The week that was #1

Autumn doesn’t show up where I stay. It is just a mild summer. No browns, reds or oranges. I am mostly in bed these days, exhausted, because my body is making a tiny human. I try to invoke an autumnal aura by pulling down the window shades to filter in a soft honey light. And by vegetating in front of a Gilmore Girls binge watch. And daydream about talking to my child.

I read Janice Pariat’s book of short stories, ‘Boats on Land’. It was a real pleasure. It offers up an engaging mix of hills, sprawling tea-estates, mists, folklore, incessant rain, lives of people in places where nothing much happens, displacement, forbidden feelings, wistfulness, fragile hopes, and so much more. I read it this weekend, and have finally broken the reading slump I found myself in the past few weeks.

An assamese lunch has become a ritual every Sunday, a welcome break for me in a week of paneer, dosa, sambar, pasta etc. I take out the brass metal plates and bowls my parents gave me the last time I was home. My husband buys fish the evening before. We fry the Rohu pieces and later dunk them in a mustard gravy. The green chillies are from the garden. There is masoor dal with a generous sprinkling of squeezed lemon juice (unfortunately one-third the size of the ones found in Assam). Mashed or fried potatoes. With mustard oil. An unhealthy indulgence, but a loved one. There will be round slices of brinjal dunked in besan gravy and fried. Maybe an egg. Greens are in the form of a soup. Mango pickle. A slice of lime. And I am transported back to my childhood, and my mother feeding us the same food. The comfort of knowing it will be the same every day when we come home. Every single day. Its recreation is the comfort now.

North-East India: A Clarification

After years of indignation and crying themselves hoarse against generalized apathy and blithe ignorance, North-East India and especially Assam has been propelled into the national limelight for reasons that has only fanned the damaging notions harbored in the minds of the rest of the Indian population for whom the eastern boundaries of our country used to end in Bengal; and for the more geographically gifted intellectuals in a triangular lump of land called “North-East”.

Yes, North-East India does have its problems: illegal immigration through porous borders and its consequences, flood ravaged lands every monsoon, indigenous tribes facing years of neglect till it sprouted groups to fight for their rights but lost perspective under influence of selfish political agendas and personal gains giving birth to militancy, the constant need to prove themselves and to fight for equal opportunities and acceptance by fellow Indians, a frighteningly indifferent government at the Center with delayed reactions to the region’s problems, slow growth of industrialization, relative lack of funds and infrastructure etc.

But in the collective imagination of a large subset of Indians the ‘State of North-East’ has been attributed with a lot of misleading beliefs, and these have been faced in form of curious questions or ignorant speculations by self, friends, family and acquaintances.

This is a miniscule attempt to clarify few of those ‘beliefs’ and lessen the prejudice against North-East India:

1. Not all of its inhabitants have the convention-defying slant of eyes. It’s derogatory to club everyone as ‘chinky’; the label itself reeks of regionalism.

2. Its not about degraded moral values but a more liberal mindset; and hemlines might be high but the girls aren’t ‘easy’. Remember that.

3. Appetites don’t get whetted by the mere sight of pigeons, pigs, bulls or dogs and it’s just about ‘different’ gastronomical preferences. Respect that.

4. People don’t harbor an unabashed disinterest in Hindi film music; they just happen to be connoisseurs of ‘good music’ and not limiting themselves to just one genre. And yes, they are ardent followers of rock music.

5. Guns and ‘khukuri’ don’t lie under every pillow and everyone doesn’t have at least one ‘militant’ acquaintance. People share the same dread for them as the rest of the country.

6.  People aren’t (and never will be) immune to the horrors of militancy and riots; and don’t have infinitely pliable capacity for facing them. An act of violence in Manipur is worth the same concern as one occurring in Mumbai. Understand that.

7.  They aren’t the ‘poor cousin’ devoid of the intoxicating mix of night-life, fast cars, designer clothes, page 3 society and  iPads; and resigned to the medieval pleasures of guitar-strumming, reading a book and writing in cafes. They don’t necessarily miss the fast-paced life and have been known to hold rock concerts in garages and parks; go skinny dipping on New Year’s Eve; hold strawberry pie bake-offs, flower shows and barbecues; and picnic on river banks and green valleys. They delight in these ‘medieval’ pleasures.

