Half of the village was torched one year after the apocalyptic reign of terror started in 1997. Yes everything else got burnt in the flames of hatred that had been waiting for a spark in the heat of Corruption, Neglect and Non-Governance. The word ‘burnt’ had become predominant in my consciousness. I recalled a phrase indicating burnt maize used by a childhood flame. And I had a story already drafted in mind. Before that I reached the editor, Tehelka magazine to find out if the magazine has a space for my kind of stories. In one line I had mentioned the structure of the history that I proposed to write. The response was positive. As soon as I knew that the people in Tehelka were interested in my story, I drafted a story and mailed it to Lealyan Thomte, who is in Copenhagen, whom I trusted more than myself in the field of writing. As a matter of fact I had asked him to make improvements in another story about childhood brawls, on which he found no scope for improvement. But this time I prevailed upon him to devote sometime on my and to make it more presentable:
Lealyan promptly applied a hand and returned with following additions/changes:
-(approx. 2 ½ feet in diameter- where the rice would be placed on the sides and the vegetables/meat would be at the center, and the family would circle around it- eating with our bare hands). I did not feel hungry. So.when every one was seated around the hot steaming rice
-Feelings of nostalgia overtook me and tears welling up began to daze my vision.
-fighting for its space amidst overgrwon weeds and grasses
- an elder sister
-At this she became serious- rooted as she was, she retorted,
-And with a typical sense of humor and a dose of unhidden pride, she continued
-The other options available as of now, and may well be when he is turns an adult is to join the military service
Accordingly on October 8, 2007 I sent an improved version of the story in 1104 words which was still too bulky for the dedicated for the purpose. So on October 23, 2008, I further reduced the story to about 960 words and sent it once over again along with digital pictures of the Tuitha Bridge mentioned in the story as:
This time too I received no communication from Tehelka. Somehow I was disappointed. However given the fact that even I have first hand experience in publication/editing work, I still refused to admit the role of prejudice in my piece being not published. I presumed that either there were more than enough submissions of write ups for personal histories section or the staff in tehelka were looking at their own. Therefore when I re-send the story I was extra careful; I sent a hard copy of the story:
DESTINYS CHILD
Thirty long years had gone by. Yet I still remember Thian as a child, not as a housewife, as she is now. We had been together roasting maize. Thian’d stammer and say “a tangtawp” by which she actually meant to say “a kanggawp” - meaning the maize got burned. The word ‘a tangtawp’ has since been used as a standard terminology in the family circle
As Headmaster of the local school, Thian's father had to move to various places to teach in the network of mission schools run by the Church. From my village he was transferred to Khuangmun village, where there was no Government run school.
One cloudy evening my sisters laid dinner in a large aluminum plate (approx. 2 ½ feet in diameter- where the rice would be placed on the sides and the vegetables would be at the center, and the family would circle around it- eating with our bare hands). I did not feel hungry. So, when every one was seated around the hot steaming rice, I asked my father from behind, “Pa (Father), let’s migrate to Khuangmun”. My sudden proposal was greeted with bursts of laughter from my brothers and sisters. My eldest sister said, “You are love struck baby”. Some one said, “Write a song”. I was flabbergasted.
I visited my village during the winter of 2000. After 48 hours chugging in Assam bound train, I had to take another eighteen hours bus ride through the National Highway No. 39 to reach Imphal in Manipur. Since my village is situated in Manipur’s Churachandpur district, I had to take yet another 2 hours bus ride southward along Teddim Road. The road, that stretches from Imphal to the town of Teddim in Myanmar, en-route Tollen village, was dusty and the journey- bumpy. A visitor or a tourist could easily have thought that the Government had plans to abandon the road.
Even from Tollen village bus top, I was still short of reaching my village, which is tucked away 1 kilometer off the east, across the river Tuitha, that runs parallel to the Teddim Road in that region.
Through a cloud of dust, I could make out a number of boys, as dirty as when I was a child. Dewy eyes began to daze my vision. Stroking my tousled hair, I appealed for their help. Surely they sense that feeling of nostalgia for they readily helped with my luggage.
The village suspension bridge was as weak as ever. Dangling precariously across the almost dried up Tuitha rivers, it still swayed in the same rhythm it had swayed 30 years ago.
As I stepped over into solid ground, I saw high-tension electric wires zigzagging over the village. Pyramidal towers erected at various intervals supported the wires.
The high-tension lines, completely dwarfed the string of electric posts lined up all the way from Teddim Road, across the banks of the River, through paddy fields and finally to the heart of the village. The wireless posts, which once supported low-tension electric wires and served to illuminate the village, had since been best utilized to convey coded messages by tolling them.
