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Vernacular Historiography and North-East Literature: A Critical Reading of the Kachari Buranji

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Dhurjjati Sarma
Dept of Modern Indian Languages & Literary Studies, Gauhati University. ORCID: 0000-0002-3808-0152

Rupkatha Journal, Vol. 14, Issue 2, April-June, 2022, Pages: 1-13. https://doi.org/10.21659/rupkatha.v14n2.ne19

First published: June 24, 2022 | AreaNortheast India | LicenseCC BY-NC 4.0

(This article is published under Themed Issue on Literature of Northeast India)
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Abstract

This paper proposes to undertake an analysis of the Kachari Buranji (1936), a chronicle, collated from old Assamese manuscripts, documenting the Ahom–Kachari relations from the end of the fourteenth to the beginning of the eighteenth century. This buranji comes under the sub-genre called kataki buranjis (the others being Jayantia Buranji and Tripura Buranji), which have dealt with the political and other correspondences between the Ahoms and the adjoining kingdoms. Throughout the period of medieval history of Assam, the Ahom–Kachari relations went through the complex and alternating phases of friendship and animosity, which affected the territorial as well as demographic dynamics of precolonial “north-eastern” geography. Since the buranji was compiled in the early twentieth century by putting together relevant materials from a number of Assam Buranjis, the collated information throws light on the strategic importance of the Kacharis, both as a community and as a political entity, to the Ahom rulers and their expansionist ambitions. This study also endeavours to examine the Kachari Buranji as a vernacular historiographical enterprise undertaken by the Department of Historical & Antiquarian Studies, Government of Assam, during the 1930s, to compile a buranji specifically dedicated to a historically and culturally significant community of Assam.

Keywords: Assamese buranji literature, Kachari Buranji, Ahom, Kachari, vernacular historiography

Introduction

The medieval period in the history of Assam, from the thirteenth to the eighteenth century, involves frequent and often drastic reconfigurations within the political geography of the region. From the thirteenth century onwards, Assam was ruled by the Ahoms who belonged to the Shan tribe of Upper Burma and came to Assam in 1228 and established an empire in the style of a “monarchical oligarchy” which ruled the state for about 600 years, and, subsequently, gave their name to the region. Around the same time, a new kingdom known as Kamata came into being with its capital at Kamatapur, at a distance of some eighteen miles from present-day Cooch Behar. While the Ahoms ruled over what is now the central and eastern parts of Assam, the western part of the state as well as certain areas on the northern part of present-day West Bengal comprised the Kamatapura kingdom. In this regard, noted colonial administrator and historian, Edward Gait (1906) notes,

“[T]he western part of the Brahmaputra valley, … in former times, … was included in the ancient kingdom of Kamarupa, whose western boundary was the Karatoya. At the period with which we are now dealing [thirteenth to fifteenth centuries], the whole tract up to the Karatoya seems still, as a rule, to have formed a single kingdom, but the name had been changed from Kamarupa to Kamata” (pp. 40–41).

However, apart from these two dominant political formations of medieval Assam, there were other significant “peripheral” social–political communities which exercised considerable impact upon the transformations brought about in the political geography in Assam during the medieval period.

The royal chronicles of the Ahom dynasty, called the buranjis, have been the major source of information on the changing social–political and cultural dynamics of medieval Assam, not only with respect to the dynasty in particular but also with regard to its encounter, since its inception, with the local communities, namely, the Chutiyas and the Kacharis. Both these communities belong to the Tibeto-Burman family of languages and were historically concentrated in and around Sadiya in the thirteenth century (Buragohain, 2016, p. 61; Bhattacharjee, 2016, p. 391; Shin, 2020, p. 51). It is possible that the Kacharis consolidated their identity as a community first at Sadiya, a place located in the easternmost part of Assam, the very place which is also associated with the rise of the Chutiya kingdom. The association of Sadiya with the Kacharis is also attested by the location of the shrine of the goddess Kechai Khaiti (also known as Dikkaravasini or Tamreswari), who is the tutelary deity of both the Kacharis and the Chutiyas. The origins of the Kacharis, as a community, could also be traced to Dimapur where they ruled from circa AD 1150 to 1536, before being overcome by the Ahoms (Bhattacharjee, 2016, p. 393­­­­–394; Guha, 2019, p. 51;). Within a few years’ time, the Kachari kingdom was re-founded with its capital at Maibong, and, despite a few years of servitude under the Koch kingdom, it soon recovered its position of strength and independence. The capital of the Kachari kingdom was shifted from Maibong to Khaspur in 1750 following its merger with the Khaspur state (Bhattacharjee, 2016,p. 397; Guha, 2019, p. 76). The Kachari kingdom was finally annexed by the British in 1832, thereby putting an end to its royal history which spanned close to 700 years, though often punctuated by periods of vassalage under the dominant Ahom and Koch kingdoms.

Objectives of Analysis

On the basis of this historical background, the present essay attempts to analyse the Kachari Buranji, a chronicle, collated from old Assamese manuscripts, both as a window to the complex political and cultural encounters between the Kachari kingdom on the one hand, and the dominant Ahom and Koch kingdoms on the other, and as a text-in-itself collated and created amidst the nationalistic fervour of the early twentieth century under the institutional enterprise of the Department of Historical & Antiquarian Studies, Government of Assam. The buranjis epitomise the pivotal role played by the Ahom kingdom during the precolonial period of Assam’s history, and thereby provide a major source of historical documentation signifying the region’s unique identity and position of strength vis-à-vis the pan-Indian political formations like the Mughal kingdom, on the one hand, and the “border kingdoms” of the Kachari, Jayantia, and Tripura on the other hand. These chronicles were refashioned in the early twentieth century as part of concerted efforts directed towards the framing of a cohesive Assamese nationality by bringing together the major ethnic communities of the region within the larger conception of Indian nationhood. Apart from briefly exploring these twin processes of regional and pan-Indian identity-formation, this essay will also cite and analyse specific responses emanating from the modern Kachari intelligentsia to counter the hegemonising impulses embedded within the nationality-formation process.

The “Vernacular” in Historiography: Setting the Framework for Analysis

With reference to the pertinence of the “vernacular” within the study of “historiography,” Matthew Fisher (2019) notes that the “[v]ernacular texts play with the anticipated accessibility and familiarity implied by the choice of language. Additionally, the seeming intimacy of the vernaculars can make visible the strangeness of political, cultural, and ecclesiastical politics” (p. 340). Writing about “historiography,” Fisher, in the same chapter, states that, “like confession, [it] is a peculiarly mediated genre of an accessible experience: everyone lives in and through history. The scope of writing about this fundamental commonality extends from the familiar immediacy of the recent and the local, to the strangeness of distant lands and distant pasts” (2019, p. 344). The Kachari Buranji tells a story that has its origin, we shall see, in the mythical past thereby underscoring the “locatedness/rootedness” of the community within the spatial-temporal context of Assam-Kamarupa and its “unbroken” continuation through the annals of recorded history to a moment of relative “familiar immediacy” in the eighteenth century. Partha Chatterjee (2008) draws attention towards the position of vernacular histories as “vehicles for a range of critiques of modern academic history” (p. 21). He further remarks that, “[b]y indulging in the fabulous and the enchanted, they mock the scientific rationality that is the ideology of the academic historian” (Chatterjee, 2008, p. 21). However, as we shall see, Suryya Kumar Bhuyan, in the capacity of an academic and official historian, did manage to combine the “rational” and “fictional” within the critical–interpretive apparatus he developed for the study of buranjis in early twentieth-century Assam. As a kataki buranji, the Kachari Buranji, along with Jayantia Buranji and Tripura Buranji, signifies a significant endeavour on the part of Bhuyan, as the editor-historian, to be mindful regarding the “interactive” and “dialectical” nature of its engagement with the connected histories of the Ahom and Kachari kingdoms during the precolonial period, and also the possible implications of such an engagement for the ethnic communities in their respective struggles for identity and self-determination in the twentieth century.

Analysis of the Text

The Kachari Buranji (1936) bears a sub-title that goes as follows: “A Chronicle of the Kachari Rajas from the earliest times to the Eighteenth Century A.D. with Special Reference to Assam–Cachar Political Relations.” At the outset, it needs to be clarified that this is not a chronicle with a singular and consolidated identity, but a putting together of information gleaned from “original sources” comprising eight Assam Buranjis, belonging to the medieval period, under the editorship of Suryya Kumar Bhuyan. In this connection, J.N. Phukan (1981) makes note of the two types of Assamese buranjis: (i) original Assamese buranjis, and (ii) translated or compiled Assamese buranjis (p. 41). The buranji under discussion in the present study falls under the second category. Moreover, while suspecting that the title of the said buranji could have been coined by the editor himself, Bhattacharjee (1986) goes a step further to question its very dependability as a historical source (pp. 37–39). While recognising and appreciating the concern and misgivings of Bhattacharjee vis-à-vis the position of the Kachari Buranji within the historical scholarship of Assam, it is well worth noting his own admission that the “original sources” are no longer available for further scrutiny and verification in this regard (Bhattacharjee, 1986, p. 38). In the preface to the fifth bulletin of the Department of Historical & Antiquarian Studies, published in December 1951, it is mentioned that “[t]he three chronicles Kachari Buranji, Jayantia Buranji, and Tripura Buranji are practically the only extant contemporary accounts of these three border kingdoms” (Bhuyan, 1951, p. 2). Suryya Kumar Bhuyan, the editor/compiler of the Kachari Buranji, does note in the preface to the first edition that, “[t]he main bulk of the present publication has been reproduced from an old Assamese manuscript chronicle recovered from the family of the late Srijut Hemchandra Goswami” (Bhuyan, 2010, p. g). However, the editor also mentions the fact that the said manuscript is an incomplete one, and, therefore, the lost/omitted/missing portions have been recovered from other chronicles on Ahom–Kachari relations collected from the Ahom Juvak Sanmilani, the American Baptist Mission Office at Guwahati, the India Office Library of London, and also from personal collections (Bhuyan, 2010, p. g). Considering the position of the Ahom/Assam chronicles as a major and trustworthy source of information regarding the Kachari community (Shin, 2020, p. 62) and the relative paucity of other written accounts regarding its history (Saikia, 2019), the importance of the Kachari Buranji as a precolonial written source documenting an important phase in the political and cultural evolution of the community, cannot be denied or underestimated.

Recognising the twin historical locations of the Kacharis, the first two chapters of the buranji are respectively entitled “Sadiyal Kachari’r Adikatha” (Origin-myth of the Sadiya Kacharis) and “Herambiyal Kachari’r Adikatha” (Origin-myth of the Heramba Kacharis). The Sadiya Kacharis have a brief history, for the reason that they were soon expelled from the place. As conjectured by Bhattacharjee (2016), they possibly came into conflict with Arimatta and his son, Jongal Balahu, and with also the Bhuyan chiefs, who combined forces to oust them from Sadiya (p. 393). On the other hand, the Heramba Kacharis came to be so called because of their settlement in Dimapur and on the North Cachar Hills. They also came to be known as the Dimasa Kacharis, where the word “Dimasa” meant “sons of the great river.” There are differing opinions as to the provenance of the word “Kachari”, though a possible meaning could be a reference to an inhabitant from “the deep bank of a river or a tract of land between a river and a hill” (Bhattacharjee, 2016, p. 392). Chapter 1 of the buranji makes reference to the settlement of twelve Kachari families in and around the Sadiya hills, without however mentioning their place of origin (Kachari Buranji, 2010, p. 1). On the other hand, the Heramba Kacharis are shown to have descended from the mythical figure of Ghatotkach, son of Bhima and demoness Hirimba/Heramba (Kachari Buranji, 2010, p. 3), and, hence, the Kachari kings came to be referred to as “Herambeswar.” With respect to tracing the founder of a royal line of kings to a mythical persona, Chattopadhyaya (2019) provides an interesting observation that

“[t]he emergence of a royal lineage is usually marked by distancing it from the region and community over which it comes to rule by locating the ancestral origins geographically away from it in some purer land, …, and by associating the lineage with an exalted origin: either the solar or the lunar lineage, or a divinity, or a holy person” (pp. 125–126).

Within the local lore, the buranji recounts the stories of two kings, both of whom are variously regarded as the first king of the Heramba Kacharis, namely, Sasempha and Birahas. In the second story, it is narrated that, within the kingdom of Birahas, there lived a Kachari Deodhani (a woman possessed or endowed with the power of divination) with whom Shiva or Mahadeva had an amorous relationship in the guise of her husband, as a result of which, a son was born to her (Kachari Buranji, 2010, p. 7–8). The child was brought up by Birahas who named him Bicharpati and subsequently installed him on his throne (Kachari Buranji, 2010, p. 9). The identification with Shiva as the progenitor of a royal lineage could also be found in the genealogical treatise of the Koch kings, the Darrang Rajvamshavali, where it is recorded that Vishu or Vishwasingha, the founder-king of the Koch kingdom, was born out of a union between Shiva, who had assumed the form of Haria Mandala (a Mech/Koch), and Heera (wife of the real Mandala).[1] Therefore, in the Kachari and the Koch contexts alike, the identification with Shiva, while attesting to the affiliation of the god with the communities outside the caste-Hindu paradigm, also serves to provide them a divinely ordained sanction towards kingship. In a similar vein, the Ahom kings traced their origins to Indra, the king of the devas in heaven, and the Chutiya kings to Kubera, the lord of treasure (Shin, 2020, p. 59–60).[2]

The Kachari king Bicharpati was followed by Bikramaditya-pha (-pha being the customary suffix to the initial line of the Kachari kings), Mahamani-pha, Mani-pha, Larh–pha, Khora-pha, and Dersong-pha. The third chapter of the Kachari Buranji moves into the recorded historical time, and describes the initial encounters between the Ahom and the Kachari kings between AD 1493–1603, during which Supimpha, the Ahom king, first conquered Namchang and Mahang, which were Kachari territories under Khora-pha (Kachari Buranji, 2010,p. 11). Another battle ensued during the reign of Suhungmung Dihingia Raja, when his commander Kancheng Barpatra Gohain engaged with the Kachari and Chutiya kingdoms, and extended the boundary of the Ahom kingdom till the Dikhow river (Kachari Buranji, 2010, p. 11). Dersong-pha made an attempt to conciliate the Ahom king; however, the mission failed and the hostilities continued between the warring kingdoms. With Phrasengmung Bargohain as the commander of the Ahom army and Dersong-pha himself leading the Kachari side, a protracted battle was waged between them leading finally to the defeat and death of the Kachari king (Kachari Buranji, 2010, p. 15). The subdued Kacharis requested the victorious Ahom king to install Madan Konwar, the boy-prince, as the next king of the dependent Kachari kingdom. In response to this entreaty, the Ahom king appointed Madan Konwar as the “thapita-sanchita” (established and preserved) king of the Kachari kingdom, with the new name Nirbhayanarayan, and under the obligation to pay annual tributes to the former (Kachari Buranji, 2010, pp. 19–20).

It must be remembered that the Kachari Buranji is part of the sub-genre called kataki buranjis (the others being Jayantia Buranji and Tripura Buranji), which have dealt with the political and other relations and correspondences between the Ahoms and the adjoining kingdoms. At times, the scramble for power and territory between the Ahoms on the one hand and either one of the remaining local powers on the other hand also ended up involving a third power. Added to that, the frequent incursions of the Mughal army from the west, particularly during the seventeenth century, added another participant in the bloody theatre of events unfolding along the Brahmaputra valley. During the initial years of the seventeenth century, the Kachari king Jasanarayan invaded the Jayantia kingdom, and forced the defeated king Dhan Manik to pay tribute and also part with his nephew Jasa Manik as hostage to the former. After the death of Dhan Manik, the Kachari king delegated the young Jasa Manik as the king of Jayantapura. As noted by Kalita (2021), the Kacharis had become a “powerful nation in the seventeenth century by conquering a greater part of the Nowgong district and the North Kachar Hills and [extending] their reign into the plains of Kachar” (p. 27). Unable to assert his independence from the Kachari stranglehold, Jasa Manik of Jayantapura conceived an ingenious plan to thwart the expansionist ambitions of the Kachari king. He sent messengers to the court of Pratap Singha, the then Ahom king, proposing to form a strategic alliance with his kingdom by offering his daughter in marriage to him. However, he laid one condition that the Jayantia princess would travel through the Kachari kingdom en route to the Ahom kingdom (Kachari Buranji, 2010,p. 22). Naturally, such an arrangement did not please the Kachari king, who refused to facilitate the journey of the Jayantia princess across his kingdom, thereby embittering his relationship with the Ahom king. This led again to a series of battles between the Ahoms and Kacharis after a sustained period of peace and mutual settlement.

The Ahom army, led by Sundar Gohain, made deep incursions into the Kachari territory and conquered several villages up to Demera located in the upper Kopili valley. The Kachari king Jasanarayan made efforts to strike a peace deal with the Ahoms. However, the resistance on the part of the Kacharis continued under the command of a valiant leader called Bhimbal Konwar, and it was by means of a pre-planned night attack that Sundar Gohain is killed thereby signalling the victory of the Kacharis over the Ahoms (Kachari Buranji, 2010, pp. 24–25). This event was a significant milestone in the history of the Kachari kingdom — Jasanarayan celebrated this victory by adopting the name Pratapnarayan and renaming his capital Maibang as Kirtipur. He also stopped paying tribute to the Ahom king and fashioned himself as an independent king. This is corroborated by J.B. Bhattacharjee (1986) when he notes that, “a portion of the Barak Valley had [also] passed under the rulers of Maibong during the reign of Pratapnarayan (1583–1613) who claimed himself as Srihattavijayina in one of his coins” (p. 35). There follows a period of about 80 years till about the end of the seventeenth century when both the Ahom and Kachari kingdoms make attempts to reconcile and make peace with each other. Also, the fact that, during this period, there were frequent incursions of the Mughal army into the Ahom territory necessitated the maintenance of cordial relations, especially on the part of the Ahoms, with the neighbouring kingdoms.

A crucial phase in Ahom–Kachari relations ensued during the reign of the Ahom king, Rudra Singha (1696–1714), when he decided once and for all to subjugate the Kacharis in order to immortalise his military prowess and legacy. He commanded his generals with the said prospect through these words, as noted in the tenth chapter of the Kachari Buranji:

“Kachari rajkhani mari joxosya lobo khujo, tohote ki bola?” (I wish to earn eternal renown by conquering the Kachari kingdom; what do you all say? [my translation]) (p. 68).

It can possibly be argued that, by this time, the Kachari kingdom had acquired much power and relevance vis-a-vis the geo-political dynamics of the larger precolonial “north-eastern” region. This is attested by the fact that the “Cachar expedition”, as it came to be known, of Rudra Singha finds mention not only in the Kachari Buranji, but also in the Jayantia Buranji (2012, p. 80) and the Tungkhungia Buranji (1990, p. 35). As Suryya Kumar Bhuyan (2010) notes in the Introduction to the Kachari Buranji, “In 1706 Rudra Singha … despatched two divisions to Cachar, one under Kamal Lochan Dihingia Barbarua through the Dhansiri route, and another under the Paniphukan, grandson of the general Phul Barua of Saraighat fame, through the Kapili route. The Barbarua’s forces captured one fort after another, and succeeded in ultimately occupying Maibong the Kachari capital” (p. xii). Tamradhawaj, the Kachari king, fled from the capital and took refuge at Khaspur. The rampaging Ahom army charged towards Khaspur in hot pursuit of the absconding king and camped at a place called Shyampani on the way, and sent a warning message to Tamradhawaj thereby exhorting him to honour the principle of “thapita-sanchita,” as his forefathers had done under the orders of the Ahom king (Kachari Buranji, 2010, pp. 80–81). However, the Ahom army had to retreat following the outbreak of a severe epidemic within the camp. In the meantime, the Jayantia king hatched a treacherous plan, under the guise of friendship, to imprison the fugitive Kachari king and succeeded in capturing the latter along with his wife. The Kachari queen, though in captivity, still managed to convey the news of their imprisonment to the Ahom king. Hearing this, Rudra Singha launched another expedition under the command of Surath Singha Barbarua, this time against the Jayantia king. The commander devised a stratagem of enticing the Jayantia king to visit the Ahom camp under the pretext of marriage with an Ahom princess, and, in the process, captured him along with the Kachari king. Both the kings were presented before the Ahom king, and made to take the oath of allegiance to him (Kachari Buranji, 2010, pp. 86–87). With respect to the Cachar expedition of Rudra Singha and his subsequent foray into the Jayantia kingdom, Bhuyan notices a wider plan on the Ahom king’s part to extend his domination into the Mughal territories towards the west (Kachari Buranji, 2010, p. xv). However, as fate would have it, he passed away in July 1714 before he could actually launch the expedition in person.

The death of Rudra Singha also marks the end of Kachari Buranji proper; the subsequent portion of the edited text presents snippets from other buranjis collected from various sources. Interestingly, a significant part of the Kachari Buranji has as its source certain “retranslated” extracts from Dr. J.P. Wade’s An Account of Assam. Furthermore, the episode concerning the capture of the Ram Singha Jayantia Raja and Tamradhawaj Kachari Raja by Rudra Singha was also recorded in a note compiled by Col. Adam White in 1834, and the same has been appended to the Kachari Buranji (2010, pp. 144–149). A significant number of sources, both precolonial and colonial, have been utilised in the “making” of the Kachari Buranji and its publication under the auspices of the Department of Historical & Antiquarian Studies, Assam, in 1936. In addition to it, two buranjis, namely, the Jayantia Buranji and the Tripura Buranji were published respectively in 1937 and 1938. It may, however, be noted that like Kachari Buranji, the Jayantia Buranji also has been compiled with reference to materials gleaned from various chronicles belonging to the Ahom period. Only the Tripura Buranji had existed in the form of a singular manuscript—preserved in the British Museum—bearing the title Tripura Desar Kathar Lekha and chronicling “the friendly missions sent by Maharaja Rudra Singha to Ratna Manikya, Raja of Tripura” (Tripura Buranji, 1990, p. III). Therefore, the special efforts invested in the compilation of the other two buranjis point towards an engagement with the mutually conflicting processes of Assamese nationality formation, on the one hand, and the articulation of indigenous ethnic identities in Assam, on the other hand, during the 1930s.

Publishing Kachari Buranji in the Twentieth Century: An Institutional and Identitarian Enterprise towards Reimagining and Reconstructing Precolonial History

By the 1920s, a number of associations emerged in order to articulate the voices and aspirations of the Bodo-Kachari community, notable among them being the Bodo Chatra Sanmilan (Bodo Students’ Association), Kachari Chatra Sanmilan (Kachari Students’ Association), and Bodo Maha Sanmilan (Greater Bodo Association) (Sharma, 2012, p. 212). These associations aimed to carve a distinct identity for the community, and a crucial component of this process was the reclamation of their past glory, as evidenced by the assertion of Rupnath Brahma, an influential Bodo politician of the time, that the ancestors of the Kachari community were “the most influential people in the whole of the Brahmaputra valley” and, throughout history, the community “never allowed their tribal peculiarities to be merged into the Hindu society” (“Note by Rupnath Brahma,” Census of India, 1921, vol. 3, Assam, part I; quoted in Sharma, 2012,pp. 211–212). At the same time, however, there were also attempts to reintegrate these communities into the larger fabric of the Assamese society, particularly under the auspices of the then newly instituted pan-Assam associations like the Asom Sahitya Sabha. Around 1930, in an article entitled “Kachari Bhratrixakal aru Cachar Zila” (Kachari Brethren and the Cachar District), published in the Assamese periodical Awahon, the writer Hiteswar Borborua recounts the pre-Ahom history of the Kachari community, its mythical–historical origins and subsequent interface with the Koch community, and, more importantly, the twentieth-century manifestation of its racial and cultural identity vis-à-vis the caste-based dynamics of the ongoing larger Assamese nationality-formation process. He exhorts the Kachari brethren to adopt the behavioural codes and practices of the Hindi religion and thereby rectify the so-called corrupt ways that have crept into their social–cultural life (Borborua, 1930–31, p. 1345).[3] These assertions on the part of Borborua echo the predominant sentiment of the contemporary Assamese intelligentsia with regards to social–cultural fashioning of a modern Assamese identity. As Kar (2008) notes, “From the end of the 1930s, a campaign for ‘Greater Assam’ (bahal asam) … began to gain force in the middle-class circuit of the Brahmaputra Valley” (p. 71). In the seventeenth convention of the Asom Sahitya Sabha held at Guwahati in 1937, Krishna Kanta Handiqui stated that, “[i]t should be considered a major responsibility of Assam Sahitya Sabha to preach the Assamese language among [the] tribes” (quoted in Kar, 2008, p. 71).

Considering these statements from either side, it could be argued that the process of compiling and publishing the three kataki buranjis in the twentieth century was a means to grapple with the question of defining and consolidating the Assamese nationality by reemphasising the centrality of the Ahom kingdom in the precolonial period vis-à-vis the “border kingdoms” like that of the Kachari, Jayantia, and Tripura. However, in response to the larger process of political–cultural appropriation, Jadunath Khakhlari sought to infuse pride in the usage of the word “Kachari” to define the community, and, went to the extent of claiming in his book Kacharir Kotha, published in 1927, that, “the Kachari language [was the one] from whose roots sprang the present Asomiya language, whose king was the first patron of the religion and its books” (quoted in Sharma, 2012, p. 213), referring most likely to the patronage extended by the Kachari king Mahamanikya to Madhav Kandali for the composition of the Saptakanda Ramayana (Ramayana in Seven Cantos) during the first half of the fourteenth century. The possible reference to the Kandali Ramayana is crucial vis-à-vis its significance as one of the earliest poetic works in the Assamese language, and, also for the fact that the text addressed an interface between maintaining the “propriety” of a pan-Indian Sanskrit epic and localising the same in the vernacular for the benefit of the “uninitiated” masses.[4] The active interest shown by the Kachari royal lineage in the promotion of Assamese language and literature is also emphasised by Suryya Kumar Bhuyan in his introduction to the Kachari Buranji.[5]It may be noted in this regard that various dynasties like the Kachari, the Kamata, the Koch, and, for that matter, also the Ahoms, which had traditionally existed outside the “varna/jati” order and which ruled over different parts of Assam-Kamarupa since the fourteenth century, actively contributed to the development of Assamese as a well-developed literary language by the sixteenth century. The patronage accorded to poets like Hem Saraswati, Harivara Vipra, Kaviratna Saraswati, and Rudra Kandali by king Durlabhnarayana of Kamata and his immediate successors around the fourteenth–fifteenth centuries clearly imply the development of a “scripto-centric culture” (term borrowed from Professor T.S. Satyanath) within the Assamese language at that time. The increasing use of Assamese as a literary as well as an administrative language is also associated with the gradual adoption of Hinduism (or rather one of its sectarian orders) by the royal households of the Ahoms and the Kacharis. As noted by Jose Kuruvachira SDB (2013), “[t]he more recent of the buranjis are written in Assamese which was gradually adopted by the Ahoms after their conversion to Hinduism.”With Jayadhvaj Singha (1648–1665) becoming the first Ahom king to formally adopt Hinduism, the “hinduisation” of the Ahoms became a significant factor in the increasingly mediatory role played by the kings in the monastic–missionary enterprise of neo-Vaishnavism known as the Sattra institution. On the other hand, in 1642 saka (AD 1720), Suradarpa, the Kachari king and son of Tamradhawaj, commissioned Bhubaneswar Bachaspati to undertake the translation of Shri Naradiya Kathamrita in the vernacular payara metre (Bhattacharjee, 1986, p. 36; Guha, 2019, p. 67).

Therefore, the compilation of the kataki buranjis, apart from emphasising the centrality of the Ahom kingdom during the medieval period, also enabled the reimagining of Kachari, Jayantia, or Tripuri community-histories within the emergent ideas of regional and pan-Indian identities in the early twentieth century. The presentation of these histories, according to Bhuyan (2010), went beyond mere chronicling of political events and presented, according to him, “a drama of human passions, of accomplished hopes and frustrated ambitions, of triumphs and failures, of defiance and humility … couched in [a] language racy, appropriate, unsophisticated and dignified, in perfect harmony between the spirit of the age and the character of the events described” (p. ii). A representative format of this nature was part of the native-vernacular historiographical model developed by historians like Suryya Kumar Bhuyan, which attempted to “reconstruct the Assamese past by fusing the Western spirit of rationalism with pre-colonial Assamese resources of history” (Purkayastha, 2008,p. 182). While stressing upon the importance of a rationalist-positivist methodology of history-writing, he was equally mindful of at times retaining the fictional narratives which formed part of a community’s oral-literate and performative history. And this explains his espousal of the Kachari Buranji as not only documenting the Ahom–Kachari political relations from the end of the fourteenth to the beginning of the eighteenth century, but also reflecting upon the individual heroic characters or the collective social consciousness of the communities in question within the text. In his introduction to the text, Bhuyan (2010) claims that, “[t]here arose in Cachar a great leader in the person of prince Bhimbal Konwar” (p. x). The heroism and valour of the Kachari prince Bhimbal Konwar in his guerrilla warfare tactics against Sondar Gohain’s Ahom army was a major instance in history of the kingdom’s military success against its more powerful neighbour.

Conclusion and Implications for Further Study

The study of a text like the Kachari Buranji is significant from the fact that it often provides alternative perspectives on events and personages usually seen and analysed from the point of view of the centrist/dominant narratives. Even though gleaned from the Ahom chronicles and colonial documents, the structure of text is so contrived to enable a continuous political history of the Kachari community, encompassing the mythical–legendary, documented, and geographical accounts of its existence from the beginning till the eighteenth century. Together with the two other kataki buranjis, it also facilitates and enhances our knowledge on politics, society, and the culture of north-east India in the precolonial period, and, more importantly, before the region actually became the “north-east” of India and, by extension, a frontier region of the larger colonial, and later postcolonial Indian state machinery. The story of the Kachari community, as we have seen, had begun from their settlement upon the Sadiya hills, which subsequently became the easternmost frontier outpost of the British kingdom. However, in the precolonial period, apart from being the homeland of the Sadiyal Kacharis, Sadiya was also the political seat of the Chutiya kingdom till the year 1523, when it was overrun by the invading Ahom army under Suhungmung (1497–1539),As community identities get crystallised over a period of time, thereby emphasising more and more upon the differential aspects of one community-identity in the relation to the other, it is crucial to recognise the double-edged nature of essentially precolonial texts like the Kachari Buranji which engages, on the one hand, with the objective of consolidating the history of an ethnic community based on extant information regarding its racial origins and demographic patterns, and, on the other hand, also draws attention towards the contingent nature of this very engagement with community-identity formation.

            The genre of kataki buranjis as such had acquired considerable importance during the 1930s and 1940s, and efforts were in full swing to bring to light more of such texts and preserve them for posterity. In the preface to the first edition of the Kachari Buranji, Suryya Kumar Bhuyan records the existence of one Bardhamanor Buranji, which chronicled the testimonials of the messengers sent by the Ahom king Rudra Singha to the Burdwan court. The manuscript was in possession of Hemchandra Goswami, and, unfortunately, got misplaced when it was sent for exhibition to a literary conference. Despite the loss, Bhuyan remains hopeful, as evident from his futuristic vision in this regard, which incidentally also emphasises upon the significance of the kataki buranjis vis-à-vis the history of precolonial Assam and the larger “north-east” of India. He writes, “[w]ith the progress of investigation more Kataki Buranjis will, we are sure, be discovered in Assam; and we shall not be surprised if Kataki Buranjis dealing with Amber in Rujputana, Delhi, Bihar, Nadiya, Barnagar, Rungpoor, Pangia, Morung and Bana-vishnupur, which were visited by King Rudra Singha’s agents and emissaries, be discovered in the near future proving to the world that the interests of the Assamese of yore transcended the limits of their own territories” (Bhuyan, 2010, p. i). Writing in the year 1936 during the heydays of the freedom movement and also negotiating with the twin coordinates of regional and national identities, Bhuyan’s attitude towards the past exhibits a progressive orientation towards locating/positioning the Ahom kingdom (and by extension, Assam) as an active polity participating in political, diplomatic and cultural exchange within the wider network of precolonial Indian kingdoms and principalities. However, the mission of discovering and publishing more kataki buranjis, as envisioned by him, could not make any further progress, and the publication record of the Department of Historical & Antiquarian Studies, as collected from their website (https://dhas.assam.gov.in/portlets/publication-0), mentions only the three kataki buranjis which have been discovered so far, along with other buranjis published by the department, including those in Assamese and in English translation. The Kachari Buranji has gone through four editions (1936, 1951, 1984, and 2010); the Jayantia Buranji through four (1937, 1964, and 2012), and Tripura Buranji through three (1938, 1962, and 1990).

While carrying on the study of these buranjis through the methodology of comparative historiography, it is also necessary to relaunch the search for more kataki buranjis and related narratives, if at all they were composed as imagined by Bhuyan, and thereby critically examine the dynamics of vernacular historical documentation as a process involving a series of sustained activities undertaken during the precolonial and early colonial periods of Assamese and Indian history. The importance and relevance of the kataki buranjis (or rather the buranjis in general) even at the present time could be realised from the fact that as recently as February 2022, the English translations of Kachari Buranji, Jayantia Buranji,Deodhai Asam Buranji, and Harakanta Barua Sadar Amin’s Assam Buranji were published under the auspices of Dr. Suryya Kumar Bhuyan Memorial Trust based in Guwahati, Assam. A renewed focus on the critical study of the buranjis and their place within vernacular historiography in Assam is, as all would agree, the need of the hour, and the translations of the aforementioned works could possibly be the right step in that direction.

Declaration of Conflicts of Interests

The author(s) declared no potential conflicts of interest.

Funding

No funding has been received for the publication of this article. It is published free of any charge.

Notes

[1]           Sadashive bole moyee tora rup dhori/…

               Chala kori tora bharjya korilo romon/… 66

(Sadashiva says, “I assumed your form … and, with guile, dallied with your wife”, Darrang Rajvamshavali, 2013, pp. 11–12)

[2]Interestingly, among the Chutiyas too, there is a prevalent narrative, according to which, Kubera took the form of a Chutiya chief called Birpal and engaged in the sexual act with the chief’s wife Rupavati (Shin, 2020, p. 59).

[3]Borborua (1930–31) was also reacting against the then prevalent tendency on the part of the newly educated Bodo-Kacharis to adopt an increasingly Hinduised identity signified by the use of the surname “Brahma” (p. 1344). As Sharma (2012) also notes, “[b]y 1921 the census reported that many Kacharis had abandoned tribal names and were describing themselves as Bara by caste and language, and Brahma by religion” (p. 211). Kalicharan Brahma was the prime founding force behind the Brahma movement amongst the Kacharis.

[4]With respect to Saptakanda Ramayana, Manjeet Baruah (2012) remarks that, the “[t]wo notable features about Kandali’s text are that it was aimed at/for royal clientele, i.e., the ‘tribal’ monarchy, and that the text has a social base which is ‘tribal-peasant’ in nature. Both were as much linked to the geographical location of the [Brahmaputra] Valley” (p. 68).

[5]Bhuyan (2010) notes that, “One king of Cachar was the patron of Madhab Kandali, who flourished before the age of Sankar Deva and who translated the Ramayana into Assamese” (p. vii).

References

Baruah, Manjeet (2012). Frontier cultures: A social history of Assamese Literature. Routledge.

Bhattacharjee, J.B. (1986). ‘Kachari Buranji’: Myth of a chronicler source of the history of Cachar. Proceedings of the North East India History Association (NEIHA), seventh session, Shillong, pp. 33–40.

Bhattacharjee, J.B. (2016). Kachari (Dimasa) state formation. Appendix – E. In H.K. Barpujari (Ed.), The comprehensive history of Assam, volume two: medieval period – political (pp. 391–397). Publication Board Assam.

Bhuyan, Suryya Kumar (Comp &Ed.). (2012).Jayantia Buranji(3rd edition). DHAS.

Bhuyan, Suryya Kumar (Comp &Ed.). (2010).Kachari Buranji(4th edition). DHAS.

Bhuyan, Suryya Kumar (Comp.). (1951). Bulletin No.5, Department of Historical & Antiquarian Studies, Government of Assam. DHAS.

Bhuyan, Suryya Kumar (Ed.). (1990). Tripura Buranji(3rd edition). DHAS.

Bhuyan, Suryya Kumar (Ed.). (1990).Tungkhungia Buranji(3rd edition). DHAS.

Borborua, Hiteswar (1930–31). Kachari bhratrixakal aru Cachar Zila. Awahon,2(12), 1341–1345.

Buragohain, R.C. (2016). A note on the Morans, the Borahis and the Chutiyas. Appendix – A. In H.K. Barpujari (Ed.),The comprehensive history of Assam, volume two: medieval period – political (pp. 60–62). Publication Board Assam.

Chatterjee, Partha (2008). Introduction: History in the vernacular. In Raziuddin Aquil and Partha Chatterjee (Eds.), History in the vernacular (pp. 1–24). Permanent Black.

Chattopadhyaya, B.D. (2019). Local and beyond: The story of Asura Naraka and society, state and religion in early Assam. The concept of Bharatavarsha and other essays. Permanent Black.

Daivajna, Suryakhadi (2013).Darrang Rajvamshavali(Biswanarayan Shastri and Bhaba Prasad Chaliha, Eds., 2nd edition). Lawyer’s Book Stall.

Department of Historical & Antiquarian Studies, Government of Assam. Publication. https://dhas.assam.gov.in/portlets/publication-0. Accessed on 20 February 2022.

Fisher, M. (2019). Vernacular historiography. In J. Jahner, E. Steiner, & E. Tyler (Eds.), Medieval historical writing: Britain and Ireland, 500–1500 (pp. 339–355). Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. doi:10.1017/9781316681299.020.

