The Cord of Life - Mafaa Hauhnar

Translated by Zualteii Poonte

“We are connected,
You and I,
By an invisible cord,
Not seen by the eye.”

The most powerful cord that holds my life together, the single strongest strand that binds life to mankind for me is literature. Often it is my only solace of refuge and rest.

Without it, I would be but a paper kite without a string, set adrift and wafted about by every breeze that blows, buffeted by unkind storms and eventually battered down.

When the silver cord that binds this body and soul (Ecclesiastes 12:6 ) is severed, I shall no longer be mortal. But the chain that binds my heart, with apologies to P.S. Chawngthu, is literature.

When the world becomes too much, and life turns ugly, when brutal waves bash me around, it is the anchor that keeps me holding on and saves me from drowning.

Riches and wealth, houses and lands, positions and privileges, power and authority – of these I have none. Like the popular song that goes, “It’s only words, and words are all I have,” my words and writings are about all that I have.

I am the kind that kicks shut opportunities opened by others. I spill more than I get into the pot, and knock down more than I get to prop up. I chop off more than I can even hope to pick up; fling away more than I can ever hope to gather.

“I am such a mess, even at my best” as the saying goes. At times that I try to shine I am frivolous, and even in my finest moments I am flippant.

That I am inept, ineffectual and incompetent I am all too aware, and need no one else to point it out. The knowledge of my own foibles and follies leave me downhearted and downcast, despondent and disconsolate. At such times when my spirits hit rock bottom, it is the rope of literature which hauls me back to sanity.

Certainly there are many points that my detractors can focus on to deprecate me. They are right when they say I am nothing and the truthfulness of it exacerbates the painful fact.

Much like the lines, “The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars/ but in ourselves, that we are underlings.” (William Shakespeare, Julius Caesar, Act I, scene II), it is simply that I am so flawed. Nothing else is to blame. The only thing that I do have, my writings and poetry, I treasure deeply and will guard with my life. It is, after all, what bonds me to life.

You may know my face, perhaps you even see me often; but do you know the details of the ups and downs of my life?

Believing you know me inside out, will you be so quick to damn and condemn me?

You hear me laugh and often see me in a joyful mood, don’t you? But do you also see my tears?

When the clouds can no longer hold in the water they carry, rain falls. When the heart can no longer bear the pain within, tears fall.

Despite that, the pain I carry inside is not usually revealed in tears. Instead it is sometimes the cheerful facade I somehow project that reveals the deep sadness I feel within.

If you will accept me, take me for what I am, with all my faults. If you embrace me hoping to turn me into what you want me to be, then you are in for disappointment.

Because my weakness is often so strong, I can never really live up to your expectations or fulfil your ideals.

That I am a happy, jovial person, always laughing and keeping everyone around me in splits is how many see me, I am certain.  Perhaps even as gregarious and sociable, spreading laughter wherever I go, the life and soul of every gathering.

But I spend more time on my own, a lonely man, brooding over sad and vexing thoughts that bring me to tears and cause me sleepless nights. A man who prefers solitude to company, like a ship stranded far out at sea and gently rocked by sea waves.  As lonesome as a solitary sparrow drenched in the falling rain. A man who enjoys his own company and spends time at home on his own.

I am a lone wolf. As the poet I greatly admire Rudyard Kipling once wrote, “He travels the fastest who travels alone,” which is echoed in the popular Merle Haggard song, “For he who travels fastest goes alone.” Our forefathers used to advocate following in the path of the most number of footprints but I would rather set off on my own so I can concentrate on my life’s pathway.

Intoxicated with madness,
I am in love with my sadness.

In public view and with company, I may guffaw as loudly as one stoned on weed. But since early childhood I have always chosen to shun company for my own, playing quietly by myself. Engrossed in my own imagination, I talk often to myself. Wanting to engage in serious conversation with my heart, I crave quiet time. It seems to me that it is the weak and those lacking in self-confidence who need to be constantly surrounded by other people.

As different as my fingerprints are from everyone else’s, so is my character and I have no intention of changing just to impress or appease some; I am no chameleon. I do not aim to please everyone, I am not Lengzem magazine.

I do not change my traits to force myself on others so they will accept me.

This is who and what I am, take it or leave it. Just as I have never apologised for my diabetes, I have never apologised for my character.

I have a mind separate from yours, allow me to have opinions of my own.

Were you to attempt to understand my life, you would never succeed; I myself fail to understand it.   Walt Whitman’s lines

“Do I contradict myself?

Very well then I contradict myself,

(I am large, I contain multitudes.)”

describes me exactly.

Sometimes I feel like a paper kite with broken string, cast on a tree branch by the wind and hanging there aimlessly.

Not just any kite but one with eye-catching colours and made of quality paper is what I would like to be though.

One that someone walking out in the wilds catches glimpse of and happily climbs up and takes home contentedly. Repairs with great care the spine, the spreader, the cross, the tail, and reconnects with a strong, sound string.

Perhaps you are that solitary walker who finds that paper kite.

It is my dearest wish that you and I remain thus connected, with I being your source of joy and happiness.

But when the day comes that you grow weary of playing with me, take me to a wide, open hilltop on a bright, sunny day and release me into a light, cheery breeze. That is when you will break off the connection between us.

Perhaps the kind breeze will lift me onto a nearby tree branch again – to be rescued once more by someone else.

Then he will lift me up and let out the line, and I will sail the skies and dance among the clouds.  And when he wishes, he will draw me back in, and taking a quick sniff of me, will exclaim, “Ah, a scent of heaven!”

Photo credit:  Mala Pachuau & Amtea Hauhnar, with special thanks to C. Lalawmpuia Vanchiau

  

Translator’s Note:  I am so pleased to finally bring out this memorial tribute in the form of a translation of this soul-baring Mafaa Hauhnar piece,  the introductory essay to his last anthology of prose writings Hringnun Hrualhrui (published March 2018). The book would earn him a posthumous Book of the Year (2018) award from the Mizo Academy of Letters four months after he passed away in the early hours of December the 30th 2018 due to complications from diabetes.  

I began working on this translation shortly after Mafaa’s death but had to shelf it temporarily due to work pressures. Despite buying the book at its launch last March, I somehow never quite read the introduction. When I eventually did though, it took my breath away especially the poignancy of the paper kite analogy: Mafaa the writer, the paper kite blown around by every current of air, then nestling forgotten in the branches of a tree only to bring immense pleasure to those who take time to spend time with him, soaring high above the skies and bringing back a taste of heaven as he does time and time again to his readers.

I really got to know Mafaa in early 2015 when I was asked to work on a translation of one of his writings for an anthology (Contemporary Short Stories from Mizoram - Sahitya Akademi). We connected on Facebook and I quickly realised he had a tremendously quick mind which often reminded me of a witches’ cauldron because it always seemed to be bubbling over with some interesting thing or the other! Since unlike other Mizo writers, he also wrote in English, he became a permanent fixture at our Mizo writing in English events such as HillTalk, and assorted seminars and workshops: he was always one of our own.  And despite his boisterous, laugh-a minute reputation, I found him to be thoughtful, well-read and respectful. It surprised me though when he talked about his love of solitude, no, his preference for solitude because he always struck me as such a people person.  In this essay, he touches on all that and in hindsight, I wish I had known how  vulnerable and sensitive he had been as a person.  Rest in gentle peace, my friend.

A 21st Century Mizo Woman's Take on the Life of Olden-Day Mizo Women through “Tumchhingi and Raldawna” - Jacqueline Zote

We all have certain childhood memories that are clearer than day. And these memories stick with us through the years. Sometimes, we can still recall them even when we can’t remember what happened just last week. Maybe it was that particularly sunny day you took a walk with your dad and he bought you ice-cream – it was vanilla in a cone. Or maybe it was that one evening you felt enveloped by sadness as you watched the sun disappear behind the mountains.

