a stick that is ramrod straight, dipped in crystal clear water that turns crooked at that portion which is touched by the water. We will never see ourselves as ram rod straight. It is much better to resign from the job of headmaster…” he would ponder often.

Before the leaders of the village community could come to a consensus about the decision of Headmaster, the school closed for the annual session. With a heavy heart he set off for Aizawl to spend his Christmas vacation at his uncle’s house.

He carried his bags and all forenoon he sought a motorable road and that made him very tired. He sat atop a hillock near the road, and soon he fell asleep. He dreamt that the school had replaced him with a new headmaster and that he had been dismissed on the grounds of corruption. He was filled with profound sorrow. At that very moment two sojourners from Mamit came his way, and one said, “Hey, young lad, which way are you going? Come, let us go together.”He replied graciously, “Thank you, I am on my way to Aizawl. You go on ahead, and I shall come along later.”

The two men from Mamit then left him. The sun was slowly fading in the horizon and the motor able road was still some distance away. Even then it was all a matter of whether one would encounter a vehicle that could accommodate them. “That young man is really a bit slow,” they remarked and so saying they went their way.

Not much is known about this young man. The last that one saw of him was when he was spotted sitting westwards, by the hill. It had been a man from Mamit who had spotted him and later a group of men from Phuaibuang, had perceived him in that manner even as they went on a hunt towards Hingtlang.It is not known as to how long he strayed in the vicinity of Hingtlang or even amidst the sylvan surroundings of Tuivai. A hunter who saw him from a considerably close range observed that age had crept upon him and his hair had streaks of grey as well. Yet no words were exchanged between the two. His countenance remained relatively unaltered. He seemed to encompass love as well as innocence.

He could be at home amidst a herd of wild boar, and could slumber deeply amidst them. He was comfortable amidst the deer and her young. Monkeys would tend to the lice on his head. He even made friends with different kinds of birds. Yet ironically he could not proffer a hand of friendship towards his fellow men who were prey to the terrible blemish of politics.

Thanseia was the first District Education Officer in Mizoram. He later retired as Joint Director of Education in Mizoram and lives with his family on McDonald Hill, Aizawl.

Politik Gypsy is included in a collection of his works entitled Pangdailo. Written in 1983 at a time when blatant party favours and preferential biases had begun making ominous inroads into Mizo bureaucratic life, this short story is almost Kafkaesque in its depiction of a frighteningly manipulative and impenetrable bureaucratic and social system.

A Ph.D in English from JNU and on the teaching faculty of the English Dept, Mizoram University, Margaret L. Pachuau juggles a busy schedule of work with an often time-consuming, personal contribution to Mizo literature through translations from Mizo into English.

These Hills - Malsawmi Jacob

2008-03-12T09:13:00.008+05:30

Up here on these hills
time moves
at snail’s pace
on winding roads.
Wind passing through
scented pines conducts
needle orchestra.
Cuckoo’s call beyond
joins the symphony.

Come night,
doors shut to bar
shots that shatter
silence often,
staining green hills
red.

Once, on these lovely hills
your soul roamed free
gathering mushrooms,
picking pine cones,
till misty dusk.
Then by fireside
you read of hope,
and dreamt sweet dreams
of better tomorrow.

But the day
failed to arrive;
twilight lingered,
hearts turned cold,
smiles turned sour.

Time moves on
unhurried.
Freedom is lost
in the searching.
Guns shout aloud
drowning voices.

The mistreated hills
sleep on.

Malsawmi Jacob works with SPARROW and has published a book of her poetry. She grew up in beautiful, pine-forested Shillong, Meghalaya which has since become a trouble spot and this poem reflects that sad passage of history.

Picture: Landscape in watercolour by Tlangrokhuma

Ngaiteii

2008-03-06T12:28:00.009+05:30

Translated by Rini Tochhong

Once upon a time, there was a young girl named Ngaiteii. Ngaiteii no longer had a father - her father had drowned. One day, Ngaiteii and her grandmother went to the fields to look for yam and at the bottom of their field was a deep gorge. That was the same gorge where Ngaiteii’s father had drowned, and everyone believed his spirit resided there. On the day they went to their field, Ngaiteii was constantly thirsty and her grandmother would go down to the gorge and fetch water for her. When Ngaiteii was thirsty once more, her grandmother said, “Ngaite, I’m so very tired now, you go down and fetch the water yourself. But when you go see the gorge, don’t say ‘Oh!’, just you keep quiet.” Ngaiteii said yes to her grandmother and went down to the gorge. As soon as she saw the deep black gorge, she forgot her grandmother’s warning and exclaimed “Oh!” As soon as she opened her mouth, she fell into the gorge. Ngaiteii’s grandmother, worried that she was so long in coming back, suspected that she must have fallen into the waters and set off to look for her. On her way, she met a deer couple and asked them if they had seen her. They replied :

“ Saw her, yes we did,
Across the waters, across the Tiau,
Ngaiteii’s father has taken her.”

