Daydreambeliever

The Aizawl Thunders

2011-03-13T23:40:00.006+05:30

(Once again, I apologize if this sounds dry and academic; it's an ongoing project that I am working on, a paper as yet incomplete. At the risk of sounding pompous, it hasn't been published yet, so I would appreciate discretion.It's too long, so I've shortened it as much as possible)

In Aizawl, Mizoram, in the year 1999, a group of bikers who rode Royal Enfield Bullet bikes came together, and taking their cue from American biking clubs that they had heard about (specifically Hells Angels), decided to call themselves the Royal Enfield Bullet Riders, and went on their first ride on November 5, 1999. There were only a handful of riders then, and most of them rode second-hand bikes that had been reassembled, repaired, and remodeled. Their enthusiasm and their obvious love for the machines they rode made up for any other lack in terms of numbers and equipment. They were later to be officially recognized as the first Bullet Club in India by the Royal Enfield Company, the manufacturers of the bikes they rode.

As the rides continued, their numbers also gradually grew, and by 2002, they had grown to the point where the necessity of electing leaders for the Club was felt. Leaders, called Chiefs, were thus elected, and the Club was also renamed The Aizawl Thunders, a name suggested by one of the founding members, Rinchhana.

Over time, the Thunders evolved into a group that was organized along coherent lines, with proper rules of conduct, identifiable modes of attire, and activities stretched beyond the bike rides in open countries to charity rides for specific causes. They chose deep blue and red as their official colors, and the phrase, “Forever Young” became their motto. Stickers with the Thunders logo were distributed to members, bearing the year of membership, which incidentally, was to be renewed each year, and T-shirts were designed and distributed amongst members of the group.

In 2003, a Constitution was framed by the Executive Committee members of the Thunders, and in accordance with their Constitutional framework, elections are democratically undertaken annually, and in 2006, it was agreed that three Chiefs would be elected at each election. These three Chiefs would then distribute the responsibilities of leadership amongst themselves. Early activities included rides mainly, and after they grew in the number, they would often hire themselves out as security personnel in concerts and parties, which they have since stopped doing.

The bikers have their own lingo, certain words and phrases that provide no meaning to those outside the group. For instance, the word, “Sootpoot”, which contains sexual innuendo (for them), is used as an adjective, a noun, and a verb, and usually denotes something or somebody attractive. If a woman is described as ‘sootpoot’, it is meant to be a compliment; if a biker is up to some ‘sootpoot’ he is either flirting or up to some mischief with a woman, and so on. Members address each other as “Boss Boss”, a term of respect. The bikers also have certain songs they sing when they go out on rides or gather for social events, the lyrics of which are deliberately silly and in reference to certain activities and adventures they have encountered. One of their songs tells of the bikers’ encounter with a village lass on one of their trips. She is simply referred to as ‘Two-cell battery’ because she apparently owned a flashlight with a two-cell battery, of which she was inordinately proud, and rightly so, for when night fell, the village was enveloped in darkness due to power failure, and her flashlight came in very handy. When the trip was over and they sat down to relive their experiences, it was discovered that most of the bikers on that trip had ‘sootpooted’ with her over the course of the night they spent in her village. The song mocks their own gullibility, and pays homage to her artful ways. The chorus simply celebrates the “two-cell battery” girl.

In so far as the experience of the bike ride is concerned, a common theme amongst those who were interviewed was the thrilling sense of power given by the throb of the engine as it effortlessly maneuvers terrain of all kinds. The identity of the biker melts into that of the bike, until man and machine seem to be one. His machine, then, becomes an extension of his personality; conversely, he becomes an extension of the unleashed force of the machine. On foot, the biker is like any other man. Seated on his powerful machine, he is wild beast, conqueror, powerful regent, warrior, bird, man, god, machine, and wind. Members have also shared that the rhythmic, thumping sound of the bike itself invokes a response in them which is intense. Yet another analogy is drawn between the riding of the bike and that of a powerful horse.

Other members have similarly close relationships with both their bikes and the Thunders Clan. Some members have christened their bikes with female names such as ‘Rosalyn’, and refer to them as such. The clan seems to provide its members with a valid identity that they are proud of. This sense of belonging, this claim to a valid identity, is reinforced by tangible evidence of membership within the specific community, such as the attire that is worn by them – leather jackets, official black t-shirts, tight jeans and leather boots- and Thunders paraphernalia such as logos, stickers, and so on. The male bonding that takes place is as much an affirmation of their solidarity and affiliation to the clan, as it is also a safe harbor that ascertains each member’s significance and worth. In other words, for many, it is the only real identity they have, in that it is one that is voluntarily embraced by them, as opposed to other roles that they play within societal institutions.

Interestingly, the Aizawl Thunders have also succeeded where most Biker Clubs have failed or have not been bothered to try. Like most biker clubs, certain assumptions abound as to the nature of the identity presented by their Biker community. Certainly, the standard attire, greasy long hair gathered in a pony tail, the smoking, drinking and womanizing, the flouting of social norms and conventions often associated with their counterparts in the west also make their appearance within the Thunders. However, almost from the very beginning, the leaders of the clan have had very clear visions as to the direction that it was going to take. A former Chief of the Thunders, Rinchhana, has stated that his dream was that the Biking Club would serve as an ambassador of the state of Mizoram, representing the Mizo people in cultural and social spheres all over the world. To this end, they have consistently renewed their efforts at contributing to society through Charity rides, raising funds and awareness for charitable causes, although they have so far refused to call themselves a charitable organization. In this way, they subvert the roles traditionally attributed to them by using their rides to focus attention on social issues. In fact, they have now become one of the most popular communities in Mizoram, even often being hired by the government to help raise awareness on issues such as disaster management, fire prevention, and conservation of water. Hence, despite the fact that personal preferences and obsessions brought them together, they have moved beyond the self-serving arena into a sphere where they now contribute significantly to the very society which has labeled them ‘rebels’.

Old, Older, Oldest!

2010-12-03T13:21:00.000+05:30

Weird fact: a total stranger asked me my age in total seriousness today. I was buying something from her shop, and she popped the question.
Weirder fact: I told her my real age. Just like that.
Weirdest fact: She pondered over my reply, and said "Hmmm... well, you're older than I thought." It's weird because I don't know whether she meant to insult me, or to give me a back-handed compliment by meaning that I looked younger than my age. In which case, regardless of how old I looked, I take it to mean that she felt my years were not few by any standards. As compliments go, that would have been one of the most back-handed ones I've ever received. I had to look really far behind to be able to see it.

I went to get a dress tailored today, since some of us thought it might be fun to get together for dinner, where all the ladies wore LBDs (little black dresses). The dressmaker, without any instructions on my part, immediately began looking for dress patterns that were short,yet mature. Ouch.

Is it my imagination, or am I getting older faster than I am inside my head? And why is everyone reminding me of my age? They almost always get it wrong anyway. The "underestimaters" think I'm a college kid (haha) and the "overestimaters" (whom I hate) look at my profession and label me as nearing forty. Not cool. What is more important anyway - your mental age or your chronological age? Inside, I'm just the age I want to be. Outside, I'm getting a little too old to mix with certain groups, dress in certain ways or do certain things.

Which got me thinking. Why this obsession with youth anyway? Granted, no one wants to get old and wrinkled, dependent upon younger members of the family. But when did this kind of attitude towards old age start? If we look at old texts, the Bible or folklore for instance, the old were venerated, respected, obeyed, almost worshiped. Now of course, the times are a-changing as Dylan would say. But what exactly are we achieving in our perennial attempts at everlasting youth? What kind of values are we inculcating in the younger generation?

Youth is fine, if it characterized by innocence, energy, curiosity, beauty - in short, all the finest qualities that one has in one's youth. In our society today however, being young seems to be equated with having a total lack of responsibility, accountability and remaining a baby. Being a baby doesn't always mean that you are youthful. If one isn't careful, one could end up being a 75-year old baby.

I see a lot of post graduate students still addressing their parents as "aanu" "aapa". C'mon, I think they can safely go past the baby-talk at this stage. Just call them "Kanu" and "Kapa" for goodness'sake! I may sound overly grouchy, but behind this babytalk is an accompanying lack of maturity in the way they relate to adults around them. If you're over 18, you're considered an adult. Period. So act and talk like one. Which is why I abhor the way the term of address, "U" is being used nowadays. Prefixing "U" was a way of showing respect to a person older than you, and it indicated good breeding, humility and propriety to know who to address as such. What is rather amusing and irritating now is that people prefix the "U" not so much as a sign of respect, but as a way of letting you know that they are younger than you. I swear people that I grew up with, who called me by my name just like everyone else, have suddenly started adding the "U". And it sure as hell isn't because they have suddenly developed a new-found respect for me! Which is why, I'm guessing, fellow blogger and friend Calliopia resents people adding the "U" in front of online nicks :) C'mon, it's a nick!

Anyway, I'm rambling on, which just goes to show that I may be a little more "senior" than I would like to believe. Oh well.

To end on a more upbeat note, something of mine is getting published by OUP, slated for release on December 9th. Here is the link, and I say something because it's an anthology, and I was asked to submit poems, articles and translations. I have no idea what they picked out. But I got my name on print, so yay!

Am off for a short holiday next week, and will be back and posting on the work I've done on the Aizawl Thunders soon. Ciao!!

Liar, Liar, Pants on Fire!

2010-03-09T23:36:00.000+05:30

If you search for tenderness
it isn't hard to find.
You can have the love you need to live.
But if you look for truthfulness
You might just as well be blind.
It always seems to be so hard to give.

