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Thursday, October 13, 2011

Ziektu: Lala Khobung, Aizawl, Mizoram.

 

Lal :-Thanglientling,I hril nuom chuh hei hril tran ta le, ka khawnbawl hai leh lo ngai thla’ng kan tih.

 

Thanglientling :-Saikungvung det dut hih ni rek naw ni’m (SKV chuh a lo in nui tut a, TLT chun lungsen deu hin SKV chuh a en a) in nui trei trui naw rawh. Kei, hmeithai ka khat chau a um ka ni lei in a mi hmusit a. Voizan khan ka inah a hunga, mi hung rim a tum rek a. Ka kotkhar dam te’n a hung hong duk duk a, amiruokchuh kei mi imuthu ti takah ka la thranghar noh a. Truonga chun dam te’n a hung a, an thim em lei in a hung in mai phei duou duou a, truong lai a thrungpha bong ka sie khah a hung in pal rikhut a. Kei ruok chuh ka imu an hnik em lei in ka la thranghar ta naw rop a. Damte’n ka khumah a hung lawn a,a ngha vel vut vut a. Kati ta angkhan ka imu an hnik em lei in ka la hriet tanaw rop a. A dierkei a hlip a,ka khumlu tlangban ah a bang a, damte’n ka puonri a hung hawk a, chu khom chun ka la thranghar noh. Chuong chun ka puonbil a hung hlim a, chu zo chun a nghavel vut vut a, chu khom chuh ka la hriet tanaw rop, ka imu hlak chuh anhnik khop el a. Ami hung bawh a, chuphingleh kan ching phuta ka thranghar ta a.Chuphingleh inhmaw deuvin a tlansuok a.

 

Lal : Chu, SKV,TLT thuhril chuh an dik a ni?

 

SKV :-Khawlai, khawlai, mi khelhlip nu, a thuhril khah khel vong a nih. A truongah thungpha bong a um naw reng reng, a thrungpha hai chuh tapsak bangah a rem thra vong. Kan pal chuh a tapphel tlang a nih.Ka ke pui ka la sui thi nawk nghal. A inah ka va fe naw reng reng.

 

TLT :- Hma’n chuh ie…. A hung taluo, hi, a dumbel le a thingpui fe fun khom a theinghil (Dumbel le thingpui fe fun chuh a hung keidok a).

 

SKV :- Khai; khai, khai, kha khah ka dumbel an noh, ka pu dumbel ka haw a nih. Ka theinghil na chen hlak ka hriet tanoh, ka pu’n a zong a zong a nih, kei hlak chun ka hril dok ngam ta si noh a, khaw hung la roh, ka pu a lung a sen vieu an tah. Thingpui fe fun kha chuh ka ni hai ta ding a ka chawi pek a nih. Hi hmeithai nu inah hin kava fe naw reng reng.

.

TLT :- Hman chuh ie, a hung taluo, khel ka hril noh. A hung naw takah vana thla le nisa hai sal in kan kham.

 

SKV :-Chuong an leh kei vana arasi hai popo.

 

TLT:- Chuong a arasi hai popo a nei bik vong chuh ka phal bik noh.

 

Lal :-SKL,chuong a arasi hai popo hei nei vong bik chuh a du-am thlak talaw deu an nawm, chawngmawi le siruk hai khi chuh I thesuok el thei nawmaw ?.

 

SKL:- Chuonga Lal in I ti tlat chun ni el naw ni’m. Inro chuh kan ro kher el.

 

Lal :- Awleh, tu hin chuh ka hriet tah, in thubuoi chuh hieng ang hin rem ei tih. Nisa, thla, chawngmawi le siruk hai po khih SKV in chang sien. Sikeisen khih ama hmeithai a ni bok lei in TLT in chang sa sien. Chun SKV in hi ei hril bak, vana arasi hai popo khih chang sien.

 

Khawnbawl Upa:- Anleh, Thlasik lam khih tunam chang a ta ?

 

Lal :- Ekhai, kalo theinghil ani chu tie, khawnbawl Upa ngei ngei thil iengkim I lo ngaituo a lawm a um. Thlasik lam hai khi chuh hei en veng veng a voitieng pang po khih SKV in chang sien, chang tieng pang po khih TLT in chang el sien, thra in ti tlang am?

 

Khawnbawl hai :- Ei lalpa tidan chuh a thra.

 

SKV :- Keikhom thra ka tih in ka pom hmak.

 

Lal :- Anleh nang TLT iengtinam i ngai ?

 

TLT :- Keikhom ka pom. Ei lalpa ngei ngei rorel a thiem. Kei Hmeithai daikilkara mi in hieng ang top ka hei chang el hi chuh ka lawm taluo, lungriem in a mi thlak hiel el (a lawm lei in an sum zo ta noh a, a mit thli a tla).

 

Lal :- Tu hin ei rorel chuh ei zo tah. Ei lawm in ei hlim tlang bok a, a lawm na ding in hmeithai TLT vok hih that ei ta, hlim le lawm tak in fa tlang ei tih.

