Chp 192. Pictures, laughter and others…

So it’s that time of the year again when one has to clear out all the photographs stored in one’s digicam because of the dreaded memory full.

Published here, are some of the funny ones for your “reading” pleasure.

…

I was stuck in a traffic jam on my way to work right behind this mini-bus. And I just couldn’t help smiling at the name of the vehicle.




Buthello? The name has a very funny ring to it. Maybe the owner is a big fan of Shakespeare, but the name Othello was already taken…

Or maybe the driver wanted to say “Bus Hello”, but between him and the painter some words got lost in translation…

It could also have a very kinky connotation…


This chat log will definitely make you smile too. How to piss off a fellow Arsenal supporter?






I love Pizzas. Smokin’ Joe’s one of my favorite joints, but then again, we don’t get that many choice so it’s not a big deal. The other night I decided to try out their new Chinese menu – Smokin’ Lee’s!




My opinion? Good food, but extremely small quantity and expensive. Definitely not a good value for money.




So, Smokin’s Joes is diversifying into Chinese menu. If they start coming up with South Indian food, what will it be called?




And if they open up a franchise in Mizoram?






Here is my good friend and ex-Delhi neighbour, Reuben (Ben) drummer of IIIrd Sovereign. RSJ [Rock Street Journal] even proclaimed him to be one of India’s finest drummers. He came to Mumbai the other day with the band Undying to perform at a gig.




He was head-banging throughout the concert.

And here is Ben that same night, NOT head-banging or drumming to hard core Death Metal…






Ah… sweet Ben


The other day, this canister of shaving foam suddenly exploded due to the rust caused by the rain seeping in through our bathroom window. Very strange sight indeed.






My sis and I made the best use of it of course.








And here is me with a corny Ad that will never make it to any print.




Cheers.

Chp 191. Girl, why have you forsaken me?

Have you ever had that feeling… when you suddenly realized there is a deep connection and understanding between you and somebody you’ve known for a long time?

Funny feeling, right?

I mean, for a long time she is just a friend, somebody you regularly correspond with over the Net… somebody you could always count on as a friend who’s always there when you need her the most. Sometimes you even end up taking her for granted because you are so used to her benevolence…

And then suddenly… WHAM! It hits you right in the face!



How could I have been so blind all these time? She was there for me when I dropped out of college… when I broke up with my ex… I found comfort and solace within her… She was there through all the difficult times I went through, and she never failed me.

She mails me regularly… just as she promised to do many years ago. She’s the reason why I am what I am today. She updates me with everything I need to know, right from news back in Mizoram, to the latest gossip in the celebrity circle.

She said she didn’t want me to be out of touch with important news just because I went through a rough patch, or because I was disconnected from my friends and family back home.

Finally I mustered enough courage to take our relationship to the next level. I didn’t want to be miserable for the rest of my life… I knew I ran the risk of spoiling everything we had, but as the saying goes, it is better to have loved and lost than to have never loved at all.

I use gmail.

So one fine day, I took a deep breath and replied to one of her emails. I expressed my complete raw uninhibited honest feelings for her, all in one go, and waited fervently for her reply…

She never did.



Maybe I crossed the line, I don’t know. Maybe she got psyched out. A part of me was cursing the same me for screwing up a very wonderful relationship.

I stopped receiving her emails for sometime.

That was my darkest 48 hours. It was then that I realized how lonely I was without her. Like that old 90s soft-rock Cinderella song, “you don’t know what you got, till it’s gone”, I came to see how pathetic my life was without her.

I missed her so much. I looked at all her old emails in my inbox, re-read them, and enjoyed each and every mail with extreme gratification.

And then suddenly, she started mailing me again. She never mentioned about my mail, but we both understood some things were best left unsaid.

After a few days, our relationship was (almost) back to normal.

In gmail, there is an option of inviting somebody for a chat if he or she is using a Google affiliated email account. Being the stubborn guy that I am, I could not go on without explaining to her about why I sent her that first email…

I invited her for a chat at gtalk and even added her on my chat list…

…


It’s been more than a month now and she still hasn’t accepted my invitation. I know, this sucks, but I would be so extremely grateful if she gives me the chance to explain…

That is why I have no other option but to publish about this incident on my blog with screenshots of my action as proof, in the hope that my plight might soften her heart a bit and that she would accept me as a chat friend at gtalk.

I keep my hope alive…


[Picture Gallery]

Here is me inviting her for a chat…




And here is me adding her on my “friends list” at gmail.




Finally, here is the woman of my dreams, still not accepting my invitation.

Chp 190. Limericks Part Two

I dug out this old draft of mine, which was supposed to be a sequel to the Mizo Onliners Limericks. I wrote it a long time ago before BW got married, and here I am publishing it now for your reading pleasure.

This time I have roasted only 4 people, four very dear friends of mine:

Jerusha [ Maimawm / Sundancer ]
Jimmy [ BlackWhite ]
Biteii [ Superstarr / Almost Unreal ]
Amos [ Goldmember / Fade_no_more ]



There once was a guy called Goldmember,
All the names of the BMA girls he remember.
Oh he was a real flirt,
until that fateful night,
his frustrated girlfriend snipped off his member.



There once was a guy called Fade_no_more,
To all the ladies he was such a bore.
You should see his tummy,
kinda like a pregnant mummy.
That’s why he has no other option but to whore.



There once was a girl called Maimawm,
during the weekends, she stays at home.
She keeps to herself.
A few porn on her shelf.
What's that on her blanket? Eww, looks like foam!



Let's get back to our friend Fade_no_more,
still alone, still single, living in Bangalore.
A hundred girlfriends he once had,
but wanna know what is really sad?
How many times had he kiss - the answer is four.



There once was a girl called Sundancer,
who does not believe in monogamy, no Sir!
Her roomies fixed her up,
with Ravi, Puia and Aftab.
She said, "No prob, as long as they drive a Lancer."



There once was a girl called superstar,
her boyfriend likes to call her a Pitar.
I think that is extremely bold,
to tell your girlfriend she is old.
Maybe that's why she stores her eggs in a jar.



Hmmm, one last time let's call upon Amos.
On Viagra he once tried to overdose.
He said there's no hope,
so he decided to dope.
The drugs kicked in, and he molested a garden hose.



Now it's the turn of Jerusha once again,
to all her friends she is such a pain.
She takes out her digi-cam,
and aims at our sausage & ham.
That's why her search for a boyfriend is still in vain.



Heehee, again there was a guy called Jimmy,
who tried to score with a girl called Mimi.
They started to caress,
but once they undress,
it turns out, he was wearing the same shimmy.



Our friend Jimmy is also known as BlackWhite,
and boy, he likes to wear his pants real tight.
He said it kinda gives him a high,
to show-off to the girls his thigh.
And believe me, his thighs aren't the only thing in sight.



Jimmy's finally getting married next month,
and with that, no more he's going to hunt.
Oh I really pity his wife,
leading a miserable life.
Whole night she’ll have to bear with his grunt.

Chp 189. One creepy night in the office...

I am still a bit shaken as I write this…

…

ZAF GYM. That’s the name of my office.

Nah, I am not working at the Gym helping Bollywood starlets and heroines lose fat that is protruding from weird places (yeah the place is crawling with celebrities, supposedly). My office simply happened to be on this building.

We occupy the 2nd and 5th floor of this highly coveted and renowned Mumbai Gym.

