Chat with Dipankar. Bhattacharjee (1)
Smita: Oi old man!
Deep: Hmmm?
Smita: What? You don’t want to chat?
Deep: It’s not like that.
Smita: You think I don’t know you, ha?
Deep: It’s just that I had this thought, and
Smita: And what? Ki ko! You started writing and don’t want to chat now?
Deep: Started writing and
Smita: You’ve got to learn to type faster...
Deep: No no, it’s not like I don’t want to chat with you, you know that’s never true. It’s just that
Deep: I know, but I am too old to learn new tricks now – I don’t think I shall ever be able to type faster J
Smita: Ok, I’ll try to slow down then, thik ase?
Deep: Hobo de, as if you could ever slow down for anything or anybody, Bordoisila!
Smita: I can and I have – sa, I waited for you to finish your whole sentence this time, didn’t I? Rolu ne norolu?
Deep: Roiso roiso, fine.
Deep: Now tell me what it is you want to talk about.
Smita: What do you mean tell me, ha? You are the one who suggested we talk, hoine nohoi? Or have you forgotten already? Now I know you are really into your writing and have forgotten everything that you wrote in your last mail. Let’s just forget about chatting tonight baru. Hobode you continue with your writing. We can talk some other time.
Deep: No, no, Maisana. Please don’t misunderstand me.
Deep: I am sorry if I am sounding kind of preoccupied to you.
Smita: Deep, I am not misunderstanding you, and believe me, I am not angry with you either. I can feel that you need to be left alone now, and so I am going to do just that. You did warn me you will switch off during writing, and I am forewarned, and hence forearmed. I don’t mind, xasai...
Smita: Bah bah! This time you typed faster than me. You are catching up, old man!
Deep: Are you sure you don’t mind, Xounjoni?
Smita: What have I been writing for so long, what message have I been trying to get across to you?
Deep: Thik ase tenehole. I’ll take your word that you won’t mind and get back to my writing. I’ll call you soon and make up for this, hobo?
Smita: Hobo hobo. It’s perfectly alright.
Deep: But what will you do now? I hope I haven’t ruined your evening, Aijoni?
Smita: Not at all. There’s still time to get across to Jit’s house – everybody was supposed to meet there tonight to look at the photographs from the trip. I had opted out, but now I can ask one of them to pick me up and take me there.
Deep: Ok, Moina, do that. Enjoy yourself, and send me some of the photographs dei.
Smita: Will do baru.
Deep: And don’t drink too much – your friends are all a bunch of drunkards J
Smita: That’s right, a bunch of modopis, all of us J Anyway, bye now. I have to call Jit or Imu.
Smita: Imu is so sweet he always goes out of his way to pick me up or drop me off when I need him to.
Deep: Good for you! Now you will all the more refuse to learn how to drive.
Smita: Imu offered to teach me to drive in his new SUV.
Deep: This guy must be made of money.
Smita: No stupeeeeeed! It was a gift from his rich uncle in Jorhat who is a car dealer.
Smita: Accha ja etia. We’ve talked enough for today. Take care.
Deep: Bye
Smita: O ro ro, wait!
Deep: Ki hol?
Deep: Ko akau? Where are you?
Smita: Forgot to tell you we’ll be going to Korora day after tomorrow. There are some people coming to review our livelihood generation pilot project there. Apparently, a lot of the future funding depends on the outcome of that project. It’s nice to see Sunil shitting bricks, heh heh, but I don’t think he needs to worry – it has been a great success so far.
Deep: Aw tu, you told me about it. Well, have fun there and don’t give Sunil too much of a tough time. He’s not that bad de soun.
Smita: J You only met him once
Deep: Baru ja etia. Let me get back to my work. Bye.
Smita: Bye.
Deep: By the way, haven’t you been travelling too much recently, Pokhili? Shouldn’t you slow down a bit and give some time to your writing? I know you don’t like to publish much, but at least you should not give up writing nohoi Majoni?
Deep: Majoni?
Deep: Oi Pagoli? Goli neki?
Deep: Are you gone already?
Deep: Guess you are. Talk to you after you get back from Korora then. Bye.
Chat with Dipankar. Bhattacharjee (2)
Smita: You there?
Deep: Hi Debi. So you're back?
Smita: Uff I’m tired. Wish you were here to hold me now.
Smita: Just had a long bath. You should have joined me.
Deep: Wish I could, Debi. But you know it's not possible.
Smita: Why not? Why the fuck can’t you be here now with me kela?
Deep: Because we're at the opposite ends of the world, Ajoli :-)
Smita: FUCK YOU AND FUCK THE WORLD, I WISH YOU WERE HERE NOW WITH ME.
Deep: Oi oi! What’s with all the profanity again? I also wish that it was possible but you know how things are...
Smita: I’M FUCKING TIRED OF BEING ALONE AND I’M FUCKING TIRED OF ROAMING AROUND FROM VILLAGE TO VILLAGE WORKING FOR PEOPLE I DON’T KNOW WHO BLOODY AREN’T EVEN THANKFUL FOR WHAT WE DO FOR THEM AND RUN AWAY WITH THE MONEY AND NEVER DO ANY HARD WORK
Deep: We're both in the middle of certain things we can’t leave behind
Deep: But you must have patience and we'll soon be together
Smita: I DON’T FUCKING WANT TO HAVE ANYMORE PATIENCE
Deep: What happened, Maisana? You sound like something terrible has happened. Tell me about it. It’s not like you to say things like this.
Smita: I’M SAYING THINGS LIKE THIS BECAUSE I HAVE FUCKING REASONS TO SAY THINGS LIKE THIS!
Deep: J Ok, thik ase, so give me the reason. And please stop being so profane. Doesn't suit you at all, Moukan.
Smita: STOP CALLING ME NAMES!
Deep: Ok, thik ase, stopped! Now tell me.
Smita: NO!
Deep: Please, I'm dying to hear what made you so angry, xasai.
Smita: Well, if you are so eager, then...
Deep: Yes?
Smita: It's like this...
Deep: Waiting...
Smita: J You are sweet. You make me so happy. You do understand me, don’t you?
Deep: I try to, you know that.
Deep: Well, can we now proceed with your story...
Smita: Don’t want to...
Deep: Now stop being so impossible, Smita!
Smita: I'M NOT IMPOSSIBLE!
Deep: AND STOP YELLING!
Smita: Ok, but I don’t want to relive all the gory details
Smita: It made me so sad
Smita: I wish I could die
Deep: No you don't, you don’t have to die for anything and everything. Stop being theatrical and stop baiting. Out with it.
Smita: It’s like this – I told you about Haren, nohoi?
Deep: You did. The orphaned child at Korora whom you use as an errand boy?
Smita: Aw, that’s the one.
Smita: You know what he did?
Deep: What? Ki?
Smita: After all the opportunities I gave that ungrateful idiot
Deep: Deep: What?
