THE SECRET POOL

I was alone in my house. The scorching sun outside made the moving air, sweaty hot. So, I closed all the windows and doors and sat beneath the swirling ceiling fan. I looked around the room with an empty feeling. I surveyed at the walls, the hanging papers, those old bags, those hanging clothes. Suddenly something caught my eyes.

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My ancestors have one unique hobby. They would collect rare things pertaining to their own times---coins, notes, knives, waving cane mat, musical instruments made of bamboo, aged old costumes, and many more. If you happen to come to our house, it’s like retracing back history in slabs. I have grown up seeing strange people coming to our house every now and then, looking at the collections. Some even tried to purchase some of the rarest items. But none of the collections were sold. They were all regarded as sacred and my ancestors  determinedly kept as a family heirloom.  

I could recollect few instances, maybe three or four instances how determinedly my father and grandfather withheld those valuable collections. Let me tell one of those instances. I was 8 years old then. One morning, a tall, dark man came to our house.

He said to my father, “The locals here are telling me that you have vast collections of old coins and notes. Can I see them?”

My father said, “You’re welcome to see them. We indeed have a vast collection.”

My father went inside our room, and then came out with a brown plastic bag. The tall man looked at the notes and coins one after another. Five rupee notes with three and five peacocks, fifty paise coins with two boats, one rupee coin that can deflect needles and attracts uncooked grains, 20 paise coins made of nickel brass, bronze, etc.  The man was stunned.  

He said, “Offer me a price. I will buy all of these. These are collectibles and I am sure to make huge profits.”

My grandfather, who was in his 90^th birthday shouted from the adjacent room. “Nothing is to sell.” He hurriedly instructed my father to keep them back in the trunk immediately.

After the man left, embarrassed and unsuccessful, grandfather called all the family members to his room. He said, “This trunk box contains  secret of which I will not reveal now. Life is a riddle that will never get solved. The future is unknown, and the only thing we can do about it is to collect the collectible past. The only secret we can have about the future is from the past. And that trunk box contains all of it. Sooner or later, the secret will reveal itself to the one who needed the most.”

My grandfather died the following week.

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It was that “trunk box” which caught my eyes, thirty years after. I stood up and strode towards it. It has been with my family for generations, but none of the members have sensed a “call” from it like that day. I sensed it was a clear “call,” but I did not know why it called. I took it down from the shelf and laid it on the floor. I opened it and surveyed at the items one after another, just like how that tall man did. Coins and notes as usual, a different looking smoking pipe made of bronze, old photographs, unusual looking needles, etc. Underneath these was a small sculpted box made of stone. I opened it just to see one brown folded paper, covered with dusts. I unfolded the paper and read the scrolls on it.

“Head where your forehead points the weary sun on the longest day of the year. Don’t be mistaken—let the timekeeper strikes four. Carry no water for, you will be thirsty. Carry no food for you will be hungry. Walk like an arrow until you reach the valley, and then the rocks. Until the weary moon over the shortest night of the year shows you the secret pool. When you find the pool, be careful to make your rightful wish. Wish for what you need the most.”

I said to myself, “So, this is the secret my grandfather and his great grandfathers have been hiding?”

I gathered all the geography books I could collect. I found out that the longest day of the year is June 21^st. And that the moon looked beautiful in that night. I needed to head west, and walked straight like an arrow to lead me to the secret pool.

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I looked at the calendar. I have exactly 5 days before I set sail for my adventure, to find out the secret of my ancestors. My mind was filled with only one feeling. That's when I get there, in the secret pool, I will wish for the thing I need the most. And all my suffering will be gone. The more I thought about the bliss the pool could give me, the more I was hallucinating with the belief that if there is suffering, there has to be a place, somewhere, which can cure it all.

Great expectations can chase sufferings away. Those five days were the greatest days of my life. I did not mention my planned adventure to my friends. I presumed they would think it was a silly decision. But beneath this kept secret, I was happy.  I remembered the word of my grandfather. The only reality I can have about the future is from the past. And that trunk box contains all of it. The secret will reveal itself to the one who needed the most.

Maybe I needed the most.

I roamed about the city. All my envies have been chased away. Hatred was gone. Loneliness were gone. Weakness turned into strength. I was flying with that hope that when I reach that pool, I would be as happy as anyone.

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

On June 21^st, the sun rose up again. Eagerly I waited for the clock to strike three. I kept my compass ready. I was already in my new pair of shoes. I also arranged a small rucksack wherein I kept one towel and mosquito repellant ointment. On the side pocket, I kept the brown paper that instructs the location of the secret pool.

When the clock struck four, I hurried out of my door. I looked towards the sun. It appeared as if it was still overhead. I said to me, “It’s going to be a trying job to follow the sun until it gets weary,” I pasted the compass near the windshield and started my vehicle. I headed towards the west.

The city looked rusty. But I thought beyond the city. I chased the secret pool- let everyone knows it- and that had made all the boredom of living away. I passed by small roads and traffic jams, selfish crowds who all said, “Don’t trust this guy, trust me!” as if they came from another planet. I said to myself, “It’s the law of nature.”  At last, I landed on the outskirt of the city. I see greenery and tranquility. I drove along and my windshield showed nothing but the secret pool.

I came across paddy fields. For this time of the year, the paddy were tall though! I saw scanted houses with cows and goats. I looked across the direction my forehead pointed. I saw the sunlight, with tall mountains under its glare, but not the sun. I sped under the governance of greenery and tranquility. My compass needle was pointing a perfect “West.”

