STONE-PEOPLE FROM LUNGTEROK

Lungterok
The six stones
Where the progenitors
And forebears
Of the stone-people
Were born
Out of the womb
Of the earth.

Stone-people,
The poetic and politic
Barbaric and balladic
Finders of water
And fighters for fire.

Stone-people,
The polyglots,
Knowledgeable
In birds' language
And animal discourse.
The students,
Who learnt from ants
The art of carving
Heads of enemies
As trophies
Of war.

Stone-people,
The romantics
Who believed
The sun can sulk
The moon can hide
And the stars are not stars
But pure souls
Watching over bereaved hearts.

Here below
With their glow.
Stone-people,
The potters and weavers
Planters and growers
Hunters and carvers
Singers of songs and takers of heads,
Gentle lovers and savage heroes,
Builders of homes and destroyers of villages.

Stone-people,
The worshippers
Of unknown, unseen
Spirits
Of trees and forests,
Of stones and rivers,
Believers of soul
And its varied forms,
Its sojourn here
And passage across the water
Into the hereafter.

Stone-people,
Savage and sage
Who sprang out of LUNGTEROK,

Was the birth adult when the stones broke?
Or are the stone-people yet to come of age?

Lungterok literally means Six Stones in the Ao language. According to the Ao origin myth, their forefathers, three men along with their companions, three women emerged out of the earth at the place called Lungterok. Some of these stones can be seen even today.

A Village Morning

The strident crowing of the cock
Falls on her sleepy ears………
She wishes she could ignore its calls
And surrender the morning
To endless sleep.

But she knows it cannot be…
The day awaits her with myriad chores.

Reluctantly, almost annoyingly
She stretched her aching limbs
She sits up slowly, ties her loose hair
And thinks how lovely it would be
To have a cold bath to wash off
The grime of fieldwork
And her husband's recent odour.

This also cannot be….
For she knows there's only
Enough water for the morning's meal
And thinks longingly of the forest stream.

Meanwhile her husband turns and lifts
A naked arm as though to embrace
Familiar flesh but only to have it land
On empty plank with a heavy thud.

This does not bother him
It merely alters the note and rhythm
Of his snoring and he sleeps on.

The woman stirs the ash-heap on the hearth
Urging the smoldering embers to fire and light
To begin her morning chores.

She steps nimbly over huddled figures
And puts rice into boiling water
In careful measures.
The hut is soon filled with the aroma
Of wood smoke and cooking rice
The pigs in the outer room
Smell it and begin to squeal
A chick must have fallen off the night perch
And protests with loud chirps
Joining the chorus of the pigs.

A child begins to wail
And mindlessly she picks it up,
Puts it to her breast
Even as she stirs the rice.

Morning is almost here…..
The children are thumped awake
The older ones to the village well
The others, to feed the chickens and the pigs.

The mist has lifted, the day brightens
As she doles out measured food
To her hungry brood.

Then begin the instructions
Mainly to her firstborn
‘Fetch water, split wood,
Dry the paddy, husk it'
She repeats this
‘Dry the paddy, husk it
Or else, no meal tonight'.

The man at his meal mumbles
His morning ritual
‘Too much salt in the curry'
The woman ignores him
In return-ritual.

The whole village is astir
Men and women are striding out
Headed for the far-flung fields.

The woman rushes out to join them
Calling out to her husband,
‘Remember to bring the seeds'
He does not respond
But she knows he'll do as he is told.

The morning is over.

Village Morning II

The half-throated crowing
Of the fledgling cock
In the distance
Awakens the un-easy sleeper
From a dream-less night.
He sighs, thinking
Of the morning chores
Demanding his attention.

Reluctantly he leaves his lonely bed
Kicking aside the mongrel
Sleeping by the hearth,
And curses the embers into
Into hesitant flames.

These morning manuals
Are maddening
He knows these are not
A man's job and begins
To curse his wife
For leaving him so helpless
In a woman's place
As though it was her fault
The black fever was stronger.

He feels a stranger
In his own hearth
And remembers the mornings
Waking up to a hot meal,
Then picking up his shawl and dao
Marching out with other men
As though to conquer
The world outside the hearth.

But the battle now is inside the little hut
As the morning confronts
With its demands
Leaving him no time
For regrets or recriminations
Against the one to whom
The morning would have been
So conveniently assigned.

