My c*nt, my will|Fiction

"I admit what I've been doing isn't right, deplorable, in the eyes of both men and God" she started with her head hanging low, both hands clasping each other at her navel and eyes fixed to the ground. Her rented apartment in Munirka was crampy and dingy at best, with no window for the sun and the moon or for that matter, any celestial bodies to have a peekaboo. 

Angry and furious eyes were staring at her with disdain, fiercest among them were those who apprehended her red-handed in the act at a nearby park with a local few hours ago. It was already half past one on a chilly winter night in Delhi.

"We don't have all night, tell us about your filthy modus operandi" someone, who was out attending a phone call, thundered on his way back into the overcrowded room. The president of the student body, seated on a plastic chair, calmly responded "Let's listen to her first. Please save what you've to say at the end". 

"If I hadn't heard a preacher said about suicide once in my adopted church, I'd have already done so, some years back..." 

"What do you meant by adopted church?" someone cut her short.

"Until now, nobody, not even my own bro, was interested about me. Thanks for asking"

"Don't patronize me, b*tch"

"Don't you call me by that name ever again"

"That's what you're. Did you deny being one?"

"I thought you're here because you're concerned about my well being. Yes, I'm... I'm a sl*t, a wh*re. But my c*nt, my will..."

"Enough! Please guys, maintain decorum. We're here not to wage a war. And you, if you have no self respect left, it's fine by me but I want you to respect my chair as the leader of the student body" Mr President intervened.

"I was just into my teens when my ailing father died and my bro and sis-in-law sent me to an officer's house in a distant town as maid. Life was hard as a refugee, I don't blame them. The family where I worked fed me and clothed me but I wasn't paid. My bro would come once in six months and would take whatever amount madam finds it proper".

At this, the sneering and the occasional jibes died down, she resumed "I did everything I could, ranging from cooking to putting the baby to sleep at night but was rarely appreciated. Sometime I wept silent tears. Sahib's driver saw me weeping one day, he consoled me. From that day, I took him as the bro I never had. Steadily, I fell in love with him. He said he loved me, more than I did, and promised to marry me. We developed an illicit relationship. But it turns out that son of a b*tch was only taking undue advantage of my plight. I became pregnant but had to abort..."

Tears, brimming in her eyes for some time, was now rolling down her cheeks, unrestrained, she wiped with one hand and whined. Then with all her might she fought back her tears and resumed "I feigned sickness and on the pretext of visiting a doctor, I'd an abortion. Perhaps, God punish me for that sin. After that he despised me and treated me with contempt. He broke my heart. He also threatened to kill me if I told ma'm and sahib, anything concerning that... I was so naive. 

But true to what is said-' truth can't be hidden', word got out in the open. I didn't tell any living soul. Madam fired me. I had to go back to my bro's place but the worst was yet to come. My happenstance spread like wild fire and the stigma embedded to curse people like me was so ferocious that my own bro kicked me out of his house. I had nowhere to go. I tried to take my own life but the word of that preacher kept ringing and I couldn't. May be, I was too weak to take the plunge then or at any point of time. I regret having not done so, now. If I had I won't trouble you, bring any bad name to my people and community"

"I'm sorry for your misadventure" a reps of South Delhi of the student body broke his silence.

"I think she's taking us for a ride. We shouldn't be cowered by such make-believe sob story. Hey you! I know very well you filthy folks, you think we're a bunch of fools" thundered the guy who, in the beginning, had a verbal duel with her.

"Continue" said the GS of the student body.

"What's the point in unraveling my sordid tales; tales which I tried burying all these years? What would I gain in fooling those who has concern for me? Believe me, I'm telling the truth. My family; near and far disown me. Even my own clan and tribe including those not known to me did the honor of ostracizing me.

Society, at large, literally, killed me. So, I fled to an unknown place, wishing the vehicle plying on the road would take my life. Walking on foot without any itinerary sans food, for several days, I must have fainted. I woke up in somebody's verandah. Later I learnt that the madam of the house picked me up from the roadside. She fed me and let me stay at her house for a week. Then one day she said she had a pregnant sis in Delhi badly in need of a help. She would pay me 5,000 rupees p.m. if I was willing. Without batting an eyelid, I jumped at the offer and grabbed it with both hands. She accompanied me to Delhi by train and on the third day we reached her sis’s place. She introduced me to her hubby first, they were a loving couple. Then, they both showed me around the kitchen and in an inexplicable way, I felt like being back to where I belong; all set to do what I do best and was grateful to God for giving me a second chance.

A day went by, all well and fine. Then, a week whisked by. The next Sunday they took me to a church, attending a service in a strange land, which too, in my own tongue was a huge sigh of relief. I asked God for forgiveness and prayed silently but fervently to strengthen me as I intent to lead life afresh. After the service, we went to an open eatery, which I presumed now is Nagaland House and had pork. There we met, another family, known to the couple and madam introduced me to them. I was asked some regular questions and without second thought I replied them all with a smile. The next week, after I was done with the chores, I went up to madam who, as usual, was glued to the TV watching her favorite Hindi soap. Having studied only up to standard IV, I could speak little English but Hindi I know enough to watch what the Idiot box churns out day in and day out. And madam needs company to watch her daily dose of ‘saas bahu’ saga as she herself told me the previous week. But that day she acted strange; she was not half the lady I presumed her to be. I thought I must have put too much chilies or too much salt in the curry. But she started finding faults in almost everything I touch.

But sahib put my fear to rest. He told me that almost all expecting woman is like a landmine and it would be okay soon. Okay didn't happen. The Mrs of the family we met in Nagaland House did a frantic background search and scoop up enough fodder for their round the clock gossip. I can't right the wrongs I did and I don't mind if someone brings that up but madam suspected me of 'honey trapping' sahib, her hubby who, by nature, is a kind and caring soul. Even after knowing her accusation, I prayed all the more to God, to give me the strength I badly needed. Things turned for the ultimate worse; their blissful married life was in jeopardy because of my presence in their home. It was then I decided to leave their home but with their knowledge.

Sahib knew a girl about my age, from his village, working in a BPO, staying alone in Motibagh and asked her to accommodate me until something amicable was chalked out. Luckily, she was happy to comply. Sahib still believes he could reason with his wife and dispel her suspicion. But I was, on the other hand, stern with my decision- I wasn't going to set my foot ever again in their home. Through my new host, I got into contact with a friend, who was working in a spa and staying in Munirka. The sudden death of her colleague, in mysterious circumstances, left an urgent opening in her work place. Through her I got the job as masseuse. By then, the BPO girl had to go home to get married and she couldn't say if she'll be back as her supposed to be in-law won't take too kind in her doing a night shift job after marriage so it was best I find a new place to stay.