One of the perks of working in an Advertisement Agency is the extremely informal and relaxed work culture. Office timing is not such a big issue as long as we deliver what we’re supposed to. The office is open even on Saturdays and Sundays, and people walk in all the time to complete their respective projects any time of the day.

Today being a Sunday, and with the rain making it impossible for me to go to Colaba for the Mizo Church Service, I decided to go to office…

It took me 7 hours to complete a tiny project.

Around 8:30pm when I had completed my work and about to pack up and leave, I suddenly decided to update the “Latest Mizo Blog Posts” section at misual.com. By then I was already all alone on the 5th floor of our office, and the Gym downstairs had already closed, and its very dark outside…

Silence… eerie silence… filled the entire office…

I decided to update that section at misual.com quickly because I haven’t touched it in a long time due to heavy work schedule. I haven’t even written the second part of my previous post or even replied to all the insightful comments left by my dear visitors, because I need time to think and absorb what everybody wrote, so that I can write back a worthy reply.

As of now, time is something I cannot afford…

Anyway, I opened my Bloglines Feed quickly to look at all the Mizo Blogs that were updated or edited in the past one week, so that I could add the good ones and the ones with permission, at the misual.com side-bar link section.

As I browsed through all the new posts and edited posts, my sight fell on one particular feed that really spooked me out.

On July 5th 2008, a dear blog friend of mine Azaia (chabetkaia) passed away. He drowned at Lake Lanier, Atlanta, while boating with friends and family members. It was indeed a tragic day for his family, and for the entire Mizo community.

Pictures of his funeral are available here.

I am still trying to get accustomed to his absence… All those jokes and comments we used to share on each other’s blogs are still there… May he truly rest in Peace.

What I found really spooky just a few minutes ago, was when I was going through the complete Mizo blog list, looking at the ones that were updated or edited so that I could add them to misual.com…

And my eyes fell on this!



Quite spooky indeed…

That is Azaia’s Blog feed… with two posts recently edited... way after his demise!

I don’t believe in hauntings or the supernatural… I am sure it is just some technical glitch from bloglines.com’s part… I sure do hope it is just a freaking glitch …

Or maybe Azaia’s siblings or friends who know his password edited those posts…

But the fact that I am all alone at office 5th floor, with the only light in the entire office coming from the tube right above me while the rest of the large room is pitch-dark, aggravated by the fact that there is heavy rain, thunder and lightning right outside my very window… really seemed to put the chills through me.

Not a very good night to be all alone in office… neither is it a very comforting thought to realize that I am not as brave as I thought I was… But writing this out as a post in one go definitely seemed to brush the uneasiness away…

I will leave office now… I never planned to blog from here but circumstances changed my course… Goodnight, y’all.

Chp 188. Christian extremism Part I

Or… My fall from Grace

Or… Why it is difficult to be a Christian in Mizoram

Or… The things that people do that makes you NOT want to do what they do.


A Mizo-centric Post.


December 2006 was the most memorable experience I ever had in my entire life.

I went to a Spiritual Rehab Camp and spent nearly a month there. I was on the verge of becoming an alcoholic back then. What I experienced, changed me forever. I led a new life from then on, quit my immoral lifestyle and had a “NEVER AGAIN” tattooed on my arm to remind me never to go down that lane again. Now I just drink socially only on very special occasions (like my previous post) and am no way going to lead my old life again.

But when my friends and relatives asked me back then, I never used to say I was a born-again. I simply told them I had an amazing born-again-like experience. Because among other reasons, I was still heavily smoking and eating kuhva-hring (our local paan) even after the Camp, which I felt were two of the Worldly temptations people need to give up before they could call themselves Born-agains. A part of me just couldn’t admit that I was spiritually re-born.

That, and a few other reasons.

I started writing about Christianity-related articles. Stuff that I experienced and believed in. Some of them even appeared on “Jesus Calls” magazine and many Christian websites. It felt really good for a while, to be able to play even a minute role in spreading the name of our good Lord.

But then, being a writer and a reader, certain issues stared clashing in my head. Things that I used to believe in, weren’t exactly in line with what the preacher was talking about.

One such preacher went on the pulpit and sermoned about Hnam-feeling on the topic of Inter-racial relationships! What has Christianity got to do with this? At one point we were taught that our faith in the good Lord comes before anything else. And then suddenly there I was, listening to a person implying that our identity in being a Mizo comes before our identity in being a Christian!!!!!

Frankly speaking, I can understand people who talk about “identity” and isolationism. It happens not only all over India but throughout the World wherever there is a small close-knitted society. But for the love of God, please do not mix that with religion.

What about Christian non-Mizos? Are they “evil” according to this preacher? Believe me, there are a lot of non-Mizos who are wayyyyyy more Christian than many many Mizos. Having written many articles about Interracial relationships and how anti-miscegenists misinterpret the Bible, like "The Curse of Ham" for example, I had the sudden urge to stand up right there in the middle of the Church and debate with the speaker. And then I wondered, had I really done that, would I be branded as a blasphemer or a 666 ?

Well, if they had called me an anti-Christ, it wouldn’t be the first time.

A few fanatics call me a devil worshipper, simply because my arms are covered with tattoos (and I listen to Gothic). They throw verses from the Old Testament at me.

Leviticus 19:28
Do not cut your bodies for the dead or put tattoo marks on yourselves. I am the LORD.

Funny though, that the same Leviticus chapter, right before this verse states:

Leviticus 19:27
Do not cut the hair at the sides of your head or clip off the edges of your beard.

And yet I see a lot of clean shaven Christians among those calling me a devil worshipper.

People say it is easy to be a Christian in Mizoram because it is a Christian majority State. Well, let me tell you the truth. It is HARDER to be a Christian in Mizoram than any other place in the World.

So what if Christians are persecuted in some of the Arab nations and a tiny village in Africa? So what if Christians are hunted in China and North Korea? In Mizoram, your intellection and ability to rationalize things get persecuted.

First of all, there is the community pressure. You either join the bandwagon or become an outcast. So sometimes people don’t really know if they are Christians purely out of what they believe in or because of what their neighbors believe in.

The danger to this is that, people not really sure about their faith, start coming up with their own interpretation of Bible verses. Ridiculous interpretations that magnifies their illiteracy. The Bible is not just our Holy Book. We need to study it deeply. We cannot just modify verses from it so that it benefits us.

Secondly comes the community gossips.

My mom is a good Christian. She has instilled Christianity in all her four children and I am what I am today because of her. She has shown me the love and passion of Jesus Christ. But I heard from my friends who heard it from their mothers that some of the other mothers in our locality ridiculed my mother’s faith in Christianity.

Why? Simply because she never takes part in the daily early Morning Prayer service at our local Church where many mothers come. Unlike most of the other mothers who are housewives, my mom is pushing a highly responsible job as a Reader and senior Lecturer at CTE while looking after my two nieces. With none of her four children at home and a husband who retired way back in 1998, she simply has no time for this daily service, although she never misses the Wednesday night, Saturday night and Sunday services. What rights do those jobless so called “Christian” mothers have, to bitch about my mom?

Third reason: The fact that people exploit Christianity to get what they want. I am so sick of seeing politicians and officers with shady backgrounds stand on the pulpit to deliver the message of Christ. I’ve seen those same politicians try to use their influence in the Church to get votes during election time!

My dear Mizoram burns slowly, and this pains me so much. When will the people of Mizoram wake up? Church leaders, please do not accept those huge chunk of donations from politicians… it may look generous, but most of it is dirty money from corruption. Corrupt tithe makes the Church corrupt.

