Rih Dil Titi

“There! That’s the lake!” exclaimed my mother, pointing her finger towards the mirroring body of water laid flat across the plains of Tiau valley. It was an uncharacteristic of her to make any display of excitement. It had been an awfully long drive and we were all weary of the dusty roads. We were returning from a friend’s wedding in Sialhawk, a small sleepy village in the east not far from Champhai, the district capital bordering Myanmar. And in the excitement of our celebration of young love, tradition and inspired speeches of eternal bonds, we had decided to take the scenic route to Rihkhawdar before returning back to Keitum. Yes, we were on our way to see Rih dil- the lake that symbolised love, life, death and the afterlife. I was excited because the place held within it the secrets and legends of everything that would meet a young man’s fancy. The scenic part was definitely accurate, but truth be told we were miles out of our way home and we had underestimated the distance; it appeared I had also overestimated my zeal for long drives. We stopped at Champhai, which is one of the few places in Mizoram where we find plains which are used for rice cultivation. The place is known to be hammered down by Chhura, a mythical figure in the Mizo folklore who is often attributed to many of the unnatural places found in Mizoram. We drove in excitement at the only long straight road sandwiched between the rice fields before ascending up again at the steep and winding mountain roads. This had been a really remote area with little or no sign of touristic activities although the place is beautiful and play an important cultural and historic significance for the Mizos. The roads are neglected and became more and more dangerous towards the Myanmar border, part of the reason why it didn’t attract loads of tourism. Being the only one capable of driving, our destination coming into view was definitely a welcome sight.

“What a view! It is so inviting,” I was determined to take a dip and immerse myself in the waters. “I can’t wait to get down there. “

“Back in the old days, the place was covered with thick and lush forests, and was much more unnerving: even for the most courageous Pasalthas1 to venture out there”.

I had inadvertently slipped in this bit of fun fact in our conversation much to my sister’s chagrin. She was of the opinion that I exploited every opportunity to break into a history lesson and remind her of our roots. I suppose on some level I do fear that we will forget our past and our stories. The fact that she pointed out her annoyance in between selfies and Instagram stories convinced me of the need to continue with my narration. Perhaps some of the factoids I dropped in our conversation would make her social media posts a little more educational.

“It must have been the perfect ground then,” I continued while reminiscing about my Grandfather’s stories about the hunting expeditions and tales of Pasalthas and their hunt for honour. The special hunting expedition for elephants called ‘Sai ram chhuah’ came to mind as there were other tales about how elephants, in their dying hours, would dip and wade in the lake making it their final resting place.

“Is this where they would go for ‘Sai ram chhuah”? I asked my Mom. My mind immediately went to thoughts of how there were supposedly plans to drain the lake in hopes that there would be a treasure trove of ivory underwater. A train of thought is a funny thing and I often surprise myself with where I end up. As my mother began to answer my question, my mind wondered to the

1 Warrior or hunter. possible ecological implications of such an expedition and how the face of our history might have been irrevocably changed if these rumours had been true and were carried out.

I was brought back to the conversation at hand when I heard my mother explain, “Our ancestors believed that places deemed to be unnatural or monstrous in form like colossal trees, rocks and lakes were the abode of Huais2, not many would hunt or dare go near the lake.” There was a moment of pause as I showed an increase attentiveness by directing my gaze towards her. “But now that the Good News has driven away all the demons, we don’t have to fear for anything, except for your safety,” she continued, “if you ever have any thought of swimming in the water”.

“It just occurred to me that tales of the hunting stories and are closely associated with the lake and that they had to come here for the special hunting expeditions as well”.

“I’m not sure about this, they must have come here as well but I believe elephants roamed around and about more towards the plains of the Brahmaputra valley, the terrain in these parts doesn’t suit much to them elephants” . “That makes sense then.”

“What does?”

“Well, the coming of the British, annexation…”

Before I could finish, my sister with her renewed interest in mythical beings asked,” How come there were no lasi(s)3 here?”

“They dwell at the steep edge of the cliffs at Tan mountain.”

“I know that, I am asking why don’t they dwell here too”?

“You won’t expect to find any pasaltha to seduce here,” I replied with a wink, “Don’t you think”?