It had to be the one who find me a masseuse job. We stayed together and went to the same work place together. Despite the whispers doing the round about those working in a spa, we were decent to the core, unblemished and were, inside, proud to stand on our own feet. It went on fine for about a year and a half. But as the atrocities and discrimination against North East Indian folks in metros took a drastic turn, we were, one day, handed the pink slip without any clarification from our boss. With whatever li'l saving we had, we a.s.a.p. went for interview at any job opening; be it in restaurant, showroom or even beauty parlor but our looks was the road block. As a result, my roomie went home but I had nowhere to go back to. I got into contact with our neighbor who works in the red light area. That became my source of sustenance. I was beaten, sometime s*d*mize but there was no other alternative. For the past weeks, police had been cordoning off the place so the likes of us were out of work.

I asked for help, with the promise of paying back a.s.a.p. but lending money to a wh*re is a hundredfold sin than bribing so the doors I knocked shunned me, with a derogatory remark i'll take it with me to my grave. Then, I met a prospective customer this eve that eventually brought me here" 

Those who have ears and were listening raptly were now misty eyed and beginning to look down, blankly at the mosaic tiled floor. There was uneasy calm; even the litter the wind caress and fondles outside, on the street could be audible from the room now. 

"If what you say is true, I'm sorry to hear that. Where has humanity, forget about family, clan and tribe, gone when we needed the most? And under the circumstances you're in, why did those kept tinkering boisterously? As a society we failed you and as men we falter to protect you. Charity begins at home but our mission has always been outside and beyond in the name of expanding our kingdom when all about us, ourselves, are but refugee" lamented the South Delhi reps. 

"We can't just sit idle and watch when our pride and name of the community is at stake. What do you want us to do with you?" running his hand over his head Mr Pres asked. 

"Seriously, I don’t know. I'm ready to reap what I sow" she said. 

"Come and stay with me until you sort out this mess. I'm not doing you a favor. It's my way of saying sorry " mumbled her-awhile-ago-critic and foe. He not only surprised everyone but himself. "Damn it! This is so f**king unbelievable" he muttered to himself. 

The Old House By The Roadside

"Time change, people change" I often heard people say, either whimsically or philosophically, but for the first time I hear it I don't know what it really means and had no idea the toll it would have on human emotions and feelings as I do now. Change, as it appears, is the only constant thing today. Like old and withered leaves gave way to new leaf and leaflet, everything around us has been replaced by one form or another. It’s heart-rending to see no more of those familiar faces you recognised and known growing up. Time too flies, and with it many things are flown away to obscurity but some refuse to go away and got etched in our memory.

Everything we see in and around Salbung today has a story to tell. Once the lush green surrounding, with thickets and bushes, stood now bare and empty. Salbung- Kholmun Road a.k.a. Upa Letkhoneh Road (named after the man this story centres around) once had eucalyptus trees, standing tall and waving in the wind, all along its winding path. No house had any fencing, except an array of bushes, or any iron or tin-sheet gate as it has of now. "Me thah/ dop" (sharing or exchange of curry) was once very much in vogue. It was once a common sight to see someone with a bowl in hand, with mouth-watering aroma emanating, coming in and out from the neighbour’s house. The classic example of bonding and close knit family we once had been. I, for one, may be a regular with a bowl in my hands coming out from The Old House by the Roadside.

There is one such story woven around The Old House by the Roadside (TOHTR) which the present tenants may not know. Once in that house lived my grandfather (Hepu) and grandmother (Hepi) and in due course of time my elder brother. Those were happy times and I cherished that time of Salbung and to me, personally, it remains the ‘Golden Age’ in its 50 year history. One simple reason is that Salbung’s founder-chief, my maternal grandfather, Upa Letkhoneh Haokip was in the pink of health, strong and sturdy, and full of energy and life.

We had stayed in many houses within Salbung as tenants until we lived and settled in our present home. While we were staying in ‘Sahlang-veng’ at our old Pute-inn I often went to TOHTR. Hepu would buy me sweets (candy) or sonpapri sold by door-to-door vendors and some other time he would give me money to buy ‘nehthei’ (eatables). I remembered once he tried to give me two or five rupees note (cash) but I insisted him to give me coins instead. To a child as old as 3/4 years, four 50 paise coins were dearer than a single five rupees note once. The juggling and colliding noises those coins made, inside my pocket, when I run around and the attention it invoke from my peers was music to my ears and a joy I can’t simply explain.

As there were only few houses in 'Sahlang-veng' that time and very less children of my age to play with, at every opportune time I would come down and play with the kids living in and around the roadside. We would run amok in Tintong phailei and play around until my brother would come back from D. M. Ray School. I heard a story that as he was still small and above all, weak and frail he would usually stop by at TOHTR on his way to and fro from school. There were times I was too tired and would often sleep on the wooden sofa set while watching T.V. (Doordarshan) with Hepu. I still remembered the wooden sofa set in the drawing room, it had golden-silk cushion-cover and Hepu would not let anyone sit, including I, if they put their feet on top of it. Being an ex-service man, he was a man full of discipline and authority. Such gentleman he was, he wanted everyone in his house to follow suit. When it was time to go home my brother with his heavy school bag would dragged me. Sometime Hepu would drop us home on his humber cycle.

I often take a tour of the many pictures including black & white hanging on the wall of TOHTR. No art gallery in the world would fascinate me more as I take a sneak preview at each picture. I bet I'll still do if I find them hanging on the wall now. I like the framed-pictures of my mom and her siblings with Hepu and Hepi. I liked the suit Hepu dons and the sweater my mom wears in that picture. Other pictures where my uncles flaunt their bell bottom pants would always tickle my funny bone. What was in vogue or fashionable at their time was already a faux pas then. Another picture in which Hepu poses with his friends in front of a resting helicopter was most fascinating.

There was another picture, I really admired, of Hepu flashing his 3-0-3 licensed rifle with Hepi sitting beside him nonchalant to Hepu's grin of satisfaction. I can't wait to hold the rifle like the way he does but I never had the chance to do so. Before I was old enough to lay my hands on it, he sold away… for the better, according to him.

Besides the pictures, there were several portraits of Samuel Arts…the portrait of a traditional Kuki village was praise worthy. Each time I saw, the zeal to become a painter or an artist grew stronger in me and I had since then, wanted to paint as good as him one day. But unfortunately, that remains a distant dream. There were Wall-hanging with English Bible verses on it. Some of the verses were “Rejoice in the Lord” "As for me and my house we will serve the Lord" and "The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want". There was one portrait where the words "Home Sweet Home" was beautifully painted and it took me many years to get what it says.