Village Morning III

Winter nights are long,
So long that old folks say
This is the season when temples ache
For sleeping too long on one side
On hard wooden pallets.

She waits for such a night to pass.
Since the rumblings on her father's cot
Intensified in the dark of night
As her father's grunts and
The step-mother's giggles
Rose above the creaking
Of the ancient cot,
All sleep had left her.

The girlish giggles of the night had sounded
So unlike the voice of the evening
Giving the command
Hissed between grated teeth
‘Before I get up in the morning
Make sure all the water containers are full
Or else…………..'

The village cocks begin to grow
Though it is still dark
She gets up from her mat on the floor
Gathers the tattered blanket tighter
Round her bony shoulders
And pokes around the hearth
Trying to coax the sleeping embers
To some semblance of a new life.

In the dim light of the reluctant fire
She collects the containers
Stacks them in a basket,
Hoists it to her head
And gently easing the latch
Steps out into the lingering darkness.

The darkness of the pre-dawn
Is still un-relieved
Like the misery and loneliness
Of her orphan-self now turned
Into a beast of burden
Showered with constant abuse
And given little sustenance.

Down she goes the slippery steps
Leading to the village well
She knows she'll
Have to wait long
As the trickle is small.

And if someone else is there
Before her
The wait will be longer.

But she is past caring
Because for her
It is yet another
Miserable morning.

Prayer of a Monolith

I stand at the village gate
In mockery of my former state.

Once I stood in a deep forest
Proud and content
My beloved of the laughing dimple
Standing by my side.

Then one day some strangers
Came poking and prying
Stabbing at a mound here
And sizing up a boulder there.

Suddenly and old one
Sighted me and cried,
‘Ah, this is the one
This one will do'.

The others who saw her
Shook their heads and murmured,
‘But not this one
Just look at the ugly crack'.

I protested and pleaded,
‘Please do not leave her,
It is only a dimple
Left by a passing lightning'.

But they ignored my pleas
And went about their ways.

They dislodged me from my moorings
They tore me from her side
They chipped and chiseled
They gave me altered proportions.

They pulled me to the village
Strapped to a make-shift carriage
And planted the ‘made-over' me
As their new-found trophy.

When the party reached the village
Children ran out in glee,
Colourful women ululated
While drunken men capered
Round my new-placed
Mooring of misery.

Even the village mongrels
Rushed out and raised their legs
Against my chiseled side
Staking their claim
To the general pride
As I stood in my shame
For someone else's fame.

Thus I stand now at the village gate
In mockery of my former state.

O you elements,
When you pass by the forest
And my beloved queries,
Just tell her
I have gone to my glory
But please, please, never
Tell her the story
Of my ignominy.

The Spear

It was the spear that started it all.

I had to go back for it
To the shed in the jhum
And when I regained the main path
The others were long gone.

At the stream I stood hesitant
On the tree-trunk lying across,
But its cool waters inviting, I waded in
For a quick soak in its wet fold
Before the long trek home.

In the embrace of the soothing fluid
Weariness left my tired limbs
And I came out a new man
My mind bent on home and
The one waiting there.

The shadows were lengthening
As the rays of the fading sun
Sped through bushes and shrubs
Along the rough-hewn jungle path.

With the spear as my only companion
I hurried my pace
When suddenly a low bark
Stopped me in my track.

Another low moan and a blurry flight
Across the path, and my spear fled
With lightning speed
No volition, only instinct accelerating
Deadly aim towards the shapely silhouette.

A thud and a crash in the shrubs
And afterwards, a great stillness
I crept forward and gasped at the sight
Of a writhing doe, my spear firmly
Impaled in her wounded bigness
Her life ebbing away.

She exhaled with a last moaning heave
Expelling new life from her dying frame
Wrapped in her guts and the birthing blood.
She tried to free new-born
From its watery fold
But my spear stood unyielding in its hold.

Grief engulfing my suddenly
Tired body, I stood there numb
A mute witness to my own crime
Until, the evening shadows urged for safety.

Hurriedly gathering some wild grass
I covered her unseeing teary eyes
To mark my shame and invoke
Nature's forgiveness.

Next I erected the circle of ‘genna'*
Around the still and bloody duo
Praying fervently that other predators
Would know the sign and steer
Clear of the spear-blighted spot.

Leaving my accursed weapon where it stood
I ran and stumbled
Fearful of other demons stalking me
I ran faster, bleeding and weeping
Until I stumbled into the waiting arms
Sitting by the roaring hearth.