“You speak as if the men attracted the lasis, perhaps it must have been that men hunt in the mountains in the hope to chance upon a lasi. Who knows who tried to seduce the other?”

I was taken aback. Although these stories are passed down as folklore through oral narratives, often told by mothers and grandmothers and often became favourite bed-time stories; it was the men who originally told these stories and my sister could have been correct. Indeed, a Pasaltha imbibed all the virtuous characteristics of a woman didn’t he? He is quiet, he is keen, cautious and patient, submitting himself to the forest in order to conceive the kill, encompassing the qualities that were to a female in the Mizo society. But narratives of virtue are controlled by men in our society and while women are entrusted with the duty of passing these stories on, they never seem to be the protagonist in them.

“Let’s try not to seduce one another with our opinions, we can keep that to ourselves.”

This vantage point, which is on the outskirt of Rihkhawdar village; is where we could see the lake in its entirety for the first time. Heart-shaped, as it is famously known for with rice field on its bank towards the south and an open green grass on the north. We can see few cottages on the edge of

2 Spirits or demons 3 Fairy like creatures who are known to seduce hunters in exchange for hunting. the grass where it meets the tree line. Following the tree line down towards the west, we can also see the Tiau river as the reflection illuminates with its curves hitting the Sun’s rays. Rihkhawdar is the second village after crossing the border and is the farthest point our vehicle could take us. From here we need to set on foot down towards the lake which seemed a rather lovely walk and we all look forward to it.

As we make our move lazily down the lake, I was drawn by the sheer excitement I had by the thought of coming here without really knowing how difficult and tiring it really was. I felt I was pulled here somehow and I knew something awaits, and I am ready for it although I don’t really know what and how to expect. “Let the thing unfold itself”, I thought to myself. But before I let my mind wander and become a boring companion that I often was, I turn to my Mother and asked, “So Mom, what do you think of the place?”

“Well, isn’t it strange that the place, dreaded by our ancestors, believing it to be the abode of the evil spirits…” She paused and I understood what she meant. She is the one who had accompanied me and my sister here. This was at best a hunting ground for men, and here we are.

“But isn’t Rihlake much more than that? It is believed that all the dead enter the next life through Rihlake”.

“That’s true, while there is popular belief that this is the portal for MitthiKhua4, there are other sayings that the lake itself is a MitthiKhua. All these small tress that surround the circumference of the lake are often called Mitthi Pal, or the ‘fence of the dead’.

“Yeah, I know”, I jumped in quickly. “Even the birds (or Rih-ar) found here are also called MitthiAr5 , should we hunt for the eggs?”

“Why would you want to get stuck here?” My Mom playfully replied. The place is indeed a trove for myths and folklores that reinvents itself again and again. Spirits lurking in and hovering about the waters have made their presence known long before the belief that the dead spirits make their way to the afterlife through the lake. While the term ’rih artui phur ang’ has become a general phrase to indicate one who is unable to make progress or unable to move forward, the etymology dates back to a story where a hunting party stumbled across these eggs and decided to take with them only to find themselves unable to make progress. The eggs, as legend would have it, weighed you down to this world and would not allow you to pass on to the afterlife. Holding onto them was a metaphor for holding on to memories of this life. There was a certain romance to that. The heart shaped lake with all its morose symbols and stories was also quite the honeymoon destination. Perhaps it was the Anglo centric understanding of a heart shape representing love. The thought made me cringe a little because the romantic in me was more fascinated with the idea of remembering love and life even in the face of death, and how the proverbial egg weighs us down with the things and people that tie us to this life.

I had always leaned towards my affinity for the tragic and I shot a glare at my sister when she replied, “I know why he does!”

I was afraid my sister was hinting at starting an awkward conversation about me. A real Mizo man worth his salt does not talk of matters of the heart with his mother. My sister seemed to acknowledge this unwritten rule and instead chose to point out the stark contrast between the availability of chilled beers that were sold in the small and cosy make-shift stores on this side of the

4 Land of the dead 5 Polutry of the dead border, and the scarcity of the same on the other side. I was both relieved and tempted to start a rather political conversation which I knew would bore my Sister to death. But an unusual thing caught my eye. It was for a brief moment that I thought I saw a snake-like movement above the surface of the water with the scales radiating sparkling golden colours against the winter sun. My eyes was fixed on the waters, I knew I had dreamt of this exact moment before. I had dived into the water, following the snake down and down after passing several layers of algae stretched in the waters, to find the snake transformed into an old man. And that was when he looked up and saw me, his eyes transfixed on me which are like a red hot charcoal burning in a ‘sikri6 ’ on a cold winter night. He then called out my name.

