tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-62271815342067664382024-03-14T13:53:25.146+05:30DaydreambelieverDdb's musings.DayDreamBelieverhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00365073225447718656noreply@blogger.comBlogger73125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6227181534206766438.post-91471453204693755042016-12-26T17:05:00.004+05:302016-12-26T17:07:44.734+05:30Thlasik Mumang<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2fzmag1_V5MUAQF3C76F5nbpEHj7JVI9045MapOWGxc5ZixEnkapkTm40KYoXvS637THNhwjWxtGH9yUrUGnQFCZlpXyDni_3ykZmmscSML4xXuoVCXEaAot4gCaO4KQht0lj3uRz74s/s1600/AirBrush_20161226164019.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2fzmag1_V5MUAQF3C76F5nbpEHj7JVI9045MapOWGxc5ZixEnkapkTm40KYoXvS637THNhwjWxtGH9yUrUGnQFCZlpXyDni_3ykZmmscSML4xXuoVCXEaAot4gCaO4KQht0lj3uRz74s/s320/AirBrush_20161226164019.jpg" width="239" /></a></div>
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What is it they say about winter dreams?<o:p></o:p></div>
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Tacky beads on my neck turn cool<o:p></o:p></div>
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Mingled with the chill of night.<o:p></o:p></div>
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You gave nervous, disapproving glares<o:p></o:p></div>
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When ghosts of Christmases past<o:p></o:p></div>
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Knocked on the thick wooden door-<o:p></o:p></div>
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Wreathed.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Your memories have become mine.<o:p></o:p></div>
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And so, I felt the fascination<o:p></o:p></div>
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The excitement, the fear,<o:p></o:p></div>
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The disgust.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I felt in me<o:p></o:p></div>
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Your exquisite helplessness,<o:p></o:p></div>
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So addictive.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I saw you from a distance,<o:p></o:p></div>
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Torn. A fragment of a moment<o:p></o:p></div>
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In painful slow motion<o:p></o:p></div>
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Enacted on your face,<o:p></o:p></div>
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Stretched to infinity.<o:p></o:p></div>
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But I was mute,<o:p></o:p></div>
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Equally helpless.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I saw you rooted<o:p></o:p></div>
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Unable to move<o:p></o:p></div>
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And then you retreated<o:p></o:p></div>
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Into yourself.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Unreachable.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I shall put away the wreath soon<o:p></o:p></div>
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And pack it in a box labeled <o:p></o:p></div>
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‘Ghosts’.<o:p></o:p></div>
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DayDreamBelieverhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00365073225447718656noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6227181534206766438.post-50203920259654206382016-08-15T23:29:00.000+05:302016-08-15T23:31:41.611+05:30PLEDGE<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<br /></div>
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<span style="background: white; color: #252525; font-family: "helvetica"; font-size: 10.5pt;">India is my country.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="background: white; color: #252525; font-family: "helvetica"; font-size: 10.5pt;">A piece of paper <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="background: white; color: #252525; font-family: "helvetica"; font-size: 10.5pt;">And the whims of the powerful<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="background: white; color: #252525; font-family: "helvetica"; font-size: 10.5pt;">Made it so.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="background: white; color: #252525; font-family: "helvetica"; font-size: 10.5pt;">Some protested,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="background: white; color: #252525; font-family: "helvetica"; font-size: 10.5pt;">Others did not,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="background: white; color: #252525; font-family: "helvetica"; font-size: 10.5pt;">Most did not have a choice.</span><span style="color: #252525; font-family: "helvetica"; font-size: 10.5pt;"><br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" />
<!--[if !supportLineBreakNewLine]--><br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" />
<!--[endif]--><span style="background: white;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="background: white; color: #252525; font-family: "helvetica"; font-size: 10.5pt;">All Indians are my brothers and sisters,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="background: white; color: #252525; font-family: "helvetica"; font-size: 10.5pt;">I find siblings can be very different.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #252525; font-family: "helvetica"; font-size: 10.5pt;"><br />
<span style="background: white;">I love my country, and I am proud of its rich
and varied heritage.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="background: white; color: #252525; font-family: "helvetica"; font-size: 10.5pt;">My country is not always proud of me<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="background: white; color: #252525; font-family: "helvetica"; font-size: 10.5pt;">And does not always remember my heritage.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="background: white; color: #252525; font-family: "helvetica"; font-size: 10.5pt;">I tell myself it loves me back.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #252525; font-family: "helvetica"; font-size: 10.5pt;"><br />
<span style="background: white;">I shall always strive to be worthy of it,<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="background: white; color: #252525; font-family: "helvetica"; font-size: 10.5pt;">Although worth is measured<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="background: white; color: #252525; font-family: "helvetica"; font-size: 10.5pt;">In terms I do not understand.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #252525; font-family: "helvetica"; font-size: 10.5pt;"><br />
<span style="background: white;">I shall give my parents, teachers and all elders
respect <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="background: white; color: #252525; font-family: "helvetica"; font-size: 10.5pt;">And treat everyone with courtesy;<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="background: white; color: #252525; font-family: "helvetica"; font-size: 10.5pt;">Even the man who feels entitled to rape me<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="background: white; color: #252525; font-family: "helvetica"; font-size: 10.5pt;">Or abuse my man<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="background: white; color: #252525; font-family: "helvetica"; font-size: 10.5pt;">Because we look different.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="background: white; color: #252525; font-family: "helvetica"; font-size: 10.5pt;">Yes, I will answer with courtesy<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="background: white; color: #252525; font-family: "helvetica"; font-size: 10.5pt;">Every time someone asks<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="background: white; color: #252525; font-family: "helvetica"; font-size: 10.5pt;">If I am from China.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="background: white; color: #252525; font-family: "helvetica"; font-size: 10.5pt;">To my country and my people, I pledge my
devotion – <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="background: white; color: #252525; font-family: "helvetica"; font-size: 10.5pt;">For what it’s worth.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="background: white; color: #252525; font-family: "helvetica"; font-size: 10.5pt;">Devotion. Devotee. Devoted.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="background: white; color: #252525; font-family: "helvetica"; font-size: 10.5pt;">Words to chew on.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #252525; font-family: "helvetica"; font-size: 10.5pt;"><br />
<span style="background: white;">In their wellbeing and prosperity alone lies my
happiness,<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="background: white; color: #252525; font-family: "helvetica"; font-size: 10.5pt;">And in my wellbeing and prosperity alone<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="background: white; color: #252525; font-family: "helvetica"; font-size: 10.5pt;">Lies the future of the nation.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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DayDreamBelieverhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00365073225447718656noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6227181534206766438.post-8328199612913563642016-05-17T16:43:00.000+05:302016-05-17T17:24:59.340+05:30Travel Notes II: Salem, Massachusetts <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-size: large;">Hi everyone! This is a long overdue update. I wasn't going to continue my Travel Notes series but someone asked me the other day why I hadn't, so on the off-chance that this is even slightly interesting to at least one reader, here goes:</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">The next literary trip I took during my stay in the US was a day at Salem, the notorious town known for an infamous witch hunt that took place back in the 1690s, and immortalized in such works as Arthur Miller’s <i>The Crucible</i>, among others. I honestly didn’t know what to expect of Salem; I think I expected a creepy, ghostly, eerie town haunted by its macabre past. It was anything but. If anything, Salem has made the best of its history by becoming a modern-day witch-themed tourist attraction. A little disappointing for someone who had conjured up images of dismal, Puritanical severity like me, but once I got over it, I thoroughly enjoyed the lighthearted attitude towards witchcraft and all things associated with it. Rather than denying the existence of witchcraft, I think what they tried to do was debunk myths about the wiccan religion, separating it from Satanism or the worship of the devil, which is a common misconception.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Salem has a touching tribute to the heroes and victims of the witch hunt and subsequent trials of 1692 by way of a museum and a lively retelling of the story with life-like figures of Abigail, John Proctor, Tituba and all the major players of that oft-told tale. It was a cold reminder of the power of society and human vengeance, and most of all the evil that comes out of fear of the unknown – the persecution of innocent people in the guise of morality. Although I was familiar with the story already, I think we all came out of the darkened room quite shaken after having heard the dramatic rendering of the tale by our narrator, complete with sound and visual effects, I might add.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Hawthorne’s model for <i>The House of the Seven Gables </i>actually does have seven gables. We went on a wet and rather gloomy day to visit his birthplace as well as the aforementioned seven-gabled house, which seemed oddly befitting. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Salem, other than the obvious nods to its traumatic history as well as Harry Potter-esque influences evident in the commercial enterprises lining the streets, was all in all a small, pretty, little village. One imagines how quiet and quaint it would be minus the touristy trappings and how someone like Hester Prynne (of Hawthorne’s <i>The Scarlet Letter</i>) could have been ostracized and cast out of society for transgressing against society’s norms in days long gone. </span><br />
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DayDreamBelieverhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00365073225447718656noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6227181534206766438.post-47591479554449726052015-08-11T09:17:00.003+05:302015-08-11T09:17:50.494+05:30When You Spoke<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><br />
</div>When last you spoke<br />
You spoke of times long gone,<br />
You spoke of Bangkok,<br />
Strange accents,<br />
Stranger diets.<br />
You disarmed with laughter -<br />
That sound was alien too long.<br />
Did you know somehow,<br />
None more would be forthcoming,<br />
The way you laughed that day?<br />
<br />
Memories are tricky;<br />
On good days they bring remembrance<br />
Of golden lockets from Kuala Lumpur<br />
Shaped into a heart<br />
Now long lost;<br />
The sound of mortar and pestle<br />
When you ground<br />
Spices, herbs, hearts;<br />
On good days you remember<br />
A new car with meaning in its numbers,<br />
And prayers floating in church<br />
Long after it was deserted.<br />
<br />
On bad days-<br />
But one should not dwell on bad days,<br />
What is the point?<br />
Suffice it to say<br />
On bad days<br />
You remember Pink Floyd<br />
And Time.<br />
<br />
And Death- <br />
Somewhere an unwilling pseudo widow<br />
Is drowned in the good and bad,<br />
As she struggles to explain<br />
Absence<br />
To sweet fruit<br />
Born of blighted seeds.DayDreamBelieverhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00365073225447718656noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6227181534206766438.post-86959584376741160652014-08-13T15:03:00.001+05:302014-08-13T15:04:20.749+05:30One More Tale<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><br />
</div>Romeo in relentless pursuit<br />
Will not consider denial.<br />
<br />
The tides beat mercilessly<br />
Upon the shore;<br />
The rocks become weary.<br />
<br />
I contemplate upon the power of water<br />
But sirens intrude.<br />
<br />
This thing that silences me<br />
What is it?<br />
Words were once my escape<br />
Now they mock, tantalize, elude.<br />
<br />
The blue of my summer sky<br />
Must be indigo where you are.<br />
<br />
The other day you asked<br />
