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POST script
MARCH 25, 2012

SEVEN SISTERS

NELit review
Kardom, Karbi Anglong!

FIFTH WALL
UDDIPANA GOSWAMI
Literary Editor

Y love affair with Karbi Anglong began a long time back when a bunch of us friends would drive up to Baithalangso to a Dimasa friends house. A few more trips to Diphu only made me fall deeper in love. Invited to a public meeting once and a seminar another time, the love and respect showered by the people of Diphu overwhelmed me. The Karbis or Dimasas, Kukis or Tiwas, all those who live in Karbi Anglong seemed to me to be the warmest and most hospitable people on earth (but then, thats a feeling one gets while travelling anywhere in the Northeast). Love turned to pain, however, when a few years back, ethnic riots broke out between the Karbis and Dimasas living in the district. Many were killed, and I had a firsthand in-

sight into what internal displacement really meant to the people who were actually displaced. Many who had hosted me in the preriot days suddenly became homeless; they had to flee for their lives and take shelter in the neighbouring district, in makeshift relief camps. As a researcher working on issues surrounding ethnicity and displacement, I suddenly had lots of data to work on and rare field experience to draw from. But as an individual, the experience has instilled a sense of despondence in me which is often reflected in my writings. One of the poems in our Inkpot section in this weeks NELit review, is also set against the backdrop of the same ethnic conflicts. But Arun Teron, one of the foremost Karbi poets today, does not write despondently.

And yet, his poem, This emotion, like war, was occasioned by being practically under house arrest in the course of the curfew imposed during the ethnic riots. The other poem in the same section, An elegy on a Jhumiya evening, is by Sar-et Hanse, another prominent poet of the community. This poem also echoes with the placidity of the hills, rather than with the raucousness of ethnic politics. Despite originating in one of the most violent conflict zones of Assam, Karbi literature has been able to transcend the existing climate of hate and fear. Dhaneswar Engtis story, The land of our fathers, is also more concerned about the loss of tradition and the social vices, rather than with the political atmosphere. My conversations with Karbi writers and

I had a few were aimed at gauging how the experience of conflict has influenced their worldviews. A few years back, I had a long discussion with Longkam Teron, one of the most venerated Karbi intellectuals, on various issues pertaining to Karbi life and writing. Today he is no more, but we reproduce his ruminations on the state of the Karbi language and literature in our Point Blank section. I had earlier edited an issue on Karbi literature in Muse India, the literary e-journal. Material for the issue had been hard to come by, but once it was published, it had earned me many friends and well wishers in Karbi Anglong. This issue of NELit review has been possible because of these well wishers and they deserve a special kardom. T

ARPO Engjai was sitting with others at the veranda of Sikondor Mahajons shop. It was located in the heart of Dokmoka Bazaar. It was not a big shop as seen from the outside, but the lands, belonging to the poor peasants of the entire area of Dokmoka, were under his possession. However, it was not the fault of Sikondor Mahajon alone nobody could blame him of being a swindler or bloodsucker of the poor and illiterate villagers. The actual culprits were men like Sarpo Engjai, who did not like to cultivate his land because he was lazy. Instead of growing crops on his land, he used to go to a person like Sikondor Mahajon, talk to him confidentially and offer him settlement of land on bondhok, paikash and adhi against a minimal amount of money O Mahajon, are you at home? Yes, Im at home, why? Mahajon? Im in trouble now. What trouble? Durga Puja has come, Ive to buy new clothes for my children, thats why I need some money. Ive no money today, you come tomorrow. No, I need it today itself. Now, Ill not take land on bondhok or paikash, you know? Then, how will you take the land? If youre willing to sell your plot of land then Ill buy; but on bondhok or paikash, Ill not take; Ive enough land against that. Ive not thought of selling my plot of land, now, Mahajon. Ok. Then, Im sorry, you may go to Manik Terang to enquire about this. I dont want to go to Manik Terang, Mahajon, hell scold me. Wholl scold you, Sarbura? He used to tell me not to sell the land, Mahajon. He says I should not sell the land. So, how can I survive. Ive enough loan to repay you, if I dont sell the land then Ill not be able to repay your loans and therell be nothing to buy for my children! He was calling Sikondor Mahajon with his flattering voice, almost trembling, as if a splinter of a missile had hit him on his shoulder at that time. O Mahajon, please listen to me. What? Ive thought of it properly now, Ive decided to sell two puras of my land to you. Now, you give the money. O Sarbura, Ive already told you that I dont have money now. Dont

