The mango tree {Revathi Raj Iyer}

Renuka was coming home after a very long time, indeed. Her trips to India had completely stopped in the last few years, owing to a shift in the priorities of both her husband Murthy and daughter Tarsha. She had a phobia for flights and felt very claustrophobic. This was her first trip all by herself and she was overwhelmed with joy and accomplishment, like an astronaut who was returning home from outer space. She looked out of the aircraft, took a deep breath and adjusted her Rado to the local India time. The watch was an engagement gift from Murthy. She fondled the watch as if to rekindle a sweet memory. Soon the plane would touch the grounds of her homeland. "Madam, can you bring the seat to an upright position and fasten your seat belt please," said the stewardess in a mechanical tone and moved on repeating the same line to a few others who were in deep slumber. Renuka obediently did what she had been reminded and closed her eyes. In spite of a 10 hour flight from Auckland to Singapore and another 3 ½ hours from Singapore to Chennai, her face showed no signs of tiredness. She was as energetic as ever and in a mood to have an all-nighter with her mother, who, she was certain, would be eagerly waiting for her at the airport. Murthy was a loving and caring husband. His parents had migrated to New Zealand in the early 40's. He moved up the corporate ladder very quickly, with the result, he became the youngest CFO in a leading bank. Anybody else in Renuka's place would have been more than happy. But here she was, restless and far from happy. Since the time Tarsha flew away from home to the States, the brilliant girl had managed a scholarship to study at Boston University; Murthy became even more preoccupied with his work. They were leading parallel lives, albeit being under the same roof. He had changed; was quieter and became a recluse at home. He escaped behind the façade of work. What made Murthy change was something Renuka was not sure about. He was a friendly type, not too reserved yet not flirtatious with women. So it could not be that he was having an affair. Even if he did, he would be honest enough to tell Renuka about it. 'Was Murthy missing Tarsha?' Renuka too missed her only daughter, more than anything else. 'Should that not have brought him even closer to me? Should we not be comforting each other and build a healthier relationship in an empty nest, just like other elderly couples, Jayanthi and Natarajan, for instance?' Renuka's thoughts travelled in time to finally dwell on her ageing parents in India. She had not seen them in a very long time... She was 22 and naïve when she left India on marrying Murthy. She loved the change, new friends, life style and everything else a foreign land can offer to a girl who has never seen anything beyond her own country. The 'grass is greener on the other side' syndrome had caught up with her, too. After Tarsha left, Renuka continued her humdrum job as librarian in a local library. Her job was paying well enough, but it was getting very monotonous. In fact, life itself was. She suddenly dreaded growing old in her adopted land. She knew Tarsha was not going to come back either. Tarsha was intelligent and fiercely ambitious. She was driven to make a career not just have a job. "America is the place to be," she had declared. Murthy and she were slowly drifting apart; both did not make any effort towards their relationship. She desperately wanted to see her parents. Renuka had been avoiding this topic, but when she eventually brought it up, Murthy did not utter a word. It was as if he had nothing to say. Not even a 'why' or 'can we make it work' or anything. "Do you want to visit your family or live there permanently?" is all he asked. Renuka was not expecting this. She did not bother to reply and started sorting her stuff. She packed a few of her favourite things and stuffed her bag with memorabilia that she and Tarsha had lovingly compiled over time – photos, scrap book, housewarming cards, birthday cards, thank you notes, sorry notes, card album and what have you! Renuka lovingly opened the box of shells and rare stones that Tarsha had picked from those snorkelling trips and pristine beaches. She placed it, neatly, in between her clothes and closed the suitcase. The past was great but it was over now. Her present was bothering her and she could see no future together with Murthy in this country. Murthy would never return to her homeland. She was determined to leave his. For once, Renuka wanted to be just a daughter with no other role to play. She had gone a long way and now wanted to reflect on her wavering life. The plane landed with a thud and as it taxied, Renuka jerked forward. Her eyes were a tad moist. She removed her glasses, wiped her tears, and put her glasses back on. She was in her hometown, Chennai. She suddenly got restless and squeezed herself in between the equally restless fellow passengers and managed to be the first to get off the plane. From a distance, she could see her mother in the waiting area of the airport, trying to catch a glimpse of her amidst the passengers. Suddenly their eyes locked, a moment of