Smita: HE RAN AWAY WITH THE MONEY!
Deep: What money?
Smita: That we'd collected from the sale.
Deep: The kath sale?
Smita: Yes
Smita: Deep, I liked him so much. Thought he had a future jano. He was always so bright and eager to do things. And those people had worked so hard under our project and it was working so well and they were all so proud of their hard work and were so looking forward to the continuation of the project but now they don’t have the money. So I came back.
Deep: You didn’t come back because of this incident, you were coming back anyway.
Smita: O nohoi, I’ve come back for good this time. I don’t want to go back there again. I’m just going to sit here and chat with you all day long and listen to music and write some poetry about flowers and birds and beautiful things and...
Smita: Deep, Deep, oi Deep! I don’t want to get hurt anymore. It hurts so much-o. I’m aching for those poor people - so much hard work down the drain. It’s like dreaming and then dying in your sleep - you never get to see what could have been the reality.
Deep: But you can’t let sentimentalism get in the way of your good work, Debi.
Smita: I know I can’t. But what’s the harm in thinking for a while that I can?
Smita: I really wish I didn’t have to go back there again, Deep. Bidda xapat!
Smita: OI! WHY DO YOU TAKE SO LONG TO REPLY? TYPE FASTER, PLEASE! USE SHORTHAND IF YOU HAVE TO.
Deep: I've told you often enough that it's not necessary to hurt while working for other people. Koisoune? I've also told you often to learn detachment. But then, you wouldn't be you if you didn't hurt, would you?
Smita: Hoi sage, sometimes I think I wallow too much in hurt...
Deep: J Of course you do
Smita: Why aren’t you calling me names now?
Deep: I thought you told me not to?
Smita: You don’t always do what I ask you to do
Deep: J Do you always do what I ask you to do?
Smita: No! But then neither do you, de sun.
Deep: I wanted you to stop using profanities. In return I stopped calling you names. Fair exchange, aru ki?
Smita: Not at all. I love to have you call me so many names.
Deep: Hoi ne? You do?
Smita: Well, sometimes... Most of the times...
Deep: Baru, since you have admitted this much, let me tell you today why I call you so many names, and what is the significance of having so many names for one person, being, or phenomenon.
Smita: Do please, professor!
Deep: Don’t be, cheeky, Smita Kakoty!
Smita: Aye aye, professor Bhatta!
Deep: You always have to have the last word, don’t you? But anyway, I was telling you about names, and why often we have so many names for the same phenomenon.
Smita: I see you have donned the professor’s hat now J
Deep: You want me to go on or should I stop, dusta suali, unruly little girl?
Smita: Baru baru, go on, please. I won’t interrupt you again.
Deep: Actually I am glad you brought up the issue today – I am in fact writing about it in my next chapter.
Smita: ?? Ha?
Smita: I don’t think I quite understand what you are leading up to. You are writing a book on your goddess, not me. Or have you gone totally mad in the process?
Deep: Sa, the reason I call you so many different names is because you do not always appear to me as the same person. You change with every change in your mood, every thought in your mind, and in every way that you react to every incident – big or small – that occurs in your life. To me you are more than the person that I fell in love with, the person with whom I want to spend all my life with; you are a phenomenon, a force of nature. I cannot hope to capture you or your essence in the mere words that I speak to you, nor can I express my ever changing reaction to every little change in you by addressing you as one person.
Smita: You are romanticizing me again, old man. I’m warning you kintu!
Deep: Your name Smitali does not even begin to encapsulate what you stand for. Hence, I have to give you a different name each time. Much like the people in the land of the goddess have given her so many names for so many of her manifestations. Their adoration of her, their limited comprehension of her full meaning and significance can only be expressed by investing in her all the various names and forms – or avatars, if you like (although I don’t like to use that term).
Deep: And this is only a small part of what I will be talking about in my next chapter. Now do you see the connection, Debi?
Smita: Ah yes, I do. One but not one?
Deep: Yes, exactly. In fact, I am going to use these words of yours somewhere in this chapter.
Smita: I am a genius, right? Hoine nohoi?
Deep: Hoi hoi, Ai! Without doubt.
Smita: So now give me a kiss!
Deep: No, what you need is a spanking.
Smita: Ooooh, yes, please, sir!
Deep: Aghaitong suali! You are a spoilt brat!
Smita: So what if I am spoilt? I still love you.
Smita: And I want you here now, with me in this room.
Deep: Ok then, I'll get a webcam installed. You get one too and then we can see each other and be with each other while we chat.
Smita: That’s it? That’s enough for you? Just seeing each other and not touching? I want to touch you and see you and do things to you. Aiow! It hurts to even think of you sometimes.
Deep: You know I also ache for you physically but what can we do?
Smita: MAYBE I COULD FLY DOWN FOR A FEW DAYS! HOW GREAT WOULD THAT BE?
Deep: Work comes first for both of us doesn’t it? You know too that if I did come down tomorrow to see you, I could never be sure that you wouldn't run off to the field again the day after. Then where would we be? Not together certainly.
Smita: Yes, on the other hand, if I came over there, that danger will not be there! Ki kawo?
Deep: You know it's best for both of us to finish the projects at hand and then meet for as long as it takes.
Smita: So you don’t want me to come see you?
Deep: You know it's not that-o, Ranasandi. But you can't afford to fly down now - don't waste your money etia. We'll meet soon, I promise.
Smita: You are always worried about my not wasting my money. I don’t want any money. If I could give up all my money and be with you, I’d do it just now. I don’t mind being a pauper. Bishnu Rabha was a pauper.
Deep: Bishnu Rabha was not a pauper dei. He became one, because he had no head for business or for maintaining the assets his father left behind.
Smita: Yes, when young man Rabha tried to turn trader, he couldn’t often deliver goods in time because he would be too busy making music with the people off the streets with whom he made friends J
Smita: But then the people nurtured him.
Deep: True, that was because those were different times, and people were more hospitable. Perhaps because they knew their hospitality would not be misplaced.
Deep: Today if they sheltered somebody in their homes, they can never be sure who it is. Pare janou? What if the person turned out to be an informer for the security force come to find out which side of the political divide the family’s sympathies lay with? Janoi dekhoun, this a common story everybody is aware of. It has happened in so many instances, Moina, that friends and family members have turned against each other for a handful of money offered by the security forces or the government.
Deep: Or it might turn out that the person being given shelter is an insurgent, jeopardising their safety or even their lives. Ki hobo tetiya? We all know the attitude of the Indian armed forces towards our people nohoi? And their license to exercise special powers against us? Any excuse, any small hint of allegiance to the insurgent armies, and they have the license to kill us all.
Smita: But Bishnu Rabha was also an insurgent, monot nai? And it was after he joined the RCPI in their insurrection against the state that he began to live among the people, and the people and the party nurtured him for a long time after that.