 

TLT :- Ka lawm taluo, ka vok chuh that ngei ei tih.

 

(Chuongchun an in chibai tawl a, hlim le lawm tlang tak in an trin ta a)

 

Mr.Thanga :- Ruolpa, tulai i nuhmei in a la vuok hlak che ?.

 

Mr.Liena :- Ami vuok ta ngai noh.

 

Mr.Thanga : Lawm ava um ngei de, a lawmna ding in thingpui khilai ka ti che, a hme ding khom i nuomnuom order roh. Ieng lei a vaw ta ngailo che ?

 

Mr.Liena :- A thi tah.

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Thursday, May 28, 2009

[By DAVID KEIVOM, for INPUI-News&Info]

Socrates would have been pleased as a peach to know that I began a journey to discovering myself on Oct 15, 2008 when I set off with my parents from Delhi and happily headed towards the golden-green hills of my home state Manipur. (The old man Socrates after all was forever harping about knowing oneself, possibly even stressing "identity" and "raison d'etre", so I imagine him giving much approval from deep in his grave.)

My recent departure from Asha Bhawan, the Christian drug rehabilitation ministry where I completed an intensive 24x7, 6 year tour of duty, is followed by a month of Rest & Recreation at home which leaves me feeling lethargic. So with grateful, open arms and not unlike a trigger-happy soldier eager for action, I welcome the opportunity for a trip that is church-related and thankfully generously-funded, which allows us all to fly, and also treat ourselves to some airport coffee along the way.

There is that palpable sensation even before we pack and board the flight that this journey is no accident; indeed, a strong sense that it is in fact God's plan to actively take me into His scheme of things once again; therefore, my fervent prayer is for a sensitive spirit to be able to see Him working, and perhaps to receive new instructions (battle plans) and words of knowledge.

My mother still thinks she is a sprightly olympic gymnast and refuses to be helped. But she is no longer 15 years young now and walks laboriously slow with the upper half of her torso bent horizontally. So naturally my other fervent prayer is for the grace to sanely manage her through customs. I must admit mother has a penchant for making all our travels hassle-rich and highly eventful. (To say she has an anointing would be fair too).

You can rest assured there will be not less than a full dozen bits and pieces of baggage to help her lug, loose ends of clothing to trip on, and sharp objects on her person to set off alarm bells. And always, always a recurring feature, what has become mother's trademark: the misplaced boarding pass. Plenty of excitement for a decade but it happens everytime we set off to travel. (For some reason, my prayer for a smooth, easy journey have been unanswered. Only God knows why.)

The Landing: Without a flight snag the Jet Airways ride lands at the small airport in Manipur's capital Imphal and we step out of the plane to be greeted by clear skies and cool weather, surrounded by low-lying mountains stretching along the horizon on all sides: beautiful and breath-taking sights. To make things count I take a deep breath and fill my lungs full of pure oxygen, glad to be away from the Delhi smog.

We are off in a moment with our legion pieces of luggage, courtesy my mother. Coincidentally, it’s a Black Day declared by the valley-based insurgents and the city wears a deserted and abandoned look. For protection we follow a lead jeep full of armed soldiers. This serves as a reminder of the state of security in the northeast. On the highway every few kilometers, we notice what has become for this land an ubiquitous sight: armored vehicles and well-armed soldiers keeping vigil.

I've been a frequent flyer to many parts of the world, but visiting Manipur, my own state, always leaves me feeling specially refreshed and I immediately scold myself for not visiting every six months. Back home everything is different: the "welcomes" are sincere, packed with all the warmth and sincerity reserved for long lost friends. (There might be the odd backslapper so be careful you don’t choke.)

Everyone you meet will want to shake your hand. And believe me the people are fond of shaking heartily so it pays to have strong hands to survive the ordeal of being squeezed by, say, 300 pairs of hands. Due to the harshness of the land and our tribal love for manual labor (for example, clearing forests or tilling fields) most hands will be rugged, cracked, with skin peeling off like from a sunburnt face.

There are also countless invitations you will invariably have to attend, one dimension of holidays that leaves me feeling specially bloated. I can't help but feel honored going to some of the modest homes where they lay out all the trappings: a welcome fit for kings, the entire family standing in a file in their front porch to squeeze my “poor” hands; sometimes folks will not join in the festivities but instead, out of a sense of servitude, will wait on guests hand and foot. It can be quite humbling.

Mealtime is without a doubt the main event of a social outing. You have to quickly catch on that one is expected to be a big eater, and if I’m not mistaken, it is considered rude to take only three helpings and leave the table in less than 45 minutes. Otherwise someone is liable to announce, as if you have a terminal illness: oh, you’ve full so easily. Though I don’t have the stomach of a jumbo jet, I enjoy being invited and eating as much as I can because it makes the hosts satisfied. This is the part of our custom I cherish so affectionately.