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I reached a spot where a billboard said, “It’s this far. Walk further, and you risk!” Still then I carried on. The road was still straight and the silence was calling me. I kept on driving until the road ends in the middle of nowhere. I slowly parked my vehicle under a tall tree and many small birds flew away from its branches because of the roaring sound of my vehicle. But one big bird kept on looking down and called, “Keeou!Keeou!” The sound echoed the valley and then across the mountains. I looked across, and wondered at how big hope could be!

Dearly I closed the doors of my vehicle, stretched myself and looked for directions. I had never been stronger. I started walking across valleys and then mountains. I would reach a top. Then I could see another mountain. And then more plains. And then more higher mountain. For six hours, I kept on climbing and diving, energetically.  No tiredness could defeat that hope---the secret pool..

The sun was too, already weary. I kept on walking towards the direction of my forehead that was projected on the sun. Hope rejuvenated me. I did not walk. In fact, I was always running. Quickly enough I always felt I crossed another  plains and then another mountain. Always and always. Sweats poured out like thick drizzles. For the first time after four, I felt thirsty. But I always knew the word, “Bring no water for, you will be thirsty. Bring no food for you will be hungry.” I opened up my rucksack and pulled out the towel to wipe my sweat.

It was 7:22 PM. The sun had gone down on the western horizon when  I still saw myself chasing at the sun. The transition from light to darkness is the darkest. I saw it all, all alone in the jungle.

Under the darkness, I calculated the time for the moonrise in the shortest night in a year. The moon was already risen at 5:07 PM, but I never felt that. But then, slowly but diligently, the moon kept its promise again---moonlight chased darkness away in a jungle.  

Within thirty minutes after the sun had gone, the moon took charge. The foliage appeared thicker, the plains sweeter and mountains darker. I was not worried, because underneath any changes, my compass needle was still showing a perfect west.

The longest sun had drained me off. I had never peed. All my pee had gone in the forms of sweats. Thirst erupted and so, I collected water with my cloth and drank it filtered. It was the sweetest water life could ever give. I drank in plenty.  

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

It was 10:07 PM, and the moon was at its peak. From the books, I knew it would expire at 3:07 AM the next day. I applied my mosquito repellant over my whole skin and climbed the most promising tree I could see, to sleep away for at least one hour.  As I laid down on its branch, I looked over the horizon. I could see high rocks under the glare of the moonlight. The tops were pointed like the tip of arrows and on one corner, I could see a faint light.

I adjusted the senses of my ears and I felt I could hear callings. So, I climbed down the tree and headed towards the light. I crossed the plains and then I scaled up the rocks. The more I neared, the light got more profound and the sound got more clear. They were human sounds. When I reached the top, the first thing I saw was a pool, glistening under the shortest moonlight of the year. I approached the pool and then I saw things clearer.

I saw all of my great grandfathers sitting by the edges. My father was being hugged. And my brother was playing the guitar. When they saw me, they all stood up. I embraced each and every one.

I looked at each one. I recognized each one from the sound of my blood. But the family heirloom was the pending question from my side.

I asked them, “So, this is the secret pool?”

All of them answered in unision, “yes!”

 I frankly asked, “Can I too dive in so that all my sufferings be gone?”

Then my father stood up and said, “My son, think of what you wish! Your fate has led you up to here. You have learned a lot now! Is it not more precious to cherish your experiences than forget everything by diving in this pool? My son, know what you really wish!”

There was a strong whirl-wind. All of them disappeared from my face one by one. And the secret pool was more beautiful under the moonlight.

But I chose the more precious! I chose the more precious me! I chose to embrace what fate had given me, and not tried changing it.

MONEY!MONEY!TANGKA!TANGKA!

Unexpectedly, I got a call from Pu Darthangluoi, Chairman, HCFM, regarding an article coincident to the 7^th anniversary celebration of HCFM. I had wanted to say, “NO” literally. But I said, “Yes! Let me try to come up with an article,” without much commitment to my words and knowingly fully that I had none to write about the fellowship-thing, or the kohran-thing.

Lately, my thoughts and beliefs have been greatly sickened by the ideology followed by the Hmars. I choose not to think about it, but it keeps on chasing me, nonetheless. I feel I am in the sickest moment of my term here on earth.

Destiny had grabbed me to live a “choice-less” life. It shrunk me down to get married to my long time girlfriend in a way down below my worst imagination. It was a marriage of hope…just hope, with nothing tangible to show. But, it had made us to have an unfinished business in Vellore. And Vellore gave me pains whose only medicine available is “acceptance.”  It pulled us up to Mumbai, where we need to purchase a map to know if we reached Mumbai. But, destiny had made Mumbai a place we really see. It had made our life contemporary with the establishment of “Mumbai Hmar Welfare Association” and “Hmar Christian Fellowship Mumbai.”

Looking back, I missed every single piece of it.

Mumbai had made me met the couple who will be evergreen in my life---Pu Darzakhum Songate, IRS and his wife Pi Esther Songate. The helps and advices I received from the couple are incalculable. As there is no math to quantify them, my debt to them is incalculable and therefore unrequitable.

“Choice-less” life is also a “clue-less” life. Now we are here in the “My never imagining land”-Tripura, a land our tribe adamantly called “Ramthim.” Unlike Mumbai, all my close acquaintances here are the missionaries, deputed from our native lands. Had I been someone else, I would have been very spiritual, very “missionary-affianced” by now. My wife is very much affianced with the unproven cause now. But I still say, “NO.” As if we can do anything about it.  