“Thlana”, my Mom called me for a second time. I quivered and awoke from the state I was in. “What have you been thinking?”

“Nothing, it’s just that I thought I saw something and it felt like I have seen it before”.

“It’s strange that I had a brief moment of déjà vu as well,” my sister intervened.

“It’s not quite like a déjà vu to me, this one’s seemed a bit odd.”

We had reached the lake while I was deeply engrossed with my thoughts, and saw that the so called Mitthi Pal ran along the circumference except for a small area where we saw a small opening. The trees did act as a fences since the ground where they grew was characteristically loose. The deep muddy sand that it was made it almost impossible to get through. These mangroves-like trees with its many outstretched branches, wrinkle and old looking trunks are as imposing and threatening and were about to grab and engulf you as you move closer. They are found nowhere else in the region except here. The Chin hills, a series of mountainous ridges that run parallel from north to south in northwest Myanmar and stretches into India’s northeast are characterised by mountains and valleys with small streams and rivers trailing their sinuous path down the mountain gorges. And it is unlikely to see mangroves in these mountains.

“I heard that they are all intertwined by their roots underwater”. I asked my Mom thinking that she might have an insight to it.

“Not that I know of, I leave that to scientists and researchers, why don’t you? I bet they do, no wonder they make such a good fence”.

My Mom’s reply baffled me. Somewhat I thought I could finesse her out to tell me everything she know. This is partly my fault, I was almost always quick to jump in and try to be radical about things she said spiritual or otherwise mythical.

“There was once a scientific expedition here, I think I’ve read the report somewhere.”

“That was hardly an expedition, there was no proper examinations; and still made assumptions based on some of their observations, only interested to debunk myths.”

“I believe that it is difficult to obtain permission for any research work.”

“It’s good that it is left untouched. And this is a good reminder for our community to stick together”.

“What do you mean?”

6 Local room heater.

“If we stay true to our roots and branch out to each other, this how we fight off assimilation”.

I felt bad. Part of me wanted to confront my mom, but I stayed silent. I knew where this was coming from. Mizoram’s history of violence and oppression from the Indian government as a result of 20 years armed insurgency was a recent phenomenon and she was experiencing it first-hand. Apart from that, India’s Northeast states is also a hotspot of ethnic diversity with different small tribes inhabiting the hills neighbouring by larger and powerful tribes and plain-people with the ever dread of being wiped out as history supports it. These hill tribes were constantly at war and the Mizo tribes were in fact pushed down south as evidence by migratory phases all the way from China to Arakan Hills and Chin hills in Myanmar in the past. The Mizos settled in the present location known as Mizoram at around the 14th century after being pushed away from the Kabaw valley in Northern Burma where they settled since the 4th century. Whenever they faced threat, they would move further south but the recent fear of cultural assimilation came only after they had contacts with the plains of the Indian sub-continent. There was no place to migrate further and the people and culture with their thriving trade and commerce had always been a threat. saved them, as many would like to believe, so does my Mother. They often attributed the Gospel as a force that not only ward off evil spirits, but also saved them from being eliminated entirely and the advent of the British is almost always seen as a timely Divine intervention.

…

“I can’t believe we’re here finally”. I kept mumbling to myself.

The landscape surrounding the lake was serene, it was as if the hills parted themselves to make way for the lake as small hills surrounded the lake in almost every corner. A meadow of lush green surrounded the lake and having reached there we felt we’d reached Pialral: a highly coveted by my ancestors back in the days. The surrounding hills were reflected in the water which was rippled down by the small, at times concentric, waves and highlighted by the sparkling sun’s rays.