As she cradled my tortured self
In the stillness of the night,
I caressed her rounded fullness
Praying to the gods
To protect my seed
From mindless stalkers
Such as me,

For now I knew
It was not the spear alone
That caused it all.

* ‘Genna' is a word which may mean several things: unclean, sacred as well as taboo, all meanings indicating prohibition of some sort. The practice of ‘genna' has been a part of Naga rituals observed on many different occasions .
This poem has been published in an anthology called Poetry from Nagaland, 2005 .

Rumour

There was a rumour
Doing the rounds,
That God is dead.
Or worse still
That he does not care.

A little bird came
Fluttering by
And I asked her
If this was true
She fluffed her tiny wings
And replied,
‘Who knows the truth
Anymore?'
And flew away.

Just then
A busy ant
Came scurrying along,
Asking
If the little bird
Had killed God.
I said ‘You heard wrong
It's only a rumour,
And the little bird
Does not know'.

He looked skeptical,
Shook his spindly legs
And hurried away.
Soon
A long line
Of busy ants
Filled the streets,
Carrying placards like
‘God id dead'
And
‘The little bird killed God'
Shouting the slogan
‘Down with all birds'.

People streamed out
Traffic stalled
And sirens blared.
But the line of ants
With their placards
And slogans
Only swelled.

Very soon,
Vendors put up stalls
Children left schools,
Offices emptied
And the Government declared
A general holiday.

By mid-afternoon,
People lost count
How many ants
Or children
Or policemen
Were trampled
Beneath the stampede.

When the procession
Reached the fairground,
Several make-shift
Platforms sprang up,
And politicians
Of various hues
Began haranguing
And denouncing
The government,
The ants, the birds,
And each other
With missionary ardour.

The little bird took in the sight
And decided on instant flight,
As she cried
And muttered to herself,
‘I am now convinced
That God is really dead,
Or worse still
He simply does not care'.

Bat-Cloud

Once upon a time
There lived two bats
A mother and her
Albino daughter.

Even among the outcasts
They were a class apart
Living in a dark cave by day
And at night, steering clear
Of the mob's way.

One day some creatures
Entered their haven,
Some with guns on shoulders
And some borne on
Makeshift bloody stretchers.

Terrified of discovery
The daughter crouched and shivered
But the mother patted and whispered,
‘Be still and all will be well'.

They watched in fascination
Some strange activities,
A fire was lit, water boiled
And wounds administered
Amid screams and curses.
The ministrations over
The creatures lay down
For much needed rest,
When suddenly one of them cried out
‘Hey, what are those?'

Pointing at the strange sight,
Mother and daughter
Hanging upside down
One batty dark
The other starkly white.

The mother started
Praying to the cave-goddess,
‘Mother of all mothers, have mercy,
Please save us from these creatures'.
‘Ah my daughter' the goddess replied
‘But only one of you and
Are you willing to pay the price?'

The bat-mother responded
‘Any price mother, any price,
Please save my daughter'.

‘Your blood then for her life
Are you willing?'
Promptly came the answer
‘Agreed mother,
Didn't I say any price?'

It happened in the blinking of an eye,
A gun exploded hitting the mother directly
And opening the cave-roof to the sky.

‘Mother!' screams the daughter
The mother, even as she hurtles
Whispers
‘Fly my little girl, fly
Fly to the sky'.

The frightened bat-girl
About to take flight
Takes in the sight
Of her mother's dying breath
Blending with the bleeding earth.

The little one then began to fly
With her mother's whisper
Ringing in her ear
‘Fly my little girl, fly to the sky'.

P.S If on a clear day you see a little cloud
Hanging upside down
In a corner of the horizon
Be sure it is the bat-girl
Resting on her way to heaven
Remembering her mother's cry
‘Fly my little girl, fly to the sky'.

Eclipse

A sudden new design of heaven
Put me in configuration
With the mighty one.

He is the great core
Of inexhaustible power
And I
Only a mere satellite
Once removed.

He is the burning star
I am the after-glow
He is the source
I am the flow
He is the giver
I am the borrower.

He is all light
I have my blights
He is ever constant
I am prone to moods.

He plays on centre-stage
I, only on the periphery.
But I am content
With that fraction of
Eternity
When I have my moment

To reduce him
Into a tiny solitaire
Entrapped within the circle
Of my dark desire.