mar 25, 2012 p2

POSTscriptM A R C H 2 5 , 2 0 1 2

SEVEN SISTERS

NELit review2

FIFTH WALLUDDIPANAGOSWAMILiterary Editor MY love affair with Karbi Anglong be-

gan a long time back when a bunchof us friends would drive up to

Baithalangso to a Dimasa friend’s house. Afew more trips to Diphu only made me falldeeper in love. Invited to a public meetingonce and a seminar another time, the loveand respect showered by the people of Di-phu overwhelmed me. The Karbis or Di-masas, Kukis or Tiwas, all those who live inKarbi Anglong seemed to me to be thewarmest and most hospitable people on earth(but then, that’s a feeling one gets while trav-elling anywhere in the Northeast).Love turned to pain, however, when a few

years back, ethnic riots broke out betweenthe Karbis and Dimasas living in the district.Many were killed, and I had a firsthand in-

sight into what internal displacement reallymeant to the people who were actually dis-placed. Many who had hosted me in the pre-riot days suddenly became homeless; theyhad to flee for their lives and take shelter inthe neighbouring district, in makeshift reliefcamps. As a researcher working on issuessurrounding ethnicity and displacement, Isuddenly had lots of data to work on and rarefield experience to draw from. But as an in-dividual, the experience has instilled a senseof despondence in me which is often reflectedin my writings.One of the poems in our Inkpot section in

this week’s NELit review, is also set againstthe backdrop of the same ethnic conflicts.But Arun Teron, one of the foremost Karbipoets today, does not write despondently.

And yet, his poem, ‘This emotion, like war…’,was occasioned by being practically underhouse arrest in the course of the curfew im-posed during the ethnic riots. The other poemin the same section, ‘An elegy on a Jhumiyaevening’, is by Sar-et Hanse, another promi-nent poet of the community. This poem alsoechoes with the placidity of the hills, ratherthan with the raucousness of ethnic politics.Despite originating in one of the most vio-lent conflict zones of Assam, Karbi literaturehas been able to transcend the existing cli-mate of hate and fear. Dhaneswar Engti’sstory, ‘The land of our fathers’, is also more concerned about the loss of traditionand the social vices, rather than with the political atmosphere.My conversations with Karbi writers – and

I had a few – were aimed at gauging how theexperience of conflict has influenced theirworldviews. A few years back, I had a longdiscussion with Longkam Teron, one of themost venerated Karbi intellectuals, on vari-ous issues pertaining to Karbi life and writing. Today he is no more, but we repro-duce his ruminations on the state of the Kar-bi language and literature in our Point Blank section.I had earlier edited an issue on Karbi liter-

ature in Muse India, the literary e-journal.Material for the issue had been hard to comeby, but once it was published, it had earnedme many friends and well wishers in KarbiAnglong. This issue of NELit review has beenpossible because of these well wishers andthey deserve a special kardom. �

Kardom, Karbi Anglong!

SARPO Engjai was sitting with others at the veranda of SikondorMahajon’s shop. It was locatedin the heart of Dokmoka Bazaar.

It was not a big shop as seen from theoutside, but the lands, belonging to thepoor peasants of the entire area ofDokmoka, were under his possession.However, it was not the fault of Sikondor Mahajon alone — nobodycould blame him of being a swindler orbloodsucker of the poor and illiteratevillagers. The actual culprits were menlike Sarpo Engjai, who did not like tocultivate his land because he was lazy.Instead of growing crops on his land,he used to go to a person like SikondorMahajon, talk to him confidentially andoffer him settlement of land on bondhok, paikash and adhi against aminimal amount of money…“O Mahajon, are you at home?”“Yes, I’m at home, why?”“Mahajon? I’m in trouble now.” “What trouble?”“Durga Puja has come, I’ve to buy new

clothes for my children, that’s why Ineed some money.”“I’ve no money today, you come

tomorrow.”“ No, I need it today itself.”“Now, I’ll not take land on bondhok

or paikash, you know?”“Then, how will you take the land?”“If you’re willing to sell your plot of

land then I’ll buy; but on bondhok orpaikash, I’ll not take; I’ve enough landagainst that.”“I’ve not thought of selling my plot of

land, now, Mahajon.”“Ok. Then, I’m sorry, you may go to

Manik Terang to enquire about this.”“I don’t want to go to Manik Terang,

Mahajon, he’ll scold me.” “Who’ll scold you, Sarbura?”“He used to tell me not to sell the

land, Mahajon. He says I should notsell the land. So, how can I survive. I’veenough loan to repay you, if I don’t sellthe land then I’ll not be able to repayyour loans and there’ll be nothing tobuy for my children!”