recognition, a moment of pain that turned to instant joy. Her mother was waving at her with both hands. Renuka quickened her pace and pushed her trolley as fast as she could. They hugged and stood motionless. "I thought you would never come," was the first thing she told her. "Why would I not ma?" answered Renuka releasing her grip. It was well past midnight when they reached home. Renuka could see that her father walked feebly, with a walking stick. He had definitely aged much more than what she had imagined. It was as if he would collapse any moment. He coughed violently. Ma handed him the flask. "He coughs a lot," her mother complained. Renuka led her father to his room and sat next to him on the bed. She held his hand and they didn't say a word to one another. That look on his daughter's face, he knew that something was wrong. He closed his eyes and she left the room, whispering good night. It must have been around 3 am when she fell asleep. The house was quiet and peaceful and the next morning Renuka was woken to the sound of the cuckoo. "Ga ma pa...," she remembered her music teacher and wondered if Janaki aunty would still be alive and was teaching music. How much Renuka had hated music then, especially when Janaki aunty would insist that she practice regularly! Renuka opened the old wooden cupboard and started rummaging. She was deeply touched that her mother had still preserved her favourite childhood stuff. She turned and looked at her suitcase with a twinge of guilt. "Was she being unfair to Tarsha?" She opened the bedroom window and was astonished to find the mango tree, majestic and larger than life. She could see several hundreds of mangoes hanging like bells. A few cattle were resting under the tree. There was a shepherd sleeping next to them using his headgear as a pillow. In the midst of it all, her childhood was locked; she in a ponytail, frock, barefooted and Bashir her best friend, who lived in a small house in the neighbourhood. She had met him under that tree. They were both 14 years old. He had promised to marry her; Bashir, her childhood friend. Painful memories buried with time suddenly sprang to life. *** It was the summer of Class 10. Her annual visit to her grandparents' home, where her parents were now living, would attract the attention of girls and boys in the neighbourhood. They were her playmates except this boy, Bashir, who would merely watch them. Renuka thought it quite silly, at first. Her friend said that he was shy and did not play with girls. That prodded naughty Renuka to try getting friendly with Bashir. She spoke to him and he answered. He spoke to no other girl and this flattered her. They would sprint up to the mango tree, a self-timed race in which Bashir would invariably let Renuka win. She would continuously chatter just about anything and everything, and Bashir would quietly listen to her and not say a word. She would then ask him to pluck mangoes and he would oblige. Once he even fell off the tree and almost broke his scrawny leg. Still he never refused to climb the tree and pluck the mangoes as she kept pointing towards them. He would watch her eat a few and take some home for her grandmother. "How on earth did you manage to pluck all these?" her grandmother demanded one day. "Not hard at all patti, I used a long stick with a hook that I found under the tree. All this is for you to make pickles," she lied with a silent prayer to God to forgive her for this sin. 'How on earth could she tell patti about Bashir?' That summer Bashir did not come to see her. She asked the neighbours. Nobody knew. His father owned a bicycle shop. One day without telling her grandparents, Renuka went to the shop to enquire about Bashir. She was unable to locate it. Then she noticed a shop, with shutters down and a red seal on it. She did not quite understand what it meant. "Uncle, what happened to that shop, why is it closed?" she asked the adjacent shop owner. "Beta, the cops have taken away Khan Sahib," he replied. Renuka was shocked. Khan Sahib was Bashir's father. "What about Bashir?" she asked, trembling. He gave her a blank look and went back to his work. Bashir her best friend who had promised to seek her hand in marriage had vanished in thin air. He had broken his promise. *** Renuka was unable to tear her eyes away from the mango tree; a tree that abided by its duty entrusted by nature and stood the test of time until beheaded by the selfish human race. It had aged beautifully, large and luminous; and perhaps oblivious to the fact of having been a silent witness to little Renuka's first love. The leaves swayed rhythmically in the gentle breeze, as if trying to say something in self-defence. In that spur of the moment a hard truth hit her. Her parents now needed the comfort and shade, like that of that dutiful mango tree more than anyone else. 'Time and space will make Murthy understand,' she assured herself and the same night informed her parents about her decision. "Ma, I am not going back." Her father took it all in calmly. Her mother looked worried. No questions were hurled. "This is also your home Renuka," said her father, leaving her mother in a state of confused joy.