Gait, Edward (1906). A history of Assam. Thacker, Spink & Co.

Guha, Upendra Chandra (2019).Kacharer itibritta: A socio-historical analysis of Cachar district of Assam (3rd edition). Publication Board Assam.

Kalita, Bharat (2021). Military activities in medieval Assam (3rd edition).

Kar, Bodhisattva (2008). ‘Tongue has no bone’: Fixing the Assamese language, c. 1800–c. 1930. Studies in History, 24(1), February, 27–76. doi:10.1177/025764300702400102.

Kuruvachira SDB, Jose (2013). The Hinduisation of the Tai-Ahoms. Neptune18. Retrieved March 07, 2022, from https://neptune18.wordpress.com/2013/07/12/the-hinduisation-of-the-ahoms/

Phukan, J.N. (1981) Some observations on the nature of the Assamese buranjis. Proceedings of the North East India History Association (NEIHA), second session, Dibrugarh, p. 41.

Purkayastha, Sudeshna (2008). Restructuring the past in early-twentieth-century Assam: Historiography and Surya Kumar Bhuyan. In Raziuddin Aquil and Partha Chatterjee (Eds.), History in the vernacular (pp. 172–208). Permanent Black.

Saikia, Chandraprasad (2019). Bhumika (Introduction). InUpendra Chandra Guha (author),Kacharer Itibritta, 1971 (3rd edition). Publication Board Assam.

Sharma, Jayeeta. (2012). Empire’s garden: Assam and the making of India. Permanent Black.

Shin, Jae-Eun (2020). Descending from demons, ascending to kshatriyas: Genealogical claims and political process in pre-modern Northeast India, the Chutiyas and the Dimasas. The Indian Economic and Social History Review,57(1), 49–75. doi: 10.1177/0019464619894134.

Dhurjjati Sarma is an Assistant Professor in the Department of Modern Indian Languages and Literary Studies, Gauhati University, Assam. He was earlier a Production Editor at SAGE Publications, New Delhi, and, before that, a Research Fellow in North East India Studies at the Indira Gandhi National Centre for the Arts (IGNCA), New Delhi. He is presently engaged in studying the early and modern literatures of Assamese, Bengali, Hindi, and Urdu from a comparative-cultural perspective. His writings have been published under Sahitya Akademi, Routledge, and Palgrave Macmillan and in various journals.

“The forest is my wife”: The Ethno-political and Gendered Relationship of Land and the Indigene

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Karyir Riba
Department of English, North-Eastern Hill University, Shillong, India. ORCID: 0000-0001-8408-4464. Email: karyir.riba.ap@gmail.com

Rupkatha Journal, Vol. 14, Issue 2, April-June, 2022, Pages: 1-9. https://doi.org/10.21659/rupkatha.v14n2.ne18

First published: June 24, 2022 | AreaNortheast India | LicenseCC BY-NC 4.0

(This article is published under Themed Issue on Literature of Northeast India)
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Abstract

The imperative presence of land as a personified being in Indigenous Literatures asserts the crucial connection between land and the native ‘self’ in defining ‘indigeneity’. While this ‘self’ is often reclaimed in a wrestle against the geo-political confines of the nation-state; an indigenous woman, however, navigates ‘self’ in ways non-identical. Women’s connection to land, as opposed to indigenous men, shapes ethno-political struggle of proprietorship and rather builds upon shared feminine traits of fertility, nurture, and service. Focusing on the integration of gender and ecology as an important aspect of ecological critique on power and progress, this paper attempts to delineate the gendered relationship between the indigene and land. It delves into two important areas of study: firstly, probing the distinct ways the indigene ‘self’ unifies itself with the land, and secondly, critiquing the gendered dynamics involved in this merger. The study focuses on the emancipatory impediments of indigenous women by analysing select works of Easterine Kire and Mamang Dai, also, tangentially referring to a few other indigenous women’s writings from North East India.

Keywords: Land, Gender, Ethno-politics, Ecocriticism

When god-like Odysseus returned from the wars in Troy, he hanged all on one rope a dozen slave-girls…The girls were property, the disposal of property was then, as now, a matter of expediency, not of right and wrong… The ethical structure of that day covered wives, but had not yet been extended to human chattels. During the three thousand years which have since elapsed, ethical criteria have been extended to many fields of conduct, with corresponding shrinkages in those judged by expediency only. (Leopold, 1949, p. 201)

One may look at Aldo Leopold’s reference to Homer’s Odyssey in The Land Ethics (1949), and immediately recognize how Leopold set in motion reflective criticism of the position of ‘Man’ by critiquing Homer’s “god-like Odysseus” (p. 201), and attempted to redefine ‘community’ by problematizing the narrative of man as “conqueror of the land community” to “member and citizen of it”. Leopold stressed the necessity to see land and everything on it (both human and non-human) as a unified community, urging that “when we see land as a community to which we belong, we may begin to use it with love and respect” (p. 204).  This renewed meaning of community, in his words, could aid nurture an “ethic of care” (p. 204) that is organically fostered through ‘experience’ and ‘connection’ with the land. However, this inspiration of the “ethic of care” becomes the very site of inquiry and debate in this paper, in order to realize the gendered relationship of land and Indigene. In the discourse of ecofeminism, the vocabulary of care has been aggressively scrutinized upon the currency of care, for care is inspired chiefly by connected ‘experience’ of nature, “that reflect” as argued by Roger. J. H. King (1991), only and “typically male set of experiences of the world” and “aspects of Patriarchal thinking” (p. 76).

While land ethic of care has been a defining code of indigenous ontology, even before its academic acknowledgment through Leopold, this paper reflects on the limitations of the vocabulary of ‘care’ in insufficiently delineating heterogeneity of gendered experiences. Also, by occasionally subscribing to ecofeminist ideology that seeks resonance between women and land, the study focuses on the emancipation of Indigenous women whose identity is often caught or neglected in the hierarchy of larger structures of violence. As pointed out by Dai in her introductory note to the edited anthology, The Inheritance of Words, Writings from Arunachal Pradesh (2021) that “while the joys of motherhood, love of land and questions of the self are evoked…poignant with the anguish of love, they are also fierce with resistance against what it means to be a woman in a traditional society where inherent customary laws dictate how women live their lives, something that often results in untold suffering” (p. 3).

With special reference to Kire and Dai, and few references to other indigenous women writers from North East India, the paper wields on an interdisciplinary approach to explore natural and socio-cultural histories that have been governing and continues to govern the gendered heterogeneous experiences of native subjects – men and women. Pertinent to indigenous women’s writings that idiomatically juggle between feministic discourse and the issues of nation-state, tribal nationalism and nativity, the paper proposes that literary scholarship concerning native cultures requires a striding movement from post-colonial criticism to ‘native’ feminism. Kate Shanley, argues, in the context of Native Indian experience, that “the word ‘feminism’ has special meanings to Indian women, including the idea of promoting the continuity of tradition, and consequently, pursuing the recognition of tribal sovereignty” (1984, p. 215). In the impetus of decolonization and revival of roots movement, the recent decades in indigenous studies have seen a shift from mere political and spatial recognition of the otherwise historically contingent idea of indigeneity to acknowledging the intricacies of indigenous cultural histories from the native perspective. This according to Fabricant and Poestero (2018) is “perhaps the most provocative turn in indigenous studies” (p.137) which has been mobilizing scholars to exfoliate indigenous ontologies that had gone almost extinct in the hegemony of the western knowledge system. This turn in indigenous studies aims to shake intellectual terrains that have been building on the inherited binaries of European philosophy, by focusing on Indigenous knowledge and practices as “new modes of thought” (Cameron, 2014, p.19). Based on various indigenous practices, it lays careful attention to ontological pluralism (worldviews) and stresses reconsideration of epistemology by challenging euro-centric approach to meaning, knowledge, and power. However, in lieu of this development, arbitrating the intersection of gender and nativity continues to remain complex, as more than often feminist discourse is seen as antithetical or foreign to the codes of native epistemology. Arguing upon native women’s question of belonging, Ramirez argues that “too often the assumption in Native communities is that we as indigenous women should defend a tribal nationalism that ignores sexism as part of our very survival as women as well as our liberation from colonization” (2007, p. 22). This perplexity is pronounced in the select texts, for instance, the very usage of the word Adi word ‘Pensam’ (implying in-between, middle, belonging to both) in Dai’s (2006) The Legends of Pensam may be seen as an attempt to emphasize on the spatial complexity of contemporary native identity – an attempt to locate the appropriate bargain between the past and the future, and an attempt to gain agency over what needs to be continued or repudiated in the tide of change.

Hence, to recognize the intersection of gender and nativity in the context of Indigenous communities from North East India, ‘native-feminism/s’ that is ideologically quintessential to native experience is essentially requisite. The idiosyncratic illustration of native women’s renditions, for instance, reveals in depiction of Kirhupfumia in Kire’s When the River Sleeps (2014), with “vast store of knowledge” to answer “questions about spirit encounters” or to instruct if “what was to be done if a relative had touched stones that were taboo to touch” or to be consulted “on cures for fevers contracted in the forest… to disclose names of herbs in special areas, and how to use these to cure the fevers” (p, 146). It explains an indigenous woman’s rendition, not only as an active storyteller but also as a custodian of knowledge connected to nature, as the feminine resonance of women and non-human, that extends from the physical to the spiritual realm (feminine guardian spirits of rivers and forests). Or even the silent appraisals in indigenous women’s writings from Arunachal Pradesh, critiquing among others, the practice of polygamy sanctioned by customary norms – to be “traded for few mithuns to my father” (Reena, 2021, p. 44) and “when the children are grown, he decides to take another wife” (Dai, 2006, p. 77), highlighting the instrumental equivalency of women to the natural world coded in customary sanctions. Consequently, experiences of an indigenous woman traverse along multiple dimensions and the ‘self’ melds dual structures of enunciation – ‘indigeneity’ and ‘womanhood’. This then creates a spatial agency that is a combination of multifaceted voices. On the one hand, there are the concerns for representation – importance of native ontology in reasserting the connection of land and indigene, geo-political histories, tribal nationalism, etc. – and on the other, the emancipation of the feminine ‘self’. What makes this emancipation even more difficult is the calculated negotiation of self in the hierarchy of tribal nationalism, ecology, and gender.

With natives’ proximity to land, one of the first underlining issues, voiced in Indigenous women’s writings, is concerned with the various parameters of indigeneity and land-related ethnopolitics that differ for women and men. The heterogeneity of gendered participation, especially in land-related policies, materializes in matters of protection, ownership, and custody, which range from concerns of proprietorship to ethno-political concerns of instrumental subjugation of land. Whence, indigenous women are placed oust the value hierarchy of decision making. It is pertinent, however, to realize that penetration of the colonial idea of ‘ownership’ in native ethno-politics today, stands in contrast to a native ontology that revered safekeeping of the land. Dai (2006) calls it “tribal modified” (p. 175), indicating metamorphosis into modernity that prioritizes economic health over eco-centric indigenous practices. Dai’s The Legends of Pensam (2006) serves as a silent satire on this ironic shift in the meaning of indigeneity and its connection to the land. The recurrent presence of land as a personified being, in most of her works, distances land from being a mere geo-political entity, often nurturing the very consciousness and memory of its people. It taps on reviving the indigenous philosophy of ‘community’ that one shares with others, which is found in interdependency. (Kwaymullina, 2005, p. 2) As Ambelin Kwaymullina (2005) explains:

For Aboriginal peoples, country is much more than a place. Rock, tree, river, hill, animal, human – all were formed of the same substance by the Ancestors who continue to live in land, water, sky. Country is filled with relations speaking language and following Law, no matter whether the shape of that relation is human, rock, crow, wattle. Country is loved, needed, and cared for, and country loves, needs, and cares for her peoples in turn. Country is family, culture, identity. Country is self. (para. 2)

Dai draws on the Adi ontological credence of the interdependency of nature and man, both defending each other, by crafting the narrative of her historical fiction around the personified depiction of nature – river, forest, mountains, etc.  River and Mountains hold deep agency in Adi Abangs (oral histories/folk songs), serving as a crucial blueprint in trailing migratory routes and oral histories of the first Adi settlements. The river as a guiding agent in The Black Hill (2017) to direct Gimur’s destiny and the eminence of high mountain ranges standing as a barricade against the British invasion symbolizes the interdependent relationship of guidance and protection. Dai taps on the Adi folk philosophy of the river being alive, possessing a soul, a path through which the spirits of the ancestors travel. Contamination of the river is thus reflective of the end of cultural memory– “Our river must not be interrupted” (Dai, 2009, p. 45).  This philosophy of ‘personification of nature’ and interdependency of land and human, charges most of her works. It finds relevance in the deepening awareness of the fragility of the earth’s ecology and its grave implications for human survival.

Korff Jens (2021) stresses specifically the importance of studying the aboriginal perspective/worldview relating to Land. In his article “Meaning of land to Aboriginal people”, he argues that the key difference in the relationships people share with the land is rooted in the treatment of land as a ‘source’, which according to him is found in the dependency of a non-indigenous to ‘live off’ the land (land as capital) and the interdependency of the aboriginals to ‘live with’ the land (land as being).

“The latter has a spiritual, physical, social and cultural connection… and a profound spiritual connection to land. Aboriginal law and spirituality are intertwined with the land, the people and creation, and this forms their culture and sovereignty” (para. 1,5).

Obstinately, the two opposing ideas of ‘interdependency’ vs ‘ownership’ have assimilated to form a crude territorial ethno-politics that serve as power politics over eco-centric indigeneity. The gradually shifting matrix of native ‘land ethics’ from eco-centric ontology to a neo-colonial capitalist niche for control and possession are of the few concerns that Dai portrays in her works, in a wrestle to strike a balance between Land as community vs Land as capital. “Tribal modified” (p.175) as expressed in Dai’s Legends of Pensam, points at the change in social order and practices that differ from traditional forms, especially one that relates to concerns of land-human interaction. Referring to the pan-Maori ethnification in Newzealand, Elizabeth Rata (1999), in “Theory of Neotribal Captalism”, points at the various ways in which Maori natives attained legal ownership of land but consequently succumbed to its susceptible capitalization and commodification in strategic ways. Though different in terms of geo-political history, this susceptibility can be understood in the context of the indigenous lands in the Northeast India as well, particularly in the ongoing capitalization and commodification of tribal lands for resource extraction. The seemingly sustainable eco-political modules that aims to hybridize different land ontologies by merging indigenous land-based practices to settler based legal institutions – a situation argued by Burow (2018) as “conceiving of and relating to land, through their own practices and those created by settlers and settler-state institutions” (p.57) – is only begetting a new set of class structure within the indigenous populace. The gradual development of neo-tribal capitalism, that benefits a select few, may be seen as the most violent shift in tribal land ethics. In the wake of the neo-capitalist propagations, as revealed by Binita Kakati (2021), there have been constant alterations to the landscape in the aftermath of the so-called developments:

the valley rang with the sound of explosions – to make new roads into the valley. As we sat listening to birdsong and people’s stories, the deafening explosion felt even louder in the knowledge that nature seems to exist only to be taken. (Kakat, 2021, para 13)

Critiquing the connection between domination of nature and domination of women, Roger King argues that “the failures of moral perception and thought that can be found in the human relation to nature are symptomatic of similar failures to be found in the relations between women and men” (King, 1991, p. 75). While Dai’s The Legends of Pensam traverses towards the agency of ‘change’, Kire actively engages in critiquing the liminalities in this transition. Often invoking gendered codes hidden within the narratives of tribal culture, especially those that deal with the integration of women and nature, tied to their “umbilical chords” (p. 88). Women’s body and the physical manifestation of nature continue to be a recurrent site of resistance to essentialized feminine biologism. This integration is manifested under the traits of procreation and nurture as feminine strength versus feminine ‘essentialism’. In When the River Sleeps (2014) Ville lingers in the comfort of Earth as “mother” (p. 102), “the forest” his “wife” while at the same time the Kirhupfumia stands as antithetical to the conventional notion of motherhood, destined to “never have children” (p. 147) and the “widow-women” (p. 101) guards the river “shouting curses on the two men” (p. 104) for violating the sleeping river. Kire, thus, challenges the notions of feminine essentialism and attempts to break down the essentialized connection of women and nature, affixed in feminine biologism of reproduction and nurture, de-aligning biology as the overseer of women’s lives but social relations (Beauvoir, 2011). Indigenous women’s writings, as also in the works of Dai, tussle against biologic instrumentality of women “like a fermented bean/ left to procreate” (Reena, 2021, p. 45) and the replicating capitalized treatment of nature as an instrumental resource than an inherent being. This idiomatic interconnection of women’s experience to nature and species has been infamously criticized as anti-feminist by feminist scholars, for further grounding the assumed subsidiary position of women and nature to men.

Questioning the pan-cultural tendencies of women’s association to nature, in her article “Is Female to Male as Nature is to Culture”, Sherry B. Ortner (1974) highlights three ideological categories/tendencies that strengthen the supposed connection of nature and women: 1. Woman’s physiology, seen as closer to nature, 2. Woman’s social role, seen as closer to nature, 3. Woman’s psyche, seen as closer to nature (p. 74-81). Ortner critiques this logic of culture” (p.76) that places women as subordinate to men due to their assumed closeness to nature. However, in the context of Native women’s experience, the association between nature and humans cannot be negated. Nativity is innately linked to land, and indigenous ontologies are derived from and for it. This focus is crucial to dissect as well as identify normative regulations governing indigenous experiences that need to be reevaluated, not with the seee purpose of drawing a relationship between the two but to critique and understand its socio-cultural implications. In her photo-essay-poetry, “No Questions, No Comparisons”, Padu (2021) engages in this dialogue of dissimilarity in women’s experience through her inability to “compare myself with the women who have fought for equal rights and equal wages around the world” (p. 112), explaining women’s emancipatory hurdles arising in different cultural expressions – “I am weighed in numbers of cattle rather than gold” (p. 114). This difference in cultural expression may or may not be a dividing factor in universal concerns about womanhood, but acknowledging indigenous women’s experience is essential to their liberation.

Indigenous Women’s writings echo the ethnopolitical and ecological questions that oust women’s participation in decision making. Karry Padu’s (2021) “I am Property, A Photo essay”, published in Dai’s edited anthology The Inheritance of Words raises questions relevant to Galo women’s political and domestic experience. As it is scarce for women to participate in the public sphere of decision-making, it questions women’s involvement in their “rights under the guidance of a man” (p. 108). Padu confesses her existential ethos on being a “tribal woman” that binds her to “customs and tales of the ancestors” and her expected demeanor as a Galo woman, a “daughter” that “belongs to this land… (who is) its property!” (p.109). This question of ‘belonging to the land as a property’ may take us back to the initial reference made to Leopold’s (1949) criticism of Odysseus who “hanged all on one rope a dozen slave-girls…The girls were property, the disposal of property was then, as now, a matter of expediency, not of right and wrong” (p. 201). The locus of Leopold’s argument is in understanding the expediency of human ethics that he argues should begin to extend its ethical periphery to nature. The viability of this reference strikes the most important question, particularly, in the wake of hybridized tribal nationalism, as to how far has women’s identification with land been altered, both in terms of subjectivity and instrumentality. It taps on the inflexibility of tribal hybridized movement, that seems to be melding the best of both worlds – sustainability of indigenous episteme to the progressiveness of transnationalism yet fails to recognize how indigenous women’s emancipatory issues have been placed at the bottom of the various political expediencies of power and policies of land ownership.

One cannot trace to segregate how social narratives of gendered socio-political dynamics came to existence in indigenous communities. Whether colonial capitalism continues to penetrate tribal ethno-politics or has cultural narratives inherently sanctioned men to be leaders and women, like nature, compliant followers. Both Dai and Kire unceasingly borrow from folk narratives and customs to critique these gender relations, synthesizing cultural histories to critique “The laws of birth, life and death …fixed and unchangeable” (Dai, 2006, p. 77). Traditional narratives navigating women’s rendition are thus embedded in archetypal evidence (universal symbols) as a means of identity construction and are redefined for a rational identification with the modern world.

In Gender and Folk Narratives: Theory and Practice (2013), Neelakshi Goswami talks about three areas of concern in the folkloristic literature; firstly, how women have been portrayed, the second one relates to the questions of women’s aesthetics and the third involves how women have been recognized as artists. Folk narratives connected to the heroic tales of clan-heads revolve around legends of warriors who sacrificed their lives for the protection of their clan. These heroes were projected as symbols of protection, bravery, and authority. The feminine traits, however, projected in the tales of goddesses and fairies as deities of harvest, are symbolic of fertility and prosperity. On cultural identity, philosopher William James argues that identity comprises two modes of thoughts—the ‘paradigmatic mode’ (present) and the ‘narrative mode’. And narratives as ‘modes’ constructing identities “provides models of the world” (qted.in Burner, 1986, p. 25).

Archetypal male figures have often been projected as protectors with the burden of social relations and welfare. In Dai’s The Black Hill (2017) this accounts for the public and political participation of Kajinsha and the male heads of other tribes in their fight against the British to protect their land, while Gimur is found to have been actively involved in settling the trajectories of her private life, as her quest being more domestic than political. Kajinsha becomes a martyr of the clan and Gimur’s misery is manifested through the loss of a child and spouse. The matter of concern here is to understand the public-private dichotomy and the traits of bravery and fertility attached to the concerned ‘subjects’. Evidently, the narratives surrounding gender can control resultant ‘gender performativity’, but more importantly, what remains implicit is the interplay of absent narratives in shaping the symbol of the ‘female subject’. Commenting on the importance of “the public/private debate” as an important trajectory of feminist folklore, Margaret Mill argues that “Women genres can be less public and dramatic and hence less visible compared to male genres…especially personal experiences narratives, tend to flourish in the private domain” (qtd. in Goswami, 2013, p. 7).  The lack of ethnographic narratives that would articulate the possibility of juxtaposing traits of bravery, protection, or public participation to ‘female subject’, makes it nearly impossible for Gimur to be projected as equal to Kajinsha in the public arrangement. What governs Gimur’s character is not evident in what was present in an ancestral past but in the absences and lapses in feminine representation that continue to control and govern the ‘feminine subject’. The “subject” of gender as sites of inquiry ignites numerous questions pertaining to identifying what the subjects signify. “The idea of ‘process’ or ‘becoming’” (Salih, 2007, p. 3) is significantly crucial in understanding subject formation which situates key importance on history to recognize the synthesizers that regulate it (Butler, 2006). Dai’s writings investigate how elements of culture operate and regulate the functioning of the social structure.

The significance of narratives in identity formation as asserted by Burner, is in understanding how “human being achieves (or realizes) the ability not only to mark what is culturally canonical but to account for deviations that can be incorporated in narratives” (Burner, 1987, p. 68). This deviation, found in the critique of fixed cultural edifices, forms an important agency in Indigenous Women’s Writings. The emancipation of ‘self’ combines elements of cultural memory, and socio-political resistance while attempting to identify the codified cultural fetters. This posits, as mentioned earlier, the urgency to theorize a native-feminist discourse that acknowledges ‘experiences’ shaped in lieu of traditional ontologies. Indigenous women’s emancipation can only be achieved by rethinking ‘community’. To rethink the gendered connection to the land and the indigene towards formulating a tribal nationalism, can effectively mark the possibility of distancing from the western notion of tribal sovereignty. This would require building on the “native philosophical concept” of interdependency, as argued by Ramirez, “rather than creating a hierarchy between the group and individual rights, that a respectful interchange between the two can be established” (2007, p. 31).

Declaration of Conflicts of Interests

The author(s) declared no potential conflicts of interest.

Funding

No funding has been received for the publication of this article. It is published free of any charge.

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from Arunachal Pradesh (pp. 108–116). Zubaan Publishers.

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Karyir Riba is a Research Scholar in the Department of English at the North-eastern Hill University, Shillong, Meghalaya. She specialises in interdisciplinary and comparative literary studies. Her area of research and interest include Folk Literature, Indigenous Women’s Writings, and contemporary discourses on Indigenous Studies.

Indigenous Ontology in Zo Oral Narratives: A Study of the Zo Indigenous Cosmovision

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Kimthianvak Vaiphei
Department of English, North-Eastern Hill University, Shillong, Meghalaya. ORCID: 0000-0002-4363-771X. Email: kimthianvakvaiphei@gmail.com

Rupktha Journal, Vol. 14, Issue 2, April-June, 2022, Pages: 1-10. https://doi.org/10.21659/rupkatha.v14n2.ne17

First published: June 24, 2022 | AreaNortheast India | LicenseCC BY-NC 4.0

(This article is published under Themed Issue on Literature of Northeast India)
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Abstract

This paper is an exploration of Indigenous ontologies and ways of thinking and worldview that deviates from the Eurocentric critical frameworks that often insufficiently portray or interpret the nature of specific indigenous cultures and native epistemology. The focal point of this study is to explore the indigenous ontology and knowledge found in the folktales and oral narratives of the Zo tribes of Southern Manipur. The Zo’s geo-political state of existence has been in a muddle since colonial times. The territorial demarcation that was done for administrative purposes had caused permanent displacement and obscurity of the Zo Indigenous identity. Colonial ethnographical records that have been perceived as infallible evidences, fall short of impartial facts and accounts. The series of under and misrepresentation of their socio-cultural and political history has narrowed the general interest and scope for the discursive study of Zo indigeneity, whose relevance to the modern world is only confined to their conflict-ridden state of political affairs. Therefore, this study will be carried out in the hope of decolonising and re-aligning the ‘Zo-ness’ through the exploration of the lesser-known indigenous ways of knowledge, philosophies, and worldview found in the reservoir of their oral literature. Zo orality is accentuated by certain indigenous concepts and philosophies that find expression in proverbs, aphorisms, allegorical tales, customary laws, rituals and the folksongs. The paper argues that these concepts are not adequately represented by ethnocentric appreciation, but are elements of indigeneity that deserve specialized set of conceptual introspections

Keywords: indigenous ontology, Zo, folklore, decolonising          

The recent decades have witnessed an emerging consciousness of concerns related to the preservation of indigenous rights in the geo-political sphere, where the scientific world’s perpetual onward movement has frequently been challenged to accommodate and prioritise the maintenance of harmony in man’s relationship with the environment. From such perspectives, this prospective rekindling of the two worlds further opens different pathways for deeper explorations into the very essence of the relationship itself that can be justly appreciated by the indigenous theories of knowledge and pedagogy. Indigeneity is known to be rooted in the land and the ecological realm. It is also tied to the entity of identity that is inextricably linked to worldviews that provide meaning to one’s existence and purpose in the entire cosmos. Indigenous ontology explores the system of indigenous knowledge that shapes the indigenous identity and consciousness and provides a more authentic understanding of the essence of a people unaltered by secular analyses, while also discovering more intricate worlds, abundantly rich in conceptual systems and ideologies that question the validity of terms such as ‘savage’ and ‘uncivilized’ as sensational descriptors of the indigenous population.

To accurately describe the geo-political identity of the Zo people continues to be a challenge considering their lack of definite territorial and political representation if one needs to be extremely attentive to the detail with respect to diaspora. The early Zos lived in the contiguous land areas between Burma and India. Now collectively inhabiting mainly the Northeast Indian state of Manipur, they are a people who have been subjected to the dispersal of their homeland by colonial remapping and territorial demarcation. The Zos can be better described as an ethnic group comprised of tribes variously known as the ‘Chins’, ‘Kukis’ or ‘Zomis’. The Kuki-Chin-Mizos, in addition to sharing common ethnic history and sociological foundations, also share mutually intelligible languages that are recognised under the Sino-Tibetan linguistic family that includes Vaiphei, Paite, Simte, Thadou, Gangte, Hmar, Zou and Lushai – spoken at large by the inhabitants of present-day Mizoram. The Zomi languages are spoken by a section of people in India and Burma. While tracing the Zo identity as a representative of a well-defined territorial boundary, it may prove to be futile and cumbersome. However, a cultural unity recollected in the form of shared ethos, folklore, language, and tradition may appear to be a more reliable source for extensive study. Khup Za Go (2008) in the prologue to Zo Chronicles addresses the arbitrariness of political boundaries in Zo ethnic studies:

Until quite recent times, the political frontiers of the Ava kings of Myanmar and that of Manipur kept shifting according to the changing fortunes of these native imperialist principalities. But the deeper cultural boundary of the Zo tribe had remained relatively resistant to the erratic political climate outside its own cultural world. (Go 2008, p. 15)

The persistence of an abstract unity marks Zo ethnic spaces as a culturally contiguous area that must be comparatively analysed with the metaphysical forces of orality. This orality in Zo culture is manifested in the form of folktales, folksongs, aphorisms, and social and religious beliefs that align their moral compass with that of their worldview; a perspective that can be better comprehended by an exploration of the Zo cosmovision that can foster a deeper understanding of the Zo indigenous ontology. Indigenous hermeneutics becomes the most viable method of understanding the Zo indigeneity in accordance with the cultural specifications that such a study demands. It is a step towards achieving a more accurate understanding of Indigenous concepts that closely follows the original intent behind the oral narratives. Indigenous hermeneutics, especially has gained fresh momentum all across, especially in the global south.  Leanne B. Simpson’s Dancing on our Turtles Back (2011) heralds a call for indigenous retrospection, concepts such as Samir Amin’s ‘decolonisation’, Arturo Escobar’s exploration of the ‘Pluriverse’ and Mignolo’s ‘delinking’ and idealisation of cultural and cerebral decolonisation provide a way out from our dependence on the buoyancy of Ethnocentricism. A theoretical shift in perspective from a centralised one towards a subjective, culture-centric focus can allow a more justified interpretation and a better understanding of an indigenous people’s connection with the world around and beyond them. Although Indigenous ontology is often linked to relations with land and its tangible resources, its allegiance may not necessarily be thus limited, where connections can be possibly made to the radical changes in indigenous experiences such as dislocation, colonialization, violence and dispossession. Sarah de Leeuw gives an example of the apprehension of Indigenous children through the child-welfare system in British Columbia, Canada, and questions how a romanticized relation between Indigeneity and land relates to assessments of Indigenous families and parenting within child-welfare institutions and policies (Cameron, Leeuw and Desbiens, 2014, p. 23 ). This observation allows a relational ontological exploration which might appear more appropriate in the study of Zo ethnic dislocation as an area for discursive study, where traditional approaches of Indigeneity strictly affiliated to the backdrop of a defined geographical premise may not be accurate or viable. However, addressing the dislocation of Zo indigenous identity can begin with exploring its innate ontological systems that speak of a distinct collective experience in an attempt towards unification by relocating their cultural mores.

There are collections of folktales shared amongst the Zo ethnic groups that echo common sentiments; mere reiterations of the same tales with minute variations that generically incline towards an articulation of a common cultural ethos. There are tales of the popular comic hero known by many names such as Chhura (Mizo), Sura (Hmar), Benglam (Vaiphei), Venglam (Paite); the ephemeral but enduring love story of Khupting leh Ngambawm; the emblematic tale of kindness and familial love shared between the brother Thanghou and Liandou and the extraordinary feats of Galngam, the epic hero; to name a few. These are tales that hold a favourable position in the Zo collective memory. There are also a variety of folksongs — songs in celebration of love, marriage, harvest, and funerals that hint at particular patterns of the metaphysics behind Zo socio-religious structure, and certain aphorisms that are definitive of their social morale and indigenous identity. To understand the essence of these folktales and oral narratives, it is necessary to delve into the nature of Zo indigenous ontology; in order to navigate the location of such concepts that are constructed behind the oral narratives within the Zo cosmovision.

Understanding Zo indigenous ontology requires an exploration of their system of religion as a source that explains the nature of their being and existence. It is a step into the world of Zo indigenous consciousness; an exploration of the pluriversal terrain of beliefs, myths, and legends and also within the religious structure that accommodates diversity in the concept of God. Animism as a common religion among tribal societies is not a new observation and is in fact, inarguably common to most Indian tribal communities prior to mass conversion. First competently surveyed by Sir Edward Burnett Tylor in Primitive Culture (1871), Animism is the ancient belief in the presence of a spiritual aspect in all living and non-living things. Encyclopaedia Britannica defines it as a “belief in innumerable spiritual beings concerned with human affairs and capable of helping or harming human interests.” (Kerlin, 2020). It can be perceived as the most natural and authentic form of religion that ever existed in the history of cultural evolution. Zo indigenous religion is another form of animism where the concept of ‘soul’ is attributed to the natural environment. Dr. Ram Nath Sharma enlists two basic principles on which the belief is based; that “there are powerful souls besides powerful gods. The souls are connected with men and feel pleasure and pain through them. They influence the events in this world and also control them.” And that “the soul of man survives even after death.” (Sharma 1981, p.160). The Zo religious structure fulfills these two principles with the presence of a polytheistic system of belief in the power of not one but of various gods and spirits that influence the entire cosmic order, and also in the ephemeral nature of the human body that is survived by the soul after death.

Zo Cosmovision

Delving into the universe of Zo cosmology is a step towards comprehending the position of mankind according to the early Zo’s consciousness, and to recognise that fear was the driving force behind the ideas for law, order and morality. This fear was essentially directed towards the divine forces that had been established as the epicentre that pulled the gravity of the entire Zo cosmic order. Deification in Zo cosmovision consists of duality in order that it corresponds to the duality of light and darkness. The universe, according to Zo concept is comprised of three realms; the realm beyond the sky where the heavens lay, the realm of land above the ground and the realm of the underworld. Singkhawkai in his book Zo People and their Culture (2008) mentions the Tedim terms for these realms as Vantung, Leitung and Leinuai respectively (Van-sky, tung– above, lei– land, and nuai- below).  Khuavak and khuazing are Tedim terms denoting light and darkness; khua means society or human civilization, vak means light and zing, darkness. The Tedim language, one of the Zomi languages is spoken in the Chin state of Myanmar. It is also spoken in the Indian states of Assam, Manipur and Mizoram. With over 189,000 speakers in 1990 in Burma and about 155,000 in India, the language is also known as Hai-Dim, Tiddim, Zomi or Tedim Chin (“Tedim”). Tedim language is widely used as the foundational source of knowledge in Zomi Ethnic studies owing to Pau Cin Hau’s development of the lopographical Tedim script, also known as the Tual Lai script (local script), however, tedim is now written in the Latin alphabet (Tedim .n.d). Khua holds a more elaborate concept that is not limited to signifying human settlement; it also has connotations of weather or climatic conditions where khuapha would mean good weather and khuasia, bad weather. ‘Khua’ is a versatile concept which is also connected to the spiritual world, where the word is attached to the identity of their deities.  Khuazing is a Tedim term to address the god of earth, or “the controller of earthly things” and as zing is a term for darkness, or the state of being free of light to induce sight, he is also known as the god of invisibility (Zo People and their Culture 106). In Mizo folklore, Khuazing is attributed with a female persona and is called Khuazingnu or Khuanu where the suffix nu denotes the feminine gender with motherly attributes. With the coming of the Christian religion, the concept of Khuazing may have been compressed into the Lushai word Pathian to denote the Christian God. Singkhawkai records that Khuazing is believed to be more benevolent than its counterpart, Khuasia which is a deified concept of ‘bad weather. The anthropological records of Carey and Tuck report that the idea of a Supreme Being was non-existent in Zo societies; that their world was infested by these deities and spirits that did not necessarily provide them with good luck or salvation but constantly needed to be propitiated through offerings and sacrifices (Carey and Tuck 196). However, Cary and Tuck’s observations fall short of a closer interpretation of the concept of Zo religion; of the exact object and nature of worship. Although the idea of veneration for a singular deity may have been absent, there was an allegiance towards an ethical force that assumed the role of a benefactor and protector— the spiritual energy called Sha that manifests itself as a moral and superhuman force that resembles the Christian ‘Spirit’. This force is also connected to their concept of ancestor worship portrayed in the rites of sacrifice to the spirit of the ancestor Pu-Sha or Pa-Sha (Singkhawkai 1995, p. 121). Further, attaching their identity to that of their progenitor ‘Zo’ is an extension of ancestral worship. In The Mountain of God, Quartich Wales has also conjectured on the possibility of linking Zo as a celestial ancestor who was transferred to the sky and identified with some star in the circumpolar region (Wales 1953, p. 40).

What is also peculiar about the Zo system of knowledge is their manner of engagement with the internal world of imagination to carve out a distinct identity and source of creativity. Having been nomadic tribes, the idea of territorial expansion was never much of a priority. Logic was more governed by the internal, psychic forces that predominantly revolved around memories and dreams than by sensory articulations of external structures. Dreams have been an influential part of Zo society, whose significance has seeped into colloquial uses in everyday speech. Dreams were regarded as prophetic revelations of the future course of events (Singkhawkai 1995, p.123). The term “mangpha” or “mangtha”, which translates to “may you have a good dream”, is used as a gesture of goodwill; of wishing someone a good night or farewell. Further, what bound the communities together throughout history was a unity in their oral tradition and this orality is what signified their identity and vice versa. G.N Devy (2002) attributes this to the aspect of tribal creativity that is more attuned to sensory memory; which explains the tribal’s need to indulge in ancestor worship (p. 6). In connection to Devy’s observation, there are pieces of evidence of the Zos being innately connected to spirituality within a contiguous time frame; the living was never completely detached from the dead, thus, causing them to believe in the temporality of death. Death is treated merely as a transitional phase that the spirit of a living man passes through to arrive at the mystical world of the spirits. Even in death, a man’s connection to the spirit of the deceased was not absolved if the cause of death was an unnatural one; for instance, if the victim had been murdered. In such cases, the soul of the deceased who had been murdered would continue to haunt his relatives and would not find peace until he had been avenged.