Honesty is such a lonely word.
Everyone is so untrue.
Honesty is hardly ever heard.
And mostly what I need from you.
('Honesty' - Billy Joel)

When is it ok to lie? Are there special circumstances in which lying is acceptable? These were some questions that came to mind after I discovered someone close to me had told me a bare-faced lie.

Of course, there is a thin line between LYING and being diplomatic, polite, kind, or whatever we choose to call it when we say things like "You look great!" when we know someone looks terrible, or "It will be ok" when we know it won't, or "No, that outfit doesn't make you look fat" when in fact, a tight top creates sausages on a friend's tummy, or when we smile and say, "I'm alright" when we want to scream out of sheer frustration.

What happens, for instance, when you tell a lie to "save" a situation or a relationship? Should we confess to our sins and hurt people, or lie and give them peace, quoting the adage, "ignorance is bliss"? What about our past? Do we 'fess all or edit and censor shamelessly? When is "honesty is the best policy"?

On the flip side, what if we decide upon the amount of information we give to near and dear ones, but unfortunately cannot prevent them from discovering the truth from some other source one day? Then, of course, we risk losing their trust forever. So, should we plunge in and bare all, knowing full well the consequences - which could be, and often are ugly - or, do we keep our lips zipped and cross our fingers, hoping they will never find out the truth? How honest should we be? Is there such a thing as being half-honest, partly honest, and how different is a white lie from a black lie? How honest should we be to the ones we love? Honestly, I don't know.

Valentine's Blues

2010-02-11T22:40:00.000+05:30

Tell me, tell me,
What makes love such an ache and pain?
Tell me what makes
Love such an ache and pain?
It takes you and it breaks you -
But you got to love again

- Langston Hughes, "Love Again Blues"

It's that time of year again, when the whole world suddenly seems to be infected with a disease of the heart - and I'm not talking about angina. Yes, February 14 is just a few days away, and suddenly folks are in a frenzy wondering what would be the ultimate romantic gesture to assure their loved ones of the depths of their feelings. For teens, it becomes imperative that they buy that box of chocolates, that red rose, that bottle of perfume, for their beaus. You are made to feel like a pariah if you don't have anybody to exchange valentines with. Of course, it's beside the point that the entire tradition of Valentine's Day is an imported concept, part of the hegemony of the West. The merchants make sure that you don't forget this all-important day by displaying enough red balloons, hearts, and roses to make you sick.

That sounds like a decidedly grouchy attitude. Don't get me wrong - I have enjoyed and celebrated Valentine's over the years with full gusto. However, this year, I thought I would give it a rest and let other people make all the fuss. Love, after all, can be celebrated throughout the year, right? And anyway, with all the little disagreements and nitpicking moments that a relationship inevitably goes through, I felt love itself was perhaps a wee bit overrated. Or so I thought.

Then something happened a few days ago.On one of those aforementioned, unaccountable, inexplicable, nitpicking moments, I lost my temper over something so insignificant that I can't even remember what it was all about now. As an experienced player in the sparring department (with expertise in such methods as hitting-below-the-belt-when-feeling-particularly-vindictive)I was bringing it on in full force. And my sparring partner just dodged the blows, with no idea why we were suddenly in the midst of a full-blown fight. Before we knew it, we weren't even on speaking terms.

The next day, wallowing in my self-induced misery but too proud to do anything about it, I was fretting and fuming when I received a text message. It asked me to forgive him. He had done nothing, didn't even know why I was being such a pain, but he begged to be forgiven so that peace could be restored. And he's not without his fair share of pride. That's perhaps the nicest thing anybody has ever done for me. Maybe love does exist.

Just because I loves you -
That's de reason why
My soul is full of color
Like de wings of a butterfly
(-Langston Hughes, "Reasons Why")

Happy Valentine's Day, all the Romeos out there... especially mine :)

Train Journeys, Unexpected Delays and Transcendence.

2010-01-28T11:04:00.000+05:30

Was on a Study Tour recently with my students. Travelling on an unbelievably tight budget, we had to travel by train, second class sleeper, non- AC. I realised I hadn't had too much experience travelling by train, and I can't say I regret that lack. I warned my students not to be "princesses" and to be tough and stoic come what may. I must say I myself was a bit unprepared for the filth, the cacophony of vendors and beggars and hijras that burst into the compartment whenever the train stopped, the condition of the washrooms (!!!) and the total chaos regarding tickets and seats. Unless one sat steadfastly in one's seat all the time, any number of ticketless travellers assumed that they had the right to plonk down on the seats, without so much as a by-your-leave.

The food was relatively decent, except, of course, if you get stuck in some bizarre railway traffic situation in the middle of goodness-knows-where, and are forced to spend an extra day and night on the train, then nothing tastes too good anymore. By the third day, all of us were eagerly awaiting the arrival of peddlers who came to sell their wares- bracelets, keychains, torches, sauna belts, chains and locks, knives... in short, most everything. One man even came with a number of mobile handsets, shouting "PCO", so I assume it was possible to make calls from his numerous phones. Bargaining became an art, with all of us trying to outdo the other in the loud and lengthy negotiations that took place. Our broken Hindi didn't help. I got conned into buying a solar mobile phone charger, which charged the phone for precisely 5 minutes, after which there was no more life evident from my phone. A hundred rupees. I was also robbed of the Woodland sandals I was wearing. When I got down from the top berth, it simply wasn't there anymore.

Anyway, notwithstanding my initial revulsion and boredom, by the end of the third day of the third journey by train, I was able to cope with most things, and when I finally stepped down on the platform at the last station, I had finished three novels, numerous magazines, and was loaded down with a motley collection of trinkets and gadgets bought on the train. A little worse for wear, but that much richer in experience. That's life.

Oh, and I'll save the story about the bedbugs for next time :)

OMG!!

2009-12-15T23:10:00.000+05:30

I don't have much to say. I completely forgot a faculty meeting yesterday. I made the 18 kilometers to my workplace in 25 minutes despite Christmas-shopping traffic. I am so in my boss' bad books, which is where I continually seem to be these days anyway. Maybe there's a whole book dedicated only to my misdemeanors.

Human errors. Too bad we're expected to be inhumanly efficient sometimes.

Just Another Post

2009-11-15T22:19:00.000+05:30

This isn't going to be one of those academically-oriented posts that Calliopia finds so boring; I ought to warn you that it also probably won't contain sage words and profound insights into the fundamental truths of life. No, sirree. This is just another post about a topic that has been discussed almost to death : love.

See, what I don't get about this whole concept of love (not the divine kind - although I have a few questions on that too, for another time)is how it's supposed to be the definition of perfect bliss and excruciating pain all at the same time, and how, despite it's seemingly ambiguous, arbitrary and completely fickle nature, so many of us seem to be addicted to it. Is it love, or is it the idea of being in love that has us hooked? No profound observations yet - I did warn you.

In spite of countless attempts, for centuries nobody has ever been able to define love; at best there have been some very good descriptions of the nature of, the effects of, the characteristics of love. For my part, I would like to add that Love is a very wet thing. And by wet, I specifically mean the kind of wetness that emits from the eyes...tears, some call it. Hah, and you thought I was talking about the other kind.

Anyway, not to meander too long from what prompted this post in the first place. In short, I received a call from a girl friend of mine, a very tearful call, in fact, this evening. We all know the story - her guy, with whom she'd been involved in this extremely hopeless love-triangle, did the unthinkable (actually, not so unexpected, considering his complete inability to commit to either of the women involved), and got the other woman pregnant. She ranted, raved, raged, and threatened to commit some act of violence involving hammers, pistols, and other assorted weapons. However, once she ran out of really graphic (and painful) descriptions of what she would do to him, what remained was that elusive emotion called love. She wanted to hate him, but it didn't work. Well, maybe the hate will come later, but right now, she's making excuses for him. She knows what she's doing, and she still can't help doing it because this thing is bigger than her.

So, what is it about us that we jump into situations and stay there, fully aware of the potentials of getting hurt - again? Are we suckers for pain? Is it some masochistic impulse that keeps us going back for more? Should we run as fast as our bare feet can carry us the moment we are threatened with this thing? Are we simply kidding ourselves when we chalk down a failed relationship as "a mistake" and then look toward the horizon, to that new person we've just met, and think "maybe this is The One"?

I don't know. I have no answers. But I like to think that this refusal to learn our lessons, to 'wisen up', is, in fact, courage of the most heroic order. To risk ourselves getting hurt again and again, to refuse to lose hope.... maybe that is just another evidence of the indomitable spirit of mankind. And maybe the small victories make up for the huge losses. Or maybe the losses are, after all, in the end, victories.

PS: I'm sorry Miss Calliopia, I can't seem to find out how to make my fonts smaller...been out of touch for that long!

TEXTILES OF MIZORAM: The Puan.

2009-08-30T20:17:00.000+05:30

-Dr. Cherrie L. Chhangte
Assistant Professor, Mizoram University.

Paper Presented at Woven Tales from the North East: One-Day Textile Conference, 16th June 2009 at NCPA Mumbai.

Mizoram, which became the 23rd state of the Indian Union on 20th February 1987, is a mountainous region bordered by Bangladesh in the west, Myanmar in the east, the Bay of Bengal in the South, and Assam and Manipur in the north. Tribes that inhabit the state of Mizoram include the Luseis, the Hmars, the Paites, the Pawis, and the Maras, among others.

