Early Days
Early days: (Penned on 24th February 2007)
Memory is a great gift of life to man, it is like catalogued books in a shelf. Staring up at the blank roof I see my biography written in a pictographic text. I hopped back to the days when I was in the cage of childhood where my days were dedicated to a carefree lifestyle. Nothing goes out nothing seems to flow in. Life appears to be a floating boat, float, float and float in the innocence of eternity.
I was never that type of a goody goody and flexible child or that intelligent type. The glory of life lies in how well you can cheat and beat your opponents in both crooked and justifiable stratagems. The broken bone on my right foot and my once disjointed right hand is the emblem of being a good village boy. I deserved an acknowledgement for my achievements but the world recognises you only if you are foolish and dull to fit into the stereo type Sunday school pastors. My parents at some point of time might have thought that I should have been better off if I were not born at all: meaning I will be at least meek and submissive in front of the Almighty God. Anyway that was me and even now I’m not that much changed except for uncountable miscellaneous mischievous achievement feathers I picked up in my process of growth.
If you are not that mischievous type you might not enjoy reading this crap, your only benefit in the long run will be the desire to mould your child in a flexi and topsy turvy style. If you are a city boy there will be immense variation in your version of the word, “mischief” and mine. Anyway let’s try finding the point of intersection. My best friend was my catapult. A serious confession, I was never good in shooting down intended targets, and I seriously doubt whether I have killed any wild fowl in my whole catapulting career. However, I too have an achievement, I never miss whenever I shoot at the eyes of buffaloes and cows and the horns. That was somewhat bloody but worth celebrating if you are not caught. My best chum at that time was equally mischievous but less heartened than me, because it was always he who blurted out the fact whenever he sees a rod in the hands of his parents. Thinking that confession will lessen the consequence of the crime and punishment he used to confess even before the first strike. That was the reason why I used to hate him but grudges when you are a child does not go beyond sunset. That was the time this great buffalo eyes marksman was sent to school to taste the rod of learning the endless family trees of A B C…. and 1, 2, 3…. I still wonder why I was sent far away from home in spite of my own village having a primary school where you are allowed to carry catapults and stones along with the limited stock of books. I’m sure I would really have enjoyed to the fullest with those matriculate old teachers. From what my parents discussed I came realise that they are sending me away to a school where there are no holidays even if the headmaster’s wife is ill, son is coming home or his field is not getting properly irrigated etc, etc. That was the point when I started thinking my parents doesn’t love me. Since my going away from home was mandatory my last request and prayer to my father was to allow me at least to take along my wooden motor cycle and my catapult to the small town where I was going. I don’t remember exactly the reaction of my father t his only son’s last request, but I’m definite he did gave me a mischievous smile and promised a brand new motorcycle will welcome me home on my vacation. It is always useless arguing with your elders because they never listen to your genuine pleas, needs and necessities. Mom packed my few belongings, making a careful selection in order not to pack trousers with spectacle holes on the backside along with the more decent ones. I always love whatever belongs to me and I felt sad on seeing the selection that was done. I think I really mourned at heart and find it hard to digest living without short pants and trousers without holes on the butt. Anyway I missed everything that was village style for a whole year because I was denied the privilege of coming home even during the vacation. I remember pa coming when the vacation just started. The sight of seeing pa standing in front of me was like seeing God himself whom I perceived is the incarnation of mercy who will lead you home where you find eternity. But I was wrong; pa talked to the warden and strikes a deal to let his son stay back in the boarding. To me he only said,
“I’ll come back tomorrow to take you home,”
Leaving a five-rupee note in my hand left in a jiffy as if he had won the battle of Waterloo. It was when he didn’t turn up the next day till late in the night that I came to know I have bartered my freedom for five rupees. I have to stay back for my own foolishness. The habit of bedwetting was sort of an addiction at that time. It must have been a great torture for my roommate living in a cell with the sweet smell of filtered water and am damn sure the caretaker of the boarding would have cursed my bladder and kidneys for being so weak and uncontrollable.
The whole year I struggled with A, B, C and 1, 2, 3, and their brothers and sisters. At the year end pa came to take me home. Pa told me “you have topped the class”. “Funny” I thought, remembering that I have practically slept through the year. I still remember the day I fell off from my bench and hurt my nose which bled like a monsoon spring. Those days means of transportation was mainly foot walk. The distance between the town and my village is around thirty five kilometres. Maybe the government was to poor or may be was busy dozing and making money for there was to transport system in place though there was a good metalled road. Pa carried me most of the way and the joy of dozing off on someone’s back is reward enough to forgive even if the person have once deprived your freedom for five rupees.