We walked along the bank of the lake where fragrances of bundled straws from recently harvested rice stem fills the air, accompanied by the wild flowers that grows there. We reached the grassy plains, pull our carpets out and sat down. While my mom and sister were preparing some of the drinks and snacks that we brought with us, I decided to check out the cottages which stand imposingly at our back. This was a typical ‘Assam-type house’ with sloped tin roof and tiled walls. It was built by an Army General from Myanmar, who according to locals, felt a need to construct rest houses and cafes after learning the significance of the lake to the Mizos. But since there were not many visitors as anticipated, these cottages were soon neglected and soon become derelict, with its tiled walls and broken glass windows covered with charcoal and chalk graffitis- bearing names of previous visitors who make their mark through such drawings.

I was not as keen as I was when I had viewed the lake from a distance for a swim. From a closer distance, the lake seemed much bigger and unsurmountable when confronted face to face. I kept asking myself why this calm and beautiful piece of water body looked so forbidding that I somehow did dare not wade in it; the lake seemed as desolate and as mournful as could be. Perhaps I was too enamoured by the myths and stories attached to this lake that it impugned on what a water body was supposed to be. It further contradicted the nature of a water that’s contained, yet remained fresh and lively. I excused myself saying that it was too cold a weather even for a quick dip.

“You are afraid of being pulled under by the old man who split bamboos, aren’t you?” my Sister teased me. I was quite surprised to being reminded of the story. I thought it was probably something I had seen as a dream about my experience earlier. Must have been one of those sweet and dear moments of the bed-time stories that I had with my grandmother. My feelings were all over, I have been melancholic since I came here and not only the place and landscape but many of our conversations awakened long lost and forgotten experiences of my childhood. Perhaps what I had assumed to be déjà vu was nothing but my mind trying to reconcile and align memories that were scrambled in my brain. The explanation that said these were glimpses of memories from previous life or even an alternate life which crossed over to this one seemed for suited to the location and the conversation. A part of me wanted to accept this over scientific logic.

“I am more concerned about the feathered serpent, but I am mature enough to let myths be”. I forced a fake laugh trying to convince myself that what she had implied was not in fact the truth behind my ‘restraint’ and sudden awareness about water temperature. “I just want to rest and get a feel of this place, we had come a long way”.

The journey was indeed tough. We had travelled 114 miles from Keitum to our wedding destination, a village right in the middle of my state, Mizoram, and travelled 84 miles more towards the lake as we took the longer route, visiting many places of historical and cultural significance along the way. But this was our ultimate destination, a place I had been wanting to revisit for many years. I have little memory of the lake from a school trip when I was younger: I was then less informed about the lake and its many entanglements with history and culture. In fact one of the only things that stood out for me in that trip was my very young self partaking of beer with my friends for the first time. I recall being caught by a teacher on the bus ride back vaguely, but I also remember that it was a magical place where alcohol was sold freely. It was a different kind of magic I was interested back then but coming from a dry state where I had never witnessed the sale of alcohol over the counter before, the sight was really nothing short of magic. The route, on the other hand had not changed. It was still as tough as it was sinuous- across mountains, ridges and valleys, often taking off beat paths and roads that made us lose our way many times. Technology saved us, or so I thought; the GPS on my phone was my constant guide. My mother argued it was her prayers that brought us back in the right track.

After having our lunch, we set out towards the water to refresh ourselves. Although this is not a big lake, and I have seen bigger lakes abroad, it seemed to stretch endlessly before my eyes. I couldn’t help but think of our previous conversation about our ancestor’s belief in the life after death. The thought that our ancestors, who buried the dead in the earth to regard the water body as the ‘land’ of the dead is appalling to me, at least. I’ve heard stories about how things are quite the opposite for the living and the dead, and recalled some of the stories where a man journeyed to the land of the dead to be with his departed wife, things never seemed to be compatible. Despite the stories and beliefs, some the concept of the afterlife is, after all not very different from their own experiences of their life in their living world.

“So Mom, what exactly is the difference between MitthiKhua and Pialral?” I had to ask again.

“According to what our fore-fathers believed, all the spirits of the dead would eventually dwell in the land of the dead, which we call the MitthiKhua.”