For me, it’s the memory of my mother telling bedtime stories to put me and my two younger siblings to sleep. We didn’t have story books that she could read to us. So she would sometimes make up stories or narrate some of the most popular folktales. The stories would play out in my mind as she told them and I could always picture the characters and their actions.

Many of these stories also gave me some insights into the life of our ancestors. Although we were taught several Mizo writings and stories in school, they couldn’t make up for the stories my mother told us and the way she described tiny details with enthusiasm. One of the stories that have stuck with me throughout the years is that of Tumchhingi and Raldawna, two lovers who got separated by an evil creature but later managed to find each other again.

Personal observations about Mizo love stories
The Mizos love the idea of love and we have plenty of folktales about lovers in ancestral Mizoram. What I’ve found interesting is that when naming these stories, we would often put the woman’s name first and then the man’s name. Although there’s no particular rule or study to explain why this is the case, it has always been the natural way we name these love stories.

So “Tumchhingi (the female) and Raldawna (the male)” sounds much more natural to use than “Raldawna and Tumchhingi”, although some people also use the latter expression from time to time for this particular story. Similarly, we have the stories of Tlingi (the female) and Ngama (the male). We also have Chawngmawii (the female) and Hrangchhuana (the male) and so on.

As you well know, this isn’t always the case in other stories from around the world – for instance, “Adam and Eve” is natural-sounding now because that’s how we’ve always said it. Similarly, there’s Hansel and Gretel (though not lovers but still a story about a boy and a girl), Jack and Jill, Cupid and Psyche, Anthony and Cleopatra, and of course Romeo and Juliet. Just try switching up the order of the names and it wouldn’t sound so familiar or natural anymore.

This is in no way an expert or in-depth study but a personal observation, which I’ve found interesting and establishes a distinction between Mizo love stories and stories from other parts of the world. And I feel it’s an example of where women stand in the Mizo society. I can’t say that Mizo women are on a pedestal and that women’s condition in the Mizo society is perfect. The only claim I can make, however, is that Mizo women are not entirely in the background and that’s a start.

Of course we have a long way to go and there are plenty of areas that need improvement. For example, the society as a whole expects women to be focused on childcare and carry out household chores while men are expected to be sole breadwinners. But that’s gradually changing with more and more Mizo women in the workforce.

The power of women in the Mizo society
Women across the world have been struggling and continue to struggle to attain equal rights and equal recognition as their male counterparts. And Mizo women too are part of that struggle. Like women in other societies, they make significant yet unaccounted-for contributions. This is one of the things I’ve learnt from the stories mother used to tell us.

Many of these stories would talk about how both men and women had to work the fields. And there were also certain tasks that were deemed the norm for a particular gender. The men had to go hunting and would sometimes go to war with rival clans. The women did everything else – cooking, cleaning, childcare, weaving, and taking care of the household in general.

Back in the olden days, the Mizo men were too devoted to these gender-assigned roles that they wouldn’t try to help their women out if it means straying from the norm. For example, there’s a popular saying that even if the man of the house was sitting just next to the fire and he notices that the soup was boiling over, he’d simply tell his busy wife about it and wouldn’t budge from his seat.

The stories also talked about how young maidens would have to entertain and socialize with their suitors despite having to work. We would often hear stories that involve women multi-tasking. In the evenings, they would sit with their suitors while busy with their weaving in addition to minding the fire on which pig fodder would be cooking.

Girls were taught how to weave from a young age and by the time they come of age, they had to weave the clothes for every family member. Back then there was no mass-produced clothing. Everything was handmade by the women of the family.

In other words, women have been serving as the backbone of the Mizo society for decades. From these stories, we can learn how they balanced everything with dignity and were such powerful beings that didn’t get as much recognition as they deserved.

Tumchhingi and Raldawna: The beginning
It’s important to know that the Mizo folktales weren’t solely focused on women and the work they did to support their families. More often than not, their contributions were only a minute fraction of the story. But if you pay close attention, you’ll be able to understand just to what extent the women contributed to the household.

Almost every Mizo folktale contains something about a girl or a woman performing an everyday task such as cooking, weaving, or clearing fields. And if you take a closer look at the story of Tumchhingi and Raldawna, you’ll be able to gain a better understanding of how womenfolk worked in historical Mizoram.

The reason I chose to tell the story of Tumchhingi and Raldawna is because I believe it portrays the power of a woman in a subtle manner. It shows the hard work and dedication of the female protagonist. And it also shows her avenging herself instead of relying on the male protagonist to fight for her.

The story goes that Raldawna and his mother were clearing a plot of land when he came across a nightshade bush speckled with ruby red berries. Raldawna, having never seen the berries before, was awe-struck by their beauty. The sight of the berries must have stirred something in him because he proceeded to ask his mother if there would be any woman whose beauty compares to those berries.

That’s when his mother told him about Tumchhingi, who lives in the village of Vanchung. The literal translation of Vanchung is “above the skies” so one must wonder whether Tumchhingi was an angelic being. This is a possibility because many Mizo folktales contain inter-species marriages, wherein humans marry supernatural beings such as sky women and weretigers.

Determined to find Tumchhingi and marry her, Raldawna set out on a journey to the village of Vanchung. After a while, he came by a house at the entrance of the village. There he saw a young maiden busy with her weaving but her face was obstructed by the cloth on her loom. So Raldawna decided to shoot at the loom using his slingshot in hopes of getting a better look at her face.

Upon hearing the sound, the maiden looked up from what she was doing and her face was now clearly visible. Raldawna then held up the nightshade berries against the maiden’s face to see if she could be Tumchhingi. To his disappointment, he found the berries to be far more beautiful than the maiden. So, he traversed on to find the woman of his dreams.

He came across another house with another maiden busy on her loom. Like before, Raldawna used his slingshot to shoot at the loom and get the maiden’s attention. She too turned out to be far less beautiful than the nightshade berries Raldawna had been carrying.

After a long search, he finally reached another house. This house too had a maiden who was weaving. Like the previous times, Raldawna again shot at the loom to attract the maiden. When she looked up, he was filled with relief because he knew for sure that this was Tumchhingi as the nightshade berries could barely compare to her beauty.

Tumchhingi and Raldawna: The elopement
Raldawna approached Tumchhingi and introduced himself. The two of them became fast friends and spent some time chatting with each other. Tumchhingi too felt an attraction towards Raldawna, who was a handsome and robust young man. And after hearing how he searched high and low for her, she instantly grew fond of him and admired his determination. 

There are some variations in how people tell the story of what happened after Raldawna and Tumchhingi became acquainted. Since Mizo folktales were passed down from generation to generation through word-of-mouth, there are often differences in certain details. Some tell the story with Raldawna asking Tumchhingi’s parents for her hand in marriage, after which they tied the knot and headed for Raldawna’s village.

But in most versions, Raldawna invites Tumchhingi to follow him home while her parents are out in the fields. The reason behind this invitation is because Raldawna feared that Tumchhingi’s parents may be against their marriage. After some hesitation, Tumchhingi finally obliged and quickly packed her things. The two lovers then headed for Raldawna’s village to get married.

The bronze comb of Tumchhingi
Tumchhingi and Raldawna had been traveling for some time and were already far away from Vanchung village when Tumchhingi realized that she had forgotten her bronze comb. But before she could head back to get it, Raldawna offered to go in her stead. He was afraid that her parents might have been back by now so if she went back, they might try to stop her from marrying him. This detail supports the version of the story in which the two lovers eloped instead of married with Tumchhingi’s parents’ permissions.