Published in Muse India - July/August, 2015
Thank you Atreya Sarma - Editor (fiction & reviews)
 

Happy birthday to baby Ganesha :)

Wishing you all a happy Ganesh Chaturthi (Birthday)



The divinity of light

Light is a pure energy source. It is widely believed that the divinity in light generates a sense of calm and wellbeing.  As a little girl I was fascinated and curious when my mother lit the silver lamp before she began her daily chores. I thought she was following this ritual to please God.

“Does this make God happy?” I asked her one day to which she replied,

“Yes, God will be happy, but ‘light is God and God is light’, she added.

Her reply did confuse me at that time. But now when I think about it, I feel there was much truth in those simple words said to a confused little girl.

Candle, incense, lamp, whatever it may be, this is an element that brings positivity and good energy flow. In its pristine form light signifies knowledge and wisdom; on the other hand darkness is associated with ignorance. Most religions believe in the power of light, one way or another. Light also improves our moods. People who live in cold countries often complain about the gloomy and dreary weather. Come summer and everybody is happy to step out and soak up the sun. Don’t we all ensure that our homes get plenty of sunshine? Such is the power of light!

A beautiful moment, a celebration, a romantic night, a touch of warmth, a touch of class, sheer ecstasy, a flavour to inhale, a sweet memory, a contemplative state; a ray of light can touch that chord to trigger off these positive emotions. This is the magic of light!

Yoga, wisdom and light are all interconnected. There is a cosmic energy that is already present in the Universe. Light is a mere invitation for the energy to come to you or your surroundings. Candle gazing, also known as trataka, is extremely popular whist meditating and cleansing one’s mind.

I recall having read an interesting fact in a book by John Ittner that at Sivananda ashrams, worldwide, the food served is sattvic (mild and pure). They include only those vegetables that are grown in natural sunshine and mushrooms in particular are not served, as they are grown in dark conditions.

The traits or 'gunas' of nature is well explained in Chapter 14 of the Bhagavad Gita, the Hindu Scripture. This chapter reveals the wisdom of the three characteristics of nature imparted to the great warrior Arjun by Lord Krishna:

·        sattva (light)

·         rajas (fire)

·        tamas (darkness).

A sattvic mind is calm, serene and inquisitive, a rajasic mind is fiery and craves for power and a tamasic mind is ignorant, lazy and dull.

Renowned yogis feel the sattva, the light within themselves. They were able to perceive their true inner self and the light within. The story of Buddha and the sages who have attained enlightenment have seen this eternal light that has taken them closer to God and to become one with the Almighty.

Light is all pervasive and spins the energy wheel in our daily life.

 

 

Click of the mouse {Revathi Raj Iyer)

It was somewhere in the late nineties that internet and emails had started to excite people in India. Although a snail paced start with dial up connects to the internet, there was a childlike thrill to see a page on the web unfold and then several of them, one after the other, as we kept on clicking our mouse. This invariably caused a choke up and the connection would be disrupted leaving us to reboot all over again. There were times when the dial up will simply refuse to connect. No matter what, we had oodles of tolerance because we were too eager to adapt, hence happy to wait, click and again wait for the information to populate, for that eureka moment – the yahoo page. At that time this was the only search engine. The first ‘test check email’ that was sent to all those who had the luxury to access the net never failed to the greeting, “welcome to the wired world.”

Thus began a new era, a major breakthrough in information technology and since then there has been no looking back. Writing letters and that weekly drive to the post office started fading from most people’s agenda. All it took was a mere click of the mouse, then why go through the rigours of letter writing?

A decade thereafter the human race got even more excited with the splendour of the social media which had slowly started surfacing with Orkut, Bebo and Hi5, until Facebook outstripped all these and totally captivated us, not to mention twitter alongside, enabling those short and sweet tweets. All this further enthralled us. We got connected to our long lost friends, colleagues relatives and so on….and merrily got onto the bandwagon.

