The Lost Parchment* - Mafaa Hauhnar

The parchment is gone -
lost in the abyss of time and space;
Some mongrel dog ran off with it.

The parchment of leather
in which were recorded -
the valour and valiance
of our lionhearted lads;
the boundless beauty
of our luscious ladies.
the voices and visions
of our poets and prophets;
the wit and wisdom
of our saints and sages.

The scroll of time
in which were scripted
the time when
the steadfast spirit of Tlawmngaihna **-
the flower of life*** -
burst into full bloom
under the cerulean Mizoram skies;

The time when
women and children,
faces flushed with freedom,
stood stalwart and tall
like the mighty Mount Phawngpui****
casting vast shadows
across the plains.

The parchment in which
words like
gallantry and chivalry
altruism and heroism
trustworthiness and selflessness
were used
as the lynchpin of society.

But now that parchment of ours is gone
and our vocabulary
is dying like embers
in the deep folds of our heart.

Streams of our lexicon
word by wondrous word
tumble;
fall out
by bits
and jots
and pieces.

Fingers can no longer feel
the pen mark or ink spot anymore.

Deluded by the canopy
of pitch-black dark,
we are tossed
like a tiny boat on an open sea.

How can we survive
in an ark that seems
sinking?

If only we could cling
to our parchment
like a lifebelt
to keep us afloat.

Now I sit myself down
despairing
desperate
despondent
among my own wreckage,
staring out into
the retreating horizon
of its presence.

28.07.2014




Notes:

*According to the Mizo legend, the legendary Thlanrawkpa gifted the Mizo with a leather parchment saying, “Treasure this with great care for within it is nourishment and riches and all the knowledge to quench your thirst.” The Mizo carelessly left his gift in a front porch, from where a hungry dog picked it up and took it away.

**Tlawmngaihna = The Mizo highest code of morals, the spirit of self-sacrifice and self-denial.

***the flower of life = an epithet coined by the famous Mizo songwriter Rokunga in his song “Aw tlawmngaihna hlu, Aw nunna par” (O Precious tlawmngaihna, O flower of life)

****Phawngpui =  The highest mountain peak in Mizoram, considered to be the abode of the gods.



Mafaa Hauhnar is one of contemporary Mizo literature's most well-known names, having published several volumes of poetry, critical essays and creative prose works. His publications are invariably bestsellers, trademarked by quirkily witty turns of phrases and puns, as well as a healthy infusion of humour which often neutralizes the sometimes acerbic social satire.  He regularly makes appearances at seminars and writers' meets across the country, and on Mizo television reality shows as celebrity judge. While most of his work is in Mizo, unlike most of his contemporaries he also occasionally writes in English. He is presently editor executive at ZOlife, a well established monthly magazine based in Aizawl.

If this is January - Zualteii Poonte

January is the slow, quiet time of year
when we sit back and relax
after the rush of the Christmas season
and bask in the sun, warming our backs
and eating sweet oranges.

Not a time when crime explodes in our faces:
when young men go missing
and their bloated, blackened corpses are found
and skinny young dark men arrested
and charged nine long days later¹.
When carnage runs wild, free as blood
as crazed men burst into houses
and slash you to death with
a butcher's knife,
when in a family of six,
five coffins are lined up
the next day².
And on the streets and social media,
church-going people bay
for vengeance and retribution
and taking the law into their own hands.

If this is January
slow, quiet January
I dread what summer will bring.




¹ On the night of the 31st December 2014, a young man was reported missing with his two-wheeler. After wide searches by the YMA, his dead body was found eight days later. The next evening, his vehicle was found and its supposed owner admitted to the theft and killing.

² Around 7.30 pm of the 9th January 2015, a family of six were confronted in their own home by a knife-wielding man. Five died instantly in the horrific assault that rocked Mizoram. The assailant was believed to be on meth.

Happy New Year - Lalnunsanga

Every year, there is this day where the whole world agrees together to hope.
Though memory and history proves that most times than not, nothing much changes or happens but the year passes as similar to the year before, yet we hope.
Determined or desperate that the new year will bring with it all bounty and riches, we hope. 
For a brief moment, we deny the numbness of habit and existence to influence us to cynicism and we hope. 
For this day we leave being an adult and like children believe in magic and miracles and hope. 
It was the best of times, it was the worse of times...it was very much like today, we hope. 
And with this fervour of possibilities spread across a sparkling sky, let me hope
To friends and family, blood or thicker than, happy new year
To neighbours, next door and the next and the next, happy new year
To thieves, in cloaks or corporate suits both, happy new year 
To terrorists, with guns or economic policies both, happy new year
To you, hypocritical lower middle class self righteous poet, happy new year
To God, yours and mine both, happy new year (P.S. You really need better P.R.O.s)

Poems - Lalsangliani Ralte

ANGEL

“A whore,” “a woman of loose character”
they call her.
“No moral,” “no conscience,” “no shame”
they say of her.

They cast discerning glances her way;
Heavily made-up face, blood red lipstick
A mini-skirt that mothers would forbid their daughters wear
A deep neckline that displayed too much bosom
A cheap cigarette placed between her sensuous lips.

