What does Ukhruling mean?

This is Ukhrul. This is Manipur. This is an NGO. The only NGO I’ve seen, where you’re not left gasping for fresh air after they’ve done their let’s-do-a-song-during-a-break session. They must be church trained choir singers. All of them. Yes, all of them. They sing with perfect pitch and the long-years of practice shows. I am moved – it is only hymns they sing from a stock book of hymns that the conductor (yes, they had one of the participants conduct their song sessions) holds in his hand; and they sang in the local tribal tongue – but I am moved all the same.

There were only three women. When MP prepared to suggest that there was only this one problem with the group, they pre-empted her and stated that it wasn’t for the lack of trying. As opposed to those groups who complain “but the president of our kitchen is a woman!” etc. This is a group that is aware of their flaws and their strengths. Cool.

They resent us. “What you see in India, is not what you see here…” This is not India. Has never been. Those in charge have divided the loot from India amongst themselves, the contractors and the ‘underworld’. But wait, South Indians are the nicest people ever… beaming smiles follow. More than one person states this. Hmm…interpretation anyone?

Fermented plum juice and fermented gooseberry juice. Can’t call it wine, that’d be illegal. Loved it so much they kept serving it to me – morning, noon and night. Didn’t think it was strong, tasted damned nice too. Everybody else thought it was 180 proof. Silly people. Or maybe the Malayali alcohol gene kind of kicked in and I can’t tell the bloody difference. When did I get here?

Lovely delicious sticky rice with mustard leaves, fresh carrots and cucumbers from the garden, boiled French beans, roast chicken at lunch, fermented fish in fish curry (or was that just plain fish curry? Kind of an acquired taste this), bamboo shoot chutneys (called iromba) with chillies from hell, pickles made of some strange roots and pods and greens (also with chillies from hell. The best way to eat it? Dip in water, remove chilli toppings and place in mouth. Phew.), roast chicken at dinner, dal that is so watery it’s almost tea, boiled cauliflower, cauliflower and dal, tea with milk powder (no milk in these parts of the world – fact, high levels of lactose intolerance among tribals, someone said), chappatis full of iron (in terms of chewing potential, I mean, you need demon teeth), soft aloo parathas for breakfast and um… for lunch, and that damned paneer. Following us around the country. How did the Punjabis get here? Never mind. We know.

84 kilometres. In a 4-hour journey. That’s about 21 kilometres an hour. Can you imagine what the roads are like?

“Our generator / transformer burst in January. We haven’t had power since then. The fridge is gone, everything is gone…”

Wooden planks. Houses looking like they’re made of ginger-bread. Long wooden plank structures, unpainted, like that gorgeous house in Brokeback Mountain with Jack’s mother standing outside the door. Very few concrete homes. Corrugated tin roofs. Long patios. Little children running back and forth.

Beautiful wooden homes, offices, shops etc. Wood everywhere.

Reason why the market burnt down 10 days ago. 55 shops and 53 houses.

Reason why mobile signals don’t work. The mobile tower burnt down too. But why doesn’t BSNL work? Shrug. It hasn’t worked for sometime.

There’s no power. Generally. “When does it come back?” “Oh, it’s very uncertain. Everyone uses a generator. Sometimes there’s power only for 3 or 4 hours a day.” Farmers in Karnataka must be the luckiest people alive – 6 hours of power a day. Wow.

Internet connections? Not been working for 2 days. Silly city boy waiting to update his non-important facebook status. Tsk tsk. Go away stupid boy. Sorry.

Beautiful boys. I mean men. I mean… I don’t know what I mean. 30 looking 15. 40 looking 20. 50 looking 30. Or maybe they are 15? I can’t tell. I’m sure they don’t even have to bloody shave. It’s so damned unfair! I look fucking 70 in this country. Somebody shoot me.

And this one man-boy. Must be in his late 20s. He better be, the bastard. Dutch beard. Baseball cap. Twinkling eyes. Ring on his ring finger. Damn. Kind of Che Guevara hotness mixed with Hong Kong actor cuteness. Brrr… Sat next to me and explained the view along the way to the city. In slow heavily accented tongue. Took off his jacket and I should have swooned like a gentlewoman. I didn’t. Go away.

Guns. Plastic shooters. All of them black. All of them in the hands of teeny-tiny short little boys. Play things. They’re shooting plastic/paper pellets at the jeep while we drive by. Why do they need so many guns to play with?

Soldiers. Gunmen. Jeeps with soldiers and gunmen. Everyone is armed. Each and every jeep with soldiers have them standing up with guns facing forward. Very menacing. I have never, never, never seen so many real guns outside of movies in a period of two days. Explains the little boys with the black plastic look-alikes.

Holi is a big thing in the plains. So is extortion, which is why children and women and boys stand by the roadside holding ropes or forming human barriers across the road. Preventing vehicles from driving through without paying a donation. The girl in the jeep must have paid out 20 groups like this. Madness.

Already we are beginning to think like them. People in the plains and people in the hills. People in the plains represent 9% of the geographical area and are represented in every strata of government. People in the hills, from 33 tribes, represent 91% of the geographical area and are bullied. 60 seats for elections. 41 for the people in the plains. 19 for people in the hills. Discrimination? Pettiness? Oppression? You bet.