Deep: People like Bishnu Rabha became insurgents because they had ideologies, and they stuck to those ideologies, Debi. They did not sell off their beliefs at the first scent of a pay off from the state. What they took from the people, they gave back in terms of commitment to the cause akau.
Deep: And you know it is not like our newer breed of insurgents did not get overwhelming public support initially at least. Dekhisoyesoun. They would not have survived without such support. But then, the people have to get something back for risking their all in helping and sheltering them, nohoine? If these so called revolutionaries start lining their own pockets and forget the moot cause of their existence – the nation and the people – why should anybody help them anymore? Kihor babe, kar sarthat?
Smita: True, these so called revolutionaries live like kings in foreign lands. They have enough stashed away to ensure that 14 generation – soiddhya gousthi kela – can live on after them in luxury without having to do a single days’ work.
Smita: And then of course there are the others who have surrendered to the government and are taking advantage of the huge ‘rehabilitation’ packages. Aru they are today’s businessmen – euphemistically speaking – contractors, middlemen, and the mafia. And many of them enjoy state patronage; or at least, the state refuses to interfere in their affairs. Everybody knows this, ami sobei janou.
Smita: Jano Deep, my man Rabha was right when he warned that this country will in the days to come see many false revolutionaries – bhua biplabi – and we will have to be able to recognize them…
Deep: These are worse thieves than your Haren. At least Haren is what he is – a thief, and he does not pretend to be a revolutionary, de sun.
Smita: This place has become such a mess, jano, Deep. Sometimes I feel it’s best to go away rather than sit here and watch it go to the dogs.
Smita: Yes, maybe you are right and that makes me feel slightly better about the entire incident. Thanks for putting it that way.
Deep: No Moina, I am proud of you because you have decided to stick on – you and that modopi bunch of friends you have. I worry a lot for your safety, but I also tell myself I cannot be so selfish as to pull you away just because I worry.
Smita: Janou. If we fled the insecurities, the violence and the corruption of this place, we would be safe in our ivory towers wherever we may build them. City-bred people like me, Arpita, Jit or Gomati have had a privileged upbringing, good education, middle class parents who could afford to educate us in Delhi or Mumbai. We could thrive anywhere, saboloi gole.
Smita: Or there are people like Prasen da, Imu, Nilima who had the grit to overcome the limitations of their upbringing – do you know Prasen da’s village had no school house? They had to carry their own sacks to sit on and slates and chalk pencils to write with, and sit in a dilapidated building and be taught by the same teacher for five consecutive years. And when it rained, they could take a holiday and go jump into the river and have fun all day. Ki moja!
Deep: Prasen has come a long way, xasaye.
Smita: But when Prasen da speaks about those days, jano, he never does so with any bitterness – like many others in his position would. He recounts all of it with so much pride, it makes me proud of him. And then he tells us how deprived we have been J
Deep: I always liked that fellow. He has grit and a lot of self-confidence and he will go far.
Smita: It seems although things are slightly better, there still are areas where schools are only in paper, and school buildings where they exist have no roofs, or no walls, just as it used to be during Prasen da’s childhood. Bissax hoi? He says that is why he doesn’t want to go away anywhere – his father had to mortgage some of their kheti land to send him to study in Guwahati. Now he wants to do something for the people in his village.
Deep: Yes, often due to our privileged backgrounds we forget that there are so many others who have had nothing compared to what we did. It is only a very few like Prasen who have the individual drive to overcome their circumstances, nohoi ne? But what about the others?
Smita: And those who take up arms ostensibly to bring ‘development’ to their people think self-rule or autonomy or a separate state or a separate country can bring about all these changes. Goru hot! They are all such great big idiots! They should meet Prasen da bappekke and learn a thing or two about self determination and the willingness to give back to society and one’s own people.
Smita: And talking of Prasen da’s own people, we will be going early next month to Haflong, dei. What fun it will be to be at the epicentre of the Dimaraji movement.
Deep: It’s a dangerous place, Moina! Fresh violence everyday...
Smita: Is it any more or less dangerous than any other place in Assam, or the whole of the Northeast, Deep? Ki bokiso toi? I thought we have had enough conversations about this kind of over-protective behaviour from you!
Deep: Ok, sorry. Khemibi Ai! It’s just that there are so many reports everyday in the papers...
Smita: Stop checking the Assam papers online and you will do fine J You do know that the media also is not reliable here, najano neki? How do you know they do not suppress incidents of violence in one place and play up those in another? All for a little money, or some favour or the other?
Deep: I know anything’s possible in Assam. Xakalu xambhab.
Smita: And in any case, Prasen da’s parents live in the next district. You must be reading reports about both North Cachar Hills and Karbi Anglong, nohoi ne?
Deep: Right, right. Hoi hoi.
Smita: Prasen da’s parents are in Karbi Anglong. If they can live among all the violence, why can’t we go for a couple of days to the other hill district? Ko sun. And then, we are going to the district headquarters of North Cachar Hills, not to an interior village like the one where Prasen da’s parents stay. In Haflong, they have to maintain a semblance of order, de soun, what with the autonomous council headquarters also being there.
Deep: So where in Haflong baru?
Smita: The college. They are holding a seminar on the same old issue of Indigenous Cultures of Northeast India, with special focus on the Dimasa tribe. Prasen da, me, Nilima, Gomati and Jit will be representing our NGO. Prasen da will read a paper.
Deep: Great, you should have read one as well.
Smita: He bhogoban! Look at the time! We have been chatting forever!
Deep: Aw hoi tou! It must be near morning there now! Go to sleep Konmani, we will talk later. I am also feeling a bit sleepy myself.
Smita: Baru bye!
Deep: Bye Debi.
Smita: Love you.
Deep: Love you too. Bye.
Lost!
Dipankar Goswamito Smita Kakoty
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Debi
Where are you? Toi kot Ai? There has been no word from you for the past two days! You haven’t run off somewhere again without telling me have you, Jajabori?
I’m beginning to feel like the Nilasal hill when the goddess abandoned it for Mount Kailash. She only returned three hundred years later. You won’t make me wait that long, Kamessari, will you? You remember that story-tu?
Please reply soon and put me out of my misery, Debi. I can do without such tensions while I am writing, you know! Dusta suali!
Your Deep
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Lost! (2)
Lost! (2)
Dipankar Goswamito Smita Kakoty
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Oi Debi!
Just because you have parked yourself at Imu’s place for the last few days doesn’t mean you should not email me at least once, xunisone? And don’t tell me aru de that your new rich friend does not even have an internet connection.
I know you will hate me for this but I had to call Gomati, I was so worried. Sometimes you really make me very angry with your irresponsible behaviour, dei. Write back soon or at least give me a number I can call you on. Etiyay!
Deep
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Lost! (3)
Lost! (3)
Smita Kakoty to Dipankar.Bhattacharjee
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Oi old man!
Iman khong khaiso kelei? You don’t have to get so angry about such a short silence. After all, when I am in the field I sometimes don’t write to you or talk to you for weeks – and it’s been only four days now since we chatted. So what’s the big deal, ha?