But the problem was that it wasn’t safe for Tumchhingi to stay all alone either. Luckily, they found a big banyan tree nearby. So Raldawna set up a wooden platform on its branches. He advised Tumchhingi to stay here without making a sound and then headed back to the village to fetch the bronze comb.

After a while, an ugly and horrendous creature named Phungpuinu passed by the area where Tumchhingi was waiting. Although there is no exact translation of what kind of creature a Phungpuinu is, she could pass off as an ogress. She’s often described as dirty and stinky creature with tangled messy hair and is always female. In my childhood, I often pictured her as a creature with soot-black skin and monstrous teeth.

The encounter between Tumchhingi and Phungpuinu
As the Phungpuinu reached the banyan tree, she happened to see Tumchhingi’s shadow on the ground and mistook it for her own. So she stopped there and admired her figure, dancing and singing about the ornaments adorning her shadow.

Meanwhile, Tumchhingi was silently observing her and was amused by the creature’s naivety. Finally, she couldn’t keep quiet any longer and laughed out loud. She shouted to the Phungpuinu, “Phungpuinu, that’s my shadow; not yours.”

The Phungpuinu looked up and saw Tumchhingi prettily perched on the platform that Raldawna had set up for her. “What are you doing up there?” the Phungpuinu asked. “I’m waiting for my Raldawna,” replied Tumchhingi. “How did you get up there?” asked the Phungpuinu. But Tumchhingi did not want to tell her the truth.

First she told the Phungpuinu that she climbed the tree with her body upside down. But when the Phungpuinu tried to follow this advice to climb the tree, she failed miserably and fell down in a heap on the ground. The creature asked Tumchhingi again how she climbed the tree, to which she responded that she climbed up sideways. So the Phungpuinu attempted to climb the tree sideways but couldn’t get anywhere.

Realizing that the young maiden had been lying to her, the Phungpuinu became frustrated and was seething with rage. Afraid to further anger her, Tumchhingi finally told her how to climb the tree. The next thing she knew, the horrendous creature was perched right next to her.

“Let’s look for lice in each other’s hair,” the Phungpuinu asked, “you start with mine.” Several stories have mentioned women combing each other’s hair while looking for lice. This seemed to be one of the activities olden-day Mizo women indulged in during their free time, which comes rarely.

Tumchhingi reluctantly combed her fingers through the creature’s dirty and messy hair, which was filled with huge lice the size of eggplants. After a while, it was the Phungpuinu’s turn to look for lice in Tumchhingi’s hair. She combed through the maiden’s fine hair and found that her scalp was clean and bright with no lice to be found. The sight made her salivate as she started craving for human flesh.

Phungpuinu’s evil plan
The hungry Phungpuinu began cooking up a plan as her craving grew stronger. She wanted to eat Tumchhingi without suffering Raldawna’s wrath. At last, she asked the maiden if she could try on her bangles just to see how well they suited her. Tumchhingi, not daring to refuse, gave her the bangles to try on.

Then the Phungpuinu asked, “Give me your necklace too. I want to see how they look on me.” Tumchhingi reluctantly handed over her necklace. But this wasn’t the end. The Phungpuinu continued asking for everything Tumchhingi was wearing – from her blouse to her puan. A puan is a sarong-like cloth worn by Mizo women as traditional attire.

In modern times, Mizo women mostly wear their puan on Sundays and on special occasions like weddings. But back then, puan was the everyday wear for Mizo women. They would have a couple of casual-wear puan and maybe one celebratory puan for festivals and other special events.

Eventually, the Phungpuinu was clad in everything Tumchhingi had been wearing. The latter now stood with bare flesh, which further tempted the creature. Without another thought, the Phungpuinu opened her mouth wide and gobbled up Tumchhingi whole. This gives another suggestion of the Phungpuinu’s physical features – either she has a massive mouth or she can expand her mouth as desired.

Raldawna honours his promise
The next part of the story sounds somewhat similar to a story that you’re all familiar with – Little Red Riding Hood. And it would be interesting to point out that some Mizo stories have similarities in terms of plotlines or certain elements with several other folktales from around the world. I find this interesting because many of these folktales originated at a time when the Mizos had little to no contact with people from outside their community.

When Raldawna returned to see Phungpuinu now clad in Tumchhingi’s clothing, he was crushed. Was this the beautiful maiden he had intended to marry? Giving her the benefit of the doubt, he asked, “O Tumchhing, how did your eyes get so big and stretched?” “It’s because I strained them so hard while watching out for your return,” answered the Phungpuinu.

Unconvinced, Raldawna proceeded to ask, “O Tumchhing, how did your fingers become so long and pointed?” “It’s because I kept pointing and pointing towards the direction from where you’ll return,” the Phungpuinu answered. Although still unconvinced and disappointed, Raldawna felt that it would be wrong to dishonor his promise if this woman was indeed Tumchhingi. So he half-heartedly took her home as his wife.

 The story of how the Phungpuinu dresses up as Tumchhingi and then ends up marrying Raldawna is also somehow similar to the story of “The Fern Girl” found in An Illustrated Treasury of Fairy and Folk Tales by James Riordan. The story is a translation from a Mongolian-Tartar folktale and has several versions.

This particular version talks about a fern nurtured by an old lady and then turning into a human baby. The baby grows up to become a beautiful maiden, who finds a husband from a prominent family. On her way to her husband’s house, the girl gets waylaid by the Devil’s daughter, who asks for her clothing and jewelry and strips her of her skin to dress up as the maiden.

The return of Tumchhingi
As most folklore and fairy tales, the story of Tumchhingi and Raldawna has a happy ending in most versions. So you can guess that this isn’t the end of Tumchhingi. You remember that the Phungpuinu ate her up. After digesting her, the creature defecated in the outskirts of the village. What the creature didn’t realize was that her fecal matter contained a single seed.

Within a few days, the seed grew into a lush calabash tree bearing a single fruit. Many people passed by the tree every day on their way to the fields and some even tried to pluck the fruit. But the fruit was too high up in the tree that none could succeed.

Raldawna, however, managed to pluck it on his first try. The fruit was perfectly-rounded and strikingly beautiful. Admiring its beauty, Raldawna decided to take the fruit home. He kept it near the hearth so it would dry and produce cultivatable seeds. Little did he know, Tumchhingi was living inside the calabash.

While Raldawna and the Phungpuinu were out in the fields, Tumchhingi would leave the fruit and turn into a human again. She would then prepare a scrumptious meal for them to eat once they got back home. The magical appearance of a full-course meal puzzled Raldawna, as even his neighbors denied having prepared the meal for them.

So one day, he decided to spy on whoever had been producing the meals. He left the house as always and pretended to set out for the fields with his wife. But once he reached the courtyard, he snuck back and waited outside the house for the mysterious cook to appear. The houses back then were made of bamboo so Raldawna could see into the house by looking through a gap between two bamboo panels.

Towards evening, he was greeted by a sight that took his breath away. Tumchhingi magically appeared from the calabash and started preparing the meals as always. When Raldawna regained his senses, he silently entered the house and grabbed her by the hands. But to his disappointment, Tumchhingi wasn’t as joyful as he was at their reunion.

“Please let me go, Raldawn. Let me go before your wife comes back and gobbles me up again,” she cried. But Raldawna held on tight, promising her that he wouldn’t let that happen again.

Tumchhingi gets her revenge
As Tumchhingi was struggling to break free from Raldawna’s embrace, the Phungpuinu returned. She stood outside and asked her husband to open the door. But Raldawna wouldn’t respond. The creature then peeked in through the gap in the walls and became livid when she saw Tumchhingi. She broke open the door hurling threats at the beautiful maiden whom her husband was embracing.