Why I do not write anymore.<br />
Maybe I am happy -<br />
Misery was always my muse.<br />
But I sink into misery<br />
When I cannot have my verses.<br />
Perhaps the desire to stop desiring<br />
Is not as strong as the desire to desire<br />
An unnamable happiness.<br />
And so there it is –<br />
My objet petit a.<br />
Much like you also are.<br />
<br />
But Romeo, coming back to Romeo,<br />
Who has chosen a flawed Juliet.<br />
And Juliet who tries, and fails<br />
To save them both.<br />
She cannot rewrite the end<br />
Of stories long prophesied.<br />
Romeo rejects salvation<br />
And pursues the elusive impossible.<br />
<br />
I tire of these time-worn tales.<br />
<br />
And so the tides beat on<br />
Persuasive and unyielding.DayDreamBelieverhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00365073225447718656noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6227181534206766438.post-71170522483423675672014-07-30T15:02:00.000+05:302015-08-11T15:35:18.057+05:30MA (English) "zir ve hrim hrim" hi<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1Ov42ut1KvLsnHvpPHNSCLCZQkTvyoHVt1uIteUnZms0No54zkirsGJgjO_sPrX7cz1RQJ-A5-vK9upSf0mmH3XHNxWUT4ag35gHVu4-9FsPwH2SvqNFL8SpL-0az51yRblvcLoC9RfU/s1600/1520638_564651843626650_941701570_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1Ov42ut1KvLsnHvpPHNSCLCZQkTvyoHVt1uIteUnZms0No54zkirsGJgjO_sPrX7cz1RQJ-A5-vK9upSf0mmH3XHNxWUT4ag35gHVu4-9FsPwH2SvqNFL8SpL-0az51yRblvcLoC9RfU/s320/1520638_564651843626650_941701570_n.jpg" /></a></div>Mizo tawngin tun tum chu ti ve ngei ange aw... Kima Mizohican paw'n a ti ngam a lawm le! Hehe. Ziah dik loh leh tawngkam thiam loh kha chu min lo hmuhloh der sak hram mai dawn nia. Mizoram University hnuaia admission tih a hun leh tan chho tawh a, thawhpui te chuan an phone engtik lai mai pawhin a rik leh tan chuah chuah tawh thu an sawi sap sap leh ta. Kei ve mai, ramdanga awm daih pawh hian admission lama sawi pui tur a min rawn ngen call ka dawng nawlh nawlh mai! Hemi chungchanga kan hriat tha ka tih tlemte ka sawi chakna hi a rei tawh a, mahse kumin chu ka awm lo bawk a kan sawi ve ang e.Department dang ka sawi kep lem lova, mahse kan ngaihdan hi a inan tlan viau chu ka ring. Hei hi chu MA (English) "nih ve hrim hrim" tum ngawr ngawr te chhiar atan bik deuh a ka sawi ah min lo ngaih sak ula, chutih rual chuan English Department aiawh pawh ka ni chuang hranpa lo. Ka mimal hmuhdan ve mai mai a ni.<br />
<br />
# Mizo te'n admission hmuh kan tum dan hi a fuh lo. Kan kalphung hrim hrim hian a zir loh vang te pawh a ni anga, hna dil leh engemaw hamthatna tur awmah "induhsak" "insawipui" tih vel hi a lar bawk lah taka. Zir na sang umin kan kal a, bul kan tan tum dan a dik lo nghal viau zel. Merit (a ti tha tha) a thlan mai tur ni si hian in sawipui leh in duhsak vanga luh kan beisei tlat. Kan department ah chuan hei hi theihtawpin tih loh kan duh dan a ni ve tlat thung. BA zirlai zawng zawnga zir tha peih si lo vawi leh khata inel rala duhsak vanga luh thut tum a, mahni aia zir tha peih leh thawkrim zawk rawn leh pelh vek tum hi a dik lo hrim hrim. <br />
Minister lehkha leh Zirlai Pawl hruaitu lehkha, thiantha sawipui leh chhung leh khat, kohhran leh khawtlang a min hmelhriat tu rawn sawi zawng zawng hi admit vek theih an ni si lova, lungawi lo fe fe pawh an tam ang. Chutih rualin heng lehkha nei ve lo tan chuan thei ang tawk a dik (fair) a entrance test leh interview kan lo neih khan an tan chuan a 'fair fight' a nia, a lawmawm viau thung.<br />
<br />
# Entrance/ selection kal phung: BA marks hian 50% a pu a, a dang 50% hi written test leh interview a ni. English department ah hian written test hi zirtirtu zawng zawngin dawhkhan thut bialin hmun leh hmunah paper tin an check a mark an pe hran vek. A tawpah an marks pek theuh average an la. Chutiang bawkin interview ah hian zirtirtu awm zawng zawng an thu a, marks a hranin an pe vek a,a tawpah average lak leh a ni. Mi pakhat khan a lo duhsak ruk viau pawhin a average lak a nih avangin awmzia a awm thui vak lo; chutih rualin kan en dan a inang tlang duh viau a, kan marks pek pawh hi a inang tlang viau thin. I ziah zawh hman loh emaw i nervous deuh etc vang khan i rilru ti hah lutuk duh suh, a endiktu lam hi experience nei tha tak tak an ni a, phek 2 -3 an chhiar emaw rei vak lo an kawm che chuan ngaihdan an siam thei ruak. I thiam vek loh pawn i thiamloh kha chu an lo zirtir mai dawn che a, an vei lutuk lo, zirtir theih turin potential i nei em tih kha an ngai pawimawh viau.<br />
<br />
# MA hi zir mai mai chi a ni lo. Tunlai chhanah mi in hausak (k)an duh theuh a, Masters' Degree English a i neih khan i hausa thur thur dawn lo. Chutah a ti tha pawl i nih lova, pass ve tawk tawk i nih phei chuan zirtirtu hna tha emaw research tihna chance pawh i la nei vak dawn lo zui. Practical skills zir chhuah a tam lo hle a, doctor te, engineer te, leh Sciences zir ho angin nitin nunah i thiam thil han hman tangkai na tur em em a tam lo maithei. Sapram university tam tak ah phei chuan Humanities hi chu mi hausa zir atan an dah tan. Eizawn nan a tha ber ah ngaih a ni lem lo. I lungleng thei viau anga, thil i chhut neuh neuh peih viau anga, i philosophical viau anga, tlem tlem in history, psychology, political science, leh sociology te i hre nel nual ang a, critical thinking i hneh viau maithei. Chu pawh i subject ah i tui chuan. I tui loh phei chuan i hne hlui a ni mai.<br />
<br />
# I hne hlui nachhan tur chu a workload a la rit phian zui. Lehkhabu pakhat chhiar zawh nan a thla thum vel mamawh zel chi i nih phei chuan a ngaihna a awm dawnlo. Semester khat (Thla 5 vel) chhungin a lo berah lehkhabu 30 vel i chhiar theih angai a, chu chu text chauh. A bak i inchhiar zau tur phei chu i peih zat zat a ni tawp mai. Zirtirtu te lah hian kan dim vak lo leh nghal a. <br />
<br />
# "No" a theih loh. MZU hi a hla. A tehna a zir te pawh anianga. Mi tlangpui tan a hla. A lum bawk. Duhthusamin tui, ei leh in, bus service, etc etc a tha lo fo. I vun te kha a thu vek dawn. Hmeichhe tan - first semester chhung bak chu i inchei parh rei lo ang. Mut kham tawh ngai lo turah in dah tawp a fuh ang. Chung chu i pawm mai khan i hahdam. I no viau chuan i tlin dawn chuang lo.<br />
<br />
# Master's Degree hi kal paha tih vel mai mai chi a ni lo. Assignments, presentations, tests, leh exams a indawt zut. I fail kher lo anga, mahse i social life - thian kawm, khawtlang leh kohhran, innei leh chaw eikhawm zawng zawng thulh lo a tih pah i tum chuan i rin aiin i ti tha lo anga, a tawpah certificate leh marksheet i tangkai pui vak loh nen i hawi ha ha mai ang.<br />
<br />
# Saptawng zirna a ni lo. English department tih a ni naa, <i>literature</i> zirna a ni a, language hi a hranpa in kan in zirtir lo. Kha lam chu i chan. <br />
<br />
# I tui chilh bur a ngai. Art a ni a, tui vak lo, tha si a ngaih avanga zir tum i nih chuan zir lo law law la i hahdam zawk maithei. Graduate i ni tawh tho tho a, hna tlangpui dil turin qualification i nei tawh tho; Master's chin hi a subject specialize duh tan liau liau a ni tawh tih hi kan hriat nawn a tha hle. Thu leh hla lam zirna a nih miau avangin luangliam deuh zawih zawih, sawi hluam hluam chi tan a nuam, titi mai mai naah te thlenga tui tak maia sawi peih loh tan chuan hun khawhral na ninawm ang reng tak bak a ni thin lo. <br />
<br />
Heng zawng zawng hi i inhuam a i ti thei a nih chuan semester li (4) i zawh meuh chuan a hma ai chuan tih danglamin i awm ngei ang. English a Master's Degree nei chin hi mi rilru zim tak, tawng pung pung leh mawlmang deuh deuh a ngaihdan siam pup pup an vang viau. Keini lam, thiam vang ai maha hrat vanga thildang tih thlang lova lo luhchilh ho hian kan lo lawm viau ang che. Welcome aboard, and best wishes! <br />
<br />
,DayDreamBelieverhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00365073225447718656noreply@blogger.com21tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6227181534206766438.post-13938900367733306702014-07-15T01:32:00.002+05:302014-07-15T02:02:05.360+05:30Travel Notes - I<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><br />
</div><br />
I had wanted to visit the New England area for a very long time. Many years ago,when I studied American literature at University, I realized that most of America's best known, highly influential, and most beloved writers had hailed from the region, and I knew I had to see for myself the region that had produced such great minds. Besides, Harvard University is there. So, finally, one of my long-cherished dreams was going to come true for me. I was hyped up, super- excited, and ready to be overawed by pretty much everything I encountered.<br />
<br />
Our first stop was Boston, Massachusetts. As we disembarked from the bus and went into the bus depot, the first conversation I overheard went thus:<br />
<br />
<b>Police officer/ Security Guy</b>: [Looking at a Buddhist monk who hurried past] Is that the Delei Lama? (Dalai Lama)<br />
<b>Woman standing nearby</b>: I think so...Yeah, I think so. But I don't think he'd be taking a bus here....<br />
<br />
They were both completely serious. So much for first impressions. My friend and I exchanged looks of horror - and burst out laughing.<br />
<br />
Anyhow, after a series of subway transfers, we reached the Bed and Breakfast that we were to stay in, run by a gay couple well past their prime but still full of life and drive. I won't digress into the very interesting art work placed strategically all over their beautiful home. Suffice it to say that they had quite a collection of gay art. Bruce, one of the hosts, was a great cook and we had a merry Fourth of July dinner with all of their other guests and some neighbors. This was one of the more harmless pieces in my room (not the most incongruous, though)<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjmdGrSsHVmVD_DHxAIUxf4PwR6nbtTb98qT6k8CRosXZ26UvXGm3WqbPaV4HRGiZDWZpgmhh8V1Vg3pXIUgJ0OUbVe9z4NfOu-NzMgIu-x5nlkSuE9u_u6hkTAfgtXLS6IPiAGmoXbCM/s1600/photo1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjmdGrSsHVmVD_DHxAIUxf4PwR6nbtTb98qT6k8CRosXZ26UvXGm3WqbPaV4HRGiZDWZpgmhh8V1Vg3pXIUgJ0OUbVe9z4NfOu-NzMgIu-x5nlkSuE9u_u6hkTAfgtXLS6IPiAGmoXbCM/s320/photo1.jpg" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEic1gMVU2RZw2IPQvVbsFUfkr2-0pVxa76r1mO0oe8ZGtmG0EBykCOP_EUbTDXR6Amn2y5l44O8NGnvrAcrTAcGc5jLjvIMssT7qNH4D36fLchBost6XXApBefh3zMbKybJraGJx4lvudE/s1600/photo5.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEic1gMVU2RZw2IPQvVbsFUfkr2-0pVxa76r1mO0oe8ZGtmG0EBykCOP_EUbTDXR6Amn2y5l44O8NGnvrAcrTAcGc5jLjvIMssT7qNH4D36fLchBost6XXApBefh3zMbKybJraGJx4lvudE/s320/photo5.jpg" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgP36XuequYidu2BI80dtFLG7wjwIyBSZhdIfwwNdTkbN5voYHVFwWWuUr8HqyFzkQlE2ADkoyvY6MzfFE1tJxSGOC6K9Z7olTV7EIB57Tlh-XAcYPJDQjyCZtTboTbXSfQUDExdiVr8ZA/s1600/photo6.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgP36XuequYidu2BI80dtFLG7wjwIyBSZhdIfwwNdTkbN5voYHVFwWWuUr8HqyFzkQlE2ADkoyvY6MzfFE1tJxSGOC6K9Z7olTV7EIB57Tlh-XAcYPJDQjyCZtTboTbXSfQUDExdiVr8ZA/s320/photo6.jpg" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfBe8UF-3-rq4h-JHkQaZIloC8aZE2AkIpK6RiYtX33hTIxM-NsPj5cT5erdkuPS9LP3WbMSJ5hJE5QWi-kLzM1ycDcZhFCivzGGML5gx-NBrBOQ8Tz80muzKhnrgO8CWPMBm7Isyrl1w/s1600/DSCN2223.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfBe8UF-3-rq4h-JHkQaZIloC8aZE2AkIpK6RiYtX33hTIxM-NsPj5cT5erdkuPS9LP3WbMSJ5hJE5QWi-kLzM1ycDcZhFCivzGGML5gx-NBrBOQ8Tz80muzKhnrgO8CWPMBm7Isyrl1w/s320/DSCN2223.JPG" /></a></div><br />
<br />
Boston decided to put on the Fourth of July celebrations including a concert with The Beach Boys followed by fireworks on the 3rd July because of the impending Hurricane Arthur predicted to hit the next day. So we went and enjoyed the show (sidenote: they must have a huge budget for fireworks) and <i>then</i> got caught in a downpour that took everyone by surprise on that balmy summer evening. I had worn a thin cotton shirt which turned out to be quite see-through when soaking wet. I felt like a Hindi movie heroine of yesteryears when they would stand and sing songs under waterfalls to avoid charges of blatant nudity on screen. But I digress.<br />
<br />
Harvard University, which is a short train ride from the heart of Boston, was everything and more that I had imagined it to be. The "more" because it was VERY touristy, complete with tour guides shepherding various groups all across the campus, a Scottish wedding party marching to the tunes of bagpipes, Harvard souvenirs in all imaginable shapes and sizes and forms - you get the picture. Here are some, anyway:<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOjQ6xNn_JuqsNFXt98SkkBp6tkQ0siqVIQmbof0O19XuDNhP6ikVB4Rv3wuojJCxechcWSVHMtkJsJroVLzHTfNr2hcZySuH3SR5KGHS96OXIRkVZhUS1_7xRmYZIttjG-3oDnCqjYzg/s1600/DSCN2318.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOjQ6xNn_JuqsNFXt98SkkBp6tkQ0siqVIQmbof0O19XuDNhP6ikVB4Rv3wuojJCxechcWSVHMtkJsJroVLzHTfNr2hcZySuH3SR5KGHS96OXIRkVZhUS1_7xRmYZIttjG-3oDnCqjYzg/s320/DSCN2318.JPG" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhutHkWgSn65eMcUhyphenhyphenxAeEb6EFKioWIAg5oaskdBj4lcs_x5lFx61JrPvGmx1Nzmu_-tAy2PLhGIX_-nFFAgA5OgkYke2TmKSpiAt0Xp7_59tFEig0wMLdyUwGPAlvmqBx99hlAygmoDz0/s1600/DSCN2329.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhutHkWgSn65eMcUhyphenhyphenxAeEb6EFKioWIAg5oaskdBj4lcs_x5lFx61JrPvGmx1Nzmu_-tAy2PLhGIX_-nFFAgA5OgkYke2TmKSpiAt0Xp7_59tFEig0wMLdyUwGPAlvmqBx99hlAygmoDz0/s320/DSCN2329.JPG" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Of%20all%20the%20information%20that%20was%20crammed%20into%20our%20heads%20by%20our%20student%20tour%20guide,%20the%20one%20fact%20that%20stays%20lodged%20in%20my%20head%20is%20the%20fact%20that%20the%20famous%20sculpture%20of%20Mr.%20Harvard%20is%20actually%20not%20of%20him.%20There%20are%20no%20surviving%20pictures%20of%20him,%20and%20since%20nobody%20had%20any%20idea%20what%20he%20looked%20like%20during%20the%20time%20the%20sculpture%20was%20made,%20they%20had%20to%20use%20their%20imagination.%20It%20is%20believed%20that%20the%20statue%20is%20modelled%20after%20the%20likeness%20of%20an%20ex-Harvard%20President,%20a%20certain%20Leonard%20Hoar%20(1630-1675).%20Now,%20most%20ex-Presidents%20of%20the%20University%20are%20remembered%20by%20having%20the%20University's%20Residential%20Houses%20named%20after%20them%20-%20for%20example,%20Mather%20House,%20Winthrop%20House.%20But%20Mr.%20Hoar's%20name%20was%20a%20problem.%20So,%20according%20to%20legend,%20they%20commemorated%20his%20face%20in%20the%20sculpture%20of%20the%20great%20late%20and%20faceless%20Mr.%20Harvard,%20who,%20by%20the%20way,%20was%20not%20the%20founder%20of%20the%20University.%20Look%20it%20up.%3Cdiv%20class=" separator="" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2v6Xwo23qmWJpFZvRBnGztJiNWuB-Xk8yPZECO8e3iBaWwna1kNwxW_-i-V74jRQwvMjKMp-Jzbb9Lekqpf3VZZTwTBcHGt6IePZWY-51O-cpDUi_sCaox9WVRoqSsYwdp4-3mrGJqxc/s1600/DSCN2311.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2v6Xwo23qmWJpFZvRBnGztJiNWuB-Xk8yPZECO8e3iBaWwna1kNwxW_-i-V74jRQwvMjKMp-Jzbb9Lekqpf3VZZTwTBcHGt6IePZWY-51O-cpDUi_sCaox9WVRoqSsYwdp4-3mrGJqxc/s320/DSCN2311.JPG" /></a></div></div><br />
