Why Not Nagaland?

Why Not Nagaland?

 

“Are you carrying lip gloss?”

I heard a beep chime benignly somewhere over the sound of the AC inside the cabin of the aircraft. Indigo Airlines. Delhi to Kolkata. It was a sunny afternoon and lunch was over.

My eyes could tell there was a shadow on my left, probably a face, the source of the question. But the voice... something was amiss. 

I opened my eyes, glancing at my fellow passenger and then choosing to smile because resting bitch face this high above the sea level was not a good idea. This was a guy. I hadn’t expected this. Someone from the North Eastern part of India. Someone young, confident and also trying not to look at my chapped lips.

I licked mine reflexively and smiled again.

“Umm.. I..”

“You need to have lots of water.” Damn, he had flawless skin. How did he keep his hair so silky?

“Yes. My mother would agree.” What? Why would I say that? And why would I say that to a stranger?

“I am going to get through IIT Kanpur.” His turn to be candid.

“Oh!”

I had NOT seen that coming.

“That’s wonderful. You know what you want!”

I realised instantaneously that that sounded like a crib.

“You don’t?”, he winked.

One month later, we were Facebook friends. One month later, he was also in IIT Kanpur, just like he had predicted.

But more on that later. It was my turn to confess.

“I can’t go back to Kolkata. I can’t go back to Kolkata.”

Awkward silence. And then -

“You are on the flight to Kolkata.” He chuckled.

I believe our collective laughter resembled the loud clucking of hens, so much so that several rows across the aisle glared at us. The world was suddenly full of librarians woken up by juvenile delinquents, mid-snore.     

“I have to go somewhere once we land. Anywhere. I don’t know. North-East? Manipur is in turmoil, they keep saying. I have been to Sikkim and Meghalaya. Arunachal… maybe? It’s a joint family once again. I don’t know if I can stand it anymore. Earlier it was just me and my parents and that was fine. But now there are aunts and uncles and cousins and …”

“Why not Nagaland?”

“Sorry? The Hornbill Festival is in December. It’s May!”

“That’s all you know about Nagaland?”

“I know that there is an archer from.. umm.. there.. on the National team.. Chekrovolu Swuro.. and .. she.. looks like Katniss Everdeen from The Hunger Games…?”

He blinked politely. Can’t blame him.

“The braid.. she wears it on the side.. exactly like…”

“Please stop.” He chuckled again.

By the time I got off the plane, my feet had taken charge. My ears were still slightly red. But there was that familiar tingle, the fear of having my cover blown before time. I was about to buy a one way ticket to Dimapur, the capital of Nagaland. And I had no intention of letting anyone stop me. Or worse, accompany me.

Of course they found out.

My mother was in tears. My father tried emotional blackmail. My cousin called up her best friend from high school and cribbed, “My sister is off to Nagaland and she didn’t tell ME!! ME!!”

“Sister” was code for buy one get one free. “Sister” was code for “You might be an only child. But so am I. TWO can play at this game. We are splitting the spoils. Fair and square.”

In other words, I wasn’t coming back empty-handed.

She was desperate. But so was I.

Dimapur airport was strangely stoic. At first, I thought the city was on strike. There were armed policemen all over and several of them were eyeing my digicam suspiciously. I suddenly remembered something that Karen, my friend and restauranteur from Delhi, had mentioned, about her native state. I needed a special permit of some sort.

I noticed a somewhat leisurely gentleman inside a room next to the baggage claim and asked him about it.

“Do you have a place to stay?”, he replied.  

“Circuit house.”

He blinked. I had expected this. It was becoming a ritual.

The auto-rickshaw outside was willing to let me risk it. But once I reached my destination, the blinking was deciphered. Circuit House had been closed for years. So much for Google!

“Anything nearby”, I muttered.

“I will take you to a place which is for people like you.”

“Huh?”

“I mean for people like us.”

“What do you mean? I can spend. And I am up for all kinds of cuisine.”

He cleared his throat rather loudly.

The apple took its time to fall. I was a lady. And I was travelling alone. Of course. Nagaland, at the end of the day, was in India.

Hotel Kingfisher was his choice for me. At INR 500 per night, I couldn’t complain. I wasn’t expecting Vijay Mallya or his Calendar girls inside but I must admit, I did wonder why the Receptionist and his wife took half an hour to get my passport photocopied.

They did try to make up for it.

After a few hurried whispers in Nagamese, the wife offered “Kaushik is from Kolkata. He is a doctor. He keeps coming to the hotel.”

“I hope I don’t need him!”

That broke the ice. Liquor would have been too much to hope for. And too scandalous.

My room was right outside the kitchen. With the smell of egg biryani wafting in, I could literally be anywhere. I dozed off, hoping to get to know the city better.

The next morning, the receptionist surprised me with a crisp French toast, a hot cup of tea and his biggest find yet, a cab driver who was willing to take me around the city for 2000 per day.

“Bargain, bargain,” the receptionist whispered. His wife nodded, her fringe tossing on her powdered forehead.