I am me, I cannot help it. Destiny had grabbed me and shaped me in its own way.

Everywhere I roamed, destiny forcefully lets me realized that we are a ridiculous tribe, running away from plain truth. My thoughts and ideology is disgusted when I see myself and my acquaintances wearing the sheen of spirituality when, in fact, what we really yearned for, is the basic necessities of life---MONEY.

This thought always spoils my days. It stiffens more of my space and time, to know that I am living in a ridiculed world, created none other than by us.

So, Pu Darthangluoi, what should I write? You should not have requested me. My feelings and emotions froze like refrigerated water. I have gone dry of any enthusiastic topic relating to the fellowships or Kohran, whatever we may call it.

Last year during December, under the foggy morning of Agartala, I went to my regular paan dukan for my daily dose of paan. I ordered for the paan. I need not detail what ingredients I needed, the dukanwalla knew them all too well. But, unlike other days, he did not give me prompt service. He was indulging, with enormous participation, in his own spiritual business.  

I, then observed keenly, trying to register all his acts. He was holding two fuming agarbatis and waved the smokes about his items for sale---box of babul gums, assortments of sweets, candies, etc. He then took his debit and credit registers, hummed a few mantras, waved the smoke over and below them. He depicted all these acts with seamless, routine act. Only after the completion of this routine spiritual business, he took up the task of preparing my paan.

I asked him, “Which of the gods, you give devotion to?”

He said, “ Lakshmi, the god of wealth, prosperity, fortune and the embodiment of beauty.”

I said, “You are a selfish lot, asking that god only for your prosperities.”

He said, “We need to pray…no? for our own prosperities. In this life what is the most important? Chawal aur sabzi…he nah?”

I said, “For us, we don’t do like that. We are not selfish like you,” fully knowing that I lied.

He smiled and said, “Beta (for I still look like a handsome 18, Buongi mita chuh!), tum samasta nai he! Lakshmi is also protecting us from all kinds of misery and money related sorrows. She blessed us with prosperities, but she also teaches us not to be selfish, dishonest or annoyingly greedy.”

On my way back home, the conversation we had lingered in my head. I felt, I found the “Lakshmi thing” philosophy quite true. Asking god for money and wealth and also asking to help, refrain ourselves from misery and money related sorrows!

I opened the Bible: 1 Timothy 6:10:  For the love of money is a root of all kinds of evil. Some people, eager for money, have wandered from the faith and pierced themselves with many griefs.

Countless advice by my father during my childhood re-surfaced back in my head. Every time he would say, “Don’t love money. It is sin. It will lead you astray.” And then, countless sermons I had heard, I had been made to grow-up with, showers like thick rain drops. “We should not try to be rich, it is sin.” “We should be satisfied with what we have, it’s God’s way.” Then countless songs that pop-up here and there amongst us due to poverty, rung like a continuous bell in my head.

Is the love of money evil? If it is, then how are we to survive? Or, is it just that we are interpreting the above Bible verse wrongly, just like the ancient Catholics interpreting the Bible to make our earth as the centre of the Universe? Is it because of some maniacal interpretation of the Bible that we feel our sermons more spiritual if it revolved about extreme poverty?

Let us face the reality!

Is it not because of the need for this money that we send our sons and daughters to Delhi, Mumbai, Bangalore, where-where and where not? Is it not for the love of money that some of us even reached Dubai, America, England, Brazil and more? And here, for me, I reached Tripura.  Although my father used to give me that advice, what he did at the top of his capabilities was to educate me by expending his money, so that I can earn money in future, after he is gone.  Whatever we do, we seemed to be just about this MONEY, MONEY. Is it not for the importance of money in our life that we could have fellowship even on the western flank of India, in Mumbai?

Even today, the main topic of the discussion with friends is 7^th Pay Commission, merging of Basic with DA, Tax deductions, etc. When I meet older people, their first question used to be “What is your job? How much do you earn?” If the love of money is evil, then we---right from the layman to the most spiritual---are doomed. 

Each one of our congregations is crazy about money, although none will like to accept this openly. But the underlying truth is this: Mission worker who can collect more tithe received more adoration from his boss. And we are, every now and then, pampered to cast our fishing net in deeper waters, to contribute more money. “When he had finished speaking, he said to Simon, “Put out into deep water, and let down the nets for a catch. Luke 5:1-22,” is the hottest Bible verse for every fund raising speech.  Member who can contribute more for church’s contingent expenditures received more applause and praise.

It is a really confusing ideology!

Longer thought on this topic draws me closer to the conversions I had with that paanwallah. He needed money, and thus he prayed for it openly. For us, we need the money, we look for it in any available ways---fair or unfair. Yet we cover ourselves with semi-transparent veils that say, “Money is evil.”

Why are we ashamed to admit ourselves that we are crazy after money? Let us look back at the above Bible verse. The love of money might be the root of all evils for some people who wandered away from faith, who are burdened up by money-related sorrows. Not for all. Have we wandered away from the faith because of money? Have we used money for separating people? Have we used churches for personal gains? Have we created chaos because of money? Have we used fellowships just to cover up the selfish whims?

If not, then why not pray like the paanwallah directly for prosperity, for wealth. If we have the faith, loving and working for any fair money is Godly enough not to make any ridiculous move.

Then we will be trustworthy even in our own eyes.

WISHING EVERY HMARS IN MUMBAI A HAPPY, PROSPEROUS AND WEALTHY HCFM 7^TH ANNIVERSARY CELEBRATION, 2014.

Meow! Meow!