Imphal & Auntie: As we drive down Imphal’s streets, I’m surprised to note that the city seems on its way to being changed for the better, albeit at a much slower pace compared to other State capitals. New buildings and flyovers have come up here and there. The city looks whitewashed and the conjested roads appear bigger as no public transport ply because of the bandh. Manipur is known as a land of bandh. Here any Tom, Dick and Harry declares state-wide bandh at the drop of a hat. But life goes on somehow at its own pace.

My aunt Pi Veli is all of 76 years young. When we reach her house in Chekon to spend the night she is at the door to welcome us and shakes my hand like she’s been wrestling all her life: so firmly I almost let out a whimper. After her husband died five years ago, Pi Vel, who defies old age has been managing affairs at home like a staff drill sergeant. Very much on top of things, she directs us to our rooms, organises the 4 course meal, all the while gripping her mobile to tend to important-sounding calls. And she does it all so gracefully without ever breaking into a sweat or missing a beat. (Quite unlike my mother who is ready to have a nervous breakdown if she has to sit down and answer the phone simultaneously.)

When it’s time to retire for the night, auntie spends several minutes setting up the mosquito net in the living room so I can sleep soundly. Not a single mosquito entered the net and I was able to sleep soundly on my first night in Manipur, most probably snoring high octaves. I was grateful auntie tucked me in, making me feel for a moment like I was her little boy. I remove all my heroes from their pedestals and give Pi Veli the honor she deserves. I have a new heroine.

Churachandpur Bound: Life starts early in this part of the land and cocks crow even before light begins to appear at around 4 a.m. When I wake up its already half past six which by some early-birds is considered late and lazy. As I sip my very sweet cup of tea, I enjoy the fresh morning air and overhear the familiar sound of many neighboring homes conversing in Hmar, my mother tongue. I rejoice.

Pu Edwin, the executive secretary of the Reformed Presbyterian Church, North East India (RPCNEI) arrives to take us to Churachandpur. After a hearty morning meal, we head off to our destination less than 2 hours away. The turbo-charged, black Scorpio he drives is the perfect machine for the journey but patches of the highway are badly in need of repairs. Quite often we are rudely roused from a comfortable ride and tossed up and down dangerously. By order of my mother, midway we halt briefly in Moirang for a very important purchase: kangpuok. My parents tell me the sweetened corn balls taste better here. I wholeheartedly agree once my mouth is full of the sticky treat even though I’m not a complete connoisseur of the northeast snack.

Creature Comfort-Shock: On reaching CCPur we settle into our first base camp in Khawmawi, a Hmar settlement on the town outskirts to stay with a close relative, my first cousin H.T Vela, a Senior Lecturer who lives alone with his wife in a spacious house they have built and beautified with their own hands.

In a matter of 24 hours, I realize I have been thrust into another world far removed from the fast-paced, late night metropolitan rhythm of New Delhi, and the changes are quite noticeable.

Life and electricity winds up early in these parts. Streets are dark and devoid of movement after the sun goes down at 5 pm. Over the decades, several winds have blown over this town, the second largest in Manipur. There has been spiritual revival, civil war, and the deadly wave of drug addiction which has left its deep mark, sending thousands of youth to an early grave, and it now appears AIDS is not leaving without inflicting a heavy toll. Presently the atmosphere in this volatile town is said to be safe but everyone takes precautions, avoiding unnecessary trouble by restricting excursions after sunset.

I note that the Manipur state electricity board maintains a good track record of not supplying power. Therefore, a thriving inverter and battery market is the only recourse for residents with the means. Devoid of streetlights the roads are pitch-dark at night and to keep from tripping over a rock or falling into an uncovered manhole, most folks travel armed with those simple, rechargeable torch lights mass-produced and sold cheaply by our brothers in China. I remind myself to invest in one before I land up in hospital.

At night it is deemed wise to be ready to retire before the inverter drains itself dry, which is a frequent occurrence, with electricity often unavailable the entire day to recharge exhausted batteries. I soon find myself switching to local timings, and slip into bed by 9 pm, waking up wide-eyed and fresh by 3 in the morning. I really have entered another time zone.

The first week in town is hectic attending invitations from near and dear . My plan to shed some weight and maintain my routine of weekly fasting are thrown out of the window due to these social obligations. Very quickly and frighteningly I manage to become heavy in a few days from the delicacies served at meal times: pork/beef/chicken/duck hmepok, chilly paste, meat curries, vegetables fresh from the garden and the Manipur rice which has a rich, wholesome flavor.

Everyday we are busy from dawn to dusk. Holidays mean putting aside privacy. House calls begin early and soon there is much sound of chattering as family and old friends start descending on us from 6 am onwards, a constant stream of visitors that never ceases till we leave for our engagements. I am hard-pressed to have my morning devotions and quiet time but by the grace of God, and lots of concentration, I manage to read and pray.

Saidan & Family Trees: Our trip to Saidan, just beyond Khawmawi, takes us over the Tuithrapui, a river that meanders along the narrow road. The swirling, muddy water below had always frightened me as a child; now it appears quite innocuous, shallow and tame. We drive past fields of rice paddies where harvest keeps the workers busy. Entering Saidan village we cross the bridge, once made from strands of steel rope. Thankfully, the bridge has now been replaced by something stronger in concrete and steel. Our small car makes it across without anything untoward.