The fourth and final reason why it is so difficult to be a Christian in Mizoram?

Ridiculous sermons.

I will put this up in the sequel of this post. It’s about the crazy stuff that I’ve heard people say to the mass. Stuff that makes you cringe on your seat… It’s a pretty long post, so I have divided this into two so as to capture your utmost attention.

The greatest danger to all these is that people can actually lose faith in Christianity because of such rubbish floating around. I have seen my own friends wane away from Christianity because they are fed up of all the absurd bullsh*t that is shoved down their throat. One of my closest friends from Chanmari, a name that I frequently mention on my blog, renounced Christianity a couple of years back, and it really breaks my heart to see that.

More and more people will start voicing their displeasure publicly. Our sad little city where the shit doesn’t stink and The Other Side are just two of them. I know, I cannot change the way such people think and I have no rights to do that either. I respect them for such honest thoughts, but I can definitely try changing the system to prevent others from thinking that way. That is my prerogative.

A prayer, no matter how small, is never lost.

We take pride in sending out so many missionaries all over the World. I agree that is a very noble deed, but I sincerely feel we need to clean up our own backyard first. Random people who “experienced the light” should by no means be allowed to preach. Preaching is not just about what you went through. You should also have the ability to be a good speaker and make the audience listen. Leadership is a must quality here. No wonder politicians make such good preachers.

Hope you will come back to read the second part to this post.

See you, and keep the faith. God bless you and God bless Mizoram.

- Kima.

Chp 187. Webchutney’s nite-out

So what happens when an Ad agency suddenly decides to throw an impromptu office party?

All the guys immediately think, “wooohooo free booze!” whereas the first thing on a girl’s mind is, “Shit, I’ll have to go home and change.”

And so there we were. Woman instinct versus Man’s thoughtless disregard for dress-code at times like this. Ah, (we) men!

Women think, “It’s a party at a well-renowned disc with lots of people… I’ll have to look ravishing!” whereas men wonder: “There’s gonna be lots of booze anyway, so after sometime every girl is going to look equally hot. Why then go through the extra trouble of trying to look prettier?” And so we put on our primitive linen sacks, grab our wooden clubs and scream, “Grufff gruff, me like party!”

The party was held at Hawaiian Shack, Bandra. The entire second floor belonged to us, and we definitely made the best out of it.

Here is a tiny little problem when Ad agencies throw a private party. We simply don’t know when to turn it off The Tech team started commenting on the positioning of the lights, sound and wiring system. The art and graphics team felt the whole place could be more appealing with lesser pixels on the disco-light frame and more texture on the histogram of the wallpapers using Photoshop CS3. The customer relationship team mingled with the crowd downstairs and we never heard from them again. And the creative team, in particular the copywriters, started talking in copywriterese after a couple of drinks…

Copywriter 1: Dude… Feeling down? Feeling tired? Looking for a permanent solution to all your worries? Look no further! Just go refill your glass with a Bacardi Reserva! Apply now!

Copywriter 2: Sorry, man. I am lost. I am confused. I feel like I am living in a surreal world. A Bacardi may show me where the light is, but only an Old Monk can take me there! Plus it is a one day offer only!

Copywriter 1: Ok then, go ahead. What are you waiting for? Your road to freedom is just a gulp away. And that’s not all! There are exciting benefits and special offers guaranteed to blow your mind away!

Copywriter 2: Cheers! Salute! Prost! À votre santé! These are just mere words, but only with an Old Monk does the true emotion come out! CHEERS!

Yeah, we sure do love to talk in exclamation marks!

Ok, all jokes apart, it was an amazing night. Webchutney definitely knows how to go all out with guns blazing when it comes to partying. The girls from Bombay Bitch were also there, and a few others I was introduced to but no way in Hell can I remember those names now. Everything felt like a comfortable boat ride across a psychedelic river in the middle of a turbulent earthquake.

Hawaiian Shack - The music transformed slowly from retro to rock to progressive to hiphop to trance. The food was great, the service was remarkable, the PR was excellent, and the crowd definitely rocked! But what I loved the most about that night was of course the free booze, a concept that I was alien to. Cheap me!

Dancing in front of the huge blaring speakers, I could shout into a female colleague’s ears “Hey what did the client say regarding the mailer we sent about the weekend bonanza?” and she would reply, “Yeah me too, I am having a terrific time!”

That’s the fun about loud rooms. You can say anything you want and get away with it. I told Rianna her tattoos were coming off because of the sweat and friction. She shouted back, “Yes the loo is downstairs”. I went up to Veera and screamed “I’m into women!” while pointing my finger around the disc and giving the thumbs-up sign as if to express that I was having a great time, and she would shout back, “Me too!”

You often hear people complain that their office parties stink because they despise the behavior of some of their colleagues. Well, that’s the beauty of being in an Ad Agency. Everybody shares the same wavelength, the same mentality, and sometimes even the same vada pav.

With unlimited booze, you end up seeing a lot of things. Funny things. Things that cannot be mentioned here But the bottom-line is that it brings everybody closer. I told our Branch Head that the way she was dancing made her shine like GOLD.

I repeat, GOLD!

All in all, it was a happy night for everybody and after that it was back to the grind. Parties like this definitely deliver the much needed break from a hectic life-cycle of an Ad agency.



# Signs that you had too much to drink at the previous night’s office party:

1. You walk up to a female colleague and compliment her on how graceful she danced the previous night, only to be told straight in the face that she was never even there for the party!
   
   
2. You head feels like a piledriver drilling inside… all the slogans and taglines you try to think up of for any client the next day always include the words “rocking”, “yo” and “wooohoooooo”.
   
   
3. Your boss comes up to you and say “Lets never talk about what we did last night again… ever!” which can get even more complicated if your boss belongs to the same sex as you.
   
   
4. The Finance team gives you the evil-eye the whole day, as if to say, “bastard the amount you drank last night set our company’s annual turnover back by 5%”
   
   
5. You walk up to the first guy you see in office the next day and say, “Mannn, last night there was one guy crying in the loo. I don’t remember who he is, but he was definitely one of ours. I even patted him on the back.” And the guy replies, “Bastard! That was me! And I was NOT crying. Some asshole was slicing onions on the dance floor…”

Ah! To be alive and partying.

So eventually, remember: If you dread going to the office the next day because you are embarrassed about what you did in front of your colleagues, then cheer up, for you had an absofreakinglutely amazing time! Wooohoooo!!!

Chp 186. Airing!

Ah the amusement of airing! A comical incident with an auto-driver a few days ago:

Whenever I travel by an auto all alone, I usually listen to my mp3 player which I always carry with me. My playlist consists of an assorted collection of trance, rock, hiphop, scandinavian gothic and country. The auto I took that day happened to be one of those “hi-fi” autos with huge speakers at the back complete with woofers, sub-woofers and tweeters.

And just when I was mesmerizing to the song of “wish you were here” by Floyd, my dear driver suddenly decided to blast the music from his auto!

It was indeed not a very pleasant time listening to a “remix” of Pink Floyd and some marathi song in the background.



So I switched to Rammstein and pumped up the volume to max on my mp3 player because I didn’t have the heart to tell him to switch off his music as he just looked so damn happy enjoying the music.

After sometime I too got into the groove and eventually started air-guitaring and air-drumming to stein and Rob Zombie. Yeah that was me. I just love to do those if I really enjoy a particular song.