I also remembered, there was a smiling Brooke Shields’s poster pasted on the wall. I only look at that picture when nobody is around and only when I had the courage to do so. This trait of mine, I think, is deeply ingrained in me even till today.

                                                                                       

To the right from the entrance of TOHTR, there were wooden almirah full of books. As a child, I always thought that my uncles read all those books pages by pages and wished I could read them too. Hepu once showed me a book with pictures about Indo-Pak war, where dead bodies were scattered on the ground and vultures feeding on them. A close-up picture of a dead baby gave me nightmares for many a times.

During that time (early 90’s) TOHTR was the first to have a T.V. set all over Salbung and the only available channel was Doordarshan. There was nothing much to watch but our eyes (the kids) were glued to the set even when there was only ‘black and white dots’ on the screen. We named it 'changpah' as the dots look like ‘grains of rice’ flashing across the screen. When a programme was inching closer to relay, a vertical VIBGYOR colour would appeared on the screen but that didn't keep us away from watching. In fact, we would choose a colour for oneself on the basis of 'first say, get it' (on the line of “first come first serve”). I always chose red, I've no clue even now what prompted me to choose so. For all I know was, I often throw tantrums if I didn't get the red poppins when Hepu or my mom dole out the multi-coloured candy pellets. Whenever there was ‘power-cut’, we would just sit and wait for the power to return and played ‘Find a word or letter’ from the pictures, Wall-hanging, posters, mementoes and calendars in the drawing room. When power returns we would screamed with ecstasy at the top of our voices. I still do some time even now; Old habit, in fact, dies hard. And whenever the picture on the T. V. screen was not crystal clear due to bad reception, my brother and I would go out and turn the antenna pole while Hepu keep watch. Until he said, “ok” we would turn the iron-pipe pole clock-wise and anti-clockwise many times over.

Although I didn't have the chance to live in TOHTR, I remembered, I always 'feel at home' under its roof. I vividly remembered one night after I slept on the sofa, my brother came all the way just to take me home. He holds my hand and with droopy eyes and tired legs, we walked home all the way to our home at sahlang veng. It was a full moon night and there was no power. As we trudge along, I could see with my half-opened eyes that many homes were already fast asleep and we could hear the snoring from the road. Those home still awake were dimly lit and the lantern-light from the houses were peeping through the opening in the wall.

At one point, I became too sleepy to walk any farther so my brother put me on his thin, bony back and gave me a piggyback ride. Upon his back I would asked him, from time to time, how far we'd reached and he would tell me we'd reached x,y,z house and I would further asked him “are we now nearer to 'hepu te inn' or our house?”. He replied, “from here hepu te inn is nearer” and I sighed “uff! Still a long way to go”. This may be the origin of measuring a distance between one destination to another in our family parlance as we still often say it is about such distance from hepu te inn to such and such house. Thanks to the classic movie “The Mocking Bird” I recollect this piggyride back home, I already forgot, not because there was any piggyride scene in the movie but because of the cinematographic  scenes and settings which is akin to the then Salbung.

TOHTR remains very close to my heart as it was the epitome of ‘Home Sweet Home’. It was under the roof of this house I find solace and comfort as in one instance my aunty (L) Ngailhing took us away from the wailing and crying when my younger brother Kaiminthang passed away suddenly while we were staying as tenant at ‘Pu Paokho inn’, the present plot of land belonging to Pa, Kaithang.  She made us sit in the drawing room around the glowing warm brazier (charcoal heater or meiphu), gave us towel to dry ourselves as it was drizzling on our way. Hepi offered us a warm cup of tea. It was in this house I came to know what is love and care and the value of family and bonding.

 TOHTR once had a door-bell I can't reach but its door would always flung open when I stood before it and had never ever shut me out. I often entered empty stomach but always leave full and burping. Hepi and Hepu had a heart of gold and always had room for people knocking at their door. It was a small house in structure but the biggest as everyone was welcome. It had no architectural marvel to boast of, neither had concrete pillars nor marble tiles to its credit. But nobody who enters empty stomach and thirsty doesn't leave in the same fashion they comes in.

It was not only a house but a voluntary police chowki. At night fall, if Hepu hears school children running amok and fooling around by the roadside he would wear his grey 'over-coat', put on his shining (polished) boot, pick up a walking stick and would chase them away. Not because he hates them but wants them to be safe from the speeding vehicles and the lurking danger. Above all, he wanted them to stay at their home and study. And if children play marble nearby the road, it was a common sight that time, he took the role of a police-man upon himself and would collect the marbles and throw them away. For this act of community service he rendered, he had earned himself the ire of many children and even parents. If anyone creates a scene outside, he never remain indoors or a mute spectator rather he always take stock of the situation and tried his best to solve the problem amicably. His timely intervention had rendered justice and prevented any further trouble.

TOHTR needs no alarm clock. It rises with day-break and its door was the first to creak open in all of Salbung all throughout the year. Before any living soul wakes up, Hepu would filled all the containers and buckets with water to the brim, not from a running tap or water-well but from Koite river! Kerosene, sugar, salt, milk-powder, soap, detergent, tooth-paste and even match-boxes… you name it, he had it in stock that would last for the entire month even if the manufacturing company stops producing them for the entire month. He would also stock bags of charcoal, the finest quality, much before the arrival of winter. During early winter morning Hepu and my brother would wake up the neighbouring houses with the sound of their axes splitting fire-woods. For him winter morning and summer morning were the same.

While in that house apart from his occasional tooth-ache, I never knew he could fall sick; too invincible for diseases to stoop him down. He always looks fresh, clean and tidy. He smells of Dettol as he used to rub on his body very much like we wear perfume today. He oiled his all-white hair daily with keokarpin hair oil.

Lunch and dinner were laid and served on the table exactly at the scheduled time all the year round. There was no room for delay and mistake under him. His humber cycle cleaned and oiled every day, sparkling and as good as new always. So does with his shoes and boots.

I knew him as someone who loved ‘story-telling’ around the warm embrace of glowing brazier at night in winter but never once did I heard him telling a fairy-tale or folk-tales. He told stories about real people and events; of village life, genealogy, ‘Japan gaal’ (World War II) and his own. I liked all the stories but one about genealogy, I extremely find it boring and monotonous. I only realized its importance and utility only lately after he is no more. He had in-depth knowledge, ‘A-Z’, as he often claimed, of genealogy. Although I don’t know much of it or care very less to know, I was extremely impressed with his style of narration. I heard him speak of genealogy over a dozen times but each time he did, he said the same thing, used the same words and most surprisingly, the same expressions.

           

In every formal gathering or fellowship where he has had something to say, he usually begins with a Bible verse Matthew 6:33 "…Seek ye first the kingdom of God and His righteousness; and all these things will be added unto you" every time he stood up, bow his head and pray. He always prayed for each and every member of his family near and far. I had my first brush with the Bible verse “In my Father’s house are many rooms; if it were not so, I would have told you. I am going there to prepare a place for you.” John 14:2 from Hepu.