JUST a few days back, the morning downpour in the steamy summer of Agartala was disturbed by a “Meow! Meow!” sound on the other side of our main door. We listened from the bed. It was feeble and overwhelmed by desperation. The sound was familiar as any childhood memories, meow! meow!.... but I heard again after a gap of many years. We were woken much earlier than the usual set-out time of our mobile alarm.

When my wife opened the door, we saw the cat “caught” on the cemented stairway literally. It was such a tender cat that It was incapable of climbing the next stairway and afraid to climb down the below one due to fear of height. From first sight, the case of the cat could be drawn easily enough: It had lost its mother and was desperately crying for her “warmth” and in its utter dismay started to scale the open roads and ridges and eventually landed up on the shade of human homes.

My wife asked me, “Shall I take it in?”

I had been quite acquainted with the breeds of “Meow! Meow!”. I recounted my childhood days closely affianced to our pet dogs and cats. We kept dogs to guard the house and cats to chase away rats. Though both canines, there is one great difference between cats and dogs. Dogs instinctively become attached and faithfully submissive to their owners, while cats are maniac of a place—warmth, houses or blankets, and craze after their own comforts. Dogs follow their masters but cats are devoted to cupboards and houses and their shits are awfully smelly. I had known it all…..

But the sight of desperation often evokes the kindness quality in human. Encompassing in my mind all those pathetic experience about cats and knowing fully what will befall, I told my wife, “Okay…No probs. Let’s keep it as a pet”

By sheer coincidence or by fate, I now see myself adopting a stray cat. And in this case, it is a “SHE”, and my friend over her named her PAWNG-SI, a friend from Mumbai named her GOLIATHA. I named her MENGKENG.

During her first day, she cried all day and all night thinking of her mother’s breast. The milk and the playing items that lay strewed on the floor of the house were meaningless to her. The only thing which could quench her hunger was her mother’s breast. On the second day I forced her and dipped her lips on the can of pure milk. She liked it. Now she starts eating chicken, biscuits and maggi. And she is growing real fast. Much faster than the rate at which she grows, she is exponentially playful.

I sit here, courting with a very hard life. However, my MENGKENG is in content—the warm house, me, my wife and the foods. Her mind is not deceived by any thought of the future. She jumps around on my laps and floor and on the warmth of my laptop disturbing more of my disturbing present. She doesn’t learn how to catch mice, for she was deprived of the luxury of being trained by her mother. How long can I provide milk and warmth? How long will the house in which she comes as a refugee stands? I am really worried. I asked my mother if an untrained cat could learn the art of catching mice when they reach adulthood. She told me that the sole purpose of a cat is to catch mice and she will eventually master the art, trained or untrained. Then, if that is the case I am saved. The cat at least will not die of starvation even if the feeble leave under which she comforts herself falls anytime, anywhere.

MEMOIRS OF KALINA

The unlucky thief

1

Of length, I used to muse about that thief who was caught on the night of July 2006. Was that thief destined to be caught? Was the catcher, above all things, an ordained thief-catcher, a specially designed "Knight" of God to lead His campaign on the world of thieves?

This writing has cropped up from the thought on the catching of that low criminal—a burglar and so altogether I don’t find quite worthy or rather an appetizing subject to write on it. But years hence, the humors and specialties associated with the incident has its repercussions: It has nostalgic effects and gets resurrected time and again to make me fill with laughter and bygone adventures. The thought would turn the subject to an appealing one.

That fateful incident happened in KALINA Village, in Mumbai around 10:30 in the night.

The topography of KALINA was a saturation of “some kind of design” that had evolved out of “no design”. Big and small apartments, shops, “unsuspecting tiny houses” filled with wines were strewn rumbled much like an assortment of pebbles dumped on the sidewalk. On the odd entrance of the main village was the statue of Veilakani (Virgin Mary) clad in glistening sarees, who silently blessed all the bows and devotions she received. Countless alleys dived-in from everywhere into the village much like the puzzling tracks and holes of rodents under jungle trees and shrubs. At night, these small passageways were marked by pitch dark corners and holes to which billowing dim lights could barely reached and making them a first class habitat for burglars.  If one is not well verse with the twist and turn of the alleys, the colour/orientation of a particular house, etc., the consequence is to get lost and loiter around whole day and night on those never-ending curves. I have had my share of experiences on that.

Let me get back to the story. KALINA, 10:30 at night was the time when the day’s shift workers returned home, had dinner and settled to rest in front of their TV set or dozed off on the bed. Reciprocally, it was also the time when night’s shift workers left their homes and were on trains or buses to attend to their duty. The time was, in fact, one short time for relaxation and calmness, much like a short serenity after a cyclone.

Having nothing to do much with the serenity of the time, we became restless inside that low-roofed house. So, Abraham L. Pangamte and I started to pour out that so called KAILASH and sipped down the throat feeling the dabbing of our intestines by KAILASH. The effect was quick and sweaty: it was like throwing oneself into a bond fire.