Handlooms have always been an integral part of the Mizo life. In earlier times, every Mizo girl was expected to know the art of weaving, which met the practical needs of not only herself, but those of her family as well. The courtship of a young woman by a young man usually took place at night, with the girl often industriously making preparations for the next day’s weaving by cleaning the cotton, hanging the threads on the loom, or generally preparing the implements for weaving, and the young man conversing and assisting by her side. The main garment of the Mizo is called the Puan, which simply means cloth’. The Puan has always played a central role in the social fabric of the Mizos, transcending its mere functional aspect as a garment worn by women – and men too, in earlier days – to play a crucial role in the performance of rites, rituals and other special occasions like births, deaths, and weddings.

Even upto the last decade of the 19th century, the Mizos lived on hill tops in small villages under the protection of chiefs. The topographical condition of the area wherein they lived made them self-reliant in respect of the day to day needs. They raised their own crops through jhumming and engaged themselves in hunting on a regular basis to supplement their food. Cotton, which was among the crops grown in the fields, was collected carefully, ginned and spun out with the help of indigenously made tools to produce yarn for weaving puans to meet their needs. This was done on simple loin looms (puanbu) which enabled them to weave cloth usually not broader than thirty inches. For one puan two such pieces had to be sewn together. A puan is normally about 55” – 60” in length and 48” in breadth.

In the beginning, the Mizos did not use colored yarn, and so the cloth produced was a simple, coarse white piece for both men and women. These were called puanngo. In course of time, they discovered that certain barks, roots, herbs and leaves could yield a fast, black color, and this was subsequently used to make variations on the monotony of the existing designs, by the introduction of black borders, as well as stripes in black and white. With the passage of time, they became acquainted with other colors like red, yellow, green, and blue.

As with most other communities, art was often a reflection of the everyday preoccupations of the people. For instance, the first design produced by the Mizos is a design called kawkpuizikzial; ‘kawk’is a common leafy vegetable whose leaf tips curl in a rounded loop, and this was imitated by them, and remained a recurring motif in different traditional puans. Similarly, as innovations in design became more and more advanced, they frequently took on names on the basis of the designs used therein; thus, ‘disul’ (after a species of grass), ‘naya sawm par’(10 paise design), ‘sawhthing par’(ginger flower), ársi par (star motif) are some of the designs that are self-explanatory.

Puans have always been an intrinsic part of the Mizo wardrobe. After Mizos progressed from the siapsuap (a grass skirt), the puan became the only garment worn by both genders. It was simply worn wrapped around the body under the arms. Other types of puans were also woven and used as bedding and shawls. By the 20th century, men wore puans very rarely, since trousers had become fashionable and popular as a result of the increasing interaction with Indians from the mainland, as also the British officers and missionaries who came into Mizoram. However, women retained the use of puans, though it was now worn sarong-style, wrapped around the waist, with a blouse on top, a practice which is retained till today, although variations do occur.

The Puan also plays a major role in marriages; a collection of puans is a crucial part of the bride’s dowry, and she is required to bring a number of puans with her to her husband’s house, and these puans, after being handed over to her mother-in-law, are subsequently distributed as gifts among the female relatives of the husband. The Puan is also a significant part of the rituals associated with death in the Mizo community. People carry plain and simple puans when going to funeral, and these are used symbolically as shrouds, and parting gifts for the dead. Once the funeral rites are over, the dead person’s family usually distributes a number of these puans as keepsakes to the dead person’s near and dear ones.

The most well-known and intricate of the Mizo puans is the Puanchei. Used in festive dances and other special occasions, it is the most prized possession of a Mizo woman. Interestingly, even in present times, a woman does not get married without bringing with her a Puanchei. N. Chatterji observes:
It is also interesting to find that many of the designs of the traditional puans make their appearance in Puanchei in some way or other. Thus the two beautiful deep black compactly woven woolen bands of the ngotekherh make their conspicuous appearance in the puanchei…what is more distinctive of this weaving is that none of the colored threads on the warp are allowed to make their appearance against the above-mentioned…bands…. They also have to ensure, besides close weaving, that at no part of these stripes any shrinkage due to irregular or careless handling of weft and warp threads takes place. (Chatterji, 37)
It is not known when this puan first started to be made, but we may deduce that it evolved in course of time as the artistic expression of their natural talent for weaving, designing and color-matching.

Other puans of note are the Senior puan, the Puandum, the Thangchhuah Puan and the Tawlhloh puan, among others. The Senior Puan traditionally has a diamond pattern, though variations may occur. Although there is no definite explanation as to why the term “senior” is used, according to some scholars, it denotes the fact that when this design was first introduced, it was worn mostly by the more senior women in the community, whereas young girls rarely wore them (Chatterji, 38).

The Puandum (dum meaning ‘black’), of an earlier origin than the Puanchei, has bands in dark colors against a black background. Young men usually used this puan as a night cover during their stay in the men’s dormitory (zawlbuk). In earlier times, a young woman was required to weave a Puandum and carry it with to her new home when she got married. This was to be used as a shroud to cover her dead husband’s body in the eventuality that her husband died during her lifetime. It could also be used to cover the bodies of any close relative on her husband’s side. It has a deep cultural significance, even to this day. Before Marriage, this puan was also used as a Dawnpuan phah, which means that if a girl and boy sleep together on the Puandum with the permission of the girl’s parents, the boy must marry the girl. If he refuses to do so, he is required to pay a fine. In present times, it is still used as a mark of mourning at funerals. Thus, it is not usually worn as a garment on ordinary occasions except those involving deaths.

The Thangchhuah puan is highly significant in that it could be worn only by those who had earned the highly coveted ceremony of Thangchhuah, a ceremony which was so excessively expensive and complicated that it could usually be performed only by the exceptionally brave hunters or the exceptionally wealthy. In order to perform the Thangchhuah ceremony, a person was required to kill certain animals, or be able to throw a lavish feast for the entire village from his own produce in the field. Thus, it was a mark of social status to be able to wear such a puan. A small turban in the same design called Thangchhuah diar also exists which again could be worn only by the performer of the Thangchhuah. Incidentally, those who performed the Thangchhuah were allowed to have a window in their house, whereas in typical Mizo houses there were no windows, since it was believed this would prevent the entry of evil spirits and demons.

The Tawlhloh Puan was a puan worn by a warrior who had established his reputation for bravery. Tawlhlo in Mizo means ‘to stand firm’, ‘not to change position’, or ‘not to move backward’. It is said that this design evolved during the time when the Mizos lived between the river Run (now in Myanmar) and the river Tiau. Warriors put on this cloth when they were fighting the enemy as a token of their steadfastness and courage in the face of danger. Even during colonial times, these warriors put on the puan when facing the British soldiers as a token of their resistance and to maintain their traditional dignity. However, in course of time, this puan began to be used by ladies and rich people in times of festive occasions like marriages and the original significance attached to this cloth started to diminish, giving place to a new significance and status value of it.

Most of the tribes of Mizoram, like the Paites and the Hmars have similar puans with perhaps slight variations in terms of design and names. One of the most popular and intricate puans among Mara tribe as well as the Pawi tribe, who both inhabit the southern part of the state, is a puan known as Chyna Hno among the Maras and Nawnthumpuan among the Pawis. It is quite expensive and a prized possession not only among the Mara women, but among the entire Mizo community. In earlier times, the dye used for this puan was not fast, and therefore could not be washed. This further enhanced its value, and it was worn only on very special occasions.

One interesting puan of the Paite tribe, which seems to have evolved during the 1980s is the BA Puan, which is reserved for those who excel academically. It is usually given as a token of appreciation, and is not worn by anyone other than those who have merited it.

In an interview with a Paite gentleman1, I was told that the Paites have certain traditions with regard to the puan that are maintained to this day. For instance, the Puandum of the Paites is often gifted as a token of affection to friends and new acquaintances. The Paites are traditionally a humble, self-effacing tribe who are reluctant to call attention to themselves. Characteristically, even when they give this puan as a present, it is done in the most secretive way possible, preferably without the knowledge of the recipient. For example, if a guest brings this puan as a gift for his host at dinner, he will simply leave the package behind him without any mention of it, and most often than not, the host discovers the surreptitiously placed gift after his guest has left, thereby giving him no chance to express his thanks and consequently, cause embarrassment to his guest.

Another significance of the puan among the Hmar community is the role that it plays during the process of negotiation for marriages. The emissaries from the boy’s family carry with them a black puan in which the head of a small hoe is wrapped. If the girl’s family is amenable to the alliance, they keep this item with them. Returning it implies that they are not willing to accept the boy as their son-in-law. Incidentally, the hoe is symbolic of the fact that it may be used against the husband at a future date if he misbehaves with his wife or her family. This tradition is maintained to this day.

In contemporary times, enterprising and innovative young designers have brought the puan to an entire new level, by interspersing the traditional motifs into modern designs. Thus these woven cloths are no longer confined to the traditional sarong-style usage, but make their appearance in jackets, trousers, skirts, tops, and even bags. This fusion is seen as a healthy instance of a tradition that is evolving and keeping pace with the changing times.

To sum up, we can say that the puan plays an integral part in the social and cultural fabric of the Mizo community. Major social activities and events like marriages, deaths, festive celebrations, and so on, are incomplete without the presence of the puan. Also, it plays a deeply significant role as a symbol of identity in the psyche of the Mizo people, so much so that unofficial movements have sprung up time and again to promote and encourage traditional attire. As early as around the turn of the previous century, that is, by the late 1800s, verses were mockingly sung by Mizo lads to denigrate the practice of wearing garments that were not locally made, a practice which started as a result of the growing interactions with traders and merchants from the mainland. Women being women, perhaps for them the lure of new fashions and fabrics was harder to resist than for the men. In this light verse, for instance, the lady who wears non-Mizo clothes is disdainfully described as something of a harlot, a shameless hussy who will never find a husband since all men will turn their backs on her:

Thlawinali, thlawinali, thlawi te nali,
Mahni siamsa ziaam feng duh lo Siali,
I leng rei dawn mange thlawite nali.
(Shameless Hussy, Shameless Hussy, dear Shameless Hussy,
Scorning the creations of one’s own people, Scornful woman,
A spinster shall you remain for a very long time, Shameless Hussy).