The giant leap that further changed the entire scene was the spectrum and mobile revolution. Smart phones are now our life line and our loyalty to the social network has grown rock solid. Sms is considered old fashioned and tedious, with the influx of newer applications like what's app, face time, viber etc that too free of cost. Sharing daily happenings has become the order of the day. 

The world has actually shrunk giving birth to newer friendships with our electronic way of life. We rely on emoticons to convey our momentary expressions and feelings and then move on with our lives. Unwittingly, this may have made many of us less sensitive to actual emotions.

I am one of the victims of this hijack by the social media, but occasionally do make an effort to pick up the phone and talk to a friend. But sooner or later, we fall into the same trap and go back to the app mode and once again the phone stops ringing, except for the online shopping delivery boys or couriers asking for directions to the house.

The next generation is pretty clear headed, indeed. They love the social media and have learnt to maximize it to their advantage, both professionally and personally by factoring in this distraction with their time management skills. Fair share of credit needs to be given to those parents, as well, who ensured that internet was prudently used by their children. Sure! There are aids and filters but tactful supervision without upsetting the children is an added parental responsibility. Remember they were also discovering the internet along with their children.

The older generation, our parents, uncles and aunts were very curious to know and understand all about internet and social media; however they never stopped bonding with neighbours, friends and relatives on a regular basis. They loved their old ways. By and large, they have accepted the change in so far as to keep in touch with their children and grandchildren via emails and skype chats. They want to go no further and have defined their boundaries, made their choice.

We, the sandwich generation, have been fortunate to witness the best of both worlds. We want to own and learn about every new toy that hits the market, in our eagerness to move on with the changing times. This is not about being right or wrong, it is our choice. Well! Generation gap is not something we wish to hear.

Sometimes, I do wonder if the time has come for us to re-define our boundaries, breakaway from this overwhelming social media rigmarole and get really social in the true sense of the term. Are we losing something here? I would love to hear the voice of my readers to this poser.

But there is one thing I must acknowledge; as the world waits to see what the next revolution is going to be, I have to make a hard choice-“to be part of it or not to be.”

Serendipitous Moment {Revathi Raj Iyer}

 

Preeti is delirious. Blurry faces, fading voices, dim light, blinding flash and then a sudden calm sweeps over her. Silence! as if she is suspended in outer space.

Santhanam and Parvati are by the ICU watching helplessly, waiting for the doctors to come out and inform them that their dear girl was going to be alright. Fear and anxiety had taken hold of their senses. Nothing mattered now at this moment. Their dreams, hopes and aspirations surrounding their only child had come to a sudden standstill. They are devastated. Frightening thoughts kept reeling in their minds. They wished all this was a dream they could wake up to. Reality had dealt a wicked blow that they were struggling to come to terms with.

******

“Ma, have you finished packing your bags? We have to be up early tomorrow. Why is appa still at work today?”

Preeti desperately wanted her father to be home early that night and get into the vacation mood. She did not like any last minute surprises. For a brief moment she even worried. “What if appa cancelled the trip due to some unexpected work commitment? After all, he was in a senior position with a pharmaceutical company in Chennai.”

Just like most little girls Preeti adored her father and admired him when he told her that he worked with a company which made medicines to help cure sick people. She wanted to be a doctor then.

“A little girl’s dream keeps changing all the time,” her father would remark encouragingly.

Preeti had meticulously packed her bags the night before. She reached out for Sophie’s World which she was reading for the third time and kept it besides her bag. She loved the book as it taught her a lot about ancient philosophers and made her think. Sometimes she would pretend to be Sophie Amundsen and quote funny things from the book to her mother who would be awestruck and say,

“Preeti, you are certainly getting wiser by the day, my dear girl.”

She would bask in that remark. Her mother always called her “my dear girl” when she was happy.She loved it when her mother was in a cheerful mood, as she could get away with her indulgences without much argument.

She was very excited about the road trip that her father had been planning for quite some time as a gift for her academic excellence in high school. The much coveted ‘Student of the Year’ trophy stood tall amidst the other sports trophies she had won. This month long trip was a bonus she earned from her parents for winning that prestigious award. 

