Excerpt from "The Nature Lover's Guide to Survival" by Shirley Lalrinfeli

Blogger's Note: Mizo writers in English tend to write more poetry than prose, particularly among the younger generation, so I was frankly euphoric to come across this short novel last week. A very recently published YA book, written in impeccable English with a fairly authentic Mizo setting and entirely plausible characterization. It took a while to track down the writer but it's a relatively small world around here so here we go :)

                                                                       One

      It was in September that Puia somehow decided that he was tired of his life. It wasn’t a decision that he took because of some major mishap. It was rather a series of unfortunate events that somehow ended in a death wish. He stopped coming to school, rarely attended classes, and when he did he often got kicked out for doodling or daydreaming. He drank. A lot. And I guess a seventeen-year-old is not supposed to have all these bottles of alcohol in his room, but he did and he knew where to fill up his stock. Presumably from his dad’s.

I wanted him to stop. I tried almost all the behavioural modification techniques that they have come up with to stop addictions. I talked to him about repressed feelings and childhood trauma and everything I could find on the internet. It just didn’t work. He wouldn’t stop, and I couldn’t force it upon him either.

Puia didn’t get any better than he was when all of this first started. It didn’t help matters much that Anu and Apa were extremely cautious about my hanging out with him, so we met up for nothing more than a few hours every week just to catch up on things. There are a lot of things to catch up on when you’ve known someone for ten years and they sort of evaporate into thin air, like their whole presence in your life was all just this hazy dream or something.

Puia was the “got his nose in my business but also both hands on my back” friend. The substitute for a big brother, my fellow treasure-hunter and mystery-seeker. A stargazer and moon-watcher every now and then when he fancied becoming one, and always, always a story-appreciator. Now he was light acid rain sprinkling its cold mist on your skin, on the verge of exploding into a downpour.

A usual day in our lives was now markedly different. We talked less, possibly because of the fact that he disliked company (but I constantly imposed it upon him anyway).

I supposedly had Borderline Personality Disorder as a psychiatrist had concluded that I did, so I had to take medication for my supposed depression which I was sure was only sleeplessness disguised as a monster lurking in the dark, but then no one really listened. Anu and Apa insisted that I chit chat with my therapist Pa Terema every week, braving the storm. Because I was a warrior, we come from warrior stock, don’t you ever forget that, young woman, that you are a fighter of the greatest physical-and-mental-strength kind, and you should never let that memory slip like a cartoon character slipping on banana peel. Pa Terema would ask me all these questions about emotions and feelings and all sorts of mumbo jumbo. Then, seeing that I wasn’t cooperating, he would sigh and go into a long lecture on the juicy site-of-origin-of-all-rumours that was teenage depression and how I must never give in to the big bad monster of mood disorders and brain chemicals gone awry, some racing at the speed of F1 vehicles while some preferred to laze about in the vacuity of my brain. He was okay, except that I didn’t want to tell any strange-looking man that I had dreamt about big gnarly hands clawing at me, nails digging into me, or that I had panic attacks whenever I left for school. These secrets were better left unsaid, leaving them as thoughts that come before words do, before language can expose them.

And then there were the people whom you could share the most amazingly embarrassing secrets with but who won’t ever judge you. Puia was one of those very few and fine people. And I knew for sure he would never betray my trust.

It was on a frost-bitten Monday morning in November that Puia came into my room, microscopically thin red lines in his eyes, hair a mess, like he had been caught in a storm and had just narrowly escaped with only his Iron Maiden hoodie to give him what little protection it could. He stank of stale alcohol. Like it would ever surprise me. He crouched by my bed, his head buried in his hands, and I could hear the tick-tock of the clock as the seconds passed by, then a whole minute. I thought his hoodie was black when he came in. When I looked closer, I noticed it had the faint grey of twilight, the colour of a nesting place where birds would flock for food and company, the shade of a safe hiding place. I stepped in on his daydreaming.

"Are you okay?"

"Yeah. Just drowsy."

“Let’s go up to the tower.”

“Right now? It’s too cold up there.”

“All the better. Besides, there’s something I’ve been meaning to show you.”