“I think I will go with it,” I smiled.

Abdul Mim was tall, dark and handsome. There! That wasn’t too hard! I just had to get it out of the way. That said, I still had to do the navigating. And he still had to complement my Bangla with his broken version of it. He spoke Nagamese and Assamese as well.

“Kachari Rajbari ruins. And.. Diezephe village.”

“And Science Museum,” he added. Ouch. I had stepped on the future’s foot.

The first stop resembled a series of earthen mushrooms in the middle of a field. I wished there was a guide. I did spot a couple of youngsters playing hide and seek and a man staring at me with a haystack bundled up next to him like a baby. I stared right back. And left.

Diezephe village turned out to be a near-hallucination. Nobody had heard of it. But when I finally made it, I found a number of workshops with men hunched over their tools and wares, with groans and drones and buzzing all around. It was mostly wood. Paintings. Animals. Idols of Gods and Goddesses too. But what drew me was Joseph’s workshop. Joseph had a salmon pink faded t shirt and a cool black bandana with weed printed on it. Joseph had also, clearly been getting all the work-out he needed, thanks to his work. His speciality? Rice bowls made out of stone.

“Do people often come and watch him work?”, I asked the translator, after a while.

He answered that one on his own. A shrug. A shake of his head. And a smile.

I heard the sigh when I was almost at the door.

“There is a restaurant nearby, Ma’am. It has European food. Very popular. And a handicraft store. Bright clothes for ladies.”

“Mekhalas? Wraparound skirts?”

“Yes. Housecoats too. And jewellery. Stoles.”

He knew what he was supposed to say. Joseph smiled. So did I. And then he looked me straight in the eye and said, “Thank you. God bless.”

I was quiet on the way back. The science museum was closed. And it was in the zoo, where we went next, that Abdul tried to gauge what I was feeling.

“You are travelling alone, right?”

I weighed my options and then plunged right ahead.

“Yes. Why?”

He laughed. Eased up a bit, as if inviting me to mirror him. “Aren’t you scared?”

Abdul Mim, tall, dark, handsome and with enough experiences of his own to scare him, I’m sure, was asking me about mine. I tried to see myself as he saw me and then realised, I can’t.

“I come from Delhi. I’m more scared there.”

He stopped on his tracks and turned. Had I played it right? The sun was in my eyes but I couldn’t risk turning away right now.

“That’s one way of looking at it. You’re telling me what you felt.”

I nodded. No smile. No pursing of my lips. Still not looking away.

“We should leave,” he said, finally, “We have to get to the Dhansiri river.”

Fair enough!

We were five minutes away from the river when he dropped it on me.

“By the way, we need a special permit to get there. I am guessing you don’t have it.”

What? Why would no one tell me when I ask them? What now? What’s the fine? I don’t want to go to jail! Not in these clothes!” 

“In case you’re worrying, don’t.”, he continued breezily, “just duck when I ask you to. I will pretend to be talking on the phone. I will slow down a bit. They won’t bother us. Also.. you.. umm.. look like a local. That should help. Close your mouth. You’re fine. We do this all the time.”

Not funny, man. Not funny.

The river was worth it, though. The rush of adrenaline was followed by me, standing with my feet soaked in the cool water, staring at the fish blissfully unaware of the giants who had invaded their space.

Abdul knelt down beside me, scooped up the water in his palms and as I clicked a picture of the sun shining on his dark brown arms, he looked up and asked, “Thang dhuiba?” (Want to wash your feet?)

I looked at the way his hands were poised over my feet and, startled, shook my head. I went back to the car and rolled up the window. I had saved his name in my mobile phone contacts. It was time for a small change. “Abdul Mim (Driver)”. Too many characters. I removed his name hurriedly.

And then… typed it back.

I removed the rest.

The next day we decided to go to Kohima. It was a few hours away and the Kissima village, host to the Hornbill festival, was nearby. I knew the village had the huts for the various tribes that participate in the festival, now empty of course. Several of them had been headhunters. Several were now educated. The Ao, the Angami, the Mon, the Changs – sinister motifs, spears, snakes and masks all around. Anung, my friend at the Dimapur supermarket would have told me what they would have sold for. She did say I looked rather fetching in the headgear of a Konyak tribe male!

We were halfway there when Abdul decided to spring a surprise again.

“Three of my friends wanted to come along to Kohima with us. Can they?”

To be honest, his friends were cute. And though I politely declined the offer to click a group snap with them, I have to admit, they made the ride enjoyable. 

Kohima, with its misty quietness and its angst-ridden cemetery and war museum, was historical. Surreal.

But it was on the way back that I suddenly realised I wouldn’t see Abdul again. I was scheduled for Shillong next. And then, back to Kolkata. His friends left one by one. I moved to the backseat. He turned on the radio. Back at the hotel, I settled all his accounts.

He was looking at my reflection, brazen, expectant.

I knew he wouldn’t turn back and face me.

I left.

His number remained.