According to Mizo , when a person dies, the departs from the body from the head and leaves the house but does not immediately part for the MitthiKhua. They would linger around in the village and would eventually part for the MitthiKhua after the monsoon. The Mizo name of the month is ThitinThla, which translates as the month of souls departing. They were reluctant to leave as they longed for their near and dear ones, especially when they reached the summit of HringlangTlang where they could see all of humanity. But when they reached the spring of LunglohTui and quenched their thirst, their longing for the living would fade away. They would pluck the beautiful Hawilopar and when they donned it in their heads, they would completely forget everything about the living and enter the MitthiKhua. These terminologies and words are often appropriated time and gain and have marked their meanings in vernacular Christian literature.

I comfortably sat at the shallow edge of the lake and dipped my feet ankle length in the water as my mother continued, “Life in MitthiKhua was not very different from when they were alive as they had to work and struggle the same way for food and other necessities. That is why they longed so much for the Utopic Pialral, only which the Thangchhuah laureate can enter. It was a place where there was a surplus of ready-made food and no requirement for labour.”

“So, Pialral seems to be an underpopulated world of the afterlife?” I asked my Mom with a slight humour.

“Yeah, you don’t necessarily get to live with your friends or dear ones, it is not something to covet”.

We had a laugh.

Bringing in a more serious discussion, I asked, “But the Thangchhuah laureate were highly respected and had social and political power even when they were alive, right?”

“A Thangchhuahpa was considered to be a great and respected figure, humoured by the chief himself and respected by all.”

“Tell me more about it”. I was all over for it. Having just finish the food and listening my mother’s account of our culture and history was better than the best dessert I have had. I open the bottled drinks that we brought and lying comfortably on my back on the grass, I watched my Mom and listened her with enthusiasm as she continued.

“A Thangchhuah laureate after finishing Khuangchawi7 is fit to be called Zawhzazopa8 and can open a window in his house as wide as he wishes and can make Bahzar9 and Vanlung10 if he wishes to. The social set up in Mizo villages were such that there was a certain dicta on how one may construct his house and where this house was to be constructed. There were established rules on what the house could have and what it could not. Therefore, even the addition of a window to the house was a big deal as one look at the house would be sufficient to inform any on looker that the resident was a Thangchhuahpa. He was also bestowed the right to wear a Thangchhuahpuan (cloth) which was quite an entitlement”.

“That’s a steep set of social hierarchy”. Isn’t it a bit harsh?”

“Indeed, but the attire worn by the Thangchhuahpa not only showed his status, but also made him aware of his social responsibilities as a man that everyone looked up to.”

7 ceremony 8 One who finishes(The required whatsoever) 9 A kind of raised platform attached to a house in the past. 10 One of a typical household design used in the past.

“The same way a Pasaltha seemed fit to wear the TawllohPuan must never turn his back against enemies or from wild beasts?”

“Kind of, this served as a moral guideline to maintain social order and uphold the important social codes of conduct like bravery and tlawmngaihna11 and the spirit of self-.”

“Everyone wears whatever they want nowadays, we have forgotten the significance of all these, or do you not think they are relevant anymore?”

“Times, they are a changing, so do cultures and practices. I have no problems with people wearing whatever they want. It is far more despicable that people want to revive the tradition of accomplishing certain achievements enabling them to wear these attires. It reeks of a fascist regime dictating who can wear what, and how and where, thus creating the social hierarchy that you talked about. It is no more compatible”.

My Sister, who showed a sudden sign of interest blurted, “That is so true, why do we even come here?”

“It’s sort of like a pilgrimage for me”, I replied to which my mother made a rather unusual face that I did not recognize. Her expressions were always difficult to read, but this one in particular was more subtle than usual and almost looked grimy. I had been away from my parents since I was eight and always struggled to maintain an intimate relationship with them. We hardly talked much during the journey, but that was also due to the fact that the landscape was stunningly beautiful. It was impossible resist the urge to just lie back and enjoy the view and the soft breeze that came from the half-opened car window. Moreover, as the roads we took were uneven, the car rocked unceremoniously all journey long, making my travel mates susceptible to sleep when not enjoying the scenic view.

“Why do you ask”? Directing my question back to my sister, I made a disappointing face.

“I felt it is an unnecessary waste of time. I don’t really know if there is anything special about this place.”