Apart from all that’s been said of him, he was a man of simple needs and simple taste. I can't forget what he once told me: "what a man really needs in life is a hearty-meal and a warm bed to sleep…nothing more, nothing less".

True to what’s seen on the Wall-hanging Bible verses CHRIST was the head of that house, the unseen HOST at every meal and The silent listener to every conversation.

A humble poem for Hepu

Dear Hepu,

As I take a look around Salbung today

Everything almost has all change

For better or worse only you could say

But there is nothing much to see

Yet it remains pretty much the same

For the clear open blue sky up above

Still cover us like a hen does to its young-ones

Salbung air you once breathed Salbung still breathes

The ground you once walked upon we still do

But more often now upon tyres; two’s and four’s

Salbung as tiny as a mustard seed

Took its maiden birth in your heart yon

Has now stood like a castle on mountain top

The seed you sow and nurture with honest brow

Salbung now reaps in ten and hundred fold

This year it turns fifty years old and fifty years fond

Salbung pays our humble respect you so deserve

And bow to the God you bow to and serve

As I look around Salbung today

Everything almost has all change

For better or worse only you could say

But there is nothing much to see

Yet it remains pretty much the same

As your presence is felt in every way.

(The writer took his maternal grandfather’s name Letkhoneh-Nehtinthang and this article is written straight from the heart, the bare-truth, no rhymes, no embellishment and exactly as the writer remembers. He only took a leaf out of the annals of his grandfather’s long illustrious stories. “The Old House by the Roadside”( TOHTR) is where his grandfather and grandmother once lived; they were hale and hearty in that house and the writer wants to remember them that way)

The 5th Chavang Kut Tripura, 2014

"Are you guys on a different time-zone?”.  (a chuckling smiley)

"Yes, we're… considering Bangladesh is just stone's throw away". (a mischievous smiley)

That's the transcript of a Whatsapp conversation I had with a friend. Upon learning that 'Eimis' -Chin, Kuki, Mizo and Zomi in Tripura will be celebrating Chavang Kut come November 9, he hit back satirically and equally satirical was my response. I told him that when you couldn't be the first, it ought to be ‘better to be late than never’. It s our shrewd ploy to be the one trying to have the last hearty laugh when all about Kut elsewhere is dwindling from public memory. Celebrating Chavang Kut (Kut) on any given day provided it is, during autumn, suits me just fine. Aren't we?! It's very unlikely that our forefathers who traced their d.o.b. to the cultivation of a certain crops in a certain patch of land during certain seasons would have celebrated 'Chavang Kut' on the dot on first of November each year. That's not rocket science!

Preparation from the word-go

Within a week's time, preparation for Kut made headway; spearheading this post-harvest festival of the Eimis was the executive members of Eimi Fellowship, Agartala. They tapped in all the available resources- the technical knowhow, 'hisaping and kitabing', debits and debentures vagera vagera from the experiences and expertise they had accumulated over the years in their line of work and profession and laid it on the table for discussion. Several meetings were held to chalk out and execute the mammoth task ahead. Given their professional acumen and credentials, I suspect they must have plan A-Z in place, had one of the plan didn't come off initially.

Social Work

In such meetings they resolved unanimously to observe and celebrate the The 5th Chavang Kut,Tripura on the 9th of November, 2014 at ESC Compound, Rajghat. Following this, a social work was organised on the eve of D-day i,e on November 8. Since morning, Brothers from Rajghat and Lefunga were cutting bamboos and carrying it all the way which was about 2 kms from Rajghat. Our pastor, Rev. L. T. Gangte generously doles out his stock-pile of tools, bamboo, mats and tarpaulin. When the tarpaulin was laid over the skeletal hall-frame, it was almost sun-down, each volunteers sweat an honest brow to produce the desired result, leaving no room for complain and untoward feedbacks from the hoi polloi.

D-day

By 11:00 hrs November 9, 2014 ESC Compound, Rajghat was bustling and buzzing with a pleasant number of foot-fall. Children were going haywire with either too much joy or excitement; one shove the other at the back and they gave each other a wild chase until their mothers would yell at them, from afar, to stop. After the crowd exchanges pleasantries to one another, they quietly settled at their own designated place. Kut-pa Pu Mangkhup Gangte and Special Guest Pu B. K. Hrangkhawl were among the few early birds.

Session I (Not In Alphabetical Order/ Merit)

I felt an instant connect with Kut-pa, Pu Mangkhup Gangte, when he relate his state of discomfort, in being 'suited-booted' for the occasion, to a boy named David who was panting for breath after putting on those heavy armour of a soldier. I was also choked by my own tie and shirt but kya karein it's Kut and I had to dress up a weeny bit. Like Bapuji, I too believed in ‘Freedom of Movement '. Though in my case, it is about one's own body movement. In any gathering whenever a Gangte brother or sister speaks, our stomach always bear the brunt of their superlative wits and banter; always a laugh-riot or laugh-a-thon. Intriguingly, their trait is felt, even in their absence, as the mere mention of ‘Tong-gou' during my High School days would make me and my friends split our guts out. Tonggou was Lamka's answer to what Russel Peters is to Canada or closer home, he was what Vir Das (weir-d-ass) is to some stand-up comedy aficionado in India. I have a compelling notion that Kut-pa must have been warned by his better-half not to 'multi-task' on stage but to stick solely to being a Kut-pa and the baggage it comes with. Nevertheless, his speech made the skin on my face retrieve its elasticity. (Way back into suppleness). I admired his powerful word-play when he stressed that Kut today is still in tandem with the Kut of yore by stating "Our forefathers wine and dine and make merry and we take tea and bis-'kut' (sic), in the place of 'ju leh sa', and make merry". In his prism of observation, Kut of the bygone era and Kut of today is strictly on equal footing.

Pu B. K. Hrangkhawl is an ex-MLA and his cavalcade (security scout) secured the perimeter of the venue. (Don't ask me what B. K. stands for; I've a very strong 'dil-logical' inclination to say that B. K. is the acronym for 'Boi-Kho'). He was and still is the front-man of the marginalised tribals of Tripura, a much revered and respected in the community he fought tooth and nail for but was once a 'wanted' man by the government and was jailed four times.

(Welcome to India!, where advocates of the underpriviledged and minorities are labeled 'wanted' and jailed by the corpo-cratic government; corporate-politician nexus). This, only Arundhati Roy has the credentials and the audacity to bring it to the fore, thread-bare. Surprising as it may sound; a man of the masses was scorned and abhorred by the 'majority' community on this Indo-frontier state with Bangladesh. Following the subsequent arrest warrant and the bounty on his head, he had but to go underground along with his wife and had to survive with a monthly ration of just 5 kg of rice. In his own words, "there was no breakfast, no lunch and no dinner; the only meal of the day comes only at 8 PM".