2

Mumbai is a place which does not have a proper winter. The weather all year round is sweaty, dry and inconveniently humid. And due to its unforgiving design, Kalina is all the hotter.  KAILASH can have its absolute impact. Yes! Let me stretched more on this. The hotness of Kalina showcased many more things; the most obvious being on the dress of womenfolk.  For those young, fair skins females with novice minds, the main battle was how to fight the hotness with dresses. Accordingly, when they went to Bandra market, they would purchase itsy-bitsy garments. They would buy clothes not for wearing but for hanging on their body. Also, they would pick jeans, so abnormally small that the wearer would squeeze inside the jeans with extra-hardships to wear them. If one exaggerates, it can be said that the wearer stays outside of the jeans. In the midst of these young girls under-dressed or over-dressed (I don’t know), there were another group of womenfolk who frowned at them, who disregarded them like whores or human baits. These groups were the member of the congregation of Veilakani who stuck strictly to knee-length skirts, full sleeves shirts and veils on the head to preserve dignity. Other group was those Muslim womenfolk who wore BURKHA, always on the guard least their skin would be shown. Except these two groups of womenfolk, the others were confused “working class” who had a stead-fast belief that the beholder of their beauty should be bewitched by their revealed young skins. But they were all justified. When one confronted anyone, the usual answer was, “Kalina is Hot” and they should embraced those “sexy-tiny” dresses as their birthright if at all they should stay in Mumbai. More, if they should stay in Kalina.

Oh! I had drifted too far from the main story. Let me go back to my story.

Under the hot Kalina roof and sky, the effect of KAILASH was unpredictable. That night, it boosted us to quarreling, and being a married man, who is there to quarrel with except the better half, who is your own, slave, smiles or tears? I could not recollect how well or how gruesome the verbal brawls climaxed. The next episode leaded to a scene where my wife packed and threatened to leave me; and Abraham Pangamte with all his inherent talent of a “KAILASH Master”, persuading her not to take any foolish decision. But the problem with any persuasive act that resulted from KAILASH was that even the persuader didn’t know his exact mission. So, the noble act of a “KAILASH negotiator”, instead of bringing peace, often leads to a more eccentric situation for both the scuffling parties and more quarreling.

3

The next episode showed my wife leaving our rented room and headed towards Paukhomawi’s rented apartment, which was just a stone throw from my room. The residue left after the quarrel for the room was Abraham Pangamte and I. Abraham Pangamte was about five years younger to me, maybe more but that night he was holding the biggest spoon of wisdoms and advises. He could recollect all the famous quotes and was not making any grammatical mistakes in his advises. He was a non-stop bore for an elder like me; and that had made the humidity higher. “Young and still unmarried and dictating the life of someone who was his elder and married” was how the KAILASH talked to me and instigated me further to quarrel. The next minute, Abraham left the room, drenched, unsuccessful and all the more angry.

In the meantime, Joseph Lalpiengrem Joutepa, staying on a small room on top of Paukhomawi’s apartment, was not feeling much of the heat of KALINA. He was in the mood and put on the song “Bed of Roses” by Bon Jovi through his tiny DVD player. With his big fingers (who were proud enough to be his) he applied face-pack to his face and admired himself, forward and sideways, through his tiny mirror. Estimating from the cachet emitted by his hulky size, well-trimmed hairs and deep classy voices, the face-pack product he applied to his face seemed to be of Avon’s. But the actual fact was proven when you walked near him----you would smell a pack of TANAKHA, MADE IN MOREH. He was unmarried and had tough battles ahead. In his world of KALINA, he was the senior most and the biggest, no doubt. But more young “fair angles” from home town had moved into KALINA for wants of “easy works” thanks to economic liberalization. And he needed to keep up with their fairness; he needed to look more handsome for the key to romancing with them depended chiefly on looks. Young girls like handsome guys. Joutepa was quite sure about that. And TANAKHA face-pack was the least of what he applied to his face lately.

My wife, with air bag full of clothing treaded the stairway of Paukhomawi’s apartment. But unfortunately the house was locked. Paukhomawi had left for his “call-center” duty and his wife and two children were out visiting friends in the vicinity. The KAILASH negotiator Abraham followed her minutely behind. Suddenly without any expectation my wife saw one local guy, with a long iron rod, trying to hook valuables from outside the open window of Paukhomawi’s house. After verifying he was indeed a thief trying to steal from the window, my wife shouted, “CHOR! CHOR!” The ever self proclaimed agile, vigilant and self-ordained peace-maker Abraham was not aware of it: he was somewhere in between heaven and hell. Within fraction of a second, the unsuccessful thief dashed away.

After all, a high-pitched voice was not made just for quarreling with a husband. It can be quite handy when spotting a thief. The “CHOR! CHOR!” high decibel sound of my wife gathered many people in the vicinity.

Some ran about looking for the thief. Among the volunteers, the one who turned up unprepared and unaware at the later time was Joutepa with his white TANAKHA face-pack, tight fitting half pants and shirtless. When he enquired about it and had learnt that a burglar was trying to rob his first-floor neighbour Paukhomawi, his biceps started to grow beefy and his senses more sensitive and his appearance changed like in that movie “HULK”. In a zillionth fraction of a second, he just vanished, no where to be seen. The next second when people saw him again he was in those dark alleys with “stood-up” ears and black shiny eyes, tracing the thief, in an exact manner of a cat chasing a mice in the dark. From the time of the first spotting of the thief in that house to the time when Joutepa was seen lurking in the dark, more than 45 minutes had passed, sufficient enough even for the slowest thief to escape.

4

Tick! Tick! The time had lapsed 1 hour. Joutepa was still sniffing, vibrating his cat ears. At last, he smelt the burglar out of his hiding- hole. Being spotted, the thief took to his heels and ran towards the closest alley with the swiftness of a mouse. And with the swiftness of a jungle cat, Joutepa pounced at him with his 85 Kg frame. The thief took the blow and laid flat on the middle of the alley; but the “jungle cat” Joutepa was still on top of him with all his weight. Tremendous weight on top is treacherously abysmal: the thief shitted and murmured a sound of surrender under the unshakable weight of the jungle cat.    