I was given a hero’s welcome at home. All my friends came to investigate and find out whether the buffalo eyes marksman has changed or not and even my sisters were really good who otherwise were always busy reporting my misconducts. My best chum who was very fond of confessing was mysteriously absent. I became restless and dived out of home to meet him. He was busy assembling all the raw materials for making a new wooden motor cycle.
“Oh chinao I have come back (chinao means brother)” I said and leaned on the door post waiting for his reaction.
He was not surprised, he seems to know I have come back and was probably feeling shy to meet his friend who have seen and tasted town life. I invited him to come home and feast with me on the fattened fowl mom was preparing.
After some moments of silence he blurted out,
“chinao you really missed the greatest fun of your life,”
“What is that fun?” I asked getting really excited.
“You remember Apam who beat us black and blue last year?” he asked.
“Yes.” I said
“He was beaten by the army during the rainy season and many people were also caned.” He said.
His mom interrupted and the conversation ended there. His mom asked,
“son it must be fun living in the town?” not knowing it was my first prison which civilization has build. I simply said yes. The thought that Apam was beaten by the army was quite satiating, but I was curious to know the full story.
At home
My grandfather was a non Christian and don’t give a damn to drinking and brewing local rice beer though there was and is still some stigma attached to the habit. Why I remember my grandfather so dearly even today is he was the first person to invite me to the kingdom of lord Bacchus. My parents were really worried about their inability to convert my grandfather and don’t allow me much to visit his place knowing that he used to offer me drinks. My grandfather on knowing that his eldest grandson has come home came home the next morning to invite me to a feast. What can my parents say to a person who is older and is the lord of the family. They reluctantly let me go and specifically told me not to drink what my grandfather drinks. On my way I asked my confessing friend to join me.
My grandfather was very good in bird trapping and never runs out of stock. The menu for the day was smoked wild birds, rice and of course rice beer. I was still pining to know why Apam and other people were beaten by the army, which I forgot to ask pa. I asked grandpa about the incident and he asked, “Who told you?” He asked quite annoyed and irritated.
Not wanting to expose my weak friend I said “I heard someone talking about it.”
My grandfather narrated the ugly incident that denied me the privilege of coming home in the rainy season. Grandpa narrated how all the men in the village were beaten by the army in the village ground. My instant question was “Was pa also beaten?”
“Yes of course even our village pastor, headman and the headmaster were beaten,” Replied grandpa.
I was really angry and I think that was the day I promised never to accept sweets or chapattis offered by the army, which otherwise I accept with great pleasure.
There was no army camp when I left home but on my return found the highest peak in my village covered by makeshift elephant tents filled with the smell of Desi ghee and rum. The reason for the mass beating was to extract secrets known only to the insurgents who have attacked an army convoy. Sixteen soldiers were killed in the encounter. As revenge they came to my village to punish the villagers who look the same as the insurgents, who of course are homo sapiens like the army and the insurgents. It seems the drama of operation lasted a whole month involving checking, sometimes beating and reporting everyday for those people having the bad luck of having mysterious looks. I will never know what makes a person’s look suspicious. I told my friend not to ever accept anything offered by the army. Except for the sad story the feast was a great Eden experience. I was too innocent to know why me and my friend sprawled and slept on the village roadside when we were sent home and were supposed to be riding a wooden motor cycle down the village slope. On waking up I realised it was mid-day and a funny idea creped into my mind. I dragged my friend all along to the army camp. On reaching the gate asked my friend to do the same. We emptied the contents of our small bladders on the fence as revenge.
My village has two major colonies, the uphill and the down hill. For some unknown reasons the relation between these two parts was never good. I belong to the lower colony. Elders of these two parts used to fight for unknown reasons and the same habit is reflected in the children of the two colonies. Saturdays and Sundays were sort of dedicated to either fighting or wrestling between the children of the colonies away from the reach of the elders. In worse situations the fight turns into serious fight using catapults. Sounds bloody but what make childish is we don’t used hard stones but clods and no shooting above the chest. Violation of the rule invokes the constitution of getting beaten jointly by both the groups. I was always fond of fighting because of the praise you get if you fight fearlessly. And my friends used to think I’m strong and courageous for always winning every fight. The secret of winning a fight when you are young is never to cry even if the kicks and punches are really painful. If you are able to hit back ten times for twenty punches and if you don’t cry you are sure to win. It is not like a boxing match where every count is based on your right strike.
