Art, Artists and Acts of Love

Siamthangi Hauhnar was my Madonna. My sister and I thought she was out of this world. She was edgy. She was cool. She was pretty. She wore deep lipstick and lined her eyes. Her hair was so huge. She wore highly fashionable clothes. My sister and I loved her. To paraphrase Sabrina Carpenter, it was probably because she was a singer.

One day, my dad took us to meet her at her house because they’d met at some function or the other and he’d told her about these two little skinny girls idolizing her and she said to bring them over some time. I don’t think we told her we were coming the day we actually did it though. Courtesy of house-visit rules were always a little sketchy back in the day. But that was OK because we got to meet her.

Many years later, my dad would again take us both to meet another woman related to the music world. This time it was Pi Sailovi. This had more ceremony though. He knew her and her family properly. He'd told her about his daughters and she was amused but agreed to meet us. She received us as proper houseguests. Also it was a Sunday afternoon so the visit felt more formal. For those who don’t know, she is the titular muse of Matehawngi. We chatted with her over tea and biscuits. She told us about her boyfriend at the time who wrote that song for her. She told us about how they arranged the music; she thinks they borrowed the tune from some old English song. She told us about when she was a young girl and how different life had been at the time. We took pictures. I loved that meeting!

For people who don’t know my dad, this is very out of character for him because he doesn’t sing. He cannot remember any lyrics. He can barely hold a tune. Most church worship where we sing hymns, he sings Air in a lower, deeper register and pretend it’s Bass. He thinks all Jim Reeves and Boney M songs are Christmas songs. Which is why I’ve always thought that the way you show you listen to people is when you act on them. Just saying. Acts of love, some people sometimes call it. Whatever it was, we met Matehawngi!

Speaking of acts of love, one day, my mum handed me this one beat-up old book that she thought I might like. Pink cover torn at some corners and whose print was more Cyclostyle than computer. The barely legible cover print said it was called Omnus. It was a tiny book and since this was the woman who had introduced me to books that I have not regretted reading, including the Bible, Jack & The Beanstalk and Uncle Tom’s Cabin, I sat down to read. Omnus by C Laizawna remains today my favourite Mizo fiction novel. Ever. One day Chhana took me to go meet C Laizawna at his residence. He was very surprised. We talked over tea and he told me how he wrote that story. He signed my beat-up old copy and gifted me his other book Anita, a favourite of my cousin Avala. My mum who does not indulge in fantasies and believes reluctantly in spirits but not ghosts, who holds virtually no superstitions, who thinks fairy tales are a general waste of time, read this book about UFO and aliens and thought of me and took the time to purchase the book for me. Acts of love, I believe, we said?

The most recent of me meeting my heroes is the time I met Tuipui D’s Pu Biaka, the comic who told tall tales of his hunting prowess and affairs with wood nymphs. His mastery of Story-telling was bewitching. I am awed by his ready wit and matter-of-fact delivery. The first time I got news I was going to be in Hnahthial, he was one of the first persons that came to mind. I’d blogged about meeting him and he is also the inspiration to this one again. Meeting heroes is sometimes a lot of fun! Just don’t be a bitch and expect them to be perfect. Pobody’s nerfect.

I am very glad that these have happened to me because it’s funny to me how they happen. There are so many interesting people in this world. I love the idea that these artists who are worlds apart in their trades have created art of the sort that is so engaging that a mundane old soul like mine have come in their contact. Art is how we tell people they are not alone, that someone else also feels what they feel, even if we are separated by time and space. Art is what gives us escape and consolation when Life becomes too much for us. Art is what makes us human.

Some days, art is all we have to get through a day. Or a kitten. But mostly art. And that’s quite a good thing!

I Am The Judge

So they made me a judge. Of a dance contest. Either that or a drama contest. To put this into perspective, I have no experience in either. 

I am a terribly boring person when it comes to the stage. I don’t exactly love it. It is true that I have made my peace with the stage in terms of public speaking. I am not good in it but I have refined my 5 minutes extempore speeches. You learn it in the job. Even then, in terms of statesmanship, I probably am not even a camp site.

