Figuring Fleeting Memories

By David Buhril *

What could be the language to describe the sight of the mystical sun beam that spills out of wet tea garden hills? They could wither one's imagination of the land of milk and honey as their beauty cast unbound spell. Many a times I wonder who the more beautiful creature is : Us and Them.

I cannot allow myself to bend or bow with my cultivated reason. But, would you still wonder where the wind blows? Eventually, they win over us. That inevitably made me say, "God maketh man so that he could witness his power and glory". Turn blind, you'd still wish for the last time to see thousand leaves bath naked in the setting sunlight as if to defy eternity. Their attempt is inspiring.

It is the age of deconstruction. Here we have not Derrida alone, but thousand leaves bathing in golden glory when the hour of darkness and night nears them. That fleets past me as I was reading a signboard that reads, "Welcome to Barak Valley", as I was nearing Cachar's Hmarkhawlien.

I don't know if the evening stands still. We met again. That was somewhere in Assam where the tea garden ran across hundred miles. I also met her as I entered Meghalaya. I cannot, but, wonder again, if Bollywood is blind or if they deliberately wanted to indulged with the money that they squeezed out from the pockets of bread winners who were left behind without much, but with their quest for worshiping small gods.

The Britisher's have reasons to call this land, "Scotland of the East". Unlike the retreated Britishers, Bollywood is yet to discover the dying haven as the sick Indian dilemma of falling in love with a foreign land is prohibiting the billion race from seeing and understanding God's creativity embedded in our region. That rightly stirs the colonial hangover, which we do not seem to want to shed. It looks like man need to worship someone, other than him, to balance himself from all the worldliness. If not earthliness.

The earth was red that evening in Meghalaya's Jowai when the sun was setting. It was like the biggest bad bruise that will scar eternity. It was like a woman bleeding and writhing in endless pain. It looks like misery. The earth is rich in that place. The beauty of the place could shame many cat-walking women who often sway the ramp with overdose colours and anorexic figures.

The sad thing is that the earth of this part is bleeding profusely with its ruined landscape. Hundreds of black gold (coal) laden trucks negotiates the clogged highway with thick dark fumes spilling out of their tail. They will be exported to some unknown destination as the trucks leave behind thick layers of coal powder that darkens the green trees and the small cosy houses.

Unscientific digging of coal-rich mounds and hills is a big concern here. If the raid continues at the same pace, the rich earth with all its beauty would be ruined, leaving behind only black powder that will change the colour of the river when it rains. Not only that, the Government of India is attempting to mine uranium in this beautiful place. That has already put the people at war with itself. After all the plundering and draining, I wonder if, tomorrow, Meghalaya would still be called "Scotland of the East".

After a long time, I read the newspaper. The Centre has already declared a war against the Maoist. The Home Minister adventurous announcement was all that it took to start the war. He reminds me of a family wrecking woman, who, otherwise is expected to be a home minister. How can we allow a war to address the great injustice when corporate ceaselessly rob and plunder their land and resources, leaving nothing for them and their future.

In Sinlung hills where I often go there is a popular saying: "There is more than one way of killing a chicken". There should be many ways to check these democratic malfunctions. It will never be like a video game that the minister's grandchildren, if he has, finds interesting.

The tongue that wags for war should morally bear the sin and burden of the blood that will spill and the lives that will be at loss. That reminds me again of the war that the Trojans and the Greek fought in Troy. For the thousands of people who died in the vain battle, it was for their nation or homeland.

However, the battle line was drawn by another family wrecker, who romanticise love without even imagining the mess he will create. He would not make this war if his sons and daughters were captain or major in the Indian Army. He would not declare this war if he has to hold a gun with bulletproof jacket and helmet. He did not know how it would be to fit inside those accessories.

He declared this war knowing that the billion race has too many unemployed people to join the forces. Tomorrow many would become dead heroes and martyrs after losing their employment; after they bury their fears and turned into ashes and dust.

There are not many people behind bloody war and battle. There are not many people behind this war too. The responsible man nevertheless still romanticise the ugly war with a beautiful name: "Operation Green Hunt". The name sounds like a Samaritan attempt to clean up dirty rivers and plant more trees. But it is not.

Rather, it is a war against a people who are struggling to defend their land from plunderers and those Columbus tribes. It will be a war to give a free hand again to plunderers and raiders who pollute rivers, raze hundreds of kilometers of green forest, scalped landscape, uproot and displaced people, and ravaged rights. The war will be against the peasantry, landless and the Adivasis. It will split lives and wreck many families. That is the power of war. History will ever remember the minister for the blot that he will create in this clogged democratic space.

If the Home Minister thinks about winning a war, there can never be a winner. There are so many lessons to be learnt from Bush and his war-mongering ways. Fortunate that we do not have Bush to back the minister misguided track. After everything, justice always awaits the people who defend their rights and mortality. Power and might cannot crush them.

War cannot deliver any healing touch to their deprived lives. Thinkers and policy makers ought to move out of their shrinking boxes clogged in hallowed halls to understand the grassroots' realities that rather define the Indian reality. Or is this war an attempt to erase the people who were deprived of their democratic and citizenship rights?

If the illiterate in the forgotten hills knew of dealing with a chicken in more than one ways, the learned must resort to an alternative that will save life and lives. That will promote real democracy to the vote banks that lifted them and their power hungry quest.

Technology and earthly obligations brought me back to Delhi. Cold greets me. Winter. Déjà vu! I said to myself as she creeps inside me, farther and faster than I immediately expected.

I remember Garos children beating a drum as they sing endless carol in their wild and rich land. I remember them singing us carol in Maikhuli, Garo Hills, when brother Rohming Buhril hosted me lavish dinner under the glowing moon. I was, then, the solitary traveler with my old Royal Enfield shining with its new metallic blue paint and cruising hundreds of kilometres under Van Gogh like sky. There was Black Dog.

The sky was pregnant with stars. Some fell. I was told to make a wish. But they fall too fast. The cold was thick. But untouchable. In their beautiful midst I even thought that man can live without the warm of flesh and blood. The carol in Garos was Greek to me. But it was one of the sweetest that I ever heard.

It was salvation for me. I was woken as my train of thoughts was sidetracked with thousands of cars jammed in chaotic mess, blowing loud rustic horns. The road tells me of the state of democracy that the limping nation is with. After all, I realised that I was just trying to figure fleeting memories.