8. Weed and alcohol aren’tkept in secret stashes in the rooms of every boy past the age of fourteen.

9. They don’t have a blasphemous preference for ‘English‘ over the national language; and barring North India, the rest of the country still struggles with their Hindi diction and continue to speak with an endearing mixing of genders in every sentence.

10. There isn’t a sad lack of panache, suavity and swagger in the people from North-East India. They are comparatively less used to the limelight (but quick to adapt) and relatively mild-mannered; and they are patient listeners not unquestioning followers.

11. North-East India isn’t a shallow pool of talent; it is a goldmine of emerging talents in all spheres that can bring glory to the country when given an opportunity. They just get attention only when they surpass the ‘trivial’ like winning five world championships and do something more popular like winning an Olympic medal!

12. It is not that far away, it’s not another country. Come visit us.

13. Sex-starved men don’t roam around everywhere. Women-wives, mothers, daughters, sisters-enjoy a higher social status compared to rest of the country; matriarchy is valued, opinions often heard and respected. The society is more accepting of ‘love’ and one doesn’t fret over trivialities like caste and religion of a prospective spouse. Dowry isn’t rampant. And the years of maintaining it so shouldn’t get negated by the heinous act of a bunch of inebriated beasts groping a teenager in public. One shouldn’tgeneralize all men from the region to be ‘closet rapists’.

14. Dagger-brandishing murderous tribes don’t go around inciting communal disharmony. The recent Assam riots are not colored by religious differences. It’s a far more secular and accepting society than the way it has been projected. The region has been witness to the peaceful co-habitation of various religions, tribes and sects. It’s onlywhen individual territories are threatened and rights are violated that people stand up to defend what rightfully belongs to them, irrespective of the tribe or religion they belong to; and there are anti-social elements who await such opportunities to fan the flames of intolerance and indignation to create mob violence, disharmony and panic. The Hindus of Assam don’t hate the Muslims of Assam, and the reverse is true too. It’s the dispute of indigenous Assamese (Indians comprising of both Hindu and Muslim populations) and illegal Bangladeshi immigrants (which again consists of both Hindu and Muslim populations); and that is the only cause of the recent riots.

15. On a lighter note, elephants aren’t the equivalent of auto rickshaws as a mode of transport. It’s not a mosquito infested jungle; there are cars, bicycles, rickshaws and two-wheelers that ply on ‘proper’ roads and create the nuisance of traffic jams. And yes, the roads have pot holes and gets water-logged during the monsoons, just like it does in Mumbai or Kolkata.

16. People don’t tend to cluster around the lower range of the IQ spectrum and one doesn’t need to be spoken to in simple sentences. And yes, they get your jokes. They might not be too vociferous but they listen, understand and form opinions just as well. Hear them out. Don’t patronize them.

17. Death doesn’t await people at every corner in the form of bombs, bullets, vicious headhunting tribes that collect tourist heads as trophies, murderous rapists and drug-addicts, infuriated mobs and accidental ingestion of bull testicles instead of the chicken biryani one had ordered. People can survive here.

18. The ‘North-East‘ is not a state; it’s formed of seven beautiful and picturesque states, where the people generally have simple hearts and warm smiles.

19. You don’t need a passport to visit the North-Eastern states; the people here are Indians and only a chicken’s neck away!

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Whisper of the Heart OR In which I yearn for a home in the hills

“On a perfect day in a perfect world, I would wake up to the sun peeking in to tiger-stripe my nest of white sheets and a pillow as soft and plump as a baby’s cheeks. And I would run up the stairs barefoot, to the terrace and be surrounded by a sea of trees interspersed with pretty houses, a riot of colors blooming on their front porches and an occasional rocking chair.

  

I would sip a steaming cup of coffee with only the birds on a red roof for company. And then be tempted by a long winding road disappearing around the corner in a pink bougainvillea bush.