We took a ten-minute walk to the water tower, which had an indubitably rich and colourful history, needless to say, what with the badly painted graffiti of Bon Jovi lyrics symbolic of the coming of age of half the town’s teen population. We climbed up the ladder and upon reaching the top, took a seat at the same spot where we usually sat, right at the edge of the tower overlooking a large part of the Falkland area, at the point where the cold wind coming from the south hits your face. We were guarded only by a few widely spaced bars. Aizawl in all its splendid entirety of wooden houses on stilts and large concrete buildings rose up on the hills opposite ours. A concrete mass built on the humble bamboo of its ancestors.

From where I sat, I could see them. The family of pigeons that nested in the tin water collector of the building next to the tower. The parents were feeding their young, bringing them worms and insects. I nudged Puia and pointed in their direction, and he mumbled something and I can’t remember what he had said, but when I look back on that day, I always remember how I wanted to be like those birds, to be so free that nothing in the known physical world would ever stop me from taking flight to whatever destination I wanted to reach. A shackle-free existence surrounded by white morning mist and jasmine petals that grew right next door lulling me to sleep and below me tall grass, making the sound of drizzle when the wind blew at it.  

I wanted freedom, and not of the kind where you’re free to wear make-up. Something more, something long-lasting.

I told Puia that this family of birds was the closest thing to perfection that I had ever seen, and he agreed. It was terribly windy that day. Dust collected on my lips and my cheeks. Temperatures had dropped a few days before and still hadn’t risen.

He sat beside me, staring into the vast expanse ahead, his face unreadable, his eyes a deep dark black.

“Puia.”

He turned in my direction.

“What’s going on? You’re not yourself. You haven’t been yourself for a while now.”

“What do you mean?”

“I don’t know, I mean, you’ve changed.”

“Oh? I didn’t realise.”

“Are you sure you’re okay?”

He let out a long heavy sigh.

“Amawi, I don’t know about anything anymore. I’m so tired of everything. I’m so wasted most of the time, it doesn’t matter what I try to do. I can’t get anything done and it doesn’t make any difference to my family because they’re never around anyway. It’s just U Seni, and she’s away in college now. Tell me, what can I do? What should I do?”

“You can’t just waste away like this, Puia.”

“Yeah, that’s news.”

“You just, I don’t know, you need to try. You just try, and it doesn’t matter if things don’t work out. You just need to try a bit.”

“I do try my best to survive, alright? So hard sometimes. You don’t know how hard.”

He picked up a pebble and flung it to the field below us. I wanted to scream at the top of my lungs, to the furthest corner that my voice would carry me, and yell at whatever obtrusive pesky little thing lay in my path.

Puia and I walked home and I went to church in the evening with my friends, but I couldn’t get him out of my mind, and through all the hymns that we sang and all through the sermon, I kept going back to him and the sun falling on his dark brown hair as he spoke to me and how his hoodie was a sinister black, and his eyes sad and lonely, and it made me so sad inside to think about it. I tried to suppress it, but there’s something about feelings that won’t let themselves be suppressed and they will fight their way out to be seen, and felt, and heard, and I just couldn’t take it any longer. I shouted inside, the loudest scream that I could have allowed myself to scream, like a sound that hasn’t materialised into measurable decibels, and screamed some more in pure emotion, untainted by the acoustics of physical space and away from nosy pesky acquaintances that spread drama like it was the news, and it was such a sad thing to think about.

That was the first time Puia told me about how he really felt, although I’d always sensed it, and whenever I look back on that day, all I remember is the water tower and the heavy wind blowing at us as our legs dangled over the ledge, and how his black eyes looked listless even in the bright of the morning, and the family of pigeons chirping beneath us.

***

I escape to different places, new places, when I need a break from things. So that night I went to the woods and walked through the thick trees and into the hollows where I’d always go. There I found white lilies, the kind that I love. I also found pink and red ones erupting out of the ground from green bulbs. At the mouth of the spring was a white daisy and I thought to myself how I wanted it to be of an altogether new shade, something different, maybe the colour of ocean reefs, majestically blue, with what looked like strips of verdant fields running through it.

I saw it in my mind's eye, a new world filled with lilies and daisies that are of entirely new patterns and colours, and fields that have what seem to be fountains of water gushing through them, flowing upwards in defiance of gravity and spraying water on my face. I saw myself catching droplets with my tongue, tiny droplets the colour of rain-bearing clouds and some the shade of deep, majestic oceans. This was a place where water had all sorts of different shades and flowers reinvented themselves and transfigured into shapes with different hues and textures, and where black earth is now the colour of fancy, iridescent gold dust.