She ticked off her checklist satisfied. Preeti took great pride in being organised. Her room was very neat. Her mother never had to ask her to tidy up her stuff. Sometimes she would help her mother organise her wardrobe. But after a few days, the saris would be in disarray and Preeti would whine in dismay.

“Did I ask you to tidy up my stuff?” Her mother reprimanded her one day when confronted by her daughter. Preeti huffed and walked away muttering to never interfere.

“What a waste of time, I could as well be doing something else.”

Preeti did not get carried away by peer pressure and chose to stay with her parents and continue with undergraduate studies. She was not ambitious yet and did not want to leave home unlike her class mates who had already started applying for overseas universities. Deep down she also knew that her father may not be able to afford it. She was happy with her life and everything around her. She loved this ancestral home which reminded her of the time she spent with her grandparents. It was modest but very cosy, a typical Tamilian home with no frills and fancies, just too practical. Preeti would buy charming bits and pieces and place it in corners around the house to give it a fuller feel.

“Why all this junk?” her father quipped uninterestedly.

“Adults never understand,” she retorted crossly and buried herself in little Sophie’s world.

“Are you in bed, my dear girl,” looks like your father is going to be late again; her mother’s voice wafted from the kitchen.

“Almost ma,” Preeti replied and smiled to herself. “My dear girl,” how she loved that! She noticed with satisfaction that her mother was in a permanent state of happiness ever since appa said that he was planning to take one whole month off from work and take them on a road trip.

Preeti checks to see if her father had packed his bags, by any chance. Alas! He had not even started. She places a checklist on his bedside table and leaves a good night note. She then hastens to the kitchen, hugs her mother tightly and reminds her to set the alarm.

“Goodnight ma,” she says and goes to her room. In no time she is in deep slumber blissfully unaware as to when her father got home. Parvati finishes her chores and settles down with the newspaper waiting for her husband. She is used to his late hours. But today she had been expecting him to come earlier.

At 11 pm, as Parvati was almost dozing off she hears the door latch click and her husband lets himself in.

“Is Preeti asleep?” Santhanam asks as he enters the house.

“Yes, she is,” says Parvati. Santhanam takes a quick shower and starts stuffing his bag.

“If there is something left out we can always buy it on the way,” he says. Parvati merely smiles. She is used to this “talking to self” style of her husband.

He continued without waiting for a response from his wife. “The most important thing is my wallet and the car has to be in good condition, both of which have been taken care of. Fuel tank is full, tyre pressure checked. The hotel bookings have also been sorted. The road map is in the car. Anything else, he asks?” Parvati is quiet.

As he settles down in the bed besides his wife, he looks at the note that Preeti had left for him. “She is atrociously meticulous, who has she taken after?” Now he looks at his wife for an answer.

“The milk man, paper boy and maid have been paid off,” she says and closes her eyes. Satisfied with this Santhanam falls asleep.

******

"Cockadoodle doo……," The alarm goes off at 5.30 am. Preeti springs out of her bed, quickly folds her sheets and hurries to her parents’ room. Much to her dismay they are fast asleep. She is relieved to find her father’s bags neatly packed.

“Good morning!” she chirps excitedly and hops on to the bed in between the two of them. “Hurry up you two. It is now time to wake up,” she chirps excitedly. Just then Parvati’s alarm goes off. Preeti turns it off. We have a long way to go, “Kanyakumari to Kashmir bottoms up!”

In the next one hour, the house comes to life with morning chores and merriment to mark the start of their much awaited vacation. The birds come to life and street dogs bark ferociously. Santhanam checks everything carefully and locks the door. He hands over the keys to his wife. Preeti lugs the boxes and loads them in the boot of the car, followed by Parvati who arranges them. Santhanam starts the ignition and presses the accelerator. The engine roars with a deafening sound and calms down as the car sets into motion.