Once we arrive at my uncle Pa Lura’s house, it is instantly recognizable by its somewhat charming, dilapidated state, just as I remembered it 20 years ago. My uncle and auntie have had a fruitful marriage to say the least (they have 5 sons all happily married and absolutely no daughters) and they survive in this corner of the town, flanked by the empty spaces of rich forest land and big hills, managing their rice fields.

I am surprised that nearly 50 are gathered for the morning meal, the whole lot descendents of Pa Lura and his wife, both still looking quite strong and capable of more child-bearing if egged on. They have both retained that timeless, aged look which some folks in Manipur seem to carry well. It’s a blessing to behold three generations all healthy and strong (with grandchildren enough to open a small playschool) standing before me. In my mind I imagine Pa Lura to be the biblical figure Abraham who had descendants as numerous as the stars in the sky.

The process of snapping for posterity the families one after another takes more than a few minutes: the proud parents, the sons, sons with wives, sons with respective families, etc. The gathering on this occasion is too important to miss and I also realize that every time we record data, it serves to document history and allow generations 100 years later to know something of our lives.

The concept of tracing my own family tree has been on my mind ever since I watched the epic TV series “Roots” based on the bestseller by Alex Hailey. Journeying back in time to the jungles of Africa, the author, an African-American, is able to discover the origins of his ancestors and chart his family tree from the time of the slave trade in America, shedding light on more than a century of history.

Comparatively, the Hmar tribe possess scanty records that trace our origins or family lineage. The best minds in society can only recall a few generations of Hmar history. Anything beyond belongs to the realm of uncertain: the scent gets cold and history ends. I often think how wonderful it would be to be able to go in search of my own roots, deep into China, Tibet and the Far East. A search somewhat in the league of the quest for the Holy Grail.

Being Hmar I feel no sense of attachment to the land or my people, something I want to change on this trip. My predicament perhaps has to do with my family and I having lived out of India for nearly 30 years, and except for holidays, and the odd social engagment I have had no contact with my brothers and sisters for long stretches. In fact, even conversing in my mother tongue is somewhat of a struggle after being in raised in an English-speaking environment from childhood. It an area I have never gotten to be familiar with several years. All those villages The thingthlang area deep south in the jungles of Manipur (and not Churachandpur) is the true land of my fathers and forefathers. It was in these villages that dot the southern landscape that Hmars first settled and dwelled, received the good news of the gospel and grew as a vibrant community, eventually by his divine hand being blessed enough to migrate to the big cities and beyond. And I am quite eager to make my way through the settlements.

O hills of my father's and forefather's I fear for you
That thy purity of virgin's worth might be forever ruined
The world heading towards your hills makes me fear
That what made you so unique and fair, the quietness
Of your quiet life might be forever torn to shreds
In the coming onslaught, the ensuing waves;

O hills of my fathers and forefathers I fear for you:
That you'll flee from ideals
Rest assured always beneath your Father's grace
Distanced from the air that wishes to disgrace;

O hills of my fathers and forefathers I fear for you:
Know that thine hills were formed by His Mighty hand
And only in Him does your true salvation lie
It's not in the strength of man that we advance
But by His Spirit, seeking His Face.

[Editor's Note: Pu David Keivom's sojourn to self discovery is truthful as he pays tribute to some of the notable Hmar cultures, like the heartfelt 'welcomes' we still have for families and relatives herein in India]

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Thursday, May 21, 2009 2
[By Pi HELEN*, for INPUI-News&Info]

Part One

I was born in Manipur, India, in1966. I am Hmar, a subtribe of the Mizo who are one of several Tibeto-Burman hill tribes in the North-East frontier of India. The town we lived in, Churachandpur, was comprised of a group of villages, each predominantly inhabited by one subtribe. My mother was a nurse at a small crumbling hospital close to our house. It was the only hospital in all of Churachandpur and seemed very grand at the time. Like my sister Mawi and brother James, I was born at home because it was the done thing at the time for nurses to have home births with their nurse friends in attendance. My other brother David was born in a hospital only because we were in Calcutta for a few months and mum had no nursing contacts there. My father was a civil servant at the time and when he moved to Delhi to train for the Foreign Service, mum returned home to Manipur with us. I was four years old.

Then, as now, the only way to get to Manipur from Delhi was via a six-hour plane trip and Dad could only afford to visit once or twice a year. Mum worked hard to support us and farmed us out to relatives and neighbours whenever she was rostered on the night shift. Sometimes I slept on a gurney in the corridor of the hospital.

We lived in a one-bedroom brick bungalow provided by the hospital and grew potatoes, beans, eggplant, chillies and a bit of corn in our front yard. The neighbour's garden across the road had a little baby grave and I used to stare at the spot and wonder where the baby ghost was. A bit further down, some people kept cows for milk or raised piglets and chickens. Our house was one of several on the street to have indoor plumbing and electricity but most people got by with outhouses and kerosene lanterns. Cooking was universally done on a hearth.

