Afterglow: Reading Che In Paona Bazaar

Linthoi Chanu *

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My experiences, my story, my Imphal, my land. Yes, all mine; all belonging to a Meitei.

Before I started flipping the pages of Che In Paona Bazaar, I had to exorcise and erase all evil prejudices. It was not that simple. From some unknown territory of my brain, Meitei jingoism crawled inside my liberal self. As much as I hated myself for it, it made me sceptical of Kishalay Bhattacharjee's book and questioned his intentions repeatedly. Why is it that when it comes to any issue related to my homeland, I lean towards an irrational tendency to scrutinize it first? Maybe pages and pages of misspelt Meiteilon words, false information and stereotypical depictions have made me overprotective and hyper-cautious. Brooding over his intentions, I tried to figure out whether it is because sympathising with North-easterners is the 'in' thing these days or it is because accepting 'exoticised differences' is the dictum of every 'thinking' Indian. Then I stopped. Shrugging off everything and calming my¬self with an antidote of nothingness, I started following Eshei.

An 'outsider' retold Phunga Waris of Sandrembi Cheisra and Tapta (with no misspelt Meiteilon words) and I listened quietly with half- sleepy eyes as his voice metamorphosed into that of a Kaka's or a Tamo's than a Sir's or Mr's. From the legend of Paona to the game of polo, the book proclaimed the world of our past and heritage. Embarrassing my vanity of being an insider, Che In Poana Bazaar introduced me to oblivious parts of Manipur- to the child soldiers, to Bnei Menashe, the Jew community. My mind was teleported to the 'forbidden' corners of sexuality; it rejuvenated me to embrace my own, without any inhibition. And I witness it all; bare to the roots.

With intense descriptions of Manipur and its inhabitants, the book will take you on a tour of the place, from leikais and leiraks of the valley to Khullens of the hills, weaving anecdotes, all the while. With a poem, I strolled through the maze of Ema market; I came back after buying pineapples. I sneaked out with Eshei's cousin to buy candles and in the morning, I waited for the Nupi haidokpa lakapgi pao. It will not be an exaggeration to compliment that the visual delights offered by the book is a doorway to the culture of the people it portrays.

Presenting an honest picture of Manipur, the book highlights many trials and dilemmas that accompany the vibrant life of the state. One such is the complex fabric of the Meitei society, hastily divided into binary gender roles of woman-man by majority. But the episode on former sportsperson Mrs. Thokchom and her 'normal' life, which shifted her display of physical strength from sport arenas to courtyards of her house, stirs up many questions. On the one hand it is about the strength which is synonymous with Meitei nupi, on the other; Kishalay conjures up the flipside reality- the burden of glorification. In a place ripped apart by violence, basic issue of gender-trouble remains buried under layers of conflicts and turmoil. For questions which cannot be answered at one level, Kishalay is not afraid to venture deep down into the labyrinth.

The reduction of the role of Meira Paibis to moral policing is justified, considering their gradual inclination to 'traditional authoritarian' only. But as a Meitei woman, the blood of my Mother's legacy runs in my body. Education gave me a liberal outlook which will strongly contest their 'authority'. Feminism taught me to embrace my sexuality, which their conservatism will ostracise. In spite of these differences, I owe my courage to them. Maybe this is the reason why I felt the paragraphs on Meira Paibis could have been depicted with more sensitivity. Having said this, the idea of legacy as a burden, brooding upon the present and the future, from which Eshei tries to break away is a celebration of individuality and self-identity; a flickering light of solution gifted by the author.

Another issue also fidgeted my otherwise calm reading of the book. Yes, sometimes "an 'outsider's' perspective, up close and personal' sees what is blurred to us. Yes, 'mayang' and 'chinky' are terms, most of the time derogatory, coming from different sides of the race. But apart from incidents of attacks by terrorists, and occasional 'taunts' to the ice-cream seller, which is discouraged with strict scolding by elder members of the leikai, the issue of racism in Manipur is different from that in the capital.

Shouting 'chinky', an SUV playing 'Dope Shope' would speed away, the landlord would ask us first, if anything from anywhere, smells different, and sometimes 'Hey chinky, let's have some fun. Get inside my car' will haunt me for the rest of my days in Delhi until another similar remark replaces it. Maybe there is no 'terrorism' attack against us (if we exclude fake encounters and custodial disappearances) but the recent exodus from Bangalore is a concrete example of the underlying equation between 'us' and 'them'. Nevertheless a sensitive issue for both sides, but for every ten examples and reasons on the other side, a thousand can be listed to sway the weighing scale to our side of the story.

In spite of everything, the author's enthusiasm to tell risky stories, questioning the notion of truth and idealism, is something only a few would have the courage to. Some years ago, reading Sanjoy's Hazarika's Stranger of the Mist, I felt a romantic charm in the 'revolution'. I sympathised with the Naga movement and pitied the lost vision of Assam's 'students'. Maybe that was the case a few decades ago. When Kishalay brought the 'revolution' from the hills of Shillong and Ukhrul, and the plains of Guwahati and Imphal to the pages of his book, it was a face-off with bitter truth; the 'terrorism' side of the 'revolution'. Applauding the author, I wondered what my Manipuri-Naga friends would say to the association of the word 'terrorist' with their Leader, all the while.

Throughout the constant tussle among various armed forces, Kishalay hopes for the potential to heal, banking on stories of love and courage. While reading about Khundrakpam Pradeep Kumar and Irom Sharmila, and when D trusted his individual emotions rather than collective rationality, I felt a tender bud of love sprouting somewhere in the horizon.

And then, there is Eshei. Eshei. Never knew a word so soothing; a word that can take a reader to a realm of melodies only; no sound of bullet, no cry of protest. Eshei is an embodiment of today's generation of Meiteis. I see a postmodernist youth in her; in all her chaos, I see beauty. Celebrating the dilemma of multiple identities and sexualities, she fuels the courage to search beyond the purposeless purpose.

For our generation who took the midnight train to nowhere, long after Journey sang about it, this book is a testimony to our life; celebrating every moment of it. Next time, when my university educated friend asks me, "So Chanu, tell me about Manipur?" I will just hand them my copy of Che In Paona Bazaar. Mr. Kishalay Bhattacharjee, I am quite sure they will fall in love with our place. They will remember it long after there are no more pages to flip, for Eshei is the song that never ends.