And the funny thing was, every time a vehicle overtook us or we stopped at a red signal, people around my auto always looked at me and smiled. And then I realized why! To those people, it must have been amusing to see me air-guitaring and air-drumming to a marathi song with such a serious face!

I love to air-guitar. Maybe it’s because I can’t actually play the guitar in real life, I don’t know…

Knowing just the basic chords and a few popular leads like sweet child o’ mine and nothing else matter, I guess air-guitaring is the next big thing for a person like me. I hear they even have a worldwide competition on air-guitaring!

Anyway, some of us just love to air things… Funniest thing is when I’m suddenly thinking about a basketball move and I am there sitting in a crowded bus suddenly air-shooting, when I realize others are looking at me! With my hands up in the air I then had to act as if I was yawning or stretching

I have seen many guys air-bowling as if they are playing in a cricket world cup. I’ve seen people air-kicking a football. And yes, I’ve noticed people air-smashing as if they are in a volleyball, tennis or badminton match. That’s the fun about airing. The higher your power of imagination is, the more fun it is to air stuff.

We even air-sing, holding an imaginary mike in our hand when our favorite song is playing on the boom box. We air anything that we like or do. Some like to air-hiphop by mimicking west-coast east-coast symbols with their fingers, or sometimes just the plain old “three seconds violation” symbol Bhangra music fans air-bhalle bhalle. Tamil music lovers air-…. can't describe it in words, you know what I’m talking about right?

Won’t it be funny if people start airing things that they do occasionally? I’m trying to picture many of my blog-friends air-typing as they travel in a train or while sitting in the loo! Hehehee.

Politicians would be there air-accepting kickbacks, and we the aam aadmi would be there air-bribing an imaginary cop. Heh that would be a funny sight indeed. Activists would be air-throwing a stone, “Get Gorgeous” and “Splitsvilla” girls would be air-bitching about the other contestants, and boybands would be there air-lipsyncing.

Reminds me of an old sexist joke our chemistry lab professor told us a long time ago in School: “Why do auto drivers’ wives have bigger left breasts than their right? Because they intend to press that side while they are sleeping thinking it’s the horn.” And we would all laugh. Spare me the sexism, I was brought up in a residential boys boarding school

Wonder how air-doggying would be like?

……

……

Ah... Air-doggying is about getting down on all fours and mimicking a bark. What were you thinking???

One of the most prominent airing actions in our Indian society to me is the south Indian action for eating. You take your hand to your mouth and that means you’re asking/telling someone if they want to eat or whether they have eaten. The Russell Peters take on this action was hilarious. As for me, I still have the habit of doing that, along with the “horizontal head shake” and I really enjoy doing them.

Looking forward to getting together with a couple of hard rock fans and spending the evening air-performing songs like fear of the dark, enter sandman, a tout le monde, cemetery gates, feel so numb etc and pushing up the notch later to children of bodom, slipknot, testament etc. The greatest thing about doing all these is that nobody’s ever gonna tell you your guitar is out of tune or you missed a beat… Oh such a fun night it would be!

No wonder guys like us don’t have girlfriends

Keep airing. Cheers!

Chp 185. Slave to Love

[ Warning: A long story. Read only if you have the time, and passion. Goes best with leisure, a warm cup of coffee, and Dire Straits "brothers in arms" playing softly in the background. Edited by Pi Malsawmi Jacob. ]

Here is a tale of old, a tale of love and sacrifice, a tale that will transport you across the aeonian tranquility of Mizoram, a tale inspired by the peerless beauty of the splendiferous Mizo hills, and the hearts of those who put loyalty above all else.

Let me take you back to that magical moment, to the days of headhunters, and slaves, and exquisite virgin princesses. Days when chivalry could be found, not just in the hearts of the noblest warrior, but also deep within the soul of the humblest slave.

Our tale begins at a simple village, surrounded by lush green forests, consecrated superstitions, inviolable folklores, and a sparkling crystal clear brook flowing gently through the uncharted woods nearby. Everything was peaceful and calm. Nothing seemed to disturb the eternal serenity.

Until a quick sharp sound of bamboo twine snapping against a tree trunk in a distance echoed across the pristine valley breaking the perpetual silence for a brief moment. Morning swallows simultaneously ascended in the air like the magnificent rebirth of a Phoenix, fluttered around the picturesque green hills in unison a few times and then finally settled down at a different location on the same valley.

A soft continuous scream now filled the air. A cry for help. Loud enough to be heard by the villagers nearby but not clamorous enough to disturb the peaceful swallows for a second time.

The screams emitted from a young tribesman hanging upside down from a tree. One of his legs was tied to a twine. He had unfortunately walked into a trap probably laid by one of the mischievous village children. He screamed for a few more times, hoping that the villagers would come to set him free.

A small distance away at the village governed by Chief Zabanga, a young man knelt down on the ground with both hands tied behind his back and the sharp blade of the executioner’s sword aimed directly at his neck. He heard the screams. He chuckled inconspicuously. Liana was happy to hear the cries of a victim caught in one of his traps for one last time. He felt satisfied. Now he was finally ready to die. He smiled.

-----------

Liana was a third generation captive slave. His grandfather was captured when Chief Zoluta, the father of Chief Zabanga, raided his grandfather’s village a long time ago. Since then, his grandfather, his father, and now him, had been living their lives as slaves in this village. Unless somebody paid the Chief a ransom for Liana, either a wild buffalo or Rs.40/- in British-Indian currency, his fate was sealed forever as a slave.

Liana’s best friend was Muanga, another third generation slave. But the difference between Liana and Muanga was that, a long time ago Muanga’s grandfather came to Chief Zoluta and offered himself as a slave in return for food, lodging and protection. Hence Muanga was a voluntary slave. His ransom amount cost the same but the filthiest and most demeaning labors were assigned to Liana whereas Muanga’s work consisted mainly of collecting firewood and water for the Chief.

The other difference between the two was that Muanga was the more observant one, who spent a lot of time dreaming about things slaves usually didn’t. Liana was more of a simpleton.

Liana the captive slave and Muanga the voluntary slave found a special connection with each other ever since they were assigned their first task. Since then, they became inseparable. Sometimes Muanga would help Liana clean the village pigsties, and Liana would help Muanga cut down some trees.

They both loved to play pranks on the villagers, although the consequences were extremely serious had they ever been caught, because they occupied the lowest rung in the village social ladder. But that never deterred their passion and love for practical jokes.

They would set up harmless human traps in the forests which frequently ensnared the villagers. Sometimes when the gargantuan sea up above in the sky had swallowed up the night-sun, they would release a couple of wild dogs inside the Zawlbuk, the village dormitory where all the warriors slept. Nothing made them happier than watching a bunch of strong brave warriors screaming like women in the middle of the dark night.

But the greatest similarity between Liana the captive slave and Muanga the voluntary slave was that, they were both in love with Zikpuii, the daughter of Chief Zabanga. They had an immense crush on her, or so they thought.

It was taboo for them to even speak to the daughter of the village Chief. But every night they would dream about her and the next day they would argue with each other over who she loved more in their dreams.

One day, Liana went with Muanga to help him fetch water from the brook when they suddenly came across Zikpuii and a couple of village virgins bathing in the river. They grinned at each other, knowing they were not supposed to be anywhere near the river when the princess was taking her bath, and then they continued watching the women from a safe distance, well hidden behind the trees.