Before the Phungpuinu could do anything, Raldawna intervened and suggested that the two have a fair fight. He each armed them with a machete and a cloth for armor. What the Phungpuinu didn’t know, however, was that Raldawna had given her a blunt machete and a scrap of cloth. As he had her under hypnosis, she was under the impression that the machete was the sharpest and the cloth was the thickest.

Tumchhingi was armed with the sharpest machete in the house and shielded with the thickest blanket. The two of them began fighting and prancing about to avoid each other’s blows. The Phungpuinu managed to hit Tumchhingi first but was taken aback when she found that the machete did nothing to harm the maiden.

While the Phungpuinu froze in confusion, Tumchhingi jumped at the opportunity to strike the creature hard with her sharp machete. This blow cut off the Phungpuinu in half and instantly killed her.

So that’s the story of how Tumchhingi got her revenge on a horrible creature that had swallowed her whole. Although Raldawna played a role in the revenge and helped make it happen, she was the one who carried out the act and dealt the final blow that killed the Phungpuinu.

Final thoughts on the story of Tumchhingi and Raldawna
At first glance, the story of Tumchhingi and Raldawna is a story of two lovers. But if we take a closer look into it, we can find many elements that speak of the strength and hard work of Tumchhingi. It can be said that the protagonist of the story is Tumchhingi and the antagonist is the Phungpuinu, while Raldawna is more of a love interest.

The story highlights the love Tumchhingi had for Raldawna as she came back from the dead and magically appeared from a calabash to take care of him. And with his help, she took care of the creature that was responsible for her death.

So in a way, this is a story of a strong and faithful woman who avenged her own death, in the guise of a love story. Unlike traditional fairytales and folklore, where male protagonists save the fair maidens, the maiden fights her own battle with some help from her lover.




Jacqueline Zote developed a passion for writing at a young age and is currently working as a content writer. Simplicity forms the basis of her work. Many of her writings are aimed at promoting Mizo culture and folklore, as well as at women empowerment. She contributed a piece of fiction titled "The Other Side of the Looking Glass: a Retelling of Mizo Folklore" to the book "Centrepiece: New Writing and Art from Northeast India" which was recently published by Zubaan Books and is available at Amazon.

Excerpt from "Mizoram, the Land of Dreams" - J. Lalsangzuala

Blogger’s Note:  When I read Naga writer Easterine Kire’s "Mari", a family biography set during World War II in Nagaland, I felt a rush of envy that our state neighbours had this wonderful documentation of their experiences during the war.  Late last year, I was delighted to come across Pu Sangzuala’s autobiography with detailed descriptions of his involvement in the war, and all of it in English!  I immediately called his daughter and asked if I could blog an extract and she gracefully agreed. My one regret is that it took me so long to get this fascinating piece of history online. I thank Pu Sangzuala for leaving behind this invaluable documentation, as also his family for permission to post a segment here.

During the last part of October, we received orders to join the 11th East African Division, which was operating west of River Chindwin, south of Tamu, with the objective of crossing the river in force, attack the enemy wherever they were found and then destroy them. Men of this Division were drawn from Kenya, Uganda, Tanganiyka, Nyasaland and Rhodesia (all black Africans). All their officers and senior NCOs (sergeants) were whites.  For security reasons, we started on foot and from Moreh at midnight on 1st November 1944. Foolishly I put on a brand new pair of military boots which caused blisters in various parts of my feet. This made marching difficult. Everyone had to carry his own kit (all belongings – bedding, garments etc), arms and ammunition, ground sheet and ration, and had to be self-supporting. The only transport available to us were mules which were used for transporting heavy materials and stores like mortar, bombs, reserve ammunition and rations. 

On the third day of marching on foot through jungles, we contacted the 21st East African Infantry Brigade under which the battalion was to operate. Most of us spent the night in abandoned enemy bunkers. I was in one of them. It was very difficult to sleep because sands were falling off and on from the top cover of the bunkers. We did not take the risk of staying outside for fear of enemy shelling – sporadic shellings by mountain guns were made by the enemy in the area. The enemy had been driven across the river Chindwin. And the nearest enemy post was about 2 kms away east of the river. The following night, a patrol party was sent across the river to locate the enemy.  In the meantime, preparations were on in full swing for large scale crossing of the river. Rafts were constructed with bamboo and tarpaulins. In the evening, the patrol party reported that the enemy had withdrawn towards the east. The following day, the battalion crossed over to the east bank without any hindrance. All types of available river transport were used – sampans, dug-outs, bamboo rafts, tarpaulin with wooden or bamboo frames. I was in one of the dug-outs, along with six others. It was overloading and the level of water was barely 2 to 3 inches  below the edge of the dugout. My boatman was jittery out of fear.  Because of fear, he would make a move off and on, and the dugouts would swerve and would nearly swallow the water. The distance from West to East bank was about 300 metres.  Perhaps this was the longest 300 metres I had ever travelled. We then had the honour of being the first full infantry battalion to re-cross River Chindwin during the re-conquest of Burma. 

The advance party took position in the hillock overlooking a village. No sooner were they in position than a Japanese fighting patrol of about fifteen men appeared. Our patrol party killed six of them without suffering any casualty, and the remaining Japanese disappeared into the jungle. We then slowly advanced towards the south, and ‘B’ Company was detached to the east as a flank protection. We spent three nights on the east flank. On the fourth day, there was heavy firing to our east – both of rifles and automatic weapons interspersed with explosions of grenades and two inch mortar bombs. We, in the HQ thought that the enemy might have launched an attack on our company deployed in the east, and that the enemy might try to drive us out of the east bank. We were worried because there was no means of crossing the river to the west in that area and a large area east of the river was sandy, barren and exposed to the enemy. Even for those who could swim, the river in that area was narrow, the current was extremely strong. There was apprehension in everyone’s mind. To our great relief, a message from Major A.I. Calistan of “B” Company came saying that since they could not locate the enemy, they had discarded part of their ammunition and bombs for practicing river crossing. As the enemy was retreating fast to the east and the south, contact could not be made of their whereabouts. The battalion crossed over to the west bank of the river in piecemeal and concentrated in the area near the river port of Mawlaik.

Near Mawlaik, a paddy field was flattened for use as a landing ground for small planes, and cargo-carrying gliders. We called it “Jeep plane” because it could carry only one passenger apart from the pilot, and the fuselage was made of reinforced canvas. The “Jeep planes” were operated from Yajogyo, about 50 km away to the West, where a makeshift airfield was constructed and operated by the U.S. Air Force. The plane was operated for evacuation of casualties. Very often, cargo-carrying gliders also landed at the landing ground – a Dakota plane would tow the glider, release at the right altitude and direction and then the glider would land, and cargo unloaded. A big iron ring was attached to the head of the glider, and the Dakota would come low, release the two ropes with a big hook attached to the end, which would hook the iron ring, and off they would fly. It was a risky operation which needed perfect skill. Though some items of rations like rice, atta, animal ration were freely dropped by planes, ration and ammunition were mainly dropped by Dakotas. Silk parachutes were used for dropping breakable items liquor; cotton chutes for ammunition and supplies, and Hessian chutes for other items. There was serious shortage of cloths amongst the civil population. Hence there was heavy demand for parachutes among the civilians for making garments. Normally we could have two fowl in exchange for one parachute. At any rate, the parachutes had to be left behind, since there was no means of carrying or sending them back. We, therefore, had plenty of chicken to supplement our ration. Occasionally we received fresh frozen Australian mutton and rum through airdrops. While in Mawlaik, we leant that a pontoon bailey bridge, the longest of its kind in the world, had been constructed across river Chindwin at Kalewa, downstream. This was a big morale booster for the officers and men as they realized that the Allied Forces meant real business. The long awaited operation – the big push into Burma started at last.