Later, during the 1970s and 1980s, student movements once again took up the cause of wearing the puan, other traditional attire like ornaments not being deemed practical. With nationalist sentiments and anti- Indian feelings reaching a high, and to counter the growing tendency of women to wear salwar kameezes and other conspicuously ‘Indian’ garments, these movements very strongly condemned the use of these garments that were non-Mizo, and threats that those who refused to wear puans would be shunned in the community were made – a threat that was frightening in a close-knit community like that of the Mizos. Perhaps it is owing to these strictures that to this day, the habit of wearing blatantly ‘Indian’ clothes is absent in the state; few women, if any, wear the salwar kameez, and saris are never worn by Mizo women, not so much for any underlying resentment, but more out of sheer force of habit.

Although such threats and compulsions are no longer made in contemporary times, what is heartening to note is that the puan shows no sign of disappearing from the wardrobe of the modern Mizo woman; in particular, women are reluctant to attend church services without donning their favorite traditional garment. However, it is perhaps cause for alarm that the art of weaving in the traditional loin looms is slowly dying out, and contrary to the situation in earlier times when every young girl was expected to know how to weave, in modern times, this has become a thing of the past.

With the introduction of mechanized looms which are less time-consuming and therefore more commercially viable, more and more people are depending on these semi-mechanized looms to produce a variety of puans in all colors and designs2. Although this may be cause for celebration for the entrepreneur, it has deep ramifications and raises the issue of how far we are responsible for preserving folk indigenous arts and crafts. Since weaving in the traditional way is more time-consuming and strenuous, it is natural that hand-woven puans are much more expensive than the machine-made ones, which has further contributed to the decline in their popularity despite their higher quality. Within Aizawl, the capital of Mizoram, laudable efforts have been made to teach youngsters this art in the PC Girls School, by making weaving a compulsory part of the curriculum. However, it is strongly felt that efforts must be made on a larger scale to promote and preserve the art of weaving these cloths. Puans, after all, serve as a repository of the history and culture, the lores and the folkways of the Mizo people in ways that are at once aesthetically pleasing and practically useful.

Notes:
1. Interview with Mr. Vanneihtluanga, noted creative writer and journalist, who happens to belong to the Paite tribe.
2. In an interview with Mrs. Ruati, proprietor of L.R. Handlooms, one of the more successful handloom houses in Mizoram, she did affirm that hand-woven cloths are still preferred by the discerning customer, who will not hesitate to shell out more money for a work of higher quality. However, she states that such customers are rather few and far in between.

Bibliography.
Lianhmingthanga, Material Culture of the Mizo, Tribal Research Institute, Department of Art and Culture, Mizoram. Firma KLM: Aizawl, 1998.

N. Chatterji, Puan, the Pride of Mizoram, Tribal Research Institute, Department of Art and Culture, Mizoram. Firma KLM: Aizawl, 1979

Mizoram State Museum Catalogue, Department of Art and Culture, Mizoram, 2008 .

Mizo Incheina, Tribal Research Institute, Department of Art and Culture, Mizoram. Mizoram Govt. Press: Aizawl, 1993.

Some of the images have been uploaded from the internet. The author wishes to apologize for any copyright infringements inadvertently committed.

How Grandpa Got His Name

2009-02-05T21:42:00.000+05:30

I never really knew Grandpa all that well, because he lived in far-away Lawngtlai, and died when I was about six or seven. I do have vague memories of him being wracked by violent fits of phlegmatic coughing, lying in bed in our home at Aizawl, always very quiet and uncomplaining; I would venture near his bed out of curiosity to have a better look at this tanned, thin old man who spoke Mizo infused with all the unfamiliar nuances and cadences of southern dialects. Always, when I did that, he would tell my mother, "Don't let the children come near, they might catch what I have." So I would slink guiltily away, thinking that I had somehow offended him, my childish brain unable to comprehend his concern for me. What I do remember very clearly though, is his name, for Grandpa had been given the uncommon and slightly alarming name of Thatchianga. For those who do not follow the Mizo language, 'that' means 'kill', and 'chiang' is 'plain, distinct, clear, certain, obvious' according to J.H. Lorraine's Dictionary. So, his name essentially means something like "one who kills/ killed with certainty". Quite a name.

When I was in Pre-University an aunt asked me why my Grandpa had such an odd name. By then, having gathered a few hazy facts from my mom about the genesis of the name, I easily replied, "Well, he killed this vai (non-Mizo from the plains) chap and so they named him Thatchianga." It took a few seconds for that to register, but when it did, she asked me, "But what was his name before he killed this fellow?!"

Anyway, here is how the story goes. My great great grandfather, Hnawncheuva of Tawihpui village and his friend, Dokulha, were warriors. This was during the Raj, and even in far-flung places like Tawihpui, petty officers of the government did what they could to take advantage of and harass the villagers. Among this lot were the non-Mizo Circle Interpreters, called Rahsi by the Mizos. These people had frequent interactions with the locals, especially the men, many of whom they employed as coolies. Apparently, they would greedily demand chickens, rice, vegetables and other hard-earned produce from the villagers anytime they had the whim. The villagers, fed up of this kind of behavior, asked Hnawncheuva and his friend to get rid of them, asking them why they, so-called warriors, were such cowards as to let these vais get away with such atrocious behavior. Not only emboldened by their entreaties, but by now seeing it as their bounden duty to protect the interests of their people, these two gentlemen ambushed and killed one such officer.

Having made no attempt to conceal their crime, they were duly captured, and a trial was conducted in which the verdict was that they should be transported to the Andamans to serve their term in prison. As they were bound and taken on the long trek towards the nearest port, they refused to be cowed by their captors and would not walk despite threats of the vilest kind. At a loss as to how to proceed, their captors decided to carry them piggy-back style on the torturous mountain roads. Not content with having to be carried thus, these brave warriors would suddenly make a lunge for freedom, and many times both they as well as the men carrying them would tumble down the steep inclines along the way. Needless to say, it must have been quite a journey they undertook. When the captured men resorted to suddenly biting their captors with ferocity, their teeth were all pulled out to teach them a lesson.

They eventually landed at Andaman Cellular Jial and served their term. When the time came for them to go home to Mizoram, Dokulha, in a flash of ill-inspired brilliance suggested that since they were going home anyway, they should kill at least one more vai for good measure. My great great grandpa must have resisted the urge, but the temptation was too great for Dokulha; he went and knocked off an unsuspecting vai who was basking in the sun, enjoying the peace of a beautiful morning. Alas! He was captured yet once more, and spent the rest of his life behind bars in the Andamans. Parting from his friend with much sadness, Hnawncheuva eventually reached home and was reunited with his family. It was in memory of this that my granpa, his grandson, was named Vaithatchianga, later shortened to Thatchianga.

A decade or so ago, my sister, who was then working as a missionary in Arunachal Pradesh, happened to narrate this story to a male colleague of hers. She told the story with relish, and concluded by remarking that had Dokulha not been so foolish, he would have gone home too. Her colleague, Dingtea, with a wry grin, said, "You're right. We've always wondered what would have been his fate had he not made that disastrous decision. You see, Dokulha was my great great Grandfather." Small world, eh?

C'est la Vie

2009-01-01T23:34:00.000+05:30

Well, well, well. Another year has ended and a new one's just begun. More than any other year, I bid goodbye to 2008 with mixed feelings. It has not been an easy year for me personally. There were health problems, myriad deadlines to meet, difficulties at the workplace and in personal relationships, and towards the end, the loss of a beloved aunt who was a widow, and childless, and therefore, quite close to us.On the upside, I finally completed my doctoral dissertation, something that had begun to take on the proportions of a nightmare; I had friends and family to help me make it through the difficult times, I met and formed bonds with people who were special in their own ways, and I finally came to terms with some harsh realities, which, though hard to swallow at first, at least served to dispel any illusions I may have nurtured. All in all, the positives and the negatives balanced each other out, as they tend to do. C'est la vie.

I received this text message at New Year's, and despite the silly rhyming, I quite like it,so I'm reproducing it here as a wish to all my online friends:
The year has gone, but made us strong,
The path was long but we walked with a song,
There were fears and tears,
But we also had reasons for cheers,
Wishing you happy memories of the last year,
And a great beginning of the next year - 2009!

As far back as I can remember, my sister would welcome the New Year every year with Abba's song, "Happy New Year". In more recent times, the now disbanded A*Teens did a cover of it. Here are the lyrics, courtesy www.azlyrics.com
Happy New Year
No more champagne
And the fireworks are through
Here we are, me and you
Feeling lost and feeling blue
It's the end of the party
And the morning seems so grey
So unlike yesterday
Now's the time for us to say...

Happy new year
Happy new year
May we all have a vision now and then
Of a world where every neighbour is a friend
Happy new year
Happy new year
May we all have our hopes, our will to try
If we don't we might as well lay down and die
You and I

Sometimes I see
How the brave new world arrives
And I see how it thrives
In the ashes of our lives
Oh yes, man is a fool
And he thinks he'll be okay
Dragging on, feet of clay
Never knowing he's astray
Keeps on going anyway...

Seems to me now
That the dreams we had before
Are all dead, nothing more
Than confetti on the floor
It's the end of a decade
In another ten years time
Who can say what we'll find
What lies waiting down the line
In the end of eighty-nine... [2009]

And here is the video. Hope you enjoy the song as much as I always do.

