Sweet Home
- Part 3 -

By Nameirakpam Bobo Meitei *

When the bus is leaving the officer stands behind a teak tree as a despondent boy hiding expecting the world to pay attention to his deliberate absence.

Stumbling on expected hindering power the bus maintains its continuity ferrying the cold-bitten and mentally harassed passengers charging onto the an uncertain journey its destination disclosed yet leaving the certitude of reaching the destination in the hands of triumphant people drawing their amplified glory from the souls and the minds of people who have long taken the form of apparition.

Hell gate is still several miles away and driving with the obligation that he is ought to deliver them at the destined place the driver put pressure on himself charging the vehicle along the narrow national highway walled up on both sides by plum tress and towering bamboo trees, hearing the sound of a rumbling vehicle cracking into the tranquility of the place, farmers turn their head around to look, while the little ones playing now standing behind the thatched house wave their little hands showing the simplicity and innocence of their life, and this very sight brings an unconscious smile on the face of the solitary man sitting close to the driver, in another random manner he raises his right hand and waves as if with these little ones he has an unspoken understanding, perhaps an understanding that does not involve established form of communication, an understanding free of backgrounds, an understanding of complete acceptance, an acceptance of one as a human.

To be human does one need eloquent language, oriented of one particular culture, religion or tradition? What are the vital things to a harmonious existence, sharing a common language, food habit, culture, ethnic history? Then why would one accept a hateful person because he happens to be the person in whose possession he has certain commonality?

What about embracing an individual for his humane uniqueness, accepting him for what is he rather than where he comes from and where he belongs? To be able to see a good human do we need to identify the person with some anachronistic patterns? Is that what we called intellectualism?

An intellectualism which grows out of the differentiation and isolation of one from another and exhibiting how different one could be and what one must rely on to enforce one's exertion, an exertion of one's zealous conception or the another word destructive intellectualism!

Those mud-houses with thatch roofs sitting in the sprawling field, the simple houses scattered housing the uninvolved people who have no craving for meaningful revolutionary triumph, people who are fixated to the back-breaking day-to-day labor of weeding, sowing and harvesting, what difference would Marxism and democracy would deliver to them, all they expect or what they are accustomed to is the undisturbed life with the right monsoon at the same time, then to sit by the fire warming their bones in the extreme temperature of winter, if you gave them a gun they would end up hanging it on the wall, if they had to use then you could expect them to shoot some trespassing wild animals, unlike those armed people with a meaningful goal, a goal which doesn't hesitate compromising the supposedly potential threat.

Uncertainty being replaced by anxiety the shattered and colour less vehicle crawls upon the spiraling highway hewn on to the green mountain over which the monstrous clouds hang as if they are ready for an invasion. As it climbs upwards groping its way through the hazy climbing path the mist now streams into through the open face swarming and obviously aggravating the shivering condition of the passengers.

As the bus climbs down from a rather tall mountain and finds itself at the part where it's joined by a lower mountain upon which thatch-roofed houses are scattered, cutting through the mountain a potholed road runs its side above the road entertains more lives than the side below the road.

Being compelled by the curvy road to slow down the bus go through the quiet inhabited area, the quietness gives a shivering effect as if one is reminded of a abandoned plagued place its habitants fled leaving behind the starving apparition only to be awakened by the approaching vehicle ferrying tormented souls, which are no less deadful than them.

Now the bus finds piercing through the walls of towering bamboos, thick enough to block the view beyond the clustered towering trees. An ear-piercing whistle sounds out followed by a circling round of whistles, suddenly the quiet place has been awakened and the manner it has been awakened carries an ominous spell.

There are no villagers what can be now seen are the camouflaged people, whose heads are covered with black scarves, emerging from the bamboos like a camouflaged reptile would do before it swallows its prey, pointing guns slowly they emerge and slowly and carefully they encircle the vehicle as if the sight of the ugly vehicle was an paramount danger to them.

A bulky man wielding an M-16 rifle and a shorter but stout figure bearing a light-machine gun climb down and signal the vehicle to stop. Seeing that the vehicle has adhered to their order the M-16 man orders the driver in Freelanguage to order the passengers to get down and line up.

Without any sign of hesitating the walking zombies step down from the bus to show their meaningless submission to another group of saviours. Death can visit them easily and it's also rather quick and the only way to dodge death is to learn how to dodge bullets.

to be continued...