The tell-tale signs of his ordeal in the jungle can be seen even now. At 68 , the ex-MLA is bespectacled, frail and but speaks articulate English. His voice is calm but still commands a tone of enthusiasm and awe coupled with wisdom. He said he had taken 40 children with him to Churachandpur with the sole motive of giving them proper education. "It wasn't easy" he elaborated, "considering the treacherous terrain and the unforgiving road".  It was a wise and bold decision, on his part, taking into consideration the sorry state of education then in Tripura. Those children are now bigwigs in the tribal society of Tripura; some of them are IAS and TCS officers while others are elite professionals- doctors and engineers. He told every student he met and to the students present on this auspicious occasion "to study not merely for degrees but for education and to bring about positive changes in the society". Raju Hirani or Chetan Bhagat, for that matter, must have heard such inspirational lecture of his and imbibed it in 3 Idiots. I listened to his speech with rapt attention from the 'last bench' and few minutes into his speech I already admired him. A great deal. But I didn't go up to say hi or shook his hands afterward. I find myself oddly strange sometime.

Cultural Troupe from Abhicharan, Lefunga, RIPSAT (Regional Institute of Pharmaceutical Science And Technology) and Fishery College tells the story of yore and more of lore through their cultural dance. The techno-beats blaring from the 1000 W speaker must be the only new thing but their every moves and steps were those invented and choreographed by our fore-fathers and depicts our one-time way of life. One performer caught my attention; it was a boy (sorry ladies!). I don't know which dance troupe he was; he seems to be having two wrong feet. He reminded me of an old friend who dance for the first time; my friend had never before in his life-time put on a dancing shoes. It was Fishery College students who dance to the popular Hillsong's number ‘Every move I make/ I make in you/ You make me move, Jesus/’ that made me missed, for a split second, my Sunday School students in KWS, Delhi. That was their favourite song, both teacher-student alike, would jive to this song and it doesn't matter you 'moon-walked' or B-boying it.

JNU empowered Ng. Theim Kipgen, now a guest lecturer at Tripura University, dons the mantle as compere, with a mic in her hand like sceptre, she commands the programme both Session I and Session II with aplomb. She doesn't left any stone unturned to spice up the crowd who were too stiff, though just initially, sitting at their comfortable chair. In Session II, Pa Robert Haokip lent her a helping hand. At times, when the boisterous 'jodi' call someone to occupy the dias, to my loi-nah vu lou' (just a metaphor; untamed calf/buffalo) ears, it sounded like a butcher chopping meat in a hurry. And more often than not, their request almost seem like a court summon to me. Well, that's just my aural reception or deception. As a matter of fact the crowd loved them; they often went into a tizzy at their every utterance.

Session-II (Not In Alphabetical Order/ Merit)

Barring the sound system playing spoil sport in the intervening phase of Session-II, the programme as a whole was top notch and a class apart. This I go by the crowd's reaction and who could be the better judge than them; they went frenzy when our priceless artistes were called on stage.

When Pa Khuplal took centre-stage and sang 'Lunghel pul' in his own inimitable style, the likes of which would put Bengali's Bill Withers Kishoreda to shame, I was walking down memory lane. Wordsworth wondered about the theme the maiden sing in 'The Solitary Reaper’. I, for one, here wonders what motivates our own 'Don Williams' to sing this song; it was so soulful that each word of the lyrics pulled each valve, arteries and veins of my cold, cold heart. Does it have something to do with his current emotional state (of mind)? The needle of my otherwise inquisitive mind points to the absence of Mrs. Hauzel. The faintest memory I've had of this song was a dubbed version where Amitbah Bachchan was digitally synced and forced to sing 'Lunghel pul'. Trust me, what I heard today was more authentic and did justice to the lyrics a hundred fold. I almost missed somebody or was it 'The Girl from Yesterday'?

Pa Helun melancholic rendition of 'Nitin ka subject' was a tad emotional but to a point where he pointed towards someone I couldn't help cooing and bellowing. I wasn't the only one. I craned my stiff neck to the direction he was pointing and saw a lady, grinning from ear to ear, beside her li'l Alice was trotting nonchalant. If both mother and child were in the hall instead of being on the porch of the chapel, which is a furlong away from the epicentre, I bet I would have seen her blushing.

Minlien's 'vaisohlu apah tengle' made Pa Letcha a 'jumping jack'. Little is known if he was one in his formative years. But Kimkim dad's almost stole Minlien's thunder or should we say his full throttle act? One thing though is obvious, Pa Letcha's court skill (Lawn-Tennis) comes handy at the stroke of such clarion call. Minlien's 'Kanam jem' too was making waves among the crowd and the ripple effect could even be felt by the caterers and security guard on the premises.

Pa Kamthang's gospel number was no less devoid of admiration and cheer. It appears to be striking the right chord with audience too as most of the aged were glued to the stage with their mouth wide-open and nodding their heads with the rhythm.

Away from the 'glitterati' and the paparazzis' flashes was li'l Suosuon (s/o Pa Lunlal, IB) who was cackling, screaming and hopping on his daddy's lap. Emboldened by his ecstatic act, I screamed and cheered once or twice. Perhaps, even more, I lost count.

Retrospect

At night, when I lie on the bed and looked back Chavang Kut, Tripura 2014 I mumbled to myself "yeh kalval kaha milega". Not just because I enjoyed it to the hilt; it was, in retrospect, the underlying truth that no matter how hard we tried to build walls between us in a place we fondly called 'home', we're one and the same in the nut-shell. And no matter how each tribe or community claims who our progenitor is, we hailed from the same womb. We're like a breath-taking flower garden laden with roses, dahlia, marigold or periwinkle; each projecting our roots deep beneath the same humus, the little sapling shielded by the towering plant. Each swaying to and fro in the billowing wind; absorbing the same moisture, sunlight and a sprinkle from the clouds when it thunders and pours down. In the dialect I called my mother-tongue, there is a maxim- "Nga in atam athipi in, mi in atam ahinpi e". Unlike any other place where we're numerous as the stars that shine on a cloudless night we are here just over a ton but our bonding and cohesion is impeccable and immaculate. Do we need a rethinking of the afore-mentioned maxim? I don't say the adage is wrong. Who am I, in the first place, to say or even think likewise?! But unfortunately, it's a different story altogether when we returned 'home', where we are in multitudes and equally diverse and numerous is our differences and problems between amongst ourselves;  the close-knit entity we have here in Agartala lost its sheen over there. It's just sad and sadder; we can't do anything about it.