Before the battalion marched back to to Moreh on foot, it was decided that the Adjutant (Capt. M.G. Williamson) and I should leave for Shillong to sort out some official matters, so as to be back before the battalion involved itself in the high push into Burma with the 19th Division. We left by ‘jeep’ plane and landed in Yajagyo where we were received by the medical staff thinking we were casualties. We were then transferred to an ambulance plane (a single engine high wing monoplane with fixed under-carriage) with accommodation for 6 stretcher cases and 10 sitting patients. We landed in Tamu where we were received by the medical staff along with casualties who had travelled with us. The dedication of the US pilots and ground crew were commendable. From Tamu, we went by jeep to Moreh and then to Shillong. Capt. Williamson was my Adjutant from mid 1944 till mid 1945. He had since died in Australia in 1981.  But the time we returned to Moreh, the battalion had already moved across River Chindwin. On my leaving Mawlaik for Shillong, I had to leave behind my batman, Rohnuna of Hlimen. During my absence from the battalion, the poor fellow was blasted to pieces by an explosion. An investigation revealed that while cooking in the open, an explosion occurred at the spot. It appeared that during the battle which took place in this area, some bombs and shells must have been embedded and covered by monsoon mud and must have been heated by the fire above. The limbs of Rohnuna were said to have scattered over a wide area and had to be collected for burial.

We proceeded towards Homalin on the banks of River Chindwin, along the route used by the Japanese during their invasion of India. It was not a motorable road but a bridle path which was widened to take motor vehicles. The gradients were very steep at places. The local villagers told us that the Japanese had to use elephants to tow vehicles at places, since the vehicles were unable to negotiate the gradients with their own power. Unfortunately, the brakes of our jeep was out of order. There were no means of repairing them in the jungles. The bulk of the troops with supporting units like the recovery unit and repairing units had all gone ahead. With a skillful driver, we managed to negotiate the jungle roads without any mishaps. Soon we could join the battalion. On Christmas Eve, we spent the night in the jungle and a complete blackout was maintained. There was no Christmas service, no carols, and no feast. Next day, on Christmas day, we went on towards Central Burma.

On New Year’s Eve, we reached the railway station Kawlin in Central Burma. From there we advanced towards the South following the motorable road which ran parallel to the railway lines. Late at night, we came  across a road block set up by the enemy by felling trees on the road. The leading vehicle struck a land mine which resulted in damage to the vehicle. Cautiously we went on but fortunately the road block was not manned. We went on to the South, and on the 4th January 1945, the battalion launched an attack from the right flank of the Division. In the course of the battle, our C.O. (Lt. Col. W.F. Brown) was killed. Sadness overshadowed the officers and men alike. The Second-in-Command, Major Mohd. Ayub Khan had to take over command.  While advancing towards the south, I came across two dead Japanese in a slit trench. They were in a sitting position facing each other The head of one of them appeared as though it had been chopped off cleanly just above the eyebrows. It was the work of the shell of 25-pounder anti-personnel shell. I thought to myself, “These poor boys must have relatives at home longing for their return, like me. How ugly the war is!”

J. Lalsangzuala (1924–2009) was one of Mizoram’s most prominent and respected public leaders. He joined the Indian army in 1941 and had the honour of being the first Mizo and the youngest Indian army personnel to be promoted to the gazetted rank of Viceroy Commissioned Officer, Jemader Head Clerk at the tender age of 19. After military service against the Japanese army during World War II, he retired from the army in 1958. 

He then held the post of Secretary, Soldiers’, Sailors’ & Airmen’s Board and was deeply involved in relief operations during the 1960 Mizoram famine, and the subsequent insurgency movement which followed in 1966.  In 1970, he moved on to a highly successful career in politics with the Indian National Congress.  He died on the 9th June 2009.

The Road - Sarah Aineh

The road’s bumpy. And somehow, it seems like it doesn't really lead anywhere. There are plants all around but they look like they could be poison ivy or some such poisonous plant…they look anything but inviting. And plants are supposed to give some feeling of peace…or even perhaps normalcy. Because they live - they’re living things. But these plants don’t seem to breathe. In fact, they’re somewhat sinister, almost as if they’re telling you to get out of there.

If you know you have to go somewhere, what do you do? You go. Even if the road’s bumpy and the plants aren't friendly. And it doesn't seem as if it leads to anywhere. A speck or a dot is all that can be seen. It’s a lot bigger, of course, but from where you’re standing the truth is its just a speck. You could keep telling yourself it’s a mere speck and return to familiarity. Or ‘home’ as everyone likes to call it. You could go home.

Home. A safe haven. But you left it behind. You left it behind knowing full well that you were… well, leaving it behind.

You could go ahead instead. After all, you left home for it.

For that speck. The plants seem to be saying, “No matter how close you get, it's not gonna get any bigger.”

How many rules did you break to get in that damn forest? You broke the law. You went against convention. You chose your own path. You picked up your belongings and said goodbye to the life that others who hardly know you etched out for you. You watched your friends drown in the black sea, and even though they said, “Come on in, the water’s great,” you said, “No, I can’t swim.” They can’t really swim either but they try every day to convince themselves that they can. Because the other fish keep telling them they can. And maybe one day they will swim. One day they’ll swim as well as the other fish and they’ll look just like the other fish. One day you won’t be able to tell the difference. You decided then that you’d rather be you.

Your friends didn’t succeed in stopping you. So no plant is gonna stop you now. The road itself seems to be saying stop too. It’s the bumpiest road one has ever been. Every stone trips you. Some stones don’t but they still seem to want to. You realize these stones aren’t so different from the plants. They too seem to jeer at you, their intentions are definitely not good.

Stones were always present. Even when you were small, pebbles would get in your shoe and they’d hurt your feet. Then as you got bigger the stones got bigger too. Yet they still made their way inside your shoe. You knew then that wherever you went stones would always follow.

Sometimes you wouldn’t mind too much if a stone hurt you because you kinda had the feeling you must have done something to deserve it. But most of the time they wounded you for no reason. They wounded you because you strayed away from the main stream. Because you were alone when you shouldn’t be. Because you refused to swim. So you decided to leave. To get away from stones. Even though you knew there’d be bigger stones where you went.

And even though the stones hurt you and the plants continue to insult you, you’re grateful that you’ve come here. You’re grateful for what the magician told you.

He was loved by everybody, for reasons of their own. Some loved him because he gave them food, some because of his healing potions that saved their lives, some simply loved him because of the security they felt when he was around. Some even loved him because they thought they were supposed to love him. In fact, a majority loved him for that last reason.

You loved him secretly. Others would brag that they loved him the most. Sometimes they’d hold competitions to see who loved him the most. You didn’t want to be a part of it. So if anyone asked if you loved him, you’d say “No.”

But he gave you a gift. A secret gift. He said “You’re special, so im giving you this” And he handed you an instrument. “But I don’t know how to play it,” you argued. Then he looked straight into your eyes, right when you thought you didn’t have eyes worth looking into. And he said, “Yes you do. You can play it better than anyone. And one day everyone will want to hear you play it.” You believed him beyond a shadow of doubt. Then you tried to play it and something beautiful came out of it, you rushed to play it for the people you knew. But they couldn’t hear a thing. You couldn’t understand how it was that only you could hear it.        

So you asked the magician why this was. He said “You haven’t been to the Secret Garden.” He turned to leave. “I want to go there!” you shouted. He smiled and said, “Then go.”

 And even though you didn’t think you’d ever find the way to this place, somehow you did. An unattractive road not tread on by many. And yet it was the road you had to take to reach your destination.

Your destination.