And you are damn right, my ‘rich friend’ does not have an internet connection, but you are also damn wrong because he is not my ‘rich’ friend – najano neki, he also earns as much as I do, or any of the others in office do. It’s just that he has rich relatives who give him cars as gifts J – but you know how rich some of these Upper Assam businessmen can be, hoi ne?
So stop being grumpy and listen to what I have to say. And I am going to kill Gomati anyway – couldn’t she just have given you Imu’s number so we could talk and I could put you at ease? Akori joni! She’s really very stupid! I’m sorry you had to get so tensed about my ‘disappearance’ Deep, but you do worry more than is good for your writing, koi disu hole. Why can’t you concentrate on your book and forget about me for a while, ha? What would have happened if I had really abandoned you and gone off to Mount Kailash and not come back for three hundred years? What would you have done, ko? And in any case, you know as well as I do je the legend about the disappearance was actually nothing but an allegory for the eclipse of the worship of the goddess in Assam for a long time till the Koch kings popularised it once more. You yourself told me that, Deep. And now you are resorting to your theatrics again! Bhagyadebi etiya moi ne toi?
Asalate ki jano? I got so engrossed in researching for the paper that I forgot it’s been four days since I came home. After all, there’s only ten days left for us to get all of it in place.
Now you will ask me ‘what paper’, moi janou? So let me tell you what paper – I took your advice and decided to present a paper at Haflong College. Pise I was diffident at first since I have never written an academic paper in my life till Imu suggested we should do it together. It was really very nice of him to offer, na, since he had presented loads of papers when he was doing his MA in Australia, and even later, just before coming back to Assam, when he was working at that Lucknow-based think tank of his.
So now since Imu and I are doing this together, Jit has dropped out of the team and will be staying back in office with Arpita while the rest of us go to Haflong. In any case, Jit and Imu don’t seem to get along very well together, there’s a kind of coldness between them – kiba eta ase - I don’t know if the others have noticed – and I can’t understand why this is so because both are such nice persons, and I love them both equally. Mour bar beya lage. I don’t like it at all.
But let me tell you about my paper now. You know how the Karbis and the Dimasas are always fighting among themselves over their homeland demands, nohoi, and each community wants the other out of their ‘homeland’ despite having been such close neighbours for so long? Mane, there have always been Dimasas living in Karbi Anglong district, and Karbis living in North Cachar Hills district, and anyway, these district boundaries were created according to administrative exigencies only. We all know that they are just as arbitrary as any other boundary, drawn on any other map, by somebody living in the administrative headquarter or state capital or some city or country far away without any regard for the ethnic make up, language, culture or composition of the people actually living there who might be affected by these boundaries drawn on paper and subsequently translated on ground. Xasa katha, right?
And then comes along an insurgent group from a particular ethnic community with a supposedly ‘historical’ map of their lost homeland and demands that people of other ethnic groups vacate their homeland. So what if there are hundreds of thousands of people from tens of other ethnic groups living in their ‘homeland’, who have been living there for centuries? Kune patta diye? They can be eliminated anayaxe, and their homelands ‘cleansed’. And when more than one nativist group stakes a claim over the same territory as being part of their ‘historical’ homeland, then, aha! what a lovely mess follows. Eketa galpa – it’s this same story that is being replicated everywhere in the Northeast now.
Deep, why don’t these idiots understand that we have no choice but to co-exist within the same territory, because our populations have increased and the land area we can claim as our home has shrunk? Kelei baru? Aru, if you heard their folk narratives that speak of their wanderings and migration – I have heard some Karbi folk recitals like that – you would think they would have some sense to understand that ultimately we are all wanderers who did not spring up from nowhere and have come to Assam from somewhere at different times in history and made it our home – all of us, all the different communities. We do not have any choice but to co-exist, do we? Kounou anyatha nai.
Sometimes I just feel like taking hold of each one of them by their ears dei and pulling and pulling at those ears soooo painfully that in the end they admit they have to find a different kind of solution for their identity and homeland problems – a kind that does not involve killing their own brothers and neighbours bappeke.
So ji ki nahauk, lectures aside, what I proposed to do was to present a paper on Karbi culture – with special focus on their cultural emblem of the Jambili Athon – you’ve seen it – it’s that tree-like thing with the five pretty little birds perched on all the five branches. Since Imu does not have much of an idea about Karbi culture, I will be doing the research and generating the ideas while he will help me structure the paper, and then I guess I will ask him to make the presentation as well. Kene lagil plan-tou?
I proposed we do the paper on Karbi culture because the event is to be held in the heart of the Dimarji – in the capital of the Dimasa homeland. Why should they keep fighting among themselves anyway, ko? Haven’t we had enough bloodshed already, ha? And who is benefitting from all of it? Koun hobo aru? The political leaders, the student leaders, the so-called insurgent leaders, the security personnel, and the mercenaries (which group of people by the way includes representatives from all the other groups I already mentioned)? Ethnic conflicts, insurgency and all kinds of violence have become such a lucrative industry out here, je everybody is making loads of money the easy way. Meanwhile, hard working people like Prasen da’s parents have to live in constant fear of their lives and property. Ki je abastha!
We will be taking Imu’s SUV to Haflong and if we can, we will go up to Prasen da’s village which is hiiiiiiiiiiigh up on the hills. I’ve met his parents a couple of times when they were visiting him in Guwahati and they had invited all of us very warmly, jano. It will be nice to visit them and have some of the excellent jou dima Prasen da’s mother makes J With some fresh steaming pork – slurp! Eat your heart out, Deep, I know how much you love pork! Ki je moja hobo amar!
And see how much I have written to you today – I have made up for the last four day’s silence, haven’t I? Ko, ko, ko!
Now you write back, xounkale
Morom lobi
Smita
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So Jaanti, basically, you will be doing all the hard work and your friend will be taking all the credit by just putting it all on paper tar mane? Why don’t you have enough confidence to write it on your own, Ajoli? Just read the mail you wrote me – you put things so clearly there – albeit a bit childishly. Cut out the petulance, use a slightly more sophisticated language, place it within a theoretical framework, and you have a good enough argument. Bas, aru ki lage? Try it, I’m sure you will be able to do it. Sesta kori tou sa ebar…
As for your not writing to me when you are in the field, and my being ok with it, Murukhmati, that’s because I know then that you are in the field, and don’t have access to the net. If however, you are in Guwahati, supposedly at home (never to go back as you claimed when we last chatted J), and then you don’t write to me, I think I have every right to get worried. Hoi ne? With your mother not visiting now as often as she used to (thanks to your obstinate insistence) and Das khura out of town and out of the picture, and with the kind of turmoil there is everywhere out there, I do have every right to get worried, Debi. And you know that affects my work – I cannot write if I am worried sick that you might be laying there sick or god knows what! Keneke likhim baru? The only consolation is in knowing you have good friends who take care of you, but of late, I feel like I can sense some change in your equation with your old friends. Be very careful in making new friends, Konmani. People are not what they used to be in our land. Nor do they seem to be what they really are. These are troubled times, our dark night, kalratri…
Ours is anyway the land of tantra-mantra, black magic and what not. Najano neki je people used to avoid visiting the land of the goddess, our Kamrup, where Kamakhya-Kamessari reigned supreme, for fear of being turned into black sheep, and we the people of that land could tame spirits – all those biras and jakhinis that our people used to tame and then let lose on each other at the slightest provocation J We have all heard those amazing stories – we have grown up on them, Debi. And do you think je if taming supernatural spirits was their forte, our own people now cannot break or curb an earthy exuberant spirit like yours, pure as it is, and gullible? We may have lost our magic, Moina, but the black and the sinister still live among us.
