Angst.

Circa June 2001. A young girl barely out of her teens landed in Delhi.

Heart of India. Mecca of quality education. With stars in her eyes and dreams of carving out her place in the big city of Dilli, she started on a journey of discovery, battled with the odds and came out somewhat unscathed if a bit disillusioned, by the stark realities of life and confused as to the purpose of her life. But the experience was interesting and she learned much, mostly questioned about her identity and left surprised by the inability to melt into the colorful tapestry of varied cultures that Delhi is. Because she stood out in the crowd. Not that she did not try. She just happened to be a Northeasterner……or to the Delhiite a 'Chinki!' 

That was me. 

Seven years in Delhi and now I consider myself a true blue Delhiite.  I crib about all things Dilli and yet take offence when people talk-thrash Delhi. I often boast about all that Dilli has to offer and advertise Delhi to family and friends in other cities. But then living in Delhi for the last seven years has made me so aware of my real identity. Never have I been singularly made aware of my alienness or difference.

I often discuss this phenomenon with fellow Northeasterners and we all seem to agree that this is true. Oh yes! I do have many lovely non-NE friends who do not make me feel like I am so different and empathize with me when I recount the harrowing experiences I have had. Some celebrate and enjoy my different-ness and some say we are all the same when you come down to it. They usually say by way of comforting me that these things happen because not many people are educated enough to mind their own business or something like that.

Most frequently asked question.
Where from ma’am? Darjeeling? No. Northeast. Oh I know Manipur nice place (Aha! How many times have you visited? Comes to my mind but I keep a straight face and mouth shut) I say Nagaland. Blank stares or oh Assam ke paas? Maobadi bahut hai vaha!  (Lots of terrorists out there) I just pass on and they will mumble, “hindi nahin aati hoonge unko toh…..” (Guess she doesn't know hindi) I smile to myself.

Now the Northeast is many states besides Assam and Manipur and hello! Darjeeling is not one of the Northeast States. And I don’t know of any 'maobadis' in the northeast. I know what they mean when they say that though. And most times I have to stop myself from giving them a lesson in geography there and then. Of course! I am not an expert in geography but I don’t blindly assume (and there is always google). I have had my share of embarrassing moments due to my limited knowledge but I am sure I have not made anyone feel like an alien.

Once I was interviewed by a correspondent for a popular national daily. She wanted me to recount instances of feeling discriminated or treated differently. I told her about some typical things which happen to us girls from the NE and she refused to believe me.  Well I said, “ If you don’t believe the typical then how will you ever fathom the peculiar stuff which happen sometimes because you look different?” Our conversation never made it to print.

Ok. In delhi most girls get stared at, pinched, eve teased and face the odd stalking. But  we, NE girls often face a great deal of unwanted male attention because firstly, assumptions about our so called friendliness,  obvious difference in appearance and sometimes attire, and because, we usually shrug it off unless it is too much to take. Obviously we’ve got more important things to attend to. But I tell you this. I have walked around Delhi in nice salwar kameez suits and covered from head to toe but hey! I did not get less stares or comments. So there! Down with the “what you wear is what you attract” theory!

I don’t want to feel and project myself as a victim but one cannot help feeling so when you are reminded of your “different-ness” day in and out. On the bus, auto, at the grocers, markets, malls. Almost everywhere. Most days I say to myself, “Grin and bear it!” and yes. We get used to it and have lived with it. But there lies the irony. Why should I have to live with it?

Delhi is as much my city as anyone's who lives here. Now why do I have to carry an invisible but obvious tag and have to get used to certain treatments, due to my being first, a female and secondly, a female from the NE? Isn’t India a country with cultural diversity as its USP? Why is there so much prejudice, labelling and discrimination?

One thing I can assure you of and that is, if you ever set foot in any part of the Northeast, you will only get to feel like an important guest. Oh yes. We have our prejudices and stereotypes. Guilty! But no one, I repeat, “No one” will call you names to your face (Behind your back perhaps!) unless you do something hideous.

February 2010. Now my stint with Delhi is over and I am moving on, taking with me memories, some sweet and some bitter, armed with sharpened wits and university degrees. I know I will miss Delhi. And I hope it gets rid of the not-so-pleasant parts soon. And maybe I’ll be greeted with newer and more pleasant nicknames next time I visit. And I dream of the day when I will be stared at because I am a beautiful creature, worth a second look, and not because I have the features of a Northeastern girl! (Which I am proud of, by the way!)