World Cup football (soccer here, arrgh!) fever riding high, we even took a moment to catch a game at a sports bar in Hahvahd. Which was pretty cool.<br />
<br />
<br />
Of all the information crammed into our heads by the tour guide, the one (probably useless) tidbit that stands out is the fact that the face of Mr. Harvard in the statue above is not actually his, because there are no records to show what he actually looked like. It is said that the statue's face is modelled after a certain Leonard Hoar, who was an ex-President of the University. Most ex-Presidents and other important people are remembered at Harvard by having the residential houses named after them - for example, Lowell House, Adams House, Mather House, and so on. But to have a house named after Hoar was a bit of a problem. So they commemorated him in the face of the great late and faceless Mr. Harvard, who, by the way, was not the founder of the University. Hah.DayDreamBelieverhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00365073225447718656noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6227181534206766438.post-33027513618800193062014-04-28T11:36:00.000+05:302014-04-28T11:57:35.299+05:30Birthday Ramblings<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><br />
</div><br />
Birthdays have always been important to me - especially mine :) For as long as I can remember, I have celebrated the 27th day of April in some form or another with those closest to me. For the past five years in particular, I have spent it with a person who has meant a great deal to me. This year, I was all set to spend a quiet, low-key birthday because of several reasons - age-wise, it seemed to be getting a little ridiculous for me to get all worked up anymore; further, I am away from home, in a VERY FAR OFF LAND, with none of my long-time friends nearby, and some significant chapters of my life closing with an inevitable finality. So, there I was, feeling alone, bereft, and not a little sorry for myself (which is an archaic English way of saying "very sorry for myself", for the uninitiated. I swear the influence of all those Victorian novels make their presence felt at the most inconvenient times!)<br />
<br />
Anyhow, this was not to be. Probably because those who know me well knew how much fuss I usually make on my birthday, they made an extra effort to wish me and make me feel loved. This has been the most unusual birthday for me. The one time that I wished to forget that it was my birthday turned out to be the longest one ever thanks to the different timezones that I and my near and dear ones live in. Starting with cousins in Australian time who started wishing me more than a full day in advance, and then moving on to those in IST who began calling me from the morning of OUR 26th (the first call came at 6 Am on the 26th to be precise - I love you all but you gotta learn to calculate the time differences!!) , and then friends in the East Coast who are ahead of us by three hours. When people in PST finally began wishing me, it was beginning to feel anticlimactic! Apart from the many, many wishes on my facebook wall, I had friends and family remembering me and sending their blessings via whatsapp, and texts, not to mention the calls I received from assorted locations. Including the one person I thought I would not be hearing from.<br />
<br />
Without naming names, among other things I also received this <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjN9yCjmYm9gUKSAXogyv-SWxk8u-RDTz78UYbfAm4TVkFqwNtr2JQavxwjSNUN3rkaZkl-4P6cJy1vRY8-qag9bV8T0S7ewNMCKUdYDHJYaXOnqpkPoCuiu0c97zYP-nOzPf8VMZTghBI/s1600/photo15.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjN9yCjmYm9gUKSAXogyv-SWxk8u-RDTz78UYbfAm4TVkFqwNtr2JQavxwjSNUN3rkaZkl-4P6cJy1vRY8-qag9bV8T0S7ewNMCKUdYDHJYaXOnqpkPoCuiu0c97zYP-nOzPf8VMZTghBI/s320/photo15.jpg" /></a></div>and this <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEji65r8_1xrEQSJigPUtyyGbuniLM9jGV_LXFZr_BbPVK7qQCe7wZeOcovPGocUB9TlLm3emBxDT3lZ-SLwECx-Q5V9vRfnQpX5r4rReFcqVa5GC3pujDV9NNJENXb-akD9MXYu9RIDwzA/s1600/photo14.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEji65r8_1xrEQSJigPUtyyGbuniLM9jGV_LXFZr_BbPVK7qQCe7wZeOcovPGocUB9TlLm3emBxDT3lZ-SLwECx-Q5V9vRfnQpX5r4rReFcqVa5GC3pujDV9NNJENXb-akD9MXYu9RIDwzA/s320/photo14.jpg" /></a></div>. A dear friend sent me a Starbucks gift card, so I went and got myself a birthday treat of coffee and cake, and thoroughly enjoyed it too: <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirjsZcDqQsFDaSLxAUsnt6f8QPFzZj0pcX3G9e1e0wmQ4aedOWAzIRs5lmXcZj-N4ATCj4cm_fGS4H5OuuE745VFD-GbuB89yoXT8CVyRAk_mOouOxDLDv8Y9un1t2qbCBo-mgjqrBNGs/s1600/photo2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirjsZcDqQsFDaSLxAUsnt6f8QPFzZj0pcX3G9e1e0wmQ4aedOWAzIRs5lmXcZj-N4ATCj4cm_fGS4H5OuuE745VFD-GbuB89yoXT8CVyRAk_mOouOxDLDv8Y9un1t2qbCBo-mgjqrBNGs/s320/photo2.jpg" /></a></div><br />
I am also told that I have a gift arriving soon in the mail from a very special person, and I'll upload that when I get it.<br />
I also had one person play "happy birthday" on the violin and send it to me. Someone in a different timezone stayed up all night to usher in the day with me at midnight, my time. Despite my protests. Between all the attention I got from so many nice people, I had a very busy two-day birthday via my electronic devices. Who says social media is ruining our lives?!<br />
<br />
The point of this whole blog post is not to brag in any way, but to put on record how immensely blessed I feel and how grateful I am to every one who made an effort to make me, the laziest person when it comes to these social niceties, feel like a million bucks. Contrary to my intentions, nobody was willing to let me forget that it was my birthday, and in hindsight, I am thankful for the way God has gently reminded me - in the nicest way possible - that I have nothing to regret or be sad about. Getting older is one way of looking at it, and that can be depressing when you're single. But it takes a very slight adjustment in perspective and choose to see it as a milestone, a blessing, and to realize that not one day of life can be taken for granted when we cannot prolong our time here on earth for even a single minute. I am in awe of the greatness of He who can. <br />
<br />
Cliches are cliches for a reason, and it is true that when one door closes, another opens. Some people and traditions will have to be relegated to memory, but then, new friends, new loves, and new memories are also made in the process. C'est la vie.<br />
<br />
As for me, unlike any other year, I had a very low-key, mellow day just as I had expected, but unexpectedly, I loved it. Thank you, all!<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEig_WnQcMIoOwF3s7JjAPgN8dwUT60J_JgcHE4sw0-egCWL22mxvNGIqMiCwv8b4mm8EcHNENTASgvtbc9eJXbJmHK6WF8tU6DvSURpESR7-pDFEEDI54NjFa3Wv69j6NH6UqUaKGVK3ig/s1600/photo8.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEig_WnQcMIoOwF3s7JjAPgN8dwUT60J_JgcHE4sw0-egCWL22mxvNGIqMiCwv8b4mm8EcHNENTASgvtbc9eJXbJmHK6WF8tU6DvSURpESR7-pDFEEDI54NjFa3Wv69j6NH6UqUaKGVK3ig/s320/photo8.jpg" /></a></div><br />
<br />
Oh, and as we like to say it, do leave your paw prints in the comments section below if you're reading this :)DayDreamBelieverhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00365073225447718656noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6227181534206766438.post-71550690549043554012014-02-04T12:57:00.000+05:302014-03-01T12:39:26.362+05:30Of Subways and Voices<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><br />
</div>(Note: One of the reasons I have deferred updating my blog for so long is the huge turn my life has taken as a result of relocating for a while to the United States, initially in New York City, the Big Apple, the City that Never Sleeps, the Capital of the World, etc etc. If I were to update my blog, it had of necessity to be of things in my everyday, personal experience, but there was also the fear of sounding like a travelogue; and I am most certainly not a travel writer. I forget to take note of important places, or things; when my wind wanders, I even occasionally ignore the landscape and wonders of nature that travel writers are so wonderful at describing. Here is my attempt at a more personal account of impressions and scenes imprinted in my mind rather than a detailed description of places and landmarks).<br />
<br />
New York City. In the city that never sleeps, I never slept either. Or hardly did. First because of jet lag, and later on because of a combination of bad habits, genuine insomnia, and the sirens that would so often cut across the silence of the night with alarming insistence. I never did get used to the sirens. Police cars, ambulances, fire trucks, and the occasional car alarm. Upper Manhattan.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaHSX0nb6kp3Rmu6BHxUS-xf8xJ1H4BIs8SPPA3LoANxZZqSFw6TdhNsQTYQ0eBnOJvxrsBpal9Twq4AYNQdUuQ9ccNdmbJZJPLQAkMb_cl4A0sArJqp9Nnkw0xvOI2iM4_NgCSk-hf0A/s1600/subwayny.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaHSX0nb6kp3Rmu6BHxUS-xf8xJ1H4BIs8SPPA3LoANxZZqSFw6TdhNsQTYQ0eBnOJvxrsBpal9Twq4AYNQdUuQ9ccNdmbJZJPLQAkMb_cl4A0sArJqp9Nnkw0xvOI2iM4_NgCSk-hf0A/s320/subwayny.gif" /></a></div><br />
The boroughs of New York are connected with an impressive network of underground trains - the subway system - that take you almost anywhere you want to go, any time, night or day. Our train, the one that took us downtown, was the A train. Oh, the A train! What sights, and smells, and visions, and experiences I had on the A train. Let me leave it at that.<br />
<br />
But what remains for me the essence of the city is the remarkable talent of the subway performers - singers, dancers, and musicians. Imagine walking for miles (because you got lost trying to reach your destination which googlemaps told you was a ten minute walk, but that is a different story), tired feet adding to your frustration. Imagine being all alone with not a single soul to talk to or even smile at (New Yorkers are paranoid that way); imagine waiting in a cold, damp, dirty underground station, hungry and burdened with baggage both emotional and physical; imagine traveling what seems an interminable distance in the train, eyes resolutely downcast or deliberately kept blank so that you are not caught looking at any of your fellow passengers - who by the way, are doing the same thing - eye contact must be avoided at all costs; imagine wondering to yourself if it's all worth it after all; and then imagine the most soulful, earthy, raw voice belting out a bluesy note that you recognize in the midst of all that, or a lone, melancholy violin wafting through the air, or even a group of particularly acrobatic band of young boys playing music and hanging upside down from the poles inside the compartment. It's a little piece of heaven; a reminder that there is beauty in the most squalid of places, a little nudge to let you know that you are not alone. It is art doing what it does best - elevating your soul and transporting you to the realm beyond the mundane. Cheers, you brave, unsung heroes!<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfiVzTFeh8ZSjayANjX1n3zzx16H86X0FWqhEAYanrsUNGR2JYotPV8lKqngGwF47pe5CsYPBB3XSZUscscDuS-46AUGGFH-YP2XDkhRSjL7qJ8YRrc_hcN1ziH-i8QQjsZkCdUAdxaAg/s1600/photo.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfiVzTFeh8ZSjayANjX1n3zzx16H86X0FWqhEAYanrsUNGR2JYotPV8lKqngGwF47pe5CsYPBB3XSZUscscDuS-46AUGGFH-YP2XDkhRSjL7qJ8YRrc_hcN1ziH-i8QQjsZkCdUAdxaAg/s320/photo.JPG" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8uXOdsGneq-pKgoysL1HlydDRPPh4pGCyC7xlQXUYnwznSzvWmqOY7Y6Xt9zgBnenVy-_qJvUFIRPDwMjgjob2zQcBE2GX1GXtEZC7XeJuzveUCuTXi8ZIirYPKg_VyKApC1dNEXAjAg/s1600/photo+(1).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8uXOdsGneq-pKgoysL1HlydDRPPh4pGCyC7xlQXUYnwznSzvWmqOY7Y6Xt9zgBnenVy-_qJvUFIRPDwMjgjob2zQcBE2GX1GXtEZC7XeJuzveUCuTXi8ZIirYPKg_VyKApC1dNEXAjAg/s320/photo+(1).JPG" /></a></div>DayDreamBelieverhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00365073225447718656noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6227181534206766438.post-3154554900576854392012-11-08T12:24:00.000+05:302012-11-08T12:25:26.984+05:30Lament of the Scorned<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><br />
</div>I am your Jezebel, <br />
The curse you spit out <br />
Along with the blood red <br />
Juice of betel that <br />
Oozes from corners <br />
Of lips that formerly <br />
Caressed, cajoled, captivated <br />
With truths uttered unawares <br />
By the same lips <br />
Now denied. <br />
I am Delilah, <br />
Your downfall. <br />
I am your drug, <br />
Your shame, <br />
Your reluctant high. <br />
I am the discarded, <br />
The one you stone <br />
With relief <br />
And <br />
Some guilt.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJIBUwTfyUzbpX0ue8uH8bD7o0tqZiHBbkv5hXxaZE9q2XLRSMne1VeeIUdgW-BKU7KZUD9PyZVm9Wo803i2m5geMBq2IJmXSQ9LVmgUV95_IOcOyFUqrHLeZ_OCjSFGvA-IQEjdFQW0o/s1600/sad-woman-silhouette.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="320" width="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJIBUwTfyUzbpX0ue8uH8bD7o0tqZiHBbkv5hXxaZE9q2XLRSMne1VeeIUdgW-BKU7KZUD9PyZVm9Wo803i2m5geMBq2IJmXSQ9LVmgUV95_IOcOyFUqrHLeZ_OCjSFGvA-IQEjdFQW0o/s320/sad-woman-silhouette.jpg" /></a></div><br />
DayDreamBelieverhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00365073225447718656noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6227181534206766438.post-4334075531763689712012-10-31T13:01:00.001+05:302012-10-31T14:34:53.881+05:30Notes From a Plane.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXtvU2HOy1cWen691XgZfOJPM7sbcn9dVzZWTScrUtoD4aiPowuiecOnIe9hMLPjyyO1zdR6tnJgtoTyJOGsbvsBrwPfXEenU9N2_ZEuB5oKh82EvsUVQOi3ZF_giOqWcfgUA7f-yC47o/s1600/goair-plane-flight.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="209" width="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXtvU2HOy1cWen691XgZfOJPM7sbcn9dVzZWTScrUtoD4aiPowuiecOnIe9hMLPjyyO1zdR6tnJgtoTyJOGsbvsBrwPfXEenU9N2_ZEuB5oKh82EvsUVQOi3ZF_giOqWcfgUA7f-yC47o/s320/goair-plane-flight.jpg" /></a></div><br />
<br />
<br />
I have seen it coming,<br />
This day - the day I would miss my flight.<br />
More and more frequently<br />
I put off leaving for the airport<br />
To the last possible minute.<br />
My last three trips<br />
Saw me in a mad rush <br />
With taxi drivers coaxing<br />
Their vehicles to run like race cars<br />
On the obstacle courses of Aizawl roads.<br />
Packing is a challenge I loathe;<br />
Once upon a time, good boyfriends<br />
Undertook that task for me.<br />
Now I pack for myself,<br />
Usually half an hour before I leave,<br />
Haphazardly throwing in clothes<br />
And hoping for the best.<br />
Most times I forget something vital;<br />
The last time I left a city,<br />