The plains and the hills are at war.

The militants have been banning Hindi movies and music from the plains. Complicit government complies. Not a huge loss I’m sure. But this doesn’t apply in the hills. Whatever the plains do, the hills do the opposite and vice-versa. A strike called by the plains? Everyone in the hills goes to work. A strike called in the hills? Everyone in the plains goes to work. Deliberate confrontation. There’s 34 percent reservation for the tribes in education. The population has increased, obviously, and as per SC directives, the reservation should increase to 37 percent. The state and by state I mean the plains, want to decrease it to 7 percent. Of course there’s war.

There’re 44 militant groups in the state. Children who have no access to education drop out and join one of these many, many groups. Oh, it’s 45 now. One more added during our stay. Of course there’s war.

The soldiers are rude, scrutinizing and stare. Conversation from them is always in Hindi. Conversation from here is mostly in English. They rag the drivers who can’t speak Hindi. You are an Indian; you should learn to speak Hindi. Almost like they want conflict to happen. Why else would there be NGO posters depicting them as monsters killing innocent tribals? Treat us humanely and show us respect, scream these posters. Of course there’s war.

Every year, the day before the professional courses entrance exams, a strike is called, so that students from the hills can’t get into the plains to write these exams. Every year there’s no power during the day and during the night (except between 12.00am and 4.00am in the morning) during exam times in the hills. Every year. Every fucking year. Of course there’s war.

A little girl 4 maybe or 5 years, hair in face, brings a bowl full of herbs into the house, while the hosts share drinks with us. Well, ‘drinks’ is an exaggeration. It’s only scotch and water. Served by sweet retired army-type fellow (antithesis to the regular army types here). The little girl smiles. Army-type fellow says, she burnt her hand severely some time ago. The muscles are completely destroyed. Her fingers permanently curled. She smiles again uncertainly – must have lit up the room. Have I told you I want a daughter?

“We wake up and have breakfast at around 5.30am or so. Then we start work around 7.00 or 7.30am. Then we eat lunch at 9.00am and work again. We break for tea at 1.00pm. More work followed by more tea at 3.00pm. Then we have dinner at 5.00 or 6.00pm.” Silly city boy.

Had breakfast at 5.00am of rice, cauliflower curries and roast chicken. Lunch at 10.00am of rice an roast chicken. Tea at 1.00pm. Drinks at 5.30pm and Dinner of chappatis and fish curry at 6.30pm. Off to bed at 8.00pm. Um…I think I can get used to this…It’s Nice….

Have I told you I love the hills? I am a child of the cold. I’m wandering around in a half-sleeve shirt while everyone’s dressed to the nines in heavy clothing. “Don’’t you feel cold?” the locals say. “Naah…” I preen, “I luuuuurve this weather…Bangalore? Where’s Bangalore? Who’s Bangalore?” You know my favourite geographical spot to live in? The hills (with a temperature between 10 and 21 degrees), overlooking the ocean, with a medium sized river flowing by. There must be an affordable place like this in middle-earth I’m sure. Or Narnia, maybe in Narnia.

It gets bright at 4-something in the morning. And like a city idiot (equivalent for the village one) I gawk. By 5-something in the evening, it is darkening. By 6 it is pitch black. I know why, it’s the timeline. It’s ridiculous. They needn’t/shouldn’t follow IST. They’re at least an hour or two ahead of us. It makes perfect sense. Bloody Indians. As some would say.

A sandstorm gripped the north-east, says the papers two days later. Gripped the bloody Guwahati airport see, so no one could fly out of Imphal airport. And gripped the Imphal airport too. Three days our eyes hurt, really hurt, from the tiny dust particles (and who knows what else). All out-bound flights cancelled on Sunday. All out-bound flights cancelled on Monday. Finally on Tuesday around 3pm, we were allowed to leave as visibility increased. Reached Guwahati, eyes still hurting, and straight into the sterile rooms and efficient hands of the Salesian brothers.

Interesting thing about queues in Imphal Airport. Women automatically move into their own queues. No one asks for them to, but there are always two queues it seems. And then, when “Indian” women get into the same line and don’t get treated nicely and, like they should, make a noise about it, the guard kind of collapses into a puddle. Interesting. As a Punjabi/ Delhi/ North Indian (apologies for the collapsing of categories, could have been Mumbaikar, I can’t tell the bloody difference, we’re all Madrasis, see?) woman said out loud behind me “See, none of the women are complaining. Such a patriarchal system.”

And then Delhi. Bungalow office in Gurgaon. All the clichés. Polished Marble flooring. Air-conditioned comfort. Suave Chief Poobah whose introduction to the workshop was right on the dot. Complete with British accented maturity and corporate coat (I’m sure that’s what they call the business suit, but what do I know…). He introduced the topic and waxed eloquent. The aroma of arrogant knowledge bludgeoned the air. Yea, I know. Then he sat down while MP talked. Then he started scribbling on a paper. Then he tore off a piece of the corner of the paper he held and stuck it in his mouth and chewed on it….Erm…Um… Civilisation at last.

Excuse me while I leave the room.