“What’s not special? The heart-shaped lake itself is what makes it special and romantic.”

“I don’t know about that, it is indeed beautiful though!”

“It is not just beautiful, we revisit our history and culture here, are you not aware of that”.

“I am aware of my history and it’s detestable. You speak highly of the tales of your Pasalthas but we women are never part of the history”.

“That is inappropriate, that is altogether a different topic”.

“But that’s what you do when you revisit history and culture- you revisit social hierarchy, male dominance, your hegemonic masculinity and re-assert and legitimise the structure onto yourself”.

11 A moral code which binds Mizos and sets them apart from other tribes. Priority is given to communal well- being even at the risk of harming one’s own self-interest. Mizos take great pride in owning the quality of tlawmngaihna as it is deemed to be the ultimate test of character and honour.

I knew my sister was right, while I was engrossed myself with tales of Pasaltha and their heroic deeds, I was only asserting their validity of their manifestation in the contemporary culture. I saw a sculpture of a huge serpent which was erected on the small hill on the east side of the lake. This was when I remember a recent sculptural inauguration back in the capital Aizawl. It was a sculpture of a famous Pasaltha, Vanapa posed with the Thangchhuah diar12 on his head and Ral lulak chem13 in his left hand. Wearing a puan14 and carrying an iptepui15 swung over to the left. My train of thought had taken me through many of the undertakings by state bodies to represent the Mizo identity and bring it forth to the modern world through the language of art. I thought about its shortcomings and failures in this attempt and how the bodies set up by the state in its bid to showcase Mizoram’s visual identity is problematic. One such endeavour is to uphold the institute of Pasaltha. The term 'Pasaltha' taken in its most literal sense translates to a good husband. This simplistic translation however bears a much deeper meaning than the fulfilment of one’s marital duties and responsibilities: it also means that the Pasaltha is the champion of the entire village when it comes to defending it from enemies and wild animals. His role can be better understood when we put it in context of Mizo villages where geographical conditions placed them in close proximity to forests and in constant danger of animal attacks. Historically, Mizo tribes were constantly at war with other tribes either for lands or for the defence of honour; this meant they were presented with the threat of attacks from neighbouring tribes at all times. This meant that the performance of daily tasks of working in the fields and everyday village life was not easy, especially for women and children and for households without an able bodied man. Therefore the roles that a Pasaltha had to take up included that of defender, protector and provider, not only for his immediate family but for the entire village. This raised the status of the Pasaltha among his peers and placed him in a position of great honour within the Mizo society. The dependence on Pasaltha for the collective safety and well-being explains the fame and at times legendary status thrust upon them. A village who could boast of a number of Pasaltha in their numbers felt secure in the knowledge that they were well protected, and the mere presence of these heroes would at times keep neighbouring tribes at bay. Mizo history speaks highly of the Pasaltha and their heroics, bravery and acts of tlawmngaihna are spoken of with high regard till today. In fact, being a Pasaltha is something every young boy strives to be when he grows up. Children who show potential at a young age are groomed to become Pasaltha when they grow up, and they in turn attempt to achieve this status with single minded determination. But indeed, the overt and excessive representation or association of Mizo identity in contemporary times with Pasaltha is problematic since it is based on a patriarchal narrative. Perhaps a critical question we can ask today is whether we can have a modern female Pasaltha. Or perhaps do away with the word itself and invent new term that can encompass both male and female. Coincidentally and interestingly, the wall behind the Vanapa sculpture is adorned with mosaic tiles representing two females with Puanchei- another excessive use for identity marker, performing the 'exotic' Cheraw. They are no individuals, but simply a 'typical Mizo women'. This stark contrast in representation lends a critical eye to think about the prevalence of objectification with gender and the problems of representing identity with it. “Let’s put that aside, that is not the purpose of this trip. What would you do otherwise?”

12 Scarf 13 Special knife 14 Wrap around cloth 15 A special traditional bag “We could have gone back and participated in the community feast. This is nothing like I had anticipated”.

This was a festive time, Christmas celebrations were at their peak. Christmas was heralded by the rhythmic beat of drums and shouts of praise. The traditional celebratory feast had carried over for five days. The village had been awakened by a ‘harhna’16 and the celebrations had been prolonged. Five days of feasting, and the community had come together in spiritual and culinary commune.