I left my heart behind.<br />
Airport food and airplane food<br />
Are abhorrent, overpriced,<br />
But I eat them anyway,<br />
Because I rush out without having had time for a proper meal. My reluctance to plan my schedule properly is perhaps symptomatic of some inner repulsion at the thought of leaving another place yet another time. I love travelling to different places, meeting different people, soaking in different cultures. It is the journeys I hate.The International Terminal at Kolkata had mosquitoes: I was devoured by these bloodsucking insects as I waited. Oh, and I was on an international flight despite my not going anywhere abroad, because apparently, GoAir is an international flight.<br />
<br />
Besides, I know by now what awaits me. The unimaginative decor of airport lounges, people staring at you for want of anything better to do, particularly lecherous guys who have no compunctions staring at you even when they're sitting right beside you, total strangers wanting to know where you're from, where you're going, and what you're doing there. Even as I write this, I caught the dude sitting behind me desperately peering through the crack between the seats, trying to read what I am writing. I stared him down. Small victory.<br />
<br />
And this lady, sitting in the aisle seat- with, thankfully, an empty seat between us- this abominable woman has been belching every few minutes in the loudest, most disgusting way imaginable. Poetry is no longer possible. Believe me, a loud, deep, long belch will kill poetic inclinations any time. And her prodigious bulk prevents me from even attempting to get out of my seat to get at my stuff in the overhead compartment. <br />
<br />
The Captain has at last announced that we are beginning our descent into Delhi. Yayyy!The overly conscientious flight attendant has suggested to us, over the PA system, that we should save whatever we have been working on before switching off our laptops. Seriously?!<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
DayDreamBelieverhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00365073225447718656noreply@blogger.com16tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6227181534206766438.post-26908085115034310662012-10-04T23:21:00.001+05:302012-10-05T12:23:24.319+05:30A Poem<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><br />
</div><br />
This one is for two poet-friends, who read this and thought I should put it in my blog for easy access. So here goes:<br />
<br />
And now, it is time<br />
To write you a poem;<br />
The one that you wanted,<br />
The one that scared me,<br />
The one that mourns<br />
The passing of you,<br />
You, who have been my poetry.<br />
<br />
<br />
When they analyzed it nursing endless cups of tea in an authentic little Khasi jadoh stall, while simultaneously murdering many pieces of <i>kwai</i> in the recesses of their mouths, it sounded a lot more philosophical and 'deeper' than it probably does to you, dear reader. Among the phrases flung about were, "the paradox of the situation", "the chicken and the egg question", "circularity", etc. They should probably come here and explain. <br />
DayDreamBelieverhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00365073225447718656noreply@blogger.com32tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6227181534206766438.post-7064337645391957152012-09-05T12:45:00.002+05:302012-11-08T12:26:42.853+05:30Teachers' DayI refuse to be cynical about Teachers' Day. So here is me wishing a happy Teachers' Day to - <br />
<br />
Miss Mabel, my class teacher when I was in classes 2 and 3, who wore tailored pencil skirts that reached to just below her knees and always put her hair up in a loose bun that never came undone. Boy, was she pretty. She was sweet, dedicated, and never got angry, but always managed to have perfect discipline inside her classroom. That woman had class. Most importantly for me, she gave me certificates for things like "cleanliness" and good marks; when I topped the class at the final class 3 exams, she presented to me a hardbound copy of Dickens' <i>A Christmas Carol</i>, <b>out of her own pocket</b>. She hooked me on Victorian fiction for life. What an amazing lady - I hope she's been blessed, wherever she is.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeL4d-elyqcewEhI48UsXFoh5DSFb0QSB2a3xrKi5O0LTz4OlqRPDW-cBmMyp5S1AvEtu9a-DXw9uFvG1UrOxxHubYKmdKX4_GatOcjqSrmbfDVwi1mFkwo8aN-Wprmgyeg7JtKmUH2mo/s1600/a-christmas-carol.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="320" width="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeL4d-elyqcewEhI48UsXFoh5DSFb0QSB2a3xrKi5O0LTz4OlqRPDW-cBmMyp5S1AvEtu9a-DXw9uFvG1UrOxxHubYKmdKX4_GatOcjqSrmbfDVwi1mFkwo8aN-Wprmgyeg7JtKmUH2mo/s320/a-christmas-carol.jpg" /></a></div><br />
Miss Helen, the statuesque Hindi teacher who spoke her own unique brand of Mizo.When none of us displayed the slightest interest in learning Hindi, she was able to motivate us. If none of us were very fluent in Hindi, it was our fault, not hers. If nothing else, we all wrote flawless Devanagari script, beautiful, precise, and neat. Not that we understood half of what we wrote.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipUUug9yOU1Cdw1UBfXtAp6Kw-dIBYEhVF4ZXlCqGKNZNfdETiRu-UtJHI9HCRdh72snB5DrJXBRoyvSFKxPNp4eRHUokkh7hlWn8KqvQTE4yVhks7OaRVgbqtlX_XHOW5K9r0MODnTgw/s1600/teacher_commands.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="262" width="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipUUug9yOU1Cdw1UBfXtAp6Kw-dIBYEhVF4ZXlCqGKNZNfdETiRu-UtJHI9HCRdh72snB5DrJXBRoyvSFKxPNp4eRHUokkh7hlWn8KqvQTE4yVhks7OaRVgbqtlX_XHOW5K9r0MODnTgw/s320/teacher_commands.gif" /></a></div><br />
Sr. Christita at Mary Mount school, who made me go back to school after I had decided to 'drop out' in class 7 because of the school bully. I refused to attend school for an entire month, but she made numerous trips to my home, talking to me, my parents, cajoling, hugging, and finally persuading me to return with the assurance that the bully would be dealt with. Last I heard, he was in prison for some juvenile crime, but that's another story. <br />
<br />
The Revd. Presley Lyngdoh. Princi, as he was fondly called. What a character. Always formal, always polite, always scary. A stickler for decorum. Sir Wasan Elwin, son of celebrated anthropologist Verrier Elwin, whose razor-sharp mind always delighted, terrified, and instructed.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrFTCgRDmEglrkBciU7NjIEasYt1WP8mTC8TY97XoWfoz8h11C_b4IzeXlTdaO0t_c0u1uhiq7GtNXRdFyFdsH4dVUK0i34cNIe854wpvmznENmcX7F9vK_5hQrNk1vAyzAxy-8oDZQsY/s1600/school_teacher-guy.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="170" width="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrFTCgRDmEglrkBciU7NjIEasYt1WP8mTC8TY97XoWfoz8h11C_b4IzeXlTdaO0t_c0u1uhiq7GtNXRdFyFdsH4dVUK0i34cNIe854wpvmznENmcX7F9vK_5hQrNk1vAyzAxy-8oDZQsY/s320/school_teacher-guy.gif" /></a></div><br />
Miss Tuni Gill at St. Mary's College, who made us stage <i>Pygmallion</i>, or more precisely, <i>My Fair Lady</i>. I managed to hide in the wings (literally) but her enthusiasm was contagious. Miss Dincola, who played the piano and spoke English with an impeccable British intonation. <br />
<br />
Prof. Esther Syiem, who always treats students with courtesy and respect. She shows that being a teacher isn't all about scaring people and imposing rules. Always refined, always down-to-earth. She is also a little absentminded. She once told somebody that she had two children, two lovely girls, when the third child tugged at her hand and whispered, "but Mei (mother), you have THREE! You forgot me." She hopes her poor son will not be traumatized for life by that event.<br />
<br />
Also, I would acknowledge all those who taught outside the classroom, too numerous to mention. The good and the bad. Life gives you these little lessons through people that cross your path. The ones that love, the ones that leave, the ones that provide strength and support, the ones that make you stronger by their absence. I have laughed, cried, yelled, ranted, waxed eloquent, pondered, raged... and through it all I have learnt. And I still learn. Thank you, teachers; thank you, Life.<br />
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DayDreamBelieverhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00365073225447718656noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6227181534206766438.post-50449393303785570832012-05-12T23:20:00.001+05:302012-05-14T17:10:11.587+05:30Grammar Police!<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><br />
</div>One of the necessary evils of being a teacher is checking exam and test papers. Not my favorite part of the job, it is something that I have been compelled to do ever since I volunteered to help in a school while awaiting my own exam results whilst in college. As a teacher of English, over the years,I have seen student's papers that have had grammatical errors bordering on various degrees of the horrific, scandalous, hilarious, and frankly irritating. Here are some common mistakes which have persistently been committed by students:<br />
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<br />
1. 'Their' and 'There' and sometimes, even 'They're'. Also 'its' and 'it's'.<br />
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2. Using a phrase such as "He was one of the most famous <i>writer</i> of the age".<br />
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3. Combining two words - "infact", "inorder", "alot", etc. <br />
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4. Confusing like-sounding words - the latest paper I checked kept saying "imagery" for "imaginary"! <br />
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5. Unnecessary use of the apostrophe. "She always keep's her room tidy." <br />
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6. The invention of new words. Here's one in the current batch of papers:"Honey, wife of Nick also told lies as being <i>impregnant</i> before she marries Nick." Someone else has also written "leaved".<br />
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7. Misspelling of words: Examples from said batch : "revange", "commentable", "thingking","twarted","transcents", "metaphore", "intrigacies". <br />
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8. Using text message lingo. Examples "U r" for 'you are', "2" for 'to' and so on.<br />
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One of my students consistently submits papers that are very entertaining. Recently, she has described a protagonist of a novel as a "chick magnet" and another character as belonging to the "biological department". Other students have written of characters who have "illusioned themselves", while yet another writes of how "the author also uses this hole in his structure of the novel." Don't ask.<br />
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My obsession with the correct usage of the grammar has often given me a guilt-trip, especially when I remind myself that nobody here is a native speaker of the language. Having said that, I did feel a little less guilty after stumbling across hilarious pages such as <a href="http://hyperboleandahalf.blogspot.in/2010/04/alot-is-better-than-you-at-everything.html">this</a> and <a href="http://www.buzzfeed.com/mjs538/twitter-spelling-mistakes">this</a> . <a href="http://www.facebook.com/grammarly">This</a> also makes sure that you are reminded of the mistakes you make. I'd recommend checking them out.<br />DayDreamBelieverhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00365073225447718656noreply@blogger.com16tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6227181534206766438.post-57758295798930354152012-03-30T00:59:00.001+05:302012-03-30T01:16:23.835+05:30Letter to Lyova<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTcnPu8ebhdBUX5R6yj2jYLqScSOiJhrieK9AszUD95YC5R7d0dslqleSFpvsyjuD2eBeWmDEFfEuB_JCGgBohqc5D-b3__RWUPWZpS5D5uYH3ovCVf1dFVVuP1fXdS1u-m72uZvpeq0g/s1600/30032012353.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="240" width="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTcnPu8ebhdBUX5R6yj2jYLqScSOiJhrieK9AszUD95YC5R7d0dslqleSFpvsyjuD2eBeWmDEFfEuB_JCGgBohqc5D-b3__RWUPWZpS5D5uYH3ovCVf1dFVVuP1fXdS1u-m72uZvpeq0g/s320/30032012353.jpg" /></a></div><br />
Lyova, wherever you are,<br />
I want you to know<br />
I have finally mustered up<br />
My faltering courage to use <br />
This handmade, woven notebook<br />
That you pressed into my hands,<br />
Urging me to fill it with words.<br />
<br />
The little doll that tsunami-victims made<br />
Still stays pinned on the cover,<br />
Although the pin is now rusted.<br />
"Tsunamika" is her name.<br />
I wonder how long her creator<br />
Struggled to concieve of such a<br />
Witty play on words.<br />
<br />
I wonder if she had writer's block.<br />
Did she, like I, suddenly feel her words unworthy?<br />
Did panic grip her every time her fingers held a pen?<br />
Did every painful, labored word<br />
Feel like it drew blood?<br />
<br />
Lion-philosopher, did you know<br />
The enormity of the burden <br />
You left in my hands<br />
When you left this notebook behind?<br />
<br />
It is strange that after all is over,<br />
When images of sitting on floors of dusty coaches,<br />
Curd-rice, balmy monsoon evenings,<br />
Jewish temples, Adorno and Heidegger,<br />
Nuns severe in habits of gray<br />
Have started to blur like pictures<br />
Of trees taken from speeding trains,<br />
<br />
This notebook remains,<br />
Eloquently silent,<br />
At times accusatory,<br />
At others comforting.<br />
Finally I have taken it up<br />
Because I owe it to the gift,<br />
And I owe it to myself,<br />
And I wanted you to know that, Lyova.DayDreamBelieverhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00365073225447718656noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6227181534206766438.post-50447674874321915192012-03-26T17:51:00.001+05:302012-03-26T17:52:48.404+05:30Dying AloneThe news that greeted me when I logged on to facebook today was that my maternal cousin, Reem-a had died in a car accident in the early hours of the morning. Probably because I stayed the night alone in my apartment, my family had not informed me of this, and thus it was that I was confronted with the news via the status update of one of my other cousins. Anyhow, this is often the case with me – I am always the last to hear of any news in the family, births, deaths, marriages, and the assorted calamities and celebrations in between. <br />