Once again, here are my best wishes for you for the New Year. May you be richly blessed, and may you be a blessing to others too.

Angry

2008-12-27T22:28:00.000+05:30

Today I had a bit of a run-in with a man I presume was an officer in the main branch of the State Bank of India. I pride myself in being able to tolerate a lot of things, but rudeness is something that just galls me, especially when it’s unprovoked. Here is what happened.

Having gone to the bank to get my University Teachers’ Association passbook updated, I noticed that two ladies were engaged with the person sitting in the tellers’ cubicle. I patiently waited for them to finish their business, kept a respectful distance, and when they were done I approached our man.

Me: “May I have my passbook updated?”
Rude Bank guy: “What the..!! Haven’t I just said that the updating machine (or whatever it’s called) is broken? Do I have to repeat myself over and over again? @%*$#!!”
Me (having slowly but surely lost my cool during this colorful tirade): “Excuse me, but I just arrived, did not hear any part of your conversation with any other customers. You people are so impolite!”
Rude bank guy: “@*#$$&%)$)#%!!”

Out I went, seething. In I came again, realizing that I would never get a moment’s peace unless I vented out my frustration at someone. The unfortunate (but most appropriate) recipient was the Manager. Fortunately for me, he was not a Mizo, and I had the opportunity to use what turned out to be a surprisingly extensive vocabulary denouncing the unprofessional conduct of the bank’s employees, how this particular man had no right to shout at me, and how, we, the public, were generally fed up of them acting like they were doing us a big favor for every transaction when in actuality they were just doing their duty, how none of their customers – especially those from rural areas – had the courage to seek guidance or clarification from his rude staff, et cetera. I also added that since his blessed machine was broken, and since it was obvious that people would keep coming to him to update their passbooks, he could jolly well put up a sign saying that the machine was broken since repeating that fact seemed to make him explode every time he had to do it. Miming it wouldn’t have worked. Neither would shouting it out at the top of his voice (which he did) make his life any easier.

The manager was apologetic, and admitted that they had been having these problems, that they had even had a meeting regarding this recently but not to much avail, and so on. I think he was also a little scared that I’d throw a full-blown tantrum right there in his office… which I was rather tempted to do. The upshot was that he asked me to submit a written complaint against the man so that action could be taken, which I couldn’t quite bring myself to do. Sigh.

Well, maybe this guy had had a bad day, I reasoned. But that was pretty early in the day, and it still did not excuse his behavior. What was really quite surprising also was that usually it’s the women workers who get all the flak. This rude person was not just a man, but he was well into his late forties judging by his looks. I wondered what could have happened to make his fuse so short.

The Bible says “a gentle answer turns away wrath”. How true it is. And how far we so-called professionals in Mizoram are still away from practicing that truism! I think it’s high time government employees step down from their ‘secure’ jobs and realize that just because people need our services, it doesn’t give us the right to abuse them. It’s so much easier to be kind; and true kindness is not motivated by the fear that we’ll have a bad record or lose our jobs. It just stems from the desire to be nice to others. It even has a side-benefit: it gives us that warm glow inside which nothing else can beat.

As Jewel says, In the end, only kindness matters.

Feliz Navidad

2008-12-12T20:00:00.000+05:30

It's that time of year again. 'Tis the season to be jolly, tra-la-la-la-la and all that. This year, I'm not as apathetic as I was last year. With a miraculous lightening of my workload comes a corresponding lightening of the heart. Sure, there are things to worry about, mistakes I have made, wounds I have inflicted, loved ones I have lost. And this year has certainly been chaotic, with me trying to make sense of what seemed to be losing sense each passing day. And for some reason, I always seemed to be two paces behind whatever was happening; I felt I was constantly running a race where the moment I finally reached a pit stop, the next hurdle loomed large, a hurdle I should have jumped over days ago. There were days when I literally sat down and asked myself, "is it worth it?" and moments of despair, when I was so dog-tired and frustrated that I threw my hands up in the air and cried, "I can't do this anymore!" Yet, somehow, with the approach of year's end, things have fallen into place. There is a sense of harmony, a unity, an imperceptible click that miraculously restores everything to order. In other words, Peace.

Maybe that's what the season is all about. I've always marveled that Christmas should coincide with year's end.How very fitting. We rush through our jobs and our lives and all the inconsequential but necessary activities that make up our existence. And then, it's the end of the year, there is sense of closure, a promise of new beginnings. Christ's birth is a symbol of that promise. After all the chaos, the madness, the rushing around... Peace on Earth.

On to lighter things, Peace is not the word that comes to mind when one looks at the markets in the city of Aizawl at Christmastime. It's positively bustling with activity, and one begins to wonder where all these people came from! And where were they throughout the rest of the year?! You don't even have to make an effort to walk, you get pushed from behind anyway. You literally 'go with the flow'. And the wares are interesting. While more upmarket stores display overcoats 'imported' from 'foreign' at three thousand and four thousand rupees, the second-hand shops, not to be deterred, also display overcoats, also imported and equally fashionable, at less than half that price. And while some shoes set you back by four thousand and five hundred rupees, mom went to a sale today and came home extremely satisfied, having bought a decent pair of pumps for three hundred rupees. See? Nobody gets left out.

What is forever associated with Christmas in the Mizo sensibility is the good ol' Boney M Christmas Album. Scores of new artists, Mizo and otherwise, record Christmas songs every year; yet, the ultimate Christmas songs will always be those sung by Boney M. I ventured up to bara bazar today, and true to the spirit of the season, Boney M was blaring from shops everywhere I went. Personally I've overdosed on it because when we were growing up in Dawrpui, Aizawl, there was this store downstairs that sold music systems, and the day the sun rose on December 1, they would start playing that blessed record. Over and over and over again, the whole day, everyday, until Christmas Eve. Nothing else. I kid you not. So, I guess you understand the mixed feelings I have about that particular album. I wonder if Boney M will ever realize the impact they've made on Mizo culture. Probably not. Oh, well.

Drama in real life

2008-11-29T22:48:00.000+05:30

Now that I finally have the luxury of taking it at a slightly easier pace, there's really nothing on my mind worthy of a blog post, except for the Nightmare that's happened in Mumbai. I've been glued to the telly for the last couple of days, trying to come to grips with the horror that's being enacted on screen. I thought this kind of thing only happened in the movies. Time was when we escaped to reel life to get away from the sheer monotony and predictability of real life. Now I watch the movies to relax; there's enough drama and tension in real life.I'm obsessed with the why of the entire senseless incident at the same time that I am overcome with sympathy for those directly affected. The irony is that it takes something of this magnitude for us to come together as a nation.

Speaking of bonds that are formed and broken in the course of our lives, I've been thinking of the friends I've made online, here in the blog world, as well as in sites like Orkut and mIRC.It took me a month-long non-functional Internet connection to realize how much they have become part of my life. I guess what makes these relationships special is that, in most cases, people don't even know what you look like, sound like, or what your bank balance looks like. Therefore, you are not judged by mere appearances, something that sadly is becoming more and more common in "real" life. Which got me to mulling over the question of what is "real" and what is "unreal". If I feel more accepted, more comfortable with people I've never seen (and probably never will) does that make my relationships with them any less real? How is it that "virtual" reality makes more genuine people of us than the "real" world, where we feel compelled to be polite, restrained, scared to err, eager to impress, and quick to judge?

Reality. Surely those terrorists had what in their warped logic was probably an excellent reason to kill and maim innocent people. What is reality for some is fantasy - and nightmare - for others. So whose reality do we accept as the ultimate "real" thing?

Of course, the lines blur now and again. Coming back to these relationships, I realized that the ones online and those 'offline' need not be mutually exclusive.There are "crossovers". It was an unexpected, but rather pleasant surprise to have some "online" friends actually ringing me up just to see whether I was okay or not since I had been out of circulation for some time. Hmmm... maybe I shouldn't worry too much about where my friends are from, as long as I 'keep it real'.

Busy Bee

2008-11-11T21:18:00.000+05:30

I know, I know. I'm probably starting to sound like a broken record. But there it is: I am so busy, updating my blog just hasn't been possible.I swear, this year has been frustratingly busy in what seems to be a very unproductive way for me. Sometimes I think that maybe I am bad at managing my time and priorities, but honestly, there doesn't seem to be too much I can actually change in terms of what I do, how I do it, and when. Sigh.

Anyway, I've had lots of inspiration for my next blog post (which doesn't seem to be making an appearance anytime soon!), so watch this space. I will update. Soon. Really. I will. :)

2008-10-23T18:10:00.000+05:30

Well I thought I'd better update before I get chastised again. Since I've been too busy to be creative, I'm taking the easy way out and putting a paper that I gave at a seminar recently. It might be fairly yawn-inducing, so feel free to skip it...just leave your paw-prints to let me know you've been here :)

PS:I can't figure out how to edit and re-arrange the photos anymore, because there are all these weird characters and little signs and squiggles in the edit page, where the photos should be.

PPS: The first photo is published just to let you know I have friends in high places!

GLOBALIZATION AND MIZO FOOD CULTURE.

The choice of food is a process in which nutrition produced by nature is transformed into food, a product of culture. People do not accept all possible substances as edible, but make choices. Culture defines how possible nutrition is coded into acceptable food (Levi Strauss, 1966). Ecological, biological, and economic conditions affect our choice of food, but it is the cultural understanding and categorization that structures food as edible or inedible. According to Levis Strauss, no culture is without language and cooking skills. Nourishment that is not categorized by language and culture as edible (i.e. food) is not acceptable.