Baru, tell me where you will be staying in Haflong. Get the ‘phone number of that place from the organizers and give it to me so that I can call you once in a while, and this time, I shall not take no for an answer, thik ase? You have been as wilful and whimsical as you wish and I have always respected your need to feel free when you are in the field, and to not remain tied down to the telephone just because I might at some time wish to make sure you are alright. However, this time, I have decided my whim should prevail and you should fall in line for a change, aghaitong suali. I do not want worries about you to come in the way of my writing. I cannot let the love of one goddess come in the way of my devotion to the other now, can I? Bhabi sa.
Tour Deep.
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Deep, Deep, Deep,
I love you but your whim shall not prevail J I will call you when I get there and mail you as well. Hobo? Haflong is a town, Deep, not an interior village. It has an internet cafe we have been told, and a couple of public phone booths. So don’t worry. I asked them and they said we will be staying at the circuit house, but since it is a fair distance from the town centre and the college, there’s really no point in my giving you the phone number, ase janou? We will only be going back to our rooms to sleep at night, and then there’s no saying how late at night that will be. So be reasonable, old man. I promise I will call. Bidda xapat!
I could of course give you Imu’s cell phone number – he is the only one among us with a cell phone – but then I’m not sure if he will be around much either, jano. You see, the organisers had put Nilima, Gomati and me in one room, and Prasen da and Imu in another. But Imu offered to give up his room and go stay with a friend so that Nilima can stay with Prasen da. We have been teasing Imu about his ‘friend’ all day because he is being so secretive about the identity of this person – we think it must be some old flame nissay J
Baru, I have to rush now, just came home to pick up a change of clothes. We are all camping out at Imu’s place because his place is so big. You should see with what energy we are all working on our papers – Prasen da is also there and Nilima drops in once in a while.
O, I should tell you this – there is this young research scholar from Rotterdam University who is on a field trip here – you know how Northeast Indian studies are catching up wherever they have a ‘global south’ interest, nohoine; our Northeast is becoming quite a career for many – and he was really surprised when he saw all of us camping at Imu’s place. He is also staying at Imu’s place which is fast becoming an unofficial guesthouse for all foreign students who are working on Assam and the Northeast – dear sweet Imu is so accommodating dekhiso. He had come to India with the idea that everybody here is very conservative, but when he saw us living together like in a commune, he could not help voicing his surprise aru J Poor chap, he should meet my mother who would have a heart attack if she saw how we were living – at least how her unmarried daughter was living under the same roof as an unmarried young man mane, and not even sleeping with him J Of course, she does not know that I often live with another unmarried but not so young man for as long as he is in Guwahati and do sleep with him! What do you think she would say when she comes to know, ha? We will have to tell her someday. Hoi kobo lagibatou...
And please don’t say mean things like Imu will take all the credit for my work, Deep – we have divided the research material and we are both doing our own share – there’s just so much to read-o! And now I know why you feel like switching off when you are writing, I have been feeling like that as well, jano.
O pise, I am also getting a bad feeling about your comment about my ‘new friends’ – but I’ll let it pass for now since I do not want to get into an argument with you right now. I will however take up this issue with you soon, jano tho.
Till then
Tour Debi.
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That sounded like a threat, Debi J Moi bhoi khaisu! I am really scared! I swear, you do quite often sound like your dear own Bishnu Rabha’s tejirangi rai baghini goddess – chasing around her doped out pot bellied husband, old Shiva, trying to escape as smoke or hide in the water, and capturing him in the folds of her riha’s end.
But I also do not want to get into an argument with you about your friends – I just thought you needed to be cautioned, and I cautioned you. Beyond that, I should not, nor do I wish to, have any say in who you are friends with, and who not. That’s a decision that as an adult, you take on your own, Debi. Bujisotou?
Now that I know what you are up to and where you are, I have got back to my writing again. It’s a bit difficult to pick up the thread once it is broken – by a particularly whimsical young lady. But I’m making progress tathapiu. The second chapter is over. And by the time you get back from Haflong, I should be well into the next one on the many names of the goddess – you know Debi, a new name every day also means discovering a new person every time. Nite naba rup tar... And you always have something new in store for me don’t you, Xatarupa? Like suddenly turning to academic pursuits, hoi? You will be able to do it, Moina, just persist. And then, who knows, you might one day do the most definitive research on Bishnu Rabha. Koune jane? We both know how relevant he is to the questions of our national identity and ethnic politics. Aru more so today when as you have said, brother kills brother, all in the name of establishing a distinct ethnic identity, or creating an exclusive ethnic homeland. Ufff! We have become such a sad lot, Majoni. But if we can revive the spirits of people like Bishnu Rabha and Jyotiprasad Agarwala, I think we still have a chance. So carry on with your research, and let me know about your progress dei.
It is good to know you are also meeting international scholars who come to Assam to study our region. But you do know, nohoi janou, that your Dutch friend and his contemporaries are not the first Europeans to have taken such a deep interest in our region? Our Northeast region, because of its geo-politically strategic location and immense richness – in terms of culture and ethnic make-up as well as natural resources – has for centuries now been a subject of interest for western writers and researchers. Eitou natun katha nahai. The best known history of Assam was written by Edward Gait, the Englishman. Many of his countrymen – administrators and travellers – wrote other early accounts of our region, which still give direction to many of our scholars. And then there were the American missionaries who gave so many of our tribal languages a written Roman script and individual grammars. Toitou janoye. This isn’t new information for you. Of course, mour bissax, we need to move beyond these now and while acknowledging their contribution, develop or retrieve our own indigenous modes and methods of scholarship. This is where young people like you, who have an insider’s perspective, but have also been exposed to the outsider’s world view, come in. You will have to make the difference dei. Moi bhabou, it is only when you and others like you start working on your roots can we tackle the tendency to make a museum piece out of our Northeast. For the rest of the world, we almost never exist. But when we do, it is only as an exotic commodity. It is true of the Indian attitude, it is also true of attitudes elsewhere in the world. Kahini xei eketai.