Ngaiteii’s grandmother then believed that she had been taken by the spirit of her father. She then met a Varung couple and asked them whether they had seen her grand daughter. They too replied the way the deer had. She then saw Ngaiteii in the waters. She said, “Ngaite, I’m jumping in” and she did. Ngaiteii was very happy to see her grandmother. She then asked Ngaiteii, “Where then is the spirit of your father?” to which Ngaiteii replied, “Right now, he’s gone to his field. He’ll be back soon in the shape of a serpent.”

Ngaiteii’s father did come back in the form of a serpent late in the evening and later transformed himself to human form. The grandmother said to him, “I am going to take Ngaiteii back with me.” The father agreed but said, “You will have to bring her back to me very soon, though.” Ngaiteii and her grandmother then set off very happily for home. They, however, could not fulfil the father’s wish because Ngaiteii refused to go back to live with her father.

The father, his wish not being fulfilled, retaliated and flooded the nearby lands till Ngaiteii’s village was almost drowned in the impact. The sound of the waves reiterated, “Ngai, Ngai, Ngai”. This made the villagers understand the cause of the flood and they said, “Our village will be drowned because of Ngaiteii, what are we to do?” Some of them suggested “Throw her puan into the waters”. They did, and the flood subsided for a while. But the waters raged again in a little while and others suggested, “Throw her comb into the waters”. They did and the waters again subsided for a while. They continued throwing Ngaiteii’s possessions into the waters- her bracelet, her necklace, and all she possessed- but the flood refused to stop.

In the end, the villagers decided, “If we do not throw Ngaiteii into the waters, the entire village will be drowned”, and they had to throw Ngaiteii into the waters with deep regret. The water then stopped raging and slowly calmed till the flood was no more. But the villagers could not get over the loss of Ngaiteii and their song of mourning was

“ Ngaite hip,
The eastern winds did rage against you,
The heavy rains did pour down on you,
Ngaite hip.”