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I was not particularly close to Reem-a since we hardly meet anymore, and he was a bit of what we Mizos like to call a ‘cowboy’ – a bit on the wild side, although he was a lot of fun, with a terrific sense of humor. When I imagine him in my mind’s eye, I see him grinning from ear to ear. That was the kind of person he was. The youngest of a large family of six other siblings, he was doted upon by his brothers, sisters and parents. He lost his mother, my aunt, a few years ago, which must have been especially hard on him. I like to think of him now being hugged into his mother’s warm embrace. Although I have not been able to attend his funeral, which is in Lunglei, I can imagine the waves of shock and grief that must be coursing through his near and dear ones right now. Rest in peace, brother. Sorrounded by his family and friends, he has left this world. <br />
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Mizos have this fear that we will have nobody to mourn us when we die. I’ve been thinking about it, and I guess that for many of us regardless of race, culture, or environment, dying alone may be one of the biggest fears that we have. Not that you can die <i>with</i> anyone, but not to have anyone to feel a sense of loss, of bereavement, seems an empty existence. To many, that may sound illogical. After all, once you’re six feet underground, what would it matter whether you had mourners or not? And yet, such is human nature. We want people to feel something when we leave this world.<br />
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That is why, we love and love and love again no matter how many disappointments life deals us. People are fickle, people are callous, people are unpredictable, people hurt us. And yet, we leave ourselves open to new experiences, willingly make ourselves vulnerable in the hope of finding someone to fill that gap. That persistent need to be loved. Our determination that we <i>will</i> be loved, just as we have loved. How brave we are, how strong the human spirit! Here are a few words that Native American writer, Louise Erdrich has penned in her novel, <i>The Native Drum</i>: <br />
Life will break you. Nobody can protect you from that, and living alone won’t either, for solitude will also break you with its yearning. You have to love. You have to feel. It is the reason you are here on earth. You are here to risk your heart. You are here to be swallowed up. And when it happens that you are broken, or betrayed, of left, or hurt, or death brushes near, let yourself sit by an apple tree and listen to the apples falling all around you in heaps, wasting their sweetness. Tell yourself that you tasted as many as you could.DayDreamBelieverhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00365073225447718656noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6227181534206766438.post-34873229289670766802011-03-13T23:40:00.006+05:302012-11-08T12:26:59.873+05:30The Aizawl Thunders(Once again, I apologize if this sounds dry and academic; it's an ongoing project that I am working on, a paper as yet incomplete. At the risk of sounding pompous, it hasn't been published yet, so I would appreciate discretion.It's too long, so I've shortened it as much as possible)<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjl8Vmeq963pKRSEPU_WAdQgpVf1_HojIZ3ULqJV35KuTc5xWv4sThGYXXUSsx1SeQxhffVeqGf-s_y9-bK3qPNZl2Tf_3T8VVc3_roYNjTdnDVCYnP3cjtVcJvwxCbu6MgL3zsA6jItqI/s1600/bikes.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="214" width="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjl8Vmeq963pKRSEPU_WAdQgpVf1_HojIZ3ULqJV35KuTc5xWv4sThGYXXUSsx1SeQxhffVeqGf-s_y9-bK3qPNZl2Tf_3T8VVc3_roYNjTdnDVCYnP3cjtVcJvwxCbu6MgL3zsA6jItqI/s320/bikes.JPG" /></a></div><br />
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In Aizawl, Mizoram, in the year 1999, a group of bikers who rode Royal Enfield Bullet bikes came together, and taking their cue from American biking clubs that they had heard about (specifically Hells Angels), decided to call themselves the Royal Enfield Bullet Riders, and went on their first ride on November 5, 1999. There were only a handful of riders then, and most of them rode second-hand bikes that had been reassembled, repaired, and remodeled. Their enthusiasm and their obvious love for the machines they rode made up for any other lack in terms of numbers and equipment. They were later to be officially recognized as the first Bullet Club in India by the Royal Enfield Company, the manufacturers of the bikes they rode.<br />
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As the rides continued, their numbers also gradually grew, and by 2002, they had grown to the point where the necessity of electing leaders for the Club was felt. Leaders, called Chiefs, were thus elected, and the Club was also renamed The Aizawl Thunders, a name suggested by one of the founding members, Rinchhana.<br />
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Over time, the Thunders evolved into a group that was organized along coherent lines, with proper rules of conduct, identifiable modes of attire, and activities stretched beyond the bike rides in open countries to charity rides for specific causes. They chose deep blue and red as their official colors, and the phrase, “Forever Young” became their motto. Stickers with the Thunders logo were distributed to members, bearing the year of membership, which incidentally, was to be renewed each year, and T-shirts were designed and distributed amongst members of the group.<br />
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In 2003, a Constitution was framed by the Executive Committee members of the Thunders, and in accordance with their Constitutional framework, elections are democratically undertaken annually, and in 2006, it was agreed that three Chiefs would be elected at each election. These three Chiefs would then distribute the responsibilities of leadership amongst themselves. Early activities included rides mainly, and after they grew in the number, they would often hire themselves out as security personnel in concerts and parties, which they have since stopped doing.<br />
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The bikers have their own lingo, certain words and phrases that provide no meaning to those outside the group. For instance, the word, “Sootpoot”, which contains sexual innuendo (for them), is used as an adjective, a noun, and a verb, and usually denotes something or somebody attractive. If a woman is described as ‘sootpoot’, it is meant to be a compliment; if a biker is up to some ‘sootpoot’ he is either flirting or up to some mischief with a woman, and so on. Members address each other as “Boss Boss”, a term of respect. The bikers also have certain songs they sing when they go out on rides or gather for social events, the lyrics of which are deliberately silly and in reference to certain activities and adventures they have encountered. One of their songs tells of the bikers’ encounter with a village lass on one of their trips. She is simply referred to as ‘Two-cell battery’ because she apparently owned a flashlight with a two-cell battery, of which she was inordinately proud, and rightly so, for when night fell, the village was enveloped in darkness due to power failure, and her flashlight came in very handy. When the trip was over and they sat down to relive their experiences, it was discovered that most of the bikers on that trip had ‘sootpooted’ with her over the course of the night they spent in her village. The song mocks their own gullibility, and pays homage to her artful ways. The chorus simply celebrates the “two-cell battery” girl.<br />
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In so far as the experience of the bike ride is concerned, a common theme amongst those who were interviewed was the thrilling sense of power given by the throb of the engine as it effortlessly maneuvers terrain of all kinds. The identity of the biker melts into that of the bike, until man and machine seem to be one. His machine, then, becomes an extension of his personality; conversely, he becomes an extension of the unleashed force of the machine. On foot, the biker is like any other man. Seated on his powerful machine, he is wild beast, conqueror, powerful regent, warrior, bird, man, god, machine, and wind. Members have also shared that the rhythmic, thumping sound of the bike itself invokes a response in them which is intense. Yet another analogy is drawn between the riding of the bike and that of a powerful horse.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKGqLGc3a8dYNs9Um2FLARpPwvLeamcq6y5U-WYLBeZpT9NBNRzOQig9SXwf8s4JrLLCmsJQABlF8JJnwlgeD4z7mNxQLrCe_-y_23mBeD-elMCipJqZoPFYxwN78VfYvG1fW3clRgyxY/s1600/IMG_0977.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="240" width="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKGqLGc3a8dYNs9Um2FLARpPwvLeamcq6y5U-WYLBeZpT9NBNRzOQig9SXwf8s4JrLLCmsJQABlF8JJnwlgeD4z7mNxQLrCe_-y_23mBeD-elMCipJqZoPFYxwN78VfYvG1fW3clRgyxY/s320/IMG_0977.JPG" /></a></div><br />
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Other members have similarly close relationships with both their bikes and the Thunders Clan. Some members have christened their bikes with female names such as ‘Rosalyn’, and refer to them as such. The clan seems to provide its members with a valid identity that they are proud of. This sense of belonging, this claim to a valid identity, is reinforced by tangible evidence of membership within the specific community, such as the attire that is worn by them – leather jackets, official black t-shirts, tight jeans and leather boots- and Thunders paraphernalia such as logos, stickers, and so on. The male bonding that takes place is as much an affirmation of their solidarity and affiliation to the clan, as it is also a safe harbor that ascertains each member’s significance and worth. In other words, for many, it is the only real identity they have, in that it is one that is voluntarily embraced by them, as opposed to other roles that they play within societal institutions.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtbmhjyOlHsYCfO9KNDbf-J0WdoRRLS1zdjqzEv_ZSvtC6CD2GMV2L8x1OtHGxEIAeE2CtUb0FP2JYo_uAeGLbQQaLg0JCLoLbjZauE6oe131yFceVhaiOG42CsSQ5ZBsyxAOhFsi42vI/s1600/For+ID+Card+072.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="240" width="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtbmhjyOlHsYCfO9KNDbf-J0WdoRRLS1zdjqzEv_ZSvtC6CD2GMV2L8x1OtHGxEIAeE2CtUb0FP2JYo_uAeGLbQQaLg0JCLoLbjZauE6oe131yFceVhaiOG42CsSQ5ZBsyxAOhFsi42vI/s320/For+ID+Card+072.jpg" /></a></div>Interestingly, the Aizawl Thunders have also succeeded where most Biker Clubs have failed or have not been bothered to try. Like most biker clubs, certain assumptions abound as to the nature of the identity presented by their Biker community. Certainly, the standard attire, greasy long hair gathered in a pony tail, the smoking, drinking and womanizing, the flouting of social norms and conventions often associated with their counterparts in the west also make their appearance within the Thunders. However, almost from the very beginning, the leaders of the clan have had very clear visions as to the direction that it was going to take. A former Chief of the Thunders, Rinchhana, has stated that his dream was that the Biking Club would serve as an ambassador of the state of Mizoram, representing the Mizo people in cultural and social spheres all over the world. To this end, they have consistently renewed their efforts at contributing to society through Charity rides, raising funds and awareness for charitable causes, although they have so far refused to call themselves a charitable organization. In this way, they subvert the roles traditionally attributed to them by using their rides to focus attention on social issues. In fact, they have now become one of the most popular communities in Mizoram, even often being hired by the government to help raise awareness on issues such as disaster management, fire prevention, and conservation of water. Hence, despite the fact that personal preferences and obsessions brought them together, they have moved beyond the self-serving arena into a sphere where they now contribute significantly to the very society which has labeled them ‘rebels’.DayDreamBelieverhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00365073225447718656noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6227181534206766438.post-73822233651579868632010-12-03T13:21:00.000+05:302012-11-08T12:27:15.133+05:30Old, Older, Oldest!Weird fact: a total stranger asked me my age in total seriousness today. I was buying something from her shop, and she popped the question. <br />
Weirder fact: I told her my real age. Just like that.<br />
Weirdest fact: She pondered over my reply, and said "Hmmm... well, you're older than I thought." It's weird because I don't know whether she meant to insult me, or to give me a back-handed compliment by meaning that I looked younger than my age. In which case, regardless of how old I looked, I take it to mean that she felt my years were not few by any standards. As compliments go, that would have been one of the most back-handed ones I've ever received. I had to look really far behind to be able to see it. <br />
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I went to get a dress tailored today, since some of us thought it might be fun to get together for dinner, where all the ladies wore LBDs (little black dresses). The dressmaker, without any instructions on my part, immediately began looking for dress patterns that were short,yet mature. Ouch.<br />
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Is it my imagination, or am I getting older faster than I am inside my head? And why is everyone reminding me of my age? They almost always get it wrong anyway. The "underestimaters" think I'm a college kid (haha) and the "overestimaters" (whom I hate) look at my profession and label me as nearing forty. Not cool. What is more important anyway - your mental age or your chronological age? Inside, I'm just the age I want to be. Outside, I'm getting a little too old to mix with certain groups, dress in certain ways or do certain things.<br />
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Which got me thinking. Why this obsession with youth anyway? Granted, no one wants to get old and wrinkled, dependent upon younger members of the family. But when did this kind of attitude towards old age start? If we look at old texts, the Bible or folklore for instance, the old were venerated, respected, obeyed, almost worshiped. Now of course, the times are a-changing as Dylan would say. But what exactly are we achieving in our perennial attempts at everlasting youth? What kind of values are we inculcating in the younger generation?<br />
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Youth is fine, if it characterized by innocence, energy, curiosity, beauty - in short, all the finest qualities that one has in one's youth. In our society today however, being young seems to be equated with having a total lack of responsibility, accountability and remaining a baby. Being a baby doesn't always mean that you are youthful. If one isn't careful, one could end up being a 75-year old baby. <br />
