Back To My Roots II: Descent Into Tipaimukh, The Land Between Two Rivers

David L Keivom

“I must study politics and war, that our sons may have liberty to study mathematics and philosophy…”

-John Adams, 2^nd US President

         HMARKHOLIEN.  May 1st, 2012.  Allah wa-Akbar, Ala-ahaaaaaaaaaaah-wa Akbar.  Though its melodious and rich rendition broke the early morning quiet with all the might and charm of a dedicated opera performance, none would have really heard the muezzin’s first soulful call at half past three in the morning as it broke through the air except perhaps for the devoted handful of worshippers who came to perform namaaz at the Mukam mosque that hour.

I had no choice but to listen, all ears tuned into the musical treat, sick in bed at the RPC Guest House in Hmarkholien, Assam, struck down with a sudden affliction and rendered an invalid for 2-3 days.  It was not malaria (test results proved) but with intense headaches, an upset, bloated stomach and fevers, it didn’t require a doctors expert diagnosis to tell us that some devious travel bug, from the jungles of the northeast, had generously chosen me to play host for this occasion.

A light drizzle had ushered in what would most certainly be a cool dawn but in this humid region, there was never any guarantee that mid morning would not give way to intense tropical heat.  My mind traveled back to the circumstances that had brought me thus far, sentenced to this illness, feeling like I was at death’s door, a million miles from home.

It all began like this.

Exactly 12 days ago, I left what I would later swear upon were lavish surroundings: the modest Gandhian comfort of my college dorm in Serampore which still had all the trappings of water, electricity and ceiling fans.  I left the sounds of vehicle horns, a world of 3 and even 4G connections, old buildings from the Dutch invasion or colonization, narrow lanes.  I met my father at the airport in Kolkota and flying an hour away from Kolkota to Mizoram’s Lengpui airport, in that blink of an eye, I was transported into another world, that of the northeast, familiar dialects, birds chirping, the cock crowing and nobody able to really understand English or Hindi.  Like an alien world but nevertheless home. 

My wife was not happy with the travel itinerary at all.  Indeed, this kind of behavior (she admitted) amounted to marital abuse: to rush off straight after the college session and before even setting foot home, embark on a two week journey across three states to complete research for my Bachelor of Divinity (BD) thesis.  Its entitled “Displacement As Exilic Experience With Special Reference to Manipur Tipaimukh Dam Project (TDP)”.  Some trash the BD thesis as trash which I partly agree is the whole truth and nothing but.  To be eligible to write a thesis, the criteria in BD studies is 60% and above.  This is often a benchmark scaled by many students who then opt for the thesis rather than take the 2 alternative subjects and the exams.  The result can be a library full of black-bound manuscripts hardly worth the paper they’re printed on.  I call them “the treasury trove of namesake theses”.  I swear and even touch wood that mine will not fall into that dark hall of academic infamy.

I remember being excited about the dam project but ran immediately into a stumbling block: its all fine and well to present the dam issue BUT how can one offer a Christian take, a biblical perspective on the topic of dam building?  What does it all mean theologically?  The answer came to me one day, like lightning out of the blue, in God’s perfect time, so to speak.  In Old Testament class we had been dealing with God’s liberative acts throughout the course of biblical history, how God’s own people had been displaced several times and yet He had set the captives free from bondage, He had cared for the poor, hungry, lost.  We dealt with Dalits, oppressed societies and displaced tribes.  That one word “displaced” (and consequently redemption) brought out the whole purpose of the thesis before my eyes.  It was a eureka moment.  The Hmars do deserve the honor of being equated and compared to God’s own people, displaced people in light of the dam, I thought.  They will perhaps be displaced, face the wilderness of uncertainty, despair and murmuring but God being a God of redemption, one who leads us in triumphal procession, would lead us into Canaan.  God never forsakes His people.

Aizawl: Sin City or Saint City

AIZAWL – 20^th April, 2012.  David Buhril kindly received us at the airport.  He is often a quiet, unassuming man but with many feathers under his cap: award-winning journalist (whose nose for publicizing controversial issues and human rights abuses has earned him a few death warrants), research scholar, musician and beloved friend of the people.  I slept through most of the ride into the city, perhaps lulled by too many twists and turns on the road and woke up to the vrrrmm vrrmm of expensive bikes whizzing past.   Mostly they were young guys (young guns?) all looking like they had MotoGP aspirations, feeling so cool they won’t grace you with a mere glance.  Mr Bajaj Pulsar, you have no place of pride among all these R15 2.0’s, CBR’s and Ninjas, I laughed to myself. 

Aizawl had just appeared across the landscape, a hillside teeming with house after house all seemingly stuck together.  It looked like a haphazard mosaic of construction precariously settled on steep hillside that would give way in the slightest shift of the earth’s plates.  Hopefully everyone have their homes insured.

“See those blue sheets of plastic?”, David pointed towards vast spreads of plastic material spread over the hillside wherever the mud was prone to landslide. To keep the ground from disappearing from underneath your feet in the event of a real torrent.     

