A Dream

It’s August 15 or so, India’s independence. I am in a dream. I am not sure about the year but it’s post-independence. I am part of this network of hardcore Nagas spread across the globe and this network has some end-time plans.

The meeting starts after unfurling the Naga flag and paying a two-minute silence to the departed Nagas. All the members have brought the details of the different strategies. There are some ‘bika’ cups and pork cubes neatly arranged across palm-sized banana leaves. So, the meeting is very Naga in nature. I feel very much at home sitting around here, though the faces are new to me. And so it starts. Today is the day. India will get a wake-up call on independence day.

The first update I hear is from a lady. And she looks like she’s from the eastern part of Naga soil. It happens that her grandpa was buried alive by the Indian army. I’m not sure but she says something related to that. She was still a kid then. Anyway, I learn this update from her. All the petrol stations in the major cities have been mapped. There are exactly five hundred Nagas in each city. They have enough motorcycles and grenades and Molotov cocktails.
What they are to do is blow up the petrol stations. India doesn’t have oil so that’s what the grenades and Molotov cocktails are for. That’s what she says. And since all the explosions will take place at the same time there will be confusion in the Home ministry.
Hmmm. I am not aware of that. This lady is one of a kind Naga – not surprising, though. So with that her update is done. Then with a cup of ‘bika’ in his hand the next member starts. He first laughs for a while on hearing the report. Nagas are humorous and cool by nature. Poor Indians, he says. He shows the laptop with all the members logged in to the chat room. The site is www.forthenation.com. All the logged in members are abroad and on board international flights. They number a thousand. But he sips his ‘bika’ while saying that. So, I can’t hear it clearly - a thousand or ten thousand may be. Anyway, these members too have their own notebooks so everyone knows everyone in the chat room. They are chatting about their destinations and a lot of fun. Then he says he knows how many Indians are on board today - their photos and seat numbers. I still don’t get what he is trying to say. I listen on. The thousand or so Nagas on board have packets of advanced epoxy resin. They will simply mould weapons out of it. And since it won’t take much time to dry as hard as rock, that will be their weapon. So, at any given convenient time the planes will be hijacked. He sips another ‘bika’ and says that before taking over the planes, at least one or two Indians will have their throats slit so that it will convince everyone on board. He says that’s very practical and global. Nice idea. He says that Nagas are in majority in those planes so there arises no problem. At this some of the members are surprised. They don’t have much exposure to technology and sophisticated warfare. They love their land so much that they chose never to go out of Naga soil. Then I check whether my heart also beats with the same intensity or not. I find out that my heart needs to beat more.

As I reflect on these things the next member rolls out his report. He opens up by saying ‘kuknalim’ in a very content voice. The cows were slaughtered successfully last night he says. The carcasses are scattered on bus stops around the cities of India. He says that there is already a commotion in those places.Cows are very sacred to Hindus. He shows some pictures taken by an Indian newspaper named ‘The Bharatvarsh’ and the editor is Jagdamba Mall. But these pictures are not of the bus stops. These are of the Hindu temples and shrines. Then he says that his plan was to cut the heads off the cows and throw them into the temples and shrines and in some cases hang the heads on the ‘trishul’ of the temples and shrines. And his team did just that.

By the way he talks I know he is very practical and humble like any other Naga. Then another round of ‘bika’ and pork cubes is served. I see some smile descend upon the members. As they smile on the scene seems to fade away. The faces are vanishing. Is this end of the dream? It can’t be. This dream is very sweet. Suddenly the scene becomes clear like before. And I am already in the middle of the next update. The railway tracks have been successfully blown up. That’s what I hear and no more. The dream is indeed coming to an end. I try hard to dream myself. And then a feeble mention of anthrax reaches my ears and it’s gone. I try again but this time it’s gone forever. How I miss such a dream!