So hone your native sensibilities, but also observe the academic trends. Stay in touch with these visiting scholars, buiso, and maybe one day I can prevail upon you too, to enrol for PhD? Ha?
Antatta that should make your mother happy, don’t you think? Even if the idea of her only daughter living in with an old professor might not be so appealing to her... But yes, we will have to tell her someday about us. Thikei koiso. What her reaction to that will be, god alone knows. Moitou najanu bhai! But you cannot blame her, paro janou? Every mother wants a normal conventional married life for her daughter. And our relationship is anything but conventional. Of course, we could make it conventional if only to suit your mother – who would anyway have reservations about our age difference no doubt, but that is a decision we will need to take once I am back for good, ne ki kawo?
As for living in a commune, it is not such a novel idea, jano ne? Many of our tribal societies have dormitories for boys and girls of a particular age to live together, with of course, the boys and girls being segregated from each other. But communal living is something we Hindu Axamiyā-speaking people should have picked up – it makes fraternal ties stronger. Abasye, the tribal societies are also sadly abandoning these traditions with the result that community ties are breaking down, and everybody is killing everybody else. But I am back to the same sad story akau. I should stop here dei,
Axex morom
Deep
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Leaving de, Deep.
In another ten minutes.
I didn’t know writing a paper can be this exhausting! Ufff!
I am mentally and intellectually fatigued-o.
I think I should just stick to writing poetry – it exhausts you emotionally but that is cathartic.
This is just plain – exhausting! Bapre bap!
Call you when I reach.
Moromore,
Debi
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Oi Deep,
How I miss you here jano ne! Haflong is such a beautiful place (it is the only hill station in Assam like I told you on the ‘phone, only you wouldn’t believe me and then I asked around and now I’ve confirmed it). I wish you had come along dei. There are times when I hate it that you are not here, especially when I see Nilima and Prasen da cuddle up to each other or look at each other with so much tenderness every now and then. Mantou bar beya lagi jai-o!
But I missed you most when I saw the moon from the top of the hill yesterday where our hosts had taken us for a view of Haflong town. I really felt I would cry – mane as it is the moon does something to me - I told you that nohoi. I can't stand under the moon and not feel affected - I cry, I laugh, I get depressed, I feel excited, aroused, aiow! so many things. Moonsick - that's what you said I am and you called me Jonali. Oi Deep! I did miss you yesterday when I saw the moon - and I miss do you now again.
Jano, we stood there and the moon was awesome. Why is it that the moon gets more alluring as you climb higher up the hills? I love the moon on the hills, and I love hills, koi disu hole. Deep, let's settle down on a hill somewhere. Please please please. You, me, the moon, and the hills - what more can I ask from life ko?
But you weren’t there yesterday L, everything else was. And everybody else. We were this big group of people standing on top of the world looking out at Haflong town spread out in front of us with its many points of light piercing the darkness. Kene je dhuniya! Then suddenly I realised that somebody was singing in the background – actually it was besera Imu – and I told him to shut up or else I’ll beat him up for disturbing the quiet, and he had to poor thing J And after that there I was standing, looking up at the moon, not knowing whether I was dead or alive, oblivious to everything else...
De de, not exactly oblivious maybe, but as much as I could possibly be with so many other people around me. There was this very irritating man, a Prof Tanwar, from Dimapur College trying to flirt with a beautiful lady professor from Silchar University. Kamourtou! Then there were a couple of delegates from Manipur, both very nice people; one lecturer from Arunachal; three from NEHU – I told them how you’d gone to Smitalaya looking for the Austric origins of Kamakhya and they had no idea. So I showed off my knowledge and told them how some scholars believe her to have originally been a Khasi goddess; and the five of us. What a crowd, uff! But I could easily lose myself in it and think about you and me, bathing in the moonlight...
He bhogoban! Gomati is already ready to leave for the seminar and she's giving me those stern looks now, telling me to get ready and come with her. She really does behave like a surrogate mother sometimes dei. And that makes me very angry sometimes – khonge uthi jai bappeke. Anyway, Deep, I have to go. I was late getting up this morning – too much to drink last night – the local stuff here – the jou dima I told you about – is amazing and tonight we are going to have it with pork and also taste some monkey meat at ada Kemprai's house. He is Prasen da’s cousin. We told the organisers here we don't like the food they are serving us J Who wants to have north Indian food like butter chicken and tandoori roti when they are in Dimaraji baru? We will have what our Dimasa brothers have. If the way to ethnic reconciliation is through the stomach, so much the better – we do really need to shed our hang ups and mix more with other communities – we Hindu Axamiyā I mean, who have always considered our food and language and everything else to be superior to that of the ‘tribals’, nohoine?
Baru jau etia, Deep. I have to go or Gomati will murder me right now. I will mail this from the internet cafe in town. Will write again soon,
I love you, or like they say out here, ang ningkhe ham jaodu (I hope I’ve got it right – Prasen da’s sister who works here at the college taught me this in their language.)
Tour Debi.
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Deep, Deep, oi Deep,
I really missed you terribly this evening again-o - we'd gone to Dolong – it’s that stream in Jatinga and we had gone there after the seminar. Our paper was well received, but as I had already known, it had no great controversial element in it to be able to stir up a debate or discussion. Kounou katha nai! It is just that I felt I had made a point by talking of Karbi culture among the Dimasas – I would have talked of something Dimasa if this was Diphu college, or any other place in Karbi Anglong, you know that J
Anyway, I was telling you about the Dolong. We drove there and sat on the rocks in the middle of the stream and drank and smoked to heart's content (Stop frowning now!) There's this canvass of green that covers the face of the hill and from among the green flows down the stream. Apurba xundar! A major portion of the water supply to Haflong town goes from here it seems, and then there were these Jaintia women collecting their washed clothes and bathing there and they told us they don’t get any water in their village so they have to come down to the stream every day bule.
Uff issar! When will these disparities end Deep? The water supply pipe runs near their village - why couldn't they give the village some water so the people wouldn't have to climb down all the way for their daily needs?? And then if one day some young man from the village gets too tired of carrying the water up from the stream and too tired of walking all those miles to Haflong every day to petition the autonomous council members or the deputy commissioner for a water pipe to his village and picks up a gun to demand what is only his right, they will drop a truckload of armed personnel and rape his mother and sister and kill his father and either kill him as well, or bait him with a lot of money and all those beautiful things he never had so that he will sign a ceasefire agreement and start taking money from the government and procure all good and luxurious things for himself and do odd jobs for the government and earn some more and in the end become a mercenary. And that in short is one of the sad stories of insurgency here in our land. Ki hobo ei dexar?
But enough of those depressing things de. Let me stick today to the nice part: the Dolong was so so so beautiful-o Deep! And thankfully not too many tourists come there to dirty it – anyway the tourist lodge in Haflong has been occupied by the Indian army for a long time now – and there's only one decent hotel in the town it seems. So where will the tourists stay ko? And to think Haflong is so beautiful and neighbouring Jatinga with its ‘suicidal’ birds is such a wonderfully mysterious place and both have so much potential for attracting tourists... Mane ki kom aru!