“Filling your own stomach in the name of is nothing but gluttony.” I had always been sceptical- not of Christianity, but by the many ways Christianity is practiced in Mizoram.

“It is more than that, it’s about the community coming together”.

“On the contrary, I find it peaceful to get away from all of that, one does not care for anything but their social status, which you despise, through their contributions to the Church”.

There was a long pause of awkward silence. We had just started to walk along the areas where we have not yet explored. My sister leads the way as we followed her. Perhaps it was not the best idea to try to avert the idea of ‘peace’ while folks back home were celebrating the birth of the ‘Prince of peace’. My sister had always been home, contributing whatever she could, for the community and most importantly the Church.

“Do not be so critical of it, you won’t be where you are right now if not for the Gospel”. My Sister fired back and the situation almost became confrontational.

“But do you realise that you can now boast of having visited a foreign country, we are literally on foreign soil”. I tried returning to her initial question to steer the topic towards a more amicable direction.

“Well!” my Mom intervened. This time with an urgency and a determination to speak. “This is making me vexed and it is problematic”.

But before she could continue, we had reached an area where there is a deep trench that goes as far as the meadows where the river Tiau flows. In a spurt of excitement I shouted, “This is it!!”

“This has to be the channel they dug to drain the water”, I continued as I saw blank expressions on the faces of both my sister and my Mom. “It must have been a disappointment to not fulfil the only treasure they could possibly mined out from here”.

“What happened to them?” my curious sister asked.

“Apparently, the spirits and Huais didn’t allow them, causing them to fall sick and not being able to finish the task?”

“Even if they did drain, they probably wouldn’t find any? Remember we talked about it.”

“Ah yes!”

“What did I miss here?” My sister asked.

16 Spiritual awakening “You interrupted when we talked about it, why the sudden interest?”

“When did I do that?”

“Well, my Mom argued that the Pasalthas would go to the North towards the Brahmaputra plains for the special hunting expedition, and that explained the coming of the British, annexation…”.

The British rule in Mizoram was roughly over five decades, and was never really seen as being carried on with an imperialist mind set. The British extending their control towards the plains of Brahmaputra saw the raids from the neighbouring hill tribes as being merely problematic and often carried out retaliatory measures to resolve the situation. However, as they did not see satisfactory results, the government of Assam and Bengal planned a joint military expedition in 1871 which is known to the Mizos as the ‘vai len vawi khatna’. It is interesting to learn that the Mizos associate the invasion with Vai as it was an encounter with army who were mainly Gurkhas and Sikhs serving for the British Army. The actual period of rule was referred to as ‘Sapin min awp lai’, or the time ‘when white men/sahibs ruled over us’. Joy Pachuau explains the significance of this phrase as awp is also a word used for a hen incubating her eggs, signifying the contributory role the Sap has in ‘hatching out’ the Mizos. ‘Thim ata engah’, translated as ‘from dark to light’ is also a popular phrase describing the transitory period during this time. The period with the introduction of Christianity is often acknowledged as a mediation to bring the Mizos out of darkness towards the light. From the Mizo perspective, the raids were often their claim to their own land, which was seen threatening as the British kept expanding their territory. The fertile banks of the Brahmaputra River was an excellent cultivating place for tea plantation. As the British keep on extending their territory, many of the Mizo Chiefs saw it as a threat to their own land, and their hunting ground. These are the hunting grounds for the Mizos since times immemorial. One of the biggest hunting season is the Chapchar Awllen where they would go out for a mass hunting for elephant called as ‘Sai ram chhuah’. As we can see from an account by RG Woodthorpe, who wrote about the expeditions led out by the British, the place is indeed a suitable hunting ground as animals were in abundance. “Mom, elaborate what you said earlier, please. What makes you vexed?”. I felt bad to interrupt her before. She always has more in store inside her, and what came out as speech is typically merely the tip of the iceberg. Lost in thought, she likes to think deep and is always up for an unexpected spurt of topics.

“Well! I reckon you are more than aware. I still can’t believe we pass it off as a joke”.

“What is?”