This song continues to be sung to this day, by children in their play.

~~~

Rini Tochhong loves stories and these old Mizo folktales are her favourites.

Picture: Oil on canvas by Tlangrokhuma

Hope, Despair and Immortality – Joseph Duhlian

2008-03-02T17:31:00.008+05:30

I

A flickering air
On a candle stand
A burnt out wax
A pilgrimage into the darkness
Searching for hope like treasure lost
Bending on the concrete pavement
Crawling into the mud of silence
I hit upon a wall
I broke my thoughts into pieces
Gathering them like wild berries
Into a basket of empty dreams

Blood stops. Coldness creeps
The heart turns stone
The sense flutters its heavy wings
Like a rusted propeller
Loneliness creeps in like an unwelcome
Guest destroying the passion
Left to die uncared for
How shall it all end?
The beginning of an endless flight
Wounded and weary
Flattened and useless like a
Cyclostyled waste black ink stain

Dawn breaks
Then the rains come
And mosquitoes too
Ants creep into every crack
Biting my nails I sit and stare
Entering my very door
Shutting out the joy within
After the rainbow shows
Noah’s flood flows into my senses
Shooting my soul up unto heaven
Like a ballpoint pen without ink
Just a roll on into the black space

Beneath the smiley dewdrops
Under the fruitless garden leaves
Lying down beside the yellow roots
Of a poison tree
My soul cried in agony
Without knowing why
I ask myself
Is this the place where I will pay the
Devil his due.
Searching for meaning
Frozen beneath the waves
And dug out in an empty pool
To be forever a sitting duck
Under the blistering sun.
But love will find a way
Even when the roses fade away
And the sparrow no longer sings
A thousand miles of a thousand cries
Into the abyss of time
Will lead me into the bosom of my beloved
The day that the river of sorrow dries
And the harvest of hope begins
And love forever blooms

II

Lately immortality has been on my mind
Triggered off I suspect by our mortality
Preserved in deep freeze
Unlocking the secrets of life and death
Imagining out lust for life

I suppose rightly, articiality of a kind
Our existence, a relative brevity
This sensual powerful breeze
Of unbridled desire in a midday heat I met
Sweetness inexhaustible suddenly sliced by a knife.

Is this life all there is
To be lived this way?
Leaving behind the dark spells of night
Into the eternal light of day
Immortality!
I could feel it any day.

Sorrows unexplainable
To my mind not at all
You are my reason and my existence
Clinging to illusions you may say
Accepting the inevitable
Our vulnerability
Ourselves a door unto eternity
With the One

Our divinity in the power of changing circumstances
Every moment an experience
Of joy in togetherness
Like sitting in a stationary train
Forever moving though everything passes by
Our confidence
Beyond time and distance.

With intensity and purpose
Everything becomes
Our advantage
You and I remain
Till eternity begins
Leaving behind doubt
Embracing trust full of opportunity
From good to better
And better to perfection
Crossing the bridge across forever.

This incomparable promise
A self-image of ourselves
Our human hunger
An honourable human soul
Implanted in us by divinity
Of all ages
And all cultures.
Someday
You and I will achieve
This imperishableness
Where hope, peace, faith and love abide.

This our mission
A glorious challenge
A dream come true
Spread all across the universe of my soul
Indestructible
Implanted in the DNA of my heart.

This unmovable forever going force
Rushing me like fresh living waters
Together we dream
Seeing and believing
An adventure in reality
Like a child deep in slumber
In our wholeness of experience
Our inner harmony.

In the gospel of forever
In our immortality
Rumbling through the street
Waving the flag high
Soaring above the clouds
Crossing the bubbling proof barriers
In ultimate security
You sit by me.

Leaving behind the termites and dry rot
Wooden beams of moral decay
We say goodbye to the cruel world

In this powerful and positive force
Crash landing into the
Aerodrome of faith
We travel
Like Tut, paint ourselves
A portrait
A cobra and vulture poised over our heads
We welcome all our visitors
Flooding our minds with
Health and happiness

Carrying in our hand
Memory and desire
Dynamiting ourselves into winners
We slip and stumble
Forever snapping at the handcuffs
Of poisonous negativity and dead ideas
But we survive the unpredictable twist of fate
Welcoming the future
Never letting go
Our immortality.

Joseph Duhlian teaches English in Mamit, Mizoram. He enjoys writing poetry, and is particularly interested in the works of the late Sylvia Plath. This poem was first published in the Mizoram College Teachers' Association magazine, 2003.

Happy Valley - Vanneihtluanga

2008-02-24T17:52:00.020+05:30

Translated by Cherrie Lalnunziri Chhangte

In a part of Aizawl that was nearly inaccessible by virtue of the sheer inconvenience of the roads leading to it, and yet, was paradoxically situated in the heart of the city, where the roads meandered like the intricate maze of a mole’s burrow, some people, on their way back from work headed for home. The road that led them home was a dead-end one, and there was no way to return from there except by the same torturous road.

Had the Creator not destined this particular locality to be in the very heart of Aizawl, no sane man would have chosen it as his dwelling place. Yet, since Aizawl city had already chosen these particular people to dwell there as her guests in that rocky ravine, the citizens of this place led a contented existence, bolstered by the knowledge that there were many who were not fortunate enough to have even a place like theirs to claim as their own in Aizawl. The place had no resemblance to what the likes of John Keats romantically described as a “vale”. There was no justification for naming it ‘Happy Valley.’ Most of the inhabitants had probably never set their sights on the haunting beauty of the place called Happy Valley in Shillong. Thus, one could surmise that they had not named the place because the denizens of this area were nostalgic of Shillong’s Happy Valley, and were reminded of the beautiful landscape of that place. The simple explanation was that they chose an English-sounding name, easily pronounceable, and which even the barely literate amongst them, who had learned their ABCs in adult schools, could write without fear or apprehension.