Food items themselves can be used to mark an individual’s status as well as the boundaries of an ethnic or class group. Mizo society being casteless, the question of discriminating food practices on grounds of caste does not arise; however, economic status determines the diet of a family or an individual even within the same cultural context, as in any other society.

In his 1964 work, The Raw and the Cooked Lévi-Strauss explored nature/culture relations on the culinary level – namely, the way in which myth describes and explains the evolution of cooking techniques and rules, and the transformation of cooking into a cultural process – through the study of myth. The act of cooking is perceived by Lévi-Strauss as a type of anomalous category since food constantly crosses the boundaries of the categories nature and culture. Thus the cook is a type of cultural agent who links the raw product with the human consumer. His role is to ensure that the natural becomes cooked and undergoes a process of socialization.

In the classification of foods by Levi Strauss, he stresses that humans universally distinguish food in terms of “the raw and the cooked.” Cooking represents the human ability to transform nature. In his “culinary triangle” one point in the triangle – the raw – is contrasted with two other points – the cooked and the rotted. Cooking signifies a transformation through culture, but rotting is transformation by nature.

Forces of globalization have introduced variants to local cuisine, as well as hitherto-unknown menus to the Mizo table. Mainstream Indian cooking, replete with a variety of masalas or spices, is increasingly gaining popularity in the kitchen. Dishes of foreign origin, like hamburgers, sandwiches, noodles and momos (dumplings) are part of the everyday fare of the Mizo.

To understand the full impact of the differences brought about in cooking systems of the Mizos, one has to look into the food practices of the people before their exposure to different social and cultural elements. Traditional Mizo fare is cooked in a simple manner, typically boiled, stewed, smoked, steamed, or fermented. The only cooking oil available was when a pig was slaughtered and its fat preserved in the form of lard, which was then re-heated for frying purposes. Most families could not afford to kill more than one pig in a year, and with neither the means of preserving the meat nor the lard in modern freezers, families had very few occasions in which to eat fried or fatty foods. Preservation of meat as well as certain vegetables was done through the method of smoking. Although most households kept a few chickens and a few kept a cow or two, yet, meat was a rare treat reserved for special occasions such as festivals and weddings. Thus, most families made do for the most part with simple fare that largely consisted of a variety of green, leafy vegetables, prepared in the traditional method of bai or simply boiling it (tlak) without even the addition of salt. Even meat, including fish, for that matter, was usually served boiled. One simply heated water in a pan and added the food items, and left it to cook over the open hearth in the kitchen. Feasts and rituals necessarily played an important part in the cultural set-up, because of the role they played in establishing relationships between members of the community, manifested in events of food sharing and exchange.

With the forces of globalization becoming ever potent and more difficult to ignore, Mizos have adapted to and adopted practices in food preparation that were hitherto alien to them. Food is now spicier and richer; the increased intermingling with people from mainland India has resulted in openness to experimentation with other forms of food preparation. Furthermore, with the introduction of cuisine from the West as well as other Asian countries, food practices have been rapidly diversifying over the last few decades.

Another important impact of globalization is the mushrooming of eateries such as fast-food restaurants and hotels, which cater to an even more diverse palate, although international fast-food chains such as McDonald’s and KFC are yet to establish themselves in Mizoram. An offshoot of this relatively new phenomenon is the increase in the number of health problems related to bad eating habits, such as diabetes, high blood pressure, heart problems, obesity, and so on.

Food and ethnic identity: According to social theorists, identity is crucial to every human being as it gives sense to existence, formulates the relationship between oneself and the Other, and creates values and norms. Identity affects the way people perceive and construct their society, and it determines how they act, think, socialize, eat and work—in other words, it influences each aspect of their everyday lives. People do all this with reference to economic, social, cultural and political conditions, events and expectations, and by doing so, they influence the economic, the social, the cultural and the political (Scholliers, 5). Nowadays, the idea of homogenous identity is untenable—identities are multiple and they are a combination of various facets. The question is how food is related to identities and processes of identification.

Food and its link to identity has been one of the most fruitful topics of food studies to date. The significance of food for human life rests in its simultaneous contribution to the biological and the social, and it is also the act of incorporation that gives food its unique status. In view of semiotics, food functions as communication. It transmits messages about identities and social relationships, and it develops and transforms over time due to social shifts. It can also facilitate transcultural communication through food sharing across cultural boundaries, and through altering and re-creating food habits according to contexts. (Hinnerova, 36)

Food is a cultural practice through which people participate in attitudes and rituals of a group and these participations can be socially controlled as well as more automatic (Scholliers, 7). The link between food and identity is supported by the assertion that “the sentiments of belonging via food do not include only the act of classification and consumption, but also the preparation, the organization, the taboos, location, symbols, form” Identity is constructed and affected by a multitude of significations surrounding food practices.

According to Katarina Hinnerova, “Food is a way of communication—it conveys messages about social relations and social identities through which people construct and maintain social reality.” (Hinnerova, 35 – 36)

An entire food group referred to as Mizo Chawhmeh (Mizo food) exists. As stated earlier, cultural understanding and categorization classifies edible food into acceptable and unacceptable. Although Mizos eat a wide variety of food which is also consumed by people of all nations and cultures, they like to identify themselves through particular items that are most commonly used in the preparation of typical Mizo dishes. The constituents of what is largely grouped under Mizo Chawhmeh comprises of certain leafy vegetables, fresh, as well as preserved through smoking, such as mustard leaves (antam), pumpkin leaves (maian), the leaves of beans (behlawi), varieties of bamboo shoot (mautuai, rawtuai), fermented soya beans (bekang), fermented lard (sa-um), smoked beef and pork, fermented or smoked fish, and so on. Apart from the obvious pleasure derived by the taste buds from eating these items, they serve to bind people together by shared culinary preferences. To Mizos living outside Mizoram, Mizo Chawhmeh has a definite symbolic meaning whereby they can identify themselves as Mizos.

Continuity in the Midst of Change:
Not every aspect of Mizo food culture has changed; some changes are often very subtle and involve a change in the method rather than in the entire system. Mizo Chawhmeh, for instance, remains the preferred food, although methods of cooking may have varied over time. Feasts are still held on special occasions that involve the community, such as weddings, religious festivals such as Christmas and other important Church functions. People no longer squat on the floor and share food served on plantain leaves, but the spirit of communal merry-making is retained on such occasions. In earlier times, community feasts denoted special treats because of the fare which included meat and other delicacies, a menu the ordinary family could ill afford on a regular basis. In contemporary times, that, of course, is no longer the case. Most families can eat better food in the comfort of their own homes as opposed to the meals served in the feasts, and yet, people still make it a point to attend the communal feast if only to fulfill social obligations.

Another important aspect of the feasts is that while gender roles are clearly demarcated in the patriarchal Mizo society, with the woman in charge of the family kitchen, what is remarkable is that it is the men who have always been assigned the role of cooking for a community feast, a practice that is used to this day. This seems to imply an equality in status in an otherwise largely stereotyped and patriarchal society.

Other practices and beliefs related to food also persist. The egg, once a treasured food item reserved for the young, the elderly and the sick, retains its special status despite its easy availability. The Mizo custom of not partaking of the food until your elders have taken their first bites while dining together, is still considered an act of courtesy; so also the habit of politely refusing second helpings, and equally polite but firm insistence on the part of the host to the guest to take another helping.

Changes under Globalization: A pertinent question that may arise is whether globalization has hit Mizoram yet with full force, or whether the state is still relatively sheltered from such forces. Notwithstanding exposure to and adaptation of world trends especially via the media, Mizoram is yet to be deluged by “the process of developing, manufacturing, and marketing software products that are intended for worldwide distribution. ..” by which globalization is often defined. Be that as it may, there is no denying that change has occurred in the culinary practices of Mizos, with a whole generation of people who have grown up drinking coca colas and eating hamburgers, who can no longer envision a wedding celebration without a wedding cake, and who serve baked, roasted, sautéed, and grilled dishes along with dishes prepared in the traditional manner. On the other hand, Mizo food is also gaining recognition in small ways through this interaction. Dilli Haat in New Delhi, for instance, has a Mizo food stall where people have the opportunity to taste Mizo food. Similarly food festivals organized in different parts of the world have showcased Mizo cuisine. Hoinu Hauzel, a noted journalist, has published The Essential North-East Cookbook (2003) under Penguin Books.

Another phenomenon that is gaining increasing popularity is the packaged food. With changes in lifestyle, people have less time to spend in the kitchen; this, along with a more stable economy, have ushered in an era where pre-cooked meals and fast food offerings, mostly imported, but also produced by the domestic food industry, are becoming more and more the norm. A pre-cooked noodle snack called waiwai, for instance, is a favorite meal despite its high content of MSG and its doubtful nutritional value. Maggie Noodles are a variant of this. Other types of packaged food are processed meats like salami, ham, sausages, kebabs and the like. In the US, studies of food consumption in societies moving from agricultural subsistence economies to those dependent on markets and industrially processed food frequently find an association between prestige and the consumption of newly available, highly processed foods. This phenomenon is common in the transformation of Third World societies.

The very custom of eating out in restaurants, although not an entirely new concept, is becoming more and more a viable alternative to hours of slaving in the kitchen, at the same time that it fulfills a social role by offering opportunities to establish and re-establish social relationships. This is evidenced by the rapid mushrooming of eateries in the capital city alone.

Ironically major world cities have restored the highest prestige rank to home-made items. As a developing state in a developing country, such novel offerings to the palate are still welcomed and often act as a gauge to measure one’s social and economic status. Evidence of this is seen by the fact that most of the customers who frequent shops selling such packaged food items come from the upwardly mobile and economically stable social classes. Black tea, once drunk by the poor because of the high price of milk, is now ironically referred to as “the rich man’s drink”, because most food-related health problems which require a strict diet are suffered by the rich.