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I see a lot of post graduate students still addressing their parents as "aanu" "aapa". C'mon, I think they can safely go past the baby-talk at this stage. Just call them "Kanu" and "Kapa" for goodness'sake! I may sound overly grouchy, but behind this babytalk is an accompanying lack of maturity in the way they relate to adults around them. If you're over 18, you're considered an adult. Period. So act and talk like one. Which is why I abhor the way the term of address, "U" is being used nowadays. Prefixing "U" was a way of showing respect to a person older than you, and it indicated good breeding, humility and propriety to know who to address as such. What is rather amusing and irritating now is that people prefix the "U" not so much as a sign of respect, but as a way of letting you know that they are younger than you. I swear people that I grew up with, who called me by my name just like everyone else, have suddenly started adding the "U". And it sure as hell isn't because they have suddenly developed a new-found respect for me! Which is why, I'm guessing, fellow blogger and friend Calliopia resents people adding the "U" in front of online nicks :) C'mon, it's a <span style="font-style:italic;">nick</span>!<br />
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Anyway, I'm rambling on, which just goes to show that I may be a little more "senior" than I would like to believe. Oh well.<br />
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To end on a more upbeat note, something of mine is getting published by OUP, slated for release on December 9th. <a href="http://www.oup.co.in/search_detail.php?id=145702">Here</a> is the link, and I say <span style="font-style:italic;">something</span> because it's an anthology, and I was asked to submit poems, articles and translations. I have no idea what they picked out. But I got my name on print, so yay! <br />
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Am off for a short holiday next week, and will be back and posting on the work I've done on the Aizawl Thunders soon. Ciao!!DayDreamBelieverhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00365073225447718656noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6227181534206766438.post-65615962971109176592010-03-09T23:36:00.000+05:302012-11-08T12:27:27.827+05:30Liar, Liar, Pants on Fire!If you search for tenderness<br />
it isn't hard to find.<br />
You can have the love you need to live.<br />
But if you look for truthfulness<br />
You might just as well be blind.<br />
It always seems to be so hard to give.<br />
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Honesty is such a lonely word.<br />
Everyone is so untrue.<br />
Honesty is hardly ever heard.<br />
And mostly what I need from you.<br />
('Honesty' - Billy Joel)<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
When is it ok to lie? Are there special circumstances in which lying is acceptable? These were some questions that came to mind after I discovered someone close to me had told me a bare-faced lie. <br />
<br />
Of course, there is a thin line between LYING and being diplomatic, polite, kind, or whatever we choose to call it when we say things like "You look great!" when we know someone looks terrible, or "It will be ok" when we know it won't, or "No, that outfit doesn't make you look fat" when in fact, a tight top creates sausages on a friend's tummy, or when we smile and say, "I'm alright" when we want to scream out of sheer frustration. <br />
<br />
What happens, for instance, when you tell a lie to "save" a situation or a relationship? Should we confess to our sins and hurt people, or lie and give them peace, quoting the adage, "ignorance is bliss"? What about our past? Do we 'fess all or edit and censor shamelessly? When is "honesty is the best policy"?<br />
<br />
On the flip side, what if we decide upon the amount of information we give to near and dear ones, but unfortunately cannot prevent them from discovering the truth from some other source one day? Then, of course, we risk losing their trust forever. So, should we plunge in and bare all, knowing full well the consequences - which could be, and often are ugly - or, do we keep our lips zipped and cross our fingers, hoping they will never find out the truth? How honest should we be? Is there such a thing as being half-honest, partly honest, and how different is a white lie from a black lie? How honest should we be to the ones we love? Honestly, I don't know.DayDreamBelieverhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00365073225447718656noreply@blogger.com19tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6227181534206766438.post-65654513002038525592010-02-11T22:40:00.000+05:302012-11-08T12:27:40.905+05:30Valentine's Blues<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcMfkbX_UxO5v5kg2hZ6qhr4OUdw7RJaALLNFV5Elf24sZ1a8kVU8N95ZXmkxnXhki9kUAm_F-l0iB2tTAxSkRjwj5SkOr2WJ_Ep3368dQnLDUqafCialU-DgACrtWHzOMmfWBlJS5W1I/s1600-h/Valentine-s-Day-1537.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcMfkbX_UxO5v5kg2hZ6qhr4OUdw7RJaALLNFV5Elf24sZ1a8kVU8N95ZXmkxnXhki9kUAm_F-l0iB2tTAxSkRjwj5SkOr2WJ_Ep3368dQnLDUqafCialU-DgACrtWHzOMmfWBlJS5W1I/s320/Valentine-s-Day-1537.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5437046704573092242" /></a><br />
<span style="font-style:italic;">Tell me, tell me,<br />
What makes love such an ache and pain?<br />
Tell me what makes <br />
Love such an ache and pain?<br />
It takes you and it breaks you - <br />
But you got to love again</span><br />
<br />
- Langston Hughes, "Love Again Blues"<br />
<br />
<br />
It's that time of year again, when the whole world suddenly seems to be infected with a disease of the heart - and I'm not talking about angina. Yes, February 14 is just a few days away, and suddenly folks are in a frenzy wondering what would be the ultimate romantic gesture to assure their loved ones of the depths of their feelings. For teens, it becomes imperative that they buy that box of chocolates, that red rose, that bottle of perfume, for their beaus. You are made to feel like a pariah if you don't have anybody to exchange valentines with. Of course, it's beside the point that the entire tradition of Valentine's Day is an imported concept, part of the hegemony of the West. The merchants make sure that you don't forget this all-important day by displaying enough red balloons, hearts, and roses to make you sick. <br />
<br />
That sounds like a decidedly grouchy attitude. Don't get me wrong - I have enjoyed and celebrated Valentine's over the years with full gusto. However, this year, I thought I would give it a rest and let other people make all the fuss. Love, after all, can be celebrated throughout the year, right? And anyway, with all the little disagreements and nitpicking moments that a relationship inevitably goes through, I felt love itself was perhaps a wee bit overrated. Or so I thought.<br />
<br />
Then something happened a few days ago.On one of those aforementioned, unaccountable, inexplicable, nitpicking moments, I lost my temper over something so insignificant that I can't even remember what it was all about now. As an experienced player in the sparring department (with expertise in such methods as hitting-below-the-belt-when-feeling-particularly-vindictive)I was bringing it on in full force. And my sparring partner just dodged the blows, with no idea why we were suddenly in the midst of a full-blown fight. Before we knew it, we weren't even on speaking terms. <br />
<br />
The next day, wallowing in my self-induced misery but too proud to do anything about it, I was fretting and fuming when I received a text message. It asked me to forgive him. He had done nothing, didn't even know why I was being such a pain, but he begged to be forgiven so that peace could be restored. And he's not without his fair share of pride. That's perhaps the nicest thing anybody has ever done for me. Maybe love does exist.<br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-style:italic;">Just because I loves you - <br />
That's de reason why<br />
My soul is full of color<br />
Like de wings of a butterfly</span><br />
(-Langston Hughes, "Reasons Why")<br />
<br />
Happy Valentine's Day, all the Romeos out there... especially mine :)DayDreamBelieverhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00365073225447718656noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6227181534206766438.post-80784712891820765242010-01-28T11:04:00.000+05:302012-11-08T12:27:52.261+05:30Train Journeys, Unexpected Delays and Transcendence.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjflGcyDACPzsDubt5phq31uTYjQfRV5_EuzVVcUSBJaH_6ZsogmAqRi2NP77X-EOmpqI8W5QRDN0zvybhYN6Zm26oPFo3a7L7SpDbz3NwpRz6Uu8v2-q8qm-FS3Hh_WnsH2nDdoTOMwmI/s1600-h/Sightseeing+Blore+Pics+028.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjflGcyDACPzsDubt5phq31uTYjQfRV5_EuzVVcUSBJaH_6ZsogmAqRi2NP77X-EOmpqI8W5QRDN0zvybhYN6Zm26oPFo3a7L7SpDbz3NwpRz6Uu8v2-q8qm-FS3Hh_WnsH2nDdoTOMwmI/s320/Sightseeing+Blore+Pics+028.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5432565504044238130" /></a><br />
Was on a Study Tour recently with my students. Travelling on an unbelievably tight budget, we had to travel by train, second class sleeper, non- AC. I realised I hadn't had too much experience travelling by train, and I can't say I regret that lack. I warned my students not to be "princesses" and to be tough and stoic come what may. I must say I myself was a bit unprepared for the filth, the cacophony of vendors and beggars and hijras that burst into the compartment whenever the train stopped, the condition of the washrooms (!!!) and the total chaos regarding tickets and seats. Unless one sat steadfastly in one's seat all the time, any number of ticketless travellers assumed that they had the right to plonk down on the seats, without so much as a by-your-leave. <br />
<br />
The food was relatively decent, except, of course, if you get stuck in some bizarre railway traffic situation in the middle of goodness-knows-where, and are forced to spend an extra day and night on the train, then nothing tastes too good anymore. By the third day, all of us were eagerly awaiting the arrival of peddlers who came to sell their wares- bracelets, keychains, torches, sauna belts, chains and locks, knives... in short, most everything. One man even came with a number of mobile handsets, shouting "PCO", so I assume it was possible to make calls from his numerous phones. Bargaining became an art, with all of us trying to outdo the other in the loud and lengthy negotiations that took place. Our broken Hindi didn't help. I got conned into buying a solar mobile phone charger, which charged the phone for precisely 5 minutes, after which there was no more life evident from my phone. A hundred rupees. I was also robbed of the Woodland sandals I was wearing. When I got down from the top berth, it simply wasn't there anymore. <br />
<br />
Anyway, notwithstanding my initial revulsion and boredom, by the end of the third day of the third journey by train, I was able to cope with most things, and when I finally stepped down on the platform at the last station, I had finished three novels, numerous magazines, and was loaded down with a motley collection of trinkets and gadgets bought on the train. A little worse for wear, but that much richer in experience. That's life.<br />
<br />
Oh, and I'll save the story about the bedbugs for next time :)DayDreamBelieverhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00365073225447718656noreply@blogger.com18tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6227181534206766438.post-67298835311534101922009-12-15T23:10:00.000+05:302012-11-08T12:28:14.975+05:30OMG!!I don't have much to say. I completely <span style="font-style:italic;">forgot<span style="font-weight:bold;"></span></span> a faculty meeting yesterday. I made the 18 kilometers to my workplace in 25 minutes despite Christmas-shopping traffic. I am so in my boss' bad books, which is where I continually seem to be these days anyway. Maybe there's a whole book dedicated only to my misdemeanors. <br />
<br />
Human errors. Too bad we're expected to be inhumanly efficient sometimes.DayDreamBelieverhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00365073225447718656noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6227181534206766438.post-9398297451932263672009-11-15T22:19:00.000+05:302012-11-08T12:28:51.498+05:30Just Another PostThis isn't going to be one of those academically-oriented posts that Calliopia finds so boring; I ought to warn you that it also probably won't contain sage words and profound insights into the fundamental truths of life. No, sirree. This is just another post about a topic that has been discussed almost to death : love.<br />
<br />
See, what I don't get about this whole concept of love (not the divine kind - although I have a few questions on that too, for another time)is how it's supposed to be the definition of perfect bliss and excruciating pain all at the same time, and how, despite it's seemingly ambiguous, arbitrary and completely fickle nature, so many of us seem to be addicted to it. Is it love, or is it the idea of being in love that has us hooked? No profound observations yet - I did warn you. <br />
<br />
In spite of countless attempts, for centuries nobody has ever been able to define love; at best there have been some very good descriptions of the nature of, the effects of, the characteristics of love. For my part, I would like to add that Love is a very wet thing. And by wet, I specifically mean the kind of wetness that emits from the eyes...tears, some call it. Hah, and you thought I was talking about the other kind. <br />
<br />
Anyway, not to meander too long from what prompted this post in the first place. In short, I received a call from a girl friend of mine, a very tearful call, in fact, this evening. We all know the story - her guy, with whom she'd been involved in this extremely hopeless love-triangle, did the unthinkable (actually, not so unexpected, considering his complete inability to commit to either of the women involved), and got the other woman pregnant. She ranted, raved, raged, and threatened to commit some act of violence involving hammers, pistols, and other assorted weapons. However, once she ran out of really graphic (and painful) descriptions of what she would do to him, what remained was that elusive emotion called love. She wanted to hate him, but it didn't work. Well, maybe the hate will come later, but right now, she's making excuses for him. She knows what she's doing, and she still can't help doing it because this thing is bigger than her.<br />
<br />