But like I was saying, we sat there and I remembered you jano, and the first time we met at JNU. Jit often says I need to get my head examined because I switch off from my surroundings so often. I did that when I was thinking of you while we were all sitting on a big rock in the Dolong. And if he were here and found me out here writing to you while they are all having fun inside he would tell me again that I am very a-social and beat me up and then I'll also beat him back well and good, bappeke. But you've seen that routine of ours nohoine? So let me come to what I was talking about. The jou dima has addled my brain - I'm rambling... and we haven't really really gotten down to it yet...
There's no moon visible from where I sit on the steps leading down to ada Kemprai's house (I have my torch between my teeth as I type) - I can hear a stream somewhere, and some insects now and then – the jili’s song of course goes on continuously here, anargal, day or night. Faintly I hear these guys having a great time inside – it looks like it’s going to be racist joke night. Borhiya! Langthasa cracked one on the Axamiyā and looked at me very defiantly as if he dared me to feel offended. But when he saw me laughing my guts out, he felt quite let down I think. Beseratou! He is the commander-in-chief of one of the factions of the Dimasa insurgent group – how the government has turned us against each other and how we have allowed ourselves to be turned against each other-o Deep, to become fragmented, factionalized, and suspicious of each other. The others are not like him - we're having a great time! There are a few guys from the students union, and a few from their tribal apex body, and ada Kemprai runs a small human rights group here. Our coming here is an occasion for them to celebrate – somehow, wherever I have been in the Northeast, I have seen that our people just need an excuse to celebrate, to come together as a group of friends, a community, a brotherhood, and today because we are here, they are all together, except for the other faction of the insurgent group who have friends in another students union, another human rights group... Adi ityadi…
Now more than ever I feel, Deep, that dialogue can help, jano ne. That if we sat together like this, in every corner of every village, or at every possible meeting place in every town or city, and just talked to each other like normal, everyday human beings, about our everyday issues and our lives, we could rediscover the camaraderie we had lost when gunshots and violence and political feuds took over. I only wish I knew how to speak Dimasa. We've had enough Axamiyā imposition on these people-o Deep. For a change they should impose something on us I think... But that of course will lead to other problems, nohoine?
Anyway, I walked out saying I had to go to the loo. I just had to write to you because a) I thought you would have loved to be in this setting - it would give you matter for your oral history collection - we have also been trading funny and raunchy folktales since the evening's get-together started and b) I started missing you as soon as I thought of that. And then there were the rocks... Ufff!
I felt like singing ‘jondhone jonalite’ again today as we were sitting on the Dolong. I would sing it every day if it would mean meeting you again for the first time every day jano - I'll never forget your head slowly rising from behind the rock and I could sense rather than see the total bewilderment on your face - hearing a Dipali Borthakur song in an alien place - I always loved going to Parthasarathi rock with my Delhi friends but I love them for having taken me there that particular day, against my wishes – I would have missed out on meeting you if I had slept out the evening like I'd intended to till they forced me to walk all the way to the rock. Nogole ki hol hoi? Rajan really loved that song, although he understood not one word of it, and that must have been the umpteenth time I'd sung it on PSR at his request – anyway that's the only song I can decently sing aru... and to have met you through it, well, who would have thought? And forever afterwards I remained yours truly, the goddess-on-the-rocks...hmmm. That was actually one of the very few really witty jokes you ever made, jano ne? On-the-rocks, ha ha!
.............
I don't feel like going in yet and it's really silent here-o Deep - can you imagine this place could ever resonate with gunshots? But if you saw the guns I just saw and the way these people handle them - like they were a part of their everyday attire - jen they were just a normal part of their lives, it would not be very hard to imagine sage. What is more difficult to imagine is the circumstances that must have pushed them towards taking up these guns. I've often thought why guns? Why violence? There must be other ways in which you can voice your grievances, nohoine, by which you can demand your rights. Tenehole why kill? But seeing these people, talking to them while knowing that most of them will have a gun stashed away somewhere in their person, and yet being able to relate to them as to any other person like you or Jit or anybody else who have never even seen a gun at close quarters, I get confused sometimes. If I were in their place, been deprived all my life – not having access to education, livelihood, nothing – just hardships, would I get so passionately bitter or bitterly passionate that I would take up a gun and begin killing people, ha? I don't think so at this moment, but what if I was in that situation hoi? I need to meet more people, talk to them and get a feel of what is what Deep. I need to start regular ‘mel’s with people wherever I go, so that I can understand them better. Toi ki kawo?
I'm glad I came here this time, dei, Deep and at a time when I can meet these people openly, now that they are under a ceasefire. But do ceasefires really solve anything, Deep? Will anything solve anything Deep? I feel so depressed about the state of this region jano... Very despondent... He bhogoban, I think I best go in and drink some more and hear some more jokes. Might cheer me up hoitou.
Bye Deep,
I love you.
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Hi Deep,
Yesterday I could not send you the emails I had typed out yesterday and the day before yesterday – there was no power all day yesterday in all of Haflong town, frequent phenomenon here. Nothing surprising. So I’m sending all of them to you today. Upai nai. I don’t know if I will be able to write to you in the next two or three days because we have decided to stay back even though the conference is over and see a few places around Haflong and meet a few more people, buiso. Sunil is in Delhi for a while and Jit and Arpita are holding fort quite well, so I did not want to miss this opportunity aru.
Let me know how your book is progressing in the meantime, and we will talk about it when I get back. Hobo? I feel bad that I have not been asking about your progress at all. You have almost – but not quite – made me superstitious about your goddess with all your talk about her being everywhere and seeing everything and touching everyone and I feel now like I might put her off by not talking to you about her for so long now. Moi boliyay holou neki?
Do make good progress so that you can finish writing soon and come home dei. I am missing you terribly every day, xasai, and even though I am with all these people who love me, I feel so lonely at times. It’s been almost four months since you left – the time has just flown by, nohoine, and I’m ok so long as I don’t really think about it, but when I do, it is very painful, jano?
Missing you much. Khub khub khub besi.
Smita
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Mour Debi,
Do you think I don’t miss you? You are right, it has been quite a while, and hoi, I should concentrate on finishing my work fast – it’s just that I have not been able to make as much progress as I thought I would be able to. Teaching and grading and assignments and tutorials and all the other related work take up a lot of my time-o. And then there is always some student who wants to discuss their ideas with me individually. I don’t really mind interacting with them usually, bissax kor, but now that I am caught up in my book, I have very little patience for anything else. It irritates me sometimes to have some mediocre but overzealous know-it-all trying to impress me with borrowed ideas. Seh! I know I am sounding very mean – a teacher is not supposed to feel this way about his students. But if I can’t own up before you that I have these really bad thoughts sometimes, if I didn’t confess to you my deep dark secret feelings, who else do I speak to them about?