The people of this area did not have such lofty ambitions of making the place live up to its beautiful namesake in Shillong. I do not think they said, “Since we belong to Happy Valley, let us make it as beautiful as Shillong’s Happy Valley.” For them, it was simply a place to go home to after spending all day trying to squeeze their share of the fat from an already-lean Aizawl. There stood their ramshackle houses which afforded them shelter from wind and rain. Having few expectations, they spent their time there not particularly envious of anyone.

Who lived in Happy Valley? Few of them actually owned the houses they lived in. Aizawl was becoming more crowded everyday; prospective tenants multiplied, accompanied by a corresponding increase in the rates of house-rent, and no matter how unappealing a house or its location was, there was always someone to rent it at the right price. The few people who owned land in Happy Valley were aware of this, and as much as their financial and intellectual resources would allow them, they constructed simple dwellings, tenements that would perhaps fetch them between fifty and a hundred rupees per room.

Those who afforded such dwellings stayed there, more possessive of their homes than their landlords themselves. Thus, all kinds of people gathered there: peddlers and merchants who were not necessarily Paihte, malaria-ravaged people from the west, Maras¹ from the extreme south, wandering Evangelists, Muster Roll Drivers, Muslims who paid no heed to Ramzan and Id, Sericulture office workers who had no inkling of what a cocoon was, babysitters who worked in other people’s homes, those who babysat these babysitters, their assorted family and friends, those whose only field of expertise was in auto repair, others who had always belonged to the Left ever since Mizoram entered the political arena; also, those whose sole reason for being sent to Aizawl by their parents seemed to be to appear for Matriculation exams, a big man whose drunken behaviour differed depending on whether he drank local liquor or the imported variety, a few who still vehemently declared that they would have no other ruler besides Kumpinu², some who wanted to withdraw their names from the Church Registry because they were unhappy with the latest translation of the Bible and the new version of the Christian Hymnal, and those whose character could never be ascertained owing to the fact that their stays in Happy Valley were few and far-between, as sporadic as a comet’s visits.

“New tenants” and “moving out” were two key-phrases in Happy Valley. Every week, down the torturously step road leading to Happy Valley came a few new tenants carrying kerosene stoves stained with dal, and bedding that had sadly seen many better days strung together in an untidy heap; at the same time, those moving out laboured their way up the road equally burdened with kerosene stoves stained with the yellow gravy of behlawi bai³ and a locally-made double-stringed guitar, which, however, sported only four strings.

Whenever there were newcomers, Happy Valley bachelors asked two very crucial questions: one, was there a pretty girl in the new family? And, two, if there was any such beauty, did the family have any chairs to sit on? This was indeed a pertinent question in a place where many of the new arrivals were likely to inform all and sundry that furniture such as chairs had been “left behind in the village”, a piece of information that brought more gloom to the listeners than did Reagan’s Economic Sanction in South Africa. Thus, a lively discussion about any new people who had a pretty daughter always merited further discussion on whether they had seating facilities as well.

Cutting through Happy Valley was a public road on which rambled along vehicles of all sorts: huge, shiny, and indiscriminately noisy. While those living near the road were privileged to breathe in the faint promise of a glorious future, those living in the outer periphery below the dust of the main road were not unduly worried about the sounds they could hear from above, of people jostling with each other as if eager not to miss out on their share of riches, power and glory. They had a complacent and satisfied aura about them, since they saw the futility of attempting to even join the rat-race, and even if they could hear these sounds of materialistic struggles with their outer ears, they learned to shut their inner ears against them, and instead, forged a lifestyle and attitude that was in tandem with their income, a mixture of village life and city life which resulted in a unique lifestyle adapted to their means and needs.

When dusk fell, people who belonged to diverse professions, as if having made a pact to go home together at a certain time, met on that rocky road like beavers on their way home to their burrows, and disappeared into their homes for their evening meal. After that, electric lights – those powered by stolen lines indistinguishable from the legal ones – began to flicker and illuminate the rooms one by one. Some lights seemed brighter than necessary, while others were mellow and dim. Whether out of neglect or inconvenience, the locality, although it was situated well within the bounds of the city’s heartland, did not have even a single electric post. Hence electric lights had to be powered by an electric post high up above their locality. Those who could afford longer cables had electricity, and that was all. In the monsoon, because of the terrific length of these few lines, when the rain and wind spewed forth in fury, the electrical cables fizzed and sparked dangerously.

On what could dubiously be called a terrace, the roof of a badly-constructed concrete building, girls sat after washing the dirty dinner dishes. They squeezed together on a bench that had some legs missing, and every time somebody moved, the bench creaked in loud protest. Inevitably, a young man would come carrying his guitar, a most pathetic sample of such an instrument. He had tuned and adjusted the strings so tautly that the bow of the guitar was bent at an angle, making it difficult to coax a decent sound even out of the “D” key. Incredibly, the guitar’s owner could somehow persuade beautiful music to issue forth from this hopelessly battered instrument, which would have defeated even guitar maestros like Jimi Hendrix. When the tune was in danger of going flat, he would push the relevant string sharply upwards with his finger, and melody would return.

