[dropcap]M[/dropcap]y sister had brought a little sparrow
One morning, a year back,
When the last day she came from her college.
And she kept that inside a cage,
Beside my window, as it was too tiny
And had yet to learn to fly.
I didn’t see her crying, unlike my mother,
For the degree she could not get,
As our father could bring home very little
After he had spent most on liquors and gambles.
“A few pieces of paper can’t decide what we become,”
My brave sister would say, with a wide smile.
Mother of course would not believe that
Nor she believed my sister’s smile was true.
“Norah, who will teach the sparrow to fly?
Will it be able to fly? Ever?”
I would ask her, and she would say with a kiss,
“Nothing can stop it, love, but itself.”
I would see her often, combing her hair,
She would leave home, smiling, on mornings,
With the least papers she had, in her hands,
While feathers started to grow on the bird.
And she would return, with tired eyes,
With hidden tears, but seeing us, she would smile.
“If you forget to smile, you forget to live, love.”
She explained to me one day, as she left, smiling.
I heard mother complaining, the world is wretch
And she hadn’t had enough papers.
“No one believes her,” she sobbed, like always.
I didn’t understand all, but Norah’s smile was sad.
She came home that night, with the saddest face.
“Norah, do you think the bird has learnt to fly yet?
I have not seen it flapping its wings!”
“You should set the cage open, Rory, try it,”
She said, without smiling, and she sat
Beside the hearth, burning all the papers she had.
Next morning, I heard my mother crying again
Like she would often do, just it was louder.
I crawled and opened the cage, like Norah said.
I believed the bird would not fly, but it flew away,
Amazingly, like it knew the skill from thousand years,
And nothing could stop it that day.
I ran to Norah’s room, to tell her she was right,
But she was sleeping still, mother screaming beside her
Complaining still, she had not had enough papers.
The ashes of the papers she burnt the other night
Was contained in a bottle, under which was a paper
The last paper she had left behind.
Norah was dead, while my father still slept
In his room, unaware, for he had drunk too much.
I didn’t understand all, but I knew she was gone.
People say, she had taken something bad,
And blame it on father, who curse them for it,
But I think, she just had forgotten to smile.
By Rhoney
rhoeney@gmail.com
Misplaced passions
[dropcap]N[/dropcap]agas are a passionate bunch. It is heartening to see that we take our history, culture and identity very seriously. We do not miss any opportunity to spell out and declare our ‘Naganess’. No doubt our rich culture and heritage is something to be proud of. However, very often while we excitedly display our loyalty to our roots there is also this tendency to get carried away to the point where passion and pride meets absurdity.
For quite sometime now the local dailies have published articles on the case of the Illegal Bangladeshi Immigrants (IBI) in Nagaland and it is disappointing to see the stark racist overtones rather than a clear understanding and a critical view of the state and its policies regarding illegal immigration which is rife in the Northeast. While there have been repeated calls for attention regarding illegal immigration, the approach to this problem appears to be somewhat confusing and worrying. One wonders if it is really an attempt for a productive discussion or simply an opportunity to blatantly spread racist propaganda.
Illegal immigration has been an issue which both the state and the centre have been grappling with whether it is from Bangladesh or from Burma (although there isn’t much mention of immigration from the Burmese side perhaps because of racial and cultural similarities). That the immigrant population is supposedly increasing by the day is of concern because of its impact on the socio-political landscape of the states affected. This concern stems from questions of accommodation, citizenship, rights, ownership and so on. The lack of clarity on such issues by the government is perhaps the reason why the people continue to remain in oblivion. One must also note that the continuing growth of the urban middle class has been made possible in part because of the presence of these immigrants and the cheap labour and services they make available. In other words, they have made it possible for many of us to live the fabulous modern Naga lifestyle!It is therefore amusing to know that the only solution to this problem that can be conceived of is an immediate ‘flush out’ of these immigrants, many of whom are unaware of their own illegitimacy. To think that the preservation of the Naga identity is possible only with the extinction of the other is appalling. Adding to this, some have conveniently decided to put the blame on them for all the ills that exist in the Naga society. It is true that members of this community have been involved in various instances of crime. But rape, murder and theft are committed by Nagas too. Are we suggesting that such crime if committed by a Naga is more acceptable than if committed by an IBI? Are we going to roll out a measuring tape for all crimes and not see it for what it is?
The fact that many of us still function with this myopic view of issues is perhaps more disturbing than the issues themselves. It seems to be becoming increasingly difficult for Nagas to indulge in intellectually enriching discussions without having to wear their identities on their sleeves, beating their chests about everything or even without quoting from the Bible at every instance! The passionate call for unity to deal with such issues, while admirable in a sense, is ironic when ethnic violence between tribes occur at the drop of a hat as we have witnessed a few years back between two ‘major’ tribes. We would be doing ourselves a big favour if we realistically think about where to place our passion.
Benjamin Vinito Chishi