The Independent Price

“I have come again,” says my grand uncle as he enters the kitchen, the most happening place. He took the village bus. I have always admired his adventurous Naga spirit. Ours is the first house he picks whenever he comes on such visits. Maybe because we share the same vein of Naganess.
His already old knees have started to ache again. The patellae are reporting cases of anatomical breach. Therefore, he has to get some orthopedic attention. And I will, once again, hear him say, “Tali, ‘the independent price’.” He was a village functionary during his younger days. Like many of my beloved Naga grandfathers he was also beaten up. His knees became the contact point of Jawaharlal Nehru’s extravaganza –or should I say so. That is what he means by ‘the independent price.’ It took me a while to understand his use of words this way. Nagas love metaphors and similes and there is a class in those expressions. And all that I see in him is me –a Naga.
Every time he comes for a round of treatment I am reminded of another pain [of my people] and the silent deep panting for hope and peace thereof –nothing else matters. Will anybody hear? A profound question indeed. And that is the singular cry that cuts across the land. Travailing precedes the birth of a nation, they say. I have learned this as I saw him writhe around on the bed in agony many times. How long? That is the only question that seems to be around during such times. For the moment the pain may linger but everything under the sun has its term. This is why he is who he is and I am, he says. I couldn’t agree more as I see the same pattern in a different form. Much is expected as much as much has happened down the decades. And as much as the patellae and the pain are undeniable, redemption too is undeniable. It’s a reality.
Will I see it in my lifetime? That’s another question my generation thinks about. My grand uncle’s lifetime has passed. He is already dead now. He didn’t see it in his lifetime. But he knew it was coming. And it is coming.
So, generations come and generations go. But they won’t vanish just like that. There is more to being humans and more still, to being a people.
The 93-year old Mr. Yamaguchi is still alive having survived both the Hiroshima and Nagasaki bombings. I saw his picture just a few days back. The beauty of being a people is not skin deep, though beauty may be skin deep. And there have been no instances of not pursuing the beauty of being a people down the ages so far. Therefore, this pursuance is only human and divine perhaps. There seems to be no contradiction. Nothing can be more appreciative than this pursuance by a people for a people being a people and, human of course.
A Challenge
Populism breaks down because it undermines freedom in the process. Populists self-destruct. Incidentally, the whole globe suffers from this. A nascent nation can embark upon a standard against populism and be a globe changer too, having changed itself in the first place.

My Dear Pig And Me - A Naga

It's Saturday. Home alone. The rest of the family are in the village. They will be back home at night on the four-wheel Willy's jeep. It's afternoon and the sun is giving up. And my dear pig's stomach has given up too. He has started grunting. So, I grab the intricately woven bamboo basket my grandfather made and vanish into the greenery behind the house. There should be fresh leaves for my dear pig! And then, my mind rolls over the whole issue of my dear pig and me - a Naga.
So much as I put the Shillong knife across each green leaf and sometimes in a bunch, I know that I have better prospects in life. I also remember my grand uncle telling me we have sound minds and not to be like 'tsumars' (Indians).He left last year.

I also realize that many of my tribesmen have been cut off so effortlessly just like I am cutting the leaves. Oh, how easily they have been cut! God forgive the 'tsumars'. And as I look at the basket already full, I am moved. I am not alone! Perhaps, somewhere across the thousands of square miles of greenery of my country Naga, another tribesman is thinking alike as he attends to his dear pig. What a tribe I belong to! And so my gathering is finished and like a seasoned Naga warrior I suddenly appear out of the greenery. My dear pig has stepped up his grunting pace. So I throw a handful from the basket into his hollow wooden bowl. He is hungry indeed. The sparkling nose under the afternoon ray seems to assure me more of that. Then I get this realization that I a tribesman am also hungry with a more real hunger, something like the Israelite tribesmen had under Egypt's bondage. And certainly Jehovah wouldn't fuse my tribe into a heathen people. God forbid.