Seriously some punches were pretty painful but I never cried and I was the unbeatable crook who knows the secret of the trade. Full moon nights were the best time for those little fights as it is also for lovers. The children of these two colonies gather on full moon nights in the village ground as if they are going to pray together with catapults and clods inside their pockets. Hard sole shoes are what everyone yearns to have for Christmas, as if God listens to those who wear hard sole shoes. The secret of this fever is, hard sole shoes are good for kicking your opponent’s shin. One good kick is enough to send even Hercules to the kingdom of pain. Lee shoes were in great fashion those days. You know the feather light shoes worn by Bruce Lee. The racks in the market are never out of stock for the international market was not far. One disadvantage of this shoe is it doesn’t match with winter frost. If you are not careful while walking you will end up falling down thousand times a day. It’s a bloody slippery shoe and I don’t know why Bruce Lee has to wear it in all his movies. With seventy five percent of children wearing the shoe, for the elders it must have been fun to watch. Every wearer has to walk like a cat.
My friends seem to miss me most whenever there is a fight. I hate fighting but if I say this things out it would have been a tragedy for the children from my colony and also for me. Christmas days are always hectic for both elders and children. War council meets on the twenty fourth night, for charting out battle plans that will last through New Year day. I don’t really know why people have to demonstrate the theory of “survival of the fittest,” all the time. Well that is none of my business. The whole of Christmas was given away to fighting as usual. The punches and kicks I got that year as Christmas gift is lost forever from my gift catalogue. If you are victorious you are likely to get another spanking at home, if the opponent’s parents come and complain your parents. This is what happens to me very often. And I hate most when parents spank you in front of your opponent’s parents. The only revenge is to arise and go and lick your opponent again at the best opportune time. That Christmas day was the best because apart from the kicking gifts mom gave me some lectures to eat and two three rods to digest. Mom was ignorant that in schools teachers use better rods than those weaving sticks. In schools they use canes that have oily kind of look which you really feel like eating sometimes because of the shiny and shimmering look. If you are super naughty like me no doubt you are the best rod eater in the whole world.
To be a cowboy was always a fashion for me. I don’t know what was wrong with my psyche. I go nuts whenever I see herds of cows and buffaloes. May be I was a cow or a buffalo in my previous life or something like that. I still remember once in class when one of my teachers asked,
“What do you want to become when you grow up?”
I replied, “I want to tend cows.”
I am sure he went mad. No doubt he must have expected me to say, a doctor, pilot or something of that sort. I was never good in praising others and was always straight so I have hurt many feelings. My days in the village were getting over with the passing of New Year day. My last desire was to sneak out to the village pasture with our village cowboy at least for two three days.
One fine day someone answered my prayer, he was none other than our village cowboy. He invited me to go for tending the cows. Further he promised to give me a pear thinking that I may not go if it is for no reward. For me the joy was more than hitting a bull eye with my catapult forget about the pear. He further promised that we both will drink raw milk and eat wild berries whole day. I still remember the endless path we crossed. I was even given the chance to ride on the back of some cows. Oh! That experience was simply great and was greater than the joy of pissing on the gate of the army camp. The whole day was spent in fun as promised. Worry started pricking me in the butt when it was evening, because I have already foreseen Mom waiting for me at the doorstep with her weaving stick. I was really worried for the cowboy also, for he too was in danger of getting some good news from mom. I hope I was born to be lucky at least for that day. Because nothing of my prediction came true everything was calm and quite for it was the day my grandpa passed away in a mysterious way. Only a few days he was so healthy and was drinking beer. Lately, I missed him sometimes thinking that he would have been a great friend if I were grown up at that time. With him vanishes the sweet pots and pots of lovely rice beer. The ways of the gods are really mysterious, they simply take away people who are damn good and cool when you needed them most.
As usual I didn’t cry and my friend confessing was really surprised.
He asked me “why didn’t you cry? Don’t you love him?”
“I love him, but if I cry don’t you think the boys from the upper colony will mock and make fun of me?” I replied
Yes, my grandpa was buried without any formality because he was a non Christian and the ceremony of Non Christian burial was long forgotten. Today I feel like crying thinking that I have not cried on the day I should really cry. Its too late now my grandpa must have already forgiven me for not shedding a single tear for him.
