The North-East: A divided music
Supreeta Singh
I.
Ruben could not play his music. We were staying at the border town of Moreh in Manipur, inhabited by Kukis. And Ruben was a Naga, which meant that he could not sit with his fiddle outside on the steps of Yatri Nivas and sing songs of his clan. This would miff the Kukis and he dare not take the risk. As the clouds gradually gathered over the mountaintops and evening was announced by the falling light, silence reigned supreme over the land, broken only by the buzz of the insects, the drizzling rain and the whirring of fans. Then from atop the hill just on the other side of the lodge wafted the rhythmic beat of drums. The evening prayer of the Kuki church was in session. The outside was bathed in darkness and nothing could be seen. Only the primal beats that were pure music and evoked a mythical response could be heard; the slow, soft and regular beats benumbed the mind as if a distant lullaby from nowhere really. Inside the lodge in the downstairs drawing room, Joshy, Razzak, Molly, Pirun and myself now came together to listen to Ruben. Doors were closed and a strict vigil was kept. Then we heard Ruben. The folk songs did not have any lettered meaning to any of us, but we understood. The fiddle came alive and the music was very fitting to the surroundings -- it's what is expected in the land of tribes, age-old customs and far away peoples. The drums and the fiddle played together, melodies flowed out to reach us, they fused and were one but alas the drums were not meant for Nagas, and the Kukis had nothing to do with the fiddle. The sound of music was divided -- one for each. Music belonged to Nagas and Kukis separately. Sounds and music escaped and spilled over the borders, but the boundaries were too sharp. II.
I am in a ghost town where everything used to be, Where everything existed including you and me. But now the story's over, the time has gone Ashes to ashes, dust to dust And the roads stink of blood. Any other day I would not have cried I would not have burst open at the seams I would not have understood. But the bare and empty corridors, failing light and soiled floors Made a point. There were no facts to fight with, no statistics to be grappled with. Just a lone figure on a single bed, hair all loose, packed up in blankets A voice rising nonetheless from the debris of chopped humanity Trailing blood from printed lines from a threadbare collection of stripped dignity. Let them play games of death over life. I would not join, but stand apart, and look upon it. Doors would be thrust open without a knock Human bodies dragged and pulled by the hair on the streets At night may be, beaten, punished Raped till death and rightly so for that is their special whim With special powers. Swarms of people scampering out to protest Revolt, self-immolation, naked spectacle All over broken pieces of everything that can be broken Torn apart, uprooted. Voices and bullets raised together, When shells explode in this history Replaying itself each single day with unfailing accuracy Shards of betrayal sticks in the memory Like piercing arrows of an old world. Let me be. Please. III.
What is it to be a woman? Is it to be a body, a gender, a discrimination? Is it to be a victim, a non-entity, a crisis? Is it to be an object, a commodity, a price? Is it to be a sniffle, a cry, a voice? Is it to be a self-hood, an identity, a fight? If I am a body, then I am raped. If I am a gender, then I am studied. If I am a discrimination, then I am inferior. If I am a victim, then I am just there. If I am a non-entity, then I am nowhere If I am a crisis, then I am everywhere. If I am an object, then I am a possession. If I am a commodity, then I am marketable. If I am a price, then I am biddable. If I am a sniffle, then I am a mouse. If I am a cry, then I am a failure. If I am a voice, I am inaudible. If I am self-hood, then I am a daughter. If I am an identity, then I am a wife. If I am a fight, then I am homeless. Supreeta Singh works at Drik Picture Library, Dhaka.
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