And then, how they would sing! How fortunate the composers never heard them sing their songs! An ex-army man, the only one among them who knew any English, would always join them, and tipsily taking the guitar, would proclaim that he sang nothing but English songs. Crossing his legs, taking the guitar and strumming a hringdup, hringdup⁴ beat, he proceeded to sing what could possibly be an original composition, judging from the extreme dissimilarity to the authentic version of the song he was singing:

I’d like to saddle round

But they won’t saddle round

A virgin tube must be a rolling stone!

Down every road there’s one more Satan

Aim on the rock

The Highway is my home.

The words, no doubt, might have been strange, but the spirit that gripped him as he sang was certainly exalted. As soon as his performance was over, in true Vanapa Hall⁵fashion, his audience clapped and cheered, to which he magnanimously replied, “Thank you…with effect from tonight” in unadulterated English.

Now it was the turn of Mawitea, the lad who owned the guitar, to sing. In total contrast to his upbringing and lack of formal training, he expertly used his fingers to reproduce the opening chords of Europe’s “The Final Countdown”. His audience, expectant as they were of hearing a song by Europe by virtue of the introductory notes, were somewhat taken aback when he proceeded to follow the magnificent solo with a song by The Crusaders. Then he gave renditions of songs by The Invaders and Vanlalruati; when he had sung a verse each from three songs, the girls cried out, “Mawite, Mawite, ‘Zanlai Thlifim’” and in the blink of an eye, they were transported to the side of the great singer, Lallianmawia⁶. Whichever song he sang, he had the ability to replicate the exact pitch and style of the singer who had made a particular song famous, be it C.Lalrinmawia, Zirsangzela Hnamte, or C.Vansanga.

In their midst was a man who felt justified in calling himself one of the “owners” of Happy Valley. It was apparent that he considered himself a very big fish in a pond of small fishes. He was as pale as the unexposed side of a bitter gourd, and apart from the pale skin, red nose, the abundance of pimples on his face and the protuberance of his behind, there was not much to distinguish him. He was a strange man. Outside Happy Valley, he was just another man looking for favours from those higher up than him in the hierarchy. As soon as he entered Happy Valley, however, he became Lord of the Universe in his mind. When he truly became himself, he would hold forth on all topics based on what he had heard on the radio or read from old issues of Time Magazine, liberally sprinkled with lies that he dreamed up. He would then speculate and make authoritative conclusions based on the scant information he had gleaned thus. In front of the Happy Valley men and women who had gathered, he would talk of strange and amazing things. He talked excitedly of Reagan’s Star Wars Programme. At another time, he said, “Michael Jackson is going to the USSR, and there they will change his name. He will no longer be known as Michael Jackson, but Mikhael Jacksonov.” His audience was silent. They had no idea if Michael Jackson was a rat or a bird. The only other person who had heard of him, said, “I know who that is! A female soldier who screams a lot, and walks very stiffly. Reminds me of an arthritic trying to dance.” Another, said “Oh, I see” while chewing on tobacco leaves, and from there the conversation fizzled out. The ex-army man, wanting to contribute something to the topic, but at a loss for a suitable thing to say, said, “I once bought a black ticket at Zodin cinema too.”

When they talked of matters close to their hearts, however, they became so enthusiastic that they had to fight for a chance to speak. The topics varied from charcoal sold in the market, wholesale prices of firewood and mustard leaves, a coin found in a bag of fermented fish, present prices of Burmese cattle, the irregularity of supplies such as dried mangoes and cloth smuggled surreptitiously from across the border, how they had been miraculously healed seven times through Evangelist Lalchungnunga’s ministry, how they positively loathed men who wore earrings, how many tiny pebbles there were in this week’s ration-rice, and how, seeing that they were born only once, they were determined to request at least one song on All India Radio during their lifetime. Towards the end, a small boy who always hung around them would make an innocent comment such as “I don’t think the pebbles they add to the ration-rice make it any tastier” and they would all burst out laughing.

With the break of dawn, the crowing of cocks in the distance and the loud rumble of water-trucks out to supply water to the citizens of Aizawl woke up the people of Happy Valley. Since they were in the west, they had to peer towards the east, to the hills of Reiek in the distance to see if the sun was up or not. A woman called her neighbour, “Neighbour, what are your plans for the day?”

The neighbour appeared at her window, “I thought I would go to Civil8 today for a check up.”

“What is wrong with you?”

“Oh! Haven’t you heard about the new machine they have installed there, Endawskawp or something.”

“No”

“Everyone is all praises for it, they are all going there to consult it, and I thought I would go too.”

“And what ailment are you going to get yourself checked for?”

“I’m not sure. All I know is that the machine is good. Maybe I will let it check my insides.”

“Well, maybe I should go too; my eyesight is not so good these days.”

“Eh! Let’s go together then. I have been having this persistent pain in my ankle too. I went to get myself checked the other day, and I think just a single visit has relieved me of so much pain. It seems to work better than the X-ray.” Thus, they went to consult the endoscope machine, an instrument meant for examining the inside of the human body, believing that it was some sort of a medicine, and hoping to be cured of all their ailments.