 

The early hour will contrive to keep the people of the pretty houses under downy quilts in their warm beds while I would tie my shoelaces and quietly slip out of the house. I’ll meet a few children though, with cheeks as red as apples; and going downhill I’ll cross a girl, waiting and drumming impatient fingers on her satchel, and a minute later walk past a boy hurrying uphill, smiling to himself. I’ll run my fingers along ivy-lined stone walls and stand under a tree with the prettiest pink blossoms. 

 

After an hour of meandering I will realize that I’m lost in this Ghibli-esque world of green hedges and winding roads and a narrow stairway will be the rescue; old steps would bypass the curves of the hill, and lead me through a tiny garden onto a familiar road.

 

A hearty breakfast later, I would walk into the city square that bristles with the young; school children in green and blue uniforms, tight huddles of college dudes sharing a smoke, and the petite girls swishing long black hair and wearing bright shoes-and spend few moments relieving my own schooldays. Sturdy legs will go uphill and downhill, as charming shops and boutiques beckoned. I’ll touch muslin and silk and slip my feet into a dozen shoes and read in bookstores; but will end up buying an orange notebook, a keychain of a doll with stringy hair and a pair of socks. I will not visit the waterfalls and the peak that the crowds throng. Instead I will eat a warm croissant in a tiny café and watch the rain trickle down a sloping green roof.

At noon I would go out of town along picturesque roads lined with pine trees; driving past a house with blue picket fence and people whose eyes crinkled delightfully with laughter. And I will literally live on the edge, looking down steep hillsides and looking up at cottony clouds. A sharp curve and a sacred forest will loom in the horizon.

 

And the pristine wilderness suffused with an eerie green light will be everything I’d ever imagined it to be. Trees will rise high like lithe black limbs, saplings will bloom with orange flowers, creepers will slither along mossy tree trunks, and I’ll sidestep delicate herbs and mushrooms as I walk on a floor of dried leaves that would crunch under my shoes.

 

I will jump over fallen tree trunks and a tangle of white roots; duck under thorny bushes and tackle precarious slopes. The sun will shine through a leafy canopy, and it will be a mellow sun. A tree will be shaped like a bulbous nose and ancient stone relics will bring in the mystery. 

 

I might see something majestic tomorrow, but the absolute stillness of the forest will stay with me forever.

 

I would step out into a goliath green ground with lilliputian yellow flowers, like tiny suns. I would let the dew on the grass wet my feet as I look down the beautiful valley of farm fields and a gurgling brook.

At dusk I would return to town and finally join a crowd to watch the sunset, sitting on a hillock at an old golf course.

Dinner will be savored at a restaurant resplendent with colonial architecture, mahogany pillars and velvet cushions. And wicker chairs on the patio too.

On the way back, I will walk under a lamp post that will remind me of Narnia. In bed I will read Kipling as the a flirtatious breeze made the curtains dance. “

OR

I would spend a day in Shillong.

(Mundane details: Stay at The White Orchid guesthouse in Upper Lachumiere and a morning walk in its picturesque surroundings; walking around in Laitumkhrah, eating street food, shopping; a trip to Mawphlang sacred grove, sunset at Polo Grounds, and dinner at Hotel Pinewood.)

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Hills

“Mod”, the movie I watched this weekend. I had always been a Nagesh Kukunoor fan, enraptured by his simple storytelling in Dor and Hyderabad Blues.

Loopholes and unwanted subplots abound; there is an unimaginative “Mod” (turn) in the story, and few sequences were rushed and repetitive. But I didn’t want it to end.

I wanted to keep watching the sun peeping through the misty mornings of the charming hill town of Ganga, waking up to steaming cups of coffee, the unhurried existence, rides up the winding mountain roads in an old bike, the quaint clock repair shop, the delightful “Kishore Kumar fan” father, the fun and assertive aunt, the girl wooed by poems and poetry and the tender love story bloom. The movie had so many elements that I liked and wanted to see more of, but sadly they reached a plateau a bit too soon and got lost in the cacophony of the titular “Mod”.