We proceeded up into the heart of the town.  It was steep, narrow and teeming with too much traffic.  I saw that the consumeristic trends of prosperity that have hit metros across the country have favored Aizawl too.  Brand new luxury cars, plenty of brand stores, even Millenium Mall, rising up into the sky like a giant leviathan.  Business must be booming though I’ve always wondered how in cities with small economies, little industry and no real job prospects consumerism survives.  How do people afford jeans and handbags priced the same as in a shopping mall in Delhi?  Perhaps prosperity falls like manna out of the skies.  Or money grows on trees.

Living in a world where common sense and practicality has been overshadowed by a “must have” mentality, I accepted that everyone should flaunt their ownership of one or two or three cars.  But I wonder who the hell (pardon the expression) has ordered this town planning?  It made no sense at all.  Jam-packed concrete edifices with no room to breathe.  No playgrounds or parks.  No parking spaces.  Turnings so narrow it took 2-3 turns to complete while traffic got held up.  No pedestrian footpath on the roads.  Steep roadways.  More steep roadways.  I took back every unkind word I ever said about Shillong.  It is a paradise of civic construction comparatively.            

We parked our car right under the Hrangbana College building and there at this crossroads, David and my father proceeded to point out the major landmarks interlaced with bits and pieces of history.  That is Chandmari Presbyterian which is the … that used to be the first office of the so and so before they moved to their … Hauva & sons are the biggest … this building is owned by … and so on.      

We then had a quick bite at Loisbet Hide where the food was mediocre at best.  “It’s hard to find good restaurants in Aizawl” David admits.  The city has disposable income, an adventurous spirit and thrill-seeking youth but there is still plenty of room for entertainment and a memorable dining experience.  Perhaps it has something to do with the YMA, the Youth Mizo Association.  Like their brethren elsewhere (the KSA in Shillong, the mullahs in Saudi Arabia and politically-motivated Bajrang Dal moral police), the YMA acts as the highest governing body of what is considered agreeable to Mizo society.  Therefore, it has been deemed there shall be zero night life.  Officially, of course.  And while banning liquor might have won the YMA many points among teetollers, I also learn that confiscated bottles of alcohol often land up in THEIR very hands.  I guess they too are human and thirsty after all.

After lunch and coffee, we drove upwards past the fashion house that that David’s wife, Lily has set up.  Its called SHOD (Sinlung House of Design).  We didn’t drop in but halted instead at LH Thanga’s.  Dad has brought more LP records for his good friend of many years.  It was an establishment-cum-residential complex which, like many structures built over sheer vertical hills, seems like a 2 storey house until you go out to the balcony and discover it is in fact 6-7 stories high.  Pu Thanga is grateful for the records, collectors items in their own right, jewels of an age where record players ruled the airwaves.  There was an assortment of music here, everything from the European classics to Boney M to country music.  I am very excited to find in the pile a Keith Green album.  Its impressive to know that my father collected and invested so much in music.  Being music lovers, all four of us rifle through the albums on the table, taking a nostalgic trip down musical lane.             

   

Finally, we reached David’s home in north Chaltlang.  It had been hastily done up as they had to vacate from their previous one on the upper floor to this smaller downstairs just before we arrived.  It was homely and comfortable with tasteful interiors.  This served as our base for the next few days before we pushed towards Tipaimukh.  At home, Lily is assisted by two young girls who also help out at her store.  They were a happy, close-knit group, giggling at the slightest provocation.  Our rooms had mattresses on the floor, covered in a green carpet and out the window, a view of the green valley stretching for miles.  It was airy and beautiful.  At night the winds howled fiercely like they carried all of the grievances of mother nature. 

Visitors came streaming in, some important, some clearly overstayed their welcome, like the landlord’s son who had a tendency to drop in at all odd hours.  Often it coincided with when drinks were served, I was informed.  Go figure. 

One soon realizes the kind of company he is in by the nature of the talks and even the seriousness.  It soon became apparent that all discussions (after formalities, pleasantries and chit chat) would often gravitate towards matters of consequence ie. politics, cultural affairs, government, economy and juicy/saucy bit of intel.  And no night passed without fair mention of the “rotten state of affairs in the kingdom of Mizoram” vis-à-vis the unfair treatment of the state towards non-Lushais.  Corruption.  Hypocrisy.  Economy.  Liberation.  Ethnic genocide were the order of discussions. 

“I scored 80% and above in the interview, the highest ever but I’m not sure if I’ll get the job…You see they are always very biased when it comes to other tribes,” a job-aspirant confessed disheartedly. 

I heard of how the YMA meddles in everything, how they oppress non-Lushais:  “If they came to live in our state, would we ask them to produce so many proofs of identity and what-not just to rent a home?” was another grievance I heard.

Indeed, Aizawl and Mizo culture needs thorough research before one can proclaim judgement but some of the bare facts are startling.  The great civilizations of the world can claim pride in their customs and practices, even partial abhorrence towards the English language.  But what explains all the signboards in Lushai?  It seems to be taken for granted that all visitors and residents know the lingua franca fluently.  So called English-medium schools in Aizawl  blatantly prefer to teach using the Lushai language reverentially, perhaps imagining it to be the sole heavenly language on earth.  There are no English publications in the city, not a single one.                