The next episode was Joutepa dragging the thief, scolding and chiding at the same time. It was to everybody’s amazements how he could capture him. When the thief was seated on the foundation of that St. Rogue statue and surrounded by people, the platform was for Abraham Pangamte. If I am not mistaken, he is the only person alive, of all the Hmars who can speak Marathi. Fortunately for Abraham but mercifully for the thief, the thief happened to be a Marathi.

Abraham at once took the matter into his hand, after the capture, and scolded the thief in Marathi language. He pointed the face of the burglar, then the whole of Kalina, and then the whole sky above with his fore finger. His voice was hoarse, intimidating, and sounded to us like any flawless Marathi. After the incident, Abraham asserted that the burglar would not steal again due to his scolding and advice. He said, “My rebuke may be the most painful one he ever comes across in his life”. But the actual underlying truth of the scolding could not be fully proven as none, other than Abraham, could speak nor understand Marathi. No one really knew what that scolding was all about.   

However, any way I feel the thief was one unlucky son: one who land up to get scold by a quarrelsome Hmar, Mr. Abraham pangamte and that too, in Marathi. Of all the rowdy scolding he came across and will come across in future, I believe the thief will always remember that scolding by Abraham as I reckon it to be the most painful of any scolding, for the past, present or for the future. Did the thief understand what he said? Or did Abraham fully understand what he spoke out in Marathi? The fact will not be proven. But I believe he would still felt them so painful.

Till today, after that incident I asked myself “Is there a destiny?” “Can we change destiny?” “Is it destiny that we make or is it destiny that makes us?”

THE UNFORGETTABLE TARZAN

Dogs are men best friends.

Most “house-dwelling” living things— say of cats, rats, caterpillars, ants, mosquitoes, bedbugs or other micro-organism like bacteria or fungi cannot be best of friends. They are quite a maniac of something or the other. Some are madly super-playful (say Cats), some indulge in excessive likeness for food and blood (like Rats, Caterpillars, Ants, mosquitoes etc.) and some spread diseases.

Dogs are, however agile. They are intelligent, faithful, and cannily ferocious and have conscience that can “own” its owners.

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When I had my first introduction into the intelligent world of the dogs, I must have been 8 or 9 years old.  I cannot forget our dog named TARZAN.

Whenever I retrace the memories of TARZAN, I use to be filled with the affection and the association I had with that dog in that point of my lifetime. Equally, I also get worried over things that are always changing. I feel unhappy and I often find myself being puzzling more by life itself.

One fine morning, in those many years ago, my father (being an early-riser and habitual visitor to any probable kin in the locality) came home with a puppy. He kept it on the floor of the kitchen and it was screeching and rubbing its feeble limbs forward and backward on the floor. Its furs were silky white, and had big ears that flap by the sides of its head. The eyelashes were red with tenderness and eyelids watery-black.  My elder brother said, “The limbs and ears are big for its size. It may be of Labrador breed. Let us tame it nicely”. My younger brother was the most excited. With all longing eagerness he ran about the dog to grab it (He could be 2 or 3 years then). All of us were massively happy.

My father said that he forcefully paid the kin 20 rupees in spite of his roaring hesitation to take the money. In my misconceived childish opinion, I wandered why he paid 20 rupees for the damn dog, when he usually pays one or two rupees for our pocket money.  Dogs are everywhere, barking and chasing around. They are as available and as free as air.

It was way later, when TARZAN grew into manhood that I realized the 20 rupees was the “life insurance money” for the dog. There is a lingering belief that all living things taken for taming has to be insured by exchanging our most prized possession (in this case money) on their behalf. If not, they die a quick premature death.   

My first scrutiny on the dog was whether it was a “HE” or a “SHE”. After proper investigation with my brothers, the fact was proven. It was a proper “HE”.

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And why the name TARZAN? In that year, the Bollywood song “Tarzan” was swirling at its peak in the locality. Every household played the music, danced and marveled at its tunes. It was so simple and captivating! And so, we agreeably named the puppy TARZAN. And the fact of being the TARZAN for the house was uncontested and came to each notice in no time.

When my father snatched TARZAN from her mother, he was yelling not willing to part with the warmth and milk of his mother. On the first week of his stay in our house, he was insecure and found us all alien and learned each “one step” with a faint light that penetrated his young pupil and limbs as fragile as reeds. Who could be in more misery than a child snatched from the breast of its mother?

But, TARZAN he was!  He had a strong emotion and stubbornly inclined himself to survive, no matter what. He tried to survive and grew to keep up to his name. Now, his mother’s milk was replaced by cow’s milk, biscuits and sometimes rice.

When he was a month old and as big as medium-size horlick can, his inclination to learn new things— the human way—started to evolve. He did not cry for food until we dine. And when we ate, he approached his food-bowl and looked about at us, asking food.  On school going time, he would rumble around, pulling our trousers as we wore it and roamed around searching for our shoes. He had just mastered the art of delivering shoes for his masters. On departure for school, it was his utmost priority to see us off up to the front door. And then went back to his bed under the chair.

In less than a year he grew into a macho dog, with silky furs that sparkled on the face of the sun. Till now, I do not find a dog of such beauty. He dashed with energy and prowled about with that colors of a white angel. And when he moved, his ears were flapping like the wings of a swift bird. I had always heard people saying, “Your dog is very beautiful and clever”. We were a very proud owner.