Take all these into the equation and the other day, I started musing on judging. Believe me, judging is something I do on the daily. I am not always vocal about it, though, because if I were, I’d have a lot of enemies. You learn to keep quiet as an adult. It’s just survival.

So, judging. A lot of times, people say as Christians, we aren’t supposed to judge. I don’t think that’s entirely true. Jesus never said to not judge. He said: be careful not to judge when you aren’t cleared of the same charge. Judge not, he said, lest you be judged by the same measure. And then he said: be pure like me. So essentially, dont judge sanctimoniously. Much more importantly, don’t be a hypocrite.

But me being me, and not always the most morally upright, I have convinced myself that the loophole here is: if I am not guilty, I can judge. And let’s be honest, if we don’t judge, how is society supposed to function?

In college level Sociology, we talked about crime a lot. We always said crime is that which offends the sensibility of the collective. In itself, a person taking bread from a counter is not a crime. But if that bread was on the counter because someone else was selling it, and the first person hadn’t paid for the bread, it becomes a crime because they’d be offending the generally accepted rule that you have to pay for the bread that the second person was selling. That’s how even when you have killed a person, which is easily the biggest no-no of human actions, if you can prove that you have done it in self-defence, it is not a crime; it does not offend the sensibility of the collective.

It's just nuances. Rules sew the society together. Without rules, we fall apart. Sometimes, the rules are suggestions. There’re layers of it even. Norms. Mores. Guidelines. Regulations. Crimes. Sins, too, maybe? Although that last one is very – almost exclusively – Christian-coded.

So yes, my stand on judging is that if I don’t do the crime, I can judge. And I can even judge mercilessly if I do that only with my sisters and my best friends and I know my judgment and righteous condemnation will not be made public. To my detriment. 

One of my favourite go-to clichés about judging is that if you live in a glass house, you should not throw stones. If you can’t maintain your house, don’t try to expose someone else’s mismanagement of theirs. If you have dirty laundry, don’t air out other people’s. It’s just a rule of thumb. You should not try to make yourself look good by making someone else look bad.

So that being said, seeing as I can neither dance nor act on stage, nor do I know anything about dancing or acting, either amateurly or professionally, I think I’ll just go enjoy the art and award points liberally. Ethically coded, no? Score some brownie points with the Universe, even? No?

Ugly Burma Pants

One time, an evangelist told my mother that her daughters were wearing shorts outside the house. Ooh the scandal! My mother said yes, she knew. Then the evangelist said: why do you make your grown-up maiden daughters wear shorts? My mother, confused, said: “I didn’t make them wear shorts; they wore it themselves.”

My parents have never really had much concern for how we dressed up. And none of us dress up very much so perhaps that was the reason for the non-concern. They don’t like short skirts and dresses though, which is not an issue because we don’t like them much either, except on very special occasions. My mother had to be told by well-meaning church ladies a few times to make her daughters start to wear puan to church. If we got to church, she was pretty much fine. But apparently, that was not fine for GCBs.

Clothes are always a big topic of discussion, even in the 21st century. Especially with women. We are supposed to dress a certain way and even when it has no real bearing on our safety, we are expected to be on the right side of the discussion, should our safety be compromised. The onus is always on us. Even on good days, on ceremonial days, I’ve noticed women being asked to dress up to the nines in high heels and full make-up and heavy traditional clothes and still be “ushers on duty”. I don’t think it works. Perhaps to many people, we are best fit to look the part and not much else.

And shorts. Somehow we are supposed to not wear shorts. Like I mentioned above, this was not something I learned from my parents. So I have never really bothered “covering up” especially on hot days. Shorts are fun to wear and very un-complicated. They’re also easy to maintain and if they have pockets, bless them!