Remarks: Levi Strauss’ classification of food whereby he denotes the raw as less cultured and the cooked as more culturally advanced is relevant to a certain degree as far as Mizo food culture is concerned. From simple tastes, the Mizo palate has become increasingly sophisticated due to the easy availability of recipes and ingredients from Indian, Chinese, Thai, Burmese and even Continental kitchens. Certain traditional foods which may be classified as ‘rotted’, such as bekang (fermented soya beans), although still an integral part of local cuisine, are slowly losing popularity especially among the younger generation. However, if being cultured also implies a more advanced knowledge of nutrition, then this entire concept of sophisticated cooking methods and their equation to a more developed state needs to be questioned. My submission is that traditional ways of cooking, such as boiling, steaming, and eating raw vegetables are better for health, and that, ultimately translates into a more developed culture.

Finally if, besides other factors, identity is constructed and affected by a multitude of significations surrounding food practices, then the identity of the Mizo that emerges is an amalgamation of traditional as well as newly-acquired influences garnered from all corners of the world. Since identity itself is not static, it emerges as ever-changing and evolving under the impact of globalization.

Select Bibliography:
1. Claude Lévi-Strauss, Mythologiques, vol 1. The Raw and the Cooked, tr. John
and Doreen Weightman (London: J. Cape, 1969)

2. Katarina Hinnerova. Food as a Transcultural Metaphor Food Imagery and Ethnocultural Identities in Contemporary Multicultural Women Writing in Canada. (Unpublished dissertation) Masaryk University of BRNO, 2007.

3. Peter Scholliers. “Meals, Food Narratives, and Sentiments of Belonging in Past and Present.” Food,Drink and Identity: Cooking, Eating and Drinking in Europe Since the Middle Ages. Ed. Scholliers, Peter. Oxford: Berg, 2001, 3-23.

In the Hospital

2008-10-12T17:38:00.000+05:30

As I write this, my aunt, my dad's younger sister, a widow with no children, lies in the hospital, in a coma, after a stroke that she suffered a few days back. It is terrible, this waiting, watching, this horrible awareness of our powerlessness. Her vulnerable self lies exposed for all to see. Shorne of her dignity, she lies with the essential, but ugly tube that gives her oxygen. She breathes in. She breathes out. And we watch through the long hours, with bated breath ourselves. Sometimes she half-opens her eyes, and I could swear she recognizes the worried faces of family members keeping vigil by her bedside. And then again, you can never tell.

I remember lines from a poem I wrote a few years ago:

In the Casualty ward,

Only the workers are casual.

Patients of every age and background lie in varying degrees of pain. They groan, cough, moan, snore, sleep. The younger ones cry sometimes. We almost envy them these involuntary sounds they make. At the bedside by which we sit, there is only silence.

I leave you with a poem that has been haunting me ever since this nightmare started.

Because I could not stop for Death - Emily Dickinson Because I could not stop for Death – He kindly stopped for me – The Carriage held but just Ourselves – And Immortality. We slowly drove – He knew no haste And I had put away My labor and my leisure too, For His Civility – We passed the School, where Children strove At Recess – in the Ring – We passed the Fields of Gazing Grain – We passed the Setting Sun – Or rather – He passed us – The Dews drew quivering and chill – For only Gossamer, my Gown – My Tippet – only Tulle – We paused before a House that seemed A Swelling of the Ground – The Roof was scarcely visible – The Cornice – in the Ground – Since then – 'tis Centuries – and yet Feels shorter than the Day I first surmised the Horses' Heads Were toward Eternity –

One Morning on My Way to Work...

2008-10-04T02:20:00.000+05:30

Now you know why I'm so bushed at the end of the day!

Updates

2008-09-08T23:45:00.000+05:30

I was shaken out of my self-induced lethargy recently when the one and only Calliopia ordered me to update my blog since it was getting mouldy... and believe me, when Calliopia tells you to do something, you'd better do it.

Since I am about as uninspired and uninspiring as only a PMS-ravaged woman in a bad mood (throw in a persistent backache from washing the bathroom tiles a little too enthusiastically) can be, I thought I would do my bounden duty and get it over with by giving some updates of how I've been spending my days, and a few random thoughts - and I do mean random - to fill up the space.

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I hardly ever get to watch TV, especially movies, anymore, so I decided to indulge myself this weekend. Among other things, I finally got to watch the much-hyped Jackie Chan/Jet Li starrer, The Forbidden Kingdom after practically everyone has watched it. I've always loved kung-fu films, and this one was a special treat because unlike the westernized, Americanized, technicalized kung-fu films that are churned out by the dozen, this one really brought me back to my childhood days when my sisters and I would huddle up and watch those "authentic" Chinese films, complete with terrible dubbing. For a long time, I thought that was how the Chinese spoke... words still coming out of their mouths long after their lips had been clamped shut. C'mon, I was just a kid. Anyway, The Forbidden Kingdom has those typical elements of beloved Chinese movies of yore, like the drunken master, the hero-in-training, the ill-destined heroine, the silly antics and even slightly yucky eating habits. Definitely unbelievable, definetely enjoyable.
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I watched a sex-tape that had "leaked out", something that I don't normally do. I mean, I'm not that frustrated... yet. But this time, the girl was particularly young, and sadness overwhelmed me after I saw it. It just hit me so hard that our society has become so sick that young people feel the need to resort to gimmicks such as these to feel important and loved. And here we were, passing on the tape, no less implicated; let's not dwell on this too long.

I also watched a movie on cable TV which had Jonathan Rhys-Meyers (have I got it right?) the guy from August Rush. The movie was called Match Point. It's about this married guy who falls helplessly in lust with a woman, persuades her to have an affair with him, and then kills her because she gets pregnant and wants him to leave the guileless wifey. Quite a study in human psychology. I enjoyed it in a warped kind of way.

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Last Saturday, a group of youngsters - school kids - came together for a Clean Mizoram campaign. They cleaned up the commercial areas of Aizawl as best as they could, and they were cheerful and earnest in what they did. I just knew there are good kids still around, despite all the flack they get because of a few rotten apples in the cart.

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My Internet connection has been temperamental, to put it mildly, and hence the sluggishness about updating my blog. My bills came, and there was nothing sluggish about the way I've been billed. I don't even want to talk about it. Let's just say I may work off my debts in a few years' time if I work at my regular job and take all the part-time jobs available, and butter up my dad into making a few concessions, and wash dishes in restaurants, and babysit neighbors' kids... well, you get the idea. This lady not only has PMS and back pain, she's in a very bad mood.

So I went and bought a new car (on loan).

Oh yeah, I also straightened my hair. I know, my poor hair suffers everytime I go through an emotional crises. It was straight to begin with, until I decided to perm it, streak it, and so on and so forth. Now I'm back to being me, with my regular hair. However, I have now a new-found respect for people who straighten their hair on a regular basis. The amount of time and patience it takes to go through one sitting is incredible. And, people, I was not allowed to wash it for three days. Believe you me, I did not smell good. Ah, the things we do for the sake of beauty! But what fun! I bet guys don't have stories like these to tell.

Rambling may be fun for me, but not for you, methinks. So ciao until next time.

Forget it!

2008-08-10T00:03:00.000+05:30

I swear I'm losing my mind. The reason? I just keep losing things. Have you ever felt that suffocating panic rising from your chest and lodging itself firmly in your throat when you just could not remember where you put that vital piece of paper, that article of clothing, or that library book? It's similar to that feeling of utter panic when you see a familiar face, but just can't put a name to the face, and the owner of that face is pumping your hand with vigorous enthusiasm and glee at having found you, long-lost friend/ colleague/ neighbour/ lover (?!), etc. Anyway, you get my drift. That has been happening to me with alarming frequency lately. Well, not that last bit.

Last week I ransacked my room trying to locate my educational certificates (yep, the originals), upending every drawer, cupboard, painstakingly going through every file. I still haven't found them. I even roped in my mom and together we excavated through the accumulated mess. Nothing. However, I did find a few interesting articles: old cards from friends I hadn't heard from in years, a few clothes I'd totally forgotten I had, my missing silver earrings, and tons of loose sheets and official correspondence which had cluttered my desk and shelves. My room looked so much better. But still no certificates. Therefore, I looked much worse off than when I started.

I had a mini-scare when I lost a VERY IMPORTANT key my dad had entrusted to me a couple of days later. When I panic, everything tends to be a blur (and that's not just because of my myopia), and for an entire day - what was supposed to be a relaxing Sunday- I went through the whole drill again. Thankfully, after many entreaties sent heavenwards, I found it exactly where I'd left it - on the shelf above my computer.

Today I misplaced my handset, and had a mild panic attack, until I gathered my wits and looked inside the car, where it was resting innocently between the handbrake and the gearstick. Whew. I have also lost innumerable books, pieces of jewelry, a brand-new nokia handset, not to mention money. I also forgot to turn up for a class I was supposed to teach at IGNOU as a favor to my friend. I swear I'm responsible about my duties, but there are days when you just can't beat the evil beings conspiring against you. And maybe it's in my genes. I once waved to my dad who was giving a lift to some guests from another state, and they all blankly stared back. Upon enquiry, I was told later that he had actually asked those strangers if they knew "that kid who was waving at them so cheerily". Since they obviously didn't, they wrote me off as someone who was either slightly bonkers or had mistaken them for somebody else. *Sigh

Well, at least I also forget to remember the many offences and injuries commited against me :) So I guess that's one good thing about it. And short of taking those wonder drugs for memory improvement so frequently advertised by shady characters, I don't think there's a cure for my malady. I'm losing all my things, including my marbles.