Supplementing what Rev. L. T. Gangte said, when he took the podium following the lenient comperes ‘opening the house’ for the crowd, it will be a welcome gesture and a milestone celebrating Kut along with the 'Old-Kuki tribes' of Tripura (the  Darlong, Hrangkhawl etc.) . This could bridge the gap between us and our one-time brother and promote further cordial relationship and closer ties with them.

P.S. One man lackadaisical observation couldn't cover everything and anything that had unfolded under the 'Chavang toni’ but this is all I could recollect. Perhaps, a day or two or a fortnight down the line, I may remember a thing or two more but as for now I gave it my all.

                                                                                   

A tale of Robbery, 'Sob-bery' and Again Robbery

Robbery

It was very unfortunate and shocking, of what happened, post the Semi-final bout between Laishram Sarita Devi and the local favourite Park Ji-na in Incheon Asian Games' Lightweight boxing. The jury's controversial verdict denied Sarita an entry into the final. The video footage showed the tell-tale sign of partiality and 'home advantage'. The Manipuri pugilist knocked Park out in the Third round and also had a convincing Fourth round but the viewers, as much as she, were in for a rude shock when the umpire raised Park's hands instead, at the end. In short, it was highway robbery. No ifs and no buts.

What was equally shocking and more saddening, was the absence of Indian officials to support the inconsolable Sarita after the verdict. That was not all, no official was forthcoming when she decided to protest against the decision compelling her to borrow $500 to lodge her protest. But even, that was turned down and rejected by AIBA (International Amateur Boxing Association).

David Francis, AIBA supervisor, said the Indian team had not followed the proper rules regarding protests. He was quoted as saying "The Indian Team submitted a protest, however the Indian Team did not follow the AIBA Technical Rules and protested against the Judges’ decisions, though the Rules only allow a protest against the Referee’s Decision." If what Francis said is to be trusted, it brought to the fore, the ill-equipped and illiterate Indian officials on that front. It also shows Indian Boxing Federation in all its 'shining armour'.

Sob-bery (Sob-story)

While moral support from every right thinking Indians was pouring in from all corner, home and abroad, thanks to the Indian media featuring the bout and her tale of woes non-stop. Sarita turned out to be a tad too emotionally ridden, sobbing on the podium, and rejecting outright the Bronze medal at the Medal Ceremony. If her behaviour at the podium was not ugly enough she walked up to Park Ji-na and tried to drape the medal around the stunned, Silver medalist's neck. That despicable and avoidable act of her proved to be her 'only' undoing.

Sarita Devi trying to drape, the Bronze medal, around Ji-na's neck

It was totally uncalled for and very unbecoming of a sports personality of her stature whose 'wall of fame' includes a former world champion title (Lightweight), Arjuna award (2009) and a Silver medal in Glasgow 2O14 . Not to forget, she was also a national champion. When the whole world points finger at South Korea and the officials of foul play, her melodramatic behaviour created the much sough after opportunity, as Son Cheon-taik, The Deputy Secretary General of Incheon's Organising Committee, was quick to respond by stating "She (Sarita) needs to respect the official ruling and show sportsmanship. Her actions were not sportsman-like." He seems to be making his point heard across the table now.

It is difficult to comprehend what actually compelled Sarita to behave in such manner, at the podium, after all what needs to be done had, already been done. And her protest too, not yielding any positive result. Keeping in view, the  media attention and the fan following she garnered, following her 'sob-bery', she is now at par with Mary Kom, who holds the record for being the first Indian woman boxer to have won Gold in the history of Asian Games.

Again Robbery

I can't help but think, of a larger ulterior motive, Sarita might have had, in all these 'dramebazi'? A leading English newspaper in the home-state of the two famous boxers, Manipur, had lavishly devoted three-fourth of its Front page coverage entirely on Sarita Devi while Mary Kom is forced to eat a humble-pie going by the the 2nd October edition of the Imphal based daily. If the robbery of her promising medal, nothing less 'glittering' than Silver was not enough, her 'sob-bery' now has in robbed 'Hmang-nificient Mary' of the media coverage and attention she so richly deserved.

And What's Next?

But all said and weighed, her determination to continue boxing, despite the unfair treatment meted out to her, is praiseworthy. I hope it's not just mere emotional ranting, which I'm tempted to suspect of, at the end of the day. However, that would materialise only and if she doesn't face a ban by AIBA. And in all likelihood, in the present scenario and if what is reported in Reuters is anything to go by, the AIBA is to issue a decision regarding disciplinary procedures immediately after the Games, which end on Saturday. If AIBA is unforgiving in its afore-mentioned disciplinary procedures, Sarita's promising boxing career could end right here with Incheon Asian Games. And that would be a huge loss for India, in general and Manipur in particular. 

It is however, too untimely to predict anything following the unfortunate turn of events. Whichever way the pendulum swings, for better or for worse, only time will tell.

Suhel Akhtar and The Memories of My One-time Classmates|

In remembrance of my classmates, 1995-96, St. Mary's H/S, Tuibuong, Churachandpur|

            (File photo: St. Mary's H/S, Tuibuong, 2002 batch with the Principal and teaching staff)



I'm not sure which teacher it was who asked "Who is the Dy Commissioner of Churachandpur?" in the class way back in the year 1995. Was it B.C. Nangpu (Bungmual City) or was it Sir (L) Mate?

None of us had a readymade answer barring one-Hringsolal, who later became a well known footballer of Churachandpur, Ccp in short. Only once had I the rare opportunity of watching him in action, in Kholmun ground. Boy, he was good!. But even he got it wrong, I still remember him having said "Suhel Langtar". He said so not as a response to the teacher's query but as to himself and to those seating around him. I asked him again, more than twice, so that I could jot it down but he himself was as confused as I was. Even Dayananda, the class topper, couldn't meet the teacher's roving eyes for an answer.

And Ompuia a.k.a. Ompapa was also silent. His bete noire, Vungthianmawi, the teachers' pet, but known popularly among the boys as 'Complain Box' hasn't had enough reason to protest too. Very unlikely of her. Whenever 'Ms Complain Box' said or did something Ompapa was never shy to retaliate in equal, befitting measure. Admit it guys! We like their chemistry or tiff whichever was true.

I remember having flipped the pages of 'Thinglhang Post' newspaper that evening to avoid 'getting cane' the next day. That didn't helped me much though. Luckily, the teacher, on having seen most of the students without doing the home-work, refrain from using the much dreaded cane. He spared himself the after effect he might have sustained by beating more than 30 odd students. Instead he made us write 15/20 times the name he wrote on the blackboard: Suhel Akhtar. He was the Deputy Commissioner of Churachandpur that time.