I guess you can say Jen is about the only really good friend I have here, and she does drop in once in a while to share some gossip – itou xitour katha – and a few secrets we can’t talk about with anybody else. But I can’t tell her about this – no way, prasnai nuthe – she loves her students too much; she is so involved in her teaching and her role as mentor and guide and guru that I feel ashamed of my impatience. It is very rarely nowadays that I feel the urge to be involved with my students – very rarely these days is there a bright spark, some really intelligent student who comes up to me and shares their ideas with me. When that happens, I suddenly remember why it is that I used to enjoy teaching.
But honestly, I have been finding myself more and more inclined to take that sabbatical you always kept talking about and coming home to finish the book. Kintu, the problem is that I know it will be much more difficult coming back this time – our last parting was difficult enough and if I go back this time, I don’t know if I will ever be able to come back. But come back I have to – and only for financial reasons. Money-ramei ram ram...
Toi jano, I exhausted all my savings in buying our house – you know that, and unless I can build up some more savings, I cannot afford the luxury of sitting back without a job and a steady pay and just writing. I know you will say that you will support me – but Moina, you only earn Rs. 10000 a month, and that is barely enough for you. So I think I will have to stick it out for a few more months here, save a little, so that even if I don’t come back, I can survive till I get a job there. Hoi ne nohoi? But if work continues at this pace, and does not progress as planned, I will have to take a decision soon, budhoi...
It is nice to know that you are letting the goddess get to you J Let her in, Debi, and you will see she is not just the bloodthirsty deity you have always maintained she is. Bujiboloi sesta kar. My goddess is not limited or isolated – she gives of herself to all, irrespective of ethnicity, identity or religion. Bujiso? That is why, my living goddess, I had said that you two have similar political leanings. Now do you understand? This is the central thesis of my work – but I have a long way to go yet before I unveil this understanding of my goddess. I am trying my best to reach that point soon, but I have to build her up first and substantiate my claims, and at the pace I am going it might take forever. And I feel tired from all the writing. Abax abax lage...
Aru what is more, reading each day about all the violence in the land of the goddess, seeing each day the gory images that confront me as soon as I log on to the internet, I am beginning to doubt that unleashing my version of the goddess will have any positive impact at all. You talk about ceasefires – but do you see the guns disappear? No na? Ceasefire agreements are only instruments of co-option in our land, Debi, and you are witnessing its effects first-hand there. The guns you say Langthasa carries around – weren’t they supposed to have been surrendered when his group came overground? How many more guns are there in circulation just in that one small town? Andaz ase kiba? What weapons do you think are used to commit all the petty crimes that take place there. And the big ones too. The ones the papers have been reporting incessantly for the last few months. I know you get angry when I worry about you, but I can’t help it Debi. Moi nirupai. I am scared for you – not because you are talking to the insurgents but because like you say, they are factionalised insurgents. Co-opted and corrupted by the cunning state machinery. Don’t idealise them, they are not the simple folks you make them out to be. Thay have seen a lot, been manouvered a lot, and have come out of their experiences as what they are now. All these people – the insurgents, the so-called revolutionaries of our land – may be the children of the same goddess, but they have all forgotten her.
Maybe mine has been an exercise in futility. I cannot bring her alive for these people! Keneke parim baru? And then, sometimes – and I am almost ashmed to say it – I have begun to feel like maybe I have been laboring under a misunderstanding of the goddess all along. Kobo nuaru aru! Maybe she wants violence, maybe she encourages such bloodshed. I know I am sounding like you – and I had warned you against such thoughts myself not a moment ago. But these are doubts that have been coming to me of late, and I had to share them with you, maybe hoping that you can talk me out of them as I know you will.
And now that I have this off my chest, I feel better, and chastised. In my saner moments I know that these are petty doubts and uncertainties. The only certainty is that the goddess has been, and will be, our mother and nurturer, for ever, no matter what. Ah Debi, it really helps to confide in you, xasakoye!
And I should not be getting you worried about me this way. You already sound quite upset with what you have seen out there. Although I fear for your safety, tathapiu in a way I am glad that you are educating yourself in this manner. It should help you identify the people who really have ideologies and the ones who only pretend to have them. It is a good idea to have these ‘mel’s as you call them – why should we always think that ‘mel mara’ only leads to wastage of time? Talking, just stopping a while and chatting, discussing things, thrashing them out with people you trust, all have their utilities after all. Come to think of it, our people actually institutionalised it – in our own Kamrup, we had the tradition of ‘mel’s being convened by our gaonburhas, banthais, or village elders. The ‘melki’s would then meet to discuss and arbitrate over local and domestic issues. You being a Kamrupia, the idea must have struck you naturally, without any effort, nohoine?
Tarupari, we also have a strong tradition of our ‘raiz mel’s – people’s councils almost, where the community is king, what the raiz says, holds. We have used our raiz mels as powerful tools of opposition against our British colonisers, we can still use them to fight the devils within and without. All we need is a little organization and somebody to lead. Your idea sounds terrific to me – you should start considering going about it in a more planned manner, bujiso?
O aru, you seem to be drinking a lot however. So fine, it is the home brewed organic stuff, but it is still alcohol, Majoni. Please don’t overdo it. And don’t use it as a means of escaping the reality dei. What you see around you is the reality of what has happened to our godless land, and the better you understand the mechanics of it, the more you should gather strength to counter it, find means of setting it right. I know you have the potential, Biplabi, of bringing in some change, doing what you always wanted to do. Don’t waste it.
I know you will say I should practice what I preach and should not nurse doubts about the efficacy of my work, but well, I am only human nohoine? J
Haflong sounds like an amazing place – let us go there the next time I am home. You can also take me to the Dolong and be again my goddess-on-the-rocks.
While you are there, try to understand the dynamics of how things work – but for heaven’s sake Debi, do not voice your opinions out loud or take people to task just because you think they are doing things that will harm our people and our region. I know you like a good confrontation and think that’s the righteous way to sort things out, but believe me it is only guns and political manoeuvring and psyops games that work there now a days. I am sorry if I am making it all sound so cloak and dagger to you, but I do have some understanding of the current realities there. Bissax kor! And you are so naive, and so pure of heart that I wonder sometimes that they allow you – your untainted integrity – to exist! You are in many ways as uninhibited and free spirited as Bishnu Rabha used to be perhaps – but his were different times and he was too much the idol of the people to be touched. Those were the days they simply jailed people for any perceived threat to the system. How many times was your Rabha jailed oi? Today, things are more covert, the system has to maintain a facade, and it is under the influence of so many other forces that being jailed sounds so much more welcome than facing the reality of being caught in the crossfire in a covert war. Today, you would not even know if the person you meet everyday does not have any ulterior agenda in meeting you everyday. Xasai koisou. It is all a very unholy state of affairs.
In any case, take care Smita, and write back as soon as you can
Your Deep
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