In some parts of Mizoram, because grown-up maidens are encouraged to not wear shorts, they wear those really loose, free-hanging, cotton-lycra blend, tie-dye looking quarter-pants we get from China via Burma that are a veritable eyesore. I hate them. They are so ugly. For things that do me no harm, I really hate them. 

But people swear by them. They seem to like them. And I admit they feel nice and cool perhaps. But exactly nobody looks good in them. Not even remotely nice. They make good women look like peasants in some sad Chinese agro-historical movie. The worst part is people think they are perfectly fine to wear outside! Where there are other people. This really, inordinately, pisses me off. I mean, go out in boxer shorts instead if it’s so hot out. They’re not the best options but they have pockets and they have shape, and on women, they’re really not underwear so much. Those quarter-pants though… 

On the upside, they wear out really fast which gives people a chance to do better soon. But they never learn. They just keep buying new ugly pants.

I feel like a fashion snob for suggesting this to people, but please, throw them out kindly.

NB: I realize I talk about my parents often like they’re liberal in their worldview. They really are not. They are as conservative as they come. Neither of them are the most conventional though, which often mis-aligns with their world-view. The reason they seem liberal when I talk about them is just that as we were growing up, they failed to see us as boys and girls. They simply taught us how to survive, eat well and be Christian. Anything else was secondary. Once we were all grown and they realized that we weren’t very conventional at all and have indeed not grown up to be lovely and sweet-temperamental maidens, alas, it was too late!

Another Town, Another World

Comedy often gets lost in translation. So truly, I pity the people who won’t get the whip dry comedy of Pu Biaka as he talks about his hunting prowess. One hour straight of never cracking up as he drawls in this low, measured voice, recounting his many extraordinary experiences in the game? Transcendental experience.

I mean how in the world does someone talk about if all the monkeys I’ve killed came back to life, they’d fill up the football stadium for the World Cup finale and then top it off with but I don’t really consider monkey as game? Hilarious. Or, I don’t have much experience fishing but I guess the biggest fish I caught was the catfish I shared with 300 people and when it rained, we propped its mouth up and took shelter in the cave of the mouth? Hi-fucking-larious.

Of course, people seem to know him best for the wildly beautiful Lasi – nymphs, maybe, I don’t know; or elvenfolk in the manner of LOTR and not Harry Potter – he has supposedly known. Biblically. I’ve heard of many people who claim to have Lasi lovers but I’ve never heard of a Lasi college! Also I’ve never heard of castes of Lasi. That wit was blazing sharp.

In another world, another town, he could be famous. He could really cash in on this. When I met him, he told me people have indeed suggested he take up comedy as a vocation. That he could possibly earn decent money from this routine.

I agree. I think he has great potential. I am a fan of dry comedy. Always have been. My favourite authors have been known for their razor-sharp wit. Douglas Adams, Bill Bryson, KC, JK Rowling, Terry Pritchard, Neil Gaiman, Andrew Kaufman, Marian Keyes, Mindy Kaling, Jug Suraiya, Richard Ayoade, Khushwant Singh… all amazingly witty. I don’t know how rich they all are but going by how I have had access to them before the explosion of social media, I think they have a pretty penny each to their names. Assuming fame and fortune go hand in hand. And I’m guessing they do. To a certain point, at least.

This is a problem with living in a shitty economy. I know a senior in my service who would be aces as a CEO of a big-ass company but they’re not because we’re in Mizoram and as Mizoram economy goes, being MCS is stable, secure, decently-paid, powerful enough, in short, dream job. I’ve often thought about how it would be grand to do something else but in this economy, what I have is good. Which sucks. Because I think sometimes that if I were in a richer economy, I’d be trying out for something else than government service. I’m not saying I’d excel, but I’d try out. In Mizoram, it’s harder to be brave, career-wise. Especially when you know you lack tenacity.

Moving on.