Bird trapping season in my place starts from November and lasts till February. We use sticky gum made from some wild fruits. You just apply the gum evenly on twigs and place them on strategic points in streams where birds come to drink water. I learn the art from my friend as he is a genius at least to me. It’s a very tempting sport and very interesting sight to see the birds trying to escape when they are caught. For the sake of studying I have to leave behind all the good things like bird trapping, pissing on the army gate, hitting bull eyes and most of all riding wooden motor cycle down the village slope wearing torn trousers.
Wooden motors are rarely seen today even in the most remote villages. The wave of change is really great and fast. In matter of decades every nook and corner has really changed. Well let me tell you how wooden motor cycles are made. You cut out wheels from a round wood usually the size of human head. Of course the bigger the wheel the faster the motor cycle will be. Speed is the marvel of all. But if you are using only a simple knife you cannot cut out wheels that are the size of a real motor cycle wheels. The process of making wooden motor cycles, I assume is the same as making spacecrafts by NASA. You make holes of your desire size on the wheels and build the wooden machine. As grease for the wheels we use pork fat or some wild herb that is very slippery when chewed. Chewing the herb is horrible but the desire to create speed maddens you in the same manner as the illusion of salvation maddens a religious fanatic. Even coming to speed competition it is always between the upper colony boys and the lower colony creators. It was a real competition and the creating process is like preparing for the Civil Services.
I was not good in making those masterpiece types so at least in racing I stayed away. The sight of people riding down like duplicated Schumacher is really scary, thinking of the accidents and the dust. At the end of the race everyone appears like moles and rats coming back after a whole day of digging. Since my motor cycles were never fast I always opt for paid trips. The usual fare for one ride down the road was one iron nail or a piece lard (A morsel of pork). If you don’t have either and you need a ride down, your option is to chew the herb one mouthful. Yap, the stink and sticky feel sucks but at the end it’s worth the try. It is real fun with all the village boys gathered in a heap all wearing torn pants. Wearing torn trousers and short pants was real fashion and sometimes you are tempted to think human beings have four eyes two on the head and the other two on the butt. This is the reason why I miss my village whenever I see someone wearing spectacles.
One more festival and I will be really gone from the village, maybe for a whole year again. The seed sowing festival (Luira) is the first festival of the year excepting New Year. In my heart I hoped the army won’t beat up people that year at least in the rainy season. For I want to be home in the rainy season to witness the transplanting of rice. To watch a person ploughing with his buffalo is real fun, believe me. And think of robbing bird nest and rearing up young birds it is real adventure which I never want to miss. And at heart I pray the insurgents or the so called freedom fighters don’t attack army convoys at least in the rainy season. This is what you call a boy’s fancy. Well, Luira came and passed away so soon. I remember some old people of grandpa’s age singing Folk songs adorn in traditional dress and eating away pork of computer’s mouse size as if they were pizza.
Before two days of my leaving home mom stuffed something into my mouth and tells me to chew properly and swallow. I obeyed without any questions and protest. Later I asked “What was it?”
Mom said, “Roasted bat?”
I didn’t dare to ask the reason. However, when I grew up I come across one famous superstition for curing bedwetting habit was to give roasted bat. Mysteriously that year I stopped bedwetting. Later, when I came to know about the superstition I was nearly carried away, but I realized that the stopping part was due to fellow boarders creating too much fun out of it. After beating up many and bearing all the beatings it was finally time for me to say goodbye again to the hearth I love and the place I enjoyed most.
The Burden.