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As much as to his beauty, his mind was conscious. One night, I must have been class 4 or 5 then, he kept on barking. We didn’t pay much attention—he always barked at strangers. That night, he didn’t stop barking, and then he ran to the door and pushed it, with the intent of telling us what he saw. My father and I ran out with torch in his hand, and on the glare we saw TARZAN leading our way towards the bamboo grooves in the dark. He started to stop barking, instead he squealed on us and bit my father’s trouser and pulled towards the grooves. What we saw was horrifying—a young girl, must had been 7 or 8 years old, holding an infant, wrapped in loose sheets, covered with blood and stains. She was sobbing intensely, covering her mouth with her hand so that she would not be heard. Mosquitoes had bitten her red and swelling; leeches sucked the blood from her legs and were almost bursting with blood like balloons. We took the girl in the refuge of our house. They stayed with us for few days and the infant child was crying most times due to cold and fever. Whenever she cried, TARZAN was the first to show care; he would jump to where the infant sleep and looked at her, wagging as if telling her not to worry about a thing.  It was later learnt that the girl ran away from home when she overheard her parent’s decision of selling her infant sister for needs of money. Had it not been for TARZAN, the girl and the infant would not have been saved.  

When TARZAN was around 10 to 12 months old, he was filled with stamina. He was ferocious too’’. He could sense his family members even in the darkest night, and could bark at any unrecognized “face and smell” even in the middle of his sleep. And when he was 13 months old, he was fully grown with husky voice and libido started to show up in his blood. 

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When TARZAN was about a year’s old he started to admire female and longed for sex. More in mating season, his libido would grow untamable,  like fanning a coal furnace, and he would forget that he is a tame animal and ran out of the house and went stray, looking for a mate.

The blood of a living is a fluid of battles. It is the fight between cares, love, tenderness and the atrocity of hatred, urge, desires and barbarism. Life of a living is just an act between these two extremes. And when the “need” part of the blood calls, without having any thought, the living often submits to insanity, brutality and irrationality. So was TARZAN.

He would undergo barbarism, straying, not returning until a week or two. During all those insanity (mostly due to sexual urge) he mostly came back wounded and tired. There use to be gang-fight in even in the world of dog. And the fight use to be more aggressive when the goal is fleshy—female. And when tired and wounded, his nature was calmer—timid but bolder. He craved for more cares from us. He hated strangers more, and jumped at them in disarrayed mood, gnawing his teeth and tongue. He could be calmed only by hearing our voice.

One night I was alone at home studying. TARZAN walked up to me, lie on the chair and put his head on my lap. He looked at me profoundly. I said, “How are you, Tarzan?” He seemed to grumble in complain in his reply. He looked as if he had so many things to tell me—could be a sad doggie story, or about life or about the sorrow of death. Then, all of a sudden we heard sounds from our kitchen. TARZAN and I ran out of the room to check the sound. It was a burglar on the verge of sneaking into the kitchen from the window. TARZAN did not miss a second. He pouched on the thief and bit him on the leg, but he somehow managed to overpower TARZAN and jumped out the same way he came in. It was quite a scene, and that was the first time in all his life that TARZAN bit a human, hurt a human.

Still unsatisfied, TARZAN jumped out of the window, without barking, without sound, he traced the thief. The aftermath sound was deadly. He bit, scratched and jumped on the thief till he immobilized him. The thief was caught and before taking to police custody, he was taken to hospital. He was a deprived handsome young man. Consequently while dressing his wounds the pretty nurses asked him “how he got injured?” The thief answered, “I was attack by a mad dog on my way to Church!” None want to spoil our chances.

That day and the week that followed, TARZAN was the talked of the town—a hero. I was so proud when people talked about his achievement. In fact I was flying. Even local newsmen came to us to take picture of him. In the picture I was holding TARZAN like any proud owner had done before.

But my father was not happy at all on that attack. He found it very inevitable that he would attack and bite again, not only thief but innocent stranger. And then my father, in all his seer conscience came up with a plan—to cut his canine teeth so that it would not hurt others. No member in the family, at that time, knew that cutting canines would make the dog incapacitated. It was thought to be good for the family and more for the dog.

And so it was. During September while I was in class 6, I guess, the canines teeth were trimmed with the instruction of my father. With pliers and many men at armed, forcing TARZAN like a big uncontrollable baby, they blunted his canines.

The aftermath days that followed were different for TARZAN. He opened his mouth in pain, watery saliva flowing out the sides. He could not eat because of irritation and pain. Every day he grew thinner. Sometimes, he tried eating biscuits or soft rice. But he could not take much. He was always hungry and weak and sad at how things could just changed into, like that, in a flip of a second. And those were the time when he needed us the most. He would lay by our sides, and looked at us through his weak eyes, asking what we have done to him. Father took him to veterinary doctor regularly. With medication, his condition had improved. But there is some originality given by life, if broken, could not be substituted by any medicines. TARZAN lost his strength.

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During one breeding month, Tarzan strays again as usual. He did not return after a week or two. All the three of us brothers went out looking for him. Every day for one whole week, search in the morning before school, and after school in the afternoon, were unproductive. My father even published about the missing TARZAN in the local newspaper with a promise of reward for any spotter. My younger brother and I were like crying and sobbing, literally. We did cry though in secret. I didn’t know how often my brother cry, how much he miss TARZAN, as he did not reveal it and did everything in secret. For me, I cried a lot. I really miss TARZAN. I wanted to touch his furs, I wanted to call him and I wanted to see him running towards me. I felt the house emptier. TARZAN was the most regular living being in the house that would wel-come us back after school, which would wait by our sides with faithful gestures. The woolen pillow I had placed for him during his canine injuries was still there left untouched.

