The Trapdoor Opens: Naga Diaries 3

We visited Khonoma, the Angami village that was the cradle of the Naga nationalism. But before that, there was a rather unpleasant incident that introduced an element of suspicion and intrigue, and in a way opened a tiny window to the internal convolutions of Nagaland.

Amlan had called up Charles Chesy, an important man who had done a lot of work on Khonoma. Also a general busybody on the NGO trail, Charles refused point blank to co-operate, cutting through Amlan's rather contrived and circuitous solicitation for help. It seemed he remembered Sunil from his 1984 foray into Nagaland, and even mentioned Sunil's then companion, Alka Desai. It was apparent that Charles did not want to associate with us. He also thought it necessary to tell us that it was not wise to go into the interiors. The locals might mistake us for Indian Intelligence people, and treat us with the just deserts for such folk in Naga country.

Amlan told him that we had been meeting rather overly hospitable people so far, and had been benefiting. Not much help this time, that line.
Was it because it was Colonel Pal who referred us? Pal was an army man; in fact, the public relations officer for the army.

Anyway, we proceeded to Khonoma. Saw the village, recorded the elders of the village. It is the most dramatic place in Nagaland's history: a cradle of wars, the Angami village that has battled more than it had breathed. Khonoma, fittingly, also was the place which produced the Nagas' first and truly charismatic leader in A Z Phizo.

We shot a lot of footage that defined a Naga village. We had a rather articulate guide in Michael, a member of the village council, a designated expert on Khonoma.

However, an odd thing happened. The cabbie zoomed off before the appointed two hours in the village were over. Plus, Amlan was fuming. That night we had another round of verbal fisticuffs.

Amlan's beef was that we did not speak to the elders on camera, that Michael showing us around and giving us a history lesson on Khonoma was essentially so much of a touristy thing. Besides, what Michael said did not require us to visit the village.

It was enough to thicken the air in the car to the density of butter. And led, later that night to the first head-on argument of the trip: Sunil and Amlan sparring in the beginning, me being roped in later as the moderator. I begged out at first, then jumped right in.

In the evening, we met Mao, Sunil's friend's reference, a Sema Naga. He was a journalist with North Eastern Television. He seemed a wholly helpful man. Mao talked about his childhood in the village where his father was a GaoN bura. The villagers were often rounded up, forced to sit in an open space. His father himself had been kidnapped. Then the icing on the cake, "Resentment against the Indian government is in our blood."

Mao also took us to a Sumi restaurant where Sunil gallantly ordered Pork, and rice. Amlan stuck to vegetarian: Yam soup, Lai patta, and an omelette. Me, I safely sat on the fence, saying I will taste rice and pork, and have a Lai patta and an omellete. Sunil changed his tune by evening though, saying he had washed his hands eight times and still could not get the smell of pork out of his system. He vowed never to eat pork again, etc, etc...

Mao then took us to the local bazaar, where only the Nagas shop for their food. The material on display was nothing short of exotic. Worms, at least four types of them, almost the same length of about 4 inches; then there were larvae of what Mao said were dragonflies- the larger of the larvae looked more like a grasshopper, and Amlan surmised that it was the Praying Mantis. Then there were large frogs cut open and displayed, smaller frogs packed in transparent plastic covers with some water inside, squeezed in like train passengers in a Bombay fast, only one or two of the small frogs leaping occasionally over the crowd of about 40, and falling back exhausted.

Mao said that frog was especially good for those who are recovering from surgery. His wife was just home after a month in hospital following an infection she caught while delivering their third child, a boy, on December 20. Presumably, she’d been having a lot of frog preparations.

There was venison, with the eviscerated deer displayed only under the table. This was rather uncharacteristic coyness. Mao explained it was because deer hunting was banned. They hide the animal.

Esterine and Kaka Iralu meanwhile refuse to reveal their phone numbers. Kaka is an original Naga member of the NNC, the forerunner of the Naga movement. His wife was a professor of English, and a writer. Important people we needed to talk to. Theja, at Dream Cafe, is more forthcoming about his world view. He is a rather romantic missionary of all things good. He set up Dream Cafe to "give young people a cause, a mission, the means will follow." His band has two reformed alcoholics as lead vocalist and bassist. And the quote is Nehru’s, a man Phizofelt had humiliated him.

We record the gig the band plays. Unsurprisingly, they are called "Catalysts for Change." There is a huge conscience industry in Nagaland. And Christ is the cornerstone of all their good work, particularly rehabilitating addicts, of alcohol or drugs. Alcohol again is an irony, since the state is officially dry, meaning sale and consumption of liquor is illegal. But it is available everywhere- in every restaurant along the highways, and in hotels.

After shooting the “Catalysts for Change” where they were rehearsing their gig in the basement, we move to the Cafe for an interview with Theja, and the other band members. In an act of desperation, I just throw a question to the open cafe: anybody here a student of English at the Department of English, Nagaland University?

I get a few takers. Amlan cuts to the chase with a more precise question: anybody here know Esterine Iralu’s home? In another instance of spontaneous help we get, Kheja Guno, a young second year BA girl, offers to take us to Esterine's house. She will come to our hotel tomorrow at seven in the morning and take us there.
The Iralus are a study in contrast. Kaka is a large man with bloodshot eyes and a large heart, a passionate Naga nationalist. He is an odd man. He resolves any ethical or moral turpitude I may have of using his obviously passionate declamation of the Indian government and its various brutalities on the Naga people, with, "You can use whatever I say, but it might endanger my life." Easy choice that.

Esterine is the academic. She even refuses to be on camera first. I stick to the issues of oral tradition of the Nagas, her work on translation and the Ph D dissertation where she argues that in translation, even thought processes of a people are conveyed.

Meanwhile, Kheja has been with us all throughout, of her own accord. I give her my first giveaway T-shirt. I had packed a bunch of T-shirts to gift along the way to any Samaritan we encountered, and got help from. Sunil gifts her the fruits we have carted from Medzephema. I invite her to Dream Cafe for coffee, which unfortunately Amlan pays for. I was hoping to pay, because Hiral had called up my hotel and reminded me I was born today.

We take the 1 O'clock bus to TuenSang. Kaka promises to put us on to people who might help us there. I have to give him a call from there. Hekali Zhimomi, the district commissioner of Dimapur, has promised to call up ADC to Tuensang DC Singh ahead. ADC and DC are bureaucratic acronyms that seem like ancient coins dropped into a putrid pool in a hack’s mind swirling in more current PR prose like knowledge manager, and chief mentor.

Kaka gives me a set of his books. I promise to help out with publications in Bombay if I can. I promise Esterine a list of literary agents in London, and stay on email. That is it so far.

Meanwhile, centcomm has turned its attention on the measly writer. I am to keep writing the way the film is shaping, whatever that means. Guess I must look busy taking notes, and staring intently into space, every once in a while.