Life is an iterative process of learning. No matter how reluctant you are to learn, you are practically dragged into it. It is the same a mom stuffing roasted bat into my mouth. Caning, twisting your ears and pinching your cheeks when you don’t learn your lessons are not something desirable. I prefer standing on the bench for about fifteen minutes as the best of punishments. Sometimes when I’m too lazy to study I go really prepared to get any kind of punishment. I was always too sure the teachers won’t kick you at the shin with hard sole shoes that was a great relief. For unknown reasons I was upgraded that year. Meaning I was asked to sit in a class where I should actually be there the following year. The news was shocking, maybe as painful as the news of my first evacuation notice from the village for the sake of studying. Kicking someone’s shin was not that much in fashion in the town and mainly in schools. I was feeling sad because I was one of the smallest fiends in that new class. One fiend of my size was there, and I’m sure he was as elated as me when we met in the same class. “He must have suffered like hell in the previous year in the midst of elephants,” I thought. Schools are sometimes an institution for learning kick boxing, I mean after class and of course in secluded places. The first day itself we got to know each other and the joy was comparable to meeting your real brother in a big city. That very day our unity bond was signed and sealed. Themthem is the name by which he is called, and till date he remains true to his name, (Themthem means the brilliant one). On the first day of class I was nicknamed “Kuirei,” meaning “big head.” I know I have a big and rounded head but I don’t know why people need to remind me of what I myself knew so well. Well traditions are hard to die. In olden days it is said that people born with crooked legs are named “Crooked leg,” those born with large ears are named “wagging ear,” and so on. I was so furious when I was called “Kuirei” but after all what can I do? Those people were bigger and stronger than me and the fact is I don’t stand a chance against fifty students inside the class. They were just exercising their democratic rights of calling names.
Themthem is calm and cool by nature but I know that somewhere deep inside his mind he has some names he wants to lick and beat physically. This was the year Themthem and I and the rest of the class started learning about Anil and Sarita and their papa and mother. I think that was social studies but I’m not sure, because I was greatly carried away by the thought of meeting these persons in reality, knowing little that they don’t exist in the village and town I know of. Apart from learning everyday lessons, I picked up the art of trading and gambling, using marble and cigarette covers. You know it was real fun playing marble, rub the dust on your uniform pants, sniffing your nose ten times in two minute. Stealing and cheating was feared like anything because there is a superstition that your ears will go off if you lie or cheat. Later I discovered that the superstition was created by the greatest of all cheaters and liars. Life goes on so swift with themthem around because he never says no to my request and I in turn make it a point to say always yes to his requests. That year there was only one fight and I think it was a great relief. As far as I can recollect it was for Themthem that we together conspired and beat up one boy bigger and stronger than both of us combined. We waited for that villain whole evening in the boarding toilet, as if we were down with serious constipation. If you really want to assault someone it is really worst than constipation. He finally came like Hitler going to inspect one of his Gestapo camps. I leapt up to take stock of the ambush.
“Awung, why do you always torture Themthem?” was my first question.
“Get lost you little humming birds.” Was his instinctual response.
I was fully prepared for the situation wearing my hard soled shoe known by the brand name, “naughty boy.” Since his first appearance I was eyeing for his shins, typical village style known little to town boys like this Awung. He was so confident that two humming birds are hopeless in front of a hawk. He pushed me hard and I landed on one of the toilet doors. Themthem was getting nervous and it was obvious.
“Themthem, come.” I shouted. I stood up and went forward, Themthem follow suit. Awung was still sort of calm and confident that the biting of ant is not very painful. I gave my best shot at his right shin and the target was right because the next moment he went down howling like a hungry vixen.
“Kick.” I shouted to Themthem who was still dumbfounded.
We kicked and punched until the big hawk started howling and crying. Crying was the limit and that was time for us to run away from the battlefield.
That evening there was no food for Themthem and me as punishment. Apart from this the little fiends were given fifteen strokes of cane sweets each. The punishment was worth enduring if you have got the privilege to see a big boy crying in front of you. “No food” was just to scare us of course because we were summoned by our boarding master before bed to his chambers. Fearing that another punishment must be waiting for us we went with a sort of shivering feeling. On entering his room our boarding master was smiling instead of grinding his teeth as was his usual way.
“Kuirei (this name has by now replaced my real name), Themthem why did you beat up Awung?” was his first question.
“Sir, Sir, he always troubled us.” I replied.
“Is it true Themthem?” He asked Themthem not convinced.
“Yes sir.” That was it. Teachers really believe brilliant students like Themthem even if they lie sometimes. I mean it was a lie because Awung never troubled me.
“Why didn’t you report to me?” was the sealing question to which we don’t have response.
We remained silent and for me it was like eternity. To our relief our boarding master finally warned us not to repeat the same thing again. May be he really believed that the stage of starting and winning fights are only for big boys. That day we ate with our boarding master and instead of the usual dal, cabbage and potato we were given chicken. Oh! It was simply great he treated us with chicken for beating up our fellow boarder. For a while I was carried away by the thought that beating up elders is really worth. If there is any sort of addiction attached to it you will only get to addicted chicken. That was the last fight inside the boarding I bet. Finally we were released from that chicken prison to be careful in the future and to report instead of kicking people’s shin.