So, what is it about us that we jump into situations and stay there, fully aware of the potentials of getting hurt - again? Are we suckers for pain? Is it some masochistic impulse that keeps us going back for more? Should we run as fast as our bare feet can carry us the moment we are threatened with this <span style="font-style:italic;">thing</span>? Are we simply kidding ourselves when we chalk down a failed relationship as "a mistake" and then look toward the horizon, to that new person we've just met, and think "maybe this is The One"?<br />
<br />
I don't know. I have no answers. But I like to think that this refusal to learn our lessons, to 'wisen up', is, in fact, courage of the most heroic order. To risk ourselves getting hurt again and again, to refuse to lose hope.... maybe that is just another evidence of the indomitable spirit of mankind. And maybe the small victories make up for the huge losses. Or maybe the losses are, after all, in the end, victories.<br />
<br />
PS: I'm sorry Miss Calliopia, I can't seem to find out how to make my fonts smaller...been out of touch for that long!DayDreamBelieverhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00365073225447718656noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6227181534206766438.post-82383037430085490642009-08-30T20:17:00.000+05:302018-10-04T18:44:14.212+05:30TEXTILES OF MIZORAM: The Puan.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTG_xD8mvMxq8Muhu37l-lTT0Rho3ZhYnFZAcvcoIKXUJHB0VSHgGIroxXtjxfkt4A5cOqwq9yptha3A6yTvwMgGqWNDbThwfb3zOQoL3Gng7OReB1LV3DWT6CltcD-nkAwKHzJnWxrj4/s1600-h/fashion-yztp-2008.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5375775156163726994" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTG_xD8mvMxq8Muhu37l-lTT0Rho3ZhYnFZAcvcoIKXUJHB0VSHgGIroxXtjxfkt4A5cOqwq9yptha3A6yTvwMgGqWNDbThwfb3zOQoL3Gng7OReB1LV3DWT6CltcD-nkAwKHzJnWxrj4/s320/fashion-yztp-2008.jpg" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 229px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 320px;" /></a><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyziT63QZXh9b0IE8vM_Dg5kbxLAys4XDpsLewfT2NTcLY9TeCKKs-NwX9qULbj-USeEP_eWT6O0n_0ATSqUxJc07V-Yq-L1FA0kFoozELbHy2ZzxWw2Zp9h4nfxzHq0SyxGU_PJX8pBk/s1600-h/Mizo+ladies31.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5375774594652001346" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyziT63QZXh9b0IE8vM_Dg5kbxLAys4XDpsLewfT2NTcLY9TeCKKs-NwX9qULbj-USeEP_eWT6O0n_0ATSqUxJc07V-Yq-L1FA0kFoozELbHy2ZzxWw2Zp9h4nfxzHq0SyxGU_PJX8pBk/s320/Mizo+ladies31.jpg" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 320px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 221px;" /></a><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitnhy8C_11MaaJCGoITBE7WYuw1jQJhRDuzJJMKVtXFko1cmEl-cc5_FWUYQnPWM5CxI2s4rRUM3sVbn5MrZTYl9V7uJCpEzAnF2Odmqp2910MYebSOqqNe8ejoUs5j5I4XqiwB0zjXmo/s1600-h/bigmizoweavingphoto2.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5375774108043066994" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitnhy8C_11MaaJCGoITBE7WYuw1jQJhRDuzJJMKVtXFko1cmEl-cc5_FWUYQnPWM5CxI2s4rRUM3sVbn5MrZTYl9V7uJCpEzAnF2Odmqp2910MYebSOqqNe8ejoUs5j5I4XqiwB0zjXmo/s320/bigmizoweavingphoto2.jpg" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 204px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 320px;" /></a><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuQk-56lltdHNfKBM4glmqGuTbrp1tRartXmoGUS6s_j5qvD966IwDQ-qTMNDNxhR16QWzi-qRnxpYQAyqNNjp5Y6zLjTuPcMg0_Luw0wcbg62g8al9UzcPM2jcQiurP0jGal6AYj7KqA/s1600-h/DSC02370.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5375773708899752674" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuQk-56lltdHNfKBM4glmqGuTbrp1tRartXmoGUS6s_j5qvD966IwDQ-qTMNDNxhR16QWzi-qRnxpYQAyqNNjp5Y6zLjTuPcMg0_Luw0wcbg62g8al9UzcPM2jcQiurP0jGal6AYj7KqA/s320/DSC02370.jpg" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 214px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 320px;" /></a><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaMwtXlGpFqC0ZeyaU6l6wIyFhtgwpKAs5uoSekRtFKC9xMNH5zVa0KfVMQFleY5vXIhZglbTQLGfSaou5hkS9B-_v7IoEPBVm9gZIp22ojJ6BCZfP3Wyh6BBKEP2qlcqsD7a_VRQkwVs/s1600-h/puantah.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5375771727611432514" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaMwtXlGpFqC0ZeyaU6l6wIyFhtgwpKAs5uoSekRtFKC9xMNH5zVa0KfVMQFleY5vXIhZglbTQLGfSaou5hkS9B-_v7IoEPBVm9gZIp22ojJ6BCZfP3Wyh6BBKEP2qlcqsD7a_VRQkwVs/s320/puantah.JPG" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 174px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 320px;" /></a><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8JNlP8ybWOjxTbTbJsDcm_2qvrli0VpS1H6Spm2S-ZZkL1yazG1x30yFQmn-ijYf7CVZDQVIXv5d6VsO5rwa7YOe91h888vEyGWIkEI5-sjh-cZ_adcEs17A9jZba1OZli-I0Tq2Rceo/s1600-h/Image024.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5375770009880779762" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8JNlP8ybWOjxTbTbJsDcm_2qvrli0VpS1H6Spm2S-ZZkL1yazG1x30yFQmn-ijYf7CVZDQVIXv5d6VsO5rwa7YOe91h888vEyGWIkEI5-sjh-cZ_adcEs17A9jZba1OZli-I0Tq2Rceo/s320/Image024.jpg" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 240px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 320px;" /></a><br />
<br />
-Dr. Cherrie L. Chhangte<br />
Assistant Professor, Mizoram University.<br />
<br />
<span style="font-style: italic;">Paper Presented at Woven Tales from the North East: One-Day Textile Conference, 16th June 2009 at NCPA Mumbai.</span> <br />
<br />
Mizoram, which became the 23rd state of the Indian Union on 20th February 1987, is a mountainous region bordered by Bangladesh in the west, Myanmar in the east, the Bay of Bengal in the South, and Assam and Manipur in the north. Tribes that inhabit the state of Mizoram include the Luseis, the Hmars, the Paites, the Pawis, and the Maras, among others. <br />
<br />
Handlooms have always been an integral part of the Mizo life. In earlier times, every Mizo girl was expected to know the art of weaving, which met the practical needs of not only herself, but those of her family as well. The courtship of a young woman by a young man usually took place at night, with the girl often industriously making preparations for the next day’s weaving by cleaning the cotton, hanging the threads on the loom, or generally preparing the implements for weaving, and the young man conversing and assisting by her side. The main garment of the Mizo is called the Puan, which simply means cloth’. The Puan has always played a central role in the social fabric of the Mizos, transcending its mere functional aspect as a garment worn by women – and men too, in earlier days – to play a crucial role in the performance of rites, rituals and other special occasions like births, deaths, and weddings.<br />
<br />
Even upto the last decade of the 19th century, the Mizos lived on hill tops in small villages under the protection of chiefs. The topographical condition of the area wherein they lived made them self-reliant in respect of the day to day needs. They raised their own crops through jhumming and engaged themselves in hunting on a regular basis to supplement their food. Cotton, which was among the crops grown in the fields, was collected carefully, ginned and spun out with the help of indigenously made tools to produce yarn for weaving puans to meet their needs. This was done on simple loin looms (puanbu) which enabled them to weave cloth usually not broader than thirty inches. For one puan two such pieces had to be sewn together. A puan is normally about 55” – 60” in length and 48” in breadth.<br />
<br />
In the beginning, the Mizos did not use colored yarn, and so the cloth produced was a simple, coarse white piece for both men and women. These were called puanngo. In course of time, they discovered that certain barks, roots, herbs and leaves could yield a fast, black color, and this was subsequently used to make variations on the monotony of the existing designs, by the introduction of black borders, as well as stripes in black and white. With the passage of time, they became acquainted with other colors like red, yellow, green, and blue. <br />
<br />
As with most other communities, art was often a reflection of the everyday preoccupations of the people. For instance, the first design produced by the Mizos is a design called kawkpuizikzial; ‘kawk’is a common leafy vegetable whose leaf tips curl in a rounded loop, and this was imitated by them, and remained a recurring motif in different traditional puans. Similarly, as innovations in design became more and more advanced, they frequently took on names on the basis of the designs used therein; thus, ‘disul’ (after a species of grass), ‘naya sawm par’(10 paise design), ‘sawhthing par’(ginger flower), ársi par (star motif) are some of the designs that are self-explanatory.<br />
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Puans have always been an intrinsic part of the Mizo wardrobe. After Mizos progressed from the siapsuap (a grass skirt), the puan became the only garment worn by both genders. It was simply worn wrapped around the body under the arms. Other types of puans were also woven and used as bedding and shawls. By the 20th century, men wore puans very rarely, since trousers had become fashionable and popular as a result of the increasing interaction with Indians from the mainland, as also the British officers and missionaries who came into Mizoram. However, women retained the use of puans, though it was now worn sarong-style, wrapped around the waist, with a blouse on top, a practice which is retained till today, although variations do occur.<br />
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The Puan also plays a major role in marriages; a collection of puans is a crucial part of the bride’s dowry, and she is required to bring a number of puans with her to her husband’s house, and these puans, after being handed over to her mother-in-law, are subsequently distributed as gifts among the female relatives of the husband. The Puan is also a significant part of the rituals associated with death in the Mizo community. People carry plain and simple puans when going to funerals, and these are used symbolically as shrouds, and parting gifts for the dead. Once the funeral rites are over, the dead person’s family usually distributes a number of these puans as keepsakes to the deceased’s near and dear ones.<br />
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The most well-known and intricate of the Mizo puans is the Puanchei. Used in festive dances and other special occasions, it is the most prized possession of a Mizo woman. Interestingly, even in present times, a woman does not get married without bringing with her a Puanchei. N. Chatterji observes:<br />
It is also interesting to find that many of the designs of the traditional puans make their appearance in Puanchei in some way or other. Thus the two beautiful deep black compactly woven woolen bands of the ngotekherh make their conspicuous appearance in the puanchei…what is more distinctive of this weaving is that none of the colored threads on the warp are allowed to make their appearance against the above-mentioned…bands…. They also have to ensure, besides close weaving, that at no part of these stripes any shrinkage due to irregular or careless handling of weft and warp threads takes place. (Chatterji, 37)<br />
It is not known when this puan first started to be made, but we may deduce that it evolved in course of time as the artistic expression of their natural talent for weaving, designing and color-matching.<br />
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Other puans of note are the Senior puan, the Pawndum, the Thangchhuah Puan and the Tawlhloh puan, among others. The Senior Puan traditionally has a diamond pattern, though variations may occur. Although there is no definite explanation as to why the term “senior” is used, according to some scholars, it denotes the fact that when this design was first introduced, it was worn mostly by the more senior women in the community, whereas young girls rarely wore them (Chatterji, 38). <br />
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The Pawndum (dum meaning ‘black’), of an earlier origin than the Puanchei, has bands in dark colors against a black background. Young men usually used this puan as a night cover during their stay in the men’s dormitory (zawlbuk). In earlier times, a young woman was required to weave a Pawndum and carry it with to her new home when she got married. This was to be used as a shroud to cover her dead husband’s body in the eventuality that her husband died during her lifetime. It could also be used to cover the bodies of any close relative on her husband’s side. It has a deep cultural significance, even to this day. Before Marriage, this puan was also used as a Dawnpuan phah, which means that if a girl and boy sleep together on the Pawndum with the permission of the girl’s parents, the boy must marry the girl. If he refuses to do so, he is required to pay a fine. In present times, it is still used as a mark of mourning at funerals. Thus, it is not usually worn as a garment on ordinary occasions except those involving deaths. <br />
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The Thangchhuah puan is highly significant in that it could be worn only by those who had earned the highly coveted ceremony of Thangchhuah, a ceremony which was so excessively expensive and complicated that it could usually be performed only by the exceptionally brave hunters or the exceptionally wealthy. In order to perform the Thangchhuah ceremony, a person was required to kill certain animals, or be able to throw a lavish feast for the entire village from his own produce in the field. Thus, it was a mark of social status to be able to wear such a puan. A small turban in the same design called Thangchhuah diar also exists which again could be worn only by the performer of the Thangchhuah. Incidentally, those who performed the Thangchhuah were allowed to have a window in their house, whereas in typical Mizo houses there were no windows, since it was believed this would prevent the entry of evil spirits and demons. <br />
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The Tawlhloh Puan was a puan worn by a warrior who had established his reputation for bravery. Tawlhlo in Mizo means ‘to stand firm’, ‘not to change position’, or ‘not to move backward’. It is said that this design evolved during the time when the Mizos lived between the river Run (now in Myanmar) and the river Tiau. Warriors put on this cloth when they were fighting the enemy as a token of their steadfastness and courage in the face of danger. Even during colonial times, these warriors put on the puan when facing the British soldiers as a token of their resistance and to maintain their traditional dignity. However, in course of time, this puan began to be used by ladies and rich people in times of festive occasions like marriages and the original significance attached to this cloth started to diminish, giving place to a new significance and status value of it.<br />