In Happy Valley, it was impossible to survive without that amazing word, “borrow”. Since times were hard, it was not uncommon for a family not to have even small items like knives and scissors. If one had too many visitors, one simply borrowed chairs from neighbours, and sharing utensils was a common practice too. Nobody was aggrieved over these matters. Since what they did not have far outnumbered what they did have, borrowing became a way of life for them, and they did what they could to help a neighbour who, after all, lived just on the other side of the wall.

When we had lived for a considerable amount of time in this manner, video invaded happy Valley in a big way. As before, young men and women gathered after supper, but things had changed. Mawitea walked around with a scarf covering his face, only his eyes visible, while a samurai sword was perpetually strapped on his back. Happy Valley was no longer a safe place. That was not all. One fellow, a driver by profession, refused to wear clothes any longer after watching a Rambo movie. When he was not carrying a baby on his back, an old bicycle chain was draped around his shoulder, and even when he was carrying a baby, he did not refrain from tying a bandanna around his head or wearing hunter boots. He had a maniacal gleam in his eyes, as if he wanted to chew and spit on the world in general. The Mara boy, on the other hand, could not walk past a pole or tree or any object that one could circle, without singing, “Tarzan! My Tarzan!” first.

The erstwhile simple babysitters now looked like local versions of Cindy Crawford and Sridevi with their charcoal black eyelids. Whenever they came together, they clutched fashionably thin bags with pictures of Popeye under their arms. Once a neighbour from this group came and excitedly said, “Oi, they were selling some neil pawlissh⁷ at really cheap prices…” and proceeded to take out a bottle of stencil correcting fluid out of her bag. Such incidents were not cause for wonder or embarrassment in Happy Valley.

Handshakes now were offered at great peril to the owner of the hand, for the young boys were likely to throw you over, with a great shout of “Freestyle!” Any old bin or pieces of tar lying on the ground became instruments for practising kung fu.

~ ~ ~

Nights falls, and they all disappear to watch videos at a neighbour’s house. There is nobody left at the rooftop where they once congregated. It is eerily silent. The bamboo groves far below swish and rustle when the wind blows through them. Above, the waning moon, looking desolate, inhabits the night sky like a lone ship on a vast ocean. All the young men and women who sang so well, spoke so well, and related to each other like kindred spirits – where have they all gone? There is no other sound except the noise from a far-off television set, where music from MTV blares out the song, “Video Killed the Radio Star.”

Notes:

Paites are a clan belonging to Mizoram. They have been traditionally portrayed as peddlars and small-time merchants.
Kumpinu: The East India Company, here synonymous with the British Empire.
Behlawi Bai: A Mizo dish made out of certain leaves called behlawi.
Hringdup beat refers to the simplest form of the swing rhythm, a beat popular in many Mizo songs.
A public hall in the centre of Aizawl city, where most important functions are held.
The Crusaders and The Invaders were popular gospel bands in the 1980s, who followed Evangelists and complemented the sermons with their songs. Vanlalruati, Lallianmawia, C.Lalrinmawia, Zirsangzela Hnamte, and C.Vansanga are well-known singers in Mizoram, and the story is set at a time when they had reached the height of their popularity.
Nail Polish.
Civil Hospital

Vanneihtluanga is among the most outstanding Mizo contemporary writers. Written in the mid-80s, this piece comes from his autobiographical collection of short stories Keimah leh Keimah first published in 2000. He still lives in what's sometimes fondly called Happy Valley by its inhabitants in Chanmari, Aizawl, although now in a spacious multi-roomed house.

Cherrie Lalnunziri Chhangte works in the English dept at Mizoram University. Actively involved both in creative writing in English and translations from Mizo to English, her prose here has a lyricism that is beautifully poetic.

Glimpses of Mizo Literature - RL Thanzawna

2008-02-20T21:12:00.022+05:30

Ninety one years ago, not a single Mizo could read or write for the Mizo alphabet as we know it today, was only codified by the pioneer missionaries, Rev FJ Savidge and Rev JH Lorrain who landed in a small hamlet near Sairang by the banks of the river Tlawng in Mizoram in the chilly winter of 1894. If the true meaning of literature is to be taken literally, it may perhaps be a little presumptuous to claim the existence of any Mizo literature prior to that date.

Oral Literature

If we remember, however, that long before man wrote down his thoughts and emotions, he expresses them in songs. Untouched by learned influences from without, these songs are crystallized into the living language of the people – folksongs and folk stories were born out of such full and spontaneous expression which were then orally passed on from generation to generation. As we follow history of any literature through all its transformations, we are brought into direct and living contact with the motive forces of the inner life of each successive generation, and learn at first hand how it looked at life and how it thought about it, what were the things in which it was most willing to be amused, by what passions it was most deeply stirred, by what standard of conduct and of taste it was governed, and what types of characters it deemed worthy of its admiration.

Mizo Literature begins with the history of the people

Mizo literature, we would therefore, claim did not begin with the day when the Duhlian dialect we now call the Mizo language was reduced into writing in the Roman script but in fact, started with the history of the Mizo people. Anything that, for good or evil, has entered into the making of Mizo society has also entered into the texture of Mizo literature – whether it was the travails of their migration, their fierce battles and ambuscades or the sweat and toils of raising their crops, their festivals and folk dances, all go to their general life, belief and aspirations which were profoundly imprinted in their literature.