Last night.

Last night I dreamt of you.

It was back in the days we laughed,

And held hands and looked into each other’s eyes.

I could feel your breath on my neck,

As you whispered into my ears.

For the life of me, I can’t recall what it was

You said but my heart was light and happy.

Sunny days, like they used to be.

If you could read my mind....

A song I totally love. So poignant and honest. I wish I could write like this.

If you could read my mind, love,
What a tale my thoughts could tell.
Just like an old time movie,
'Bout a ghost from a wishing well.
In a castle dark or a fortress strong,
With chains upon my feet.
You know that ghost is me.
And I will never be set free
As long as I'm a ghost that you can't see. 
                                        
If I could read your mind, love,
What a tale your thoughts could tell.
Just like a paperback novel,
The kind the drugstores sell.
Then you reached the part where the heartaches come,
The hero would be me.
But heroes often fail,
And you won't read that book again
Because the ending's just too hard to take!
                                        
I'd walk away like a movie star
Who gets burned in a three way script.
Enter number two:
A movie queen to play the scene
Of bringing all the good things out in me.
But for now, love, let's be real;
I never thought I could  feel this way
And I've got to say that I just don't get it.
I don't know where we went wrong,
But the feeling's gone
And I just can't get it back. 
                                        
If you could read my mind, love,
What a tale my thoughts could tell.
Just like an old time movie,
'Bout a ghost from a wishing well.
In a castle dark or a fortress strong.
With chains upon my feet.
But stories always end,
And if you read between the lines,
You'd know that I'm just tryin' to understand
The feelin's that you lack.
I never thought I could feel this way
And I've got to say that I just don't get it.
I don't know where we went wrong,
But the feeling's gone
And I just can't get it back!

-----------Gordon Lightfoot- 1969

I used to...

Photo source: Internet

I used to rise with the sun.

I used to dream of love.

I used to chase butterflies.

I used to laugh and frolic.

I used to chatter and giggle.

I used to delight in simple joys.

I used to love dancing in the rain,

And feel the cool wet grass below my tiny feet.

I used to follow rainbows.

I used to have stars in my eyes and flowers in my hair,

But love left me.

Now I only cry into the night.

Loneliness and silence are my constant company.

I am broken and dead inside.

I used to be alive,

Now I’m only a soul-less empty shell.

Nothing to forgive

You took away my dreams and filled them up with sand.

When I tried to hold on for dear life, they all slipped out of my grasp.

Am I destined to be alone? 

Gasping with the empty hole left behind?

I am tired beyond exhaustion but my heart refuses to forget.

What could have been if only you stay and make good your promises?

I cannot look at the moon without you in my head.

But you have clean forgotten all that I meant to you.

I know in my bones you made a decision.

To stop loving me or maybe you never loved at all.

And all I am left with are snatches of memory.

Memories I can’t even relive by sharing or flaunt.

What good is love that you can’t declare?

I thought it would be enough to know I am loved.

But now I know even that isn’t mine to boast.

You beg me for forgiveness.

If only sorry could make the pain go away,

I’d buy them by the dozens in store.

Your girl

Yesterday I saw your girl.

She kinda gave me the eye.

Maybe she knows something.

And maybe she hasn’t a clue.

But her eyes told me she was happy.-

To have you and know she has you.

Like she had a happy secret to spill.

Or maybe she saw my jealous eyes.

But knows she need not fear.

For you are all hers, tied and stamped.

And now that we have killed the fire,

Perhaps she and I can be pals?

And share a cuppa or two and maybe even go girly shopping?

I will smell you on her and feel close to you.

Maybe we can all hold hands, you right there in the middle.

And go visit the places we once loved.

But maybe I’d rather just hide around the corner,

And watch you smile at her.

And remember the times you did the same at me.

Remembering Azutsa.

My Grandparents make an interesting topic of discussion any day.

Though both of my Grandfathers passed away too long ago so I never really knew them.

They were casualties of the Naga Freedom Movement in the early 60's; a war unacknowledged but of much consequence to the many lives affected. At least, they died for a worthy cause. Both of them, I am told, were admired and respected in our village, for they were self-made, strong and wise.