Man as a Spiritual Being

Singkhawkai in his book, Zo People and their Culture provides a detailed elucidation on the ontological concepts of the Tedim terms hin’na denoting the noun ‘life’, Tha or Kha or the ‘spirit’ and the Si-kha for spirit of the dead (where the prefix Si denotes ‘dead’) (Singkhawkai 125-126). There is, however, a difference between the spirit of the dead (Si-kha) and the spirit of man which in Sihzang and Khuano dialects is called Ci-Tha, where the prefix Ci denotes the physical body of the worldly man. This perspective points to a duality in the spirituality of man where both entities dwell in different realms. While the Ci-tha or the spirit of man is constantly in need if an attachment to a living source:

It is the force that keeps once alive and well. K’la (‘tha’) comes from a previous existence to inhabit the body at the time of birth and departs into a new existence at death; so also it leaves the body for brief periods and at frequent intervals, as during sleep… Whenever Tha goes out of his body, the man suffers bodily illness and when it re-enters, he is well again… the life and death of man are virtually determined by the life and death of his spirit” (Singkhawkai 1995, p.126-127).   

Si-kha on the other hand, represents the immortal ‘soul’ of man that detaches itself from the time of death and proceeds to dwell in the afterlife of Mithikhua or the ‘land of the dead’. The mythscape of Mithikhua is the abode where the spirits of the dead manifest their lives that have been lived in the physical world; a continuation of their lives on earth:

… he would drink and eat; he would grow and marry there, and so on. So the life of man after death is conjectured as the continuation of the worldly life in the other realm. Whether a man is honest or dishonest is of no consequence in the next world… In his life after death, one is still what he has been in his human life. (Singkhawkai 1995, p. 131).

This concept of man’s spirituality and the afterlife is encapsulated in the tale of Khupting leh Ngambawm:

Thuaiting leh Ngambawm

Theirs was a story of forbidden love due to class conflicts between their families, even though they were betrothed before their birth, for their mothers had declared it as a promise to each other as good friends. As they grew older, Thuaiting’s family refused to carry on with the pledge as Ngambawm’s economic condition began to degrade after the death of his father, and Thuaiting’s family resented him for not being able to afford the minimum customary requirement of bringing Zu or rice beer for his marriage proposal. The lovers eloped and married, but were separated by Thuaiting’s parents when they returned. Desperate for his beloved, Ngambawm resorted to the practice of the occult to achieve his ends; taking a strand of hair from Thuaiting’s head which he bound around a clay figurine, and placing it on the banks of the Ngajam river. This made Thuaiting gravely ill, compelling her family to announce a reward for her hand in marriage to anyone who succeeded in curing her. Ngambawm took this opportunity to win the favour of Thuaiting’s family and replaced the strand of hair back on her head, curing her of her illness. But his endeavour proved unfruitful, for her parents still refused him. He placed the figurine with the strand of Thuaiting’s hair wrapped around it once again on the banks of the Ngajam; however, this time, the figurine was washed away by the pouring rain, which ended her life.  Distraught and grief-stricken, Ngambawm followed a jackal who led him to Thuaiting’s spirit in the land of Mithikhua or the land of the dead. His spirit was broken when he learned that the soul of the living and the dead could never merge there and he had to die to truly be united with his wife. On Thuaiting’s request, Ngambawm returned home and made preparations for his death. He arranged a feast of the finest meat as a token of farewell, hung a spear above his bed, and waited in silence. A restless fowl flew into his room and stepped on the spear that hung above him, which pierced his heart and ended his life. And thus, Ngambawm  could finally reunite with his beloved wife in Mithikhua. (Vaiphei 2015, p. 66-72 )

In the tale, the two lovers are able to proceed with their love affair in the land of death as spiritual beings. Moreover, Thuaiting’s cause of illness and eventual death was because Ngambawm had taken a strand of her hair; a part of her natural body that was attached to her living spirit. Her health and life were thus, carried away by the river (Singkhawkai 1995, p. 129).

The spiritual realm occupied an integral part in Zo culture considering that the well-being of the spirit determined the condition of the human body. Man’s life could last only as long as his spirit willed it so. The strength of the man mirrored the strength of the spirit and its significance superseded the former. Singkhawkai explicates this relationship where the Tedim term for death is ‘Kha-Kia’ or ‘fallen spirit’ (Singkhawkai 1995, p. 130). The cycle of life and death, then, revolved around the supremacy of the spirit where death itself did not merely mean the cessation of life but denoted a spiritual retraction. The spirit was not subjected to extinction but predominantly revolved around and influenced the forces of all things living and natural. This concept elaborates why all the natural occurrences were seen as a result of supernatural intervention. The spiritual realm made a source for their entire system of logical inference. It was both destroyer and deliverer. When it is held responsible for bringing misfortune, it needs, at the same time, appeasement in the form of charms, sacrifices and offerings in order to provide a kind of salvation from suffering. Relating to this intense attachment to the spiritual world, it comes with no surprise that occultism occupied a large space in the myth and urban legends that have persisted in the modern ages. There are myths of Pheisam, a one-legged spirit; Chom-nu, a female supernatural being, one of whose characteristic traits include extremely long, dishevelled hair and feet that face backward and Zomi-sang, a giant who could stride across peaks of hills; the spiritual entities who are mostly responsible for a specific domain.

 There is within this feared practice of the occult called ‘dawi’, a looming dread against a spirit that could be called upon to possess or inhabit the physical body of a person. This was successful after a part of the victim’s belongings, for instance, a lock of hair or a piece of his clothing was offered to the spirit prior to the intended period of infestation, a practice which is to an extent, similar to the Haitian Voudon religion.  This spiritual invasion is generically known as kau-pe, which can simply be translated as the ‘bite of the spirit’. Following this ‘bitten’ phase, the victims were believed to have undergone bouts of intense illness or insanity, gradually degrading to an extremely weakened physical and mental state. This practice is still feared in the modern age and various accounts of such incidents have been known to occur; only that it is now preferable to attribute this to the effect of demonic possession as has been the case with the explanation of most supernatural events post proselytisation.

Concept of Power and the Love of Less

Zo myth strongly upholds the power of the spoken word, particularly in the verbal curse and the magnitude that it carries. A gesture of ill-wishing is not taken lightly, more so if it is delivered by parents as it is believed to have the ability to materialise into real events. Singkhawkai traces the ontological roots of the word ‘curse’ to the Tedim terms ‘Sam-sia’, ‘Ham-sia’ and ‘Tom-lawh’ (Singkhawkai 1995, p.138). In Zo mythology, the efficacy of verbal curses was highly regarded and incorporated in arguments between rivals; verbal dissensions are usually followed by a curse that was intended to befit the folly of the victim. There are numerous folktales that try to explain existential dilemmas as a consequence of the effects of such curses inflicted upon a subject. For instance, in the Chemtatrawta myth, the lobster’s lips became rough and brittle as a result of being poked and prodded by the Hnathial plant, hence the lobster curses the plant: “From now on whenever you are pregnant with child, you shall die of childbirth”, the curse that explains the reason why when the Hnathial plant (monocot plant) becomes pregnant with the fresh shoot, it always dies (Thanmawia and Ralte 2017, p. 135-137). The Galngam myth also portrays an exchange of curses between Galngam and Dawi Kungpu engaged in a battle of wits:

Galngam may your eyes become blind, may your legs be broken, and may your hands be trapped on the bull rope. Hearing this curse, Galngam cursed back “Alright even if I become blind, my legs get broken, and my hands get trapped in the bull rope, at least the bull will drag me to some village where I will find someone to help me out. As for you, may the flesh of your buttocks be permanently stuck on the rock on which you sit, may the rising floods of the monsoon season submerge you, and may you bear the heat of the summer sun all your life. Unable to bear Galngam’s curse, Dawikungpu took back his curse on Galngam who did likewise. However, a small piece of flesh from Dawikungpu’s buttocks remained stuck on the rock where he sat and the mark can be seen on the rocks even to this day. ( Vaiphei 2015, p. 15).

In Mizo folklore, there are a number of stories in creation myths that underscores the importance of selflessness in times of great difficulty. This usually is portrayed in the form of extending a helping hand with any resource one is capable of giving. This act of selfless service in times of need is perceived as the concept of Tawm-ngaina or Tlawmngaihna which translates to ‘love of less’. It is the love of less in times of servitude to the old and needy; a collective moral code imbibed within Zo societies and is usually expected from the younger generations. The myth, “How Land Acquired Soil” narrates a cooperative interaction between the human and animal world in arriving at a solution to bring soil to their rock-laden, parched land on the other side of the river (Thanmawia and Ralte 2017, p. 3). The brothers Thanghou and Liandou, who were left destitute by their mother are admired for their selfless love for each other; their sharing of a single millet seed is an act of tawm-ngaina that has resonated across households and instilled upon young minds as an exemplary act of kindness and generosity. Explicating this distinct ancestral code of conduct, Vumson records Samuelson’s clarification of what the concept entails:

Tlawmngaihna implies the capacity for hard work, bravery, endurance, generosity, kindness, and selflessness. The forefathers emphasized this value of the action to their progeny. In days of both happiness and misfortune, the concept of Tlawmngaihna was a stabilizing force. If a person grew sick or died in a village other than his own, the youth of that village would carry the dead body or sick person back to his own village. When the Mizo people traveled in a group, the youngest man’s duty would be to obtain firewood to cook food for the rest of the company. If an older man’s basket became too heavy a younger man would help relieve the load. Later on, the elders would honour the man who had the greatest Tlawmngaihna by letting him drink rice beer first in the get-together… this … code of morals made it obligatory for every Mizo to be courteous, considerate, unselfish, courageous, industrious and willing to help others, even at considerable inconvenience to oneself. When everybody was hungry, a man would eat very little, leaving the bigger portion of food for friends… walking one whole day over rough terrain in order to give important news … a man risks his life to save his friends… These are all Tlawmngaihna or ‘to need less’. It might be called “self-denial and acceptance of pain.” (Vumson 1986, p. 10).

Oral narratives are the culmination of a people’s collective ethos, trademark, and a doorway to understanding and manifesting their subjective realities told in the most authentic manner possible. Similarly, indigenous ontological interpretations are acts of resistance that liberates us from all forms of colonial distortions that offer only to analytically expose the supposed structures of our systems without reverence for the meaning that they carry. Nonetheless, while it would be only spiteful to claim that the objective interpretations of colonial scrutiny have wronged us completely, considering the extent to which we have been added and exposed to the fields of cultural, socio-political, or anthropological interest in the global sphere, there are gaps between such progressive analyses. However, there are need to reinvent a new set of conceptual lexicons to evolve the tradition of indigenous hermeneutics that is undeniably lacking in Western vocabulary. Such indigenous concepts that have been discussed have acted as guidelines and moral codes for the Zos before the existence of any prescribed examples, hence, what may be more important is the meaning attached to such codes, rites and traditions than their mere perception as objective data. In Maps of Meaning, (1999) Jordan Peterson clarifies how this process defines the consciousness of the indigenous man:

The natural, pre-experimental or mythical mind is in fact primarily concerned with meaning- which is essentially implication for action – and not with “objective” nature… For the pre-experimentalist, the thing is most truly the significance of its sensory properties, as they are experienced in subjective experience – in affect or emotion” (Peterson 1999, p. 16).  

Ontological interpretation is also a means to free ourselves from what Leanne B. Simpson calls, “cognitive imperialism” that invalidates the capacity of the Indigenous people to think of and for themselves (Simpson 2011). This is evidently politically relevant to the Zo people today considering their disarrayed state of existence that only leans on a reminiscent idea of a homeland that once tangibly stood before the colonial interruption, thus, disrupting their sense of a unified identity that is rooted now only in their oral tradition. A substantial amount of autonomy must be cultivated, at the least in matters of indigenous culture to shift away from the vices of cultural hegemony. A resurgence of indigenous knowledge is an opportunity to redirect one’s route of comprehension and reflect on what the idea of indigenous means to the indigenous, rather than what s/he used to mean to the West.

Declaration of Conflicts of Interests

The author(s) declared no potential conflicts of interest.

Funding

No funding has been received for the publication of this article. It is published free of any charge.

References

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Escobar, A. (2007). The “Ontological Turn” in Social Theory. A Commentary on “Human Geography without Scale”, by Sallie Marston, John Paul Jones II and Keith Woodward.   Transactions of the Institute of British Geographers, 32(1), 106-111. http://www.jstor.org/stable/4640003

Go, Khup Za. (2008). Zo Chronicles: A Documentary Study of History and Culture of the Kuki-Chin-Lushai Tribes. New Delhi. Mittal Publications.

Mignolo, Walter P. (2007). ‘Delinking’. Cultural Studies. 21:2, 449-514 Routledge.

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Simpson, B Leanne. (2011). Dancing on Our Turtle’s Back: Stories of Nishnaabeg Re- Creation. Arbister Ring Publishing.

Singkhawkai (1995). Zo People and their culture: A historical, cultural study and critical analysis of Zo and its ethnic tribes. Manipur, India. Khampu Hatzaw.

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Tylor, B. Edward (1889). Primitive Culture: Researches into the Development of Mythology, Philosophy, Religion, Language, Art and Custom. New York. Henry and Holt Company.

Thanmawia, R.L and Ralte, Rualzakhumi. (2017). Mizo Folktales. 3-2, 28-29. Sahitya Akademi

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Kimthianvak Vaiphei is a doctoral research scholar at the Department of English, North Eastern-Hill University, Shillong. Her research interest focuses on Indigenous theoretical approaches and Zomi Oral Literature.

Topophrenia and Indigenous Belonging: Spatial Memory in Rajbanshi Poetry

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Gunajeet Mazumdar

Manikpur Anchalik College (Gauhati University), Assam. ORCID: 0000-0003-4711-4825. Email: mazumdargunajeet@gmail.com

Rupkatha Journal, Vol. 14, Issue 2, April-June, 2022, Pages: 1-11. https://doi.org/10.21659/rupkatha.v14n2.ne16

First published: June 23, 2022 | AreaNortheast India | LicenseCC BY-NC 4.0

(This article is published under Themed Issue on Literature of Northeast India)
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Abstract

Space and Memory are co-related as memory imbibes historical roots to a space with the process of recreation. Arguing the concept of Spatiality, Geocritc Robert Tally coins the word ‘Topophrenia’ to locate “the subjective engagement with a given place and with the possible projection of alternative spaces” (Chap. 1). Here, Tally argues the idea of subjectivity both with the ontological and imaginary places. These dialectics of space are imbibed in the individual and collective memory of the Koch Rajbanshi people with historical consciousness. With this historical consciousness, Koch Rajbanshi Poets from the undivided Koch Kamata Kingdom write poems imbibing strong memory associated with the spaces- both real and imaginary. Koch Rajbanshi Poetry has a profound legacy of the glorious history and culture of the community in South East Asian nations. Due to Geo-political bifurcations of the nations, the greater Koch Kingdom was merged with the other states and nations. Consequently, liminal political boundaries displaced and scattered people giving different identities and marginalizing their own indigenous epistemology. As Rajbanshi is a major community of the modern states of Assam and Meghalaya, the canon of Rajbanshi literature with its own identity also comes under the purview of North East Literature. The colonial knowledge system in the new geopolitical space subjugates their rich epistemological and ontological presence. This paper attempts to argue that Rajbanshi Poetry shares a collective memory to assert their historical consciousness by reclaiming their right to the lost land and epistemology. While upholding the argument, Robert Tally’s idea of spatiality, Walter Mignolo’s concept of colonial knowledge system and Leanne Simpson’s argument of Land as pedagogy will be problematised.

Keywords– Spatial, Memory, Koch Rajbanshi, Epistemology, Ontology, Land.

Introduction:

Space and Memory are co-related as memory imbibes historical roots to a space with the process of recreation. Geocritic Robert Tally (2019) coins the word ‘Topophrenia’ to locate “the subjective engagement with a given place and with the possible projection of alternative spaces” (Chap. 1). Here, Tally argues the idea of subjectivity both with the ontological and imaginary places. This subjective engagement, however, occurs through mnemonic representation. Memory as a process of recreation has thus subjective occupation over both the real and imaginary spaces. According to Susannah and Hodgkin (2003), “Memory that is like subjectivity means different things and is understood in different ways of different times” (p. 2). The contemporary mode of memory studies however extends its periphery “not only on individual, private memory but on historical, social, cultural and popular too” (Susannah and Hodgkin, 2003, p. 2). Richard Terdiman (2003) configures memory with space as “memory is so constitutive, so indispensable to our intellectual and practical activity to begin with that every cognitive and discursive act or fact is already tangled up in the memories of realm” (p. 186). This entanglement of memory with space acts as means to look back historical root. As Tally observes the dialectics of ontological and imaginary places, these dialectics of spaces are also imbibed in the individual and collective memory of Koch Rajbanshi people with a historical consciousness. With this historical consciousness, Koch Rajbanshi poets from undivided Koch Kamata Kingdom which comprises parts of Assam, North Bengal, parts of Eastern Bihra, Southern districts of Nepal (Jhapa, Morang and Sunsari districts and Rangpur / present Bangladesh, write poems imbibing strong memory associated with the spaces — both real and imaginary. Koch Rajbanshi poetry has a profound legacy of the glorious history and culture of the community in South East Asian nations. Due to the geo-political bifurcations of the erstwhile Kamata kingdom, the greater Koch Kingdom was merged with other states and nations. Consequently, liminal political boundaries displaced and scattered people giving different identities and marginalizing their own indigenous epistemology. These unwanted political bifurcations disfigured the cartography of Kamata kingdom by dehistoricising their rich historical, political and cultural configurations. Noted author Arup Jyoti Das (2011) writes:

The Kamata Kingdom of the 16th century, which has been referred to as Koch Kingdom in most of the history books and also as Koch Kamata by a few local scholars, went through various names and settled as Cooch Behar (Koch Bihar) and became princely state of British India in the 18th century, Cooch Behar was merged with West Bengal in   1950as a district against the will of the local people of Cooch Behar. (p. 24).

In this way, the rich historical map of Koch Kamata Kingdom was disfigured into only some liminal spaces and the reason was the hegemony and tactics of some newly decolonized agencies which further resulted in the unprecedented geopolitical changes in the landscape of Kamatapur. In this context, Gautam Chandra Roy writes:

The territorialisation of the landscape in the line with requirements of the modern nation state in the colonial period followed by the partition of the Indian subcontinent in1947 scattered and reduced the ‘traditional home’ of the community into the peripheries of three independent countries of South Asia, namely India, Bangladesh and Nepal. (Para.1).

Accordingly, if one looks at the transformation in the conditions of Rajbanshis in these new geopolitical spaces the presence of the Rajbanshi community has been subjugated and disfigured. Jyotirmoy Prodhani (2021) in fact calls this disfiguration as “culturally disabled collective” (p. 225).  The bifurcation of Kamata Kingdom between Assam and West Bengal also subjugates the positions of Rajbanshi people as marginalized subjects of border space. The Rajbanshis in the postcolonial space of Assam and West Bengal, have been subjected to a process of dehistoricisation “through discursive strategies of dislocations” (Prodhani, p.242). He cites the burning of the Royal Records room and the records of Land Reform office on 28th August, 1974 at Coochbehar in West Bengal as some of the physical modes of historical annihilation. In the states of West Bengal and Assam, it is also seen that the history of Kamata Kingdom is not given much importance as well as in the mainstream socio-political and cultural discourses; rather, the historical traditions of Rajbanshi community were subjugated to the epistemic dominance of monolithic histories. What is more striking is that in Assam, according to Prodhani (2021), “history has been adopted as a ‘historicist’1 tool as well to accomplish the task of “displacing the Koch Rajbanshis from the spaces of legitimations” (p. 242).

Rajbanshi poetry has its root in the folk and oral traditions of the community but modern Rajbanshi Poetry evolves as a result of the historical consciousness of the community. Along with the lure of folk traditions, modern Rajbanshi Poetry imbibes strong memory associated with the cultural and historical geography of the Kamata Kingdom. Panchanan Barma, the precursor of the Khastriya movement of the Rajbanshis, is regarded as the first modern and realist poet of Rajbanshi literature. His poem “Dangdhari Mao” was a protest poem against the frequent incidents of atrocities faced by Rajbanshi women in Rangpur district of present Bangladesh. Thus, modern Rajbanshi poetry contests against their lost spaces and epistemology in the new geo-political locations of the postcolonial map, such as the modern Rangpur district of Bangladesh, Nepal, Bihar, West Bengal and Assam where the community share a common memory of the aspiration to reclaim their lost land and history.

Topophrenic Memory:

‘Topophrenic Memory’ can be understood in terms of mnemonic representation of ontological and imaginary places as ‘topophrenia’ means “subjective engagement with a given place and the possibility projection of alternative spaces” (Tally, 2019, Chap. 1). This subjective engagement takes place through the interplay between ‘lived space’ and ‘abstract space’ and according to Tally, “topophrenia remains with humanity at all times: a constant and uneasy ‘placemindedness’ that characterizes a subject’s interactions with his or her environment… (Tally, Intro). Tally’s engaging with the idea of ‘lived space’ explores the subject’s entanglement and encounter with the spaces. In this interrelation of space and memory, ‘topophrenia’ also propels the idea of a sense of belongingness to a place and defines the matters of “displacement and replacement, of movement between places and over spaces, and of the multifarious relations among place, space, individuals, collectiveness, events and so on…” (Tally, Intro). These entanglements among the place and persons are mappable through the process of re-creational memory associated with the lived experience of place. Tally (2019) also speaks about ‘effects of place on persons’ (Chap. 1) and according to him, “Mapping makes visible places, and, is what might seem to be a circular logic, being mapped in what in many respects establishes a place as a place” (Chap. 1). This idea of mapping a place in the literary domain undergoes the process of rejuvenation of lived memory as well as the literalization of speculative alternative memory.

The component of spatial memory is a vital lens to approach Rajbanshi poetry it imbibes strong memories rooted in the indigenous spaces that poems transgress through the subjective entanglement with the places. The regimes of memory associated with these spaces again confront the dialectics of real and imaginary places. This binary of real and imaginary spatial memory however transforms from the subjective to the objective affiliation, that is the sense of collective consciousness and belongingness for the spaces. Tally (2019) also argues that “a place is apprehended by subjectivity”, but it can also be understood “in reference to a non-or suprasubjective ensemble of spatial relations” (Chap.1). It suggests that spatial relations transform from subjectivity to objectivity and this subjective vis-a-vis objective entanglement of place with the individual is mappable in literary texts through the medium of re-creational memory. The modern Rajbanshi poetry also engrosses with this politics of drawing ontological and imaginary places of Rajbanshi consciousness through the linkages of spatial memory.

Dwijendra Nath Bhakat, a prominent scholar and poet from Dhubri in Assam, draws on the strong memory of subjective entanglement with the places which transform from being individual to collective memories. To start with his poem “Gauripur Madhupur”, one can visualize the co-relation between space and memory. The poem converges two places from two different political maps of modern India with poetical retention of the historic linkages of these locales. Despite having the modern political boundary between these two places, they are still culturally aligned to each other and people from both sides feel a sense of belongingness to the space on the other side. While explaining the concept of ‘topophrenia’, Tally points out how it propels the idea of a ‘sense of belongingness to a place’ and comments on the existential notion of displacement and replacement (Chap. Intro). The political dislocations of these two spaces in terms of liminal political boundaries also give the subjects the experience of pain and agonies. Decolonial critic Walter Mignolo’s (2000) proposition on ‘border epistemology’ (p. 52) can be brought here to substantiate the argument. Mignolo, while dealing with the idea of border epistemology, argues that indigenous stories can be located in the border spaces which are often the ‘forgotten stories’ because of the ‘global design’ that are the histories of the dominant groups (p. 52).  It is seen that Rajbanshi poetry also vindicates the memory of lived experience of these forgotten spaces. Bhakat recreates the memory of the spaces associated with the cultural and historical legacy of Koch Kamata Kingdom. His poem “Gauripur” shows affiliations with memories of the historical spaces such as Gauripur, Gadadhar, Lau Khowa, Rajbari, Matibagh. In fact, the poet glorifies ‘Gauripur’ as a site of history with the process of re-creational memory which is a collective spatial consciousness of the community itself:

Hail O Gauripur

At the Vehemence

Of the roaring thunder

                 (Trans.  J. Prodhani, 2021, p. 53)

The re-creational process of spatial memory of the places of Rajbanshi historical consciousness subsumes Tally’s idea of ‘Topophelia’ as an offshoot of ‘Topophrenia’.  which suggests the sense of belongingness to and fondness of a place. ‘Topophilia’ and ‘Topophobia’ are two paradigms of topophrenic memory. Whereas Topophilia suggests love for a place, Topophobia means fear for a place (Tally, 2019, Chap. 1). The present poem, “Gauripur”, similarly, incorporates both this topophilic and topophobic memories associated with the historic place of Gauripur as the poem visualizes Rajbnshi people’s intense love for the place and at the same time fear of its disfiguration. The poem concludes with an expression of agony and crisis as the poet has a serious fear of Gauripur’s degeneration:

Is the new age of Gauripur

Full of turncoats

Watch the show

As mute spectators

(Trans.  Prodhani, 2021,p 53)

In a similar note, ‘Topophrenia’ which locates subjective engagement with the real and imaginary places, Rajbanshi poems also encounter both the real and imaginary locales. However, in the case of Rajbanshi poetry, it can be argued that there is a contestation of the same space with the changes in the semantics of time. For example, the cartographic map of Cooch Behar was earlier a real phenomenon but the same map is now only in the consciousness and imagination of the Rajbanshi people. However, Rajbanshi poetry also takes a political stance through this contestation between the real and the imagined in order to get back to the real. Jatin Barma’s poem “The Coochbehar Palace” reflects this anxiety:

The majestic Coochbehar Palace

Stares vacantly like an abandoned orphan

      (Trans. Prodhani,  p. 71)

The stanza is important in terms of interrogation of the real and the imagined space. The poet begins it with the glory of the historic monument of Koch Kamata kingdom by calling Coochbehar Palace as ‘majestic’, but at the same moment, the poet is able to visualize the present reality of the same Palace and accentuates the term majestic by lamenting that it is just his imagined subjectivity which compels him to exclaims with sorrow that the palace now ‘stares vacantly like an abandoned orphan’.  Similarly, in the poem “For You O My Love-I”, Jatin Barma mentions historic city Cooch Behar as a ‘manicured’ and ‘forgotten city’ of “Madhupur” (p. 73). The city, being the capital of historic Koch Kamata Kingdom, has a profound sense of association with the Rajbanshi consciousness but strikingly, this place is forgotten and abandoned as a frontier space bifurcated and truncated. Due to its frontier re-location, the city now lies in an ‘in-between space’, what Edward Soja would call the ‘Trialectical’ (qtd. in Tally, 2019 ).

The idea of ‘Trialectical’ can be understood in terms of “conception, perception and experience of space that posited real and imagined space” (qtd. in Tally, 2019). While defining the production of space, French philosopher Henri Lefebvre (1991) propounds the idea of the ‘spatial triad’ which comprises three categories of spatial dynamics—spatial practice, representations of space, and representational space (pp. 38-39). These three categories of space can be visualised as perceived, abstract, and lived spaces. Spatial critic Soja later, while developing these spatial offshoots, brings out the proposition of ‘Trialectical’  by putting forward another notion of space what he called the ‘Thirdspace’  which argues about the existence of a middle space thereby dismantling the binary of “subjectivity and objectivity, the abstract and the concrete , the real and the imagined, the knowable and the unimaginable, the repetitive and the differential, structure and agency, mind and body, consciousness and the unconsciousness, the disciplined and the transdisciplinary, everyday life and unending history” (qtd. in Tally, 2019). The cartographic disfiguration of Koch Kamata Kingdom also compels the Rajbanshi community to confront these multilayered spaces and to live in the void of the middle space — the ‘third space’. Rajbanshi poetry brings on the memory of these experiences of living in this intermediate empty space.

The periphery of space cannot be defined as a fixed location as it also extends its boundaries to other forms of spaces such as buildings, monuments, rooms, landscapes etc. Gaston Bachelard (2014) defines a house as “a privileged entity for a phenomenological study of the intimate values of inside space” (p. 25) and also associates it with a “community of memory and image” (p. 27). The faculty of memory related to space incorporates these material objects of space. Rajbanshi poetry also engages this kind of spatial memory in their writing process. In this context, the reign of Kamata Kingdom, especially the reign of Koch King Naranarayan, can be revisited as a remarkable juncture for the vibrant royal patronage and affiliations provided to the institutes of culture and learning. His patronage of Sankardeva for the promotion of the Neo-Vaishnavite faith and culture of learning marked his greatness as a King and a lover of knowledge. This Neo-Vaishnavite culture later played a crucial role in the formation of the greater Assamese society and identity, which also made a strong presence in the Rajbanshi consciousness. However, the Madhupur Satra, established by Sankardev with the royal grants from Maharaj Naranarayan in the Koch capital of Cooch Behar was a major centre of learning and production of several vaishnavite and cultural texts, is now a neglected abode both by the Bengal and Assam Governments. Ironically, the Koch Rajbanshis whose king was the most important patron of the Vaishnavite tradition, once in the famous Barpeta Satra was a very painful humiliation for the Rajbanshis as it was the king of the Koches, Maharaj Naranaryan who had patronised Sankardeva (See Das, 2011, p. 72). As structural and cultural spaces, the Vaishnavite Satras and the Namghars made great contributions to the socio-cultural milieu of Kamatapur, The Satras and Namghars are part of the cultural history and also have mnemonic associations with the community that is reflected in one of the poems by Dwijendranath Bhakat:

The howling of the fox, Na Satra

Rajahuwa Satra Reverred Bapus

And Ais

Nagara Thiyo Naam Kushan Dotora Sonarai, Padma Puran

The fair of Dol jatra Ashtami snan

                                             (“Shattered by Many a Moon”, Trans.  J. Prodhani,  2021, p. 54)

Land and Memory:

Land is the most important space for indigenous community in which their own civilization and culture grows. The notion of indigeneity is always associated with the land where the history of that indigenous community lies. For this reason, land as a spatial entity has an intimate association with the memories of a community. The concept of land should be looked at from more comprehensive perspectives­ that would include language, culture, nationality and historical legacies rooted in the ‘Land’. The scattered and displaced people of Rajbanshi community also carry forward the memories associated with their native land which include both pleasant and haunting experiences. Whereas pleasant memories bring about the glorious historical and cultural legacy of the community, haunting memories strike with the bitter experience of unwanted bifurcations and the experience of subjugation in their native land.

Walter Mignolo (2007) defines ‘modernity’ “as a European narrative that hides its darker side of ‘coloniality’ (p. 39). Against this notion of modernity along with the coloniality which are seemingly pointed out as ‘European agenda’ (Mignolo, 2007, p. 39), the process of decolonization started aiming at the formation of one’s own national identity. Mignolo (2007) also calls it ‘decolonial modernity’ (p. 42). But, the striking point is that within the formation of nationalistic identity in the decolonial process, the newly transferred centres of powers with the discourse of modernity exclude and marginalize various indigenous entities with a fresh process of homogenization and appropriation. After the bifurcation of the political geography of Kamatapur, the Rajbanshis have been encountering politics of exclusion in the wake of the rapid process of postcolonial modernity. This process of exclusion within their geopolitical space brings ontological and existential threats as their right to their land begins to dislodge. Rajbanshi poetry manifests an eager urgency to act for an assertive reclamation:

We want to proclaim our identity

To proclaim as denizens called Kamatapuri

Kamatapur, the name of the country

Kamatapur, the name of our land

                    (“As We Search for Our Roots”, Ramola Ray Sarkar.  Trans. Prodhani, p. 168)

The Rajbanshi community had a primordial bonding with the soil of their belonging. Before the political dislocation of the Koch Kamata Kingdom, the community facilitated an original form of belonging to their land which was later dismantled through colonial strategies; however, the land of historic Kamatapur continues to be in the memory of the Rajbanshi community. Ramola Ray Sarkar’s poem asserts this autochthonous claim for their lost land of ‘Kamatapur’ and identity as ‘Kamatapuri’ through the re/creational process of memory. Similarly, Ramkanta Ray’s poem “This Land, this People” metaphorically expresses this sense of dislocation off their native land and at the same time attempts to recuperate from this trauma of loss:

No, I don’t want anything else

The fecund field of my adolescence

The green expanse of emptiness

                                                                                (Trans. P. Acharya, 2021, p. 78)

 In Rajbanshi epistemology, the concept of land is not taken simply as a place to live; rather their land as a native entity that absorbs a significant space. Not only does it have the forest, the rivers and even wetlands as components of the landscape, it also occupies an important place in the indigenous knowledge system of the community. The Rajbanshi socio-cultural legacy includes all forms of human and non-human entities of lives within the same enclosure of Rajbanshi epistemology which can be seen from a posthumanist perspective. Prodhani, in his poem, “Gadadhar”, draws on spatial memory associated with his ancestral place, the people and the native lore and depicts how the river ‘Gangadhar’ occupies as important a space as the other human entities in their lives. Here, it is important to note that despite the river Gangadhar’s grandeur, the river does not figure in the mainstream narratives on river of Assam for it is at the frontier of both geography and imagination of Assam. The poet’s recollection of memory associated with the river Gangadhar is also a kind of an attempt to reclaim the receding history and culture of the community. Rajbanshi poet D. N.  Bhakat also brings his personal memory associated with some wetlands such as ‘Ekshia’ and ‘Singimari Beel’. These wetlands of their native land intertwined and entangled with the collective memory of the Rajbanshi folk.

The poetical body of Rajbanshi poetry also entangles memory of their native land as a medium of preservation and reclamation of indigenous epistemology. The poets understand that in order to reclaim identity and right to their lost land, the reinvention of indigenous epistemology (rooted in land) is important. Decolonial critic Leanne Betasamosake Simpson (2014) argues that for dismantling settler colonialism, academia should make conscious decision to introduce intellectual lives of the indigenous people protecting the source of knowledge which is the indigenous land (p. 22). In this regard, Simpson (2014) also mentions critic Deloria’s comment, “Indigenous education is not indigenous or education from within our intellectual traditions unless it comes through land, unless it occurs in an indigenous context using indigenous process” (p. 9).

Simpson’s argument that indigenous education comes through land can be argued by showing the historic link of land with indigeneity. In order to sustain and reclaim indigenous epistemology, indigenous pedagogy should be land based and there should be serious endeavour to bring it in the academic system of the nation. Rajbanshi poetry also delineates the epistemological traditions of the community rooted in their native land. The colonial knowledge system in the new geopolitical space subjugated the rich epistemology of the community. Therefore, modern Rajbanshi poetry can be seen as an attempt to retrace the indigenous epistemological traditions of the community in retrospect through the intertwining of memory with that of the native land. A poem by Santosh Sinha expresses that urge of cultural epistemology:

Go near the land

The land can unravel you the secret roots of real raptures

                                               (“Go Near the Land”,  Santosh Sinha. Trans. Prodhani,  p. 108)

This retrospection through memory in connection with land in Rajbanshi poetry explores indigenous root of the community located in the pre-bifurcated Koch Kamata Kingdom. For the community, their native land is the source of their indigenous epistemology as their land bears the memory of the ancestors for generations:

This land is nothing but gold

Its dust is nurtured by ancestor’s grail,

Seven generations old

               (“Splashing Tales of Flowing Water”, Kamalesh Sarkar. Trans. Prodhani, p. 67)

The rich land based indigenous knowledge system of Koch Rajbanshi community is passing through generations and Rajbanshi poetry imbibes such mnemonic representation to uphold the identity of the community:

My father gave me the plough

And asked to hold it tight

                              (“The Plough and the Saplings”, J. Prodhani. Trans. Self, 2021. p. 207)

This conceptualization of memory is not simply an individual experience; rather, it can be seen as a collective memory of the community as this conceptualization focuses on the idea of holding ‘land’ handed down by the forebears.

The indigenous language of a community has a profound sense of bonding with the native land. The Rajbanshi language along with its literature and culture has its roots in the native land of the community. But, the colonial policies in the new geopolitical space also vanquished their linguistic and cultural identity by homogenizing the language as a sub-standard dialect of other major languages. In modern India, the language is not constitutionally recognized and it is taken as a dialect or a sub-standard language despite its own independency and rich philology. There were scholars like Khan Choudhury Amanatullah Ahmed, Panchanan Barma, Gauri Nath Shastri, Australian scholar, Matthew Toulman and many others who argued in favour of the independency of Rajbanshi language and script (see Prodhani, p. 231). The practice of writing modern Rajbanshi poetry can also be regarded as an act of protest against this linguistic imperialism as well as an appeal to get back to their epistemological heritage. Hence, Rajbanshi poetry also imbibes the memory of their linguistic and cultural heritage:

We have our own heritage

Script, words and language

Literature and culture, so much great

                              (“As We Search for Our Roots”,  Ramola Ray Sarkar. Trans. Prodhani, p. 167)

The indigenous knowledge system of a community generally lies in the oral and folk tradition and the Koch Rajbanshi community has a rich and vast treasure of oral traditions such as folk songs and performances. The views of Ivanna Yi (2016) on Native American oral tradition are pertinent here:

Storying the land by the indigenous people of the Americas works against the geographical and linguistic violence that began with Columbus. This practice traverses the pre-colonial past and the present…. ( Para. 3).