Sarah Aineh (Lalrinkimi)  grew up in Pune, Maharashtra and  is presently based at Khawzawl district in Mizoram as an MPS (Mizoram Police Service) officer. She describes herself as an amateur singer, poet, and air guitarist, as well as a lover of the road and the sea. She is also one of only a handful of Mizo creative writers who have published works in English. In 2014, her first novel Jo's Journal was published by Notion Press, which was recently followed up, in February 2017, with her second, Zeb and the Girl.  Both are available on Amazon.

Rewind - John Chhana

Three men removed the heavy marble stone and placed it aside, then went on to dig out the coffin that had housed him for eternity. Mourners arrived by the throng, the pastor read from the Bible and the coffin was taken to the morgue. There his corpse was removed and carefully inspected, after which the doctor came in to check on him, and eventually, to pronounce him alive. It was his birthday.

Seventy-six years, twenty four days, thirty two minutes and seventeen seconds, said the doctor, the cancer will be gone in five years or so. That was how much time he had left. He shrugged, got into his birthday suit, the black one, and was pushed out on a wheelchair. His family was there – the wife and the twins, both in their teens and they cried when they saw him. He said nothing, for he was but only one day into the world. There was the house, which he would go on to give to another person by also paying that person, and there was the dog which had been born on the same day as him, and now had twelve years or so left.

The years passed, and with that his memories left him, along with much of what he already knew. Fortunately, the pain in his side had gone as well; things were looking up. His children grew dumber and moved from college to high school, while he got a job at an office but then got fired because he now knew too little. When the twins grew smaller, he found that his problems got bigger and they had to have their diapers changed. Eventually, their time was up and they were sent back into their mother’s womb to the sound of joy and laughter. They had died and it was the first happiest day of his life.

In a year, he and his wife entered the church where the pastor pronounced them single man and single woman. They kissed and removed the rings from each other’s fingers; the second happiest day of his life. They had some time left together after that though, and they gradually fell out of love until that fateful day when he said goodbye to her forever. His brain grew duller every moment, and just like his children, he moved from college to high school, when in time, he knew nothing and the seventy-six years had all but passed.

And so, on that day, he too, was sent back into the womb. His father, who had been born miraculously out of a car accident only two days ago, gave him one last look, smiled happily and said, “You shall no longer be called John.”

On a bigger scale and long story short, the government decided it was time to wage war to give away their independence and one brave man thought it time to do away with the electric bulb. People kept erasing all the good books during all this time, while some experts were hired to unmake every last thing- skyscrapers and bridges were taken down. Millions awoke from their slumber on the fields of war, only to jump right into the fray with rifles at the ready. People were released from prison after which they brought back others into the world. Trees were returned to the forests where they stand for ages and all the minerals were taken back to where they belonged. Cities receded, the waters became pure and birds returned to their place in the sky. A great wall was demolished and the barbarian hordes returned to their humble beginnings.

In the end, a man walking on all fours removed his spear from a stag, bringing it to life. Big, monstrous creatures began to roam the earth again and the human was all but a tiny speck in the universe, as it always was. When all these things did come to die, the one perpetual thing undid the earth itself and roamed the void, because for Him there would be no beginning. 

John Chhana lives in Shillong and has an unexpectedly scientific background for a young creative writer, being a postgraduate in Biochemistry. He is also a talented artist and graphic designer, as well as being interested in photography and videography. He recently made a no-budget Christian short film, doing the script-writing, acting and cinematography with the help of close friends.

He won second place with a very creative, tongue-in-cheek piece on headhunting in a short-story writing competition I had the good fortune to be on the judging panel of earlier this year.  I am delighted to be able to feature one of his writings here.

Mythical Creatures from Mizo Legends - Jacqueline Zote

What’s the first thing that comes to your mind when people say “North-East India”? Is it the food? Is it the picturesque landscape and mountains? Or is it the culture? Whatever it is that you associate with this region, let me introduce you to a side that you might have never heard about – the mythical creatures from our folklore. Since I wasn’t able to get much contribution from friends in the other parts of this region, I’m going to focus on folklore from Mizoram.

I have to admit, there aren’t many written documentations for these stories. Most of them have been passed along for generations through word-of-mouth, so you might find some inaccuracies in the details. Regardless of that, these creatures have fascinated me since childhood and I hope you love reading about them too. Here goes:

1. Pheichham – Pheichham is the name given to a creature that is most likely a djinn or a type of goblin. The exact definition isn't clear since there aren't many written accounts of these creatures. Instead of causing harm to humans, they do the opposite - bring them good fortune. These creatures are one-legged, so when they fall down it’s extremely difficult for them to get back up. If anyone comes across a Pheichham that has fallen down and helps it up, they are granted a wish. Till date, the term “Pheichham man” or “catching a Pheichham” is still used to describe having immense luck.

2. Lasi – The exact translation for these creatures vary. Most translate them as fairies, while a few call them demons. The description of a Lasi also differs from story to story. In many legends, these creatures disguise themselves as beautiful women and try to seduce hunters. If a hunter falls in love with a Lasi, the creature guides him in his hunting expeditions and he would never come home empty-handed from a hunt. The problem is that the hunter can never tell anyone about the Lasi nor be free from it without ending up dead. These creatures somewhat remind me of the succubus to a significant extent.

Some legends also claim that the eyes of a Lasi are vertical (just try to picture that before you go to bed). Many believe that these creatures can run extremely fast despite the fact that their feet are turned backwards. There’s one story about a boy who was being chased by a Lasi. He hides under the bed and notices that the creature’s feet are turned backwards. Thinking that the creature is going away, the boy slowly creeps out from under the bed only to be eaten by it. Now if that’s not creepy, I don’t know what is.

3. Keimi – My personal favourite is the keimi, which is basically a weretiger or a human that can turn itself into a tiger. The literal translation for “keimi” is “tiger-person” – “kei” stands for tiger and “mi” for person.  If I’ve heard correctly, tales about these creatures are also told in other regions of the North East like Nagaland and Manipur (correct me if I’m wrong).

There’s one story involving a keimi that’s stayed with me since childhood. It’s the story of a girl named Kungawrhi, who is practically the Mizo version of Thumbelina. Like the fairytale character, this girl was also born from a thumb. Unlike Thumbelina, however, she grows up a normal-sized girl.
 

In fact, she grows up to be the most beautiful maiden in the village and therefore, gets plenty of suitors. Among her suitors is a keimi, who steals Kungawrhi’s footprint and sets it upon the stove. The girl becomes seriously ill because of this and her father declares that whoever can cure Kungawrhi will win her hand in marriage. This keimi then takes the footprint off the stove, curing the girl from her illness and then ends up marrying her. 

Seems to me like this dude was performing some sort of voodoo on the girl. The story goes on where two brothers set out on a quest to the village of weretigers to save her after her father discovered the true identity of Kungawrhi’s husband.

4. Phung – Like the Lasi, the translation for Phung varies. Some would call them ogres, while others again define them as a type of demon. In many stories, the Phung is described as a horrendous humanoid creature with wild hair and pitch-black skin (?). 

These creatures are found in a lot of Mizo folktales, such as the story of Chhurbura. The story goes that Chhurbura tied a makeshift swing outside his farmhouse and would swing there every day.  At some point he realizes that a Phung (in this case, it’s a Phungpuinu which might refer to a mother Phung) would use his swing as soon as he leaves for home.

Chhurbura then decides to catch this creature. He pretends to leave home while hiding and waiting for the Phungpuinu to come out.  As soon as the creature is convinced Chhurbura has gone home, she happily swings on the makeshift swing, singing, “Chhurbura awm ta love...” This means “Chhurbura is finally gone”.  Taking his chance, Chhurbura manages to jump on the Phungpuinu from the back and catches her.