One of the things I hated about boarding life is the early morning whistle sound blown by the boarding master to get us ready for the day.
“Wake up boys.” Was the usual sound which sounds like firecrackers of Depawali.
It is always the sweet time to sleep and snore. For this reason I curse the inventor of the whistle. Whistles are meant to be used in sports I don’t really know why in the hell they use them in boarding and army camps. It was not always because of the whistle sound that I wake up but it was due to my overflowing tank. Sometimes I dreamt of searching for a place to pee, but there will be someone always around when I was just about to start. That was the usual time the whistle blew. Wake up a bit late, your breakfast is robbed and you are sure to get caned. The breakfast is not that worth, but getting caned first thing in the morning is something of a bad omen as you are sure to get more during the seven classes during the day. The habit of taking bath early in the morning is another scary side of boarding life. When you are lazy even to brush your teeth how can you take bath? Getting fifteen strokes of cane sweets is much preferable. However, rules are sometimes rigid and makers of rules don’t consider the chilly climate of the hills.
The joy of boarding life lies in breaking the rules sometimes. Stay in the bathroom for ten minutes wash your head or simple dampen it and come out shivering as if you have just swam in ice cold water, that’s it. And I’m sure I was not the inventor but millions of boarders have done it over and over again. One soap bar lasted for months and that’s the sign of our hygienic lifestyle. Anyway no one have the leisure to inspect how many soap bars you use in a month. Even the boarding master has many things to attend to and probably have no time to inspect I guess. Study hour in the morning is short so it is not much trouble but evening hours are a real pain in the ass. You have to stay clued to your chair for a stretch of three hours like a moron because it was mandatory. Senior students study for extra hours and I used to wonder how they bear the pricking sensation in the butt. Sometimes even Themthem use to sit for extra hours and I think he spend the extra hours looking through the pictures though I don’t really know. Brilliant students are really crazy and they seem to care nothing about sleep. Once I was so tempted and asked Themthem, “What do you study?”
“Books, our subjects.” Was the reply.
“What is there to study for extra hours?” I asked again not satisfied.
He kept quiet which means he has no answer. This is Themthem who never complains and works and studies like a professional army mule. He has no heart to complain when we were asked to do gardening after class. We are sometimes sent for collecting fodder for those lazy pigs in the sty along with the older boys. Oh it was like hell and when you come back dead tired from trekking and complaining, dal and cabbage awaits your return. And think of studying for three hours in the evening with the boarding master hovering over your shoulder like one of the Allies plane ready to bombard you. Sometimes I thought of running away somewhere but where to run? Themthem has no complain at all or may e he was shy to confess it as was his typical way. This must be the secret of his successfully becoming a medical doctor who treats and attends to everyone’s needs without complaining.
One very surprising mystery about boarding life is you are hungry twenty four hours. This does not imply the food provided does not suffice. Those who have had the good luck of staying in a boarding will probably understand what I mean. Even if you eat and eat and even if your belly looks like an over inflated balloon there is always room for more. My grandpa used to tell me stories about the Japanese soldiers who landed in the heartland of the Naga Hills during the Second World War. When their supplies were cut off and they cannot either move forward or retreat, it is said that most of them died out of starvation. In boarding it is most of the time war and war for the sake of eating. Whenever you know someone has something to eat you don’t practically let him eat in isolation. Sometimes I used to think the Japanese soldiers were too decent to rob food from the native people like what boarding boys usually do. After all they have guns who could have denied their moves. Well that was a child’s fancy. Anyway the funniest part of the story which I can’t understand up to this day is that, when the war ends the Allied Force’s plane threw down foodstuffs, electronic gadgets like wrist watch, money, and many other things. As was said by grandpa everyone runs for only milky sweets ignoring the other important things. Well boarding life is comparable to this for the fact that even if are far away are never late to reach the dining hall before the bell stops ringing.
Chilli is another weakness of all boarding boys. In those days if someone had asked me, whether I love my country more or one piece of chilli? My goodness, I would have said chilli! Even if it was half eaten. The addiction of chilli must be the same as doping or smoking. It really boils your stomach and in empty stomach the sensation you get is like your heart is getting pulled apart. But still then you love it, it is really like the relation between love and blindness. Even Themthem is not an exception in this case. One evening I saw him kneeling on his bed as if he was praying. On getting closer I heard him crying and moaning. When asked about the reason he simply replied,
“I’m going to die.”