Suddenly they felt sharp painful blows on their back and were tossed by superhuman strength to the river.

“Hey! What are you slaves doing here, spying on the naked women???”

It was Chama, one of the village warriors. Along with him were two other warriors aiming their spears at them, ready to throw as soon as the command was given.

“Mercy please, have mercy!” Liana and Muanga both cried without getting up from the river, heads bowed with arms in the air.

Zikpuii who heard the initial commotion, covered herself quickly and joined the warriors who were about to strike at the slaves.

“Stop!” she commanded. “Chama, what is the meaning of this?”

“Princess, we caught these two spying on you while you were taking your bath. They should be put to death immediately!” Chama spoke with not even a hint of emotion in his tone.

“Death, death, death. Tsk tsk. Is that all you warriors ever think about?” uttered Zikpuii with a look of disdain in her eyes.

“I agree with the princess,” Liana stuttered meekly.

“Shut up slave!” the princess suddenly screamed.

Liana was amazed at how the princess could turn from a rainbow to a thunder storm on the spur of the moment.

“Now, slave,” she said pointing at Liana. Liana looked up. “What exactly did you see?” she asked coyly while sternly looking into his eyes.

Liana could feel his heart beating faster than the heart of a sacrificial goat whose throat was cut and left to die bleeding. On his right was the most beautiful girl he had ever seen with a perfect bosom carved with utmost care by the spirits themselves, and on his left were two spears about to plunge deep inside him. He prayed for the spears, so the he wouldn’t have to live through such a torture.

Chama the warrior immediately intervened, “Princess, I will remove this insect from the face of this land for you...”

“What’s the matter with you? So they just happened to be where nobody’s supposed to be. Why should they be killed for such silly actions? You are beginning to sound more and more like my father…” Zikpuii now focused her attention on the warrior who had the most well chiseled chest and abdomen in the entire village.

Muanga finally spoke, careful enough not to look up at the natural wonder, “Princess, please have mercy on us. It was foolish of us to wander where we shouldn’t have in the first place. We are just two simple slaves trying to fetch water for your father, the Chief.”

Zikpuii slowly smiled at Muanga and commanded, “Let them go.”

“But princess…”

“Chama. I said let them go.”

She then looked at Chama and smiled for a brief second. Chama smiled back, and then gave the order to release them. Muanga, the observant one, definitely did not miss that brief exchange of looks between Zikpuii and Chama.

As Liana and Muanga started walking away from the group, relieved to be alive, a small doubt started creeping up Muanga’s head. He finally stopped, turned back and walked towards the warrior and the princess. Liana was shocked.

Muanga summoned all his courage and finally spoke in a nervous tone, “O great warrior…”

Chama turned around, “You’re still here?”

“I have just one question to ask. Will you please grant a slave to ask you a question?”

“Hmmm… go on.”

“O warrior, we made a terrible mistake today because I know we are not supposed to be anywhere near the river when the princess is taking her bath. But I have just one question to ask, O brave one…” Muanga knelt down, gulped down his dry saliva, took a deep breath, closed his eyes and then continued, “O warrior, what were YOU doing by the river?”

Liana couldn’t believe what his friend had just asked. He felt as if he was hit by lightning, twice. What the hell was Muanga doing???

Muanga too continued to close his eyes and trembled, hoping that his gamble would pay off. It did.

Instead of feeling the smooth surface of cold sharp steel slice across his neck, he heard the sound of sweet giggle coming from the princess. He slowly opened his eyes. Chama and Zikpuii were now looking at him. Both smiled. The two warriors nearby were also smiling.

“He’s smart, too smart to be a slave,” the princess exclaimed.

“Smart and brave too,” Chama added. “We’re going to need people like you. Meet me tonight near the pear tree. Now leave us and speak no more, for you might cross that line of bravery and wander into the kingdom of stupidity.”

Muanga got up, smiled at the princess and then left. Liana, still shocked and confused about what had just happened, blindly walked alongside Muanga. Neither spoke until they were well outside earshot.

“What the hell was that?” Liana pushed Muanga roughly. “You could have gotten us killed with your stupid stunt!”

“Relax brother,” Muanga smiled back.

“Relax? I was so relieved when they let us go the first time… and then you had to…”

“Listen. Didn’t you see what was actually going on?”

“What was what going on?”

“Chama and our princess. We were not supposed to be near the river, but neither were Chama and the other warriors. There is definitely something going on between the two. Didn’t you notice the way they were looking at each other?”

“I was too busy looking at two other things…”

“Idiot. Now you’re going to thank me later for what I just did. We are now a part of their secret relationship because even Chama, brave as he may be, is not qualified to marry our princess. We are going to use this to our advantage.”

“How so?” Liana was now all ears.

“Aren’t you sick and tired of being a slave all your life? I know I am. I definitely do not want to have children only to see them grow up as slaves again. Maybe there is a way out for us here, all thanks to the secret love affair between Chama and the princess.”

“But I love the princess…”

“Shut up. Idiot.”

That night, Liana and Muanga met the warrior Chama as planned near the pear tree under the cover of darkness. Chama explained to them in hushed tone that the princess was betrothed to the son of Chief Sangkhuma and she was to make her journey to their village to get married.

“We’ve got everything covered. I will be accompanying the princess along with my most trusted and loyal warriors. Then we will stage a fake attack from wild animals and then run away together, along with my men.”

“What’s that got to do with us?” Muanga inquired.

“Well my friends,” Chama placed his hands on their shoulders, “The two of you are going to play a very important role. You will be accompanying us as the princess’ personal slaves carrying all her belongings. And then you will return to this village to inform Chief Zabanga about our “fate”. Otherwise he will send a search party for us or even a raid party if he suspects something is wrong.”

“But we are just slaves. Any failure of this magnitude will certainly mean death for us because of our status.” Muanga’s shrewdness never stopped impressing Liana even after all these years.

“Yes, a definite death sentence if you are slaves,” continued Chama, “But only if you are slaves.” He then grinned. “Upon your return, a few of my trusted friends from our village will ensure that you are freed immediately. There will be two buffaloes waiting for you upon your return to buy you your freedom.”

Freedom. The very word was enough to lit up Muanga’s face and made him jump up with sheer joy.

“Calm down you fool,” commanded Chama. “Now listen. If you two ever decide not to return to the village without informing the Chief about what happened to us, my men will make sure your families face the most horrible death…”

“You can trust us, O great warrior,” Muanga assured.

The next few days went by slowly especially for Muanga. He dreamt every night about being free. He could literally taste freedom with his mouth. He pictured in his mind his future children who would be free. He imagined running with them across the hills, over the brooks, chasing wild birds and hunting wild animals, free to do anything he wished with his new found freedom.

Finally the day arrived. There was a grand feast in the village where the fattest pigs were slaughtered and served along with alcohol fermented from rice. Everybody rejoiced and danced.

As the Chief said his final goodbye to his daughter, the convoy of warriors and two slaves left the village, with the princess in the middle of the procession. Muanga, under the heavy load of clothes and cooking utensils, looked at the commander of the convoy. Chama looked alert and cold as usual, not giving away even a brief hint of what they were planning. Then he glanced at his friend Liana. He looked troubled, lost in his own thoughts.

“What’s the matter with you?” Muanga whispered.

Liana was startled by the sudden disruption of his thought. “Uhhh… nothing,” he replied. “I just had a bad dream last night…”

“What dream?”

