Bingiala Laloo pays tribute to ER Tariang of Mynthong, Jowai, on his first death anniversary
HIS POCKETS always had sweets in summer and oranges in winter. His arm bore the ink marks of his initials.
Lean, tall with hair that never showed any greys, Papun maintained it that way. On Sundays he’d wear his brown suit with shoes that were polished to shine. A hat he wears when out in the sun, burning dried leaves, working the garden with vigour, it was his favourite thing to do. In his sleep, in the early mornings, when I’d peek into his room out of a child’s curiosity, to see how old people sleep, he’d suddenly raise his voice shouting a warning, not to me, but to someone in his dream, sometimes he’d chuckle in his sleep too. I thought he was funny. He did this often, and I would find it hard to suppress a laugh. He liked his breakfast in bed, tea with biscuits. Whenever we bought it to him, he never failed to sing out his love in words not understood, yet felt.
In the mornings, he’d gather us round for a family prayer. We’d start with songs, sometimes he would ask us to choose the songs and sometimes he would. We never knew the tune of the songs he picked, and though he never admitted it, he’d sometimes make up his own tunes. We had to follow after. He taught us how to get that quiver in our voice while singing, simply by pinching our neck and pulling the skin in and out. I shall never forget the story of Lazarus, and how Jesus called him from the grave. My grandfather re-enacted the scene so magnificently, it will forever remain engrained in my mind. He opened his mouth round, his eyes narrowed and a shout that came straight from the gut, ‘Ko Lazarus’ he shouted. He wanted us to re-enact the scene along with him, so, we all had to shout the same, with the exact facial contortion as his. It was a tradition to clap our hands after the Lord’s Prayer. He always asked us to.
He never failed to make us a swing in the garden whenever he visited us. With ropes and wood that would have been left to be thrown, our grandfather made use of every scratch. With such patience he’d cut the ropes to equal lengths, tie them to the branch of a pine tree and push the swing gently to see if it was ready. Whenever he’s not preoccupied with the great outdoors, my grandfather spent his time jotting into his diary, reading or simply observing the caprice of his grandchildren about. He’d laugh and play his own games with us, asking “Kat kiwa maia ia u papun ong ‘nga’ (“Whoever loves their grandfather say I”) and whoever responded first, won. He loved this game, and it was played often when we would get together in the holidays alongside with our many cousins.
Sometimes he’d wag his finger switching between the index and the thumb. Grasping the index finger would mean a certain thing and grabbing the thumb would mean the contrary. I always managed to grab the thumb. Coconut oil was our grandfather’s remedy for everything. For lustrous hair, for healthy skin, for toothaches, for mosquito bites and for whatsoever problem out there, there was nothing that coconut oil could not do! When I was in class two, he suggested that I apply coconut oil on my face instead of lotion. I didn’t doubt him so I did. Only, friends kept saying how shiny my face was. He had his dinner at the same time every day, with equal proportions of rice, vegetables and meat. He always had a little space on his plate saved for a heap of salt. Though the food was well seasoned and salted, he was very particular about having extra salt on his plate.
Whenever we visited him in Jowai over the holidays, he’d call to ask at what time we would reach. He did this so that he would be there at the veranda to welcome us. I remember the warmth of seeing him on the bench waiting for us, while walking down the road leading home. While we’re still unbolting the gate, his arms would be outstretched so wide, and they never came down until they were wrapped in an embrace.
As the years caught up with him, he would spend most of his time resting. The only thing that never changed was the warmth that he’d greet us with upon our visit. Though he never waited on us in the veranda anymore, lying on the bed, his hands would gather ours in a clasp and he would plant a kiss on them. Though weakness prohibited him from speaking much, his warmth, his smile and his eyes spoke so deeply that it was the best conversation I’ve ever had. He left us on November 2 last year, and though it was hard, his funeral service was beautiful. We laughed and cried at the same time, and when finally he was laid to rest on a beautiful hill overlooking the Myntdu River, we clapped our hands. He would have wanted us to.