******

The vehicle lazily passes through the narrow streets of their neighbourhood until they reach the main road and then picks up speed. There is hardly any traffic at this hour to the point where the familiar roads seem unfamiliar. As the car touches the highway, Santhanam accelerates and checks his speedometer. Music fills the air and Parvati is gazing at the treeline of palm and coconut trees. Preeti props up a cushion and comfortably settles in the back seat, listening to her favourite Bollywood music. Santhanam usually is quiet when he is driving, but today he is relaxed and a bit more talkative.

An hour into this; in a matter of few seconds their whole life was about to change for reasons beyond their control. Serendipity struck like a thunderbolt.

A car crash... Some irresponsible driver on the cell phone loses control. The truck twirls on the opposite lane, jumps off the divider as it screeches to a halt after crashing against the lamp post. The wind screen is blown into smithereens.

At that serendipitous moment, Parvati’s eyes open wide and she lets out a blood chilling scream. Santhanam flinches involuntarily and applies the brakes sharply in a desperate bid to avoid the collusion.

Preeti sees the accident on the opposite lane. Her father is within the speed limit of 60 km per hour. He has always been a safe and defensive driver. But there is no way he could avoid the crash. His last shot at safety fails on that fateful day. She closes her eyes and slips into her Sophie’s World.

                                              **********************************

{ Published in Woman's Era - March 2015 2nd fortnightly. Thank You! }

 

 

Book Review

Revathi Raj Iyer: Zorami: A Redemption Song  

Malsawmi Jacob
Zorami: A Redemption Song
Fiction
Morph Books | Primalogue. 2015
ISBN/EAN: 978-93-82759-10-2
Pages 263 | Rs 399

A tale inspired by the Mizo struggle

Malsawmi Jacob's debut fiction novel Zorami: A Redemption Song is an appealing story of conflict, love, war and suffering during the 1960's when Mizoram, an erstwhile district of Assam, was fraught with political unrest and famine that caused death, starvation and devastation. The story delves into the lives of the Mizos who resented India, albeit being a part of it, because India was not taking proactive steps to alleviate their misery. This resulted in the formation of the Mizoram National Front and warfare with the Indian National Army in an attempt to extricate itself from the mainland. Interwoven in this backdrop is the endearing life story of the protagonist, Zorami, which literally means 'flower of Mizoram.'

The title of this novel is as engaging as the book. The fastidiousness with which Malsawmi Jacob has chosen such an intriguing title is praiseworthy. 'Zorami' when rearranged, phonetically sounds as Mizoram. The spirit of her story is implicit in this catchy title. The author has also added a euphemistic touch to the sub-title, 'A redemption song.' I loved this analogy to the much acclaimed redemption song about freedom and liberation, by the legendary Bob Marley of the 1980's, whose verses might still linger in the hearts of many. The conflict and struggle of the Mizo people, their dream to be liberated and have their own Government, is the redemption that Malsawmi Jacob has, strikingly, brought about in this novel.

The story is interspersed with songs and poems, which the author has tuned with immense sensitivity, together with demonstrating a fine skill for prose; be it to describe the beauty of the nature or the horrors of war, the personality of her characters or the minutest details of seating in the Church.

The book starts with a lovely prologue which brings to life the people of Aizawl town scuttling towards the Church on a Sunday morning, talking amongst themselves about the rains, harvest, political situation; which sets the "everybody knows everybody" tone amongst the locals. Walking quietly are the newly wedded couple, Zorampari and her husband Lalliansanga, who were married in the same church, just that week and this was their first Sunday together at the Church, yet they were seated apart (pun unintended).

The opening chapter portrays a lonely Zorami on her birthday, anxiously waiting for that call from her husband who is away on a business trip accompanied by the pretty, young Julie, a cashier in the same bank. Zorami is unable to trust Sanga and she looks back at her failing and fading relationship over the last 25 years, and on this special day is all the more sad. Even her younger brother Matea, who lived in a distant town, Lunglei, has not wished her. Her sombre mood quickly brightens by the effervescent tinkle of her childhood friend Kimi, who chides her for falling prey to local gossip and being suspicious about her husband; but Zorami is still not convinced.

In the initial stages, although the author introduces traces of fun by Mizo lore and grandma tales that are sometimes contrived much to the chagrin of Matea and the mirth of Zorami; the story quickly moves on to serious issues of the Mizo people, faced with famine, rats eating away their supplies to the point that they find rat droppings in their food, the apathy of the Indian Government and the growing resentment against the Indians.