One morning we were waken by a weak squealing sound of TARZAN. All of us, rushed towards the sound cheerfully. But our joy was knocked down by the sight. We found TARZAN lying beneath the bush covered in blood and injuries. The tooth marks of dogs could be seen all over his body and deep blood were oozing from them. Both his eyes were bitten blind and the right side of his skull was punctured badly. He wagged his tail once or twice when he heard our voice. I could not hide any longer. I cried holding the waist of my father and cry, “Tarzan….don’t die, don’t die!” But death came swiftly for him once he heard his family’s voice again. He took one last deep breath and released his soul.

After almost 30 years hence when I look now, our house is emptier. Except that day when TARZAN died, I never have another chance to hold my father and cry soberly. Instead, one by one they leave us.  Tarzan left us first. Then my father. And then my younger brother. And then my grand mother. TARZAN was the only living being in the family who heard my voice before taking the final journey.

That is the story of TARZAN. Everyday I become firmer and firmer to the conclusion that it’s a story of my life too.

DEATH

Stephan C. Hmar

Many times the thought about “death” would cross my mind.

What will death be like? Which of the two—life or death—could be superior? What is really worth living for? What is really worth dying for? Of course, all these type of unexplainable thought makes me a boring chap and tend to make me the odd one even in my own world.

It is a true cliché, there is only one way to born but many ways to die. And as such, as sure as we know how, where and when we born, we are hell sure we are going to die, sooner or later. But none can tell with certain exactness the “How” “Where” or the “When” part. Death stalks us, and will break us when least expected and this is the only certainity of the future.

Every human getting born in this planet called “The Earth” is bound to die. And in between these two extremities—birth and death— we live in many ways. Some are fortunate enough to enjoy it while some are deprived like broken wings of a bird. But all born out of no choice and this is why this untamable life has its own fair share. The complexities and the explainable, the bliss and sorrow, the likes or the hatred that besieged life is beyond life’s own approval or disapproval.  Without the power of approval or disapproval, try however you may, you are still a slave. Oh! I may be wrong in mentioning the word “Slave”, on second thought. Even manmade slaves could attain freedom. But when are we, the “slaves” of life itself, going to get our freedom?   This might be the reason why a philosopher wrote, “All Men are born equal, but everywhere he is in chains”. Men makes slaves out of its fellow-beings, but slaves could get their independence, but the type of slavery life endowed on mankind has no freedom, knows know freedom. The grip is here to stay.  And this might be the reason when every thinking man, in his most debatable murmur often says, “Life is Unfair”. But no humans, in all its power and “total-sum” can really change that.

 Almost everyday, I annoyingly heard news of death. Some are the dear ones, and some are young ones and others old ones. Some people who died are those who use to know me very well, who cuddled me when I was young. Some were my class-mates, some even my childhood crush. Also, while passing by along the roads, I often come across funeral truck carrying some dead body, with smelly agarbatis and lots of drum sounds. Death has its immense tolls on the living; laughter could not be its friend. A roaring cry, painful calmness, grief, incomprehensibilities loots the near and dear.

All the death of my acquaintances inconveniences me quite alarmingly. The memories of them lingers in my brain, and I all finds them victim of “unfair death” when they have so many things to do in life. “Why does death knock them down so early? Or at odd times?” I would say to myself, in my own judgments. On the face of death, that is the only helpless judgment one can make. It is a thorny problem—you need to indulge in it, crying but you can’t change a thing.

I have had my fair share of death in my family. My father, brother and my grandma they all died during my absence. I could not be there to hold them, at least, during their last breath. But I don’t blame myself. Everyone has but only one destiny, and being unable to be there in their last moment could be my destiny. And their destiny too. As much as I could not be there, I could not set my tears much. Some sorts of mystic comforts overtook me in those times and I was rather consoled. The firm reality that death strikes when it feels it is the time, without human’s approval or disapproval, was so much acceptable to me and that soothe me quite all right.

Death is something intensely strange— a change of state from mobility to immobility. In one time, when they are human, you talked with them through phone, in other time they bless you, they pray for you, they wished you all the good things of life. When you meet them, you don’t need an introduction to get love or scold; you are the pupil of their eyes. But the next thing, death crept in and they are just there, not talking, nor moving, nor feeling and the only thing left of them is your living memories of their care, their smiles and tears when they were alive. You started to recollects all of them, but I doubt if they really miss those?

Time heals the wounds. They used to say. But the secret is time cannot not heal all wounds, especially wounds inflicts by death.  Time goes by and the thought about them multiplied. But, strangely for me, I don’t miss those times when they cooked the food I like, or when they see me grow with anticipation, with all encouragements. I miss of the transition they experienced, the realm where one is free from the slavery inflicted by mortal life itself. I know they never desire to return to this planet Earth, for they rested in some abode, something life itself is yet to experience. This is one reason why of all poem, I like the below poem the dearest.

When I am dead, my dearest,

         Sing no sad songs for me;

Plant thou no roses at my head,

         Nor shady cypress tree:

Be the green grass above me

         With showers and dewdrops wet;

And if thou wilt, remember,

         And if thou wilt, forget.

I shall not see the shadows,

         I shall not feel the rain;

I shall not hear the nightingale

         Sing on, as if in pain:

And dreaming through the twilight

         That doth not rise nor set,

Haply I may remember,

         And haply may forget.

                                 (Christina Rossetti)

This is what our life is all about. In Death.