I knew I had to come here again and again. It was a necessity, almost.

I wanted to be there with only my thoughts to keep me company, and maybe see if I could live for eternal time here, to explore the possibilities that this new world held, and not keep myself chained up inside this claustrophobic, damp pigeonhole, because that wouldn't do at all, not when we had the whole world ahead of us.

And what I saw there was a drop of gold emanating from the clouds. But the next instant I saw it again. My heart raced. My hand turned cold and damp. I saw a strong calloused hand grabbing me by the wrist, and it tightened its grip on me, pulling me towards a darkness I could not fathom, and I shouted for it to let me go.

I blinked. The blue lights shone above my bed. Comforting, if not in anything else, at least in their familiarity, and I let out a long sigh. I couldn't erase the image from my mind's eye. It was so powerful and consuming, and all I wanted was to feel safe and protected.

I climbed out of bed, slipped into a hoodie and walked downstairs to the living room. Anu was still up watching a documentary on Nat Geo.

"You're up late," she said.

"I couldn't sleep." She made space for me on the sofa. I slipped in next to her.

"Well you're in luck because look what's airing. A documentary on the food habits of sloths. If that doesn't make you sleepy, I don't know what will."

"Why on earth are you watching this?"

She smiled. "Hey, it was either this or a video of a hippopotamus bathing."

"Isn't there anything better?"

"Apparently the rest of the channels air only PG 13 shows past midnight."

"I'm sixteen."

"Just three years older than thirteen."

I rolled my eyes.

"Oi Anu, em em a. You’re too much."

She burst out laughing.

"I'm the parent here. No buts."

"Okay, okay. So I guess we'll just watch a sloth eating his way through an insurmountable quantity of food. What more could I ask for?"

"That's right."

After a moment's pause, I told her. "Nu, I saw it again. It was only a hand that I saw this time, but I got so scared."

"Amawi, Amawi. I'm so sorry Bawihte. It’s gonna be fine." She kissed me on my right cheek. I felt safe sitting there with her, the monotonous music on TV giving calming rhythm to my flustered breathing.

"Have I told you the story about the time I went to Champhai for a youth congress?"

No she hadn't.

It had been a long trip, she said, some seven hours in a rattling bus that broke down every hour sputtering and choking on its fumes. When they’d finally reached it was already five in the evening. The service was supposed to start at six. She and her friends were staying at the home of a second cousin who was working at a school there with her husband. They’d washed up and quickly gotten ready for church. On their way up a cobbled and rugged path with no streetlights (their torchlight battery had run out), her friend had lost her balance when she stepped on a log lying in the middle of the road and had fallen into a pig trough. She was drenched in mouldy pig feed that was days old. The second church bell was ringing. Someone would already be at the pulpit welcoming the congregation, reading a Bible verse, and praying for blessings. They had no time to go back and change. She grumbled and rained curses on the frightened pigs, now snorting because they’d smelled food, and this angered her all the more. She was supposed to sing in a trio with Anu and another friend, but it had ended up being a duet where Anu’s friend sang way off key in front of thousands of people, because apparently the friend who had had the mishap was the best singer among them. They’d been careful to carry an extra pair of batteries from that night on.

Anu always had the most embarrassing anecdotes up her sleeve, stories revolving around her days in college. They must have been infuriating in the heat of the moment, but they brought a smile to our faces when seen in retrospect. She could have filled quite a large library with them, I reckon.

 

 Three

 A few days later, Puia and I met up for the weekend. A Labrador pup dressed in a pumpkin suit came running towards us, his tail wagging in excitement. When the pup had gone back to his owner, Puia, his head bent down, observed his bowl of sundae like it was fake lava erupting from the volcanoes that we made for science projects back in primary school.

“What’s wrong?” I asked in characteristically tactless fashion.

“It’s my dad. He comes home drunk every night…What on earth is wrong with him? And my mom couldn’t care less about him.”

“I hope things get better, Puia.”

“Yeah. It feels pointless sometimes.”

I nodded that I understood. I didn’t really, although I wanted to.