Although the book gives a perspective about certain historic facts, one has to bear in mind that this is a book of fiction and not to get particularly attached to specific instances, as the anti-Indian sentiments expressed could be overstated. There are a couple of characters like Thanchchunga, Zorami's father who believes in a unified nation or Pu Lalrinmawia, editor of a daily and few of the Mizos themselves, who are against war because it brings no good, but their voices go unheard. The author has empathised more from the perspective of the people of Mizoram, but there are always two sides to a coin. A discerning reader should be able to understand and not get swayed or become too judgemental, remembering the fact that this is a book of fiction, wherein most of the struggle could be the author's imagination and certain liberties may have been taken with historic facts.

As the story unfolds, the author introduces the vile character Ralkapa, disliked by everybody, and particularly Zorami, who hates him for reasons of her own. Those were the times when the MNF was recruiting volunteers and Ralkapa was one of the many that joined, in good faith, but ultimately turns traitor and backstabs the Mizo people. How all this comes about is a very interesting read about trust and betrayal. It is appalling to find this distorted character still surviving amongst the Mizos, much to the angst of Zorami. Ralkapa is also the mischief maker who knocks Zorami's door on her birthday, under the pretext of enquiring about his loan application to the bank where Sanga worked and leaves feeding off the gossip about Sanga and Julie.

The reader's attention is drawn to the vision of an independent Mizoram as seen by Nikhuma, the Patriot who was beckoned to Aizawl by the MNF leaders and what follows is the deed of Declaration of Independence and the representation to the Government of India seeking freedom and the story gets deeper into the plots of the MNF vs the Indian Army. The retaliation by the Indian Army is also fast and ruthless and it is quite touching to read – I quote "O, if only they had given a quick response like this when we cried for help during the famine! … They wouldn't help us when the rats ravaged our land and we were starving. As soon as we decided to do without them, just when we don't need them anymore, they come after us to kill us." It is a rare, but historic, fact that Indian Air Force had, indeed, carried out air raids in Aizawl, its own territory.

The war makes the people of Aizawl come closer, and amidst fear they also share a few laughs. A song that depicts the plight of the regrouped villagers is worthy of mention –

Of all our bad times, Khaw Khawm is the darkest;
All our Zoram has faded like worn out clothes;
Men, women and children, gathered from all hills
Go hungry and homeless like the riakmaw bird…
Our village streets and the house of our dear God,
Where beloved families and friends sang joyful songs
Are cold, silent, abandoned, now have become
The dwelling of lonesome, sad, motherless birds

The story then takes us back to that ugly vai looking Zorami in her teens, how she is bullied on her first day at school, how she is taught to be shy and how the ghost never leaves her. As the story progresses, it portrays the cruelty of the Indian Army as they retaliate to quell the rebellion and spread terror, not to spare even schools where the science teacher from Kerala is, mercilessly, killed in front of the children. In spite of the collateral damage of civilian lives, the warfare continues with more people joining the MNF. Songs of the departed ones who live in happiness yonder bear elements of good writing.

Half way through, myriad of characters are introduced with their stand-alone stories, perhaps to give credibility to the war happenings, but it just gets a bit tangential and hard to keep up with; and a strange monotony sets in along with a melancholy. However, the part where Mary, who is away from the war zone finds her father's inability to save their home and press, is quite touching, but then again a new character crops up. Similarly, there are a few more characters along the way and somewhere Zorami fades away, only to reappear towards the last few chapters. The story rolls back to Ralkapa revealing a fresh truth. The novel goes on till the Peace Treaty is signed and then finishes not as mystifying as one would expect.

The book has a literary appeal with liberal doses of metaphors and similes in prose and poems not to miss oxymorons such as "horrified fascination" and the like. Malsawmi Jacob has maintained a consistent mix of controlled and elegant style throughout her book. Overall, a well- researched and nicely articulated book that should not hurt to add to your collection.

 

                                                                  Published in Muse India September/October, 2015

                                                                Thank you Atreya Sarma - Editor (fiction & reviews)