As discussed, Rajbanshi poetry has its origin in the folk traditions of the community and modern Rajbanshi poetry also draws on those folk legacies. Many Rajbanshi poems carry forward these nuances of oral traditions in terms of mnemonic representation by indulging in the exercise of reviving the receding landscape by retrieving the folk figures like ‘Mahut Bondhu’ and the folk ritualistic performance, ‘Hudum Deo’.  Kumar Sauvik’s poem “Sobhalata’s Letter” attempts to retrace the markers of such a landscape and its turmoils. While arguing the land based pedagogical concept, L Simpson (2014) also exemplifies Nisshnaabeg oral stories which are passed down to new generations who have learnt from parents and grandparents (p. 19). Phoolti Abo, the traditional shaitol singer, (an oral folk narrative) has been a custodian of such folk pedagogy (see Acharaya & Prodhani,  p. 258). She also underlines the changing dimensions of land:

Since then

There are so many changes in this land

(“Phoolti Abo’s Tale-II”, Phoolti Gidali. Trans. Prodhani,  p. 92)

Tally describes ‘topophrenia’ as the subjective engagement with space. Rajbanshi poetry, in a significant way, delineates subjective interactions, entanglement, and encounters with the lived experience of geo-historical and geopolitical spaces essentially linked with land which is not only a source of their sense of belonging and source but also a part of their cultural pedagogy.

Declaration of Conflicts of Interests

The author(s) declared no potential conflicts of interest.

Funding

No funding has been received for the publication of this article. It is published free of any charge.

Note

  1. Dipesh Chakrabarty (2007) in his Provincialisng Europe refers to John Stuart Mill’s essays, “On Liberty” and “On Representative Government” where Mill made the ‘historicist’ argument that the Indians and the Africans were not yet civilized enough to rule themselves justifying to keep them in the ‘waiting room of history’. (see Prodhani, 2021, p 234-235)

References:                

Acharaya, Pradip and Prodhani, Jyotirmoy (2021). This Land This People: Rajbanshi Poems in Translation. MRB Publishers.

Bachelard, Gaston (2014). The Poetics of Space. (M, Jolas, Trans.). Penguin Books.

Das, Arup Jyoti (2011). Kamatapur and Koch Rajbanshi imagination. Montage Media.

Lefebvre, Henri (1991). The Production of Space. (DN Smith, Trans.). Blackwell.

Mignolo, Walter D (2000). Local Histories/ Global Designs. Princeton University Press.

Mignolo, Walter D (2007). “Coloniality: The Darker Side of Modernity”. In Cultural Studies, Vol-21, No-2-3.

Prodhani, Jyotirmoy (2021). “Resonance of Liminal Identity in Rajbanshi Poetry”.  In Acharaya   and Prodhani’s This Land This People: Rajbanshi Poems in Translation. MRB Publishers.

Radston, Susannah & Hodgkin, Katharine (Eds.). (2003). Regimes of Memory. Routledge.

Roy, Gautam Chandra (2020). “Negotiating with the Changing landscape: The Case of the    Rajbanshi Community”. In Economic and Political Weekly (online). Vol-55, Issue No-39, 26th September.

Simpson, L Betasamosake (2014). “Land as pedagogy: Nishnaabeg intelligence and rebellious transformation”. In Decolonization: Indigeneity, Education & Society, Vol-3, pp-1-25.

Tally, Jr Robert T (2019). TOPOPHRENIA: Place, Narrative and the Spatial Imagination. Indiana University. Ebook, Kindle edition.

  DO1-4417580-6053436.https://amzn.in/czupt26

Terdiman, Richard (2003). “Given Memory”. In Radstone & Hodgkin (Eds.). Regimes of    Memory. Routledge.

Yi, Ivanna (2016). “Cartographies of the Voice: Storying the Land as Survivance in Native American Oral Traditions”. In MDPI Journal (Online), Vol-5, Issue-3.mdpi.com.

Gunajeet Mazumdar is an Assistant Professor of English at Manikpur Anchalik College, Asssam He completed his M.Phil on Eco-consciousness studies in the poetry of Mamang Dai and currently he is pursuing his doctoral research in the area of Afghan-American Fiction. He is also a teacher member of the Academic Council of Gauhati University. His area of research interest includes Green Studies, American Literature, Performance Studies and Writings from Northeast India.

Text Formation in the Poetry of Robin S. Ngangom and Mamang Dai: A Systemic Functional Linguistics Comparative Study

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 Charanjit Singh1 & Gurjit Kaur2

1Department of English at Lyallpur Khalsa College, Jalandhar, Punjab (India). ORCID: 0000-0001-9191-0955. Email: charanjit@lkc.ac.in

2Department of English at PCM S.D. College for Women, Jalandhar, Punjab

Rupkatha Journal, Vol. 14, Issue 2, April-June, 2022, Pages 1–18. https://doi.org/10.21659/rupkatha.v14n2.ne15

First published: June 23, 2022 | AreaNortheast India | LicenseCC BY-NC 4.0

(This article is published under Themed Issue on Literature of Northeast India)
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Abstract

Being an active field for the interplay of diverse linguistic processes such as condensation, displacement, substitution and ellipsis manifested through a wide variety of literary devices in the pursuit to expand the semantic possibilities of language and communicate the experiential and interpersonal meanings aesthetically, the language of poetry and the unique ways by which different linguistic elements in it are structured and sequenced has always been a matter of curiosity among the linguists (Levin 1963a, Baker 1967, Landon 1968, Jakobson 1968, Cable 1970, Cureton 1981, Muller 1981). Expanding the scope of this linguistic enquiry to the poetry of North-East India, the present paper by the use of SFL model of taxis explores the text construction strategies in the poems of two hitherto linguistically unexplored North-East Indian poets Robin S. Ngangom and Mamang Dai in an endeavor to ascertain the most frequently used structures in the poems of these two poets, the tactic relations in the clause complexes in their poems, the use of embedding in their structures and the similarities or variations in the poetry of these two poets on account of the usage of taxis and embedding.

Keywords: SFL, Taxis, Embedding, Hypotaxis, Parataxis, North-East Indian Poetry

  1. Introduction

Poetry is a primary form of literature that communicates human thoughts, ideas, feelings, emotions, dreams, desires, aspirations, actions, reactions or reflections in a dramatic, descriptive or narrative form foregrounding the aesthetic elements in human language through the use of meter, rhythm, symbols, images, similes, metaphors, alliteration, ambiguity and such other figures of speech and thereby expanding the semantic possibilities of language, enhancing its communicative competence, magnifying its aesthetic appeal and widening its suggestibility. The frequent and abundant usage of a variety of linguistic processes, most commonly condensation, displacement, substitution and ellipsis, and the unique ways by which different linguistic devices are structured to generate the overall effect of a poem has always kept the syntax of poetry open for linguistic analysis and exploration through the use of diverse linguistic frameworks and methodologies. For instance, Levin (1963a) observes that the novelty of the language of poetry is on account of its tendency to deviate from the structures lying within the generative capacity of grammar. Baker (1967) analyzes the structure and operation of sentences in the poetry of thirty English poets, fifteen from the second half of the 19th century and fifteen from the first half of the 19th century, and discovers that there has been a noticeable shift in the syntax in the poems written from 1870 to 1930 with dislocation and elaboration becoming less frequent with the passage of time and parenthetical interruption coming in vogue. Landon (1968) studies the unconventional word-order in English poetry. Jakobson (1968) analyses parallelism in poetic language using illustrations from a variety of Russian and Czech poems.  Cable (1970) analyzes the hypotactic and paratactic structures in Beowolf and observes that the style in this old English poem is largely paratactic. Cureton (1981) studies the use of iconic syntax in e.e. cummings’ poetry and finds that his use of iconic structure is indicative of medium being the message in his poems. Muller (1981) analyses the syntactic structures in popular English folk ballads and concludes that the sentence structure in English folk ballads is basically parataxis and that there are two types of parataxis in these ballads – paratactic syndetic and paratactic asyndetic. However, this listing of studies on the syntax of poetry is merely indicative and not in any way exhaustive. The present paper using Systemic Functional Linguistics as the theoretical model analyses the text construction strategies focusing on taxis and embedding in the poems of two hitherto linguistically unexplored North-East Indian poets —Robin S. Ngangom and Mamang Dai. The paper specifically focuses on the following research questions:

  1. What are the most frequently used structures in the poems of Robin S. Ngangom and Mamang Dai- clause simplexes or clause complexes?
  2. Which tactic relations (paratactic or hypotactic) are more frequent in clause complexes in the poems of these two poets?
  3. What is the extent of the usage of embedding in the poems of these two poets?
  4. What are the similarities or variations in the poetry of these two poets on account of the usage of taxis and embedding…Full-Text PDF

Monumental Inhumanity beyond Tears: Lamentations of Despoil in Nagaland and Niger Delta Eco-poetics

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Austin Okeke1, Emeka Aniago2, Mary-Isabella Ada Igbokwe3, Kenneth C. Ahaiwe4

1Lecturer, Theatre & Film Studies, University of Nigeria, Nsukka, Nigeria

2Senior Lecturer, Theatre & Film Studies, University of Nigeria, Nsukka, Nigeria

 ORCID iD: 0000-0003-3194-1463. Email: emekaaniago@gmail.com

3Lecturer, Theatre & Film Studies, University of Nigeria, Nsukka, Nigeria

4Lecturer, English & Literary Studies, University of Nigeria, Nsukka, Nigeria

Rupkatha Journal, Vol. 14, Issue 2, April-June, 2022, Pages 1–18. https://doi.org/10.21659/rupkatha.v14n2.ne14

First published: June 23, 2022 | AreaNortheast India | LicenseCC BY-NC 4.0

(This article is published under Themed Issue on Literature of Northeast India)
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Abstract

This paper examines the social interventions, inclinations and paradigms in Temsula Ao’s poem “My Hills” and Tanure Ojaide’s poem “Delta Blues” as reflections and interrogation of deplorable human actions propelling the degradation eco-heritage in Nagaland Northeast India, and Niger Delta south-south Nigeria. Thus, our focus will be on how both poets present similarities in their lamentations and advocacy against monumental inhumanity destroying natural environment. Therefore, drawing from the concepts of eco-criticism, this paper examines nuance of advocacy and interrogation of the direct/indirect complicity and disinterest subsumed in the shades of actions and inactions of both ‘insiders’ and ‘others’ who are in many ways, interwoven in the social malaises and negativities Ao and Ojaide project. To add rigor to the analysis, this paper adopts ‘eco-criticism’, to discuss the portrayal of social identity questions, environment despoil, and the subsisting human/environment symbiosis in Nagaland and Niger Delta as portrayed in the selected poems. In the end, the study observes that the selected poems are advocacy texts subsumed in nuances of social intervention paradigms that project certain universal commons reflective of inhabitants of regions in despoil and environment degradation.

Keywords: Heritage, identity, poem, northeast India, eco-criticism, intervention

Introduction

Temsula Ao and Tanure Ojaide are literary icons, who through their creative visions make poetry that provides the literary representation of realities in their societies which variously offer a valuable opportunity to their readers to deepen their knowledge about the designated subjects from diverse perspectives. While a good number of scholars have examined the poetics of Ao and Ojaide in many ways, none have looked at how Ao’s “My Hills” and Ojaide’s “Delta Blues” share clear commonalities in their portrayal of eco-heritage despoil. Therefore, this paper presents an analysis of Ao’s[1] poem “My Hills” from the collection of poems titled Book of Songs (2013) and Ojaide’s “Delta Blues” a poem in a collection of poems captioned Delta Blues and Home Songs (1998). The aim is to deepen our understanding of both writers’ common point-of-view regarding the catastrophic destruction of eco-heritage in Nagaland in India and Niger Delta in Nigeria as monumental inhumanity. Our purview is to discuss how both poets similarly portray certain human actions as variables that adversely alter eco-heritage and the reasons behind their effusive interest. More so, we intend to examine how the designated poems mirror analogous throes manifestly reflecting despoils and agony as collective and personal experiences in Nagaland and Niger-Delta. To analyse how both poems fall within the eco-poetry category, we are applying the concept of eco-criticism to discuss the poets’ presentations of human–environment relationships in their poems. This paper, through an interpretive approach, attempts an elaborate explanation of some of the artistic techniques evident in Ao’s “My Hills” and Ojaide’s “Delta Blues”. More so, we shall examine the efficacy of both poems in encapsulating their lamentations and what we can deduce as the metaphorical meanings subsumed in the poems. In order to place the frame of our study and thematic areas of focus in clear perspectives devoid of ambiguity, we shall start by explaining what the following expressions, eco-heritage, eco-criticism, and eco-poetry variously denote in the context of this study.

Eco-heritage, Eco-criticism, and Eco-poetry: Perspectives

Eco-heritage represents all naturally occurring flora, fauna, topography, habitat, and eco-system that exist in a given geographical location. The word eco-heritage suggests that the above mentioned are components part of a natural environment, which means that they are not originally man-made; rather they are nature’s gift to humanity. In his description of natural environment, Oluwafemi Sunday Alabi (2021) notes:

In all encompassing words, natural environment refers to the physical set-up which encompasses earth, air, water, land, trees, fauna, flora, rivers, lakes, mountains, hill, valley, the seasons and all original inhabitants of a given geographical location which can be harmed by man’s activities.  (2)

Thus, it is essential for people dwelling in a given geographical location to recognize that their environment (both the living and non-living things) is an inheritance that must be preserved, conserved, and banqueted to the next generation. Thus, eco-criticism is a meticulous attempt to discuss how people’s proper management or mismanagement of their eco-heritage is portrayed in literature and arts. The term ‘eco-criticism’ was first used by William Rueckert in his 1978 pioneering essay titled “Literature and Ecology: An Experiment in Eco-criticism” to discuss how ecology and its concepts are critically relayed in literary studies. According to Susie Brien (2007) the argument presented by Rueckert in his eco-criticism conceptual frame, revolves around the supposition that “the environment is in a state of crisis, largely of human making, and that urgent action is required if future disaster, encompassing humans and other species, is to be averted” (179). Thus, eco-criticism according to Cheryll Glotfelty (1996) which began to evolve as “the study of the relationship between literature and physical environment” (xviii), have attained relevance in interpretive study of film and environment, music and environment, and fine art and environment. The idea here is that an eco-critic, (a scholar interested in interpreting the shades and nuances of ecology and eco-heritage management/preservation and/or mismanagement/degradation representation in arts and literature), needs to understand that literature, in many ways, represents peoples’ creative attempts to share their thoughts and ideas on any subject of their choice. Also, an eco-critic needs to appreciate that essentially the thoughts and ideas creative writers and artists share, emanate from one or a combination of emotions and feelings, such as anger, grief, happiness, melancholy, fear, nostalgia, paranoia and disillusionment (see Onuora et al 2021; Okpara et al 2020; Brady 2013; Carroll 2003; Davies 1994; Dewey 1934; Kemp 2021; Robinson 2005). In support of the above supposition, scholarly findings indicate that the emotions and feelings individuals are filled with, are differently propelled by the altering influences emanating from human realities (Gary 2021; Okpara et al 2020; Robinson 2017; Tilghman 1970). Consequently, the thoughts and ideas which poets (like every other creative artists) share, are essentially the shades of their inclinations, interests, ideologies, worldviews and desires, which are either literally or metaphorically embedded in the words of their poems. Therefore, it is logical and plausible to assert that since poets are humans, poetry is a human artistic product, which like other human artistic products, is naturally propelled and defined by the quantity and quality of the poet’s accumulated knowledge, ideas, experiences, creative vision, ideological bent, mental health, inclinations, and agenda. For this reason, literary critics in their works variously aim at deepening the understanding of the aforementioned variables.

In essence, eco-criticism as an analytical frame “takes as its subject, the interconnections between nature and culture, specifically the cultural artifacts of language and literature” and “as a critical stance, it has one foot in literature and the other on land; as a theoretical discourse, it negotiates between the human and the nonhuman” (Glotfelty 1996: xix). The context of ‘the human and nonhuman’ as applied by Glotfelty in his comment above, denotes creative representation of human actions such as the preservation or degradation of eco-heritage components, for instance water (rivers, streams, and lakes), fauna and flora, which are all nonhuman. To Lawrence Buell et al (2011) eco-criticism is an eclectic cross-disciplinary initiative that “aims to explore the environmental dimensions of literature and other creative media in a spirit of environmental concern not limited to any one method or commitment” (418). What this means is that eco-criticism covers efforts by eco-critics to dissect and interpret eco-critical works, to explain their relevance and contributions towards the pursuance of knowledge and awareness regarding human realities. Also, eco-criticism enhances the appreciation of the writers’ attempts at propagating their point-of-views on matters concerning the actions and inactions of man that adversely affect environment, eco-system and eco-heritage.

On individual or collective experiences as source materials for eco-poetry, Champa Chettri (2019) observes that “in different periods, poets adopted varied themes and modes of expression” to aid their attempts at portrayal and representation of social realities, in a bit to re-aggregate people worldview, ideology and behaviour (3). Essentially, Chettri is of the view that “poets are influenced by social, political and economic circumstances of their period”, and that “their surroundings, milieu, history and culture not only shape their poetry but also become important ingredients of their works” (2019: 3). Chettri’s contribution indicates that poets usually draw inspiration from their experiences and when these experiences form the thematic basis of their poems, their poetry can be classified as ‘poetry of witness’. The idea here is that ‘poetry of witness’ are poems that project ‘unequivocal social message’ because the information they communicate are based on actual realities. As regards ‘poetry of witness’ the core essence is that a poet “writes about what he has personally gone through and not what he has imagined” (Chettri 2019: 4). For Ao and Ojaide, their representations in My Hills” and “Delta Blues” respectively are based on what they have witnessed. Therefore, it makes sense to refer to both poems as socially engaged poetry because they are unambiguously purpose driven attempts. As Carolyn Forché (1993) puts it, poets use their poetry “to speak for more than one and to engage all others” (34). Hence, eco-poets such as Ao and Ojaide arguably fit into the above category because as we shall see in the analysis of their designated poems, both aim at creating awareness that propel the promotion of germane point-of-views that could lead to positive change in people’s behaviour.

Nagaland and Niger-Delta Despoil as Source Material for Ao and Ojaide’s ‘Poetry of Witness’

Nagaland in Northeast India

The source material for Ao’s poem “My Hills” is from the realities in Nagaland. To get a clearer understanding of her source material, we shall take a look at relevant scholarly contributions espousing pertinent aspects of Nagaland, as means of providing proper background to Ao’s themes and inclinations. According to Patricia Mukhim (2005), “what is referred to as North-east India happens to be a land mass with a geographical area of 2.55 lakh sq.kms., which is a mere seven percent of the country’s total area” (178). Furthering, she notes that “the region shares only two percent of its boundary with India, while the remaining 98 percent is bordered by the countries of Bangladesh, Bhutan, Myanmar, Nepal, and China” (Mukhim, 2005: 178). In addition, she observes that “in terms of their physical features, ethnicity, culture, food habits, and language, there is a closer affinity with the people of Southeast Asia than the population of mainstream India” (178). Nagaland is one among the eight states in Northeast India with Kohima as its capital and it became the sixteenth state of India on the 1st December 1963. Nagaland is divided into eleven districts and it shares borders with Assam to the west, Manipur to the south, Arunachal Pradesh and part of Assam to the north, and Myanmar to the east. On tribal demography in Nagaland, Chettri (2019) states that “there are sixteen major Naga tribes in Nagaland namely Ao, Angami, Sumi, Lotha, Chakesang, Kachari, Kuki, Konyak, Phom, Chang, Sangtam, Rengma, Yimchunger, Pochury, Zeliang, and Khiamniungan” and that “other Naga tribes are also found in Assam, Arunachal Pradesh, Manipur and Myanmar” (175). Chettri (2019) further observes:

The Nagas are not a homogenous tribe; each of the tribes has distinct cultural tradition, social structure, rituals, festivals, folklores, belief system, dialect, costumes and immensely rich heritage handed down through generations. They believed in a supreme creator, many deities, spirits and medicine-men, who appease and banish these spirits according to the requirements. English is the official state language and the medium for education in Nagaland and intertribal communication is carried out in Nagamese. (175)

The Northeast India is gifted phenomenally with abundant resources and breath-taking topography and eco-system, however, due to a bitter long-drawn conflict between the Indian government and the Naga freedom fighters; the eco-heritage has been monumentally altered. According to Paula Banerjee and Ishita Dey (2018):

By early 1951, the Nagas asked for a plebiscite and were predictably refused. Under the auspices of NNC, the Nagas themselves called a plebiscite in which almost everyone voted in favour of independence. On 16 May 1951, that plebiscite was held in which 99.9 percent voted to reassert the Naga position in favour of an independent homeland devoid of domination and political control of any sort. (2012: 8)

War was ignited after the Indian government declared the 1951 plebiscite null and void; consequently, the Naga people gradually began to dissent through insurgencies. In response, the government called in the military to crush the rebellion. The armed conflict which has exerted and has continued to exert a massive toll on the environment and its inhabitants is infamously acknowledged as the longest armed conflict in South Asia (Kikon, 2005; Longkumer, 2018).

This conflict has adversely altered the Nagaland ecology and landscape, leaving behind a deplorable and degraded eco-heritage, which Ao bitterly laments in her poems “Lament for an Earth” (1988), “Blessings” (1988), and “My Hills” (2013). In their essay titled “An Ecocritical Reading of Poetry from India’s Northeast” (2017) Neeraj Sankyan and Suman Sigroha examine the presentation of human-environment relationship in the writings of Temsula Ao and Kynpham Sing Nongkynrih, who are both poets from Northeast India. They looked at how their eco-poetry was “informed by a deep love and concern for their indigenous cultures, traditions and fragile environments” (Sankyan & Sigroha, 2017: 57). Furthermore, they observe that Ao’s poems in many ways represent “a poetic voice that employs the power of lyric to raise environmental awareness amongst the peoples of these regions” (Sankyan & Sigroha, 2017: 57). Thus, Sankyan and Sigroha (2017) observe that Ao’s poems “serve as an urgent reminder to the indigenous people of their great cultural heritage comprising sustainable customs and traditions” (57). Similarly, Ray P. Prajna (2016) observes that writers from Northeast India echo stirring words through their writings in their attempts to “give voice to the people’s narrative suppressed by the meta-narrative of conflict and terror” (70). Furthering, Prajna (2016) notes:

These suppressed narratives demand recounting and sharing. Writers from Indian hinterland, Temsula Ao and Easterine Kire, just like their contemporaries Arupa Patangia Kalita, Mitra Phukan, Anjum Hasan, tell stories of marginalized people to save their history from being silenced and forgotten. (70)

For instance, in “Lament for an Earth” Ao laments the degradation and destruction of the ecology through avoidable human actions, and in “My Hills” she projects the shades and nuances of irony, traumatic experiences, aggression and conflict with deep analysis of human conditions at different levels of the society. The conflicts between underground rebels and the Indian Forces in Nagaland can be considered a domestic conflict as it is limited to a particular region and involves few ethnic groups claiming territorial sovereignty. This is because “the unfair representation of the region in the nationalist discourse has had an adverse effect on the psyche of the people who felt wronged by an indifferent Indian State” (Sankhyan and Sigroha, 2017: 113).

In their study titled ‘Psychosocial Impacts of War and Trauma in Temsula Ao’s Laburnum for My Head’ Raam Kumar T. & B. Padmanabhan looked at the psychological impact of domestic violence over the combatants as well as non-combatants whose lives are inseparably intertwined with violence and bloodshed, observe that violence in Nagaland have generated “unbearable trauma and misery” (2020: 1). To Poimila Raman (2018) “violence and political unrest in the North-Eastern states of India go hand in hand in disrupting the ordinary lives of the people” (140). In their description of the sense of catastrophe in Nagaland as subsumed in Ao’s poems, Neeraj Sankhyan and Suman Sigroha observe that violence perpetrated by the insurgents engaging in rebellion and the harsh retributive response of the Indian military have generated massive devastation, hence:

The endangering of the traditional/indigenous culture in the face of invasion of an alien culture marked by modernity and globalization coupled with the gross misrepresentation of the heterogeneous character of the region under the erroneous homogeneous ‘Northeast’ label further adds to the woes of this region. It is only natural hence that most of the literature emanating from this region carries a deep-rooted concern for the social issues that plague these areas. Temsula Ao, from Nagaland, is one such accomplished writer who strives to bring about a social change in her region by creating awareness about all the issues mentioned above. (2017: 113)

To Tilottoma Misra, (2010) literature from the Northeast India depicts “perceptions of the traumatic experience of a people living in the midst of terror and fear and yet cherishing hopes that human values will triumph some day and new dawn of peace would emerge out of this trial” (xix). Thus, scholars are of the view that the region suffers from a severe identity crisis which can be attributed to the “redrawing of boundaries that began with the Partition of the Subcontinent” (Misra, 2010: xvii). Elaborating a bit further, Rakhee Kalita (2008) notes:

The story of these people is the story of history’s accidents, of an arbitrary line drawing boundaries across geographically and culturally contiguous lands dismembering the natural and inevitable growth and movement of a community – a consequence of colonial ambitions, political battles and failed bureaucratic strategies. (17)

Thus, the feeling of alienation elucidated in the above scholarly contributions generated the sense of victimhood perpetrated by the ‘State’, hence insurgency is more or less a desperate attempt to ruffled the India state as well as draw the attention of the international community to the ongoing subjugation and repression which have subsisted for decades. To Ved Prakash (2008), the insurgency in India’s Northeast is “an ethno-cultural phenomenon, in the sense that perceiving their ethnic identity threatened, they seek political power to preserve it” (33). Just as most scholarly contributions analyzing the conflict in Northeast India blame marginalization of the people by the central government through repressive policies and forceful reliance on military might to repress, Grace Pelly (2009) observes that the Armed Forces Special Powers Act (AFSPA) which empowers the military to deal ruthlessly with the insurgents, apparently have not helped. In explaining this, she states:

The rationale for AFSPA is that the armed forces need ‘special powers’ to prevent terrorist activity in the region and to contain independence movements. In practice, however, the police and the military forces use the powers and immunity that AFSPA grants to deal with ordinary matters of criminal justice. This highlights that increased powers given to State actors results in increased violence against civilians, fuelling a mutual distrust. (Pelly, 2009: 124)

In an attempt to summarize the variables that instigate crisis and agony in Northeast India, Neeraj Sankhyan and Suman Sigroha (2017) observe:

The insurgency and violence coupled with the endangering of the traditional/indigenous culture in the face of invasion by an alien culture marked by modernity and globalization, coupled with the gross misrepresentation of the heterogeneous character of the region under the erroneous homogeneous ‘Northeast’ label further adds to the woes of this region. (114)

According to Champa Chettri (2019) “the distinctive feature of North-Eastern state is its poetry and their uniqueness lies in the true representation of contemporary events and problems like ecological degradation, corruption, loss of identity and cultural values, conflict, migration and violence” (23). Thus, Temsula Ao in her poems represents “Ao’s myth, folklore, tradition and culture to comprehend the present cultural degradation, identity crisis and conflict” (Chettri, 2019: 175). For instance, in Book of Songs, Ao’s poems encapsulate her position on the recovery of history, environmental degradation and the people’s melancholy. Furthermore, this collection portrays Ao’s firm courage of conviction, and her deep compassion, her desire to recover the past and work towards a peaceful future of progressive togetherness. Consequently, being a prominent voice from her Ao community, Ao uses her poetry to let the entire world be aware of her people’s history, subsisting realities and needs. Espousing more on her poems’ source material, Chettri (2019) notes that Ao’s “poetry is motivated by her real-life experiences” (229). In many ways, being a firsthand witness makes Ao’s poetry reflect dense emotions and empathy. Therefore, Chettri (2019) suggests that Ao’s choice of language subsumes:

Her immense desire to delve deeper into the history of her community and revive her fast-decaying tribal culture can be seen in her poetry. Ao tries to capture the changing times, and many aspects of her culture. She has raised her voice against the ominous prospect of losing her long cherished and revered culture tradition and folklore. (229).

Still on Ao’s projection of empathic emotions in her poems, Neeraj Sankhyan and Suman Sigroha (2016), observe that Ao’s poem “My Hills” in many ways laments the lost of peace and verdure in her region, and that she depicts a sense of loss and nostalgia, as well as quest for the regeneration of their glorious past (117). Thus, in the poem “My Hills” “she reflects upon a sense of alienation that haunts her in the present and a longing for the bygone days” by portraying “natural imagery to depict the once paradise like state that prevailed in the region” (Sankhyan and Sigroha, 2016: 117).

Niger Delta, South-South Nigeria

In his book titled the Poetic Imagination in Black Africa, Ojaide (1995), notes that what informed eco-poetry in Africa and in particular Nigeria is the “senseless destruction of our original neighbours, the trees and animals” (16). In essence, Ojaide’s poetry represents emotion laden lamentation aimed at creating more awareness regarding the wanton destruction of eco-heritage by exploitative governments and the oil multinationals. Thus, Ojaide’s poem “Delta Blues” is one way of looking at the Niger Delta people’s response to oil exploration in their domain, which has had an adverse impact on their eco-heritage and livelihood. In line with the reports of Awosika (1995) and Ukiwo (2009), “the Niger Delta, located on the Atlantic coast of southern Nigeria is the world’s third-largest wetland” which “occupies a total land area of 75,000 square kilometres” and “is the world’s second largest delta with a coastline of about 450 km” (in Nwaozuzu et al 2020). According to Judith Burdin Asuni (2009), “the Niger Delta consists of six or nine oil-producing states in southern Nigeria, depending on one’s geopolitical definition” and “the Niger Delta is home to about 140 ethnic groups in the nine states included in a broader definition of the region” (3). As of December 2021, Niger Delta is composed of 9 out of 36 states in Nigeria, (Abia, Akwa Ibom, Bayelsa, Cross River, Delta, Edo, Ondo, Imo and Rivers), and it has 185 out of 774 local government areas (see Nwaozuzu et al 2020). As documented by Nwilo and Badejo (2006), “the strategic polito-economic importance of Niger Delta revolves around the fact that nearly all of Nigeria’s proven oil and gas reserves and a total of 159 oil fields and 1481 wells in operation are located in the region” (Nwaozuzu et al 2020). As documented by Nwilo and Badejo, (2006), the “total production from Nigeria’s oil fields in Niger Delta region increased from 308 million barrels in 1970 to 703,455 million barrels in 1991 and production peaked in 1980s when the total output was 753.5 million barrels per annum, out of which 93% was exported overseas” (Nwaozuzu et al 2020). Furthermore, “though the GDP ratio contribution of oil and gas dropped significantly from average of 37% to 40% achieved in 1980s, 1990s and beyond, to an average of 12% in 2000s, it has delivered from the 1970s to 2019 more than 70% of foreign exchange for Nigeria” (Nwaozuzu et al 2020). Consequently, between 2000 and 2004, oil and gas accounted for 75% of total government revenues, and 97% of foreign exchange earnings (Ukiwo, 2009). In the face of the clear evidence that Nigeria depends heavily on the crude oil extracted from the Niger Delta to obtain foreign exchange, Asuni (2009) observes that the conflict in the Niger Delta revolves around the fact that:

The oil industry exploited and polluted the area, wiping out the traditional livelihoods of fishing and farming and providing few jobs or benefits in return. Despite its mineral wealth, the Niger Delta is one of the poorest regions in Nigeria. There is no infrastructure to speak of and the inhospitable geography of the region has added to the region’s remoteness from the rest of the country. (3)

Thus, the dismay and anger portrayed by a poet such as Tanure Ojaide in his poems are hinged on the projection that “Nigeria has drawn more than $400 billion in oil revenues from the delta since independence, around $200 billion in the last decade alone” (Asuni, 2009: 5). Elaborating, Asuni acknowledges that though “statistics are unreliable” to some extent, however, “there is consensus that around 51 per-cent of the Niger Delta’s people still live on $2 or less a day, only 49 percent have access to safe drinking water, there is one secondary school for every 14,679 children, and one child in five dies before his/her fifth birthday” (Asuni, 2009: 5). It is the clear lack of desire or will to plough back substantial resources to the Niger Delta for purposes of development and environment management and conservation are the major reasons given by the Niger Delta freedom fighters, in response to the enormous outcry from Niger Delta people. In response, eco-poets such as Tanure Ojaide, Niyi Osundare, Odia Ofeimun, Nnimmo Bassey, Christopher Okigbo, and Ken Saro-Wiwa have applied their poems to publicize and challenge the environmental degradation, injustice in social projects allocation, and the capitalistic practices of the oil multinationals. These poets, project the oil multinationals as those whose exploration has led to the destruction of eco-heritage in Niger Delta, while they blame the government for doing very little to turn around the destruction of the Niger Delta environment. These woes sum up the horrendous inhumanity that is going on for decades (see Ali, 2017). Espousing, Ali (2017) observes that eco-poets of Nigerian extraction such Tanure Ojaide apply their poetry to “celebrate nature’s beauty and potentials” as well as to “chastise exploitative activities of man” and at the same time “urge moral and social change in favour of the natural environment” (1). Furthermore, Ali (2017) notes that most “poets’ particular environments influence the form and style of their poetry”, hence, “there are more environmental challenges in the contemporary world of Tanure Ojaide which his poetry reflects” (1).

In his description of the trajectories of inclinations in Ojaide’s poetry, Uzoechi Nwagbara (2010) observes that “Ojaide’s poetic enterprise follows in the footsteps of this mould of interdiction, which can be called resistance poetics” (17), which are defined by the language nuances. Thus, Ojaide’s collections of poems, Delta Blues & Home Songs and Daydream of Ants are examples of eco-critical literature in which he variously relays his worldview and quest. Which are “to use literature to engage the realities in his milieu” because “for him, literature is a reproduction of social experiences” and “refraction of the totality of human experience” (Nwagbara, 2010: 18). In his explanation of what constitutes Ojaide’s milieu realities, Inya Eteng (1997) notes:

What currently prevails in the Southern oil enclave is a specific variant of internal colonialism […]. The specific highly exploitative and grossly inequitable endowment/ownership-exchange entitlements relations between the Nigerian state and the oil-bearing communities in particular, which explains why the enormous oil wealth generated is scarcely reflected in the living standard and life chances of the peasant inhabitants of the oil-bearing enclave. (21)

Thus, Ojaide uses his poems to highlight the exploitative environmental policies that have allowed the ongoing degradation of the Niger Delta eco-heritage. Thus, “with the emergence of eco-criticism, Ojaide’s writings have come to be considered environmentally conscious texts because they show a serious connection with the natural world as well as foreground how man’s activities affect his environment and ecology” (Nwagbara, 2010: 18). Similarly, Darah (2009) observes that the poetry of Ojaide “fits into the tradition of outrage against political injustice, exploitation, and environmental disasters” (12). Furthermore, Darah (2009) contends that “on the basis of sheer output, Ojaide is the most prolific in the Niger Delta region” and that “from his titles, one can discern an abiding concern with the fate of the Niger Delta people” (12). Some of Ojaide’s collections of poems include; Waiting for the Hatching of the Cockerel (2008), The Tale of the Harmattan (2007), When It No Longer Matters Where You Live (1998), Delta Blues & Home Songs (1998), Daydream of Ants and Other Poems (1997), The Blood of Peace and Other Poems (1991), and Labyrinths of the Delta (1986). Ojaide besides being a celebrated prolific poet, is a scholar critic, activist, nationalist, cultural entrepreneur and novelist.

Despoil, Pains, and Disenchantment in Ao’s Eco-poetics

The eco-poetics of Ao and Ojaide in many ways portray the feeling of nostalgia, melancholy and disenchantment as they recollect the breath-taking splendour, and allure their eco-heritages represented before their degradation. Both poets similarly lament the wanton destruction of their natural environment brought about by deplorable human actions. In Ao’s Nagaland, it is the case of the long-drawn violent conflict between the Indian military and Nagaland freedom fighters. In Ojaide’s Niger Delta, it is the issue of deplorable oil exploration practices leading to consistent oil spillages, massive gas flaring leading to loss of livelihood (farming and fishing), and the ravaging armed insurgency. Ao in her poem “My Hills” (2013) interrogates the negative impact of exclusion and discrimination experienced by the marginalized Nagaland tribes which have substituted peace and prosperity with violence, trauma, pain and anger.