“What’s the point, Amawi. It doesn’t get better. It has not gotten better in years now,” he said, playing with his now melted ice cream, making circles in his bowl. “It would be easier to just let go of it all, because whatever I try, I don’t know if it’s going to work. And you know something else? It always gets worse. Yeah. Every time.”

“Puia,” I said. I was silent for a long time before I finally managed to say something. Words get stuck somewhere in your thoughts and decide to abandon you when you need them the most. “I think of the same things that you think about. The truth is, I don’t know if it gets better or if it just falls apart all the time. But maybe this is just one small fraction of your life—the things that weigh you down. Your life is so much bigger than that. And maybe you’re stuck in a terrible situation now, but it won’t always be like that, right? I mean, there’s always so much to live for.”

I hated my sentimentality. I sounded like I was trying to inject some concoction labelled “happiness” in gaudy yellow lettering into the dark nihilistic veins of a seventeen-year-old without so much as an attempt at empathy. Stupid stupid stupid.

He sat back in his chair and gazed at the empty space in front of him. His eyes were full of distant places and lonely people. I could not discern what or who even after years of secrets being shared between us. He was a distant nebula, and I was a dull meteor that wandered aimlessly. I couldn’t help him, try as I may. I couldn’t even help myself.

“Yeah, you’re right. You say the smartest things every once in a while, though not very often,” he said, coming back to the situation at hand.

“Yeah, and this is one of those times, apparently,” I said.

“Most of the time, you speak the most nonsensical things. I have to remind myself that you are Lalnunmawii My Best Friend and not an Extra-Terrestrial who is having a hard time adjusting to life here on Earth.”

***

The night of the farewell party we had planned for our seniors arrived. It was at this eighties themed retro club in Chanmari, with glaring disco lights hanging from the ceiling and party music booming everywhere. All our seniors were pretty wasted and so were my classmates. I was getting tired of all the noise and went to the balcony and sat there, the breeze blowing softly on my face and my neck. The rich warm scent of jasmines floated across the heavy night air, and it was so soothing, so heavenly, after all that cigarette smoke. And I turned off every thought in my head and took a deep breath and all around me were miles upon miles of flowing grey grass, almost the colour of hay. When I opened my eyes, the sky had darkened. It was twilight. I saw Anu’s face in the expanse of the darkening sky. She was smiling at me, and her eyes were the stars. Apa had his arms wrapped around her, and he was gazing at me, almost in a frown, like he was concerned.

At the end of the hallway a guy was running to the toilet, trying to keep himself from puking in front of everyone, and another guy was supporting his girlfriend who could barely walk, and I felt the tall grass brush against my hands as I ran across the field and flew up to the sky to be where my parents were, like I had wings or something. I felt the cold air rush into my lungs and I breathed out warmth the next second. I saw a silhouetted figure approaching me and sit down next to me. It was Puia.

“Mind if I join you?”

“Not at all.”

“What a waste of time, isn’t it? They’re all idiots,” he muttered.

“At least the party is a success.”

“Yeah, we threw them one helluva going away party, you know, just to celebrate them not bullying us anymore.”

“Uh-huh.”

“But you’ve got to admit, they’re so bent on sucking all the juice out of this, I kinda admire them. The way I see it, Amawi, there are two kinds of people in this world. The ones who go after what they want, no matter the cost. They will fight till their very last breath to see that they get what they truly want in life,” he said as a matter-of-factly. “Even if that something is getting drunk till you can’t even stand straight anymore and you puke all over the car. Then there are people who are too afraid to go after their dreams. They’re scared.”

“And in which category do you fall?” I asked him.

“The first one, obviously. No questions asked. I don’t want to deny myself the pleasure of living every moment to the fullest.”

“Yeah. That’s an awful cliché. Live every moment to the fullest and everything will be swell and jolly. It’s not even possible.”

I just didn’t believe in it because I had tried to do that every single day and I had always failed. Good and bad must co-exist in this world and so on. Like yin and yang.

“It’s not cliché if it’s true.”

“You’re an awful excuse for Hedonism, Puia.”

“Aaah I get you. I get you.”

“It’s just, when you try to escape all of this, your life, everything… I don’t know. Don’t you think you should confront it, maybe? Can’t you try? I mean, at least try.” He looked pained and I bit my tongue. “Yeah. Never mind. I’m sorry. What was I thinking?”