Oh, the water must be boiling! So I head to the fireplace and the basin dances because of the restless water. The water is done. And as I pour the water into the Waterman bucket, I know my tribe is also done and ready to impact the world just like the wheat bran and other vegetables are in the Waterman's. Still thinking about this I walk to the corner beside the kitchen and sit down to chop the basket-full as finely as my dear pig prefers. To my surprise I come to know that I am honestly very specific to my dear pig's preference not my convenience so much as my tribe is honest to our'tribality'.

Eureka! With this wonderful discovery, up I stand with my grandfather's basket-full and put the chopped leaves into the bucket. Then I stir up everything together with my bare hands. And somehow I feel my hands being replaced by a thousand computerized mechanical hands that would do the stirring for a thousand pigs in a massive pig farm in my country Naga. As I carefully stir, a potato passes by and I grab it and crush it gently. That potato then assures me of another massive potato chips industry in my country Naga. Perhaps the whole of South East Asia can be the market for that. And the uranium reserves will provide any amount of power required. As I keep on thinking my dear pig's meal gets ready because my stirring has done its job. He must be very hungry by now. So I lift up the bucket and proceed towards him. I pour the bucket-full into his dry wooden bowl. He gulps it up with perfect timing.
Then I learn I will have my own time too. I will know how wonderful it is to gulp in freedom. May my dear pig inspire me more. May the Holy Ghost lead my tribe into all truth and revelation.

The Solitary Kerosene Lamp

It’s a chilling December night. I am in a dream somewhere in Naga Land. There is no electricity. Someone tells me that the success story of Edison’s lamps at the Menlo Park seems to have little impact in this part of the world. There is darkness all around –pitch darkness. Visibility is almost zero.

Alone stands a solitary kerosene lamp on the table and burns happily. Beside the lamp, the face of a teenager glows rhythmically as the light from the lamp flickers. She has a dream to live for. Her dad is a skilled carpenter. Many Naga dads are. And that’s how the family is looked after. Her mom has chronic colon problem and cannot do much work. She has one younger brother. But he is deaf. She says,” My name is Aien, the language I cry in –anguish,” following Senti Toy’s song. Every night she claims that the stripes of Jesus have healed her beloved mom and brother. She must be an angel, I presume. Sad indeed, many parents have stopped praying for their children in Naga Land. But transformation and transfiguration are coming, she says. I don’t know how she got these words but it’s a dream and so all things are possible.

Tonight she is preparing for the HSLC examination in February. It’s just another night of study for her. She is aiming high and wants to make her family proud. She wants the Mayangnokcha Award beside the solitary kerosene lamp –from darkness to light. She knows she can make it. That’s what she tells me with a smile. So, I smile back to encourage her and her dreams to shine. I continue telling her that there can be fulfillment in all aspects of her life –both a vertical one towards God and a horizontal one towards others. She struggles to get the point but she listens intently as she always does. Then she tells me that the solitary kerosene lamp keeps her dream alive. If December darkness cannot overwhelm the capacity of the solitary kerosene lamp, neither can the surrounding bleakness bring her down. The bleaker the surrounding the brighter the light.

Afar, I hear Christmas carols billowing up and down. But she sits by the table and sings a folk song of forlorn love and hope. She says folklores give her courage and above all, identity. After a while she turns to me and says, “I have a dream. Do you?” She doesn’t tell me what her dream is but her smile again assures me that she is already riveted on her dream. Little wonder that dreams and realities go hand in hand.

Am I still dreaming? The solitary kerosene lamp burns on.
The ‘roaring twenties’ (1920-29) are still roaring into her ears, she says. People can still have cheerfulness and confidence. She says that we can plant cherry trees along the hillsides of Naga Land thereby adding odd beauty as they bloom in December. Tourists would certainly enjoy that winter beauty as a prelude on their way to the Hornbill Festival. She points me to one such tree through the window. Then she shows me a list of names of Naga heroes. She wants the roads and streets across Naga Land to bear those names –a legacy of victory. And yes, it’s not far. All things are possible in a dream. The solitary kerosene lamp burns on.