What we now call Mizo literature consists not only of the creation of literate writers or translations of the Bible and other western literature but also of the collection of those folk songs and folk stories which go under the anonymous name of the people’s creation.

Beginning of Written Literature

Thanks to the hard work of the pioneering missionaries, their earlier converts and to subsequent generations, no less, Mizo literature has now gained, within a span of less than a century, a status which is considered fit to be included in the curriculum right up to the university degree courses. The tales told by grandmas to the children, war chants and love songs provided the necessary ingredients to the literature. All these not only generate existence of Mizo literature but also inspire and promote its development.

Earlier Literature

The earliest Mizo songs are those which can be called nursery songs or cradle songs, most of which are apparently nonsensical repetitive mnemonic rhymes but on closer look they reveal the imprint of the simple milieu of yesteryears of Mizo society. Perhaps the earliest Mizo songs we know of are the following –

“Ur ur tak kai, ur ur tak kai
Hnung hnung tak kai, hnung hnung tak kai”
“Khawmhma pal a er an ti,
A duh duhin er rawh se”
Mothers carrying their babies on their backs would put their darlings to sleep with a lullaby like this –

“A khiah khian lungpui a lo lum dawn e,
Ka nauvi kha a del hang e, suan rawh u”

(High up from the hill is a rock rolling down
Remove my little darling, lest the rock will crush him)

“A khiah khian rammu an kal dial dial e,
Ka nauvi pa tel ve maw, ral that ve maw?”

(Yonder o’er there go the warriors
Does my darling’s dad join there, did he too kill an enemy?”)

Influence of Neighbouring Communities and Christianity

Cradle songs such as these connote the primitive – animistic belief and their headhunting proclivities and their admiration for those who vanquished their enemies. In course of their migration towards the west from Central Asia, the Mizos established a big settled village in the fertile valley of Chindwin in Burma where they tarried for a considerable time until they were forced by a stronger tribe, such as the Chins, to move westwards to present Mizoram. Their stay in this valley of Run (a tributary of Chindwin) was marked by a number of songs and interesting tales. Their songs and stories wer indicative of their intercourse with other communities. Many of their songs talk of the marauding Chins who ransacked their villages, held their daughters to ransom, and took the men as captives while most of their war chants or Hlado as they were called, are interspersed with Chin dialect. Some Mizo tales like Khena leh Rama, Rairahtea leh Chhawnabawrahza, Mauruangi and many others smack of a faint acquaintance with Hindu mythology or the existence of some powerful Raja somewhere. It is presumed that such knowledge was gained by them through their contacts with the people of Cachar, tripura, Manipur or Chittagong areas. What is evident, however, is that some version of Hindu mythologies had been passed on to the forefathers of the Mizos long before Christianity made its entry into their society. Having first learnt something about the tenets of Hinduism, it is not known why not a single Mizo has embraced that religion. This can be an interesting subject for research.

The history of the literature of the Mizos is, truly, the history of the Mizos. For reasons unexplainable by any glib interpretation, Mizos embraced the Christian en masse; since 1894 till now, within such a short time almost a hundred percent claim to be Christians. Since this date, ie 1894, Mizo history is an entirely new chapter.

How Mizo Script was Formulated

Mizo language has no script of its own. Credit for reducing it into writing in the Roman script has been given to the pioneer missionaries. Their efforts were, however, preceded by commendable exercises of enterprising officers like Lt. Col. Thomas Herbert Lewin (affectionately called Thangliana by the Mizos – a corruption of Tom Lewin) who wrote Progressive Colloquial Exercise in the Lushai Dialect in 1874. Dr Brojo Nath Saha, a civil medical officer of Chittagong, also published a book called Grammar of the Lushai Language. Yet another British officer called C.A. Soppitt had compiled Rangkhol-Kuki-Lushai Grammar way back in 1885. All these efforts paved the way to the more systematic and organized efforts of the missionaries.

First Book Published

Having taught the art of writing and reading to the Mizos, one of the first things the missionaries did was produce some literature to read. Portions of the Bible particularly the Gospels, were translated into Mizo – first came the Mizo version of Luke (1896), then John (1898), then the Acts of the Apostles (1899). Then came the first Mizo Primer – Mizo Zirtir Bu (1903). The Mizo version of the Bible remains the standard for Mizo literature today.

Original Works of Mizo Poets

Following publication of the Mizo Bible, a number of books on religious matters including translations of Christian hymns were published which were avidly learned by the new literates. Their thirst for more literature to read was nursed with the publication of the Mizo version of the Pilgrim’s Progress (Kristiana Vanram Kawngzawh) translated by Rev Chuautera which remains one of the most readable books, apart from the Bible, in Mizo literature today. The contribution of the missionaries and the churches towards the development of Mizo literature cannot be overemphasized; they do not only provide the printed material but opened up their eyes to wider horizons to the world of literature and changed their outlook on life and life after death. Not being content with the translated hymns of the western composers, many gifted Mizo poets came up with poems written in their own idioms and in tune with their own indigenious ethos and conception of Christianity. Such songs of worship are called Lengkhawm Zai and are sung in the traditional Mizo way with a drum. In style and profoundity these songs are dearest to the hearts of the adult members of the society and are original contributions to the wealth of Mizo literature.