They see enough to send her to hell
Hungry to condemn, eager to collect the stones
That would be hurled at her.

They fail, however, to notice
How her eyes were always lowered
Her voice was so meek it was just a whisper
Her prayers were said in the most secret of places.

Had they taken the time to listen
Had they taken the time to really look
They might have heard her muffled screams of terror
They might have seen
The look of fear and pain in her eyes
Her struggles in vain, to escape
From the malicious grasp of him
Who is forcing himself upon her
A child not yet thirteen, a child not yet nubile
A child whose earnest pleadings for him to stop
Were turned a deaf ear to.

In their haste to lead her to her Calvary
They do not remember of her
How she once was a child full of innocence and dreams.

                                                                         ~~~

A LETTER TO YOU

There I was, trying to write you a poem. You, who have been my muse for so long. I sat at my desk by the window, from where I can see the starlit night so beautiful. I remembered how you would sit beside me, silent, so you would not disturb me as I write.

I tried to write my first line, tried to put my feelings into words. I wanted to tell you in verse, how I found myself, through you. You, who have been so precious; my air, my water, my sun.

My hands shook as I wrote your name. I had meant your name to be the first word of my poem, my poem for you. The profoundest of thoughts in my mind, I but failed, to put in verse. I could not write beyond your name.

That was last night. Here I am this morning, at the same desk. It is seven, and I have just finished my red tea. I wish you were here. We would have been so happy, so satisfied.

Now, I have to put this letter on your grave, with a red rose.

PS: I still have a little black flag on the window.


Lalsangliani Ralte lives in Aizawl, is a student of English literature, and an avid football fan. She loves poetry and hopes to have her works published someday.

Put Away – Zualteii Poonte

(For Zokunga [Pu Muma], 1925 – 1966)

The dreaded rapping on the door after dark
Just a little talk with him outside we want
The wanted gets up, steps out the house
Be back soon, you all go to sleep
But he never does.
Sometimes if they're lucky
they find the body a short distance down the road.
More often deep in the jungle they find it
in a shallow grave
sometimes marked, sometimes not.

My mother's brother's body was never found,
He disappeared without trace,
wiped off the face of the earth,
not a limb, not a nail, not a hair left to claim.
Almost half a century on,
still no one to come forward and say
Here, those are pearls that were his eyes.¹

Nothing for the left behind,
parents, brothers, sisters, wife,
his brood of nine young children.
Nothing.
Nothing.
Just the incomprehensible, unceasing uncertainty
of questions never answered.

            ~~~


The title is a literal translation of the MNF terminology “dah tha/ dah that,” an insidious euphemism meaning killed/murdered/exterminated.

¹There were unverified reports later that my uncle had been shot dead at Tlawng river by insurgents who were later killed in turn by soldiers of the Indian Army.


Since one of my original intentions for this blog was to provide material for research scholars, I add here a short bio of my uncle written by a cousin who happens to be the son of my mother's other brother. I also believe it's time Zokunga's story was told for all the world to know.


Addendum: My grandfather Zalawra married my grandmother Lalnemi at 3 in the evening on May the 14th, 1923 at Aijal Chapel or what is now called Mission Veng Church.

Their first child, Zokunga was born on the 19th February, 1925 at Mission Veng.  Like other children, he attended school and went on to matriculate. After serving in a clerical position at the Assam Rifles for some time, he started work at the District Council office and reached the position of UDC. At the District Council, he worked for a considerable period of time with Pu Laldenga with whom he was good friends.  They formed the Liars’ Club where they would amuse themselves by telling good, clean jokes.  Around this time, irregularities with the Council money were discovered and Zokunga was suspended from work.  By the time the Insurgency started however, he had already been reinstated at work.

When the Insurgency movement started in March 1966, people in general were equally afraid of the Indian army soldiers and MNF volunteers.  Under curfew restrictions, people lived in fear  as living conditions became more difficult and the repressive mood of the Insurgency grew stronger. On the 10th of July, 1966, Zokunga went to South Hlimen to pay his condolences to someone who had died, and he never returned.  He was abducted on the way by insurgents who believed him to be an informer. On hearing the news, his wife Lianchhungi set out to look for her husband but word apparently spread quickly:  “His wife is also coming this way, make sure she’s kidnapped too.”  From Mel thum, she fled back home.  Zokunga was never seen again, and on April the 16th, 1967, it was confirmed that he had been “dah that.” On the same day, close friends and family had a thlan thut (memorial service) in his name at his own house.

Also around this time, my mother’s younger sister Lallianpuii’s husband Lalsailova Sailo, previously employed by the Royal Air Force and Indian Air Force, and later at an oil company in Calcutta, would regularly visit his wife and children in Aizawl. While staying at his mother-in-law’s house at Dinthar Veng, he was summoned out of the house  by MNF volunteers who accused him of being a spy for the Indian government. He too was “dah that” and his body never recovered to this day. 

Translated from the article “Ka Pu Lungkham” by Zokailiana Khiangte published in the book Thih Hnua Thusawi: Zalawra leh Lalnemi, Hriatrengna Lungphun, 2013.