“Well… I dreamt that I died.”

Muanga laughed. “You’re probably tensed about what we’re going to do. Just relax, brother. All these will be over once we get back to our village.”

“It’s not that…” Liana continued. Muanga could now make out from the look on his face that something was really spooking him.

“When I dreamt that I died, I could see myself lying on the floor with blood flowing everywhere. It was as if I was floating in the air, looking at myself…”

“That happens sometimes…”

“And then a black crow appeared out of nowhere and said that I was the last slave to die.”

“Ok… now that is not something normal… and it does not make any sense.” Muanga stopped smiling.

“Do you think it means I am going to be a slave for the rest of my life? That I will be a slave until I die of old age, just like my father and grandfather? I really don’t mind being a slave for the rest of my life, you know…”

Muanga wished he wasn’t carrying the heavy load because he wanted to put his arms around his simple yet loyal friend to calm him down. “Brother, trust me. Nothing will happen to you. All these plans about freedom and deception have really got into your head. That is why you had such a strange dream. I promise everything will work out smoothly.”

Liana’s face lit up a bit. “I hope so…”

After walking for a long time, darkness slowly started swallowing up the distant horizon. Finally Chama gave the order to stop and immediately two of the warriors came to Liana and Muanga to carry their load.

Chama looked at the two slaves. “This is it. Now it is all in your hands.”

“You can rely on us, O great warrior,” Muanga replied.

As they parted company, Liana turned around and took one last look at the princess he had grown to love so much. Goodbye pretty lady, maybe we shall meet again in the afterlife, he wished. And then they disappeared in the darkness.

Muanga and Liana walked for some more time, until it was too dark to move anywhere. They decided to rest for the night on a tall fir tree. After they both climbed the tree and were properly rested on two of its branches, Muanga asked Liana what he was going to do once they buy their freedom.

“Propose to one of the village virgins,” Liana replied with a grin.

Tired from carrying the heavy load the whole day, sleep quickly overtook them. They slept deeply. Muanga dreamt about freedom again. Liana dreamt about the same crow. The next day, he decided not to tell Muanga about his strange dream.

They soon reached their village. Immediately they started running towards the Chieftain’s bungalow while screaming incoherently about blood and wild animals and raw flesh. The Chief came out along with his warriors and demanded an explanation. Muanga took over, describing to the Chief and all the villagers who had assembled around them, about how they were ambushed by a pack of hungry wild wolves.

The Chief lost his composure for a moment, and then brushing all emotions aside, looked sternly at Muanga and asked, “You, slave. Are you sure you saw all of them going down to those beasts?”

“Yes Oh mighty Chief. We were greatly outnumbered by the wolves…”

“And the two of you ran away immediately as soon as you saw what was going on?”

“Yes Oh mighty Chief…”

“Cowards! You didn’t even attempt to protect my daughter?” The Chief’s voice could now be heard all across the valley.

“Oh Chief, oh most merciful Chief. We are nothing but mere slaves. We have never learnt the art of combat, nor do we have bravery in our hearts…”

The Chief got up abruptly and walked back into his house. The village elders rushed in behind him. Liana and Muanga stood where they were, not daring to go anywhere. From the corner of his eyes, Muanga could see all the warriors slowly assembling around them, hands on their weapons. He also caught sight of his father, old and scrawny, yet with a distinct trail of tears down his cheeks.

Without moving his jaws, Liana bowed down and grumbled from the corner of his mouth, “Brother, I gotta go pee…”

“Shut up!” Muanga replied as inconspicuous as he could.

After a long time, the Chief finally came out again. Behind him, was his entourage of village elders.

“So why have you come back to this village?”

“We’ve got nowhere else to go, Oh mighty Chief.”

“Don’t you know the penalty for cowardice is death?”

“Only if one is a warrior, Oh Chief…” Muanga was now genuinely starting to tremble.

“Ah. A smart slave. How amusing,” the Chief muttered sarcastically. “But then, you are neither a warrior nor a member of this village. You are just a slave. A mere slave. Slaves should be put to death if they fail to protect their master, right?”

“Yes, Oh mighty Chief…” Muanga suddenly felt as if all hope was lost.

“Unless of course,” the Chief continued with a wicked smile, “There’s somebody from this village willing to pay for your ransom. But then again, who would buy a slave that deserts his owner?”

Muanga looked up at the Chief, relieved to find a life-line. He then slowly turned towards the crowd, until he saw a hand rising slowly from among them. He heaved a big sigh of relief.

“Oh Chief,” a voice from the crowd cried, “I would like to pay the ransom for the slave.”

Everybody turned around to look at the old man who had offered to pay the ransom. Muanga breathed deeply with a big smile upon his face, until something struck him. Thoughts suddenly came flashing through his head. Wait a minute, the old man said slave, not slaves. Why would he not mention he was paying the ransom for two slaves? His forehead began to perspire once again as he looked at the old man slowly approaching him.

The old man bent down and whispered into his ears, “I am so sorry young man. Chama left two buffaloes at my disposal but last night a pack of wolves came and killed one. I can only set one of you free…”

Muanga couldn’t move, couldn’t breath, couldn’t even hear Liana asking him what was wrong.

The old man then approached the Chief, “O Chief, I am here to set one of them free.”

With an irritated look upon his face, the Chief asked nonchalantly, “Which one?”

The old man turned around to look at them. Liana, who had always been the dumb one, now suddenly understood everything that was going on. The Chief would probably make them fight each other for freedom. Or make them choose between themselves. He knew Muanga would never allow him to die, and neither would he do the same to Muanga. He knew the Chief could put them both to death if they did not decide quickly. He knew he couldn’t let that happen.

Gathering all his strength, Liana suddenly dashed towards the Chief like a rabbit bolting away from its hunter. While everybody was shocked, he ran past the Chief and into his house. Three warriors managed to throw their spears at him but they all missed. Running like the wind, he made straight for the middle pillar inside the Chieftain’s house and put his arms around it with all his might, as if he would die if he ever let go of it.

Everybody gasped.

Liana had just touched the middle post inside the Chieftain’s house, the legendary sutpui pillar. This meant that the Chief had to grant him his request as long as it was reasonable.

As the Chief and his warriors surrounded the pillar, Liana cried out with all his might while hugging the post.

“Oh Chief!” with tears in his eyes, Liana blurted out, “Forgive my intrusion, Oh Chief, but I am just a captive slave. My friend over there is a voluntary slave. Please grant him his freedom with the ransom offered. Let me be the one to die.”

The Chief, still shocked from what he had just witnessed, ordered without even batting an eyelid, “So be it.”

Muanga suddenly felt as if all his energy had just been drained. He looked at his friend Liana. He realized what had just happened and that he was no longer a slave. Yet there was no joy emerging from his heart. There was no point in being free if Liana was not going to be around anymore.

The execution ground was quickly set up. Liana was brought to the centre of the circle.

Muanga, held back by the old man, cried out, “Oh Chief, oh merciful Chief, is there no way you can pardon my friend?”

The Chief looked at Muanga. Muanga looked at him. Silence. There was now a feeble sign of pity in the Chief’s eyes. “I am sorry, there is nothing I can do. Unless of course somebody comes up to pay for his ransom. Otherwise traditions must be followed.”