Now, as I recalled it was like Achilles (Brad Pitt) in 'Troy' saying "Men fights for Kings they don't even met" (This may not be the exact words spoken in the epic movie). Similarly, because of the man we don't even met or know our tiny li'l fingers were sore writing his name.

At times, I remember some of our old class-mates, in fact, as I write this, I see some of their faces, donning Navy blue trouser, 'Ujala' brighten white shirt and a red-tie; it's not that I'm particularly fond of them nor dislike them. I don't even thinks a lot about those bygone era. It just barge into my mind randomly. But it always leaves me, thinking, how they'll be doing or where will they be now???

That 'Suppandi' Lianmuanlal. O! I still see him, in my mind's eye, with that remarkable head of his and the woolen school sweater he used to wear. Mischievous, combed and oily haired, Martin. Kamlalmuan, whom I sat with, on the same bench and write on the same desk. He speaks fast and writes even faster. Thangminlen, who is etched in my memory, as the one who said "Moirang singju pang hau hau ee" too often than necessary. He had a knack for saying that before hitting Johnson of Tuibuong not the other Johnson from Khomuoi. And Kamkhansuan, I did once chanced upon him at a railway platform in Delhi but he no longer remembers me.

Adison, Bidyasagar and Rishabh Sharma, the pioneer, as according to Sir Kalamu. Are they still alive?! And I don't know her name but she was better known as 'Mar Bank'. If I remember correctly she was a newcomer, like  me, in Class IV of St. Mary's H/S, in the year 1995. Sir Mate, our History & Civics teacher, then, asked her to write on the board where she was from. And lo! She wrote 'Mar Bank' (Hmar Veng) just like the way she pronounced.

Samuel Zabieklien and I were fond of singing 'mehbooba' from my all time favorite B'wood movie Sholay in the classroom though furtively. Neither of us aspire to be a singer. We don't even like our voices ourselves. The two Joseph, one was smaller and the other was James Darngawn li'l brother. Ronald Khupminthang whose handwriting was like that of a lady; neat & tidy. I hope they are doing well. These guys I do meet once or twice and it was a warmly feeling they still remembers me.

And very much later, a year or two after perhaps, in Class VII or VIII Jangkholal a.k.a. Jewish spirit and Sonminlun a.k.a. L.S. were vying for the attention of the same girl. 'Irene' was the bone of contention between the two buddies. However, L.S. later shifted gear and changes direction, setting his eyes firmly on 'Chongphens'. By then Jewish spirit too, failed to live up to his illustrious name; he aborted 'Mission Irene' forever. I never ask him why, he never told me why.

Seilenlal was one restless prick I got to know. I once told him "it's Rexona deodrant you're using" 

and since then, we sort of became friends. His side-kick or vice-versa Lalsawma was witty and a jocund company to have around.

George Thangcrosslien became Thangcross-'lion' after Sir (L) Francis told him to write his name on the board. His 'e' had an 'o' appeal hence, 'lion' replaced 'lien'. One day, 'gul-hit' (It's more like a reddish tick, I don't know its English equivalent) 'flew over my cuckoo nest' (sic) and all hell broke loose. I couldn't sit in the class, in peace, it was itching. I ask for the teacher's permission to take a leak. I met Thangcrosslion on the way, he too had been out for 'passing  #1'. He  did a yeoman service to me by removing the 'gul-hit' using a grass stalk, laboriously. I'm forever indebted to him...hahaha

Until now, I don't understand why Siamchinmawi and Paochungnung couldn't see eye to eye during those years. They could fight anytime, anywhere; their bout was nothing less than a Jackie Chan's movie or any Chinese action flick. May be, they fight just for the heck of it. Or 'training' to be a professional fighter one day. If it was for the latter their cherished dream hasn't seen the light of day.

Forgive me, friends, if I'm wrong or disclosed more than what is basic and essential. Else i'll be doomed. Wait, why am I even writing this in the first place? If i say, i did just to empty my head? Does that makes me selfish? I don't know, you better be the judge. I just wanna say wherever you all are- May God be with you all!

(P.S. Due to 1997 misunderstanding between hill-brethren in Churachandpur, our class and friends were torn apart and scattered elsewhere; since then, our path hardly ever cross again. Even if it did, we hardly recognise each other now)

Born a Kuki, Die a Kuki | In Memory of September 13, 1993 'Joupi Massacre'|

Over the misty hills of Joupi and far away;

Into the lush wilds of Gelnel-Janglenphai terror sway.

Doom knocks door to door; chickencoop to pigsty.

'Nagalim for Christ' was never one's ally.

Devil in NSCN-IM clothing clamped upon 'em 'Quit Notice'.

Plundered their farm-produce, torched their home-stead as they so pleases.

Tense dark clouds hovering the murky skyline;

As hapless hermits gawked, choking in agony.

Despair blooms in never ending treading line;

As they flee, knowing not where, but to safety.

Weary and teary, trudging along the winding treacherous path.

Pebbles underneath their bare-feet couldn't prick the already half-death.

Sultry roving sun shut its oft piercing eyes.

Frozen at the ghastly sight.

Fountains of blood sprinkles, no bar, haywire.

Like plantains their bodies slashed,

And as gourd their tied limbs sliced.

Their heads chopped and in to the water deep, plonked.

As despised as kitchen trash, disposed.

Infants tossed in the air;

No loving hands to catch 'em.

Upon protruding spikes and machetes they land.

On September 13, 1993 alone 104 Kuki civilians butchered;

Three hostages survived with wounds utterly ugly.

A woebegone memento they couldn't simply stash away;

Memories of the deceased stings now like a disease.

O! Sons of the soil; ye, daughters of the land!

Song of thy toil no more sung;

Thine merry-making no longer heard.

Born a Kuki, Die a Kuki; we'll always sing.

Mary Kom, The Movie Trailer

Come 5th September Mary Kom, The Movie, besides painting the glitterati town red-red with oozing bloods, punches & bruises will 'knock an ear-deafening punch' at theatres near you but until then those who are upbeat about this biopic has to content with Mary Kom, The Trailer. Co-incidentally the slated release date will be celebrated as Teachers' Day in India, it will be a double whammy for many young wannabe boxer or world boxing champion who considers Mary as their guru & idol. But sadly, Mary's own pupil at her academy in Imphal won't have anything much to look forward to as Hindi films had been banned in Manipur since the leader of a proscribed militant outfit was shot dead by Indian armed forces more than a decade ago. Even her own folks will be devoid of watching the movie in theatres. Thanks to pirated CDs & DVDs that dotted the roadside in Imphal city, her home-folks may have a silver lining.Without further much ado, let's get to the task at hand (or is it the gloves in her hands?)-judging the movie by the trailer. And don't forget this could only be the tip of the ice-berg as no one has an inkling what the movie as a whole has in store for us. It has to speak for itself, hain na? (That's Ibobi's trademark remark, got it?) I watched the trailer in the wee hours of the night but i felt like i'm being cheated in some mysterious ways. Mary Kom without Mary Kom herself is enough reason to feel something missing. 