Scared out of her wits, the creature tries to strike a deal with him so he can let her go. Finally, she offers to give him a Sekibuhchhuak, which is a magical horn that gives out rice from one side and meat from the other when coaxed using a specific chant. This is basically like the cornucopia or the horn of plenty. 

These two characters (Chhurbura and the Phungpuinu) have been mentioned together in a few more stories. In one of them, Chhurbura captures the creature’s children and roasts them (brutal, I know). 

5. Huai – “Huai” is a broad term for demons in Mizo folklore. Some claim that the Huais aren’t demons but evil spirits. There are different types of Huais, mostly named according to the place in which they’re found. The Ramhuai is found in the forest and the literal translation is “forest demon” or “forest spirit”. The Sihhuai is found in a sort of watering hole, which is again apt in that “sih” refers to a type of watering hole.  A Pukhuai is found in caves, the term translating to “cave demon” or “cave spirit”.

Most of these demons are bad, causing sickness and bad luck to humans. The Huai of the banyan tree, for instance, was believed to cause insanity. A watering hole rumoured to have a Huai was avoided by the entire village. Whenever our ancestors believed that a Huai was angry with them, they’d try to appease it by performing animal sacrifice. The sacrifice was performed by the Bawl Pu or witch doctor.

6. Van Chung Nula – I think this is most likely an angel (maybe a harpy or a valkyrie according to my friend) and is portrayed as female. “Van” means “sky”, "chung" means "above", and “nula” means “maiden”, so the translation for this creature is a Sky Maiden or maiden from above the sky (sounds lovely already). They are defined as beautiful women with long, flowing hair and large, bird-like wings. 

One of my favourite Mizo folktales is of a man who chances upon one of these creatures bathing at a watering hole. He captures the creature, whose name was Sichangneii (I think this translates to woman with wings). The man then marries her after he clips her wings and hides them (so Maleficent). They end up having seven sons, the youngest of whom happens to discover his mother’s wings tucked away somewhere. The kid asks his mother what the wings were, unknowingly aiding her in her escape. She takes the wings and flies back home to heaven. 

The father, in grief, decides to crack one of his testicles with a hammer (Ouch!). He was probably trying to emotionally blackmail Sichangneii to come back to earth. When she does not come back, he then cracks his other testicle, killing himself in the process. 

7. Khuavang – Khuavang is another type of demon that is fairly smaller than a human. I personally imagine them as goblins. Some say they perform magic and are largely in control of nature. There are some terms like “khuavang kal lai”, which means “pin-drop silence”. The literal translation, though, refers to a moment in which the Khuavangs walk amongst us (?). A common saying, which was existent even in my childhood, was that the first person to talk after a pin-drop silence gets marked by the Khuavang with a mole. Incidentally, the mole is referred to as “khuavang chhinchhiah” or “marking of a Khuavang” in Mizo.

8. Khawhring – This is an interesting character in Mizo folktales and was not considered so mythical back in the day. A Khawhring can be defined as a type of spirit that enters a person’s body, causing severe stomach cramps. When the family suspects that the person was possessed, they would ask it to reveal its identity and desires.

By speaking through the person, the spirit would reveal the name of a person and demand the sacrifice of a pig or hen. The accused person is then believed to own the spirit, although they’d be completely unaware of this. The tragic part of this is that the person ends up being ostracized by the entire community, sometimes even being chased out of the village along with their whole family. 

The fact that the accused person is usually a pretty maiden has recently given rise to the suspicion that they were, in fact, victims of jealous rivals or disgruntled suitors. During those days, no one would be willing to marry these girls.

9. Thla Ai – A Thla Ai is a spirit associated with a human being that is on the verge of death from illness. To cure the sickness, a volunteer ventures into the forest in an attempt to bring home the spirit. The creepy part is that the Thla Ai follows the volunteer, making strange noises and screams all along the way. If the volunteer turns around even just a little bit, the spirit would fly away. “Thla Ai koh” or “calling a Thla Ai” was a ritual performed even until the recent past.

10. Milian – Just like folklore from all parts of the world, the Mizos also have the story giants or Milian. There is the story of Mualzavata, who is mostly referred to as a strong man and a giant by some. His name literally translates to someone who can clear a hundred ranges of land. It was fabled that he can do this in one day. His wife was able to clear ninety ranges of land in one day.

There is a cave called “Puk Zing Cave”, which is about 75-feet wide, near Puk Zing Village. Legend has it that the cave was carved out by Mualzavata using only his hairpin. According to the stories of his strength, he was clearly capable of doing that. However, his hairpin also had to be humongous since it was used to carve stone. So, he couldn’t have been just a strong man but also a giant.

Not-so-mythical noteworthy mentions

Although the creatures mentioned above are purely (?) mythical, derived from a collection of fables and rumours of the Mizo community; there are also a few strange characters that were found in the olden days. Some of them were still found in the recent past and many seniors today can attest to that. Here are a few that I found worth mentioning:

1. Zun hin dawt – These aren’t really creatures per se, but humans that go out in the night drinking people’s urine (ugh! I know you just cringed).  Decades back, the Mizos did not have indoor plumbing. People had to go out and attend to nature’s calls at the porch of their bamboo houses. The zun hin dawt would lurk around houses and wait for someone to come out and urinate. It will then suck up the urine that’s collected in the ground (I have no clue how this would benefit them but hey, they did it).

I’d like to point out that these people really existed. Even when my late grandmother was a young girl, she encountered one of them and actually chased after it when most people would have run away at the mere sight of a zun hin dawt. Yes, my grandmother had balls and she was awesome. 

2. Tual sum su – Like the zun hin dawt, tual sum su also refers to humans who come out in the night to do weird shit. They would seem like perfectly normal human beings during the daytime. When night comes, they’d go around the streets hopping upside down on their heads. That might have been a horrendous sight, don’t you think? They wake up the next morning with no memory whatsoever of what had happened the previous night. The only reminder was a massive headache.

These are only a few of the many mythical (some not-so-mythical) creatures and characters found in Mizo folklore. I was unable to mention several more of my favourite creatures due to lack of detailed sources. I’m sure a lot of the details I’ve mentioned are also inaccurate, so please feel free to leave your comments and help me make corrections.

Jacqueline Zote is a freelance content writer currently living in Aizawl. She developed an early fascination for mythical beings and fairy tales. She hopes to have a book published some day. 

She also has an intriguing blog called Little Box of Secrets and this particular write-up on the fascinating collection of spirits and ghouls from Mizo folklore and legends is one many will enjoy and find very informative - probably more so among the younger generation of Mizos who grew up in the post-Christian era with only the sketchiest of ideas about these mythical creatures. This write-up was also featured on homegrown.co.in which is where I happened to stumble onto this very promising young writer via a good friend (thanks, Missy!)

Going Places with "Of Butterflies and Lullabies & Unfinished Conversations"

It was a proud moment on Wednesday the 10th February when our very own Dawngi Chawngthu formally released her first collection of poetry, "Of Butterflies and Lullabies & Unfinished Conversations." Containing 55 poems, spanning 86 pages and costing 200 Indian rupees, it is a slim, hardbound volume published by Writers Workshop, Kolkota. This is only the third collection of poetry published by a Mizo writer in English - the other two being Laldinkima Sailo's Spectrum: A Plethora of Rhapsody, published 2002, Imprint, and Tinkim Dawn by Malsawmi Jacob, a collection of poems written in English as well as in Mizo, published 2003, Mizoram Publication Board. Mizo writing in English is so niched, so specialised that few actively pursue it, and fewer still publish it. But for the few that are involved in it, it is our chosen mode of creative articulation, and one we are fiercely loyal to despite little to no public acknowledgment or recognition.