“Brother,” Liana spoke with a surprisingly calm voice, “Don’t cry for me. I never belonged in your world anyway. You wanted your freedom and now you have it. I was happy being a slave all along. What I really wanted, is love. And since I cannot have that love in this lifetime, I will be waiting for her to come to me in the afterlife. I don’t care how long I’ll have to wait for her, but I will wait for as long as it takes. That’s all I ever wanted and that’s what I am going to get now.” He smiled.

The crowd fell silent. A deafening silence.

The Chief then looked at the executioner.

Liana slowly knelt down. His hands were tied behind his back. The executioner lifted his sharp sword.

A soft scream from a distance filled the air. Liana looked up and stared at Muanga. Muanga, still restrained by the old man, understood that look. Liana smiled and Muanga tried his best to smile back. Somewhere out in the woods, another innocent villager had just fallen a prey to one of their traps.

The village priest then came forward and started chanting the rituals to prepare Liana for the afterlife. He would forever be a slave, catering to the needs of other Chiefs who had left for the afterlife.

After sometime, the priest looked at the Chief. The Chief signaled the executioner. The sword came down swiftly. It was all over in a matter of seconds. Liana’s head and body were now separated. Muanga felt dizzy.

Suddenly there was another commotion in the crowd. Some of the villagers who had gone to free the poor soul who got entangled in the trap had brought him back to the village. He was an agile young man, a messenger, sent directly from the British Governor of Eastern Bengal.

While Muanga fell to the ground, staring at the lifeless body of his best friend, the attention of the rest of the villagers was on the messenger.

“Oh great Chief Zabanga,” the messenger proclaimed in a loud booming voice that seemed awkward for his young athletic build, “By order of his Majesty King George V, and colonel W.Z Scott, the political superintendent of Eastern Bengal, it is hereby declared that all slaves living under the British Empire are to be freed with immediate effect. The Imperial Government will now implement the proposal of Dr. Peter Fraser, reminding the people that any territory that comes under the British Flag will not tolerate the continuation of slavery in any form, regardless of whether it is an established custom or not.”

Amidst the loud cries of many slaves rejoicing and singing, Muanga held the headless body of his best friend in his arms and cried his heart out. If only the messenger was not caught in that trap, he would have arrived just in time to save Liana, he thought. And then he looked up towards the trees. Perched high above on one of its branches was a black crow.


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* Story timeline, characters, facts and figures inspired by Pu Lal Dena’s book entitled "In search of Identity: Hmars of Northeast India".

Chp 184. Like a thief in the night...

Too long I’ve been standing out in the cold now, wondering when she will open her window to lighten up the night around me. I’ve grown accustomed to the darkness, the shrill sound of weensy insects around me hunting for prey, and the sharp slicing sensation of the icy night breeze that seems to paralyze every last bit of sensitivity within my limbs.

Still I wait.

Up above, the solitary moon shimmers meekly. A subtle reminder that I am not the only one who is lonely tonight. But the one difference between the moon and I is that lovers worldwide use the moon as an expression for their love, like a symbol of inspiration consecrated to immortalize their love, whereas the only people who would use me as an epitome are the brokenhearted... the derelict... the woebegone... the departed.

Even with her window still closed, I can already smell the sweet alluring scent of her perfume, as if the Heavens itself is opening up right around me and embracing me with its glorious palm.

Every night I come here, hoping that one day the hands of fate will show mercy and compassion towards me. I pray with all my might that she opens that window, for the window opens up to a whole world much bigger than that which merely lies outside; it opens up to my soul, my life, my everything.

Like a stranded man marooned on a secluded island in the middle of a cruel ocean waiting for a ship to pass by, I await patiently for her to come in sight. That window is my ship and she is my captain. Countless nights I have spent fantasizing about where that ship would take us both.

Maybe across the sunny Acapulco bay, sunbathing around the seamless golden sand. Or maybe to romantic Venice, holding each other on top of the wobbly gondola. Our ship can take us wherever we want to go, but first, that ship needs to be built. That window up above must open.

And then suddenly, as if the Angels finally decided to answer my prayers, a soft creaking sound... a slight movement from above... the lights silhouetted behind the window slowly expands and opens up to full view!

There she is, looking just as magnificent as I’ve always imagined. Her resplendent hair flowing down her neck in all its splendor, radiating such breathless beauty with complete ease. She cannot see me because I am well hidden behind the trees, but just looking at her makes my knees go weak and my heart beat like an African bongo drum.

Now the only left to do is to wait for her to turn out the lights and go to sleep. Let her sweet subconscious travel across the shores of dreamland filled with romance and chivalry, of gallant young knights bowing down to fair maiden in corsets, of dearly departed and bitter sweet goodbyes.

The memorable photograph of two lovers lost in each other’s embrace, encased in a befitting priceless gold frame...

The romantic painting of a sunset boulevard sketched by a penniless heartbroken artist praying for his mistress to come back to life...

The exotic china vase moulded by a Prince who lost an arm fighting in a battle that won him his Queen....

All that will be mine soon, all mine! Too long I have waited for such an opportunity as this. Burglary is indeed a lucrative profession. Time to lay my hands on all that I can steal!

Ah my ship, here I come...

Chp 183. An ode to vodka

An Ode to Vodka vodka runs deep like still waters cutting through swampy marsh images conjure wildly, hazy contorted mirrors swiveling in every directions vodka finely refreshing a rejuvenating potion resuscitating my stifled adolescence symphony emitting softly untold melodic rhythm choreographing within my head vodka my comrade, abandon me not lest my soul perishes pains all forgotten like a castaway lost forever at sea misery gone forever every sorrowful thought banished to Kingdom come vodka so pristine sparkling like crystal enticing me to replenish freedom I experience every shackle unfettered such an overwhelming liberation! vodka my salvation ne’er betraying me oh most reliable companion hear my confession two bottles drained whilst penning this poem hic! pardon me time to depart tomorrow awaits a hangover

Table background image obtained from grsites.com

Chp 182. CNN IBN and the Nepali syndrome

Watching CNN IBN last night rudely shocked me. It was a special edition entitled “Domestic Danger (How safe are we?)” and concentrated around the rising crime rate committed by domestic help in Delhi NCR.

For most of the report, CNN IBN did a good job of playing the role of a responsible media house: Precautionary measures we can take like verifying that the servant we are employing is trustworthy, a look across various metros and comparing the domestic crime rate over there with that of Delhi, the housing society stepping in to ensure that all servants are verified, registering the servants with the police etc etc.

Looking at the rising crime rate was truly shocking. But what really knocked me off my bean-bag was the part when CNN IBN showed a quick recap of all the previous crimes committed by servants in the past few months.

[Some of the dates and victims may be inaccurate, because I cannot type as fast as I can read news bulletin]

Feb 27: An old couple robbed by servant after being poisoned.
Mar 18: Servant poisoned husband, wife and daughter.
May 10: Family poisoned by servant and made off with jewelries.
May 13: Woman stabbed to death by servant.
May 24: Two women poisoned by their domestic help.
June 5: Family of four poisoned by their Nepali servant.
June 8: An elderly grandmother robbed by servant of many years.

Tell me which news bulletin is the odd one out?

See it?

Yes, all the crimes above were committed by servants, except for one which was committed by a NEPALI servant.

I could literally feel my stomach wrench and my throat tightening when I read that particular bulletin flashing. Seriously, CNN IBN? I expected so much better from you guys.

Was there any need to mention that the servant was in particular a Nepali? Most of us watch the news everyday and we all know he was a Nepali. But when you aggregate all the previous crimes committed in the past and put them together in one single list, was it really necessary to highlight his specific ethnicity?