“It’s alright, I get you loud and clear. Everything is so clear in my head and what you’re saying is just so little of what I tell myself.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Hey, no worries. You’re good.” He tousled my hair and I felt like an idiot. My mind was in a whirlpool with thoughts from here and there swinging in confusion and making a ruckus.

I told him about the field that I saw and how the colours were changed and lilies were brand new colours. The drive home felt magical—I saw pretty lights everywhere. As I sat on my bed, I remembered how great it felt to be there, and decided to write down a survival plan. I got up, walked over to my desk, and rummaged through my drawer for a notebook, one with a floral cover, which Anu had given me on my fifteenth birthday, and grabbed a pen. I turned on the LED lights above my bed, opened the door to the balcony to let the breeze in, and I turned to the first page.

This is my guide to survival. Immerse yourself in the world of nature overflowing with green and serene beauty, one which is far removed from its man-made counterpart, the universe of brick and concrete jungles and stone walls.

 

Step One of the Nature Lover's Guide to Survival: The Marshes

Go to the marshes at dusk and you will find glowworms there, fireflies floating above the swamps, turning the scene into something beautiful. Forget everything you’ve been told about how ferocious the animal kingdom can be. Relearn what it means to be human, so you can live in harmony with nature.

While you're there, breathe in the scent of everything else that is around you, all that is not affected by the stench of the rotting vegetation. As you explore whatever there is to explore, be on the lookout for flowers, especially sea lavenders and marsh rosemary (lilac blue water lilies will do if you can't find anything else), and let them be, a crown on their stems, but bend towards them, go nearer, lean into the petals and take in a breath of their perfume. Think about what it does to you and how you feel light-headed with just one breath, and take a step back to consider if it arouses in you any glimmer of whatever God-given hope you still may have. Take in the sound of the waters breathing with life. Of waters filled to saturation with algae and ferns and detritus, of green terrestrial matter turning into atmospheric matter and breathing new life. Taste the electrifying scent of pure marsh air, undiluted and pungent, as it pulses around you and spills into your eyes, your hair. Breathe it in, allow it to seep into your skin and revitalise all that is dry and dying.

 

Shirley Lalrinfeli grew up in Aizawl and Bengaluru and has an MA in English from the University of Hyderabad. She enjoys painting, writing long-form fiction and daydreaming. Her first poetry collection, Sigma, is forthcoming from Writers Workshop.

The Squall - Aduhi Chawngthu

A gust of wind blew from nowhere, making schoolgirls hold on to their skirts and young ladies to their hair. Dark clouds rolled about in the sky, and the air suddenly felt colder and somewhat sinister. It was twilight, the sun had set but darkness had not yet set in, there was an eerie glow in the air. “This is the scene where the vampires would sit up in their coffins and walk up the dungeon steps,” Pi Parteii thought to herself. Why had she seen that movie with Charlie last night? It was so unlike her, staying up until eleven watching a movie, that too on a Sunday night. She looked around the bus stop, everyone looked so grim and serious, and they all seemed to be running. Running from something, vampires perhaps? “Stop it, Parte,” she told herself, “There’s no such things as vampires.”

The bus came, and it was jam-packed. If it was any other day she would have waited for the next one, but today she was in a hurry. Cecilia and Zotea were coming to dinner, and she was worried about the cooking. She had put the boys in charge, but something was bound to go wrong, it always did. She had hoped to go home early today but it turned out to be the busiest day she’d had in a long time. She climbed inside the bus. It was even worse inside than it looked from the outside. It was so crowded she had to stand near the door. The air smelled of cigarette smoke and sweat. The two women sitting next to her were talking loudly. The young man standing beside her had earphones plugged into his ears, he must have turned the volume to the fullest; she could hear the music coming out through the earphones.

“And then he called me and asked me to go back, but I said if you want me back come and fetch me, and you know he wouldn’t dare set foot inside my parents' house, so I guess I'm not going back,” the woman sitting beside the window said.

“That’s the spirit. You are much better off without him. And you look... happier,” her friend said.

“You know what, now I'm officially a nuthlawi, a divorcee,” the first woman said, and they broke into giggles.