She laments the impact of violence on the eco-heritage, represented metaphorically as ‘hills’ in the poem’s title “My Hills”. She attempts to present to reader through this poem how the long drawn war in Nagaland has created melancholy, anger and sadness. She also presents a nostalgic feeling in her recollection of the serenity, peace and splendour her natural environment represented. Beginning with a melancholic mood, she writes:

The Sounds and Sights

Have altered

In my hills

Once they hummed

With bird-song

And happy gurgling brooks

Like running silver

With shoals of many fish (line 1 – 8) (Ao, 2013: 157 – 158)

In lines 1 to 3, Ao laments the negative changes in her people’s cultural activities (music and songs), and natural rhythms (from trees and animals) which she referred to as ‘sounds’. The expression ‘sights’ include (the topography and festivities) which are adversely altered because of degradation propelled by the ravaging war. The expression ‘in my hills’ indicates Ao’s affinity, affiliation, fondness, empathy and identification with Nagaland which is her ancestral home. In lines 4 to 8, Ao reminisces by painting a picture that represents what the natural habitat – her hills — was before the degradation she refers to as alteration in line 2 began. In line 4, Ao applies personification by suggesting that the hills —the entire landscape — were exuding scintillating melody. The expression ‘birdsong’ in line 5, ‘happy gurgling brooks’ in line 6, and ‘shoals of many fish’ in line 8, are imageries and metaphors Ao utilized to suggest a naturally existing serene, peaceful and healthy ecosystem before the catastrophic alteration. These memories captured in line 4 to line 8 represent the realities of the pre-war era in Nagaland. In these lines (4 to 8) Ao presents to the readers who did not witness Nagaland’s eco-heritage before despoil, the healthy and beautiful reality it was, which will help them to appreciate better why she is melancholic with the subsisting reality. Still reminiscing, she writes:

The trees were many

Happy, verdant green

The seasons playing magic

On their many-splendored sheen

When summer went

The hills echoed

With the wistful whispers

Of autumnal leaves

Fluttering to their fall

In the winter-smelling breeze (line 9 – 18) (Ao, 2013: 157 – 158)

From line 9 to line 12, Ao indicates that the ‘flora’ in the region were lush, beautiful and healthy. From line 13 to line 18 Ao speaks about the climatic condition and weather of the region, which she presented as healthy with beautiful features. Again, in these lines (9 to 18) Ao spent significant time attempting to recollect, as a means of letting her readers see what avoidable actions have denied humanity. Then, in the following lines, she haltered her beautiful memories and transited abruptly to replicate the solemn mood which subsumes the pain and despoil war has brought to her and her people:

But today

I no longer know my hills,

The birdsong is gone,

Replaced by the staccato

Of sophisticated weaponry (line 19 – 23) (Ao, 2013: 157 – 158)

Then, from line 19 to line 23, Ao bemoans the catastrophic alteration that has taken place in her war-torn region. In line 19, Ao’s words ‘but today’ though literal means subsisting, however connotes the metaphor of when the catastrophic alteration actually began. Ao’s expression ‘I no longer know my hills’ in line 20 deftly encapsulates and summarizes her point-of-view. The above expression is a poignant conclusion laden with varied emotion and attributions. An attribution is that the expression suggests that she saw, dwelled and experienced ‘sounds’ and ‘sights’, emanating from the ‘fauna’, ‘flora’ and ‘ecosystem’ in the time of healthy and alluring habitat of Nagaland. In line 21, Ao bewails the loss of peacefulness and allure which the metaphor ‘birdsong is gone’ denotes. Thus, as at the period of publishing the poem “My Hills” the period of negative alteration characterized by a disturbing, dangerous, and destructive sounds of weapons of war emanating from the barrels of the Indian military and the insurgents (the freedom fighters) subsists. Still painting the picture of despoil, Ao bemoans:

The rivers are running red

The hillsides are bare

And the seasons have lost

Their magic

Because the very essence

Of my hills

Are lost

Forever (line 24 – 31) “My Hills” Book of Songs (Ao 2013: 157 – 158)

In lines 24 and 25, Ao laments the alteration that the war has dealt with ‘flora’, ecology, environment, and water sources. In line 24 the expression ‘the rivers are running red’ is a metaphor bewailing the spilling of human blood as a result of the war. In line 25, she statement; ‘the hillsides are bare’ moans about the massive negative effects the long draw war has brought upon the environment and ecology health. From line 26 to line 31, Ao observes that the beautiful ‘sights’ which the dwellers and tourists enjoyed are catastrophically altered, again because of the avoidable war. Thus, what remains are charred trees and agonizingly depleted wildlife in ravaged ecosystem and habitat. Thus, some of the animals have been driven off the region or are under extinction hence the beautiful and scintillating ‘sounds’ they produce are either diminishing or some gone. Also, the movement of heavy military equipments and explosion of bombs contribute towards the distressing degradation. Thus, the seasons though continue to come and gone as usual in the region, their allure and positive effect on topography and ecosystem are rapidly diminishing or barely evident. Clearly, line 27 to line 31, are filled with Ao’s sad emotions which are laden with discomfiture, disenchantment, melancholy and deprivation. Through this approach, Ao succeeds in presenting the seriousness of the issue at hand, which indicates her deployment of poetry as a powerful weapon of subversion, protest, conscience aggregation and advocacy.

In the essay titled ‘Terror Tales: The Naga Insurgency in the Writings of Temsula Ao and Easterine Kire’, Prajna Paramita Ray (2016) observes that Ao uses writings to publicise the “traumatic experiences of common Naga people living in the midst of violence” (58). Poignantly, Debashree Dattaray notes that “poets such as Temsula Ao, Mamang Dai, Cherrie L. Chhangte have vociferously critiqued neo-imperialist assumptions of indigenous identity, refusing to be labelled within so-called mainstream literary traditions of criticism” (2015: 37), and Prajna concludes that Ao’s poems “successfully reconstructs and problematizes the historicity of Naga insurgency by weaving together polysemic voices of authority and dissent” (2016: 66).

Despoil, Pains, and Disenchantment in Ojaide Eco-poetics

Just as studies on Ao’s eco-poetics on Nagaland suggest, scholarship on Ojaide’s[2] eco-poetry, provides similar illumination on the economic, socio-political and cultural implications of eco-degradation in the oil-rich Niger Delta region, South-South Nigeria, as well as the trope of eco-alienation (see Abba and Onyemachi 2020). The overview of Ojaide’s Delta Blues and Home Songs as presented in the collection’s blurb, indicates that this collection of poems “is a poetic diatribe against the environmental degradation of the Niger Delta and the unjust system which makes the people to be chief mourners and paupers in the midst of their oil wealth” (1998: blurb). Ojaide’s poems majorly revolve around “the feeling of disconnect between the inhabitants of the Niger Delta region and the oil wealth in their community” (Abba & Onyemachi, 2020: 1). Thus, Ojaide’s poetry “demonstrate that the Niger Delta indigenes, as a result, have been compelled to perceive the oil environment no longer as a source of improved life but as a metaphor for death” (Abba & Onyemachi, 2020: 1). Furthermore, Ojaide through his poems portray how the oil-rich region is perceived as an endangered environment because “oil exploration destroys the environment and reduces the opportunity for human survival” (Okuyade, 2013: 75).

“Delta Blues”, like most of Ojaide’s poems provides a deep and dense account regarding the deplorable human actions against Niger Delta eco-heritage and the inhabitants. In “Delta Blues”, Ojaide laments the monumental inhumanity which is driven by greed and selfishness subsumed in ultra capitalist penchant and worldview. In the first seven lines in “Delta Blues” Ojaide lets the reader feel his affinity, the context of despoil, the factors responsible for the existing despoil, the world’s apparent disinterest regarding the continuing degradation of eco-resources and heritage in Niger Delta. In the beginning line, Ojaide starts with recollection of warm memories as he states:

This share of paradise, the delta of my birth,

Reels from an immeasurable wound.

Barrels of alchemical draughts flow

From this hurt to the unquestioning world

That lights up its life in a blind trust.

The inheritance I sat on for centuries

Now crushes my body and soul . . . (line 1 – 7) (“Delta Blues” Ojaide, 1998: 21)

In line 1 Ojaide reminisces about the serenity, beauty and health of the Niger Delta natural environment, just as Ao speaks about her experiences of Nagaland before the beginning of its degradation, which are the good memories. However, in line 2, he sadly bemoans metaphorically, the monumental destruction of Niger Delta eco-heritage. And in line 3, he blames ‘crude oil’ exploration, results in massive spillages that contaminate the mangrove forests, rivers, creeks and farms. In line 4, he refers to the ‘oil’ buying countries as ‘selfish’ and ‘sanctimonious’ because all they care about is the consistent flow of oil regardless of the immense inhuman consequence that has become the reality of the Niger Delta inhabitants for decades. In line 6, he alludes to concept of eco-heritage as he indicates that the natural environment and all that are found therein are inheritance. Furthering, exuding his disenchantment, he sadly narrates:

My nativity gives immortal pain

Masked in barrels of oil

Stew in the womb of fortune.

I live in the deathbed

Prepared by a cabal of brokers

Breaking the peace of centuries

And tainting not only a thousand rivers,

My lifeblood from the beginning,

But scorching their sacred soil was debauched

By prospectors, money-monger?

My birds take flight to the sea,

And animals grope in the burning bush (line 8 – 19) (Ojaide, “Delta Blues” 1998: 21)

From line 8 to line 19, Ojaide attempts to elaborate deeply his repulsion as he touches on how ‘oil’ which supposedly should be ‘blessing’ has turned to a propelling factor and curse behind the despoil metaphorically. Also, in these lines, he points and elaborates on the culprits, the magnitude and consequences of their deplorable actions, the victimhood consciousness and bitterness of the Niger Delta inhabitants, and the scary future which this generation will leave behind. In line 10, he describes the massive oil reserve as fortune, however in line 11; he    deplores the precarious situation he (as the metaphoric representation of Niger Delta) dwells in. Essentially, because he speaks about a shared reality which he unambiguously emphasized in line 1 ‘this shared paradise’, he is supposedly using the expression in line 11 ‘I live in the deathbed’ to suggest his affinity and involvement, even though his feelings and experiences are common to Niger Delta Inhabitants. In line 12, he indicts the individuals, proxies and government agencies responsible for the oil commerce, as those behind the destruction of the health of the eco-heritage through their actions and inactions in line 13. In line 14, he poignantly points at what oil exploration has done to the nature resources using contaminated waters and land as clear illustrations. He bemoaned this reality because the waters and land are the sources of livelihood for the Niger Delta people who are mostly farmers and fishers in lines 15 and 16. In line 17, he describes the individuals in oil exploration in Niger Delta as self-centred capitalists. Thus, in lines 18 and 19, he laments the loss of fishes to contaminated waters and wildlife because of the relentless destruction of their habitat. Clearly, Ojaide’s words and comments in line 8 to line 19, subsumes melancholic disenchantment and anguish, which will propel the reader to appreciate the extent of nature resources destruction as a means of encouraging positive consciousness and better behaviour towards environment regeneration and conservation.

Conclusion

The eco-poetics of Ao and Ojaide portray the deplorable avoidable actions of people, the disinterest in conservation of natural environment in Niger Delta and Nagaland which have altered the eco-heritage in both regions adversely. The poems “My Hills” and “Delta Blues” portray dense poetic consciousness propelled by the poets’ love and affinity towards their eco-heritages. Though both poets employed relevant poetic devices and metaphorical nuances, such inclusions did not create ambiguity; hence in both poems the uses of language are fairly understandable depending on the awareness of the readers. Clearly, both poems serve the purpose of creating awareness to the global community, as a means of drawing attention to the destruction of the eco-heritage in Nagaland and Niger Delta. Consequently, both poems are advocacy texts, variously deploring the wanton destruction of natural habitat and eco-heritage. Also, both poets in the opening lines of their poems suggest unambiguous empathy and connection to the plight of the locals in their poems. More, so both poets observe that before the massive despoil in Nagaland and Niger Delta, both regions once had healthy and beautiful environments. Similarly, both poets singled out deplorable human actions as the reason behind the monumental degradation of their eco-heritage. They also presented their lamentations to accommodate locale specific realities even though their projection of their eco-heritage degradation reflects very similar consequences, such as possible extinction of some ‘flora’ and ‘fauna’, long lasting contamination rivers, streams, and lakes, and irredeemable defacing and degradation of once beautiful topography. Succinctly, both Ojaide and Ao deplore the apparent reality of disinterest by the global community who appear distant, lukewarm, or oblivious of the pain, agony and turmoil in the Niger Delta and Nagaland regions. Lastly, both poets suggest that the subsisting behaviours will continue to harm the environment; hence they have to stop for meaningful regeneration to commence.

Declaration of Conflicts of Interests
The author(s) declared no potential conflicts of interest.

Funding
No funding has been received for the publication of this article. It is published free of any charge.

Acknowledgement
Feature image by Tarun Baratiya.

Notes

[1]Temsula Ao, born in 1945 is a renowned writer, a poet, an academician, a recipient of numerous awards, is one of the most celebrated women writers of North-East India. Her prominent works include two collections of short stories titled These Hills Called Home: Stories from the War Zone (2005), Laburnum for my Head (2009), Aosenla’s Story (2017) and an essay called Henry James Quest for the Ideal Heroine (1989). Her poetry collections are Songs that Tell (1988), Songs That Try to Say (1992), Songs of Many Moods (1995), Songs from Here & There (2003), Songs from the other Life (2007), Book of Songs (2013), and Songs along the Way Home (2017). Her other prominent works include The Ao Naga Oral Tradition (2012), Once upon a Life: Burnt Curry & Bloody Rags, A Memoir (2014) and On Being a Naga: Book of Essays (2014) (see Chettri 2019; Dattaray, 2015).

[2]Prominent among Ojaide’s poems are The Questioner (2018), Songs of Myself: A Quartet (2015), Love Gifts (2013), The Beauty I Have Seen (2010), Waiting for the Hatching of a Cockerel (2008), The Tale of the Harmattan (2007), In the House of Words (2005), I Want to Dance and Other Poems (2003), In the Kingdom of Songs (2002), Invoking the Warrior Spirit: New and Selected Poems (2000), When It No Longer Matters Where You Live (1999), Invoking the Warrior Spirit (1999), Delta Blues and Home Songs (1998), Daydream of Ants (1997), The Blood of Peace (1991), The Fate of Vultures (1990), Poems (1988), The Endless Song (1988), The Eagle’s Vision (1987), Labyrinths of the Delta (1986), Children of Iroko and Other Poems (1973).

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Austin Chibueze Okeke is a lecturer in the Department of Theatre and Film Studies, University of Nigeria, Nsukka, where he received his PhD in Acting and Directing. He teaches Directing, Acting, Speech and Voice Production, Communication Theory, and Non-Verbal Communication. His research interest cuts across diverse spheres of Theatre art with a soft spot for Applied Theatre. He is a Fulbright Alumnus from the University of Kansas, USA.

Emeka Aniago is a senior lecturer in the Department of Theatre and Film Studies at the University of Nigeria, Nsukka where he received his MA in Drama and Theatre Arts before obtaining his PhD in Theatre and Film Studies from the University of Wales, United Kingdom. He has published his research papers in books and journals in Africa, Europe and Asia. He is President of the Africology Research Network and a member of the Society of Nigerian Theatre Arts.

MaryIsabella Ada Chidi-Igbokwe, an MBA and did her Ph.D. in Theatre Arts from University of Nigeria, Nsukka where she currently teaches Theatre Management, Creative Economy and Theatre Entrepreneurship. She has extensive experience in anti-corruption and development reforms in the public and private sectors. Her research interest is in the role of theatre in the fight against corruption.

Kenneth Ahaiwe is a Lecturer in the Department of English and Literary Studies, University of Nigeria, Nsukka. Currently he is completing PhD Thesis at Nnamdi Azikiwe University, Awka, Nigeria. His areas of interest are African Literature, Communication and Speech, and Poetry. He has published scholarly papers in national and international journals.

Adaptation of Shakespeare’s Plays into Assamese Farce: A Study on Historical Perspective

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Mohammad Rezaul Karim
Department of English, College of Science & Humanities, Prince Sattam bin Abdulaziz University, Al Kharj, Saudi Arabia. ORCID: 0000-0002-8178-8260. Email: karimrezaul318@gmail.com

Rupkatha Journal, Vol. 14, Issue 2, April-June, 2022, Pages 1–14. https://doi.org/10.21659/rupkatha.v14n2.ne13

First published: June 20, 2022 | AreaNortheast India | LicenseCC BY-NC 4.0

(This article is published under Themed Issue on Literature of Northeast India)
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Abstract

William Shakespeare has always been unanimously the most accepted model to follow for the writers of tragedy, comedy and other types of dramas. He enjoyed a great fascination in the latter half of the nineteenth century and the first few decades of the twentieth in India and almost all his works were translated to or adapted into different languages. As the Assamese writers did not lag behind in this respect too, they were inspired to translate and adapt Shakespeare in 1887 starting with The Comedy of Errors as Bhramaranga in Assamese. In this article, the researcher aims to examine the available Assamese translations and adaptations of Shakespearean comic plays and studied how far they contributed to the growth and development of Assamese comedy in particular and modern Assamese drama in general. With the help of the comparative method of analysis, the researcher found that Assamese comedy specially farces and the complete pre-independent Assamese dramatic literature have been impacted by the dramas of Shakespeare.

Keywords: Assamese drama, comedy, farce, Shakespeare, translation, adaptation

Introduction

Farce or Prahasana was a popular dramatic type in ancient Indian literature. It was a “one-act drama intended to excite laughter” (Wilson, 1971, p. 18). The subject was the playwright’s invention and dealt basically with the pranks and the tumults of the shallow dramatis personae of every kind. Thus, the Sanskrit Prahasana is much like the European farce, but it cannot be said that the former had any influence on our modern farce writers. We have no records of any farce being written in pre-British Assam, either in Sanskrit or in Assamese. Medieval Assamese drama was intended to please and edify, but it does not present a single instance of farce. In other words, Assamese literature does not have any tradition of writing farce. The writing of farces, like other types of drama, was undoubtedly a product of western influence, which came directly through English and also indirectly through Bengali. “During the early years of the growth of modern Bengali stage farces were more powerful and lively than serious drama: the heat and excitement that arose from the conflict between the old and the new in the society are nowhere more in evidence than in these plays” (Ghosh, 1968, p. 471). The Assamese students studying at Calcutta during the latter half of the nineteenth century, who read Bengali plays and also saw many of them performed, and who later became playwrights themselves, undoubtedly imbibed much of the art of farce writing from Bengali. Since the Assamese society of the time presented almost similar phenomena, it was not difficult for them to write farcical pieces like those in Bengali. It is also noteworthy that even in Shakespearean drama it was the lighter comedies almost verging on the farce that first attracted our earlier playwrights. All this shows that the nineteenth century and the earlier decades of the twentieth were congenial for farces and light satirical comedies rather than serious social drama – the audience wanted them, and the writers not only found the material for such plays but also models to follow.

Shakespeare enjoyed a great vogue in India in the latter half of the nineteenth century and the first few decades of the twentieth, and almost all his works were translated to or adapted into different Indian languages during the period. The Indian student of Shakespeare knew quite well that the people, who were experiencing a renaissance in every walk of life, would appreciate the works of Shakespeare with their emphasis on such ideals as belief in the greatness of man, patriotism, nationalism, and the Renaissance craving for a greater and fuller life. So, they undertook the great task of translating Shakespeare into their own languages, and as a result of this, the languages of India abound in translations and adaptations of Shakespeare.

The Assamese writer, too, did not lag behind in this respect, and since 1887 the year the first adaptation of The Comedy of Errors was brought out, there has been quite a good number of translations and adaptations of Shakespeare, some of which, unfortunately, have not encountered with the audience till today. The Assamese literature seems to be deficient in the main types of comic dramas. In the period we are dealing with, the type which is predominant is farce. Satyendranath Sarma stated that “the moral decay in the social life of the Assamese during the nineteenth century provided sufficient materials for writing farce and light comedy” (2015, p. 302). There are exceptions no doubt but seem to approximate in tone to farce when we examine its features closely. In this study, an attempt is being made to examine the available translations and adaptations of Shakespearean comic plays and to see how far, if at all, they have contributed to the growth and development of modern Assamese drama. The researcher has endeavoured to find out how much the Assamese dramatists have received from Shakespeare and what the responses of the Assamese dramatists to Shakespeare are.

A systematic and critical study of the subject appeared when Priyaranjan Sen brought out his work, Western Influence in Bengali Literature, where the writer has examined the Western impact on different branches of Bengali literature as well as the various channels through which this influence penetrated Bengal. Another work on the subject is Harendra Mohan Das Gupta’s Studies in Western Influence on 19th Century Bengali Poetry (1859 – 1887), in which the author examines in detail the historical background of the new influence. Outside Bengali literature, Syyad Abdul Latif’s work, Influence of English on Urdu Literature, deserves special mention. Another important work on the subject is The History and Culture of the Indian People, Vol. X, Part II, by R.C. Majumdar deals with the subject of Western influence on Indian thought and culture as well as the Indian people’s reaction to it. Dr Satyabrata Rout in his article Indianizing Shakespeare: Adaptations and Performances studied that “the socio-cultural milieu of India fusing with the tradition of West, often creates an ‘Indianized Shakespeare’” (2016, p. 1). Parvin Sultana in her research article Indigenising Shakespeare: A Study of Maqbool and Omkara observed that the literary world of Shakespeare has gone beyond the limits of the time and space and has been predominating the Indian literary sphere for about two centuries now (2014, p. 52). In fact, this subject has attracted diverse critics and historians in recent years, and it is neither possible nor necessary to mention all the works done so far, nor to speak of such publications in the vernacular languages.

Modern Assamese literature, like Bengali or any other literature of modern India, is largely a product of Western influence. This influence has permeated all the branches of this literature, including drama, on which the influence of Shakespeare has been so profound that the new drama that came into being in 1857 with Gunabhiram Barua’s Ram Navami has hardly any direct link with pre-British Assamese drama which has a four-century old history. Pona Mahanta has undergone his research, Western Influence on Modern Assamese Drama (1985) and studied the western influences on Assamese drama, however, he has not centrally focused on William Shakespeare. Maheswar Neog and Satyendranath Sarma have touched on the subject in a general sort of way in their books, Asamiya Sahityar Ruprekha (1970) and Asamiya Natya Sahitya (1973) respectively, but as the titles indicate, these books are concerned more with the growth and development of Assamese drama than with Shakespearean influence. Karim and Mondal (2019) studied the influence of William Shakespeare over pre-independent Assamese tragedy and the style and technique of Assamese drama. A few articles have also been written on the influence of Western dramaturgy especially Shakespearean over the Assamese dramatic atmosphere by Dr Dayananda Pathak, Dr Rajbongshi, Rajbongshi and Boro, Dr Paramananda Rajbongshi, Smriti Rekha Handique, Sailen Bharali, Basanta Kumar Bhattacharjee, etc. limiting their area of the subject in one or two dramas only. Thus, the question of Shakespearean influence on modern Assamese comedy since 1887 can be a subject of very close and careful study.

As the subject of the study is comparative, usually the method of comparative analysis is observed throughout the investigation. The study is based on both the primary and secondary sources and chiefly the technical devices of pre-independent Assamese dramatists are examined.  The importance of the stories and events of the Assamese dramas have been emphasized sometimes and citations to the text of the dramas are drawn up in some cases. The researcher endeavoured to furnish other references to the works of other authors to rationalize the statements and sometimes examples are provided to augment the hypothesis to establish the study more logical and reasonable.

Ratnadhar Barua, Gunjanan Barua, Ghanshyam Barua and Ramakanta Barkakati

The first Shakespearean play to be done in Assamese was The Comedy of Errors. Bhramaranga (1887). The Assamese version of the play is rather an adaptation than a translation as the story is wholly recast to an Indianized background. The four students studying at Calcutta, Ratnadhar Barua, Gunjanan Barua, Ghanshyam Barua and Ramakanta Barkakati who did this pioneering work, wrote in their preface:

There are many difficulties in translating Shakespeare into Assamese. In the first place, Shakespeare’s language and thought are so difficult that let alone a foreigner even British scholars have not been able to determine their precise meaning. Besides, it is not easy to transfer the thoughts, customs and behavior of an alien people to an adapted version, and so something of these has to be left out. While we have tried all our best to maintain the poet’s thoughts and ideas without loss, we have sometimes been constrained to change even some ideas of the great poet in order to fit them into the changed background. We have been very careful to see that the poetic quality of the piece is not destroyed, yet we do not dare to say that it is not strained since we have undertaken to translate it. (1887, p. 1)

We have seen that farces and light comedies were very popular during the initial years of the Western impact, and it was in keeping with the literary temperament of the time that the first Shakespearean play to be rendered into Assamese was The Comedy of Errors. In The Comedy of Errors, Shakespeare does not seem to have any philosophy to propound, nor is he serious in tone or intention. An atmosphere of fun and gaiety pervades the whole play, which does not seem to belong to any particular place or time. What matters most here are the different situations in which confusions are created leading to the hilarious fun, and once the translator is able to create similar situations in the new background that he adopts, the rest of his work becomes easy. This is what our translators have done, or at least tried to do. They have discarded the blank verse in favour of prose in order to make it down-to-earth and appealing to their audience. The names of the dramatis personae are aptly chosen: Solinus, Duke of Ephesus, becomes Ajitsimha, king of Mayapur; Aegeon, merchant of Syracuse, becomes Dhanbar, a merchant of Kamrup, while the two pairs of twins are the two Niranjans (one is Mayapuriya, the other is Kampuriya, meaning from Mayapur and from Kampur respectively). Ephesus, the scene of the original story, becomes Mayapur in the Assamese version, which is certainly an apt name for a place where such incidents happen.  (The word ‘Mayapur’ literally means ‘a city of magic’). Pinch, the school, is transformed into a village quack so that he fits well into the local situation. All the female characters except Luce have been retained, and their names are appropriately chosen: Sumanthira, Malati, Tara, Sonpahi, and all these names sound very Assamese indeed.

The use of colloquial prose in the dialogue throughout the play, except in the incantation blabbed out by the quack, Takaru Bej, lends more local colour to the story. The language is so nicely colloquilized and the sentiments localized that the translated piece reads almost like an original work. One example alone will prove this point. Pinch, thinking that Antipholus of Ephesus, is possessed by the devil, takes hold of his hand utters:

I charge thee, Satan, hous’d within this man.
To yield possession to my holy prayers,
And to thy state of darkness hie thee staright
I conjure thee by all the saints in heaven.
             (The Comedy of Errors, Act IV, Scene iv)

In the Assamese version, Pinch becomes a village quack who tries to dispel the evil spirit thus:

namo chakravak utapati bhaila,
tridarsha daityara maya samharibe laila
chausasti joginir ban kati khanda khanda karila
hum hum gir gir sagarar mala
      (Bhramaranga, Act IV, Scene iv)

Such a quack and a ‘mantra’ or incantation must have been very appealing to the Assamese audience in the 1890s, many of whom actually believed in evil spirits as well as in the ability of a quack to drive them off from a human being. Commenting on Bhramaranga (1887), Satyendranath Sarma says that “as the first attempt at translating Shakespeare it is undoubtedly a successful work. Sarma further opines that “anybody unfamiliar with the Shakespeare play cannot say that it is a translation, so skillfully is the rendering done” (2015, p. 7). Satyanath Bora, who was extremely delighted to witness the performance, made a very significant comment upon it. Bora wrote in Jonaki:

I have read the book thoroughly, and I have also witnessed its performance. The book is small in size, but of unique qualities…. The writers have adapted the English thoughts to the needs of the Assamese speech; therefore, while the thoughts are intact, the book is Assamese in spirit. (1890, p. 85)  

Bora evidently felt that the Assamese literature was generally deficient in the humour of the type displayed in the Shakespeare’s drama, however, exceptions can be made in the case of Kaniyar Kirtan (1861) and Kovabhaturi, written by Hem Chandra Barua; as in them the laughter is caused through manipulation of ideas, and Bhramaranga (1887) introduces a new consciousness in literary circles about the possibility of development of comic literature that is mainly expressed through the manner of speech or style. Evidently, he hinted at the appearance of a new consciousness of comic literature in Assamese in the Jonaki period. He particularly drew the attention of the writers and the audience to the role style plays in comedy. One has however to note that he makes no difference between farce or hasya rasa.

Hemchandra Barua

Hemchandra Barua’s Kaniyar Kirtan (1861), which the author subtitles in English as a “Play in Assamese on the Evils of Opium-eating”, was, of course, “put on the board quite a number of times at Sibsagar and elsewhere. And this was the first modern Assamese play to be performed on a modern stage at Sibsagar” (Hazarika, 1967, p. 92). The story of the play, briefly, is as follows: Bhadreswar Barua, a revenue-collecting officer (mouzadar), had a son, Kirtikanta. One day an Assamese preceptor, Padmapani, paid a visit to Bhdreswar’s house. Padmapani, who was an opium addict, would not be satisfied unless he was treated with a bit of the drug. Kirtikanta saw him eat the opium and could not help tasting it. This turned him into a regular opium-eater, and the result was that he was soon reduced to a skeleton. In due course, his wife, Chandraprabha, too, became a victim to the evil. Kirtikanta was unable to run the office of his father when it fell to him and took to unfair means even for mere existence. At last, he was arrested and sent to jail. Meanwhile, his wife died. After a few days in prison Kirtikanta also died in utter repentance.

Kaniyar Kirtan thus, is purely a social play, dealing as it does with a very serious contemporary problem. The play was written with a view to revealing the wicked influence of opium-eating that had long been preying upon the very vitals of Assam. Technically as well as stylistically, it is decidedly an improvement upon Gunabhiram Barua’s Ram-Navami (1857). It has nothing to do with prastavana nandi (introductory verse) or Sutradhara (anchor), which are integral parts of Ankiya Nat (one-act play in Assamese). The technique as well as the style is largely modeled on Shakespearean dramaturgy with no influence at all of Sanskrit drama. No doubt, the playwright has a moral to convey, but it is not delivered through a Sutradhara but through the hero himself, who admits repentantly:

Opium is the worst of poisons.
The opium-eater hasn’t the least wisdom.
Alas! Alas! What a terrible misery!
Opium is at the root of the destruction of Assam.
(Kaniyar-Kirtan, Act VI, Scene iii)

The play is in four acts with three to four scenes in each act. The playwright shows some skill in dramatic construction. The plot is developed well, and the degradation of the hero as a result of a deep-rooted evil is tellingly shown. The play, despite its serious theme, bristles with bitter satire and biting sarcasm. But the satire and the sarcasm are only on the surface: They should not be allowed to mislead us into believing that Kaniyar Kirtan is a farcical piece.

Modern Assamese dramas, as discussed above, are divided into acts and scenes exactly like a Shakespearean drama. This is undoubtedly a result of the Shakespearean influence, for during the latter half of the nineteenth century no dramatist was read and imitated as much as was Shakespeare. Kaniyar Kirtan is divided into four acts, though not five, each having separate scenes. Pona Mahanta observes:

Like Gunabhiram Barua, Hemchandra Barua was also from an aristocratic family of Assam, educated in Calcutta, and as such, it was but natural that in technique as well as in theme they were influenced by European, particularly Shakespearean drama, although it has to be admitted that much of this influence came through Bengali. (1985, p. 65)

Padmanath Gohain Barua

Padmanath Gohain Barua has given us three farcical pieces: Gaobura (The Village Headman, 1890), Teton Tamuli (1908) and Bhut ne Bhram (Is it Ghost or Illusion, 1924). Gaobura, the earliest yet the best of the three, is rather a light comedy than a farce (Barua, 1964, p. 153). It gives a near realistic picture of the British administration of the time. The contemporary Assamese life and society in the countryside are also nearly truthfully depicted. Its story is as follows: Bhogman, a well-to-do and respectable peasant, is forcibly recruited as a porter by a team consisting of the village headman, the mandal (surveyor) and police. These petty government servants are corrupt and accustomed to taking bribes. Bhogman considers this to be an insult and to amend it, he himself decides to become a headman. He believes that this will bring him power and prestige. Through the good offices of the mouzadar (Settlement Officer), he gets the honorary job of a headman and is now entitled to prestige and some dues. However, the job being honorary and time-consuming affects his normal domestic and farm work, and he soon finds himself in straitened circumstances. His poverty becomes pronounced and he is even unable to pay his revenue dues. We then find Bhogman collecting rations for the District Magistrate (who is on a tour) forcibly from some villagers gratis, but this does not bring him credit but only maltreatment by the officer’s retinue. Misfortunes come to him in quick succession. The mouzadar orders attachment of his property for collecting arrears of revenue due in his name. In the fifth Act, attachment of property takes place under humiliating and pitiable circumstances. Then the Magistrate tries him on the charge of the forcible lifting of some hens from a Muslim house. This he had to do in spite of himself, as he was asked to collect rations for the District Magistrate gratis. It is during the trial that the Magistrate comes to know about the actual circumstances under which an honorary gaobura (village headman) has to discharge his duties. He takes to remedy the situation, but by then Bhogman is already tired of his job and relinquishes it, heaving a sigh of relief.

In this light comedy, the character of Bhogman is the main object of pity and laughter. There are, however, satirical elements that are directed against the practice of bribery, the inferiority complex of Indians before the Sahibs, greed for money among rural jurors, forcible collection of rations, the peculiar Hindi jargon used by sahibs and administrative ignorance of the part of high officials. But these are secondary elements. In Bhogman’s character, we find several situations of laughter. Firstly, Bhogman’s false sense of prestige is not becoming a porter and his equally unreal solution is accepting the job of a village headman to save his eroded prestige. This feudal sense of prestige is already anachronistic in the new milieu ushered in by British rule. Secondly, the contradiction between his behaviour and the real social situation is carried in the drama to a comic magnitude in two ways. At home, he faces an economic crisis which ruins his peace of mind and drives him to a state of acute misery. Outside, he is insulted in the most cynical manner by the sahib’s menials on the flimsy ground of insufficient supply of ration. His misery reaches an acute tragic proportion from his point of view, but strangely this only evokes mere laughter, though not unmixed with pity. This is so because his moral views are feudal; he does not realize that an honorary job in a capitalist society is useless and only a source of misery.

His eccentricity is highlighted by the fact that he remains unaware and unrepentant till the end. This leads to the development of the comic situation which we all enjoy, but not without some compassion for him in his misery. In many ways, Bhogman is an authentic comic character. He is comic without appearing to be so. But it is the humour of a different kind. There is sadness in it. Bhogman makes himself a butt of ridicule because he knows no English and also because he is ignorant of the ways of a British officer. Allardyce Nicoll observes, “Humour, we shall find, is often related to the melancholy of a peculiar kind, not o fierce melancholy, but a melancholy that arises out of pensive thoughts and broodings on the ways of mankind” (1998, p. 199). The humour of Gaobura is certainly of such nature because, despite the fact that much of it appears in words, manners and situations which are apparently ludicrous, it is as a whole tinged with thoughtful broodings over the ways of the world. This is clear in the conversations between Bhogram and his wife as well as between him and another village headman. These are full of concern about their own lot. It is only the way they talk and their mannerisms that often make us laugh.

Teton Tamuli (1909) and Bhut ne Bhram (1924) are two other dramas by Padmanath which are called comical. Among these two dramas, the latter cannot be called comical in the true sense. The author himself was aware of this when he said, “It is true that the drama may not be fit to be called comic; but if this can remove the illusory belief in ghosts among men even to a limit extent, the author would be gratified” (Gohain Barua, 1971, p.  313).

Gohain Barua further says, “the play is a series of scenes drawn with a view to removing the popular superstitions about ghosts” (1971, p. 313). Considering the advanced age of the author, Gohain Barua additionally observes, “the play, it is true, may not deserve to be called a farce, but he (the author) would consider his labour rewarded if only it helps in removing, at least partly, the superstitions concerning ghosts in which the society is steeped” (1971, p. 313). The way in which the educated members of a “reforms Committee” try to prove the unreality and non-existence of ghosts, their initial doubts and hesitations, the dialogue of the rustic folk concerning spirits, are sure to rouse laughter even in the most reserved among the audience.

Teton Tamuli, on the other hand like Bezbarua’s Litikai, is a farce based on a folk story. Teton, according to Dr P.D. Gosvami, is “a picaro or picaroon of Assamese oral literature. The story is still popular among Assamese villages” (1947, p. XXIII). Teton is a witty plebeian. Driven out of his home for his sharp witty tongue, he goes out into the wide world as a needy and hungry man. However, he is soon involved in deeds of crime such as theft, cow-killing and cheating a woman fruit-seller. Charges are brought against him in the King’s court. He argues his case well but cunningly and proves that he did not commit those offences. The defence is witty in nature. Later on, he makes himself eligible to marry the daughter of a court official by a clever device and this helps him in becoming an official of the court. The drama retains the absurd atmosphere of a folk story.

His paradoxical replies are as witty as his literal interpretation of a few sentences uttered by the tiller and the fruit-seller. This is what the tiller says: sou baghar bukuloi yova garuto mar eta mari rakhi diyagoi. Literally interpreted, this would mean that Teton should go and beat the bull that is fit to be devoured by a tiger to death. Teton actually goes and kills the bull. But this is not what the tiller meant. He spoke in a figurative manner and simply asked Teton to help him in stopping the running wily bull so that he could take him to the field. He used idiomatic expressions instead of plain speech. Baghar bukuloi yoa means ‘wily’ or ‘damned’ whereas, mari rakhi diyagoi means ‘to control and stop the bull’ (Gosvami, 1947, pp. 292-293).

In the King’s court, Teton argues cunningly that he acts as he has been instructed and got acquitted. This is a travesty of justice, but a concession to the incongruity of words. The paradoxical utterances that create verbal misunderstandings among two ridiculous characters here give rise to laughter. Exaggerated situations, ludicrous characters and humorous dialogue are the stuff of which this farcical piece is made.

All the three plays are in five acts divided into scenes. The matter in the plays is so thin and light that hardly any of them needs a five-act structure. This only shows how fast the tradition of the five-act play was held in Gohain Barua even in the third decade of the twentieth century.

Durgaprasad Majindar Barua

Mahari (The Tea Garden Clerk) by Durgaprasad Majindar Barua was written in 1893 though it came out in print in 1896, which was a “roaring success on the stage for several decades” (Neog, 1975, p. 22). The play in three acts with a few scenes to each act depicts how a young man, with the help of the European manager’s native mistress, succeeds in getting a clerical post in a tea garden and how his own ignorance together with the jealous head clerk’s conspiracy ultimately compels him to leave the job. There is much in the play to rouse laughter: the eccentric Mr Fox, the English manager of the garden; the fisherwoman, Makari, who is the manager’s mistress; and Bhabiram, the newly-appointed young clerk, provide most of the fun. In fact, the characters, the situations and the dialogue are all contrived in such a way as to create mirth. Bhabiram’s ignorance of English, Mr Fox’s smattering of Assamese, and Makari’s often unrefined and biting language are the sources of much of the fun which is so characteristic of the piece. Mahari, indeed, was so popular on the stage that the eccentric Mr Fox and his fisherwoman mistress, Makari, “become by-words for hilarious comedy, and several good actors of Assam became widely known by these roles” (Neog, 1975, p. 22). Of his other farces, Negro(?) which is not available now, ridicules the blindly Westernized people of Assam, while Kaliyug (1904), written in collaboration with Benudhar Rajkhowa, satirizes the hypocrisies of preceptors and priests (Mahanta, 1985, p. 208).