He may be a Nepali but he’s also a criminal and I seriously hope he’s caught soon. He’s just as bad as the other servants who poisoned/robbed their employers. Why then is there an obvious segregation?

I’m just wondering what CNN IBN was trying to prove with that? Were they giving out a subtle warning to the viewers that Nepalese cannot be trusted? If not, then why include that extra “Nepali” tag before the servant when none of the other servants were segregated according to their regionality? Was it because he was a “foreigner”?

Why does this “minor” misnomer bother me so much? Because here in India it is a known fact that anything done by a Nepali reflects back upon the entire Northeastern community (and vice-versa). People cannot differentiate us and most of the people still think everybody with mongoloid features are all the same, belonging to the same community, speaking the same language, having the same culture and tradition etc etc.

Hardly a year ago, a couple of Mizos were beaten up badly by a crowd at Humayanpur, Delhi. This was no ordinary racial attack that Northeastern people in Delhi had grown accustomed to. It was a case of intentional mistaken identity.

Some Mizo guys were walking home a few Mizo women who had just finished recording/practicing a song for an upcoming Christian fellowship programme. Since it was quite late, around 10pm, the guys volunteered to walk the girls back to their PG which was nearby.

Suddenly, they came across a small mob chasing a guy who the mob later said was a Nepali. He was caught by the residents trying to steal the tyre of a car. As the thief ran past the group of Mizos, the anger of the mob suddenly changed its course towards those Mizos! Not just the guys, even the women were severely beaten up and sexually assaulted.

Some of the girls managed to send an SOS, and Rueben the drummer of Delhi based popular death-metal band IIIrd Sovereign and one of India’s best drummer according to RSJ, and Isaac the vocalist of a popular Mizo band “Rave Vox”, along with a few other Mizos and even a lawyer rushed immediately from Safdarjung enclave to Humayanpur. They too were thrashed the moment they reached.

When the cops finally arrived, they just dispersed the mob amidst the continuous verbal abuses, heavily reprimanded the bleeding Mizos for being there at that time of the night and then drove away!

The mob wasn’t your average uneducated jobless roadside romeos. It comprised of the highly educated intelligentsia of posh Safdarjung/Humayanpur residential area. And everybody could see so clearly that those Mizo men and women had nothing to do with the guy who just ran past them many feet away.

And the same people question why we stick together in our own group. Duh! Obviously because many of us feel much safer among our “own” kind. We don’t create that group out of our own free will; other people force us to build such comfort zones.

That is why I now watch the ongoing Gorkhaland issue with heightened interest and tension. Anything unwise done by those people will definitely rebound back at the entire NE community. Whenever ULFA commits an inhumane crime, a group of Naga students or a Mizo girl traveling on a train is assaulted in the name of retaliation. The media must hence try its best not to sensationalize a particular community when it comes to such crimes.

Likewise, the report by CNN IBN clearly does not help at all. Sure if there was a full complete report about that particular ghastly incident of a servant poisoning his employers, then mentioning about his Nepal background is the truth - That is absolutely normal and digestible. But when you list out all the crimes committed in the past by everybody and make a special mention only about the one committed by a Nepali, even highlighting it prominently as if it is more heinous than other crimes committed by Indians, then I am sad to say CNN IBN is moving towards a very uncertain dark future.

The most ironic twist to this whole edition was when Anjana Bose made a short coverage in that same special edition about the plight of Nepali domestic servants in Delhi. It was an attempt to emphasize the way Nepalis are now labeled as criminals among the Indian society. She interviewed Mahesh, a Nepalese migrant living in a slum in South Delhi, and he spoke about his problems like how difficult it is for him to find a job as a domestic help because of the prejudice. Kudos to Anjana for that eye-opening report. That is good journalism, whereas singling out a crime committed by a particular ethnic group is not.

CNN IBN definitely did try to speak out for the Nepali community. They seemed to ask why the entire community was targeted. One look at the way they themselves gave the report definitely churned out an immediate answer.

I don’t think the Network did this on purpose and maybe they didn’t even notice it, but from the perspective of somebody who’s always been at the receiving end of racial discrimination, this incident definitely stands out and is highly condemnable.

Chp 181. Of rain, downpour and swimming

“Dude... I hear it’s starting to rain a lot over there in Mumbai.”

“Unfortunately yeah, things are really bad down here.”

“How bad? Any case of flooding like last year?”

“Yesterday the water came up to our ankles!!!”

“Really? So the water’s ankle-deep on the streets?”

“I’m talking about my house!”

“Oh!! ... Well... considering last year, I guess it’s still not that bad, right?”

“We live on the seventh floor.”

“....”


Yup, that is me, always trying to use humor as a defense mechanism whenever I feel disappointed, especially when I know there’s nothing I can do change what’s bothering me. Hardly five days into the rainy season and many lives are already lost. Such a sad sad situation down here.

I really don’t think it was this bad during the other years I was here in Mumbai. I remember the rain, but I am pretty sure when it rained those days, at least in the initial phase, it never rained continuously like it is raining right now. Right now it’s pouring non-stop. It feels like the last time I won a draught-beer drinking competition and had to spend the next ten minutes peeing (and burping and farting), wondering whennn the hell it was going to stopppp...

Some people fear the rain because it leads to floods which prevent them from going to work or earning their daily livelihood. Others are simply hydrophobic because they don’t know how to swim.

I am not afraid of drowning because I CAN swim. I was a champion “swimmer” back in school, but only at the shallow-end: Being an athlete, I could out-run everybody in that section. Yeah I did say out-RUN. But when it comes to real swimming, hehehe... let’s just say I have the notorious reputation of coming last in every aquatics event held back in school and college.

The main reason why I can swim but suck at it is because I wear contact lens. I’ve lost 6 lenses under water so far, two of them during the same water-polo match back in school. And I still remember that day so clearly, especially when my team-mates Vivek, Ujjal, Boppana and Sathish dived under the water in search of my lenses!!! Man, we really were an extremely optimistic lot. Or rather a boneheaded group of friends

That was a very expensive water-polo match And we were playing for THIRD place! And we still lost on top of that. That was the day I promised never to play water-polo again and stuck to running around at the shallow-end. It was... fun.

And don’t even suggest I should have played water-polo without my lenses. My power is -5.75 so in the confusion of ball scrambling and water splashing everywhere, there is a good chance of me blindly trying to slam towards my own goal!

Anyway, now I wonder how my life would have been like had I possessed normal eyesight. I would have definitely become a better swimmer. I would have enjoyed all those visits to water theme parks much more. And maybe, there’s also a slight chance that I would have been “luckier” when it comes to relationships instead of spending most of my free time blogging while other guys are scoring. But alas, those who live by the blog, die by the blog. Touché.

I hope this rain stops soon. EURO 2008 is going on and I dare not watch any of the matches at my friends’ places because I don’t know how long I would be stuck there due to the rain. And watching alone at home isn’t that much of a fun as watching with friends, unless I am drunk. And I don’t drink any more, ergo I’m back to my problem about being bored.

At least one good thing we’re getting out of this rain is that we don’t have to switch on our ACs any more because the climate is extremely pleasant. And this coincides perfectly with the fact that Reliance Energy had just hiked the electricity by 10% here in Mumbai due to the ongoing inflation.

But still, I hope you go away soon, rain. Things are starting to get real wet around here, and it’s not the good kind