But I would watch this poetic fable again, despite shortcomings, for it’s a Kukunoor film and he delivers some of the charming elements I looked forward to. Just like I would keep returning to every Pamuk novel, even if certain pages get tedious, because of the familiarity of prose that speak directly to me; I would return to “Mod” again.

The hills did it for me.

I explored another small hill town, Shillong, in the book I had been reading in stolen pockets of time over the past fortnight. Shillong had always been a favorite weekend getaway, owing to its proximity to Guwahati. The unruly rain that disobeyed all weather forecasts, tree-lined paths, frosty mornings, the old world charm of cottages and churches, the buzz of the market selling shoes a size too small for me, the cafes and eateries with impromptu performances, the rock music fans, the kwai chewing gentle souls, the undulating hills, waterfalls and brooks veiled in lush greenery; I had been a good tourist and fell in love with all these long ago. I never gave much thought what it would be like to live in Shillong, the town that held strawberry pie bake-offs, skinny dipping contests on New Year’s Eve, and has created generations of people who breathed music and religiously held Dylan concerts. I never wondered what it’d feel like waking up to the cold, invigorating air and a foggy breath every morning of my life. Or what it would be like to walk the rain-washed, grey pavements on a regular basis; will the rain depress me? Will the pine trees smell equally enticing after I rest under their shade for the fiftieth time?

I had been born and raised in the plains, where the pollution and dust to greenery ratio escalated every year. I need a Shillong break every year, but will the small town charm captivate me for a longer period?

I found answers in Anjum Hasan’s “Lunatic in my Head”. The book had piqued my interest because of the author’s origins in North-East India. The prose is subtle, poetic and rich. It follows the lives of three individuals who are strangers yet are bound to each other through acquaintances, circumstances and destinies. They lead parallel lives with events ranging from joyous to that of disgust, occurring almost simultaneously. The central protagonist is the small town of Shillong, how it binds them, shapes their destinies, creates in them a desire to escape and finally their reconciliation to their place of existence.

There is Firadaus, a thirty something lecturer who is entangled in her world of completing a PhD thesis on Jane Austen’s work, a young Manipuri boyfriend, an orthodox grandfather and submission to living her entire life in Shillong. The second character is Aman, an IAS aspirant, who feels Roger Waters writes songs inspired by his letters to him, and has a group of rock enthusiasts for friends. He loves a Khasi girl for whom Pink Floyd is just another band and this depresses him, along with his IAS preparation, his aloof parents and his own timidity. And there is eight year old Sophie who loves to smile when her parents smile, and convinces herself that she must have been adopted. Her world is about a mother who was pregnant a for a tad too long, a father who hopes for a job to fall into his lap, a kind Khasi landlady and her disturbingly provocative son, her school and the constant need to please Miss Wilson, her novels and the character of Anna.

These three lives are entwined subtly, each individual unaware of each other’s presence till they intersect for a brief moment once. The narrative is compelling and experimental, and the characters and subplots are well sketched out.

Nothing extraordinary happens in small towns, cocooned from the rest of the world, moving in their own unhurried pace. This happens in Shillong too. This happens to Firadaus, Aman and Sophie too. Nothing extraordinary happens, there are no twists and turns. The monotonous existence, the claustrophobia that brings about a longing to escape, the love of familiarity and fear of unknown that binds the residents of such towns to it; all such emotions are well-depicted in the book. Emotions, landscapes, individuals all come to life in Hasan’s vibrant prose. The melancholy of this small town that tourists overlook is palpable throughout the narrative.

I loved the book and highly recommend ‘ Lunatic in my head’. The hills had done it for me again.

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North -East India…Where does it stand compared to the rest of India?

This is the first discussion on this blog. I recently read an article about the neglect that North East India has faced compared to the rest of India. And the questions that plague my mind are “why is it so”, and “why for so long”?

Here’s the link:

N(orth) E(ast)-glected

I’d like to know your opinion on this issue. From the people of this region to the ones from rest of India on how they view this region, and their awareness and interest in knowing about the eastern most part of their own country. Awaiting your comments.

And here’s a link of a travel blog on North-East. Discover the wonderfulness that is this region, people.

Musings from the North-East

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