…He was calling Sikondor Mahajonwith his flattering voice, almost trem-bling, as if a splinter of a missile had hithim on his shoulder at that time.“O Mahajon, please listen to me.”“What?”“I’ve thought of it properly now, I’ve

decided to sell two puras of my land toyou. Now, you give the money.”“O Sarbura, I’ve already told you that

I don’t have money now. Don’t

you listen …?”“I am listening, that’s why I’m asking

money from you.”“O Sarbura, I told you from the very

beginning that I’ve enough money forpurchase of land, but I don’t have mon-ey for giving you on loan, ok?”“You’re right, Mahajon. You’re the best

Mahajon in our area. You’re far, far bet-ter than my own father, Mahajon.”After a while, Sikondor Mahajon went

to his room, came back with a bundleof five thousand rupees in his hand andgave it to Sarpo Engjai…

Sarpo Engjai left the place with fivethousand rupees in his pocket and wentstraight to Dokmoka weekly market…Sarpo Engjai noticed some of his close

friends sitting in the shadow of ashonaru…He saw both Sarthe Rongpiand Lokbok Engti sitting at the wine-selling place put up temporarily by Sang-pi Ronghangpi there. They were drink-ing a bottle of local wine (hor – arak)which had been purchased from her afew minutes earlier. Sarthe Rongpi sud-denly noticed Sarpo Engjai.“Hello, phuhai, where from?”

“No, not from anywhere. I was atSikondor Mahajon’s house.”“For what? Have you got money?”“No, phuhai, I’ve not. Of course, he

gave me some amount, I should notspeak ill of him!”“How much did you get, phuhai?”“Only five thousand. I asked for

twenty thousand, but he said there wasno money, he told me to come tomor-row again.”“Five thousand is enough money,

phuhai! But, he told me that there wasno money with him! I think this long

bearded man has a singular choice inpeople!” He thought this again and againwithout saying anything.“What’re you doing here?” asked Sar-

po Engjai with a smart, tricky smile onhis face.

“You see, I met my brother-in-law,Lokbok, while going to the market,phuhai!” replied Sarthe Rongpi.

After sipping a little amount ofwine from his cup, Lokbok Engtialso insisted Sarpo Engjai to jointhem, saying: “Well, armo, pleasetake your seat. Here is a cup foryou, the wine tastes very strong.” “It’s alright for me. Well, let me

share with you.”“O anihai, give me one more bot-

tle; we don’t meet armo all the time.”Sangpi Ronghangpi took out a bot-

tle of wine from her basket, gave itto Lokbok Engti and said somethingto him with an unknowable smileon her face. “Here it is. Not on credit, ok?”“Don’t be afraid, anihai, you need

not worry about money. Ten rupees,isn’t it? Here it is.” Saying this, he

took out a dirty ten rupee note fromhis pocket and gave it to her immedi-ately. In the meantime, Sarpo Engjaialso looked at his pocket and smelt somefresh one hundred rupees notes. Thisexcited him very much and he asked foranother bottle of wine to buy. “Alright, give me one bottle. It’s not

possible to meet each other at phuhai’salways. I want to offer this to him as amark of honour!”“There’s only one bottle left, here it

is!”…After a while, Dhansing Engjai, the son

of Sarpo Engjai, reached the place andsaw his father busy drinking wine in theopen with his friends. He was coming

from Diphu to his house to collect hisration for the month. He felt very muchashamed of his father’s behaviour…“Papa, why you here now?” Looking

at his father with great surprise, Dhans-ing asked him in a gentle voice.“Who’s here to call me papa?”“I’m Dhansing. You didn’t come to Di-

phu, that’s why I’ve come home today.”“No reason to come here. If you want

anything, why don’t you collect it from home?”“You’re busy drinking here in the mar-

ketplace. How can I collect it from home?”“Oh, you want money, isn’t it? Do

you think that I don’t have money? Doyou think that I can’t manage it? Hereis the money. You take however muchyou want!”Saying this, he took out a bundle of

hundred rupee notes from his pocketand threw it away towards the Ko-rkanthi river. He did not know wherethe bundle fell that night. It all hap-pened while he was not in his sensesfrom drinking a large amount of thelocal brew.Sarpo Engjai regained his conscious-

ness at midnight. He could see no onebeside him… He tried to find out wherehe had been lying in the cold. He couldnot locate the area initially, because itwas foggy around him…He had to passthe whole night lying alongside the mainroad of Dokmoka Bazaar…Next day, in the morning, the villagers

of Harbara Rongphar village got to seea good number of hundred rupee notesfloating in the waters of Korkanthi riv-er and on its banks while they werebusy catching fish on the occasion ofKarbi Ok-kepru… Each and every onepresent there tried to catch them andmany of them could pick up manyhundred rupee notes instead of fishon that day… �

Dhaneswar Engti, Joint Secretary of KarbiAnglolg Autonomous Council, is a writer andpoet. His books include Candle of the Nightand The Endless Journey of a Poet. Threebooks are forthcoming from Global Pub-lishing House. This story was written origi-nally in Karbi and has been translated by theauthor himself.