When it comes to dead and if he is your best friend the first thing you do is panic.
I dived out of the dormitory and called one of the senior boys and told him, “Themthem is about to die.”
“What?” He asked and we went into the room together to inspect whether he was already dead by then or was still alive.
The attacker of Themthem was none other than mr. chilli. Of course the fact came out much later when we were alone and all possible medication were wasted by the boarding master. He asked me to keep it as a secret. But as I was too young to keep secrets it went out of my promise box anyhow. From then on he was also nicknamed “Chilli,” by the older boys. That is the reason why I said traditions are hard to die, and believe me all traditions are as funny as this tradition of my forefathers.
When my pa comes, the boarding master becomes a human figure full of smiles and seems to forget that I was one of the worst fiends under his nose. I used to hate pa for not coming everyday and even when he comes once in a month he used to sneak away like a thief. The usual trick was to give me some money to go and buy something for him. After sometime the trick stops working because even a kid has animal instincts and I used to cling to him knowing that he is trying to escape like one of those birds trapped in the merciless gum. It must have been really tough for pa but he was always the winner and I the loser. Anyway he used to bring smoked beef, stag, venison, and many other things apart from money. To me pa was like one of those allies plane which threw down something for the natives of Naga Hills after the war.
Class
Forty five past nine in the morning was the time for class till half past two in the evening. Imagine seven classes sitting on a bench as hard as an igneous stone and five students sitting together sharing all kinds of childhood smells. I must be the one who stinks the worst because three of the students were day scholars who would have been forced to take bath by their elders at home. Those days I think my ears were made only for listening to the school bell that announce the end of classes. Life was somewhat meaningless and hollow because just try thinking how can a person live solely for counting the school bell. Break hours were the greatest of all creation. It was not only bad students like me who waits for it. In colleges lecturers often take extra hours for completing their lectures. But in schools and especially in the lower sections students are really punctual when it comes to maintaining of break hours. Teachers practically run off along with the bell because though very small students are really like underfed cows competing to be the first to dash out of the shed. But thankfully there had been no incident of mass stampede in the whole history of schooling since its arrival with Christianity.
Those days playing with cigarette covers and sweet wrappers was the greatest game played especially during the break hours. I was always a loser in this game because it was as hard as taking down a small bird with your catapult, say from a distance twenty yards. The rule of the game is you have to hit a small stone placed between two big piles of cigarette or sweet wrappers. If instead you hit the piles you have to pay the other player the exact amount of wrappers in the stack. Believe me hitting the small target from a distance of five yards was as hard as running away from the boarding. Even if I didn’t hit once but lose all the time, it was sort of an addiction. Cigarette covers were really costly and sweet wrappers were as precious as pearls. We the boarders have to buy them from boys those who have lots of time to collect them from dust bins and drainage after class. They seem to spend time collecting those things while we rot away gardening and fetching food for those stupid swine. This is one reason why I envy day scholar students.
When you are feeling very sad on losing so many sweet wrappers and cigarette covers during the break, some sudden homework will be remembered by the first teacher who enters post break. The punishment for not doing homework would be doubled on seeing your dust covered hands. Caning on the palm is ok but think of bearing it on the opposite side. One stroke can make you see your grandfather who is long dead. That was what really happened to me. Tears start peeping and with the final fourth or fifth stroke you feel like drowning the teacher. Tears were so precious to me but I seem to lack the right training for bearing with this punishment. And when you are young the liquid in the eyes and the nose are more linked dearly. The only revenge you can take is sniffling the rest of the day though in silence.
Passing and hopping from one class to the higher class is not very tough I guess because how bad I fare I didn’t stay in the same class for twice. May be the authorities realize that my parents really struggle to let me learn the art of earning in future. So the punishments are also in some way worth enduring for it is simply a matter of give and take. I don’t know how time flies and I realised that things are really going to change when I found myself in the sixth standard. That was the time when my parents migrated to the town where I was imprisoned in a boarding for the past years. That was the time I started living with my parents whom I hardly know. Saying goodbye to boarding life was not as hard are saying goodbye to Themthem. Because we have by then become so close that I consider him as my shadow and me in turn his shadow.