At 00:00 viaCOM 18 motion pictures gatecrashed on the screen followed by Bhansali Productions (logo whatever), in shining armor & glamour, seconds later. Each with their disparate background musical score. It's like rotten eggs smacking against the windshield of your brand new imported car. (Pardon, my rudeness,; old habits)

A bell tolls amidst cheering crowds. Two girls in the boxing ring. The girl in blue gets knocked by the girl in red. Powerful punch it was-you can feel it.(You may cover your ears with both hands). Her 'knocked-out' unconscious body flies in mid air & before it falls you saw what appears to be the pugilist childhood: her father enquiring "Kya chupa rahi hai pichche?! Yeh ladki logon ka khilona nahi hai" (What are you hiding at the back?! This is not something for girls to play with). The li'l girl now becomes PeeCee in Mary Kom's avatar wearing shabby school uniform. A roadside romeo seeing her wearing a boxing glove taunts & push her around. Poor lad, he picked up the wrong girl & ended up bruised, cowering & begging for mercy. Bottom line: nobody messed with natural boxer which most Manipuri girls are! ;) (Guys, beware! DON'T TRY THIS AT HOME.. You'll not be as lucky as I was)

Now, with a great impact, the flying but 'comatose' body falls on the ground with a loud thud.

Next follows what appears to be the treacherous road to professional boxer:

"Tum boxer hai?" (Are you a boxer?) looking down from the ring, a certain coach asked Mary still in her untidy school uniform. "Abhi tak to sirph phaiter hai, lekin agar tum sikhayega toh boxer bhi ban jayega" (Until now i'm just a fighter but if you teach me i can be a boxer). Then, in a jiffy, begun her arduous boxing training alongside the boys of the academy. Later she is shown falling in love, becoming a world champion at international event & getting married, walking down the aisle. Reel wedding dress conspicuously has uncanny resemblance to real wedding dress. The costume designer, who ever he/she is, has learnt his/her home-work.

The following dialogue speaks for the rest of what is to unfold:

Someone,most probably her coach, is heard trying to knock some sense into Mary "Ek time World championship jeet kar bas ho gaya, boxing khatam?" (Winning World championship once and it's done, boxing over?)

Then an unseen man said in Mary's face "Aur waise bhi aap ka boxing career khatam ho chuka hai" (Anyway your boxing career is already over)

Mary is shown having 'me-time' saying this to herself "Duniya boxer Mary Kom ko bhool gaya hai, kya Mary Kom boxing bhool gaya?" (The world had forgotten boxer Mary Kom, has Mary Kom forgotten boxing?)

Then who appears to be Onler Kom, behind every successful woman; there is Onler Kom, instill confidence and new grit to Mary by saying "Tu ek fighter hai, Thoi. Aur ek fighter haar kabhi nahi maanta". (Thoi, you're a fighter. A fighter doesn't give into failure. Is it my hearing inability I heard 'thoi'; thoi is a Meetei word for 'dear')
Her coach, after Mary had twins, said with gusto "Ek aurat maa bankar bahut strong ho jata hai, aur tumhara takat ab do guna bar gaya" (A woman on becoming a mother becomes very strong and your strength has now increase two-fold)

What is supposed to be a narrator or a commentator traces the story of Mary with these lines "Ek chawal lugane wala kisan ka beti, Manipur ka chhota sa gaon se nikal kar teen bar World champion banta hai". (The daughter of a farmer, emerged from a small village in Manipur and become World champion thrice. I thought it's five, may be two more title yet to come in the later part of the movie)

Mary going berserk in what is evident to be the result of racial discrimination and step-motherly treatment meted out by the government-its establishments and its officials to people with mongoloid features in India and she says "I'm a (sic) Indian, India meri dharm hai" (I'm an Indian, India is my 'dharm'-religion, here country). This line could be a befitting reply to those Indians who calls Northeast Indians, their fellow Indians, a foreigner or refugees or for that matter chinkis.

A kurta pajama clad politician threatening the determined Mary "Tumhare sapne mein yeh jo boxing ka shabd hai na, nikal kar chodunga". (I'll erased/removed this boxing thing/word from your cherished dream)

The following line by Mary must be the one to reckon with, a pivotal one if not the climax. Trust me, it's worth a thunderous applause. "Kabhi kisi ko itna mat darrao, ki darr hi khatam ho jaye". (Don't ever scare someone so much so that one no longer gets scare).

Now, let me have the freedom to express my thoughts on the  movie trailer. First thing first, I'm not saying that PeeCee didn't pulled off the role of the five time World champion to the T but in a strange & inexplicable way i felt let down. The simple reason is: if Mary Kom, after at the receiving end of uncountable social, political & economical bouts could managed to punch her way into the hearts of many, i've a strong feeling that she too can act & deserve to be herself in a movie based entirely on her real life story. Provided she is/was the first choice & some acting guru is coming forth to give her some tips. That way, justice will be done to the role & to the viewers and most importantly to Mary Kom herself. I doubt she was ever considered or approached to play herself by either Bhansali, the producer or Omung Kumar, the director. Or without making headlines, she was approached but decline as acting is not her forte. We don't know.

Keeping in view her tale of woes & the arduous journey she has had undertaken to become what she is today the film which is about her doesn't required polishing & refining in the arena (read acting). 
In a biopic such as this film, 'flair' ,acting wise, isn't the most sought after 'punch'. A fair dose of 'raw '& 'crude' acting would not only be pardonable but welcoming. It will breathe life & authenticity to the character & the movie. 


For once Bollywood gets the rare opportunity to change its age old movie-making mantra , outlook & get real through this film but it lets the opportunity slip by for fear of 'acceptability'& trivial Box Office earning. The film ,no matter who stars in it, as long as it holds its rein will be received well. Very much like Mary earned the hearts of 1.2 Billion nation & millions worldwide.

Mary Kom did what she got to do. PeeCee too did what she has to do. And what is done can't be undone. No matter who is in & who is out, let's put our finger crossed, Mary Kom emerged the victor at the end of the day with respect to this movie. I hope that as much as her power-punch reign in the ring this film punch the cash register ringing at the Box Office.

All said and done I ,for one, will be missing Maneithangza's tribute song to the queen of boxing big time. The Kuki rock-star rendition of her tell-tale in musical form was gritty, glitzy and heart-rousing.