There was a loud bang of thunder, the wind grew fiercer, and it was rapidly getting dark. Pi Parteii reached inside her bag, felt around it, and found she didn’t have her umbrella with her. Wonderful. Now she would have to call one of her sons to meet her at the bus stop with an umbrella. Well, it hadn’t started raining yet; if this bus went a little faster she could make it before the rain came. 

“Why does it always rain every time I am away from home?” an old woman said, “I hope that daughter-in-law of mine remembers to take in the washing.”

The conductor, a short plump man with paan stained teeth, squeezed himself between the passengers. Pi Parteii took out a ten-rupee note and gave it to him, “Kulikawn,” she said.

The conductor stopped, and looked at her. “Nu Parte, is it you?”

“Why, it is Sangtea. How are you?” she said.

“I'm fine. It’s been a long time, isn’t it? How are the children? They must be all grown up now.”

“Yes, they are all bigger than me now. Cecilia got married, you know.”

“Cecilia married? The last time I saw her she was about eight years old and I had to hide my tools from her.”

“So, Sangte, why are you a bus conductor? You were a very good carpenter.”

“Oh this, I am just helping out a cousin, his conductor went home and he couldn’t find anyone else.”

Pi Parteii gave him the money again. “You know where I'm going.”

Sangtea refused to take the money. "It’s all right, you are in my bus now.”

“Take it, I don’t want to feel guilty.”

“It’s okay, really,” Sangtea said.

“You know, Sangte, we are still using all the furniture you made for us.”

“That’s good.”

“You should come visit us some time.”

“Yes, I will do that,” he said, and made his way to the back of the bus.

It was raining heavily now, and people hastily closed the windows. Pi Parteii found a seat, sank down, rummaged inside her bag and took out her cell phone. It was switched off. Now that was strange, she didn’t remember switching it off. Oh, it must have been all the squeezing and crushing. She switched it on, and dialled Charlie. It rang and rang, but Charlie didn’t pick his phone. She dialled again, and listened to it ring. One, two, three… eleven, twelve rings. Still he didn’t pick it up.

She disconnected, and dialled their landline number. All she got was short beeps. Trust the phone to stop working every time it rains. She could call Christopher, but he was using his Delhi number and had asked her not to call him. “Roaming charges,” he had said. Her husband had refused to get himself a cell phone (“I can’t work these new gadgets”)

She dialed Charlie again, still no answer. She disconnected, and dialled Christopher. He answered on the first ring.

“Hello”

“Chris, why is Charlie not answering his phone?”

“He’s over at Zotea’s house.”

“Why is he over at Zotea’s house? I put you two in charge of the cooking. Have you done anything yet?”

“They are not coming for dinner. Pi Hlimi suddenly got worse, and everyone is gathering there,” Chris said.

“When was this? And why didn’t you call me?” Pi Parteii said.

“About twenty minutes ago. We called you a hundred times; your phone was switched off. Why did you keep it switched off anyway? “

“That’s not important. Listen, bring an umbrella and meet me at the bus stop, go now.”

“All right.”

“Where’s your father?”

“He too is at Zotea’s house.”

“Okay, now go.”

She hung up.

It was completely dark outside now, the driver had switched on the lights, and she felt like she was travelling in a night bus. The bus was almost empty, and it seemed like the rain and the wind were getting louder by the minute. Pi Parteii suddenly felt sad, sad for her poor daughter, for her son-in-law, for Pi Hlimi and the grandchildren she would never see.

“Nu Parte, it’s your stop,” the conductor said.

“Oh yes. So long then, Sangte, come see us whenever you want.”

“Will do. Goodnight then.”

She got down and looked around, but couldn’t find Christopher anywhere. She remained at the bus stop, dimly aware that she was getting wet,  but she didn’t want to step inside any of the nearby shops, didn’t feel like talking to anyone right now.

“Let me have my moment of sadness, let me be alone for just a few seconds, because in a few minutes I will again have to be the comforter.”

All around her, the rain kept falling in sheets.

                                                                            ...


Aduhi Chawngthu  is presently working in the Mizoram Civil Services. In her free time, she is a voracious reader and enjoys writing and taking pictures. She wrote this short story in August 2009 as part of an entertaining serial, chronicling contemporary urbanized Mizo society. Unfortunately the serial was never quite completed.  We hope she finds time amid her hectic career to properly finish it someday soon!

Cross my Heart and Hope to Die

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

Politik Gypsy - Thanseia

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.