A little clarification first: in May 2014, Malsawmi Jacob published Zorami, a novel dealing with Mizo history and more specifically the Insurgency Movement of 1966. While most of us had believed it then to be the first ever novel published by a Mizo in English, two books popped out of the woodwork - Facebook Phantom, pub. 2013, Duckbill, by Suzanne Sangi, and Jo's Journal, pub. 2014, Notion Press, by Sarah Aineh, both young Mizo women (and coincidentally both only 17 when they wrote their books). While I have not read either, I gather from reviews that both are classified as young adult fiction and make for light, easy reading. They are entitled honourable mention in any discussion of book publications of Mizo writings in English.  Zorami, however, stands a class apart and must hold indubitable place of pride as being yet the only fictional prose work in English by a Mizo writer to painstakingly sculpt a plot within the Mizo ethos and present to a worldwide readership a novel that is uniquely, unquestionably and comprehensively Mizo in context.

To get back to Ms. Chawngthu's volume of poetry, the 55 poems are divided into two sections - "Unfinished Conversations" contain poems written for her late mother, some directly addressed to her and some written around her. The other section "Of Butterflies and Lullabies" are a fusion of love poems, personal poems, poems that explore the challenges of women and poems that raise questions on a number of social issues. I remember Dawngi at university, forever scribbling on her notebooks snatches of song lyrics, bits of poetry she found somewhere that resonated with her or that she wrote herself. Then we lost touch. It was only in late 2007 that I found something on a friend's blog that Dawngi had written in Mizo, which caught me by surprise because I didn't remember her writing in anything other than in English, and had certainly never known her to write on social issues. Butterflies has the English version, Lucky Zo Lanu, translated by Dawngi herself, where she cleverly turns the incessant social conditioning of young Mizo girls on its head by pointing out that Mama, the young Mizo boy, needs all the advice and teaching far more since he is the keeper and future torchbearer of the tribe.

What I have always loved about Dawngi's writing is that she writes so simply and effortlessly. No superfluity, no theatrics, no showing off of vocab or forcing on of vague, shadowy allusions. It's so clean and simple, you think, "Oh, I could write stuff like this too" but uh, not really. The apparent artlessness and easy flow of words and thought are skills not everyone is born with, and most definitely not the adept way she rounds off a poem. I tend to never quite know how to phase out a poem to a nice uncontrived ending but Dawngi does it time and again in a way that has me thinking, "Wow, that was smooth" in genuine admiration.

Over the years, through the privilege of being an old friend, I have had the opportunity to put up on this blog a number of her poems. The first time was in July 2008.  Of the two posted then, both of which are included in Butterflies, The Mask, so vulnerable, wistful, and uncertain, yet tentatively hopeful, remains my favourite. Another favourite, also in the book, is Dead Butterfly - dark, brooding and so desperately, hopelessly sad.


throw away my memory
throw them into
unknown areas of your mind

unlit
dark 
grey…areas

your haloed moments
your sane and conscious moments
will never find you here

your back is turned
your mind is closed
your love is gone

but someday
a quiet and lonely evening
may catch you off guard

taking a stroll
through the wastelands
of your mind

you will find me
sitting in a darkened corner
a dead butterfly in my hand.


To Dawngi, and to Mizo writers in English, may our tribe increase!

Re-Package 'Mizo' - Lal Khiangte

I have been born a Mizo and  I have always felt like a Mizo (whatever that is). Nowadays, every one is talking about ‘going back to one’s roots’ and ‘loving one’s own culture’ and so on. This led me to thinking - how Mizo do you have to be to be a Mizo? Are there levels?  What is being a Mizo any way? All my life I thought I was just as Mizo as the person next to me, my neighbour, my best friend and my dog. With a pair of jeans and a hair colour that changes every six months, I felt like a Mizo just as any other Mizo person out there. I didn’t know wearing a traditional dress was the only way to become a real Mizo!

I understand that the older generation wants to preach to the new ones about the importance of wearing one’s own traditional dress. They are only trying to make us more Mizo! I am a little confused as to what constitutes a Mizo in the first place. Blood-tribe-location-facial prominence-dress? Which is it? Personally, I associate being a Mizo with Tlawmngaihna first and foremost. I think that is the only thing that really sets us apart from other cultures. That selfless act of pure sacrifice for others - nothing can beat that. I don’t really care about how you look as long as you have a good heart! Right? Apparently not.  It seems we need to play ‘dress up’ in order to show that we belong to a certain tribe.

‘Image is everything’ says the Kardashian clan. If you don’t know who they are, then you do not really care about "image." If image is what we aim for, we  Mizos are pretty good at creating the Mizo Brand. Sunday-Christian Mizo image, puan-wearing-virginal-looking Mizo women, formal shirt-wearing-church-going men, you get the drift. I do not have a problem with the way we want to dress. I think it's classy and smart. It becomes my problem when the way we dress is not backed up by substance. It’s all style and no substance. I care more about the inner workings of a person’s heart rather than the way a person appears to be. Yes, I enjoy watching ‘Keeping up with the Kardashians’ but I also know it’s not ‘real’. So which image do we want others to see in us? The fake or the real?

Young Mizo kids today are enamoured by Korean styles and everything Korean. There is a strong reason for it. Korea is cool. Korea is hip. Korea sells and it sells big time. Now I don’t ever recall Korea forcing its culture down our throats, we gladly welcomed it with open arms. There’s something we can actually learn from them before we brand them as bad influence to our society. You see, we need to re-package Mizo culture! In order to do this we first need to re-define what Mizo is. With all due respect and no offence to our forefathers,  maybe its time to change our perceptions with the changing times. Let us be accommodating. A Mizo can be a traditional-dress-wearing man,  a Mizo can be a young kid with green spiked hair. The sooner we accept this, the more comfortable we will be. Instead of focusing on the way we dress, why don’t we teach the true values to our younger generation? True values like honesty, hard work, self-sufficiency, and of course being true to one self more than anything else. We do not have to force any one to buy the Mizo culture. They will when they see something they like. Our job here is to re-package it.

For instance, you can’t force anyone to wear a traditional dress on their wedding day. Instead show them how good it feels to be a Mizo. Re-wrap the Mizo dress and sell it to them (metaphorically). If we see what we like, we buy it. Simple as that. People may flinch and say, "You can’t sell culture, its absurd!"  Well, let me burst your bubble, culture has been commoditized since paper became money. We have been buying the western culture for years, haven’t we? What about Mizo culture? Do we have anything worth selling? Can we sell? The answer is Yes. We can sell our family values, our never ending allegiance to God, our humility, our smiles.. the list can go on forever. The important thing here is to re-package our cultural products. How do we do that? I do not have all the answers but I will give one example.

Repackage Tlawmngaihna. I think this is by far the most prominent value that Mizo people have. If we can sell this to us, we can sell it to the world. You may have heard of the word ubuntu which has its origin in an African saying which goes, ‘I am because we are.’ In short, it talks about being a good human being to each other. Now this word/value has been repeatedly discussed by world famous people like Nelson Mandela and Oprah. They are repackaging Ubuntu and selling it to the world. I know we have also taken pride in our Tlawmngaihna but in recent times, it has taken a back seat. Maybe we need to put it in a nice bottle and gift wrap it with a sweet note.

Be creative and sell me my Mizo and I shall buy it willingly. You don’t need to force it down my throat. Sometimes all you need is to serve it with a spoonful of sugar.

P.S. I am a Mizo as much as you!



Lal aka Lalremruati Khiangte is an Assistant Professor in the department of Mass Communication at Mizoram University. She wrote this feisty assertion of the young, educated, urban, contemporary Mizo in April 2013 for her blog https://gkhiangte.wordpress.com.  I am grateful to her for allowing me to repost it here.