The village already shrunk by communal tension and unfavorable infrastructure facility was further devastated by the intra-tribal conflict that erupted into a full-scale war in 1997. From a family of 60 households during my childhood days, the number had since declined to less than 25. And the handful of inhabitants whom I still recognized looked worn-out. The only visible symbol of governance there was the Junior Basic School, run by the State Government. The tin roofed building of the school, had been reduced to a third of its former size, fighting for its space amidst overgrown weeds and grasses. And the once well-maintained roads had since been reduced to narrow footpaths.
Since I left for Delhi in 1996, an elder sister had been taking care of the ancestral property. Visibly disappointed over the flight of most of the villagers elsewhere she said, “ They seem to have renounced their sense of ownership,” By some reason I found myself advocating the case for migrating: “They may die with that sense of ownership here”. At this she became serious and she retorted, “So are you too going to die one day - with or without a cause”.
My sister was relaxed only when I inquired about the Mission School. She told me that the routine anti-government protests and strikes, that choked normal life in the state, had no effect on attendance in the school in the village. On hearing the word ‘children’ I'd instinctively turned to her 3-year-old son, who was all excitement due to the birth of a new calf. Obviously he was trying to tell me the number of cattle owned by the family. He counted his tiny fingers when his beaming mother flattered him on his ability to take part in farming works like transplanting and harvesting of paddy (rice). And with a typical sense of humor and a dose of unhidden pride, she continued, “And in another two years he might well takeover the ploughshare from his father!” Still I didn’t have the urge to laugh.
I was sure that even if her son becomes a graduate by some miracle, he had to either grab a Central Government job or become jobless; its not very likely that one get a job in the State Government unless one has the money to pay for it.
The other options available as of now, and may well be when he turns an adult, is to join the military service, or continue traditional subsistence farming. If these two options failed to attract him, he will be left with the last option, i.e., join any one of the insurgent groups operating in the region. That’s his destiny. I just had no idea how the system would heal.
Then someone shouted from the kitchen 'a tangtawp'
The story when finally published in Tehelka February 28, 2009 came to hardly 700 words:
THIRTY LONG years had gone by. Yet, I still remember Thian as a child, not as a housewife, as she is now. We had been together roasting maize. Thian would stammer and say, “a tangtawp” by which she actually meant to say, “a kanggawp” — meaning burned maize. The word tangtawp has since been used as standard terminology in the family circle.
As headmaster of the local school, Thian’s father had to move to various places to teach in the network of schools run by the church. From my village he was transferred to Khuangmun village, where there was no government run school.
One cloudy evening my sisters laid dinner in a large aluminum plate (two-and-a-half feet in diameter, where the rice is placed on the sides and the vegetables at the centre. We would eat off it with out bare hands). When everyone was seated around the rice, I spoke to my father: “Pa, let’s migrate to Khuangmun”. My sudden proposal was greeted with laughter from my brothers and sisters. My eldest sister said, “You are love struck, baby”. Someone said, “Write a song”. I was flabbergasted.
I last visited my village in the winter of 2000. After 48 hours in an Assam-bound train, I had to take another eighteen- hour bus ride through National Highway No 39 to reach Imphal in Manipur. Since my village is situated in Manipur’s Churachandpur district, I had to take yet another two-hour bus ride southward along Teddim Road, which stretches from Imphal to the town of Teddim in Myanmar. Even from Tollen village bus stop, I was short of reaching my village, which is tucked away a kilometer to the east, across the river Tuitha.
The village suspension bridge still swayed over the almost dried up Tuitha in the same rhythm I remembered from 30 years before. As I stepped onto solid ground, I saw that the wireless posts, which once supported low-tension electric wires and served to illuminate the village, had since been utilised to convey coded messages. The village already shrunk by unfavourable infrastructure facilities was further devastated by the intra-tribal conflict that erupted into a full-scale war in 1997. From a family of 60 households during my childhood, the number had declined to less than 25. The handful of inhabitants whom I still recognised looked wornout. The only visible symbol of governance was the Junior Basic School run by the State Government. The once wellmaintained roads had been reduced to narrow footpaths.
Since I left for Delhi in 1996, an elder sister had been taking care of the ancestral property. Visibly disappointed over the flight of the villagers she said, “They seem to have renounced their sense of ownership”. For some reason I found myself advocating the case for migration. “They may die with that sense of ownership here,” I said. After that, my sister relaxed only when I inquired about the Mission school. The anti-government protests that choked normal life in the state had not effected school attendance. I turned to her three-year-old son who was trying to tell me the number of cattle owned by the family. “In another two years he might well take over the ploughshare from his father!” his mother said. I didn’t have the urge to laugh.
I was sure that even if her son became a graduate by some miracle, he would have to grab a Central Government job or become jobless. It was unlikely that he would get a job in the State government unless he had the money to pay for it. The other options would be to join the military or continue traditional subsistence farming. Or else, he would be left with the last option, which is to join any one of the insurgent groups operating in the region. That’s his destiny. I had no idea how the system would heal.
Then someone shouted from the kitchen, “a tangtawp”.
And behold, I got a break! God is great!