Benudhar Rajkhowa

Benudhar Rajkhowa gained vast admiration as a farceur with his Kurisatikar Sabhyata (The Civilization of the Twentieth Century, 1908). Tini Ghaini (Three Wives, 1928), Asikshita Ghaini (The Uneducated Wife), Chorar Shristi (The Creation of Thieves, 1931) and Topanir Parinam (The Consequence of Sleep, 1932). In the first, the playwright exposes the hypocrisy of the Westernized youths of Assam. They are contemptuous of the older and time-honoured faiths of their own land but are not prepared to accept whole-heartedly the Western faiths either. They profess to be atheists and non-believers in the caste system, whereas, in reality, they follow all the older customs for fear of society. Tini Ghaini and Asikshita Ghaini show how co-wives and uneducated wives can make a husband’s life miserable. In Topanir Parinam, laughter is created through a play on the word ‘topani’ meaning ‘sleep’. A young man, called Topani, seduces a young girl and is compelled to marry her. Chorar Sristi appears to be patterned after Shakespeare’s The Comedy of Errors and The Taming of the Shrew. Two husbands, Dhumuha and Mauram, lead unhappy lives with their wives because of temperamental incompatibility. Dhumuha, a quarrelsome and excitable young man, is married to a simple and amiable woman; while Mauram, a peaceable youth, is married to a termagant. One night a clever and well-meaning thief comes to know of this unhappiness, and with the help of a charm that he knows gets the wives exchanged. The shrew, who was making Mauram’s life miserable with her fiery temperament, is completely tamed by the stormy Dhumuha.

These little plays of Rajkhowa may be called light comedies of situations. The mirth is created not so much through characters and dialogue as through shrewdly contrived situations. But beneath the laughter lies the playwright’s corrective motives. In all these plays he not only exposes the hypocrisies of the educated class but also pleads for a rational approach to life.

Lakshminath Bezbarua

Lakshminath Bezbarua wrote four comic dramas, Litikai (1890), Nomal (1913), Pachani (1913) and Chikarpati Nikarpati (1913). All these pieces depend on their theatrical effects on exaggerated situations, incongruous characters, malapropisms, and other deviations from the normal. Satyendranath Sarma points out that “the dramas are deficient in dramatic action and based mostly on the laughter of situations and incongruity of words” (1973, p. 300). The author amended the elements of the stories derived from the folk stories to match his requirements.

In Litikai (1890), we found that there are seven orphaned arch fools, who work in a home of Brahmin family. These fellows have strange manners of executing things and they kill their master’s mother in one of their brainless acts.  This provokes the master to execute them in revenge. However, one of the fools managed to escape his end, and in return, out of revenge married the master’s sister-in-law by cheating. The seven orphaned arch fools as characters in the play, however, did not imprint any mark with their verbosity.  Their plebeian personalities are highlighted in the humorous way of speech and naivete. They are unlettered, mostly indolent, credulous, superstitious, and parasitic. They talk in a strange manner and do ridiculous acts frankly and one would surely get the conviction that they live in a mock world.

The seven arch fools sometimes observe the straightforward meaning of the expression and act seriously which generates laughter. The word ekatha signifies either a ‘measure of rice’ or ‘a measure of land’. In one occasion, all the fools are asked by the master to hoe a katha of land, however, each fool evades the allotted work and they hoe a piece of earth weighing a katha.

A similar act is done by the fools, which ensues in killing the master’s mother, Subhadra –

Satotai – ai ai, dangari kot thom? Kan cigi ahiche tenei, kouk begai, kot thom? Kouk, kouk.
Subhadra – (khongere) thoboloi thai pova nai yadi mor murar operate tha.
(Litikai, Scene III, Act IV)

[The seven fool brothers – o mother, where will we place these bunches of paddy?  It is hurting our shoulders, quickly tell where will put these? Tell, tell.

Subhadra – (Angrily) If you don’t find any place to put those bundles, keep those bundles on my head.]

And to our surprise, they do so in reality and as a result, the mother of the master dies.

The master now realizes that the fools are mere burdens to him, therefore, he makes up his mind to do away with them. He succeeds to kill six of them, but the seventh one manages to escape from his master’s grudge. Interestingly, the living fool abruptly acts like a very clever fellow and successfully manipulates to espouse the master’s sister-in-law by way of cheating. The end, as Satyendranath Sarma points out, is somewhat improbable and there the fifth Act appears to be rather out of tune with the spirit of the whole drama. Sarma further says, “There is plenty of horseplay in the drama and it emanates from the improbable incongruities and most trivial incidents. It is a short play with a weak plot and indifferent characterization” (1973, p. 301). It is a pure farce.

In Nomal (1913), the mirth is created through a series of situations in which a rickety old man is constantly humiliated and mortified because of his foolishness and malapropisms. The brief story of the play is as follows: Naharphutuka approaches to spiritual master in Athiyabari sattra to request him to give a suitable name for his newborn baby. The guru of the Athiyabari sattra, then, is introduced to us. He leads a life of pompous manner by earning money in a dishonest way.  He gave a name for Nahraphutuka’s son, ‘Nomal’. As he has some problems with pronunciation, he uttered the name as ‘Nemel’ (which means ‘do not sail’). As he fears forgetting the name, he starts repeating the name ‘Nemel’ on his way home. A trader who is about to start his voyage on a boat hears Naharphutuka uttering ‘Nemel’ and on hearing this the merchant becomes angry and beats him. Naharphutuka then ruefully says, ‘nohowabor hol ou’ (happened something unusual). And he utters these words as he proceeds on. A rich Ahom is passing that road in a palanquin in a ceremonial and glamourous way, misunderstanding the utterings to be really meant an inauspicious remark on his noble rank. On being angry, the merchant beats him again. Then, Naharphutuka cries out in torment and says, ‘one is more oppressive than the other’. This very uttering again offends two diseased travellers. One is suffering from elephantiasis and the other is suffering from goitre. Then, they act with him very roughly too. Being traumatized and disheartened, Naharphutuka, arrives home and he realizes that he has forgotten the name. However, he remembers the name ‘Nemel’ when his wife is almost opening his bag. (The term ‘Nemel’ also means ‘do not open). The consortium of words with the action of the unfolding of bag helped him remember the name. It is, therefore, oral and incidental misconception that creates this farcical story to progress on. The element of satire present in the play is incidental and there is much entertainment in the word ‘Nomal’. A sort of punning impact is articulated while Naharphutuka utters it in the rural fashion. The incidents of beating Naharphutuka are brief and merely ridiculous. These ridiculous fancies are hilarious and comical.

Bezbarua gives a slightly better account of himself in Pachani (1913). It is comparatively a graceful farce and there are juxtapositions of contrasting ideas and intertwist of fun and satire. The play is segregated into five scenes. As the play opens up, we see that Dharmai Pachani, a childless man, who is religiously devoted, has developed a habit of having guests every night. That night, he returns home without any guests after a vain search for them. Then we see that he is busy making a ‘dheki-thora’ (grinding stick of a ‘dekhi’ or a pounding machine), and at this moment two guests have turned up. Then, he, being overjoyed having the guests, goes shopping. His wife, on the other hand, does not like this attitude of her husband and she used to drive out the guests. She holds the grinding stick of the pounding machine and tells them that she is going to beat them up with the stick. On hearing this, the guests flee and at this very moment, Pachani arrives from shopping. He feels disappointed with the departure of the guests. His clever wife informs him that the guests are greedy and that on being refused to hand over to them the ‘dheki-thora’ (grinding stick), they took offence and left. Then, Pachani gets the grinding stick in his hand and follows the guests with the intention to give it to them. When the guests see that Pachani is following them with the dreaded piece of wood in his hand; they speed and run out of that place. The husband returns back unhappy with a small pet animal (a domestic cat) as a guest and as a substitute. It is full of zest and laughter, especially the scene in which Pachani follows the panicked guests with the piece of wood in hand.

In Chikarpati-Nikarpati (1913) also, there is full of fun. It arouses laughter through the two thieves’ display of methods used by them in larceny as well as of corruption in the court. Pona Mahanta observes, “these plays are nothing but purely farcical pieces which undoubtedly appealed to the rustic audience of the time” (1985, p.  205). Chikarpati-Nikarpati starts with a scene where a trial is going on. In the trial, Chikarpati is adjudicated for a charge of theft of a brass pot. It comes to an end in his liberation from the charges. The adjudications are convened in the modern court, however, as Chikarpati’s state is governed by a king, the adjudication scenes are old-fashioned and traditional. To see the capability of the acclaimed thief, the king employs him to steal a ring from him when he is sleeping in the bedroom. And in this mission, Chikarpati successfully steals the ring from the king. Then, the king employs him to get him a man for his daughter’s bridegroom. And in this also, he becomes successful. Later, when the bridegroom becomes the king, he announces the thief to be his minister.

B.K. Bhattacharyya (1982) opines that –

The drama is not only loose in structure, but full of improbable incongruities. A thief who steals a brass-pot is introduced as the great thief. Then the king uses his services for procuring for his daughter a bridegroom, who again promises him to make him his minister. All these are very amusing, as the identical appearances of the two thieves, Chikarpati and Nikarpati create a comic situation based on chance. (pp. 193-194)  

The atmosphere of the play is, however, farcical. The trial scenes and the scene of the conversation between the pleaders of opposite parties in the Chikarpati case are a reflection of manners of Bezbarua’s time and the former is full of plebian laughter. But the scene of a heart-to-heart talk between the pair of lovers, Rongdoi and Chikarpati is improbable, extremely light and farcical. According to Birinchi Kumar Barua (1964):

The exaggerated situation, irony of thought and words, malapropisms and humorous dialogues – these are the characteristics of these farces. There is hardly any development of plot. The humour is low because it is invariably one of situations. Exaggeration is the very breath of these farces and hence they are often unreal. (p. 150)

Of the many other farces published before the thirties, mention may be made of Chandradhar Barua’s Bhagya-Pariksha (Fate Decided, 1916). Based on the tale of Khaza Hosen in the Arabian Nights, this little play in a lighter vein dramatizes the relative merits of fate and affluence. Padmadhar Chaliha in his Nimantran (Invitation, 1915) creates laughter by exploiting the lack of common sense on the part of four ‘foolish wise men’. Mitradev Mahanta, a leading actor and playwright, has published quite a good number of farcical pieces of which Biya Biparyaya (The Marriage Debacle, 1924) and Kukurikanar Athmangala (The Reception of the Night-blind son-in-law, 1927) were at one time ‘warmly received at every theatre in Assam’. In the former piece, mirth is created through incongruous situations and behaviour. He also ridicules through dramatic exaggeration such evils of contemporary society as child marriage, dowry and superstition. The source of laughter in the latter play is mainly the incongruous behaviour of the son-in-law, who, in his vain attempts to conceal his night-blindness, only exposes himself and makes himself ridiculous. Mahanta has published a few more farces such as Eta Curat (One Cigarette), Tengar Bhengar (The Clever Rogoue), Checha Jyar (Cold Fever), Achin Kathar Thora (The Bluff Giver) and others. All these pieces are meant for mirth which the playwright creates through exaggerated situations, spicy dialogue and ludicrous characters.

Farcical pieces and low comedies continued to be written even after the thirties of the twentieth century, but gradually their place came to be taken by serious social plays. Of those who wrote such plays after 1930, mention may be made of Lakshminadhar Sarma, Surendranath Saikia, Kumudchandra Barua, Karunadhar Barua, Binandacchandra Barua, Prabin Phukan, Premnarayan Datta and a few others. In most cases, the light dramatic pieces written by these writers were like sugar-coated pills because, although their apparent aim was to arouse laughter, they also aimed at exploring the follies and hypocrisies of a society still in transition. But after the Second World War, the farce as a dramatic type almost ceased to be a living force, its place being taken by plays on serious social as well as psychological themes. The effects of the War, the disillusionment that immediately followed the attainment of Independence, the rapid spread of scientific and technological knowledge, and the popularity of such thinkers as Marx and Freud – all came to have their impact on literature including drama. Pona Mahanta (1985) stated:

The audience no longer looked for boisterous comedy created through exaggeration of all kinds; instead, they wanted to see flesh and blood human being in real human situations. The playwright was ready to give them this, and as a result drama became almost entirely social and inward in place of farcical and mythological (p. 210).

Conclusion

Although the new drama in Assamese began with plays of a social-realistic type, the latter years of the nineteenth century and the initial ones of the twentieth were largely a period of farces, as well as translations and adaptations. Shakespeare was naturally the first and the greatest favourite to be translated, adapted and imitated. But while several of the Shakespearean adaptations seem to have been successful as stage plays, their influence on the Assamese drama is not obvious. The writers of the plays draw their subject matter from indigenous sources. But, the themes apart, all these plays were modelled on Western dramatic methods, particularly those of Shakespeare. And with the plays of Bezbarua and Gohain Barua, Shakespeare, whose influence had been felt as early as 1857, became the dominant influence on pre-independent Assamese comedy and all types of Assamese dramas. Of all the fields of literature, dramatic piece of art is unquestionably responsive to societal transformation. The pre-independent Assamese dramatic literature is in debt for its progress to its exposure to the West. It is also greatly responsible for the phenomenal transformation of our society, which in every facet, has gone through in the course of the period. Thus, it can be concluded that this influence has been continuously operating in various ways and it is found that the entire pre-independent Assamese dramatic literature has been affected by the plays of Shakespeare. Though the content of the plays is native, the style and technique are purely modelled on the dramas of William Shakespeare.

Declaration of Conflict of Interests

The author(s) declared no potential conflicts of interest.

Funding

No funding has been received for the publication of this article. It is published free of any charge.

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Filming Folktales: The ‘Uncanny’ in Bhaskar Hazarika’s Kothanodi (“The River of Fables”)

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Farddina Hussain
Department of English, Gauhati University, Guwahati, Assam, India. ORCID: 0000-00025232-6358. Email: fardina1ster@gmail.com

Rupkatha Journal, Vol. 14, Issue 2, April-June, 2022, Pages 1–10. https://doi.org/10.21659/rupkatha.v14n2.ne12

First published: June 20, 2022 | AreaNortheast India | LicenseCC BY-NC 4.0

(This article is published under Themed Issue on Literature of Northeast India)
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Abstract

The affinity between Assamese literature and cinema has only grown over the years since its inception in 1935; in the history of Assamese cinema, film adaptation had begun with Jyoti Prasad Agarwala’s Joymoti and Padum Baruah’s Gonga Silonir Pakhi. It is no surprise that Bhaskar Hazarika too turned towards the well-known collection of folktales Burhi Air Sadhu by Lakshminath Bezbaroa for the subject of his debut feature film Kothanodi, The River of Fables in 2015. Bezbaroa in the book mentions his views on folktales as markers of cultural identity of Assamese community and wanted his anthology to strengthen the feelings of Assamese nationalism among the people of the land.  The paper proposes to reflect on this take of Bezbaroa on identity and culture, and go ahead to analyse the gaze of Bhaskar Hazarika as an auteur. With two successful feature films to his credit, the filmmaker is known for his depiction of the ‘uncanny’ (Freud) and horror to delve deep into the dark recesses of the mind, and society simultaneously. Whereas Bezbaroa’s folktales have been regarded as bedtime stories for children, the paper would like to argue that the viewing of these tales in the film by young children evokes horror and dismay. The dialectical simulation of images created by the auteur resonates more with the adult minds as he offers the contours of his film-philosophy with an Amazonian cosmology.

Keywords: Assamese Folktales, Multinaturalist Perspectivism, Adaptation, Uncanny

It does not come as a surprise that Bhaskar Hazarika, the noted filmmaker from Assam has adapted four folktales from Sahityarathi Lakshminath Bezbaroa’s Grandma’s Tales for his debut feature Kothanodi in 2015. Adaptations in Assamese cinema has a long history; it had begun with Jyoti Prasad Agarwala’s Joymoti (1935) and has continued ever since through the 1970s and 1980s in films like Padum Baruah’s Gonga Silonir Pakhi (1976) or in Bhabendranth Saikia’s films. Folk elements, short stories and novels have always inspired filmmakers. This paper instead of tracing such a history discusses analytically Bhaskar Hazarika’s ways of adaptation, realism, and the liberty he exercises as an auteur to foreground his film-philosophy. An auteur-filmmaker stands apart from film directors and scriptwriters as a major creative force who is responsible for fundamental cinematic grammar like “camera placements, blocking, lighting, scene length rather than [focusing on] only the plot line or the theme” (Britannica). He would oversee all audio and visual elements of the motion picture and is like the author of the film and not only a scriptwriter. He is the camera-pen, camera-stylo (Britannica). In other words, these features create a distinct personal style and philosophy of the auteur in the film. The director of Kothanodi besides being the scriptwriter is also the creative force behind the film. He is primarily concerned with his vision of the world in cinematic images and is in control of every element of a mise-en-scene. With this, in view, the paper attempts to explore the ways of filming the four Assamese folktales by the auteur and see if his film presents a simulacrum of reality.

Jean Baudrillard in his reference to postmodern culture and representation (Baudrillard, [Simulacra and Simulation], 1988) associated the third type in his list of simulacra to the postmodern age. For him there is a precession of simulacra, that is the representation precedes and determines the real. There is no longer any distinction between reality and its representation, there can only be the simulacra. We’re so bombarded by cliches—television images, fantasies, cinema, social networks—that it is difficult to avoid them and therefore there is no original copy. According to Baudrillard postmodern culture is directed by models and maps and we have forgotten the prior reality that precedes maps. Reality itself is created by following certain maps or models.

The folktales can be regarded as the givens. Bhaskar Hazarika in the film attempts like a painter to clear the givens to dive deep into the recesses of the origin/past and rubs off models, maps and cliches. He has moved away from the simulacra to establish new forms of reality and moves towards the origins, towards the primordial phase. This reiterates Deleuze’s observation in his Francis Bacon: The Logic of Sensation (Deleuze, 1981/2017) when he writes on the ways a painter works:

… the painter does not have to cover a blank surface, but rather would have to empty it out, clear it, clean it. He does not paint in order to reproduce on the canvas an object functioning as a model; he paints on images that are already there, in order to produce a canvas whose functioning will reverse the relations between model and copy. In short, what we have to define are all these “givens” [donnees] that are on the canvas before the painter’s work begins, and determine, among these givens, which are an obstacle, which are a help, or even the effects of a preparatory work (Deleuze, 1981/2017, p. 61).

The themes and models offered by the folktales can be regarded as the givens and Bhaskar Hazarika in an attempt to clear models, maps and cliches has moved away from the simulacra to establish new ways of looking at reality and its representation. He goes deep into the origins and to the pre-model, pre-modern phase. He looks into the recesses of the past and in the folktales and beliefs rooted in the Assamese society to create a visual-philosophical projection of the uncanny and highlights a world of ‘multinaturalist perspectivism’ (2013), as offered by Viveros de Castro in his anthropological study of Amazonian communities.

I

In an interview, quoted in Scroll.in, the director and scriptwriter of Kothanodi, Bhaskar Hazarika informs us of his desperate search for locales untouched by modern lifestyle which finally led him to the river island of Majuli (Ramnath, 2015, p. Trending). He decided to carry on with exploring the island as it promised a suitable setting for the thematic concerns of the film. Reaching there with the crew and equipment was not easy as they needed to be ferried to the island. However, despite the logistical constraints, it was a prerequisite for the theme and purpose of the film:

We eventually shot much of the film on the Majuli island, which increased our budget by five-six per cent. We had to hire barges to take our equipment across the river. It was worth it since we could show the island’s full beauty. (Ramnath, 2015, p. Trending)

It proved to be a successful move as the island provided an idyllic rural locale for the folktales that explore a cosmology of both human and non-human assemblances and disruptions.

Such specificities of a setting can be necessitated particularly for two reasons: firstly, his adaptation of four tales from Burhi Air Sadhu, the Assamese folktales collated by Lakshminath Bezbaroa and secondly, to explore the pre-modern thought and culture as different from the modern western binary culture. To begin with, as discussed in various essays and books the folktales or Grandma’s Tales represent the cultural heritage of Assam: “It presents Assam as a land where such stories have existed for centuries; where man, nature and the paranormal are in a relationship and not always of the holy kind.” (Ghosh, 2020, p. Assamese Reviews).

Lakshminath Bezbaroa is known as the doyen of Assamese literary and cultural Renaissance and is honoured by the literati of Assam with the title of Sahityarathi, “an epithet which is [used] rather in the epic and heroic vein like the heroes of the Mahabharata and Illiad (Chatterji, 2014, p. Cover).  As noted by Bhaben Barua, “in the annual session of the Society held in 1891 over which Gunabhiram Barua presided, Bezbaroa, in his annual secretarial report, declared that it was one of the aims of the Society to discover the lines along which the Assamese mind (‘asamiya manuhor manasikota’) had evolved since the ancient times. In a later period Bezbaroa engaged himself in the pioneering task of the reconstruction of the past of Assam, that is, of an exposition of the three basic element of Assam’s cultural heritage: (1) the folk tradition, (2) the religious tradition (3) the political history” (Barua, 2014, p. 32). He contributed to the folk tradition by collecting almost 70 Assamese folktales and in 1912 and 1913 published three volumes, namely, Kaka Deuta Nati Lora, Burhi Air Sadhu and Junuka in an attempt to develop Assamese identity, language and culture. However, his quest was for a “cultural synthesis, in which the Assamese people would discover their ‘true voice of feeling’” (Barua, 2014, p. 35)

Folklores are traditional beliefs, customs and stories of a community passed on through generations orally by ‘telling’ them. It is common to all cultures and certain attributes of these tales transcend all cultures.  Folklorists often like to differentiate the notions of myths, legends and folktales. Folktales are generally understood as the stories told at leisure to entertain “fireside tales, winter nights tales, nursery tales, coffee-house tales, sailor yarns, pilgrimage and caravan tales to pass the endless nights and days” (Campbell, 2002, p. 749). However Assamese folktales are called sadhukatha which according to Bezbaroa is a “moral tale or teaching of saints or virtuous people” (Nath, 2011, p. 216) which shows that the elders were concerned about imparting values and advice to the young minds through stories. The stories were told to excite their imagination and also aim at teaching a moral lesson. For him every community has their own set of distinctive folktales which represent the identity, culture and beliefs of the people: “Language and folktales are the bones and brains of a people. The Assamese call their language as maat and their folktales sadhukatha”. He distinguishes sadhukatha as distinct from either Bengali or other tales but at the same time notes the tradition of telling tales orally in other parts of the world like Germany, Norway or France as well as in different parts of India. He shows how German scholars showed the world that “the history of an ancient tale or the history of a word was more valuable than the history of a big war” (qtd. in Nath, 2011, p. 214).

Often considered as bedtime stories for little children and young adults, these folktales serve as parables or an exemplum and a few are generally assumed to be apolitical. Bezbaroa mentions two kinds of tales: one that is didactic like Panchatantra and the other as a means to entertain “by giving full reign to the imagination” (Nath, 2011, p. 214), simultaneously acknowledging how these tales can also be used to understand the community’s knowledge systems. Nevertheless, it has to be mentioned that some Assamese folktales also attempt at exposing larger social issues of the hierarchy of class, caste and gender. This is made possible due to the close involvement of the community in ‘telling stories’. Their participation influences the themes and characterisations of the tales:

Folktales originate, grow, and are circulated among the people, and hence, the issues that affect the people get to be represented in the tales in various ways. In the old age when these tales took shape, the oppression of the kings, the tyranny of the priests and superstition among the people, for instance, were realities with which everyone was acquainted. Consequently, many of our tales voice concern over or present criticism of such issues. (Nath, 2011, p. 17)

The adaptation of these folktales, in that sense, can no longer remain innocent or only didactic in films like Kothanodi. Bhaskar Hazarika in his indebtedness to Bezbaroa has referred to four folktales entitled Champawati, Tejimola, Ou Kuwari (Elephant Apple Princess) and Tawoir Sadhu (“The Story of Tawoi”). The credit section in the film informs of his adaptation of events and characters from the tales in his film. As an auteur, he takes the liberty to re-read the tales and allow a new interpretation of the tales which he thinks may not be liked socially in Assam. His audio-visual medium presents the stories as more complex and darker than Bezbaroa’s tales. The bedtime stories of Bezbaroa’s collection mainly written for young readers no longer remained so in the films. It gets disconcertingly haunting with the filming of a chain of signifiers evoking mystery, disbelief and fear. In this, he is influenced by Japanese horror movies such as Onibaba and Kwaidan (Ramnath, 2015, p. Trending). The visuals on screen are matched by eerie music and wailing sounds. Cinema which is considered a movement of images, engages in a philosophy that the director and scriptwriter use to draw on a worldview different from the western binary culture and its anthropocentrism.

II

“This is my cultural heritage and I can take liberties with it. I like stories that are dark and macabre, and I changed the endings – for instance, the original elephant apple story is about a king and his seven queens, one of whom gives birth to the fruit. I made the story about common people” (Ramnath, 2015, p. Trending).

The above statement made by the director and the scriptwriter (auteur) is crucial to understanding his views on adaptation and how he brings in changes by subverting the treatment of theme and characterisation. Unlike most of the reviews which state that the film apart from everything else is bedtime stories, this paper argues that the film, Kothanodi, transforms the bedtime stories of Grandma’s Tales into horror folktales. It follows a sequence of images which are dark, macabre and (what Freud terms as) ‘uncanny’. It presents a chain of signifiers of familiar things in such a way that they appear as strange. The uncanny and the strange for the viewer at first evokes a sense of disbelief and awe as they tend to approach the tales as bedtime stories for children.

Most of the young audience and adults during their childhood have grown up listening to the tales of Champawati or Tejimola. Tejimola had been a popular tale with flat characterisation, for instance, the cruel stepmother, and young daughter in distress similar to the characterisation of the popular fairy-tale Cinderella. But instead of fairy Godmothers and witches with brooms, the folktales of Assam portray stock characters, river-crossings and transformations. Bhaskar Hazarika spoke on the responses of the audience globally to his film and mentioned this aspect:

“There is a certain universality about folk tales, in that every culture in the world has folktale [myth or fairytales]. Some elements are common throughout, for instance the wicked stepmother. In my opinion, audiences around the world, in countries as diverse as South Korea and Sweden, have connected with the film for this reason” (Prabalika, 2015, p. Assamese Film)

One of the adapted tales is Ow-Kuwori (The Elephant Apple Princess). The book, Grandma’s Tales mentions two pregnant queens. The older queen gives birth to a boy while the younger one to an outenga, elephant apple that would follow her everywhere like a child. The beautiful princess hidden inside the fruit would come out while bathing in the river, and one day a prince saw her and fell in love with her. He married her and later on the advice of a beggar woman could manage to get her out of the elephant apple. Bhaskar Hazarika adapts this story with characters from rural societies to address contemporary issues faced by ordinary women and expose social evils like witchcraft. He depicts how society judges women according to their conventional roles and norms. Instead of royalty, his protagonist is a rural woman, a kajee who gives birth to an outenga. Consequently, she is thrown out of her house by her husband as she fails to produce human babies. She walks away with her roll of clothes, crosses the river and starts living in the fringes as an outsider. Due to the outenga that follows her everywhere and also swims across the river to be with her, the villagers mock her and think of her to be a witch, a daini. This highlights the marginalisation and numerous crimes committed against her in rural Assam. The film highlights a socially relevant feminist concern in Assam even today.

The outenga follows her as she leaves her husband’s house, crosses the river and stays with her in the chang ghar. No prince turns up for its rescue. It happens to be a traveller (Adil Hussain) who sympathises with her and tries to solve the mystery of the fruit. As a traveller who had seen distant lands, he tells stories of other unusual incidents: “A woman gave birth to a kitten in Sadiya […] a bird had raised a woman; A girl was hatched out of a duck’s egg one morning.” (Kothanodi) Although he tried his best to explain and find out the truth of the outenga, he had to leave for some time as it disturbed the dyad of the mother and the child outenga. The traveller could rescue the mother only when she expresses her affection and displayed her ability to understand the other’s position. She prepares food for it and discovers one night how the baby comes out of her shell to eat. The child’s externalization is filmed in creepy images showing how the limbs begin to emerge out of the basket at night and reveal herself as a fully grown girl-child; as she begins enjoying her food, the traveller sneaks in and burns the outenga shell liberating the child. Although relieved, the woman continues to live in her house, a chang-ghar indicating a new equilibrium but the end never resolves the issues of social evil. No moral lesson is drawn out of the ending of her story as the camera freezes briefly on her and the child from the back as they keep looking at the way ahead.

Initially, she tries to avoid the rolling outenga that follows her and wanted to leave it on the shore as she quickly crossed the river on a boat. Later, the auteur through the visuals on the screen shows her growing attachment to the point when she starts to communicate and feel its thoughts. Her affinity towards the fruit grows gradually. This feeling of affinity is analogous to Viveros De Castro’s notion of “affinity” (Assy, 2021, YouTube) in which the other is both a trusted friend and also a potential enemy. In this case it is for the fruit that she had to leave her home, husband and live like a freak. The fruit is given a consciousness. The song of the outenga, “Outenga’s Lament” establishes the perspective of a fruit, a non-human object in search of love. It is able to comprehend and feel the human mother’s problems. Here speciesism seems to be in question as the story begins to challenge anthropocentric attributes. The human characters in the film find the outenga weird and see it as a mystery whereas the outenga could understand human language. The initial fear of the mother in seeing the movement of the inanimate object is replaced by a new equilibrium into the mother’s life when she would talk to the outenga, and also take care of it. A woman shunned by her fellow beings is received by the outenga. Instead of the love story of prince and princesses Bhaskar Hazarika constructs his film philosophy in his treatment of the theme. He presents a world inhabited by both human and the non-human, be it fruit, plants or animals. The child outenga is not only unbelievable but also haunting for children and young adults.

The woman walks towards her house in broad daylight and the disruption continues with the movement of an inanimate object for the viewer. It evokes the uncanny for the fruit is a common everyday fruit for the people of Assam and is part of Assamese culinary identity. This familiar fruit has been given a strange attribute that entails mockery and the loss of her home. The village boys tease her as she passes them in silence. The image of the moving outenga is introduced after the expository scene of the Tawoi tale where the father buries new-born infants in his backyard.

Considering the model offered by Todorov, each tale in the film starts at ‘disruption’ and this pattern runs parallelly for all the four folktales chosen by Bhaskar Hazarika. The non-linear plots on the surface seem to be propelled by the social conventions, beliefs, taboos or step-mother archetypes whereas it seems to be determined by the auteur’s principal focalization at disruption and exploration of the uncanniness of the familiar sites and objects. The music and sound in the film add to this intent and the music director Amarnath Hazarika has successfully woven the folk music from the collection of songs by Padma Shri Birendranath Datta and Ramen Choudhury into the fabric of Kothanodi, and the result is a horror folk narrative that grows more intense with sound effects.

Freud’s theory of the uncanny comes from the word unheimlich which is the opposite of the German word heimlich meaning familiar, native, belonging to home (Freud, 1919, p. 2). We generally tend to conclude that “uncanny” is frightening precisely because it “undoubtedly belongs to all that is terrible—to all that arouses dread and creeping horror” (ibid). Freud subverts this notion and argues how it resides in the familiar and shows how an auteur or a storyteller can trick us by shaping the narrative differently out of his realism simultaneously making us believe his social concerns:

The storyteller has this license among many others, that he can select his world of representation so that it either coincides with the realities we are familiar with or departs from them in particulars he pleases [for instance in fairy-tales]. We accept his ruling in every case. (Freud, 1919, p.18)

Hence for Freud a fairy-tale with dragons, witches, curses do not bring uncanniness since we accept its fantastical realm and locale from the very first. Uncanny experience fails in such settings and “The situation alters as soon as the writer pretends to move in the world of common reality”, takes advantage of our credulity and deceives us by “giving us sober truth. And slowly oversteps the bounds of possibility” (ibid.). Bhaskar Hazarika takes this opportunity to play with our imagination by showing us familiar settings, and not taking us to distant magic lands or worlds of prince and princess, in which he slowly moves into the eerie signifiers because horrors issue out of a signifying system and here it is through significant non-human entities, music and cinematography.

By dwelling on the rural pre-modern setting, he populates this space with common characters of the step-mother, the travelling father, the lonely woman, innocent daughters, landlords, priests, village boys, workers in the house of the landlords, secret lovers, fisherman found in every village in Assam. The familiar backyard or the bedroom turns into a site of horror and death. In the Tawoi story, a long shot follows a damp, semi-dark scene with drops of rain pouring on everything possible backed by unnerving music and the wailing of a child reveals infanticide. Here the cinematographer plays with the imaginations of the viewer by alternating long shots and close shots on the face of the father who does the digging to bury his newborn alive. The anxious look and guilt in his eyes is exposed by the camera. The repetition of this scene makes it more horrifying and by the time the mother resists we, as the audience, experience the relief needed right from the beginning as the familiar backyard of the house is used by the father (Kapil Bora) to bury his male babies on the advice of his uncle. As noted in the review by Sankhayan Ghosh “in the story about the married couple who have been sacrificing their new-borns, when it is revealed that the uncle is not an evil man after all and has been their protector all along, it affirms the shamanistic practice that had led to the sacrifice of newborns” (Ghosh, 2020, p. Assamese Reviews). Another scene shows the slimy and muddy heads of the dead babies coming out of the ground at night to reveal their intention of patricide and deceit as they talk to the parents.  The climax is reached in conflict with this belief as the mother resists the burial of the fourth baby who happens to be a girl. The auteur here complicates the ethical question of killing the babies and hence, blurs the borders separating good from evil: the resistance is placed against the bizarre act of infanticide which turns out to be a shamanistic ritual.

Along with the everyday character, the filmmaker takes us to the world of plants and animals like the references to the python that marries Champawati or outenga and supplies them with perspectives as they display the ability to think and communicate. They take up subject positions and are given agencies to not only influence the plot but also the lives of the human characters. They think of themselves as humans in their habitat reiterating what Viveros de Castro explains about the point of view of Amazonian indigenous people:

Perspectivism is the pre-supposition that each living species is human in its own department, human for itself (humano para), or better, that everything is human for itself(todo para si e humano) or anthropogenic. This idea originates in the indegineous cosmogonies, where the primordial form of the being is human. (Bravo, 2013, p. E-Misferica)

His writings offer the theory of ‘multinaturalist perspectivism’ as opposed to multiculturalism or anthropocentrism. It is a “vision of the world with a strong connection to “multinaturalism”, a category opposed to multiculturalism that assumes the coexistence of different ‘natures’ as in Amazonian cosmology” (ibid.). These “natures include non-human animal perception along with a human one, all of them sharing a common perspective or affinity” (qtd. in Bravo, 2013, p. E-Misferica). With this notion, de Castro challenges the history of Western science or anthropology which for him has only one species, the human, who produces knowledge of the rest of the sub-species. The discovery of the Multinaturalist perspective leads to the conceptual position of a “non-anthropocentric virtuality about the idea of species” (ibid.). It is a doctrine that can be explicitly elaborated in shamanism and native mythologies that has the potential to imagine “all inter-species differences as a horizontal extension, analogic or metonymic, of intra-species differences”(ibid.). This notion dismantles the vertical hierarchy of the human and man and ceases to appear separate because in this perspective all the species-specific differences appear as modalities of the human. This does not allow humans to feel special or superior. In other words, all have the same essence or culture, but the natures are different. Human has all man and other species and the “form from which all species emerge: each of the species is a finite mode of a humanity as universal substance” (Bravo, 2013, p. E-Misferica) where every object is a subject with a point of view.

Hence the difference between species is not a difference of culture but of nature due to the experience of the type of body; it is a difference where each species is experienced by others, i.e., “as a body, as a collection of affections that are vulnerable to the senses, of capacities for modifying and being modified by agents of other species. The point of view is in the body…all human share the same culture—human culture” (Bravo, 2013, p. E-Misferica) and the human includes in Amazonian cosmology human beings, plants and animals or even artifacts.

III

As we attune ourselves to our expectations of innocent bedtime stories and become passive receivers, the director acts upon us and seizes the situation to create horror in simple common realities of the village. He tricks our emotions in response to the images of the uncanny and horror unlike most reviews of Kothanodi in trying to see the film as bedtime stories: “The best part of Kothanodi is that in spite of its socially relevant themes, it never loses sight of its primary nature as a bedtime yarn” (Ghosh, 2020, p. Assamese Reviews).  In the story of Champawati, the plot again follows a non-linear pattern and begins with the capturing of the python for the marriage of the second daughter from the forest unlike Champawati’s snake-husband who came to her on his own. The focalization again is not on an equilibrium but on the uncanny. The python is carried to the house and at night, it is fed with ducks by the landlady, the matriarch who in her greed for jewellery has decided to marry off her daughter to a python from the forest. The images move from the dark forest to the bedroom which is transformed into a site of horror and death on the wedding night. The silence of the matriarch at the tragedy of losing her young daughter, who eventually is swallowed by the wild python, and the image of the hand-pulled out of the reptile by dissecting its skin in an extreme close shot is bizarre and does not overtly offer moral lessons on greed and jealousy. The images that linger are of terrible shots of dissection and a gory hand wearing a bangle signifying the loss of jewellery for the matriarch.

            The depiction of terrible matriarchs is epitomised in the story of Tejimola which narrates a torture tale of a step-mother who murders her step-daughter by crushing her limbs and head. When she was alive, the stepmother would make her eat scorpions as punishment for no apparent reason. The story ends with the burial of dead Tejimola the daughter of the traveller in the front courtyard and soon a plant grows out on that spot. The film ends with this scene where the matriarch is terrified to see the growth of the plant, a communion of Tejimola and plant life. It is projected as the ability to be something else which is the idea of metamorphosis in Perspectivism where one develops mutuality and concern but differs in the body. The non-human python of Champawati, the outenga, the dead baby-heads and the plant are given conscious intentionality which gather agency to say and express a point of view echoing the Amazonian worldview as noted by Viveros de Castro in his explanation of his theory of multinaturalist perspectivism. With these images, the film ends without a peaceful balance and, questions of ethics and justice are deferred leaving its receptors unsatisfied and contemplating.