I didn't know my paternal Grandmother at all. I don't even have a photograph to remember her by. All I know of her is through my father's memories of her. But she was a strong lady who brought up seven children, four of them her own and three, her husband's children from an earlier marriage; all on her own in a time of war and the harsh times that followed. She passed away when I was two or three.

My Maternal Grandmother is the one person I remember the most, though we didn't get to spend much time together. 'Azutsa' we called her. (Nobilü was her name, literally translated as "Only daughter"). That's "Grandma" in Chokri Naga language. We belong to one of the Naga tribes of the Hills of Northeast India, a small and unique group of people. We are mainly agriculturists. My grandparents were and most people living in the villages still are. Those of us who have moved to the towns and cities have lost touch with the old ways; except for enjoying the festivals and food and of course, the exquisite rice beer which no one refuses.

Azutsa used to brew a fine beer in her big kitchen and whenever we went to the village, (our visits were rare though) she would sit us in her lap in turns and feed us the delicious rice cakes from which she brewed her special beer.

Mom would admonish her initially but join us eventually and would even take a few sips out of  Azutsa's mug when we weren't looking.

Azutsa was a spirited lady, tall, energetic and with a smart retort for every query.

After all, she was the only and favourite daughter of the Village's wisest Chief and later became wife to one of the Village's wealthiest.

Unfortunately for her, four daughters later, the Naga Freedom movement erupted and the Indian onslaught turned her life upside down; Besides wiping out all her material belongings, she was left without a husband and four very young daughters to fend for.

But Azutsa did not give up. She rebuilt her life and sent my mother, her youngest daughter to school (My mother is the first female graduate in our village by the way). Her other daughters had chosen other courses of life. Life was a struggle for Azutsa and her daughters as greedy male relatives forcibly took over the land that was her inheritance. However, her hardwork and never die spirit ensured a roof over their head and food on their table. She somehow managed to put my mom through school and college. When mom finished college Azutsa encouraged her to find a job and stay put in the Capital town of Kohima, with strict instructions to make a good life out there. 

But mom came back to our village and taught in the village school until she got married.

After mom got married and I was born, we moved to Kohima for good and Azutsa came to visit us often but she never stayed more than three days.  She would get bored after fiddling in mom's kitchen garden for a few days and say her paddy fields were missing her. Early next morning, she would be gone.

As we started school and then college, we saw less and less of her.

She was growing old and she couldn't take the five hour car journey to Kohima because she would get carsick. She would to say she'd rather walk like she used to but now old age would not permit her to make the day long journey on foot.  And we would not let her do that but it was hard for us to plan a trip to the village so often. So we would barely see each other once a year.

Azutsa always sent glad tidings and sweet smelling rice after every harvest from her granaries and we would send her sugar. Besides the car sickness, Azutsa hardly got sick or even if she did, she wasn't one to complain so no one knew. My aunts kept coming in to town with some ailment or the other, but never her. In fact, as she grew really old, my uncles had to stop her from going out to the fields since they were a good two hour trek from the village. But Azutsa loved to be among her green fields and wood apples and peaches and no one could keep her indoors.

In 2002, while doing my undergraduate studies in Delhi and I would call home for news once a month. On one such call, dad informed me that Azutsa was gone. It was a sad day for me.

She had gone to check on the streams feeding water to her paddies, in spite of my uncles' telling her not to since it was raining heavily. She suffered a fatal stroke out there in the woods and they found her in the evening among her beloved greens, peacefully dead.

Azutsa wasn't a millionaire and you wouldn't hear about her in the papers but she was special. 

I have an old photograph of her taken sometime in the early 90s. She is holding her favourite mug and smiling into the camera while trying to keep the sun out of her eyes. Azutsa always had this sparkle in her eyes and it was infectious. She never told us what we should be doing or not doing but led by example and did what had to be done. She earned her place in Society and was well respected. She never complained or boasted but somehow got her point across.

Most of all, she had much laughter to share. And she taught us to 'never give up'.

She had this ability to smile through adversity and not get embittered by the harshness of life. 

I am proud to be her granddaughter and more so, when the elders of my village remark that I have my Azutsa's spirit. I know I will be just fine in life if I were to inherit an ounce of that spirit. 

My mother thinks I do. As for me, I dare to hope.