To Be a Woman

2008-07-18T22:07:00.000+05:30

To be a woman, to have a heart, and to hurt. Here's something I came across when I was flipping through an old notebook of mine. It was taken from a Nike Ad in a magazine:

Oh, you’re so emotional.

There you are all caught up in your emotions, wearing your heart on your sleeve, wearing your heart on every piece of clothing you own. You cry at the drop of a hat. You cry absolute buckets. You cry me a river.

You’re a woman (you can’t help it); you’re a girl (now, don’t get me wrong); you’re a woman and you’re so emotional about everything and

even at those times when you’re perfectly rational and perfectly capable, somebody somewhere will look at you and say (like it’s the worst thing in the world)

Oh you’re so emotional

And of course, that really makes you want to scream.

And then just as soon as you don’t weep, which is most of the time anyway, and you’re cool and calm and absolutely brilliant under pressure somebody somewhere will say you’re too cool and too calm and then, of course, you’re suddenly and forever called insensitive.

Ah, to be a woman.

Somewhere in the middle of all these assumptions and all these labels is the way you really are. You are kind (that’s why we have hearts). You are strong (or you wouldn’t have made it this far). You are fearless (or you would’ve hidden your heart long ago). And because you wear your heart so easily sometimes

you know how easily it is broken.

So through time, you have learned to protect it. You learn to take it for long walks. You learn to let it breathe deeply. You learn to treat it with respect.

And, through time, you have learned to move it and bend it and make it accountable, because the best way to keep a heart alive is to be unafraid to use it. And you are so very good at using it.

Listen.

Your heart is beating. This means you are alive. Your body is moving. This means you cannot be stopped. The world and all its labels are calling you. You’d love to answer. But you’re moving so fast you can’t hear a thing.

2008-07-13T16:41:00.000+05:30

Dedicated to the memory of fellow blogger Azaia, whose untimely demise has left us reeling with shock and groping for words and meaning.

On Death

Than Almitra spoke, saying, "We would ask now of Death."

And he said:

You would know the secret of death.

But how shall you find it unless you seek it in the heart of life?

The owl whose night-bound eyes are blind unto the day cannot unveil the mystery of light.

If you would indeed behold the spirit of death, open your heart wide unto the body of life.

For life and death are one, even as the river and the sea are one.

In the depth of your hopes and desires lies your silent knowledge of the beyond;

And like seeds dreaming beneath the snow your heart dreams of spring.

Trust the dreams, for in them is hidden the gate to eternity.

Your fear of death is but the trembling of the shepherd when he stands before the king whose hand is to be laid upon him in honour.

Is the shepherd not joyful beneath his trembling, that he shall wear the mark of the king?

Yet is he not more mindful of his trembling?

For what is it to die but to stand naked in the wind and to melt into the sun?

And what is to cease breathing, but to free the breath from its restless tides, that it may rise and expand and seek God unencumbered?

Only when you drink form the river of silence shall you indeed sing.

And when you have reached the mountain top, then you shall begin to climb.

And when the earth shall claim your limbs, then shall you truly dance.

(From The Prophet by Kahlil Gibran, Lebanese poet)

for more on this amazing writer, click here : http://www.habeeb.com/khalil.gibran.the.prophet.html

Doctored!

2008-07-07T20:29:00.000+05:30

Hey guys, I did it! Thank you for all the prayers and good wishes. Just got the news today, and I felt a little silly posting this, but since I had told everyone of my upcoming viva voce, I thought I might as well pass on the good news. More than anything, it is such a relief... I mean, one had just had enough of all that reading and composing and those late, late nights, staring blearily at the computer. Of course, now that the powers-that-be have seen it fit to bestow the degree on me, I feel a little guilty (is that the right word?), like a little kid caught trying on her mommy's too-big shoes and clothes. I mean I've always had this mental image of academicians as rather ancient and wise, a bit detached from this temporal world, bespectacled and too dignified to even stoop to talk to us mere mortals. Oh well, I guess I should stop kidding myself... after all, I do wear glasses (at home) and i suppose "ancient" would be one way of describing myself.

************************************************

Speaking of the powers-that-be, this whole thing was a bit of an anti-climax, really. There was so much unnecessary red-tape, blue-tape or black-tape, or whatever the heck the correct term is. Usually, results are declared within a day or two of the viva voce. I actually saw the report being typed out. All it needed were a few signatures and the inevitable file work, which could have been completed in a short while. However, in the way the luck of yours truly usually runs, the people who were to pass the report went 'out of station' one by one, and I had to wait twenty days before the report finally passed through all the hands it was supposed to. The first few days, my family and I (not to mention friends in the Univ) waited excitedly, and then it became a little embarrassing for them to ask me about my result, and for me to respond in the negative. Anyway, it finally came today, after I had resigned myself to waiting for however long it took.

***************************************************

I don't blame those people with lengthy award acceptance speeches anymore. It's amazing how many people it takes to make even a thesis complete; so here's to everyone who's loved me and stood by me and borne with me.

****************************************************
Here are some pictures of NEHU Campus, Shillong. It's a beautiful place. Beautiful places make you do crazy things, they say. So be warned, if you ever get to stay there!

The Library.

My thesis supervisor, Prof. Esther Syiem, and external examiner, Prof. E. N Lall.

The Auditorium

The Administrative Building (popularly known as the A.B) where the VC, Registrar, etc, sit.

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Lastly, my PC crashed, and at the same time, so did my broadband connection (whose performance is directly relative to and dependent upon the weather); hence, my longish absence from the blog world. Please to excuse, a thousand and one apologies, all.

Away For a While

2008-06-09T21:45:00.000+05:30

Hi! This is to let all friends know that I'll be away for a while. I'll try to update my blog if/when I can; I am supposed to attend a meeting on behalf of my Univ, and also present myself for a viva voce for my doctoral degree. Wish me all the best... If I don't get through, please be gracious enough to conveniently forget all about this post, and we can then pretend it never happened!

Ciao!

Jovi Mania

2008-06-02T20:44:00.000+05:30

Did you ever have a crush on a celebrity? Of course you did! Doesn't everyone at one time or another? This week I had a new haircut and an offhand remark that it resembled a Jon Bon Jovi cut triggered off memories of my long-forgotten obsession with the Man when I was growing up. I positively drooled over him, his voice, his songs, his eyes, his cute butt... oops! am I drooling again? slurp!

Anyway, it started early; I think I was about ten when I fell head over heels in love with him. I have this old photograph of me clutching a poster of him when he still had that long, wild rocker hair; the poster belonged to U Hmingpuia (of Albatross fame), and the picture was taken in his room. I wonder if he'd ever admit to having a giant-sized poster of JBJ now, hehe.

This one-sided relationship continued to grow and flourish under my tender ministrations, and showed no sings of waning through Slippery when Wet, New Jersey, Blaze of Glory, Keep the Faith and Crossroads, after which I kinda grew up and decided I was much too "mature" for such obsessions... or maybe I became too occupied with other things. But it was beautiful while it lasted. As a kid, I even prayed for him so he'd get to heaven when he died. My logic was that, since my chances of meeting up with him here on earth were practically nil, I figured heaven would be a good place to get to know him better; but knowing how these rockers lived, I feared he had a good chance of going to hell. Hence, those fervent prayers. I'm dead serious.

Once, there was a rumor that he'd died. There were always these rumors floating about in Aizawl in those times, and what with no cable TV or internet, there was no way of proving whether they were true or false. I actually had tears coursing down my cheeks when I heard that piece of (false) information. What a relief to finally realize it was just a bunch of lies fabricated by sadistic humans who had no better use for their time! I also got into a near-serious fight with one of my sisters when, after watching me drool over him (this was post-cable TV) in a video, and she commented that he was knock-kneed. Such blasphemy! She must have been cross-eyed or something. I also valiantly stayed loyal through his not-so-stellar performances (now I can admit that) in the few movies he appeared in.

Anyway, the strange thing is, apart from him, I hardly ever went through the usual celebrity-crush thingy, except for a brief flirtation with tennis players Stefan Edburg and Andre Agassi. And I do realize now, that I couldn't have chosen a better rocker to idolize, because as far as rockers go, he seems to be a pretty decent chap. Look how long his marriage has survived, and how focussed he still is on his music. Last night I was on utube going through Bon Jovi videos... guys, the magic is still there! sigh!

Now, if only Jerusha and Father would teach me how to paste links on my blog, I would have ended this with a video "Bed of Roses" where he looks and sounds absolutely DELICIOUS! And then I would dedicate "Thank you for loving me" to V and all of you! Let's just say it's the thought that counts.

PS: Here's Thank you for loving me. And thank you, Jerusha!

slush and mush

2008-05-20T22:37:00.000+05:30

This may be a little mushy for some, but I enjoyed myself when I wrote it a couple of years ago. The rains seem to have arrived at last, and I need to update my blog, so here it is...

RAIN.

Rain washes my window pane

Like the tears that bathe my face;

The muted rhythm of raindrops falling

Only echoes the half-forgotten music

Playing in my mind,

Music I never heard

Except deep within my heart,

Yet my every waking moment

Is haunted by those notes.

I see you, an ephemeral shadow,

Sitting by the piano,

Lost in the symphony of timeless Time.

The soft breeze caresses your hair

While you play for no audience

But the velvet blackness of night.

Clear, pure, like the tinkle of glass

Your notes fill my silence,

And the rain merges with your music

To heal my soul once more.

I become the keys your fingers awaken,

I am the rain that dances with life.