References:

Assy. Bethania. (2021). “Decolonizing Thought with Viveiros de Castro:  Amerindian Perspectivism, Multunaturalism and Shamanic.” Reading Group: Decolonization, Neocolonialism and Human Rights. ILAS Columbia. http://youtu.be/bGSVt9wYJmY

Britannica, T. Editors of Encyclopaedia (2017, December 27). auteur theory. Encyclopedia Britannica. https://www.britannica.com/art/auteur-theory.

Barua, Bhaben. (2014) “The Road to Lakshminath Bezbaroa”. Lakshminath   Bezbaroa: The Sahityarathi of Assam. edt. Dr. Maheswar Neog. Gauhati University. pp. 27-35.

Baudrillard, Jean. (1988). “Simulacra and Simulation”. Jean Baudrillard, Selected  Writings, ed. Mark Poster. Stanford; Stanford University Press. pp. 166-184.  https://web.stanford.edu/class/history34q/readings/Baudrillard/Baudrillard_Simulacra.html

Borah, Prabalika M. (2016). “And the River Flows to Tell the Tales: Kothanodi.” The  Hindu. 25 May. https://www.thehindu.com/features/and-the-river-flows-to-tell-the-tales-kothanodi/article8645138.ece

Bravo, Alvaro Fernandez. (2013) “Eduardo Viveiros de Cartro: Some Reflections  on   the Notion of Species in History and Anthropology”. Trans. Frederico Santos de Freitas and Zed Tortorici. Bio/Zoo. (Volume 10) (Issue 1), E-Misferica 10.1  https://hemi.nyu.edu/hemi/en/e-misferica-101/viveiros-de-castro 

Cambell, Joseph. (2002) Folklorist Commentary to the Routledge Classics  Complete  Fairy Rales. Ed. Jacob and Wilhelm Grimm (2002 edition)

Chatterji, Suniti Kumar. (2014) “Cover” in Lakshminath Bezbaroa: The Sahityarathi f   Assam. Ed. Dr Maheswar Neog. Gauhati University.

Ramnath, Nandini. (2022) “Assamese film Kathanodi is a set of grim tales involving infanticide, witchcraft and possession” Scroll.in 16 September 2015.    Accessed 25    January. https://scroll.in/article/755641/assamese-film-kothanodi-is-a-set-of-grim- tales-involving-infanticide-witchcraft-and-possession

Deleuze, Gilles. (2017) Francis Bacon, The Logic of Sensation, trans. by Daniel W. Smith. Bloomsbury.

Freud, Sigmund. (1919). The Uncanny. First published in Imago, BD. V., 1919. Tr. Alix Strachey. https://web.mit.edu/allanmc/www/freud1.pdf

Ghosh, Sankhayan. (2020) “Kothanodi, on Mubi, Never Loses Sight of its Primary Nature as a Chilling Bedtime Yarn”. 9 July. Film Companion.    Assamese Reviews. https://www.filmcompanion.in/reviews/assamese-review/kothanodi-assamese-folkhorror-mubi-never-loses-sight-of-its-primary-nature-as-a-chilling-bedtime-yarn-bhaskar-hazarika-assamese-movie/

Nath, Sanjeev Kumar. (2011) The World of Assamese Folktales. Bhabani Print & Publications Guwahati.

Farddina Hussain, PhD, is an Associate Professor in the Department of English, Gauhati University, Guwahati, Assam. Her areas of interest include cultural studies, graphic fiction, gender studies and film studies. Several of her research papers on cinema and literature have been published in journals and as book chapters. She has attended workshops and conferences on film studies both in India and abroad.

An Identity Born Out of Shared Grief: The Account of Rambuai in the Contemporary Mizo Literary Texts

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Zothanchhingi Khiangte
Department of English, Bodoland University, Kokrajhar, Assam, India. ORCID: 0000-0001-8225-0326. Email: zothanikhiangte@yahoo.com

Rupkatha Journal, Vol. 14, Issue 2, April-June, 2022, Pages 1–15. https://doi.org/10.21659/rupkatha.v14n2.ne11

First published: June 09, 2022 | Area: Northeast India | License: CC BY-NC 4.0

(This article is published under Themed Issue on Literature of Northeast India)
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An Identity Born Out of Shared Grief: The Account of Rambuai in the Contemporary Mizo Literary Texts

Abstract:

Anthony David Stephen Smith’s definition of nationalism as a feeling of “intense bond of solidarity”, when applied to contemporary Mizo nationalist consciousness, is a bond born not out of pre-historic kinship but of shared grief and a spiritual anchor in Christianity. The MNF movement for self-determination, which began with half-hearted support from the people spiraled off into the most violent and darkest period in Mizo history known as Rambuai  (1966-1986) which, when translated into English, means ‘troubled land’. The human experience of this period has been a subject of Mizo literature. Three works of fiction— Nunna Kawngthuam Puiah (1989), Silaimu Ngaihawm (2012) and Zorami: A Redemption Song (2015) are among the best literary representations of human suffering in the troubled land. These works will be used as textual bases upon which the role of religion and spirituality in bringing about a reconciliation and healing can be studied. The paper examines how the rambuai memories construct the Mizo identity that relies on forging connections between religion and a heroic cultural past.

Keywords: Rambuai, Mizo, identity, reconciliation, memory

The Mizo National Front was formed in 1961 with sovereignty as its declared objective. The ‘call for independence’ against the Indian government was preceded by the Mautam1 Famine (1960). The MNF declaration has been commonly seen as the culmination of Mizo nationalist sentiment that had been in the making for long (Nibedon, 2013; J.V Hluna and Tochhawng, 2012). The Mizo political consciousness developed since the nineteenth century when the Mizos came into contact with the British Raj. Although the present study aims to focus on how the collective experience of pain during Mizo Movement, as recounted in literary texts, has shaped the Mizo consciousness in contemporary times, it seems pertinent to take a historical detour to arrive at a better understanding of the subject under study.

The British expedition of the Lushai Hills2 was a result of the regular raids conducted by the tribesmen on the plains of Assam and so the objective was to teach the raiders a lesson. It however proved to be a difficult task to bring the people who inhabited the Lushai Hills under control. It took more time than to conquer the subcontinent (Nibedon, 1980, p.171).  Therefore, it was thought wiser to bring in the missionaries who would ‘civilise’ them through religion and thereby enable the British administrator to conquer them culturally and morally (Sajal Nag, “Folk Intellectual Tradition for Resistance: Invention of Traditions and Lushai Counter to Cultural Colonialism in North East India, 1904-1911”, pp.1-2). And since the land was not considered to be economically very lucrative, as is obvious from the report of Major Anthony Gilchrist McCall, the colonial experience in the Lushai Hills was quite different from that in other parts of India. The colonial intent was to be seen as a paternal figure of authority rather than as an invader who must be resisted at all cost. Therefore the image of the white man as a self-sacrificing figure who has come to enlighten the people with his religion and education is more predominant in the Mizo perception of the British Raj. The British policy thathelp must therefore be at a sacrifice, spiritual and financial, the latter at any rate in the beginning, from those who control its destiny” ensured that “control at such cost will be welcomed, not resisted as domination and exploitation” (Mc Call, 1977).

Although the British encounter may not be seen as the catalyst to the Mizo ethno-nationalist consciousness, it did initiate two necessary elements for the act of ‘becoming’ a Mizo and these were- religion and vernacular literature. These, according to Adrian Hastings, are the integral and determinative elements for the construction of nationhood (1997, p.3).   The British annexation of the territories inhabited by the Mizos was soon followed by the arrival of Christian missionaries who synchronized the gospels with education. The two missionaries, JH Lorraine and FW Savidge who arrived in the Lushai Hills on January 11, 1894 formulated the Lushai alphabet  “A Aw B Ch” and made possible the development of vernacular literature. The translation of the gospels in Duhlian dialect, first initiated in 1896, made possible the adoption of a common language for the Mizos, who till then did not have a lingua franca because each clan had a different dialect or language variation. Not only did each clan have different languages but also different sakhua (loosely translated now as religion) and it was only after the adoption of Christianity that it became possible to overcome distinctions made on the basis of clans: “Besides the linguistic barriers, Christianity also overcame the establishment of separate villages and communities based upon clanship divisions. As different families and clans strictly observed particular sakhua, changing one’s sakhua was akin to cutting off one’s identity and risking the wrath of the family deities” (Dingluaia, 2018,p. 246). Thus literature and the new religion became important determinants in fostering a sense of kinship amongst the different clans. However, the nationalist consciousness that was brewing in different parts of India against the British did not quite reach the Mizos because of the fact that Lushai Hills was governed under a different administrative policy as ‘Excluded Area’, which kept the region and its people remain secluded and sequestered.

Therefore, it was not until the twentieth century postcolonial context that the people actually became aware of their distinctive identity- an identity defined by common cultural traditions, folklore and linguistic affinities- different from other communities. Based on such similarities and commonalities, the varied groups of people, who were once at war with each other, decided to come together and carve out a common identity under the nomenclature ‘Mizo’ or ‘Zo-fate’. In fact, the generic name ‘Mizo’ by which the people inhabiting the mountainous regions that later came to be named as Lushai Hills (in 1890-92) are now known was adopted only by the turn of the 20th century. Lushai Hills became named as Mizo Hills District within the state of Assam on 25th April, 1952.3 With a change in the political scenario of the country, there began a growing consciousness amongst the Mizos as to the need to preserve their cultural identity as a group distinct from others. A certain sense of the ‘we’ and ‘them’ was becoming more pronounced when faced with a gradually looming threat to Mizo cultural identity. Mizo language and traditions were steadily being abandoned by the younger generations who were becoming more exposed to other cultural groups. With the objective to safeguard the ethnic identity of the Mizos, the Mizo Cultural Society was formed in 1950 under the leadership of Laldenga, which was rechristened as Mautam Famine Front during the mautam famine and finally became the Mizo National Front.

It may be said that the Mautam Famine of 1960 provided Laldenga and his supporters the opportunity to express the dissatisfaction of the people against the Assam government and gave birth to the Mizo National Front, formed in 1961, with sovereignty as its declared objective. Although the Mizo nationalist uprising,  that began with only half-hearted support from the people, may be seen as a catalyst to the Mizo ‘nationalist becoming’, it lacked the ‘intense bond of solidarity’ Anthony David Stephen Smith identifies as crucial to the spirit of nationalism. It is, in fact, the experience of indescribable pain endured as a result of the uprising which has formed the “bond of solidarity” in the Mizo consciousness.

 K.C Lalvunga, who writes under the pseudonym of Zikpuii Pa, points out the lack of enthusiasm to the nationalist call for sovereignty in his  Nunna Kawng Thuam Puiah (1989) when he narrates that the elders chose not to object too harshly to the idea of sovereignty because they did not want to hurt the sentiments of the young men : “tlangval ho rilru tih nat loh nan independent chu an do tak duh lova…” (p.73) and that there were also some sections of the populace, especially the supporters of Mizo Union, who were ridiculing not only the call for sovereignty but also the very idea of distinct Mizo identity (p.74) but among the youth, a self-consciousness was definitely growing as a result of being “othered” by the dominant Assamese community. The novel Nunna Kawngthuam Puiah (1989) shares instances of the processes of ‘othering’ through the recollections of the protoganist , Chhuanvawra Renthlei, about his college days in Shillong:

“Once during our football match, some Assamese boys, inspite of knowing fully well that we could not speak Assamese, were stubbornly speaking to us in Assamese and gave all the instructions about the match in Assamese. Angered, Thansavunga replied, ‘Stop your bloody Assamese. I can’t understand’… ‘Why can’t you understand Assamese? Don’t you know it is a state language, you bloody fool?’” (p. 49).

Such instances have the potential to ignite deep passions, when repeated over a long time. Sanjoy Hazarika’s account of a young Mizo whose father was a Brigadier in the Indian Army reaffirms this sense of ‘othering’ that was present within the postcolonial Indian context:

When narrating about the Indian Army brigadier musing about his son, Sangliana, “The young man ‘loved’, he said, the idea of a homeland, taking up arms for it, of fighting against India, the juggernaut. Even in his travels to New Delhi and Calcutta and elsewhere in the country, he had felt the sting of discrimination and racial slurs despite being an army officer’s son, his family being part of the elite of their people. That sting continues to be felt by countless others from his state and their region decades later when they are snubbed, teased, abused and the women molested and groped in New Delhi and other parts of the Hindi heartland.” (2018, p.83).

Much as such observations like those of Nirmal Nibedon that “…deep in the Mizo psyche there persisted a sense of unfulfilment, a silent and sincere search for their identity and an effort to bring tremendous latent energy of their people back to a level of dignity and equality they had known before the invaders  [the British] had come” (1980, p.311) cannot be said to be totally untrue, the view that the colonial rulers were seen more as paternal figures also seems to hold much ground, as reflected in statements of prominent Mizo figures like K.C Lalvunga,  “As we look back, we are able to discern more clearly the changes the colonial rule had brought about. It is easy to blame the colonialism but we must remember that colonialism had brought with it a civilizing factor and Mizos are the true beneficiaries” (2013,p.99). However, a sweeping observation of the colonial encounter as being ‘beneficial’ ignores the fact that  the colonial masters, for their administrative convenience, had drawn boundaries where there was none and clubbed together regions which had very different cultural and political structures and historically had never shared affinity, and finally left behind an impossible mess for the new rulers to clear. Having said that, it is also a truism that the ‘pain and humiliation’ that produced the ‘intense bond of solidarity’ among the Mizos— the quintessential of ethno-nationalism— came not from the foreign invader but from their own countrymen. Malsawmi Jacob, in her discussion about her book Zorami(2015) with Jaydeep Sarangi, succinctly states, “the way I see it, the real subordination of the Mizo people was what the Indian Army did to them in the aftermath of the uprising. The deprivation of power and voice was also most acute then. The air raids and Army atrocities were hushed up. The people of Mizoram became voiceless victims. Yes, Zorami has spoken out for the people whose voice was stifled.”4

            The MNF movement for self-determination, which began with half-hearted support from the people had spiraled off into the most violent and darkest period in Mizo history known as Rambuai (1966-1986) which, when translated into English, means ‘troubled land’. This was the period which witnessed the 1966 aerial bombing of Aizawl that remains a blight in the nation’s history. Sanjoy Hazarika gives an account of the aerial bombing:

Four days after the rebel assault erupted on 1 March 1966, fighter jets of the Indian Air Force came screaming over Aizawl…Indian bludgeoning was not wholly unexpected by the MNF. It had believed that there would be retaliation but not the scale of the counter-strike that followed, which smashed and burnt villages, molested and raped women, virtually displaced the district’s entire population, destroyed property and tortured elderly men and youth. The violence was unprecedented in the history of India and its already nascent struggle against the pro-freedom group in Nagaland which had erupted over a decade earlier….The Rambuai had begun in real earnest with a campaign that, fifty years down the line, should make every Indian ashamed of the government and what it did to a civilian population during a time of conflict. (2018, pp. 96-98)

It was this historical catastrophe of the aerial bombing of Aizawl, now the capital city of Mizoram, that Jacob is referring to when she describes the post-bombing scene. Aizawl lay in shambles and those houses that survived the air-raids were burnt down. The experience of distraught citizens who begged for mercy and yet were denied human compassion is lucidly expressed in Zorami:

“His home…escaped the fire and was still standing after the air-raids. The Assam Rifles men came and burned it down. He stood at the door begging them to spare his home, but they pushed him aside and torched it, laughing loudly as the flames rose.” (2015, p.155)

The Mizo District was declared a “disturbed area” by the Government of Assam under the Assam Disturbed Area Act of 1955. Law and order was entrusted to the Indian army and though martial law was not officially declared, the army was armed with the draconian Armed Forces Special Power Act (AFSPA), 19585 and vide Rule 32 of the Defence of India Rules, 1962, they also proclaimed emergency in the area under article 352 of Indian Constitution (V.L Hluna &Tochhawng, 2012, p. xviii). Thus, the juridical order that governed a democracy was no longer valid to a people who were still part of the democratic country. Within the framework of the law is created what Agamben calls a ‘state of exception’ that “gives power to eliminate certain categories of citizens” (2005,p.1).  Agamben’s idea is developed from Carl Schmitt’s conceptualization of sovereign power as possessing the monopoly on the ability to decide on what calls for a state of exception, on what it considers as a threat to its integrity.

 Agamben, in his State of Exception, explains this concept of a “state of exception” under which the juridical order becomes invalid as “the legal form of what cannot have legal form” (p.1).  His idea of modern totalitarianism is significant to an understanding of how the state mechanism works in contemporary politics to wield control: “modern totalitarianism can be defined as the establishment, by means of the state of exception, of a legal civil war that allows for physical elimination not only of political adversaries but of entire categories of citizens who for some reason cannot be integrated into the political system” (p.1). In the face of threats, the ‘state of exception’ is seen as the dominant paradigm of government.  Agamben’s study of the “state of exception” becomes relevant when it comes to the state of affairs in relation to the AFSPA.  Under the “disturbed area” tag, the people of Mizoram became a  “category of citizens” who were governed by a state of exception in the form of the AFSPA : “The AFSPA under which the Army was operating in the Mizo Hills empowered officers to shoot even unto death where it was considered needed, requiring only that due warning be given as deemed necessary” (V.L Hluna & Tochhawng, 2012, p.161).  The people’s pleas for help fell on deaf ears and their sufferings were seen as a necessary consequence. In his reply to the plea against military outrages on innocent Mizo civilians, the Home Minister of India, Y. B. Chavan, in Delhi is reported to have said: “I have to punish my children severely if they behave badly” (Nibedon, 1980, p.118). The horrendous suffering undergone by the people is brushed aside by callous and lackadaisical observations such as “There must have been some amount of psychological suffering and physical torture when the villagers were asked to shift from places where they lived for ages. But of course, this cannot be escaped. Security is far more important than the bodily sufferings of some people” [emphasis is mine] (V. Venkata Rao quoted in Pachuau & Schendel, 2015, p. 308). Unfortunately, “the bodily sufferings of some people” have far reaching consequences that affect beyond the physical to the psychological and has the potential to affect generations.

            With overall responsibility of army operations given to Major General Sanghat Singh, the first battalion of Indian soldiers (the 8th Sikh Bn.) made their way into the Mizo Hills on the 3rd of March, leaving behind a trail of tears and cries of women that rent the air. The 4th of March, the day this battalion entered Kolasib, is reported to have been the single day with the highest incident of rape in the entire history of the hills (Hluna & Tochhawng, 2012, p.163).  It is important to note here that the advance of the troops was marked by ‘rape’ of the enemy women. It is pertinent to distinguish what happened in Mizoram from what happened in other war-torn regions, where rape accompanies atrocities of the armies. In Mizoram, military aggression began with rape and the army posts that surrounded the villages continued to represent sites of sexual aggression (Hluna & Tochhawng, 2012, p. 162) and it was brought to the notice of the Assam Assembly that not even children or pregnant women were spared from the sexual atrocities (Hluna & Tochhawng, 2012, pp.170-71).

Rape as a concomitant of war violence has to do with the demonstration of power to have the desired effect of terror, used as a military strategy. Since the Second World War, the use of rape as a weapon of war had assumed strategic importance. Yasmin Saikia’s statement in the context of Bangladesh War in 1971 can be applied in the NEI context as well, “Raping women in Bangladesh was a rite to assert the power of men’s ability to destroy the vulnerable and make it impossible for a woman to find a whole self after the war. Rape was a tool to destroy women’s link with the past. They were doomed to live without their collective memory; their personal history became a secret that could not be disclosed.” (2011, pp. 60-61).

There can be no clearer example of the sexualized aspect of military conflict than when the advancing human machines are utilized by the state to discipline and punish. Since patriotic honour is often tied with women’s sexual respectability, enemy women are often seen as legitimate targets of rape. The horror of rape has been described in varied ways as an intent to depersonalize the victim (Mertzger, 1976); as an attack that affects the victim’s physical but also psychological and social identity (Weis and Borges, 1973); and as a weapon of terror (Sheffield, 1987).

Though rape as an aspect of militarized conflict is the most painful, it is at the same time the most silenced because “the memories survive only in the private sphere and are dealt with as private matters by the victims’ families and often solely by the victim who hides in ‘shame’ (Saikia, 2011, p. 63). The ordeal of a rape victim, whose suffering is doubled by her need to hide the truth, is seen in Zorami when the narrator tells us that Zorami “kept her mouth shut”, “she never spoke out” because “such a thing is not for telling”. (p.43)  Zorami, who according to the author, is drawn as the ‘prototype’ of all victims who suffered the same kind of fate, “learned to be ashamed. And to keep quiet. So, she did not tell anyone about the bully. Neither did she tell about the dirty man with the dirty touch”.   (p.42)  Therefore, this aspect of terror inhabits the silenced zone of the private sphere and much as it caused psychological injury to the Mizos, it has not been able to share the same space as the other forms of military aggression whose memory has formed the ‘bond of solidarity’ in the Mizo consciousness. In the nationalist “becoming” of Mizoness persists, borrowing Yasmin Saikia’s phrase, “the hierarchy of men’s truth and women’s silences” (2011, p.12).

What has impacted the Mizo consciousness most is the brutal experience of the village re-grouping. The village re-grouping that was carried out in Mizoram and Nagaland was a military strategy that was modeled on colonial counter-insurgency methods of the British in the Boer War in South Africa (1899–1902) and later against communist insurgents from 1948-1960 in the Malay Peninsula to crush a Communist insurgency (Hazarika, 2018, p. 98; Pachuau and Schendel, 2015, p. 306). In Mizoram, it was done in full vengeance with an objective to break the Mizo spirit. According to Joy Pachuau and Schendel, the forced resettlement directly affected 87 per cent of Mizoram’s rural population and 82 per cent of its total population (2015, p. 308).  Margaret Ch. Zama and Vanchiau give the human dimension of what happened:

Horrendous military action was initiated whereby the inhabitants of villages located throughout the length and breadth of Mizoram, were herded overnight with just only a few hours notice, to leave their all except what they could carry, and have their beloved homesteads burnt to the ground before their very eyes” that made even “the elderly [cling] to their doorposts, weeping openly. (2016, p. 68)

Brutalities inflicted on a population become memories not only of the victims but also of those who were tasked with the duty. V.S Jaffa, who had to carry out the village grouping in Mizo Hills as the Addl. District Magistrate, recollects with regret: “The grouping exercise carried out over 1967-70 has left a huge scar in the Mizo psyche. The romance of the Mizo village life disappeared forever” (Nag, 2012, p.12). The feeling of desolation and helplessness is best articulated in a song composed by Suakliana in 1968 titled as “Khaw Sawikhawm hla” which is said to be the saddest song that could make its listeners weep openly when it was aired on the All India Radio, sung by Siampuii Sailo. The poet compares the entire population of Mizoram to a faded cloth and a riakmaw bird, homeless and hungry (Zama &Vanchiau, 2016, p.65).

It is recorded that, as part of the army atrocities, the security forces engaged in different forms of punishments, from putting their prisoners into sacks filled with burning hot chilies, forcing villagers to kneel in confined spaces for endless hours in the scorching sun or rainy nights to tying them to a changel tree (a species of banana plant) to be burnt alive (Hluna &Tochhawng, 2012, p. 162). The Mizos were dispossessed of their rights not only in terms of their citizenship in a democratic nation but as human beings. In the Assam Assembly debates, Gaurishankar Bhattacharyya described the sufferings endured by the Mizos as a result of the re-groupings in metaphors of the Holocaust, referring to the village groupings as ‘concentration camps’6. To be able to comprehend such an experience by the human imagination, according to Mbembe (citing Hannah Arendt), is  never possible “for the very reason that it stands outside of life and death” (2019, p.66) because as Mbembe puts it, “its inhabitants have been divested of political status and reduced to bare life” (p.66) and therefore it is a life with no parallels. And this place, which is created by the state, is “the ultimate expression of sovereignty” by the power invested in it “to dictate who is able to live and who must die” (pp. 66-67).

Sexual violence was the order of the day and as disgusting as it may sound, there are some who, like a certain Major Pritam Singh, indulged in extremities in pursuance of the horrid act and he was known to have kept a list of all his victims (Hluna&Tochhawng, p.163). In her historical narrative, Zorami, Jacob perhaps draws the character of Major Kohli from this figure: “The Major had fallen across the bridge with a forefinger on his revolver trigger. When they searched his pockets, they found a diary among other things” (p.132). When it was suggested that the diary should be preserved as a “memorial of vai (Indian) army’s dirty deeds” (p.133), the leader of the ‘ambush party’, Dina replied that it was better to “wipe it out” (p.133) and so the pages were torn out and burnt. The phrase ‘wipe it out’, when understood in terms of memory, suggests erasure. Given the unwillingness to “preserve” it in memory, and also because, as is pointed out in The Mizo Uprising, “a lot of Literature written before and during the years of Insurgency was burnt either by the soldiers or by the writers themselves…” (Hluna and Tochhawng, 2012, p.xii), it is not surprising when Margaret Ch. Zama and Vanchiau argue that Mizo writers have been ‘reticent’ about memories of the period for subjects of literary works. They imply that it is perhaps because of the pain being so hurtful that it becomes “inexpressible”, quoting Easterine Kire— “In the worst of the war years, the horror has taken us beyond words into silence; the deep silence of inexpressible pain” (2016, p. 66).

Although the memory of the rambuai seems to have imposed what Tom Segev calls a “posthumous identity” (1993, p.11) that has formed part of the cultural memory, the memories are disjointed or sometimes incoherent recollections as survivors try to remember after twenty-five years. They have kept their stories suppressed for so long not only because of fear but also perhaps because they were too raw and painful. Stories of those years are fragmented memories that “cannot be substantiated by written records on most accounts” because “for twenty years, the Mizo people had lived in fear of being branded as rebels, and for twenty years, they refrained from writing diaries, creative outpourings or records of experiences because of the dreaded soldiers who could not read the language were wont to brand them as “MNF documents” (Hluna & Tochhawng, 2012, p. xi). Such experience is dramatized by James Dokhuma in his novel Silai Mu Ngaihawm (2012) when the love letter sent by Sanglura to Ramliani falls into the hands of the Security Forces. Since the Indian soldiers are unable to read and understand the contents in the letter, they immediately brand it as an MNF document which provokes them to escalate their atrocities.

The state commemoration of the aerial bombing of Aizawl on the 5th of March, observed as Zoram Ni (Zoram Day) to commemorate the fateful day on which many innocent lives had been lost, started only since 2008, forty-two years after the attainment of statehood.

The overlapping of forgetting and remembering is what proves to be an obstacle confronting especially women’s dimension in the reconstruction of coherent narratives. When one has for so long been reduced to silence, a sort of being in stasis, one is faced with the difficulty of regaining one’s voice and one’s subjectivity.  One way of looking at the cultural repression of women’s memories might be the fear, not so much as the lack, of empathizing with the victims. This phenomenon is best described in the words of Susan J. Brison when she speaks about the difficulty in recovering from the trauma of “Nazi death camps”: “Intense psychological pressures make it difficult…for others to listen to trauma narratives. Cultural repression of traumatic memories comes not only from an absence of empathy with victims but also out of an active fear of empathizing with those whose terrifying fate forces us to acknowledge that we are not in control of our own” (1999, pp. 48-49).

In Silaimu Ngaihawm, it is the ‘inexpressible’ pain of Ramliani that ultimately leads to her death. She internalizes the pain of losing her beloved who is killed by a bullet fired during an encounter and ironically, that very bullet becomes the only souvenir she has of her beloved. It was as if her grief consumed her whole until she gave up existing. Ramliani thus becomes reduced to an indistinct human form as a result of her inexpressible ‘memory’. The bullet becomes the symbol of pain and it is so deeply entrenched within the Mizo consciousness that it becomes part of the Mizo identity. Although it was the very bullet that killed her beloved, it becomes part of Ramliani and she is made to carry it to her grave. Likewise, the Mizoness that was produced after the Rambuai cannot be seen in isolation from the pain and humiliation suffered by the Mizos as a people. And it was this traumatic experience that left the people with a collective inability to tell their story. In the absence of collective response to the dehumanization experienced, individuals are left with what Rosenblum and Minow call either “too much memory” or “too much forgetting” (2002, pp. 1-13) and for the Mizos, it was the latter that produced, borrowing Paulo Freire’s phrase (and re-used by Sanjoy Hazarika in his introduction to After Decades of Silence (2016) in the Mizo context), a “culture of silence”.

The traumatic experience of the rambuai becomes part of the collective memory which affects not only those who were there to witness but even those who were not there. The idea of traumatic memory extending beyond the victims is not particular to the Mizos. Speaking of the Cherokee relocation, Woodward had recorded, “Alluded to as “the Trail of Tears” by Indians of all the Five Civilized Tribes, the journey west was a tragic event that could not easily be erased from the emigrants or their descendants”  (1982, p.218).

In order to understand the impact of the historical catastrophe undergone by the Mizos, it is important to take into consideration ways in which transgenerational trauma, or what Susan Sontag powerfully calls “the pain of others”, can shape a people’s identity. The phenomenon of what Marianne Hirsch calls “postmemory” (in the context of the children of the Holocaust victims) involves transgenerational transfer of catastrophic collective memories to what has been termed as the “postgeneration” (Hoffman, 2004) or “generation after” (Hirsch, 2012).  Toni Morrison uses the term “rememory” to describe the intergenerational transmission of traumatic experience: “Some things you forget. Other things you never do. . . . Places, places are still there. If a house burns down, it’s gone, but the place— the picture of it— stays, and not just in my rememory but out there, in the world. . . . “Can other people see it?” asked Denver. “Oh yes. Oh, yes, yes, yes. Some day you be walking down the road and you hear something or see something going on. So clear. And you think it’s you thinking it up. A thought picture. But no. It’s when you bump into a rememory that belongs to somebody else.” and the memory belongs as much to the witnesses as to those who came later “Where I was before I came here, that place is real. It’s never going away. Even if the whole farm— every tree and grass blade of it dies. The picture is still there and what’s more, if you go there— you who never was there— if you go there and stand in the place where it was, it will” (2005, p.43).

Sajal Nag in his essay “A Gigantic Panopticon: Counter-Insurgency and Modes of Disciplining and Punishment in Northeast India” (2012) suggests that the contemporary phenomenon of trance-like dances in the church, very prominent among the Mizo women, may be the impact of women’s traumatic memory which has been repressed and unaddressed and in turn, produces an intergenerational transmission of trauma.

In reconstructing Mizo identity post-rambuai, it becomes important to facilitate the process of healing in ways that could help regain the ethno-nationalist pride of being Mizo. While it is agreed that it was the shared experience of pain and the memory of that pain that had been central to forming a collective Mizo identity, it is the ‘imperative to forget’ through spiritual reconciliation that aids in ‘becoming’ Mizo after the troubled years. Two factors play important roles in facilitating the “becoming” of a Mizo – religion, and recovery of the heroic and mythic past. While religion aids in “forgetting” a difficult past, the mythic past offers a form of collective memory that facilitates regaining nationalist pride.

Although celebrating a mythic and heroic past and ignoring “difficult pasts” holds less legitimacy in the contemporary mnemonic landscape (Vinitzky-Seroussi & Teeger, 2010), it is the ability to forget which is considered by Christian Meier to be considered the cultural achievement rather than the act of remembering and that the process of forgetting after civil wars is the only tried-and-tested solution for social peace.7 However, Assman and Shortt  challenge Meier’s “tried-and-tested solution” by questioning the validity of categorizing the two terms- forgetting and remembering- into rigid polarized concepts. For Assman and Shortt, ‘remembering’ or ‘forgetting’ are rarely mutually exclusive practices and therefore more attention must be paid to crossovers such as selective forgetting and partial or transitional remembering because that brings us to two crucial questions: “who profits, who suffers from forgetting? Can a fresh start really be achieved on an equal basis or is the price too high which one group has to pay?” (2012, p.68).

While the emotional charge of the collective memory of pain and humiliation during the rambuai is central to the construction of Mizo identity, the nationalist “becoming” of Mizoness builds its narrative through a masculinist imagination of the cultural past that glorifies masculine traits of a pasaltha.8 In fact, the Mizo National Army (MNA), which consisted of eight battalions were named after legendary heroes of the past: “The first four – Chawngbawla, Khuangchera, Saizahawla and Taitesena – formed the Lion Brigade, which operated in the northern half of Mizoram, and the other four – Joshua, Lalvunga, Vanapa and Zampui Manga – formed the Dagger Brigade, operating in the south” (Camera as Witness 318). The appropriation and glorification of cultural heroes continue to hold in the Mizo ethno-nationalist identity that may be discerned in contemporary politico-religious institutions like the Mizo Zirlai Pawl (MZP), Young Mizo Association (YMA) and the Kohhran Thalai Pawl (KTP) who were formed through missionary initiatives (Hluna, 2009, pp., 400-408) and continue to function as important bodies. The several sections of the YMA and the KTP are named after different pasaltha(s) like Chawngbawla, Taitesena, Vanapa, Khuangchera and so on.

Merged with cultural identity is the religious element. The religious dimension in constructing a new Mizo identity finds its best manifestation in the state anthem of Mizoram “Ro min rel sak ang che” (composed by Rokunga). The song is a prayer to the Christian God addressed as Pathian to guide and protect the people and the land against all enemies. The adoption of Rokunga’s poem as the state anthem not only forges connection with the Christian faith but also with the uprising. It was Rokunga’s poetry that stirred the revolutionary spirit and awakened the Mizos to rise up in defense of Zoram. R.L Thanmawia says that Rokunga was “responsible for the uprising of 1966” (1998, p.125) through his poem “Harh la, harh la” (Awake! Awake!) in which he exhorts the people to be brave and rise up to the call of Zoram (the land of the Mizos).

Forging connections with both the religious and the cultural dimensions, a new Mizo man, who inherits all the traits of the cultural heroes as well as those of the Christian faith, is constructed. This new Mizo man takes birth in one of the most popular literary works published after the rambuai, Nunna Kawngthuam Puiah (1989). In this novel, through the character of Chhuanvawra, K.C Lalvunga has been able to create a sense of masculine dignity and pride in being a Mizo for a generation who was yet to recover from the deepest humiliation as a people. According to Achebe, regaining the lost dignity and pride in his people was the most important role of a writer. The protagonist, Chhuanvawra (the nation’s pride), as the name suggests, is the quintessential of a Mizo man.  In strength of character as well as in intelligence, there is none to surpass Chhuanvawra, even among the vais (the plainsmen). While Chhuanvawra succeeds in becoming an IPS officer, the female protagonist, Ngurthansangi is forced into marriage with Colonel Ranade who sells her into prostitution. It was Chhuanvawra who later rescues her from the “depth of debauchery” (suahsualna khur).  When Chhuanvawra meets Sangi at the hotel where she was trapped as a sex slave, her first reaction was shame: “I am so ashamed. Oh why have you come here, U Chhuan?…I am unclean, I am undeserving of your love” and she repeats “I am no longer worth saving… I am unclean” (pp.176-77).  She is made to feel ashamed although she is a victim against her wishes. Sangi finds healing only when she comes in union with her homeland and God. Chhuanvawra is painted as the most honourable man as he takes Sangi to be his wife and becomes her protector.  The pastor, Pu Lianzuala prays for them at the altar, “Dear God…they have been through a great misfortune…we ask that they may forget these painful memories”. Therefore, healing comes through spiritual reconciliation and through ‘forgetting’.  Going by the observations of Siamkima Khawlhring, one of the first Mizo critics, Nunna Kawngthuam Puiah has been able to fill the Mizo heart with a sense of pride and dignity. Although the novel succeeded in restoring the lost pride and dignity in Mizo men, it failed to do the same when it comes to bequeathing a similar place to women in the reshaping of Mizo identity. While Chhuanvawra is painted as a flawless character, Ngurthansangi’s weakness and vulnerability is intended to remind women’s failings and therefore their need for protection by Mizo men.

The new Mizo Christian religio-ethnic identity is problematic because in it, the gendered paradigm does not find equal space. When the nationalist discourse relies on masculinist ideals and ignores the marginalized narratives, it faces the danger of privileging selective memories while silencing others and this issue is well articulated in Jacob’s re-telling of the rambuai experience from a gendered dimension. Zorami’s story is not only an individual trauma but is representative of the trauma faced by all rape victims during the Mizo conflict. Zorami’s inability to tell about her traumatic rape foregrounds the reason why there is no immediately accessible knowledge of violence: the victim is not allowed to speak of the crime against her. For Zorami, the experience of sexual violence is so traumatic that it is written on her body and she needs to come to terms with that. Zorami’s narrative takes us into the excruciating past, the memory of which is so painful that recalling that cannot but be a ‘bruising experience’,  borrowing the phrase Adichie used when she talked about her experience of writing  Half of a Yellow Sun, in which she recollects the traumatic memory of the Biafran War of 1966. For Adichie, the process is so painful that she “often wondered whether to stop or to scale back” because writing about her people’s experience of the war places a responsibility on her.

