By Paramita Muller Lahiri
A century has passed since the house in Shillong was built in 1913. The structure of the house remains the same but time has left its relentless spurs, decay has set in. A name is engraved on the wall outside ‘Tiewriem’, the name of a white, wild flower that grows in the woodlands of Meghalaya. Does one need a name to prove that we belong? The microcosmic decline of the house is reflected in the macrocosmic social condition within the state. A strange fog dark, foreboding, evil and almost nameless is blanketing the city. SMOG.
On a pleasant sunny morning in September this year, a perfect morning for a drive we leave behind the fumes, noise, acrid smell of garbage and filth of the rapidly expanding city and reach the heart of rural Meghalaya. Serpentine roads cutting through ranges of blue hills sometimes veiled in fog and mist made us feel free, happy. The slow snake like pace of the East Khasi Hills roads quietened as we rolled on, leaving behind the neurotic, hectic traffic nerve of the city. A sense of exhilaration coursed through the pores as we drove along the long and winding road and I had the absurd feeling that by tip-toeing, stretching out my arms I could touch the clouds….become a part of Meghas the abode of clouds. I was transported back to my childhood days where I imagined that hidden fairies, gnomes and imps lived amidst the giant ferns sheltered by wild flowers. The nectar seemed like ambrosia mirrored in the multi-hued winged butterflies and bees. To express this feeling of contentment all I can say is an uphill trek of dense adjectives: enchanting, mysterious, magical, mythical, mystical. A feature of the land is often a conglomeration of clouds and sudden cloudbursts over the hills and pine tops cleansing the earth. All the murmurs of m’s, megha m, mother earth, mei sang the songs of the woods as the rivulets trickled down the hillsides. We were on our way to Pynursla.
Hundred years have gone by from 1913 to 2013 and the old white wooden gates have been replaced by the black iron contraption implying “KEEP OUT” and “KEEP IN”
‘Keep in’ because of endless bandhs that are a new feature of the state. No one dares to venture out, especially not those who are termed as non-tribal. Fear predominates and holds the city within its lethal grip. ‘Keep out’ to keep out those who want to throw petrol bombs, pelt stones, set fires and roast humans alive. A process of elimination has begun.
Is there a Caesar or Nero weeping as the city is burning? Who is collecting the tears? The image of hate has a very long shadow pursuing and chasing those who blindly follow. Angst has enveloped the city in a smog of discontentment.
The rambling road took us uphill, towards Upper Shillong. We just wanted to go to Laitlyngkot and buy pork and cook it Khasi Style, a part as Syrwa and the rest with nei-iong , black pepper, bay leaves and ginger. One can always debate about the quality of pork being the best in Laitlyngkot. It is rather the journey, the road that adds extra spice to the quality of pork. Could be the fog rising from the deep gorges that adds a tang to the dish.
See how a Dkhar palate has adopted the taste and delicacy of the place one calls home. This is where I belong. Country roads take me home to the place where I belong….
My home town…this is the place I always returned too however wide and far I may have travelled. The journey becomes an interface between the past and the present. One slows down here in contrast to big metropolis.
The land scape holds one spell-bound. The beauty of the blue hued hills, sleepy ancient villages, nestled in deep valleys sheltered between the warm, tender cleavage of mother earth, enclosed amongst gorges. Hillsides adorned with wild flowers, streams moving down cascading over eroded rocks forming magical pools. The beauty of the place is like a mystic dream where time stands still. Vibrant silence gently interrupted by the rustling wings of cicadas. Sheltered and secured.
Bandhs and issues of inner- line -permits is remote here. The periwinkle mosses and lichen know no boundaries and are permitted to survive, undisturbed, untouched by human hand. The angry growl of city jargon has not yet brought discord. All is in tune.
The pristine fog veiling the hills thinned and opened up the road as we approached Langykyrdem village on the way to Pynursla, a pretty looking place with a church high on a hill, neat and clean, rows of trees and lush green. As we came closer to the village a group of children dressed in blue and white school uniforms with snotty, running noses picked up stones and with ugly “ he -man” gesticulations shouted Dkhar , Dkhar at us. We were stunned to silence.
Children poisoned and corrupted by ….. who? Teachers, Priests, Elders the ZEIT GEIST? Is this the spirit of the time? The hatred that has built up through decades has formed the attitude of the people. Tiny beads of hate strung together form a strong garland which is so tight that to break it one needs a sharp hatchet. But perhaps even better a great deal of patience, love and convincing that violence just destroys and the process of decay begins very rapidly. Suspicion and mistrust has grown like a fatal cancerous growth spreading across the city, towns and villages. The seed of mistrust towards anything “foreign” the other or the outsider has found its roots deep down. The growing hatred is so deeply embedded that even children are infected and fed with this attitude from mother’s milk. The milk of hate is imbibed; what nourishes now festers and courses through the veins and is injected into the blood of a basically peace loving folk.
The ancient folklore of Khasi Hills about darkness and the monstrous tiger seems to have appeared. Not only the termites are eating the wooden planks of our house but a power hungry political system is consuming the brains of the people. This is what I meant with the microcosmic rot being reflected in the macrocosmic social system.
My first thought was, who is the enemy? Kids who are you fighting against?
Our peaceful journey was rudely interrupted and we were speechless with sorrow and sadness. Even the innocence of children in remote rural areas is being corrupted by poisoned short sighted elders.
We turned our car, with a Meghalaya number plate, and went to Mylliem village. We entered a Khasi roadside eating joint well known for local food like Tungrymbai, Syrwa Tungtap etc. With our heart and soul empty we thought a good meal local style would compensate our despair. We ordered food, Dohkhlieh and the usual plate of rice with Tungrymbai, and Tungtap. We were rudely ignored and were curtly told that there is no Doh khlieh even though a large pot of this dish was quite visible. We were the only Dkhars in this place and our accent was probably alien to the local tongue.
Again a rude shock and we drowned our discomfort with cups of red hot tea.
Shall I always remain an outsider, a Dkhar? Will I need an inner line permit every time I enter the city of my childhood? Would my father who served the state of Meghalaya for thirty five years as Advocate General need an inner-line permit? Would his contribution to the state be erased from the pages of history? Would my brother Rahul born in Shillong need a permit as well? But the dead do not need permits, passports or identity to prove where they belong.
A friend has written a book called the BROKEN ARROW; now I see that the complete golden arrow broken through the passage of time and history is blackened with poison. Poison Arrow! Nonetheless there is still hope, hope that a handful of rational, educated people will have the courage and the vision for positive change.
(The writer now lives in Germany)