The dirt road in front of our house led to a small river across which lay a cemetery. Funeral processions were therefore a regular sight from our front door and it seemed like it rained every single time, turning the path into sludge. Someone once told me it was the sky weeping for the dead, which made sense at the time and still does because it seems to rain whenever a friend dies these days. Sometimes I followed the mourners to the river and watched the proceedings. The only family funeral I recall going to was Pipi's (grandmother). The wake was held at the old family bamboo stilt house in the village of Saidan and mum has a photo of me, wide-eyed by the coffin. For some reason, talcum powder had been sprinkled on Pipi's eyelids.

My first school was Model School. I didn't know what the word model meant; it was just a sound, a name. We were taught in English and also learnt the Manipuri and Hindi scripts. I liked Hindi because I thought it was the prettiest and found Manipuri difficult. The English alphabet was easy in comparison and we were taught to write in the copperplate style.

We were not allowed to speak our dialects at school in order to expedite our education in English. Since no one in my class knew more than a few English words like apple, ball and cat, there was little conversation within the teacher's hearing. During recess, my friends and I would escape to the far end of the playground to chat. Around teachers, we might manage "Come" or "Go", which always sounded awkward and unnatural. It wasn't when we moved to Delhi that speaking English became an everyday necessity in order to communicate with the other peoples of India. By the time I was a teenager, I dreamt and thought exclusively in English.

No one around us had toys as such, but nature provided us with many playthings. We wove little cages for grasshoppers out of long grass, scratched lines in the dirt for hopscotch and chased rainbow-coloured dragonflies by the river and fireflies around bushes at night. On monsoon days, I liked to sit on the verandah with a hen cuddled in my arms and amuse myself by popping its head under its wing so it would fall asleep. I have no idea why but it worked. I later discovered to my surprise that a game we played with five pebbles is known as Knucklebones in the West and that the pieces could be bought from a shop. I have since learnt that the game is the origin of dice, a Chinese invention, and was played everywhere from ancient Greece to Mongolia.

Storytelling around the fireside was a favourite evening pastime in Manipur. The most popular tales were about a legendary village idiot called Sura and ghosts grown-ups claimed to have seen with their own eyes. Mum thrilled us with one about an evil spirit with red eyes who lurked near the outhouse at her nursing school in Assam. The supernatural world of our animist ancestors remained a casual part of life even though everyone was Christian and supposed to have left pagan concepts behind. In 1970, our people had been Christian for 60 years prior to which the tribes lived a life of subsistence in the jungles, punctuated by raids and counter-attacks.

Every night, we said our prayers and every Sunday, mum handed each of us a coin for the collection at church. Christmas was the year's biggest community event and we all looked forward to it. Children were allowed to stay up all night and play while grown-ups held prayer and hymn-singing marathons in open-sided tents. After the Christmas Day service, the congregation enjoyed a feast in the church grounds, paid for by contributions from each family. The heavenly meat stews and rice were cooked in enormous pots outside the church and served on banana leaves which laid out in lines on the grass before us. It was the happiest time of the year.

Mum got angry if she saw so much as a speck of dirt on us and so for the most part, we were unusually clean children. We envied other kids' messy freedom but rarely braved mum's wrath to join them. There were tuberculosis-infected people not only in the hospital but also in our neighbours' homes; cholera, malaria and small pox were also prevalent. Mum developed a permanent phobia of germs so when we were eventually introduced to the marvel of a washing machine, she continued washing everything by hand and used the machine only for a final rinse. She simply didn't trust it to do as good a job as she did and I have no doubt she was right although it seemed pointless at the time.

Dad brought us city clothes when he came home on visits. The most memorable ones were identical turquoise pantsuits for mum, my sister and me; the pants had enormous flares while the belted shirts featured numerous paisley prints. Mum has a hilarious colour-tinted photo of the three of us wearing our so-called elephant pants by the papaya tree in our backyard. Dad also bought Mum fashionable dresses, saris, handbags and heels which she mainly wore for formal photographs. Like most people, we normally wore simple clothes sewn by the local tailor or a puon, a sarong-like cloth woven by a relative. Fancy clothes were impractical on dirt roads and leech-infested grass, much less for fetching water from the spring when the tap ran dry.

The city clothes did have a kind of intrinsic value though; they brought home to us a tangible sense of a big world out there, different from everything we knew in our pocket of hills. I guess that's what Dad had in mind because we did get to go see and live in that world and we were forever changed because of it.

Part Two

When I was nine, we moved to Delhi to live with Dad. Arriving late at night, our one-bulb-a-house eyes were dazzled by the mass city lights. Dad's flat was in a high rise complex for Foreign Service officers and the first thing I noticed in it was a large humming object. It was a refrigerator, one of those 60s models with curved edges. The second thing I noticed was that it gave off a mild electric shock when I touched the handle. Other dramatic new experiences followed: television, fabulous ancient buildings, grand shops, chocolate, hippies and so on.