There are Mizo people who are so witty they amaze me. I often watch youtube clips of Mastea (a current favourite) and earlier Mapuia (Zephyr/FTH, I guess), and earlier still listened to Thangkura and Leikhi Miss. Comedy changes with time. The people and material do, too. However, these people are usually of a different make than Pu Biaka, though. While a grand variety of the best of Mizo comedy is slap-stick or at least physical, Pu Biaka’s brand is bone dry, sedate and yet, this world-building he does on the spot is truly the mark of a sparkling wit, and proves he’s not just a dazzling wordsmith. For that, I’d marvelled and extolled. This was why while I have no real drive to meet any of the professional comedians, I’d wanted to meet Pu Biaka in person. I’d wanted to shake his hand, let him know his wit was appreciated. I’d wanted to sit and have tea with him and chat with him, listen to him chat in person. And thankfully, I did get to shake his hand and take a picture with him.

Which is a good story in itself! The day I got transferred to Hnahthial and I realized Pu Biaka was a resident of Hnahthial district and not far from the town at all, I was very excited. I made plans to locate and meet him. I eagerly waited for the first weekend so I could go look for him. I was fully prepared to use my office as a means to get to him. Which I did. I got the name and number of the village council leaders and asked around. Interestingly, his house was right across the village council president’s. And even though the monsoon road was not ideal for a weekend joyride (there were three major landslides and at one location, half the road have caved in), I went. He was not home.

I tried again the following weekend. He was again not home. But the third time I pestered the village council people over his whereabouts, they could locate him. But in the middle of nowhere on a jungle road. He was caked in mud, from cheeks to boots, I might add. Very fitting manner to meet a Great Hunter, I should have known.

They say you should not meet your heroes. Because they disappoint. Not Pu Biaka. That meeting was not disappointing. At all.

I Met Hockey Girls

I hid from Sports my whole academic life. In school, because I was always thin and athletically built, everyone always assumed I could do sports. I couldn’t. Still can’t. Even in college, when Mamu and I joined NSO as a last resort because it didn’t work out for NSS and NCC for us, I still couldn’t do Sports. We did aerobics instead. We’d wake up early and jump around to Get Down by the Backstreet Boys long after they were no longer popular. And during the Sports meet, we were on ball duty for tennis and we got hit by stray balls and they took pity on us and told us to go stand at the archery section. I don’t remember if we did. I think we didn’t and we just bunked off, because if a ball could hit us and it hurt, it would hurt a lot worse with the archery gang.

I don’t even like Quidditch in Potterverse. I also don’t like Krikkit in Guide-verse, although I don’t think anyone really likes Krikkits in any part of the universe. The feeling is mutual, though, so no love lost.

What I like is stories. I have always loved stories. People assume often that I like reading. This is only partly true. I like reading stories. I also like watching stories. Or listening to stories. Sometimes that last bit is also called gossiping but I like that too, especially when the tea is hot and it is served well with a good side dish. And I am not on the menu, thank you.

Which is a very self-absorbed way of talking about the hockey team I met today. They looked like they’re five but they were state champions! Apparently it was not a full team or something and they played on a smaller field with lesser people on the team. I don’t know how many people are on a hockey team and how the scoring system is and what merits a penalty. I don’t even know for how long a game lasts.

What I knew was that they were troopers! They were already doing things with their lives that they liked and enjoyed doing! At their age, I was studying and/or indulging in tomfoolery. It was not because I liked studying but the fear of the Lord and of the parents had been instilled in me long ago and I had been brainwashed into thinking good grades proved that I was a good girl, much like a Protestant puritan during Max Weber’s time. But these kids were doing something they liked and doing it as a team! I only learned the deep-rooted benefits of teamwork as an adult; they already got it. I think Sports does this easiest and best. No wonder I didn’t learn it until much later.

They had so much discipline and I really liked that. They looked nice and no-nonsense, but chilled. I could tell they were bored with the endless speeches by the end but the fidgeting was truly kept to the very barest of minimums. I wanted to see if they cracked so I kept my phone away as well to see if I could match their non-fidgeting. I cracked before they did. They had this aura of quiet confidence that is lacking even in adults, even in adults who are leaders. So many times, arrogance is used as a mask for confidence when really, they’re not the same at all. These kids had this really cool, calm confidence that only Sports can give, I think; or maybe offer it easiest. I am quite sure it won’t translate to all other areas of life, but to have this nook that you can turn to that gives you endorphin high while boosting your health and your sense of self? Very good for Sports.