Either in the memorialisation of the humiliation endured or in the commemoration of the war heroes of the Mizo Movement, representation of women is markedly absent. As Mary Vanlalthanpuii asserts, “scholars dealing on [the] insurgency focus exclusively on male activities” although “female volunteers in the MNF Movement…fought alongside the men and suffered with the men” (2019,p.5). And despite the gendered nature of atrocities, how far the individual memories of the female victims are allowed to be written in the state sanctified commemoration of the uprising is an uncomfortable question. It is important to remember that “collective memory is an instrument and an objective of power,” which like history, is socially constructed, collectively shared, and selectively exploited. Thus, the politics of memory in contemporary Mizoram should be understood in relation to the social construction of Mizoness post-rambuai. The memory of atrocities and victimization during the troubled years forms the psychological bond which seeks spiritual consolation through religion while the valorization of a culturally “imagined past”, to use Benedict Anderson’s term, provides the ethno-nationalist consciousness. The reconstruction of Mizoness, however, seems to resist gender differentiations. Most of the recent literary works have also avoided to analyse how representational paradigms of Mizoness might be gendered and it might be because of the fear of being seen as divisive. However, to conclude, in the national becoming, recovering the silenced story of women is essential because, as Morrison, concludes in Beloved, “disremembered and unaccounted for, she cannot be lost because no one is looking for her” (p.323).

Declaration of Conflicts of Interests
The author(s) declared no potential conflicts of interest.

Funding
No funding has been received for the publication of this article. It is published free of any charge.

Acknowledgement
Feature image courtesy:

 Notes:

  1. Cyclical bamboo flowering in Mizoram that causes a boom in rat population. Food grains are attacked and exhausted by the rats, causing famine in the region.
  2. The first Lushai expedition of 1871-72 was led by General Bronlow and Brouchier. See T.H. Lewin (1912).
  3. On 18th April 1952, the Mizo Union leaders met with the Constituent Assembly Advisory Committee under Gopinath Bordoloi, they submitted a memorandum in favour of an autonomous district council with a change in the name of Lushai to the more inclusive Mizo).
  4. In Conversation with Malsawmi Jacob. Jaydeep Sarangi. Writers in Conversation Vol 4. No.1, February 2017. Retrieved December, 2021 from researchgate.net
  5. Armed Forces Powers Act, 1958 empowers security forces to open fire, conduct operations and arrest anyone without warrant in ‘disturbed areas’. See “AFSPA Factsheet: The Act and its Extension in India”. Outlook.8th Dec 2021. outlookindia.com
  6. Assam Assembly Debates, 7 June 1967, Vol II No.16. In Sanjoy Hazarika (2018), Strangers No More, p.103.
  7. 7. Christian Meier (2010), Das Gebot zu vergessen und die Unabweisbarkeit des Erinnerns (The Imperative to Forget and the Inescapability of Remember). Cited in Assman and Shortt, 2018.
  8. The word signifies all qualities that define manhood- being fearless, skilled in hunting and warfare and unflinching on the face of danger and pain. Simply translated, the word pasaltha stands for ‘a braveheart’.

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Hazarika, Sanjoy (2018). Strangers No More: New Narratives from India’s Northeast. New Delhi: Aleph, 2018.

Hirsch, M. and Smith, V. (2002). Feminism and Cultural Memory: An Introduction.  Signs 28 (1), 1-19.

Hirsch, M. (2012). The Generation of Postmemory : Writing and Visual Culture After the Holocaust. New York: Columbia University Press.

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Zothanchhingi Khiangte, PhD, is an Assistant Professor and the former Head of the Department of English, Bodoland University, Kokrajhar, Assam. She is also the Coordinator of the Centre for Women’s Studies of Bodoland University. She has been the Chief Editor of the International Journal of Literature &Cultural studies (Two volumes). Her most recent books are Orality: Quest for Meanings and Revisiting Orality in Northeast India. Four PhD and two MPhil scholars have been awarded their degrees under her guidance.

Kanhailal’s ‘Theatre of the Earth’ as Political Allegory

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Pranjal Sharma Bashishtha1 & Goutam Sarmah2

1Department of Assamese, Gauhati University, Guwahati, Assam, India. ORCID: 0000-0001-8408-7008.  Email: psb@gauhati.ac.in

2Dr. Bhupen Hazarika Centre for Performing Arts, Dibrugarh University, Dibrugarh, Assam, India. ORCID: 0000-0002-6280-654X

Rupkatha Journal, Vol. 14, Issue 2, April-June, 2022, Pages 1–13. https://doi.org/10.21659/rupkatha.v14n2.ne10

First published: June 09, 2022 | Area: Northeast India | License: CC BY-NC 4.0

(This article is published under Themed Issue on Literature of Northeast India)
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Under the Canopy of Sal Trees: A New Vocabulary of Performance in Sukracharya Rabha’s Minimal Theatre

Abstract

Playwright and director, Heisnam Kanhailal (1941-2016) was an eminent theatre personality from Manipur. He began as one of the exponents of the ‘theatre of roots’ movement, like his compatriot, Ratan Thiyam. He was influenced by Badal Sircar’s politically motivated ‘Third Theatre’ in the early 1970s who had introduced him to the ‘Poor Theatre’ of the Polish director, Jerzy Grotowski (1933-99). However, Kanhailal gradually developed his unique concept of theatre, which he later called ‘The Theatre of the Earth’ with which he had tried resist the ideologies like aggressive nationalism, which was found to be rather oppressive. He retained deeper faith in art and restricted his theatre from becoming overtly propagandist by privileging its poetic, allegorical, and ‘transcendental’ appealsThe present paper is an attempt towards critical evaluation of Kanhailal’s ‘Theatre of the Earth’ and to compare his works with that of Grotowski, Sircar, and Thiyam as well as with two contemporary theatre directors from Assam, Gunakar Deva Goswami (b.1969) and Sukracharya Rabha (1977-2018). The paper also takes up his significant plays like Pebet and others in order to closely read his poetics of theatre.

Keywords: Poor theatre, resistance, theatre of rituals, theatre of the earth, the third theatre.

Introduction:

Modern Indian theatre, which was set in motion in the British colonial cities in India in the late eighteenth century, assumed a postcolonial stance in the fifth decade of the twentieth century. Aparna Bhargava Dharwadker (2008) point out that Nabanna, written by Bijon Bhattacharyya in 1943 and staged under the direction of Bijon Bhattacharyya and Shombhu Mitra for the Indian People’s Theatre Association (IPTA) in 1944, was the first postcolonial Indian play. She has regarded Nabanna to be so as it mounted stiff resistance to the British fiscal policies (Dharwadker, pp. 31-32). Earlier, Kiranmoy Raha (2001), in his book on Bengali theatre, brought out its anti-colonial stance while discussing how its first production resisted the European performance ideals (Raha, p. 155, p. 169). Bhattacharyya (2004) described the play in the following words:

As mass movements began in reaction to the imperialist power throughout Asia, India also got dispirited by it…. After ceremonial partition, insubstantial independence came with a curse of destruction…. The writing of Nabanna fell into the first phase of this blood-spattered history. (pp. 26-27; translated from the Bengali by the first author of the present paper).  

Postcolonial Theatre has two distinct features — one of them involves resistant cultural representations, which have become a means of asserting the richness of the indigenous culture by thwarting the dominant colonial cultural ideals, and the second is a tendency for highlighting the contemporary situation with the help of parallelism found in the indigenous histories and mythologies from pre-colonial period. Nabanna and the other productions of the IPTA in the fifth decade of the twentieth century, without doubt, looked for anti-European ideas of performance, but not so seriously. It emphasized content-related matters in the light of the leftist ideology, leaving artistry aside. Several theatre activists broke up with the IPTA towards the end of the decade with objections to this negligence of artistry. They formed individual theatre groups to begin a ‘Group Theatre Movement’ in India. These activists included Bijon Bhattacharyya, Shombhu Mitra, Habib Tanvir, Utpal Dutt, and Arun Mukherjee (Dharwadker, 2008, pp. 85-89). Consequently, the theatre groups began experiments on thematic novelty and artistic originality. A few independent playwrights like Dharamvir Bharti joined them from outside.

Two plays, both written ten years after the first performance of Nabanna, bear early evidence of such experiments. One is Agra Bazaar (“The Bazaar at Agra”; Urdu; 1954) by Habib Tanvir and the other play is Dharamvir Bharti’s Andha Yug (“Blind Age”; Hindi; 1954)). Agra Bazaar takes the audience back to eighteenth-century Agra and critiques the twentieth-century scenario of capitalist coercion on creativity while depicting the poetic achievements of the eighteenth-century Urdu poet, Nazeer Akbarabadi. It exposes the class difference between the elites and the plebeians of old Agra by using two variants of the Urdu language. The elite characters in the play speak the urban variant, whereas the plebeians use the rural one. Later, Tanvir established the ‘Naya Thatre’ group in Chhattisgarh in 1959 and experimented with improvisation and different dialogues to find a more reliable indigenous dramaturgy. Dharamvir Bharti’s Andha Yug is a critique of human violence (expressed during World War II and at the time of the partition of India in 1947) through the use of a mythological story that tells about the futility of violence in the Indian epic, the Mahabharata.

These plays demonstrated that stories from the histories and mythologies of the Indian past could help the playwrights and directors take critical stances against the ills of contemporary India. Plays like Mohan Rakesh’s Ashadh Ka Ek Din (“One Day in Ashadha”; Hindi; 1958) and Lehron Ke Rajhans (“The Swans of the Waves”; Hindi; 1963) Girish Karnad’s Yayati (Kannada; 1961) and Tughlaq (Kannada; 1964) took such experiments forward in the late 60s and the early 70s.

Indian theatre between 1970 and 1990 became so experimental that it seemed as if it had completely severed itself from the earlier tradition indicating the postcolonial epoch of Indian theatre that entered a new phase of theatre movement. Suresh Awasthi (1989) has called this experimentalist theatre the ‘theatre of roots’ (p. 48). Here is what Awasthi says in this regard:

I am taking the risk of giving a label— “theatre of roots”— to the unconventional theatre which has been evolving for some two decades in India as a result of modern theatre’s encounter with tradition. Theatre of roots has finally made its presence felt. It has compelling power, it thrills audiences, and it is receiving institutional recognition. It is deeply rooted in regional theatrical culture, but cuts across linguistic barriers, and has an all-India character in design. Never before during the past century and more has theatre been practiced in such diversified form, and at the same time with such unity in essential theatrical values. (p. 48). 

Erin B. Mee (2008) has observed that the ‘theatre of roots’ movement “challenged colonial culture by reclaiming the aesthetics of performance and by addressing the politics of aesthetics.” (p. 5). The movement determined a new theatre idiom, which has become a means of resisting the colonial theatre framework. For that purpose, it looked for extra-communicative traditional forms and novel visual aesthetics by exploring the ‘roots’ of the Indian people in the indigenous folk, traditional, and classical cultural heritage (Raut, “Indianizing”, p. 7). Thus, the new theatre emerged as a synchronization of modern contents and traditional folk forms. Playwrights and directors adapted forms and elements of folk tales, legends, myths, epics, and history to enhance the potentialities for visual representation. It looked like going back to the past, but it facilitated explorations of the contemporary Indian realities. It also contributed to the construction of an identity of modern Indian theatre. The playwrights and directors of this new experimental theatre included Habib Tanvir, Badal Sirkar, Girish Karnad, B.V. Karanth, K. N. Panicker, and others. This list was enriched from the north-eastern region of India by two legendary figures Manipuri playwrights-cum-directors Heisnam Kanhailal (1941-2016) and Ratan Thiyam (b. 1948).

Kanhailal’s Departure from the ‘Theatre of Roots’ Movement:

The ‘theatre of roots’ movement in modern Indian theatre by and large asserted a kind of ‘Indianness’ (“an all-India character in design”; Awasthi, 1989, p. 48) with its use of elements from the indigenous cultural traditions of India. The movement influenced young Kanhailal, and he began his theatre career as one of its exponents. However, he gradually evolved as a playwright and director with a unique ‘poetically political’ stance. He started to represent the socio-political realities of North-East India, especially Manipur, and more especially his Meitei community. However, he preferred not to be overtly political. He remained truthful to art and began to represent these realities poetically. As a result, his plays became politically resilient and poetically allegorical.

To represent these realities properly, Kanhailal enriched his plays with relevant folk (as in Pebet; 1975), mythological (as in Karna; 1997), and literary (as in Dakghar; 2006) elements. His plays have highlighted the pains and struggles of those communities in the North-East region that have been subjected to repressive nationalist paradigms of post-independent India. He drew attention, especially to the identity crisis of the traditional Meitei community of Manipur, which he belonged to. His plays also uphold the cultural strength and the associated spirit of the community for freedom from all kinds of nationalist oppression. It is evident in the following comment made by him:

I remember my meeting with Eugenio Barba in Calcutta in 1987. He asked me why the Manipuri productions demonstrate so much nationality. He was right, for he did not know that our national culture was fighting a struggle for existence between the dominant forces of a big culture and complicated politics. We do not have the objective of creating a national hullabaloo. But our theatre contains the happiness and sorrows of some people who are fighting for maintaining their identity. (Kanhailal, 2007, p. 30; translated from Hindi by the first author). 

The Formative Influences on the ‘Theatre of the Earth’:

In contrast to the ‘Theatre of Roots’, Kanhailal preferred to call his genre as the ‘Theatre of the Earth’. Three distinct factors played pivotal roles in shaping Kanhailal’s ‘Theatre of the Earth’. First, unlike his contemporaries, such as the Manipur University Professor Lokendra Arambam or the National School of Drama (NSD) product Ratan Thiyam, Kanhailal did not have any institutional affiliation. He was expelled from the NSD as he could not follow Hindi and English, its languages of instruction (Bharucha, 1998, p.  22; Ahuja, 2012, p. 276). He felt “humiliated and angry” (Bharucha, 1998, p. 22). The incident alienated him from mainstream urban theatre and inspired him to discover an alternative (Ahuja, 2012, p. 276). He also became resolute in upholding Manipuri culture to the whole world. The following words summarize the effects of the incident on Kanhailal’s mind and works:

My hopes of becoming a trained theatre activist evaporated when in 1968, I was expelled from the school before the classes began. I was psychologically affected but did not lose hope. I followed the way of self-education in my hometown Imphal. I established [the theatre group] ‘Kalakshetra Manipur’ in July 1969 with the love and assistance of my wife Sabitri and a few unfailing friends. We had the objective of studying, determining, and uplifting the Manipuri culture to such a standard level that would be regarded as the best not only in India but also in the drama scene of the whole world. (Kanhailal, 2007, p. 30; translated from Hindi by the first author). 

Sabitri Heisnam (b. 1946), Kanhailal’s leading actress since 1961 and wife since 1962 (Bharucha, 1998, p. 21) exerted the second significant formative influence on his works. Sabitri Heisnam was a rurally trained accomplished actress even before their first meeting. Yet, it is only in the folk-related productions of their theatre group ‘Kalakshetra Manipur’ (established in 1969) that the best in her came out. They had their own home in 1970 (Bharucha, 21), and after that, they became closer than ever before. She eventually became the body and voice for his folk-based theatre ideas (Ahuja, 2012, p. 276). In the words of Rustom Bharucha (1998),

It is only mandatory that any description of Kanhailal’s theatre should acknowledge the contribution of his wife. Sabitri is the centre of his work. Indeed, it is difficult not to idealize this diminutive, unpretentious, unfailingly cheerful woman, who happens to be one of the greatest actresses that I have ever seen. In her temperament, Sabitri exemplifies the resilience and commonsense of a peasant. And I use the word not in any derogatory sense, but after John Berger, in his viewing of the lives of agricultural communities. (p. 20). 

The third notable formative influence on Kanhailal came from the Polish playwright and director Jerzy Grotowski via the Bengali playwright and director Badal Sircar. Kanhailal met Sircar in a workshop in Imphal in 1973 (Katyal, 2015, p. 171), where Sircar shared his viewpoints about space and physicality in his ‘Third Theatre’ and Grotowski’s ‘Poor Theatre’. He “was very inspired by Badal Sircar’s work, but then he went another way.” (Singh, 1997, p. 22). In-depth discussions on the influences of Grotowski and Sircar on Kanhailal and the distance that Kanhailal maintained from them can make out several important features of the ‘Theatre of the Earth’.

Grotowski, Sircar, and Features of Kanhailal’s ‘Theatre of the Earth’:

The points of similarity and difference between Grotowski and Sircar are striking. Sircar negated any direct impact from Grotowski, but his rejection of the colonial theatre elements— such as the proscenium stage, costumes and make-up, lights, sounds, set property, and others— has a striking similarity with that of the ‘Poor Theatre’ of the Polish playwright and director (Ahuja, 2012, p. 251). According to Grotowski, these elements are not essential but supplementary. It means that theatre can exist without them. Grotowski, therefore, minimized the stage property to highlight the core ingredients of theatre. He held that the living relationship among the actor, audience, and space was the organic power that constituted the life of theatre (Grotowski, 1968, pp. 28-32).

In Grotowski’s ‘Poor Theatre’, the ‘holy actor’ communicates to the audience on a sensory level about his inner self by removing his outer self or ‘life mask’. He compels the audience to get rid of their masks also. Consequently, the actor and the audience confront a new truth, which inspires them to change individually (p. 37). The change is personal and spiritual, though this spirituality is not religious. It uplifts an individual to a higher level of humanity.

Like Grotowski, Sircar felt the need for “a harmonious union of the body with the mind” (Sircar quoted in Katyal, 2015, p. 170). In the 1973 workshop in Manipur, he “[began the morning class] with a series of psycho-physical exercises, not so much for muscle-building as for developing the strength and flexibility of the spinal system.” (p. 172). However, Sircar’s minimization of theatre elements, such as set property, costumes, make-up, and others, was not meant for deciphering the core ingredients of theatre. He had little to do with spirituality. He was interested in the political possibility of theatre, and this he did assert emphatically through overtly leftist subject matters and dialogues.

An actor in the Poor Theatre (“holy actor”) does not play a character in the way the actors of the conventional realistic theatre do. He disregards Stanislavsky’s theory of character-building, which tells of a definite motivation or recalling sense/ emotional memory in a given circumstance. He does not try to represent outer life as it is, nor does he try to manifest real-life actions in his movements. He moves inward: he sacrifices his persona to dissect his inner self and expose it before the audience. Grotowski (1968) puts it in the following words:

But the decisive factor in this process is the actor’s technique of psychic penetration. He must learn to use his role as if it were a surgeon’s scalpel, to dissect himself. It is not a question of portraying himself under certain ‘given circumstances’, or of ‘living’ a part; nor does it entail the distant sort of acting common to epic theatre and based on cold calculation. The important thing is to use the role as a trampoline, an instrument with which study what is hidden behind our everyday mask— the innermost core of our personality— in order to sacrifice it, expose it (p. 37).

Thus, it is like portraying his true deeper self rather than portraying an imaginary character. The sacrifice of his persona is painful, and to reach the self is no doubt a spiritual act. The actor expresses his deeper self through various body movements, gestures, postures, and vocal sounds. These expressions are some psycho-physical acts to communicate some emotion. Thus, finally, one can observe a series of impulsive body movements of the character:

The education of an actor in our theatre is not a matter of teaching him something; we attempt to eliminate his organism’s resistance to this psychic process. The result is freedom from the time-lapse between inner impulse and outer reaction in such a way that the impulse is already an outer reaction. Impulse and action are concurrent: the body vanishes, burns, and the spectator sees only a series of visible impulses. (Grotowski, 1968, p. 16)

Sircar experimented with this approach to ‘holy acting’ in his ‘Third Theatre’ productions, where the actor explored his present-day truth in place of the situation faced by the character. Yet, in his conception of theatre, Sircar stressed more on political content. As a leftist theatre activist, he made theatre more politically motivated after the fashion of Erwin Piscator and Bertolt Brecht.

The unique stance that Kanhailal’s ‘Theatre of the Earth’ maintained compared to Grotowski and Sircar’s theatres is understandable from a close look at Sabitri Heisnam’s way of performance. Kanhailal felt that Sabitri Heisnam’s acting demonstrated her own experience, what she had perceived or realized in her society. Instead of doing any logical cause and effect characterization, she went on to transcend the situation and portray her experience. About the process of her acting Kanhailal said:

Sabitri’s process of acting is a way towards self-discovery, privileging herself over the character— the otherness…. Her way of controlling emotion and self-discovery is worked out by the inner action— a single vital force impregnated with a type of cathartic and psychic process, … [which] reveal[s], say, a Sabitri underneath— her true self. (Kanhailal, 2008, p. 3)

Like Grotowski, Kanhailal regarded the bodily movements of the actor as the core part of his theatre construction: “The idea of resistance in my theatre is incarnated by the body of the actor and represents a collective and communal vision” (p. 3). The inner journey to the self-found expressions in Grotowski and Kanhailal’s theatres through body movements and sounds made in a dream-like or trance-like situation, which is spiritual by nature.

An actor in Kanhailal’s theatre does not follow the conventional way of the ‘Actor-Text-Character’ journey. Rather, he/she takes the ‘Actor-Character-Text’ approach (p. 11). For such an actor, the character is an extended part of the actor’s body and mind. Thus, this process provides more artistic freedom instead of repeating or imitating the superficial day-to-day life. As in the holy actor of Grotowski’s theatre, here also one can observe impulsive body movements in a ‘transcended’ way. Here also, the actor’s body vanishes. The point can be highlighted with the example of the 70-year-old actress Sabitri Devi’s portrayal of the 9-year-old boy Amal’s character in the play Dakghar. Here, the spectators witnessed a journey to Amal’s dream world despite the point that the performer was an elderly lady. (Raut, 2019, p. 139).

A second point is notable here. Grotowski’s is “poor” theatre as it held on to theatre’s essential elements without which theatre could not exist. Kanhailal’s theatre was “poor” due to his financial scarcity in his early career. Therefore, instead of expensive sets and costumes, lights and sounds, and a decorated stage, he started his theatre only with a few actors, their bodies, voices, and minds. He gradually focused on the cultural materials, rituals, lifestyles, and behaviour of his native community and tried to derive his language of communication. Kanhailal also experimented with the actor’s body (p. 137). Besides, like K. N. Panicker, he developed some theatre exercises based on indigenous folk forms of martial art and dance. For example, he took up elements from Thang-Ta, a Manipuri martial art form, and Lai Haraoba, a type of Meitei dance. Thus, the actor’s body became the central element in his theatre experimentation. He even did not prioritize the written text or words of the playwrights (pp. 143-44). The minimization further intensified with influences from the ‘Third Theatre’ and ‘Poor Theatre’.

Thirdly, as in Grotowski’s ‘Poor Theatre’, Kanhailal’s actors also communicate with the audience at the spiritual level. Communication is comparable to the spiritual unification of the devotees in religious or cultural rituals (Raut, 2019, p. 144). Due to this similarity, Kanhailal’s theatre suits the label of ‘a Ritualistic Theatre’. One needs to remember that his spirituality and ritualism were also not religious. Here, the theatres of Grotowski and Kanhailal become closer, but still, Kanhailal’s theatre remains distinguishable for his altruism. His actor is different from that of Grotowski. Grotowski’s actor sacrifices himself to change morally or spiritually, while Kanhailal’s actor wants to induce the change on the societal level. He uses impulsive body movements to raise various socio-political issues (p. 144). Here lies the altruism that is the basis of Kanhailal’s plays.

At this point, a comparison between Badal Sircar and Kanhailal becomes obvious. Sircar’s Third Theatre also wanted change, but this was not a spiritual but social change. His theatre was more politically vibrant, as it hoped for a structured political revolt as per the leftist ideology. It advocated for the liberty of the common masses against all kinds of oppression. It aimed to eradicate illiteracy, poverty, and others in the post-independence scene. In this sense, Kanhailal’s theatre was also political but slightly different. It did not uphold any existing political ideology. It dealt with the same societal issues but suggestively and allegorically. Thus, he was different from both Sircar and Brecht (Kanhailal, 2008, p. 3).

There are more points of difference between the theatres of Sircar and Kanhailal. Like Sircar, Kanhailal rejected the dramatic text, though for a different reason. Sircar took the help of improvisation to enhance the realistic appeal of his productions. Kanhailal preferred to take up folk forms. He noticed that traditional folk theatre forms rarely demanded a written text. These forms were more flexible and mouldable. Therefore, with his anti-colonial and anti-nationalist position, during the early part of his career Kanhailal preferred simple Manipuri folk tales to readymade plays. He found that the Manipuri folk-tales had contemporary significance (Kanhailal, 2008, p. 2). He added additional/ allegorical meanings to these expressive folk tales to raise contemporary social issues. He gave his performance a poetic dimension by using other folk theatre elements, such as sound, movement, mime, dance, song, music, and stylization. The familiarity and the immediacy of these elements helped his Manipuri audience be aware of their crisis in terms of their identity, environment, colonial history and oppressive nationalism.

Thiyam’s ‘Theatre of Roots’ and Kanhailal’s ‘Theatre of the Earth’:

Being the two stalwarts of theatre from Manipur belong to the same period, comparisons between Kanhailal and Ratan Thiyam is quite inevitable. This is also helpful in understanding the similarities and the differences between the two. Thiyam, an exponent of the ‘Theatre of Roots’ movement, has brilliantly delineated a kind of ‘Indianness’ with his plays like Chakravyuha (“Army-Circle Formation”; 1984). The play uses episodes from the Mahabharata and evokes a sense of solidarity among the Indian audience. On the contrary, Kanhailal found the concept of ‘Indianness’ too comprehensively and dominantly ‘nationalist’ to accommodate the regional realities and issues. He, therefore, used episodes from the epic not to evoke a nationalist feeling but to highlight the socio-political issues of his immediate society. Kanhailal (2015) in his interview with Jyotirmoy Prodhani described his distinctiveness from Ratan Thiyam in the following way:

Ratan Thiyam’s plays are fantastic; they make majestic theatrical presence and are superbly spectacular. It is a mindboggling visual treat. But for me theatre is not only about copious extravaganza, it is essentially about the intimate nuances, the raw earthy immediacy of experiences. This is what “Theatre of the Earth” is all about. I strongly believe that theatre is essentially grounded with ideology and a deep-rooted social commitment. (para 2).  

The Legitimacy of Kanhailal’s Relation to ‘the Earth’:

Kanhailal was right to call his theatre the “Theatre of the Earth”, for it was down-to-earth. It was against the elaborate and decorative ‘nationalist’ theatre of his contemporary Manipuri playwright Ratan Thiyam. Kanhailal’s theatre was not ethereal; and it was not about fairies and farishtas. Rather, it was grounded on the ‘earth’. It was real, contemporary, and politically aware. It related the contemporary burning problems of his own people. He connected it to the contemporary North-Eastern, especially Manipuri, socio-political realities and cultural milieu. His theatre was deeply committed to the land and people of his Meitei community, their aspirations, pains, oppression, and frustrations. It took inspiration from their life and culture. According to him, this connection could make sense: “Even the social experiences of the individual and the community are actually solidified through its intimate linkages with the earth’’ (interview with Prodhani, para 1).

It is true that, had Kanhailal been direct while dealing with the bitter realities of the North-East, he could have become more successful in propagating his political ideas. Yet, he preferred to go with allegorical themes. Did it not limit the possibility of his theatre? The point remains that a direct delineation of the political themes would have made his theatre overtly propagandist. Kanhailal was a political playwright but never allowed his work to degenerate into artless propaganda. Theatre was art for him as ‘modern’ poetry is for a modern political poet. It is through art that he tried to raise his voice of resistance.

Elucidating Examples of the Plays of the ‘Theatre of the Earth’:

His Pebet (1975) exposes the ideological dominance of the Brahminical faith. For this purpose, it focuses on the indoctrination of the ethnic people of the Meitei community to Brahminism. The exposition occurs through the use of a Manipuri lullaby. Similarly, his ‘Memoirs of Africa’ (1985) is based on a poem that likens Manipur to the once colonized continent of Africa. Thus, Kanhailal’s theatre is political allegory. It does not make any direct statement on social issues. Sircar’s primary aim was to impart political lessons to the audience, as are the cases with the German playwrights-cum directors like Erwin Piscator and Bertolt Brecht (Kanhailal, “H. Kanhailal and Sabitri” 4). Kanhailal believed in making them aware of their crises and inspiring them to bring in social change. He did so by evoking awareness and not by propagating any established political ideology. His theatre raises the voice and represents the pain and agony of the common masses under ideological oppression. The collective and communal vision gets expressed in his theatre through the actor’s movements and non-verbal sounds. His actor becomes the voice of the oppressed.

Kanhailal (2015) revealed that his Karna (1997) re-interpreted the consequence of Karna in the Mahabharata. Karna was abandoned by Kunti, his mother, soon after he was born. Kanhailal shows Kunti claiming his body after her younger son Arjuna kills him in the Kurukshetra war. However, she does not claim the body out of her motherly feeling. She claims it to save this ‘Aryaputra’ (“Son of the Aryans”) from being cremated by Radha, his non-Aryan (and therefore outcaste) foster mother. The re-interpretation, therefore, highlights the Aryan people’s negligence and oppression of the non-Aryan people. Kanhailal (2015) maintained that he had used this re-interpretation “to raise the question of social segregation and politics of caste and marginalisation.” (n. pag).

The resilient attitude of Kanhailal is reinstated very powerfully in his Draupadi (2000). Inspired by Maheswata Devi’s story, the play demonstrates its female protagonist, Dopdi, played by Sabitri Heisnam, challenging an oppressive army officer, the Senanayak,  by being starkly naked in front of him. Her acting disturbed the audience, but it was also lauded by critics as one of the boldest enactments on the Indian stage. After four years, an incident occurred in Manipur where women came out for public protest against the oppressive Indian army (Hariharan, 2017, p. 18). It is an example of inspiration taken by life from art. In this way, Kanhailal tried to awaken the fighting spirit of the common masses through his plays.

Kanhailal’s Later Experiments:

In the last two decades of his career, Kanhailal did more theatrical experiments. His concept of ‘The Ritual of Suffering’ further enriched his ‘Theatre of the Earth’. He explained the concept in his Theatre for the Ritual of Suffering (1997). It made his theatre more humane, poetic, and ‘transcendental’. Chaman Ahuja (2012) has explicated it in the following way:

All great plays display human misery and exploitation of man by man; it is this experience of suffering that provides one with a sense of sacrifice, or martyrdom, of heroism…. Being a proof of the human spirit, suffering is holy and that is what makes it a healing agency— a catalyst in lifting a finite human being to the higher realm of infinitude. Such being Kanhailal’s aim and assumptions, he regards actor as a medium. The way Sabitri goes into immediate trance is a ritualistic transformation. (p. 277).

Kanhailal’s group, ‘Kalakshetra Manipur’ took up ‘The Nature Lore Project’ in 2005. The project had the objectives of embarking on a new kind of theatre practice with cultural adventure and expedition, doing a collective search for indigenousness, removing racial and linguistic biases, giving up city-centric theatre, and addressing the rural audience (‘Kalakshetra Manipur’ 4). These objectives reflect a clear postcolonial standpoint with a more tuned form of his earlier ideas. These objectives were detectable in his productions like Sati and Dakghar (Kalakshetra Manipur, 3).

The nature-lore project emphasized a kind of community theatre of an ethnic group in a rural or remote environment. It tried to develop a naturalized and ritualized theatre. This theatre tries to find the original power that only live theatre possesses. It abandons the city-based rich conventional theatre tradition and negates ‘method acting’ or realism or the psychological approach of character building. On the contrary, it emphasizes the ‘physical-psychic’ approach of characterization. The actors create the theatre idiom with their instinct and intuition. The identity of a naturalized actor of a particular community reflects through their instinctive and intuitive body expression, which has its base in folk performances. The process of such a performance is thus a ‘renewal of ancestral tradition’ (p. 12). Naturalized actors learned this through their livelihood in a particular geo-ecological system:

For them ethnicity is a way of life and expression of an ancient tradition orally transmitted from generation to generation in case of a specific people live in a specific geo-ecological system. The ethnic identity is thus shaped by the body vocabulary which the people learn and evolve from the ecological system through generations. (p. 11). 

Multilingualism is another feature of this project. Under this project, Kanhailal’s theatre tries to break all the racial and linguistic barriers of various ethnic communities. It does so as it wants to challenge the supremacy of one ‘nationalist’ language and culture over these communities. In this way, the theatre tries to overcome the dominant politics of culture and identity. A real challenge lies in collaborating with artists from different linguistic and cultural backgrounds. Kanhailal solved this problem by accommodating multiple languages together. He reconstructs a conventional text like Dakghar into a multilingual Text. The process creates a language of images, impulsive body movements, and sounds (Kanhailal, 2008, p. 2).

An Analysis of Pebet:       

‘Pebet’ (1975) is a non-verbal play constructed from a Manipuri fireside folk story. It was performed without a dramatic text, i.e., in the same way as Kanhailal performed many of his plays. In it, Pebet, a bird of an almost extinct species, gives birth to her fledglings, nurtures them, and teaches them how to fly. A cunning cat comes to eat them up. The mother bird manipulates the cat and rescues the innocent ones.

This simple storyline of the Manipuri folk tale unfolds some allegorical meaning in Kanhailal’s theatre. It illustrates how the rulers of Delhi dominate the Manipuri people with their divide-and-rule policy. The cat, shown wearing a dhoti and holding a rosary in hand and bells around the neck, stands for the aggression of the Vaisnavite culture over the indigenous ethnic cultures of North East India (especially the Meitei culture of Manipur) (Bharucha, 1998, p. 34). The play has been regarded as “anti-Hindu” and “anti-Indian” (p. 34). The point that the bird is nearly extinct suggests that the traditional culture is under severe threat from Brahminical aggression.

The second author of the present paper had the privilege of watching ‘Pebet’, produced by Manipur Kalakshetra, at Nazira in the Sivasagar district of Assam on 06 February 2005. The play unfolded in a temporary auditorium lit by two halogen lights, but there was almost no stage property except a small platform on one side of the stage. The actors who played the roles of the fledglings wore light brown dresses, meaning that they were birds of the same feathers, i.e., similar sufferers unified by the ‘Ritual of Suffering’.

On the contrary, Mother Pebet, played by Sabitri Heisnam, wore a blue dress. The blue colour of her dress reminds one of Siva, who once drank poison benevolently to become blue-throated. In this light, the mother Pebet’s blue dress suggests centuries of torture on the indigenous communities. Again, the sky and the seas are blue. Therefore, despite her tiny appearance, her blue dress can suggest the grandeur of the indigenous cultures. Against the timidity and vulnerability of the birds are the aggression and violence of the cat. All these qualities found expressions through physical movements and non-verbal sounds. They held the audience spellbound. In December 2021, the authors sat together to study a few YouTube videos on different enactments of the play. The videos gave them the same semiotic suggestions and expressive emotions.

The challenges of the construction process lay in concretizing the dream-like images evoked by the lullaby-like story. The dramaturgy was constructed from point to point. Rhythmic body movements and non-verbal sounds like screams, wailing, hummings, and others added audio-visual splendour to the action. According to Sabitri, her inner journey evoked by the story took the form of dream-like impulsive physical actions and sounds. Sabitri termed the physical manifestation of her inner emotions as psychical. It was reflected even in her breathing pattern (Kanhailal, 2008, p. 8).

Legacies of the ‘Theatre of the Earth’: 

Kanhailal has been a strong influence on the next generation of playwrights and directors of India in general and the North-East in particular. Two such playwrights-cum-directors are Gunakar Dev Goswami and Sukracharyya Rabha from Assam. Dev Goswami, a disciple of Kanhailal, learned to use rare Assamese folk cultural elements, such as folk tales, myths, and historical episodes after the fashion of his Guru. He has also used folk and classical theatrical forms and elements from Oja-Pali, Ankia Bhaona, and others to construct his visual aesthetics, movements, and music. Moreover, like the plays of Kanhailal, his productions like JerengaBiranganaSati, and many others have expressed strong protest against women’s oppression in contemporary society. His production of Santras, based on a Panchatantra story, took inspiration from Kanhailal’s Pebet. Its rigorous physical movements, ups and downs of voice and music, and the allegorical way to deal with a postcolonial subject matter strongly remind one of Kanhailal’s play.

Sukracharya Rabha, who met an untimely demise a few years ago, was one of the most brilliant young playwrights-cum-directors of the region. He recognized Kanhailal as his Guru and tried to grasp the actual essence of his theatre. He arranged the “Under the Sal Tree” theatre festival regularly in a completely natural environment. The productions of his group, Badungduppa, discard all artificial theatre elements, such as lights, sounds, heavy sets, costumes, and make-up. The plays are performed in daylight in front of the audience seated under the Sal Trees. As a talented playwright and director, he also constructed his theatre basically from the folk tales and myths of his community, with all folk actors. Through his theatre he tried to explore the cultural heritage of his own Rabha community. To PoidanRupalimTikharChangkoy, and Madaiah Muchi were some of his well-known productions.

Declaration of Conflicts of Interests
The author(s) declared no potential conflicts of interest.

Funding
No funding has been received for the publication of this article. It is published free of any charge.

Acknowledgement
Feature image courtesy: Indrakshi Chaudhury.

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Thiyam, Ratan. (1998). Chakravyuha. Calcutta: Seagull Books.

Pranjal Sharma Bashishtha,, a PhD from Gauhati University who did his MA in English (Banaras Hindu University) and in Assamese literature (Gauhati University). He teaches World literature, Assamese Literature, Translations and Critical Theory at Gauhati University Institute of North-East India Studies (GUINES) and at the Department of Assamese at Gauhati University. Besides critical writings, he has published several collections of poems, and short stories in Assamese.

Goutam Sarmah is an MSc in Physics and MA in Performing Arts (Theatre Arts) from Dibrugarh University and has submitted his Ph.D. thesis on Shakespearean plays in Assamese at Dibrugarh University. He teaches Theatre Arts at the Dr. Bhupen Hazarika Centre for Studies in Performing Arts of Dibrugarh University. Besides his research articles, he has published several full-length and one-act plays. He is also an active theatre director and an actor trainer.

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