The land of our fathers

iNKPOT
Dhaneswar Engti
bearded man has a singular choice in people! He thought this again and again without saying anything. Whatre you doing here? asked Sarpo Engjai with a smart, tricky smile on his face. You see, I met my brother-in-law, Lokbok, while going to the market, phuhai! replied Sarthe Rongpi. After sipping a little amount of wine from his cup, Lokbok Engti also insisted Sarpo Engjai to join them, saying: Well, armo, please take your seat. Here is a cup for you, the wine tastes very strong. Its alright for me. Well, let me share with you. O anihai, give me one more bottle; we dont meet armo all the time. Sangpi Ronghangpi took out a bottle of wine from her basket, gave it to Lokbok Engti and said something to him with an unknowable smile on her face. Here it is. Not on credit, ok? Dont be afraid, anihai, you need not worry about money. Ten rupees, isnt it? Here it is. Saying this, he took out a dirty ten rupee note from his pocket and gave it to her immediately. In the meantime, Sarpo Engjai also looked at his pocket and smelt some fresh one hundred rupees notes. This excited him very much and he asked for another bottle of wine to buy. Alright, give me one bottle. Its not possible to meet each other at phuhais always. I want to offer this to him as a mark of honour! Theres only one bottle left, here it is! After a while, Dhansing Engjai, the son of Sarpo Engjai, reached the place and saw his father busy drinking wine in the open with his friends. He was coming from Diphu to his house to collect his ration for the month. He felt very much ashamed of his fathers behaviour Papa, why you here now? Looking at his father with great surprise, Dhansing asked him in a gentle voice. Whos here to call me papa? Im Dhansing. You didnt come to Diphu, thats why Ive come home today. No reason to come here. If you want anything, why dont you collect it from home? Youre busy drinking here in the marketplace. How can I collect it from home? Oh, you want money, isnt it? Do you think that I dont have money? Do you think that I cant manage it? Here is the money. You take however much you want! Saying this, he took out a bundle of hundred rupee notes from his pocket and threw it away towards the Korkanthi river. He did not know where the bundle fell that night. It all happened while he was not in his senses from drinking a large amount of the local brew. Sarpo Engjai regained his consciousness at midnight. He could see no one beside him He tried to find out where he had been lying in the cold. He could not locate the area initially, because it was foggy around himHe had to pass the whole night lying alongside the main road of Dokmoka Bazaar Next day, in the morning, the villagers of Harbara Rongphar village got to see a good number of hundred rupee notes floating in the waters of Korkanthi river and on its banks while they were busy catching fish on the occasion of Karbi Ok-kepru Each and every one present there tried to catch them and many of them could pick up many hundred rupee notes instead of fish on that day T
Dhaneswar Engti, Joint Secretary of Karbi Anglolg Autonomous Council, is a writer and poet. His books include Candle of the Night and The Endless Journey of a Poet. Three books are forthcoming from Global Publishing House. This story was written originally in Karbi and has been translated by the author himself.

you listen ? I am listening, thats why Im asking money from you. O Sarbura, I told you from the very beginning that Ive enough money for purchase of land, but I dont have money for giving you on loan, ok? Youre right, Mahajon. Youre the best Mahajon in our area. Youre far, far better than my own father, Mahajon. After a while, Sikondor Mahajon went to his room, came back with a bundle of five thousand rupees in his hand and gave it to Sarpo Engjai

Sarpo Engjai left the place with five thousand rupees in his pocket and went straight to Dokmoka weekly market Sarpo Engjai noticed some of his close friends sitting in the shadow of a shonaruHe saw both Sarthe Rongpi and Lokbok Engti sitting at the wineselling place put up temporarily by Sangpi Ronghangpi there. They were drinking a bottle of local wine (hor arak) which had been purchased from her a few minutes earlier. Sarthe Rongpi suddenly noticed Sarpo Engjai. Hello, phuhai, where from?

