By H H Mohrmen
Steve Jobs, in his address to the graduates of Stanford University, said, “Life can only be lived going forward but understood looking backward.” This statement rings true: one needs to trust their gut feelings and move on in life, but one can only connect the jigsaw puzzle by looking back. Life cannot be understood in the present; it can only be comprehended with the benefit of hindsight. Bhagwan Rajneesh sums it up beautifully in his saying about life: “Life is not a problem to be solved but a mystery to be lived.” Life is meant to be lived, and it is important to embrace it as it unfolds.
Like any ordinary life, mine hasn’t been easy. Life, they say, is like a roller coaster, and I have had my fair share of ups and downs. There have been tumultuous times when I stumbled and fell repeatedly. At times, I couldn’t even understand who I was or what I wanted to do with my life. It was during these tribulations that I embarked on an inward journey in search of life’s purpose. While trying to understand myself, I discovered that, somehow, my name had given me direction. Yes, that’s right—there is meaning in a name. When your parents give you a name, it carries more significance than just your identity. My identity is intricately linked to my name, and it has shaped my life’s purpose.
Coming from a poor family, we had to work hard from a young age; collecting firewood, cooking, and washing our clothes were part of our daily chores. In fact, I started working during winter vacations just to help my parents buy us books for the next school year. We didn’t have to pay much for school because we attended government schools and colleges, and if there was an admission fee, it was minimal. I tried my hand at every trade my parents and relatives were engaged in—selling tea with my parents at Iawmusiang, helping my grandmother sell fish, and selling eggs, fish, betel nuts, and pan leaves with my aunt. As I grew older, I started my own venture selling betel nuts (waidong), cigarettes, and bidis and also worked as a day labourer during holidays to support my parents. Later, I considered ministry as a career.
When I decided to join the ministry, people asked me about “the call.” They would ask, “What is your call?” or “When did you receive the call?” My answer was simple: if “the call” means divine intervention, honestly, I didn’t have such an experience. There was no lightning, no divine spark, no rainbow, and not even a bird in my story. Neither did a lucky charm intervene—I was on my own.
Having said that, I did experience an incident that gave me a sense of purpose of what I should do with my life. It wasn’t an act of God or divine intervention but sheer coincidence, if you may call it that. Since then, everything I do in life has been influenced by that incident, and the image I saw that night remains etched in my memory.
It was the winter of 1987, and Meghalaya was preparing for the next general elections to the State Assembly, scheduled for February 1988. Along with several other youths, I was contracted by the election department of Jaiñtia Hills District for an electoral roll enrollment drive. The job involved updating the electoral rolls for various legislative assembly constituencies in Meghalaya. The contract, initially for three months, required us to visit villages and register the names of young people who had just turned 18.
While the plan sounded good, implementing it was challenging. As they say, it looked good on paper, but reality was a different story. Like any government program or project, neither the village headman nor the villagers had time to entertain us. Even if we stayed in the village, we rarely met people because they left early in the morning for their fields and only returned before the sun set. By that time they will be too tired to even talk to us. What normally happened was, the headman would summon the elders to his house, where they counted the huts and tried to recall if the families had sons or daughters of voting age. Back then, no birth certificate was required—the headman decided who was eligible. Often, they didn’t even have the correct names because there was no electricity not to mention phones to verify details. We enrolled them anyway, even if the names were incorrect.
The villages assigned to me were remote, and reaching them was difficult. Trekking was often the only option due to the lack of proper roads. If at all we used a vehicle, we mostly traveled on four-wheel-drive trucks, often on rugged terrain. On one particular trip, I traveled on a Shaktiman, a condemned military truck. Sitting in the cabin with the driver and helper, I vividly remember climbing a hill so steep that it felt like we were sitting on a cockpit of a rocket and heading for the sky.
One journey required careful planning. I traveled from Jowai to Sutnga by bus, which was only possible on a market day to ensure transportation to the villages. From Sutnga, I rode a bus to Semasi, where many houses still fermented rice beer. People were poor and primarily farmers, as coal mining hadn’t started in the area then. We were advised to visit houses during the day because, by evening, it would be difficult to communicate with the residents. Semasi was a small hamlet with few houses, and we completed our task in one sitting with the headman.
From there, I walked to Pala, Ryngkoh, Khahnar, and other villages until I reached the last Pnar village. Beyond that, the settlements were inhabited by the Biate people of Kuki descent. At Semasi, we were also advised not to enter Pala on Saturdays or Sundays because the villagers were deeply religious and did not entertain visitors on Sundays.
The village of Kseh, now under Saipung Block, was a small hamlet with a few thatched huts. There was no electricity, and the village was near the Kupli River, which was then abundant with fish. That night, the headman served us rice with fish from the river. The moon, following the rice harvest, was in its full glory, and its light transformed the village into a silvery wonderland. The thatched roofs, fences, trees, and ground shimmered under the moonlight, creating a surreal, postcard-perfect scene. The sight I witnessed that night was of a village glimmering with silvery light; everything was bright and beautiful.
While admiring the scene, I felt a deep connection to the place and a sense of peace. I thought, “This is it. This is where I belong.” The hills, rivers, forests, and people became special to me. The star-filled sky and constellations seemed to connect me to the ground beneath my feet with the heavens above. That night was like a second birth for me. Though my mother gave me life, the surreal beauty of that scene shaped who I am today. From that moment, I knew what I wanted to do with my life: work with the people in the villages. That moonlit night, with its celestial beauty, became my “call.”
This vivid memory has guided me ever since. I recall meeting a fellow student from Haryana at the University of Manchester who was studying engineering on a government scholarship. When I told him of my plan to return to India, he asked, “What for? Why do you want to go back? What is there in India?” He even called me ‘bewakoof’ (fool) for deciding to return. Another young man from Kolkata, who had also come to study theology, abandoned his plan midway and decided to stay in the country. Though I felt awkward initially, I knew where my heart lay and what I wanted to do with my life.
The image of that moonlit night, with its galaxy of stars, keeps flashing in my mind, calling me and connecting me to my destiny. I realized that staying in the UK would not allow me to contribute meaningfully to the world around me. Back home, there was so much I could do.
They say there’s a star with your name written on it. As your mother gives birth to you, cosmic dust clumps together to form your star which will be your ultimate guide. In my case, I am fortunate to have a galaxy of stars leading me and showing me the way. Is this apotelesma? I don’t know but these stars continue to guide me towards my purpose.