BOOK ABLENews: Degree conferred Padmashri awardee Prof. LaltluanglianaKhiangte has been conferred the degree ofDoctor of Divinity on 12 March at the 10thConvocation of The Trinity College &Seminar, Sielmat, Churrachandpur,Manipur for his contribution in the fieldof language, literature, culture andreligious activities for the last 25 years.Prof. Khiange is a member of the North

East Writers’ Forum and Dean of School of Education & Humanities,Manipur University.

News: Sahitya AkademiseminarSahitya Akademi organised a seminarentitled ‘Tales of Love, Betrayal and Death in the Indian Literature’ from 16thto 18th March at Chandigarh. It wasattended by two poets from the Northeast,Desmond Kharmawphlang and UddipanaGoswami. Others who presented papersincluded Kavita Sharma, Alok Bhalla,Mahesh Sharma, Kishor Gaikwad,Navspreet Kaur, Paramjit Judge, Pankaj K Singh, among others.

CFP: National SeminarOrganiser & venue: Amity Institute ofEnglish Studies and Research, NoidaTheme: Dickens Beyond the AgesDate: 4 April 2012Occasion: Bicentenary Birth Anniversaryof Charles Dickens (1812-2012) What to submit: Abstracts (300 words) andpapers (2500-4000 words)Deadlines: For Abstract: 25 March 2012

For papers: 31 March 2012Contact: Shashi Shekhar Singh

+91 9971711928, +91 120 4392619Dipankar Sukul

+91 9717670560, +91 120 4392903Rohan Ghose Chaudhuri

+91 9910628375, +91 120 4392903

iNKPOTDhaneswar Engti

For twenty yearsI have been carrying around The same routine morningsThe same routine days.Only the furniture ever changes colour.A pile of files on the table(These files enclose how many hopesAnd how many sighs of how many lives?)

When the gong strikes,The fragrance of incense and sandal Wafts in through the long verandahAnd She enters through my open window, softly,Breaking through the cloudy skies.She too might feel the desireOf embracing the sun.And just then, The blank pages on my table fill upWith so many noises and a few scribbles.I feel a little afraidWill this unspoken path suddenly break out intospeech?

As soon as the smell of the incense dies out

She leaves and my room drowns in silence, yetagain.

I try yet again at the open windowTo recapture the morning’s fragrance on thelong verandah.

I know tomorrow again, the long verandah willfill upWith today’s same fragrance.Her footsteps will enliven yet againThis little room, will I find then once again,The lost colourful dream my mother gave meso long ago?

(Is this emotion perhaps like warWhich needs no rules?)

Yet, once again, those routineMornings and days of mine…

(The poem was written during a sudden curfew callduring the Karbi-Dimasa ethnic riots in 2005 whichforced the poet to remain indoors for long)

Gradually my unbridled belief –Shyly, you did not open your mouth tospeakThat in truth, your heart drowned in thisghat.

What is my fault?I am the hill born poet of the rippling streamOn a limpid evening in jhumiya twilight(Apparently Khiti Bora also does not know Who first built the ghat at the Jiya Juri’sbanks)

If I did not speak straight, you might notunderstand.

The sun rises along the red parting of yourmother’s hairYour father is of the monsoon fields – ‘EiRonga, barhi lo, ghur ghur’Fistfuls of gold in the autumn fields.

My father in the wilderness of the horizonJeth is the month of jhum: fire, spark, seed:‘Let it burn nicely –Only then will they grow abundantly – sub-ok, hen, thengthe…’

Which way does sun rises, which way it setsMy mother doesn’t keep track

The sun means a few moments bouncingaround(My mother does not wear sindoor in theparting of her hair)

You might know already,Jhum means the unfertile sweat of slopinghillsA torrential downpour in the Axar monthWhere swim and sink my mother’s year-long dreams of a hearth

Just like that, the evenings climb upstreamfrom my mother’s chinAnd, where the duk starts – just there –Drowns the daily drowning sun

There’s flow in the Langpi’s stream – there’sflow in my poetryAnd yet, in the suburbs of multiformityIn the dreamlike dusk one day, you –You had given me the azure vocabulary oflove: a sky blue shirt –

I don’t think I will be able to give it back toyou.

(Meanings of Karbi words used: subok, thengthe,hen – various jhum crops; duk – long black tattoodone by Karbi women from hair parting to chin)

An elegy on a Jhumiya evening

iNKPOTTranslation: Uddipana Goswami

Assistant Commissioner of Taxes in Bongaigaon, Sar-et Hanse has compiled a Karbi col-lection of poems, Nepei Kapareng Athak Aso.

Arun Teron, District Primary Education Official under Karbi Autonomous Coucil, is a poet andwriter who has authored Golpo Nayak Bisari, Nekanghon and Mur Prem.

SAR-ET HANSEThis emotion, like war…ARUN TERON

The land of our fathers