The codification of Mizo language and publication of Christian literature in that language not only paved the way for the development of Mizo literature but also resulted in the emergence of the Mizo language as the only language, the lingua franca as it were, for the entire Mizoram. Barring the Mara (Lakher) and the Chakmas, all the sub-tribes who used their own dialects switched over to the Mizo language. This has had a salutary effect on all aspects of development and the growth of literature.

The Role Of Journalism
Having been exposed to the world of literature, the need for publication of things mundane and secular was soon felt. The first Mizo journal of a sort called Mizo Chanchin Laishuih was published in 1898; it was a cyclostyled tabloid. This publication did not last long. A monthly journal published by the Superintendent of Lushai Hills and printed in Sylhet came out in 1902. This monthly journal called Mizo leh Vai Chanchin was in circulation for several years. Contributors to this journal were the first educated Mizos who were held in high esteem by the people. Their writings on human interest did a yeoman’s service to the people. Then came the Kristian Tlangau, a monthly mouthpiece of the Presbyterian Mission from Aizawl in 1911. The Baptist Mission of Lunglei also came up with a monthly magazine called Tlawmngaihna (1934). This magazine, though with an emphasis was more interested in highlighting whatever is good and worthwhile in Mizo tradition like Tlawngaihna and so on. Another monthly Kohhran Beng from the Baptist Church of Serkawn came out in 1947. This again is the mouthpiece of the church and is still in circulation. But the journal which took up the development of Mizo literature as its main object was the monthly mouthpiece of the Lushai Students’ Association (LSA) which came out in 1935 till it ceased publication in 1980. The LSA was later changed to MZP – Mizo Zirlai Pawl. This magazine published, among other things, essays and other writings of purely literary nature. Many other newspapers and journals have since come up but the ones which have contributed most to the development of Mizo literature are those that have been enumerated. At the moment there is only one literary magazine called Thu leh Hla, a mouthpiece of the Mizo Academy of Letters.

Contemporary Literature
A study of contemporary Mizo literature reveals considerable maturity and depth from the 30s onwards with poets and writers producing works of lasting value on secular subjects. From Serkawn High School under the leadership of the headmaster Lalmama and Rev H.W. Carter a number of poems called Sekawn Concert Hla have been produced. These poems eulogise the legendary heroes of the Mizos and praise traditional values in Mizo society, the beauty of nature and other human interests. This type of poetry called Hla Lenglawng (Community songs) set a new chapter in Mizo literature. In the traditional Mizo style the creations of Awithangpa, Bualkunga and a host of others blossomed forth. In originality and content, the works of Kamlala stood out prominently. World War II and its aftermath saw the blossoming of many beautiful lovesongs from the pen of C. Lalzova, Vankhama, Lalzuia and others. The devastation caused by World War II and the political awakening which followed also brought about the spirit of nationalism and the need for moral development all over the world which also inspired writers like Rokunga and others to produce poems of inspiration and thought-provoking nature. The essays and writings of Biakliana, K.C.Lalvunga, C. Thuamluaia, J. Malsawma and others set the pace for literary prose writings.

No sufficient justice can be done to describe the spurt of literature coming up in recent years without a full length study. Suffice it to say that the literary award given to Rev Liangkhaia by the Mizo Academy of Letters in 1978, and the Padma Shree award to James Dokhuma for literature in 1985 by the President of India, confirm that given the opportunity and necessary patronage, the door is open now for the massive development of Mizo literature.

Impediments to the Growth
The greatest impediments to the growth of Mizo literature is lack of funds. Printing of books cost much money. In a small community, the number of books that could be sold is very small. Publication of any literary works, unless it happens to be a textbook or supported by the government or church organization, is a losing proposition which no individual writer can afford. There is, at the moment, a great interest in the development of literature which is evident from the number of manuscripts and cyclostyled copies lying with individual writers. If only there could be an agency of the government which could assist with the publication of works of literary value, it will be a monumental contribution to the growth of Mizo literature and to society.

R.L.Thanzawna was a trailblazer and pioneer for Mizoram during an illustrious bureaucratic career spanning the 60s to the 90s. With a wide array of interests and deeply knowledgeable in Mizo culture and history, as head of the newly created Department of Information and Public Relations and Tourism in the early 70s, he spearheaded a flurry of publicity for Mizoram, opening it up to the world. With great empathy for the younger generation, he organized the influential Beat Contests of the 70s. He was also interested in the print media and was instrumental in the creation of Mizoram Today, a classy tourist-oriented monthly magazine chronicling official developments in fine quality print, and organized several workshops for young journalists whom he personally trained in reporting ethics and know-how. He co-authored A History of the Mizos with CG Verghese in 1997, besides writing several authoritative articles on Mizo arts and culture. He died on the 5th November, 1998.

I am deeply grateful to his son Lalhmingliana for giving me free access to his father's works and allowing me to reproduce online this essay which was first published in Mizoram News Magazine, 1985.