We also discovered that many Indians look down on tribals; reasons could include our difference in race, the 5000 years of Indo-Aryan/Dravidian civilisation, and the fact that we don't fit into the Hindu caste system. Consequently, our ethnic classification on official forms is Scheduled Tribes and Backward Classes, a peculiarly Indian English term.

There was a tiny English-language library close by and although there wasn't much variety, I was a frequent borrower. Mostly I read Mills and Boon novels and lots of the exquisitely illustrated comics of stories from the Hindu epics, the Mahabharata and the Ramayana. These fantastical comics were as ubiquitous in India as Beano and Marvel were elsewhere; the Mahabharata, a single poem in Sanskrit, is four times longer than the Bible and packed with fascinating legends of gods, demons, heroic princes, damsels in distress, anthropomorphic animals and such like. I also learnt the story of Buddha thanks to a comic.

Part Three

A year later in 1977, we moved to Nairobi, Kenya on Dad's first posting. The three-bedroom house which came with it seemed enormous after the 6th floor flat in Delhi. It had a terrace on the roof from which we could pluck mulberries and look down at the immaculate lawn and its tidy agapanthus edges. Outside the gate a sign threatened trespassers with prosecution and at night, a security guard took up position by the garage with a gentle Alsatian called Jolly. By then, new things no longer astonished us; we simply absorbed them into the fabric of our everyday lives.

Dad's job required him to travel occasionally around the country to visit Indian-owned factories and businesses and he often took the family with him. It was our version of a family holiday; we travelled by car, stayed in motels, and got to see the country and wildlife. In Mombasa, we stepped into the sea for the first time and at Lake Nakuru, we were enchanted by thousands of pink flamingos. Like the Grand Canyon, the Rift Valley escarpment is spatially weird because the land drops abruptly deep into another world and there you are, standing on the edge.

TV in Kenya was much better and I loved Dallas, the Three Stooges and the Monkees in among the Swahili soap operas and colourful presidential pageants. When Jomo Kenyatta, the revered president and former freedom fighter died, the country shut down and we watched thousands of distraught people on TV as they streamed past the president lying in state. With fears of social unrest, the mantle of president was quickly passed on to the vice-president, Daniel Arap Moi, an intelligent looking man who was to eventually become corrupt.

My sister Mawi and I attended Highridge Primary where I enjoyed geography and found history riveting, especially the parts about the slave trade. I also read every Enid Blyton, Hardy Boys and Nancy Drew book in the school library. On the occasions I was kicked out of class for talking incessantly, I smuggled a novel out in the cavernous pocket of my school tunic; maths was the best to get kicked out of because it was two periods long. Sometimes I got caned instead of being sent out. Class trips to the national park on the outskirts of Nairobi were a lot of fun. Lions, giraffes and other animals roamed the vast grassy landscape around us and ignored the babble from our bus.

At school, we soon found reason to be grateful we didn't look like other Indians – the African kids often bullied them at school. Although everyone knew we were Indian, our Tibeto-Burman appearance over rode it in their eyes and we were often asked if we knew kungfu. With few Oriental Asians in Kenya at the time, we were a novelty and bypassed their historical dislike of Indians. Most Kenyan Indians were descendants of indentured labourers imported by the British to build railroads and improve trade routes between the colonies. Insurgent Kenyans were bitterly opposed to the railroad and after a hard fought independence, they resented the continued presence of the Indians. By the 1970s, Kenyan Indians were mostly middle class and, like British colonials who remained in Kenya, tended to consider themselves above the natives. We, being fresh off the boat, had no such hang ups and gravitated towards Africans because they were lively company.

My best friend was a bad-tempered girl called Jane from the Luo tribe. She had no hesitation getting into a fistfight if anyone crossed her but I thought she was cool. We hung out at my house after school and sometimes I went to her house to listen to her brother's records. It was there I first heard the heavyweight sounds of Isaac Hayes and Millie Jackson. Another favourite was Miriam Makeba, the exiled diva of South Africa. Other than cool records, Jane's home seemed grey and sterile, a contrast to the tiny but vibrant flat of the High Commission's chauffeur George and his wife who lived near us. They had a Dolly Parton record I loved called Daddy Was An Old Time Preacherman and allowed me to play it whenever I visited. I was so familiar with them that they fed me ugali, the polenta-like staple dish of maize meal and sukuma wiki, a delicious stew of greens. It's possible they tolerated me because I was my father's daughter but I believe it was because they were genuinely kind people.

Other good friends were Somali sisters Kamar and Katra. They attended the American International School and I once spent a day there with them and was astonished to see pupils chewing gum and putting their feet up on their desks during class. Such an attitude at my school would have earned a solid caning. When we moved to Saudi Arabia in 1980, my sister and I met another lively pair of Somali sisters, Dhol and Deha, who turned out to be Kamar's extended cousins.