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Most of the tribes of Mizoram, like the Paites and the Hmars have similar puans with perhaps slight variations in terms of design and names. One of the most popular and intricate puans among Mara tribe as well as the Pawi tribe, who both inhabit the southern part of the state, is a puan known as Chyna Hno among the Maras and Nawnthumpuan among the Pawis. It is quite expensive and a prized possession not only among the Mara women, but among the entire Mizo community. In earlier times, the dye used for this puan was not fast, and therefore could not be washed. This further enhanced its value, and it was worn only on very special occasions. <br />
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One interesting puan of the Paite tribe, which seems to have evolved during the 1980s is the BA Puan, which is reserved for those who excel academically. It is usually given as a token of appreciation, and is not worn by anyone other than those who have merited it. <br />
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In an interview with a Paite gentleman1, I was told that the Paites have certain traditions with regard to the puan that are maintained to this day. For instance, the Puandum of the Paites is often gifted as a token of affection to friends and new acquaintances. The Paites are traditionally a humble, self-effacing tribe who are reluctant to call attention to themselves. Characteristically, even when they give this puan as a present, it is done in the most secretive way possible, preferably without the knowledge of the recipient. For example, if a guest brings this puan as a gift for his host at dinner, he will simply leave the package behind him without any mention of it, and most often than not, the host discovers the surreptitiously placed gift after his guest has left, thereby giving him no chance to express his thanks and consequently, cause embarrassment to his guest.<br />
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Another significance of the puan among the Hmar community is the role that it plays during the process of negotiation for marriages. The emissaries from the boy’s family carry with them a black puan in which the head of a small hoe is wrapped. If the girl’s family is amenable to the alliance, they keep this item with them. Returning it implies that they are not willing to accept the boy as their son-in-law. Incidentally, the hoe is symbolic of the fact that it may be used against the husband at a future date if he misbehaves with his wife or her family. This tradition is maintained to this day.<br />
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In contemporary times, enterprising and innovative young designers have brought the puan to an entire new level, by interspersing the traditional motifs into modern designs. Thus these woven cloths are no longer confined to the traditional sarong-style usage, but make their appearance in jackets, trousers, skirts, tops, and even bags. This fusion is seen as a healthy instance of a tradition that is evolving and keeping pace with the changing times.<br />
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To sum up, we can say that the puan plays an integral part in the social and cultural fabric of the Mizo community. Major social activities and events like marriages, deaths, festive celebrations, and so on, are incomplete without the presence of the puan. Also, it plays a deeply significant role as a symbol of identity in the psyche of the Mizo people, so much so that unofficial movements have sprung up time and again to promote and encourage traditional attire. As early as around the turn of the previous century, that is, by the late 1800s, verses were mockingly sung by Mizo lads to denigrate the practice of wearing garments that were not locally made, a practice which started as a result of the growing interactions with traders and merchants from the mainland. Women being women, perhaps for them the lure of new fashions and fabrics was harder to resist than for the men. In this light verse, for instance, the lady who wears non-Mizo clothes is disdainfully described as something of a harlot, a shameless hussy who will never find a husband since all men will turn their backs on her:<br />
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Thlawinali, thlawinali, thlawi te nali,<br />
Mahni siamsa ziaam feng duh lo Siali,<br />
I leng rei dawn mange thlawite nali.<br />
(Shameless Hussy, Shameless Hussy, dear Shameless Hussy,<br />
Scorning the creations of one’s own people, Scornful woman,<br />
A spinster shall you remain for a very long time, Shameless Hussy).<br />
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Later, during the 1970s and 1980s, student movements once again took up the cause of wearing the puan, other traditional attire like ornaments not being deemed practical. With nationalist sentiments and anti- Indian feelings reaching a high, and to counter the growing tendency of women to wear salwar kameezes and other conspicuously ‘Indian’ garments, these movements very strongly condemned the use of these garments that were non-Mizo, and threats that those who refused to wear puans would be shunned in the community were made – a threat that was frightening in a close-knit community like that of the Mizos. Perhaps it is owing to these strictures that to this day, the habit of wearing blatantly ‘Indian’ clothes is absent in the state; few women, if any, wear the salwar kameez, and saris are never worn by Mizo women, not so much for any underlying resentment, but more out of sheer force of habit.<br />
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Although such threats and compulsions are no longer made in contemporary times, what is heartening to note is that the puan shows no sign of disappearing from the wardrobe of the modern Mizo woman; in particular, women are reluctant to attend church services without donning their favorite traditional garment. However, it is perhaps cause for alarm that the art of weaving in the traditional loin looms is slowly dying out, and contrary to the situation in earlier times when every young girl was expected to know how to weave, in modern times, this has become a thing of the past. <br />
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With the introduction of mechanized looms which are less time-consuming and therefore more commercially viable, more and more people are depending on these semi-mechanized looms to produce a variety of puans in all colors and designs2. Although this may be cause for celebration for the entrepreneur, it has deep ramifications and raises the issue of how far we are responsible for preserving folk indigenous arts and crafts. Since weaving in the traditional way is more time-consuming and strenuous, it is natural that hand-woven puans are much more expensive than the machine-made ones, which has further contributed to the decline in their popularity despite their higher quality. Within Aizawl, the capital of Mizoram, laudable efforts have been made to teach youngsters this art in the PC Girls School, by making weaving a compulsory part of the curriculum. However, it is strongly felt that efforts must be made on a larger scale to promote and preserve the art of weaving these cloths. Puans, after all, serve as a repository of the history and culture, the lores and the folkways of the Mizo people in ways that are at once aesthetically pleasing and practically useful.<br />
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Notes:<br />
1. Interview with Mr. Vanneihtluanga, noted creative writer and journalist, who happens to belong to the Paite tribe. <br />
2. In an interview with Mrs. Ruati, proprietor of L.R. Handlooms, one of the more successful handloom houses in Mizoram, she did affirm that hand-woven cloths are still preferred by the discerning customer, who will not hesitate to shell out more money for a work of higher quality. However, she states that such customers are rather few and far in between.<br />
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Bibliography.<br />
Lianhmingthanga, Material Culture of the Mizo, Tribal Research Institute, Department of Art and Culture, Mizoram. Firma KLM: Aizawl, 1998.<br />
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N. Chatterji, Puan, the Pride of Mizoram, Tribal Research Institute, Department of Art and Culture, Mizoram. Firma KLM: Aizawl, 1979<br />
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Mizoram State Museum Catalogue, Department of Art and Culture, Mizoram, 2008 .<br />
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Mizo Incheina, Tribal Research Institute, Department of Art and Culture, Mizoram. Mizoram Govt. Press: Aizawl, 1993.<br />
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Some of the images have been uploaded from the internet. The author wishes to apologize for any copyright infringements inadvertently committed.</div>
DayDreamBelieverhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00365073225447718656noreply@blogger.com24tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6227181534206766438.post-89981085009506628672009-02-05T21:42:00.000+05:302012-11-08T12:29:22.351+05:30How Grandpa Got His NameI never really knew Grandpa all that well, because he lived in far-away Lawngtlai, and died when I was about six or seven. I do have vague memories of him being wracked by violent fits of phlegmatic coughing, lying in bed in our home at Aizawl, always very quiet and uncomplaining; I would venture near his bed out of curiosity to have a better look at this tanned, thin old man who spoke Mizo infused with all the unfamiliar nuances and cadences of southern dialects. Always, when I did that, he would tell my mother, "Don't let the children come near, they might catch what I have." So I would slink guiltily away, thinking that I had somehow offended him, my childish brain unable to comprehend his concern for me. What I do remember very clearly though, is his name, for Grandpa had been given the uncommon and slightly alarming name of <span style="font-style:italic;">Thatchianga</span>. For those who do not follow the Mizo language, '<span style="font-style:italic;">that</span>' means 'kill', and '<span style="font-style:italic;">chiang</span>' is 'plain, distinct, clear, certain, obvious' according to J.H. Lorraine's Dictionary. So, his name essentially means something like "one who kills/ killed with certainty". Quite a name.<br />
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When I was in Pre-University an aunt asked me why my Grandpa had such an odd name. By then, having gathered a few hazy facts from my mom about the genesis of the name, I easily replied, "Well, he killed this vai (non-Mizo from the plains) chap and so they named him Thatchianga." It took a few seconds for that to register, but when it did, she asked me, "But what <span style="font-style:italic;">was</span> his name before he killed this fellow?!"<br />
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Anyway, here is how the story goes. My great great grandfather, Hnawncheuva of Tawihpui village and his friend, Dokulha, were warriors. This was during the Raj, and even in far-flung places like Tawihpui, petty officers of the government did what they could to take advantage of and harass the villagers. Among this lot were the non-Mizo Circle Interpreters, called Rahsi by the Mizos. These people had frequent interactions with the locals, especially the men, many of whom they employed as coolies. Apparently, they would greedily demand chickens, rice, vegetables and other hard-earned produce from the villagers anytime they had the whim. The villagers, fed up of this kind of behavior, asked Hnawncheuva and his friend to get rid of them, asking them why they, so-called warriors, were such cowards as to let these <span style="font-style:italic;">vai</span>s get away with such atrocious behavior. Not only emboldened by their entreaties, but by now seeing it as their bounden duty to protect the interests of their people, these two gentlemen ambushed and killed one such officer.<br />
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Having made no attempt to conceal their crime, they were duly captured, and a trial was conducted in which the verdict was that they should be transported to the Andamans to serve their term in prison. As they were bound and taken on the long trek towards the nearest port, they refused to be cowed by their captors and would not walk despite threats of the vilest kind. At a loss as to how to proceed, their captors decided to carry them piggy-back style on the torturous mountain roads. Not content with having to be carried thus, these brave warriors would suddenly make a lunge for freedom, and many times both they as well as the men carrying them would tumble down the steep inclines along the way. Needless to say, it must have been quite a journey they undertook. When the captured men resorted to suddenly biting their captors with ferocity, their teeth were all pulled out to teach them a lesson.<br />
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They eventually landed at Andaman Cellular Jial <a href="http://www.andamancellularjail.org/History.htm"></a> and served their term. When the time came for them to go home to Mizoram, Dokulha, in a flash of ill-inspired brilliance suggested that since they were going home anyway, they should kill at least one more <span style="font-style:italic;">vai</span> for good measure. My great great grandpa must have resisted the urge, but the temptation was too great for Dokulha; he went and knocked off an unsuspecting <span style="font-style:italic;">vai</span> who was basking in the sun, enjoying the peace of a beautiful morning. Alas! He was captured yet once more, and spent the rest of his life behind bars in the Andamans. Parting from his friend with much sadness, Hnawncheuva eventually reached home and was reunited with his family. It was in memory of this that my granpa, his grandson, was named Vaithatchianga, later shortened to Thatchianga.<br />
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A decade or so ago, my sister, who was then working as a missionary in Arunachal Pradesh, happened to narrate this story to a male colleague of hers. She told the story with relish, and concluded by remarking that had Dokulha not been so foolish, he would have gone home too. Her colleague, Dingtea, with a wry grin, said, "You're right. We've always wondered what would have been his fate had he not made that disastrous decision. You see, Dokulha was my great great Grandfather." Small world, eh?DayDreamBelieverhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00365073225447718656noreply@blogger.com50