The best memory I have of boarding life is when I tactfully dodged the wrath of our principal on the day we get our examination report cards. You know in boarding the care taker signs the report cards in place of your parents. Those days failing in one subject has the exchange value of two sweet cane strokes on the backside of your hand. I too used to get these sweets off and on. There were many tactics invented by the great thinkers and frequently failing students to dodge the punishment. Whenever I fail my favourite tactic was to feign sickness and skip dinner because the prize distribution usually happens at night. Once the mass beating is over I just have to predict when our principal will be in a good mood, so that I can get my red marked mark sheet without getting skinned. Predicting someone’s mood as difficult as saying, “I Love You,” to the girl I like most for the first. Out of hundred assumptions thirty is correct you are a genius. Even if you are only one percent correct the happiness is worth celebrating. One reason considered fortunate to be at home during winter is the thought that the cane that used to give sleepless nights is finally resting. If our principal was a real beat-aholic, winter must be the time for starvation. Life indeed is a real circle; it is monotonous, extremely happy at unpredictable intervals. Every time you assume you are doing a new thing, your instinct slaps you. It’s very hard to say to your heart, “dear believe me life is not like a circle that goes round and round in a fixed position.” The secrets of happiness in life are, mastering the art of convincing your heart and doing crazy and mischievous things everyday. To adhere to these laws is not that easy. Therefore, even if you are damn good, you won’t be able to act as if you’re enjoying everyday. As a result you end up remembering only those experiences that are extraordinary. I can’t recollect those days when I was from standard six to nine. Maybe I was totally lost in trying to be a mama’s good boy. The only part I remember about those days is studying and reading like a like a waterfall. Mom was much more merciless than the boarding master when it comes to studies. So there was no escape at all because at that stage I was just a machine driven by external forces. I gained space and trust due to my improved grades when I reached the tenth standard. The full control was loosened or I have by then mastered inventing excuses for every mischief.
The Adolescent Imp.
Freedom in the real sense is living in captivity and life of being in captivity is freedom if you can lie to your mind that you are enjoying a lot. We are so much adapted to systems of the society. Breaking rules and regulations of the society or in other sense not conforming to the accepted practices needs lot and lots of courage. Beat what you can to make sure you will not regret tomorrow. Creativity and happiness is affiliated to freedom. As you know my whole being was dedicated to mugging till the ninth standard there was practically no room for the word freedom, so I end up remembering very little of those years. By the end of ninth standard I guess I was dead tired of observing the rules of being a good student. It was high time for me to break open the prison gate. This was the time I meet my ever best friends in life. In the pretext of studying a bunch of us gather up to share everything under the sun. Mills and Boons, James Bond series novels become the syllabus of this great group.
A vague notion of love intruded into our little hearts and heads. The desire to have a girlfriend was like a street dog searching for food at every possible place. Six of us made up the great gang. I feel guilty to expose their real names so they will be known to you only through fancy names. Dreaming of finding an enormous hidden treasure, enough to last whole life was a collective dream. Mark Twain really fascinated our minds and makes our days bearable. Doing mischievous things was our trademark. Among these six member crew, Ashang and Tony stays together in a rented home. Ultimately that place became the shelter and bowl of all happenings. Adolescence is the time when you are never tired of eating. To curb with this sickness this place became our go-down for storing midnight rice and other things. Every bit of our saving goes into buying rice and pulses. Promotion came so quickly with the knowledge of fermentation creeping into our minds.
IF YOU have had experienced what I stumbled on today, perhaps you will perceive what I mean to say.every moment of life is like
All revolutions in history depict the sad portrait of failure, though at the superficial level success seems to prevail. Revolutions start off with persuasive and gentle tone. Ideologies are framed to win over hearts. All revolutions start off with a humanistic outlook, “for the people,” but suffer the sad reality, “against the people,” at the end. Power really corrupts, with the gaining of power the usual persuasive tone vanishes and take the form of force. This observation could be termed as rubbish assumption but, consider every recorded revolution as an example and evaluate without any inhibition or fear, you will see the naked truth. Human mind also is conditioned in one way. We tend to judge according to adopted approach and fail to comprehend the real cause. What we really need to consider is the cause not the approach. I am going somewhat off track. What we really need to evaluate is, is it really justified on our part to fight for freedom at all? If the answer is yes, we don’t have the right to say that those people fighting for this cause are not freedom fighters. The approach they are adopting is not our concern, whether it fits into your expectation or not.
To be continued and reworked. The story is not of a particular/living/dead person……………… Its just about life…….
The grainy moments of life get sifted