25 rollercoaster years later, I live a simple life with my Kiwi family in the serenity of Aotearoa. I don't miss the past because it's always with me, a filter through which I see the present and try to make sense of things. My siblings live in New York, London and Assam, and my parents have retired to Delhi. I lost touch with all my childhood friends over the years but lately, a couple of them have tracked me down thanks to the wonders of email. Dhol is now an economist in Washington and Jasmina is a businesswoman in Nagaland, near Manipur. We are all mothers now; older, sadder and a little wiser but one thing remains constant: the irreverent sense of humour that brought us together so long ago.

[Editor's note: Pi Helen, daughter of Pu L Keivom, memoirs make an interesting read. It full of nostalgia, and yet very positive about the present and future]
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Wednesday, May 13, 2009
[By OLIVER INTOATE, Inpui Exclusive]

...A nu le an hung intlawn lai kan intuok thut a, ka hamhai taluo hril ding hriet lovin a kut ka chel chawt a, “Kristaah chun unau vawng ei ni an nawm maw…Ma’am, Natalie” ka ti thei hram a... A hmel hang en ringawt khawmin, beidawngna la tuok ngai lo a ni zie chu hmu theiin a um.

Ngaituona pik tak kara, sungkuo thenkhat thina tuok leiin Tuithaphai (Churachandpur) tieng kan sungin suok dingin kan inthawk suok a. Car-a Churachanpur le Imphal inkar kan tlan lai chun, an khat tawk tawkin, khuohai chu ka thlir vel a. Tleirawlte hmeltha tak tak thenkhat tuichawi tuma hung suok hai dam ka thlir vel a, a then lo sinthawna hmangruo chawia, lova sinthaw tuma hung suok le mi dang dang thlasik nisa innemtak hnuoia an invak vel hai ka thlir chun ka lungril pik takel, kum thum lai hiel ka lo pai ta, chuleia nasataka dam nawna ka tuok pha, la dam tha naw zing nia inlang chun ngaituona thar tamtak a mi pek a. “A ni ngei, ka U, ka ruol nei sun chu mi kut chunga thina rapthlak tak lo tuokin mi lo thisan ta sienkhawm, kei hienga natna khuma khawsawta mitthli le inrum inrum nek chun, ruolthar hai dam siem tum lem lang ka ta ding hin a tha lem el naw ding maw!” ti damin kan ngaituo ta neu neu a.

April 18, 2006 zingkara ka U Aizawl-a kan project zusukfel zo cho, Imphal tienga a hung vuong ding zana min an thuoihmang thu ka hriet khan, ka hamhaiin ka suongtuonahai chu nasatakin an vak vel a. A thlaphang dan ding lai dam ka zuk ngaituo laia ka lungril teka deng ang tluka naa hamhai taka ka um lai, ka nu tap hla “Ka nau..ka kut luma beka hin thi la ka va nuom de…” ti ri hai dam chu ka lungrilah chun, zani laia thil tlung ang chaua fiein an la cham a. Kum thum lai hiel lo invawi ta sien khawm, ka ta ding chun an la thar zing a.

Chuong thilhai ngaituonaah a chamzing lei chun ka khawvel hmang khawm inhawi tina reng reng a min neitir thei naw a. Sienkhawm, ka pi thina lei chun, makmawa Tuithaphai Churachandpur) tieng fe kan ni hrim a. Chuonga thil liem tah hai ka ngaituo zing lai chun, kan fe tumna in chu kan lo tlung ta der el a. Ka pi ruong zan khat khuo varpuia kan vuiliem hnung chun, insukhar tum malamin ruol thenkhat hai leh chun bazar tieng panin kan leng vel a. Dawn ding le fak ding hai kan inchawk zo chun, hmun thawveng zawngin ruol dang hai chu fiel sa pei malamin kan tlan kuol vel a, sawtnawte hnung chun, hmun pakhat inhawi deu elah chun thung tlangin, kan hunhai chu inhawi taka hmangin kan sa bal bal a.

Ka ruolhai chu hriet chieng tuma pakhat khata chik taka ka zuk en tawl chun, tleirawl te la naupang hmel deu pakhat chun kum tamtak liem ta a, ka ruolnu Brenda, Delhi a lekha inchuka ka um laia mi nu chu, a min hrietsuoktir ta hlawl el a!

A ni ngei hunhai chu a lo liem hratin, mi tukhawm el hi a nghak bik naw tak zet zie chu a min hrietsuoktir ta pei a. Khang lai khan kei khawm tleirawl, beseina insang tak le ruol lo pawl ve hlak kha ka ni a. Conference dam kan nei ding changa drama kan inchuk lai thlir nghawk hmel put thak lova mi lo thlir hlaktu Brenda kha ka zuk hrietsuok ta vawng vawng a. Vawikhat a nu le an hung intlawn lai kan intuok thut a, ka hamhai taluo hril ding hriet lovin a kut ka chel chawt a, “Kristaah chun unau vawng ei ni an nawm maw…Ma’am, Natalie” ti a, a nu hamhai taka ka zuk biek lai, Brenda chu hung inrawl vatin, “Oliver, I violin inchuk ding in pei an ta? Hung ro, hi tieng hin, tan nghal el ei tiu,” ti a, a mi hung ko lai dam chu, ka lungril mitthlaah chun a hung inlang ta pei a.