For an active person, it is surprising that I don’t like sports very much. Or at all. I admire the discipline, but I am too ill-coordinated. And sports doesn’t have very nice stories. They have very inspiring ones but those tend to make me feel less than, and not beget me to push myself further or those nice things. I am not well.

The girls were very young. And luckily for them, this is a young district. I hope that they will become trailblazers for others in the years ahead. They have that potential. I hope they keep at it and can make a living out of hockey. And I hope that if not, they will always remember this rush and this championship and the memory of it will produce the brightest and strongest Patronus for them.

I really don’t know anything about hockey. My mother used to play when she was a girl. And she said that one of the girls would wear a long skirt when she played goalkeeper and that was not very fair because when she stood with her feet apart, her skirt acted like a giant impenetrable net. I think I agree with her.

Spooky

White people have their October. Us we got August and September – spooky months. Now the calendar reads Thlazing and Mim Kut Thla, but when I was growing up, August and September were taught to us as Thitin Thla and Mim Kut Thla. I don’t know what Thlazing means but the word sounds spooky still.

As for Thi Tin Thla, it just means the month when the Dead departs our world. I’ve always thought it was spooky. Apparently there is this whole ritualistic journey the dead follows before they leave the land of the living. In fact, there’s a whole ritual also of climbing all over the furniture before they leave the house. If the Old Mizo religion is right, I am so going to be lost when I die. I am endlessly directionally-challenged.

In fact I was griping about this the other day. My mother who should know by now that I can get lost on my way home from work still insists on giving me directions in terms of cardinal points. Go west, turn east, she’ll say. What do I know of these? Not even my moral compass point due North. I can make sense of Left and Right, after consulting my Internal GPS for about 5 seconds. I have no head for directions. I am hopeless. If my departed spirit has to do the ritualistic climbing over furniture and heading for Rih Dil, I am so going to be a Lost Soul.

Which is OK. I have people I’d like to haunt.

My parents did not tell us about Old Mizo beliefs very much. They fed us on Christianity. Anything I’ve learned about other religions have been on my own or because of Sociology. Which is good because as a kid who was terrified yet curious about anything paranormal, with an overactive imagination, I’d never have slept for two continuous months in a year. Months when spirits are active? Months when the spirits depart? Months that are consecrated to spirits? Ya, no, thanks.

Unexpectedly, after having spent a lot of years in North India, I’ve become very blasé about spirts and the paranormal. The interest remains, though. Firmly so, I might add. I still devour any literature and art on the mythological and paranormal. But it’s now nothing more than a curiosity. I am far too scared of human beings at this point to be scared of ghosts overmuch. Which is not to say I’d like to meet a spirit. I’ll go to my grave happy never having met or sensed one in any way whatsoever. But there simply are too many concrete real-life people to fear without adding unseen beings to the list.

There’s just three more points I’d like to meet before I sign off.

One, Swifties have August but thankfully, I was not in a frame of mind this August to feel the song.

Two, the Idiot Nation has When September Ends and while it is a beautiful song, I hope to not need to feel this song either this September.

Three, as long as we do the Memory Day thing for dead relatives on 31st December which does not really have a bearing on Christianity, I’d like it very much if we used August/September for this instead. Like how Mexican Christians have co-opted the Day of the Dead in Catholicism which has nothing to do with Christianity at all but everything to do with their heritage and culture. There’s so much going on at the end of the year with Christmas services and this Commemoration service and New Year’s services, then after a few months Good Friday and Easter services. And then silence. We just wait for Christmas again. It might be nice to embroider our culture into our new religion and have a nice Commemoration Service in the months that are sacred to Mizo anyway, no matter how Christian we become. 

Thla Serh, after all. Spooky.