No, not from anywhere. I was at Sikondor Mahajons house. For what? Have you got money? No, phuhai, Ive not. Of course, he gave me some amount, I should not speak ill of him! How much did you get, phuhai? Only five thousand. I asked for twenty thousand, but he said there was no money, he told me to come tomorrow again. Five thousand is enough money, phuhai! But, he told me that there was no money with him! I think this long

BOOK ABLE
News: Degree conferred
Padmashri awardee Prof. Laltluangliana Khiangte has been conferred the degree of Doctor of Divinity on 12 March at the 10th Convocation of The Trinity College & Seminar, Sielmat, Churrachandpur, Manipur for his contribution in the field of language, literature, culture and religious activities for the last 25 years. Prof. Khiange is a member of the North East Writers Forum and Dean of School of Education & Humanities, Manipur University.

iNKPOT
Translation: Uddipana Goswami

News: Sahitya Akademi seminar

Sahitya Akademi organised a seminar entitled Tales of Love, Betrayal and Death in the Indian Literature from 16th to 18th March at Chandigarh. It was attended by two poets from the Northeast, Desmond Kharmawphlang and Uddipana Goswami. Others who presented papers included Kavita Sharma, Alok Bhalla, Mahesh Sharma, Kishor Gaikwad, Navspreet Kaur, Paramjit Judge, Pankaj K Singh, among others.

This emotion, like war

ARUN TERON

An elegy on a Jhumiya evening

SAR-ET HANSE

For twenty years I have been carrying around The same routine mornings The same routine days. Only the furniture ever changes colour. A pile of files on the table (These files enclose how many hopes And how many sighs of how many lives?) When the gong strikes, The fragrance of incense and sandal Wafts in through the long verandah And She enters through my open window, softly, Breaking through the cloudy skies. She too might feel the desire Of embracing the sun. And just then, The blank pages on my table fill up With so many noises and a few scribbles. I feel a little afraid Will this unspoken path suddenly break out into speech? As soon as the smell of the incense dies out

She leaves and my room drowns in silence, yet again. I try yet again at the open window To recapture the mornings fragrance on the long verandah. I know tomorrow again, the long verandah will fill up With todays same fragrance. Her footsteps will enliven yet again This little room, will I find then once again, The lost colourful dream my mother gave me so long ago? (Is this emotion perhaps like war Which needs no rules?) Yet, once again, those routine Mornings and days of mine
(The poem was written during a sudden curfew call during the Karbi-Dimasa ethnic riots in 2005 which forced the poet to remain indoors for long)

Gradually my unbridled belief Shyly, you did not open your mouth to speak That in truth, your heart drowned in this ghat. What is my fault? I am the hill born poet of the rippling stream On a limpid evening in jhumiya twilight (Apparently Khiti Bora also does not know Who first built the ghat at the Jiya Juris banks) If I did not speak straight, you might not understand. The sun rises along the red parting of your mothers hair Your father is of the monsoon fields Ei Ronga, barhi lo, ghur ghur Fistfuls of gold in the autumn fields. My father in the wilderness of the horizon Jeth is the month of jhum: fire, spark, seed: Let it burn nicely Only then will they grow abundantly subok, hen, thengthe Which way does sun rises, which way it sets My mother doesnt keep track

The sun means a few moments bouncing around (My mother does not wear sindoor in the parting of her hair) You might know already, Jhum means the unfertile sweat of sloping hills A torrential downpour in the Axar month Where swim and sink my mothers yearlong dreams of a hearth Just like that, the evenings climb upstream from my mothers chin And, where the duk starts just there Drowns the daily drowning sun Theres flow in the Langpis stream theres flow in my poetry And yet, in the suburbs of multiformity In the dreamlike dusk one day, you You had given me the azure vocabulary of love: a sky blue shirt I dont think I will be able to give it back to you.
(Meanings of Karbi words used: subok, thengthe, hen various jhum crops; duk long black tattoo done by Karbi women from hair parting to chin)

CFP: National Seminar

Organiser & venue: Amity Institute of English Studies and Research, Noida Theme: Dickens Beyond the Ages Date: 4 April 2012 Occasion: Bicentenary Birth Anniversary of Charles Dickens (1812-2012) What to submit: Abstracts (300 words) and papers (2500-4000 words) Deadlines: For Abstract: 25 March 2012 For papers: 31 March 2012 Contact: Shashi Shekhar Singh +91 9971711928, +91 120 4392619 Dipankar Sukul +91 9717670560, +91 120 4392903 Rohan Ghose Chaudhuri +91 9910628375, +91 120 4392903

Arun Teron, District Primary Education Official under Karbi Autonomous Coucil, is a poet and writer who has authored Golpo Nayak Bisari, Nekanghon and Mur Prem.

Assistant Commissioner of Taxes in Bongaigaon, Sar-et Hanse has compiled a Karbi collection of poems, Nepei Kapareng Athak Aso.