Chuonga suongtuona khawela ka pil mek lai chun, ka ruolpa pakhat Imphal tieng a fe ding leh chun, bus station tieng inrang taka panin kan hang inthla liem ta a. Chun keini khawm chu kan inthe dar ta nghal a.

Ka pi sunna hunhai kan hmang zo vawng hnung chun, in tieng kirnawk dingin kan insiem a. In kan tlung hnung chen khawm chun, kha tleirawlte hmeltha deu nu kha ka lungrilah chun a la cham ta zing a. Ka ngaituonahai khawm chu nasataka thlakthlengin a um a. Ka hun hmang tum danhai dam chu ka zuk thlirkir chun thiltha ni theiin ka hriet ta naw a. Khang ang khan Brenda nu le pahaiin kan innei an phal naw leia, an naunu ram danga lekha inchuk zawm dinga an tir a, kum nga sung la nghak la tia mi hlem an tumna tuor zo lova ka sinthawna hai chen maksana Imphal tieng beidawng taka ka hung kir hnung, beiseina thar nei nawk inring naw laizinga project thaw theina ding lampui a hung in hawnga. Nasa taka kum thum lai project kan buoipui; tan thei el ani ding laiin, a neka nasa beidawngna ka hung tuok nawk a, hriselna chenin a thaw hla hnunga, kha tleirawlnu leia beseina thar ka zuk nei thei el hai khawm chu mak ka ti hiel.

Beseina thar le nunthar nei nuomna hiel min nei theitirtu, kha tleirawl hmeltha inno takel khan ka ngaituona a hluo sip chu a ni deu tak ta a. Hang en le hang biek khawma la naupang hmel hle sienkhawm, inza hi a phur ngawi ngawi a. A hmel hang en ringawt khawmin, beidawngna la tuok ngai lo a ni zie chu hmu theiin a um a. A hmeltha hle sienkhawm, amaah hin chapona hmel reng reng hi hmu ding a um nawh; chu nek hman chun ka hang biek chang khom hin a bau a zangin, thuawi takin ei ti naw chen chen thaw pal a ti ti inlau um rak khawpin a fel.

Khang ang lawma hmeltha, ngaituona la thienghlim em em nei ka hang inpawlpui tan khan, kei khawm chun ka ninahai chu ka lo theinghil ta vawng a. Ka thei ang anga thangpui tumin, a thil ditzawnghai dam chu kan dawna. Ama khawm chun ip nei lovin a mi hril pei a. A thil lawm zawng ni ngei a tih ti ringin Tuithaphai (Churachandpur) fe nawk phat le chawi ding tiin kan thlalakhai dam chu print dawkin, fakthei chi dang danghai inchawin ka hunhai chu phur takin ka hmang hlak a.

Tuithaphai kan fe nawk ding ni zingkar inhma takin ka thova, ka hmaihai phi faiin, kan
siem mawl mawl a. Sielmat a zingbu hang hnawt a suok kan nih. Ka ngaituonahai khawm chu a zangin, a thawveng em em a, ka hma tieng peia nun khal dan ding chen ka ngaituo ta neu neu a. Zingbu fa dinga in kan zuk lut lai chun, ka unaunu pakhat chun ka thil chawihai chu a en vela, thlalak pakhat a zuk lak dawk le inruol chun hieng hin a hung tawng suok ta a, “Eh! hi nu hi ka hriet hlak, mi pakhat leh tha taka ingaizawng an nih”a hung ti a. Mangang takin, ngaisak lo tehlem thawin ka thil chawihai chu ka bag-ah ka zuk sie lut nawk a.

Phur taka Tuithaphai kan suoksan laia ka thil ngaituo hai po po chu, chipchier taka ngaituo nawn zing pum chun, car-a darthlalanga ka hmel ka hei en chieng chun, ka hmel khawm chu zur deu kiengin ka hei hmu thei a. Kan hun hai hmang zova Imphal kan hung tlung nawk hnung chun, in chungah kaiin hmar tieng ka hang thlir ta vang vang a. Hmar Arasi kum sang khat dana khawm inchi khat khawm insawn ngai lova an hril chu de var varin ka hang hmu a. Tuifinriet chunga lawng mi thlavaihai le nga mantuhai lampui kawk hmutu le thuoitua an hmang hlak angin, kei khawm 'beiseina arasi' chu en zinga damlai hringnun tawite hi khal pei dingin lungril ka siem lem ta lem a.

[Editor's Note: Ngaituo din takel, tangkaipui thei ding 'Short Story' mi hung ziekpektu Tv Oliver Intoate chungah lawmthu ei hril. Chanchin tawi zieksa le ziekmek nei hai chun nahai@aol.in ah thon thei zing anih]
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