EASTERN DIARIES.

2010-06-27T05:38:00.000-07:00

Part 1.

July, 2008.

A lone traveler generally faces an onslaught of questions, “Didn’t you get bored” or “weren’t you lonely”. Or even better (or worse), people contort their face to display an expression of pity and disdain for such a fate to have befallen the traveler so as to travel alone. The pouty-lips-crinkled-nose-slight-furrow-on-the-forehead is otherwise reserved as a reaction upon meeting a gonorrhea patient. I fall in another extreme category which generally scares single travelers with a huge smile and a loud, “really”. I had always been jealous of people who travel alone and who avail of its many benefits - no changing schedules according to someone else’s whims and fancies, the freedom to see things at one’s own pace and the sheer pleasure of being a master of one’s own will. By 2008 I was going to be a law graduate and yet had never traveled alone. I felt this great pressure to travel alone, as if it were a rite of passage, my very own Bar Mitzvah (only those very close to me would know how much that means to me!). I was looking forward to a sense of independence, of absolute freedom and the promise of unfettered wanderings to the far ends of the earth.

My wanderings, however, took me to the wild and undiscovered corners of India. The north east.

A place topographically, culturally and ethnically so diverse that only its geographical placing in India was considered apt to describe the area. I had always dreamt of going to the north east, having conjured up images of lush mountains, rich tribal heritage and wistful churches. A verdant land still unspoilt by man. Of course, as Wilde had said, illusion is the first of all pleasures. The north east is hardly a quiet place. It has for the past few decades been witness to tremendous political and ethnic turmoil. The hills and plains of what was once Greater Assam have witnessed migrations from Tibet, Burma and China over centuries, making this region a melting pot of ethnicities, languages and cultures. Recent migrations from mainland India, Nepal and Bangladesh have complicated the already muddled and scrambled ethnic lines of the region. The scarce land and its natural resources and the vast number of communities living off it, and fighting for it, have caused ethnic and secessionist violence for years now. The rich biodiversity of the region has also attracted a number of industries, including timber and mining, which threatens the fragile eco-system of the region. Nonetheless, the two words still hold its hypnotic charm. The multiple tragedies of the north east have deepened the sense of melancholiaand exacerbated its ruined mythology. Maybe it is tragedy that makes up legend and no Shangri La is safe from it, for trouble is always brewing.

My own trip to the north east had been in the planning for a few years now. But sometimes the paucity of time, and at others, that of money, hindered my yearning to visit this region. However, it was a rather morose trip to Mcleodganj with some friends that woke me from my stupor and propelled me to travel alone. During the abovementioned trip, I had rowed very badly with a close friend and to get away from the mess, had started to walk around Mcleodganj alone. And I found that to be a rather enjoyable experience. I decided then that I needed a break from crowds and try and find peace and contentment within myself. And so I set out in search of solitude and joy.

I confessed my intention to travel to the north east to Lalchhanhimi or Himi, a Mizo-Bengali friend who had been my closest confidant for some time. She herself was deeply aware of the beauty and complexity of the region, much like herself, and supported my decision to visit the Meghalaya and Assam as an introductory tour to the north east. She immediately and enthusiastically offered that Jonathan, her then boyfriend, would help me show around. Jonathan, or Jon as we knew him, was a Delhi Univeristy student of Jaintia descent from Meghalaya and I had been interacting with him frequently through Himi. During our meetings, I had found Jon to be extremely knowledgeable, open minded, learned and an eloquent speaker. He obviously knew a lot about Meghalaya particularly, including its dark and deep Shamanistic rituals that aren’t generally spoken about in a majority Presbyterian state. I was indeed very lucky to have him show me around in Meghalaya. All through the trip, Jon was of a calm and composed disposition and never got perturbed by my constant and quite irritating questioning.

To facilitate this trip, I also used the good services of my always well connected father. He was good friends with an IAS officer of the Meghalaya cadre who had been living in Shillong for many years and this very kind gentleman arranged my stay. Wonderfully, in an anti-Murphy’s Laws way, as things had to go right, they did. My father’s friend, a learned, honest and kind officer, arranged for my stay in the Circuit House, conveniently located right next to his house in the Labhan area of Shillong. I wonder if this most suspicious accommodation has something to do with conspiratory exchanges between my father and Mr. Ranjan, the latter having been appointed as a personal spy to keep a watch on all my moves.

Conspiracy theories aside, my plotting and planning was bearing fruit. All pieces of my plan had fallen right in place. The adventure was about to begin.

Blood

2010-06-24T02:44:00.000-07:00

She passes many vacant afternoons

Playing with the blood that flows out of her eyes

Its velvety texture caressing her face

Exuding various smells and singing ancient songs

Songs that speak of birth and death

Of the bondage of bleeding and its gifts and pain

Laments of the sweet pain of love that could have been

Whispers and accusations from God and men

The scarlet flow traced all her lives

Drenching her skin with its menstrual stench

Changing contours with its pungent fecundity

The blood from her eyes collects at her feet

She knows that all the blood is not her own

Small puddles that reflect the millions of small tragedies

And joins streams flowing from the distant spread legs of womankind

And dribbling from severed heads of the slaughtered innocent

It coalesces into a swirling mass in a sacrificial pit

Wails and screams accompany that slithering tide

The life force still spurting out of slit necks

Squirting out in ejaculatory spurts

Every crimson projectile was a river of untold oppression

Every drop the death of a thousand unsung dreams

The surface was licked dry by the hard saffron air dancing above

Islands of clot float as remnants of that loveless fornication

Union brings birth from blood and man they sang

But all she heard was the screams of broken dreams

But her eyes have now run dry,

Her daughter will now cry for her, bleed for her

A prayer

2008-10-09T04:08:00.000-07:00

I pray to a hope
I cling to a wisp
to the waters so buoyant
to the air so crisp

That they blow me away
that they wash me afar
To the point of nullity
Cold Sun, Black Star.

Hope lies Eternal

2008-10-09T04:06:00.000-07:00

When my body is broken,

into a thousand shards

I hope that one becomes a star

and ever can I watch you sleep

Have a glimpse into your dreams

To kiss your visage with

a gentle glow, a blessed sigh.

Sojourn of the Eternal Vagabond

EASTERN DIARIES.

Blood

A prayer

Hope lies Eternal