The YMA nor the church has no answer to the prevalence of Satanic worship.  There is a high rate of suicide, high rate of rape.  The prostitutes on the streets at night bare witness to a city that has won the battle over drugs and alcohol (officially) but has been lenient where sex is concerned.  Homosexuality and lesbianism loom over the horizon like cancers about to grow malignant.

Onward Bound : Towards the Interiors

AIZAWL - Tuesday, 24^th April.  We packed our rucksacks for our trip towards Tipaimukh, a day later than scheduled.  On Monday, the Mizo Academy of Letters had their celebration and my father thought he should attend.  Entering in late, after all the main shining stars of the Mizo literary world had taken their seats, the audience, especially the youth all turned around and looked starstruck as if the real McCoy had finally walked into their midst.

LH Thanga was kind enough to lend us a brand new Maruti Ecco for the trip up to Sakawrdai with a driver who knew the roads like the back of his hand.  He drove superbly in wet conditions even on the tightest bends and hairpins.  The roads through the small towns was scenic and we looked out yonder into green valleys, into the distance, into areas that would one day lie submerged if the dam became a reality.  The quality of the road was top class, narrow as it might be; you could rest a cup of tea on your lap and drive without it spilling.  It was that smooth.  We rested and halted every now and then for tea and snacks.  (We were really in a dry state now!) Ratu had a small market manned by women which was below a sign that gave a sex and AIDS warning.  When I asked them the price of bananas in Hmar, the lady looked at me like I had just spoken Eskimese.  We were quite surprised later to learn that they were Hmar but perhaps had lost touch with their language, finding comfort and solace in affiliating themselves more to the Lushai language.  Or maybe it was my accent.

For technological company, I had the GPS and compass on my phone.  It was very precise and clear.  Both thankfully run without network and provides you real time info of elevation, coordinates, speed, pitch and roll.  The map has your location marked as an icon and helps you get your bearings, an assistance to someone new to the area.  Technology has come a long way.

We reached Sakawrdai early evening and were met by the small team who had come to receive us from Mauchar, about 30 km away.  In hindsight, in light of the rain all day, perhaps we should have halted a night.  But even with the forecast of slippery and wet conditions on the road ahead  we pressed on south to Mauchar like determined men of the Klondike gold rush.  The sun was gently going down.  We were 7 in an old Gypsy and every time we hit a bump no matter how small I thought both my lungs and rib cage would burst and collapse.  The suspension seemed non-existent and having travelled all morning, I wore quite an exhausted look.  On the contrary, my fellow travelers were a happy lot, energized and yapping like they had all fueled up on Red Bull before the journey.  Over the years, I have observed the naturalness with which simple folk share tales, information, debate and have an opinion on everything under the sun.  It seems almost second-nature to them, this confidence to self-express though they perhaps many have no higher degrees or even been to school.  You can see it in simple village folk in Rajasthan, among taxi drivers in Delhi, among porters at the railways stations, street kids even.  And many times I have thought: if only they had mentors, a bit of polishing, a bit of positive brain-washing, what fine orators they would make, what great leaders.    

At the wheels of the Gypsy, with our lives in his hands, was a young innocent-looking boy not more than 16 years old.  Yet he possessed a mastery over the “Mauchar course” like God himself had ordained him for this one mission in life.  In rally racing terms, this route would have been deemed notorious and non-negotiable.  Indeed, to term the Mauchar road as life-threatening and God-forsaken is an understatement.  Every stretch of road varied in its intensity; sharp turns were followed by steep inclines, deep ruts forced us to go closer to the edge, and the slippery conditions meant, as the wheels struggled for traction, the rear could have slipped off and pulled us down into the oblivion of the gorges hundreds of feet below.  I prayed numerous times.  A good 4 hours of the route had us all at the edge of our seats literally.  There was a point midway where, due to the unevenness of the road, the Gypsy wheels lost partial contact with Mother Earth.  The front wheels lifted up and we came to a grinding, halting standstill.  After the rickety old Gypsy shut down, the quiet was ironically deafening.  The damage looked serious.  Oil was leaking and the engine couldn’t start.  The boys cleaned up the spark plugs and after lowering the vehicle down the road, the engine finally burst into life again.  My father meanwhile had taken his torchlight and walked up quite a distance on his own.

I salute Suzuki for producing what I consider the best off-roader ever designed.  With this firsthand experience of “mountain-climbing” on the Gypsy, I now understand its fan-following even though it might be termed an “obsolete piece of machinery”.  It has endured the harshest climes in India, won rallys and to date, its great resale value speaks volumes of its worth.  And my prayers and thanksgiving go out to that old, beat up Gypsy from Mauchar which negotiated some of the worst road conditions and lived to fight another day.  Climb after climb, just when you thought there was no way in hell the vehicle would succeed, it passed muster and performed like a champion.  Long live Gypsy’s.        

(To be contd)