“That the most important lake of Mizos is in another country”.

“I thought the saying goes, ‘The biggest lake of Mizoram is in Burma’”.

“The significance of this lake lies not on the quantifiable, but rather towards history and culture”.

“I am aware of that and that was the reason I wanted to come here. I keep insisting that I see myself as a pilgrim”.

“I am talking about the colonial history and the formation of the Indian nation state. Our people are ripped apart and identities blurred and segregated. And I reckon that you younger generations have a different sense of geography”.

“Do you think when the British left India, they drew the line of border on purpose making it hard for us to visit our revered lake?”

“How should I know? A mere 3 kilometre makes all the difference but I guess it’s easier to draw the border using natural boundary”.

We had crossed the river Tiau while coming to the lake which became the boundary between India and Myanmar. Two village sits on both side of the river which is famously known as the Indo-Burma trade town. On the Indian side is a town called Zokhawthar which is also marked by Custom offices, big godowns and an excise check post where they make sure no alcohol or other illegal substances is smuggled. Not even a tiny bottle for personal consumption is not allowed. On the Myanmar side, the village is called Khawmawi, you’d often see policemen in plain clothes who would charge you for a small fee to come this side of the border. There is a stark contrast, not only on the availability of alcohol but the way people dress and eat. The Mizos dressed themselves with western clothing which became a sophisticated marker of modernity since the British rule. On the Myanmar side, people clad themselves with long flowing drapes, usually striped or flower pattern. The men usually wear wrap around cloth waist down buttoned at the waist. They drive mopeds around and indulged themselves in leisure activities with cards and baking in the sun.

My Mom continued, “And yes, revisiting cultural history is sometimes imprudent, like your Sister said. And that’s the thing when I said it’s all problematic. As much as I despise the fact that people ignore the significance of this place, especially in relation with history and culture, I can never regard this as a pilgrimage site”.

“Well, being a pilgrim doesn’t always have to do with religion or spirituality”.

“It actually is, and this place seemed like a portal not only from an understanding of what our ancestors believed about the living and the dead. It is also a portal from the past to the present”. She paused as if thinking hard about what she just said. “Well! We visit death here.”

“The death of culture and traditional practices, you mean?”

“More of a transition. A metamorphosis. The death of the old self and being clothed with new soul. Death is necessarily not the end of things, but the beginning of something else”.

“To be born again, you mean?” I intervened, implicating the notion of Biblical understanding of being spiritually born. “There are thinkers, I think it was Siamkima who argued that the river Jordan is replacing the most important lake, and has completely knocked out the river Run since it is already dead in the consciousness of the Mizo people”.

“But Rihlake can never really be dead, we revisit it often, even as manifolds of the Christian context”.

“What do you mean?”

“The common perception among many is that there was a blanket acceptance of Christianity as brought forth by the missionaries .”

“Is that not the case?”

“A closer look at the conversion experience among Mizos has shown it to be a novel reformative process rather than a transformative one. The missionaries supported the domestication of Christian beliefs and appropriated many of the Mizo cultural practices into the brand of Christianity they were introducing. An example would be the concept of Pialral to explain the eternal . Instead of striving to become Thangchhuah, accepting Jesus as their saviour would cement their entry to Pialral”.

“Is that it?”

“Using the traditional drum- Khuang17, which was banned previously, and the sacrificial feasting which was linked with demonic practices, both were incorporated into the Christian moral code instead of being abandoned or banished”.

“But do they not demonise drinking? The popular sentiment now among Mizos when describing vices is ‘Zu leh Sa’ - two things which are seen as signs of decadence and indulgence.”

“But drinking itself incites violence and social disorders”.

“That is only because we are made to believe so and therefore it has become such a taboo”.

“But do you not agree that it is much better to be sober than to drink, see what it has done to our family”.

“I agree with that, but we just send them on an unnecessary guilt trip, alienating those who drink with our Holier than Thou sobriety. I can’t believe that it has become a political tool for manipulation and power”.

I was lost again, lost in thought about how before Christianity seeped into every aspect of Mizo life, partaking of Zu18 was the go to ceremonial item for celebrations, mourning, honouring the brave or even welcoming guests. A household worth its salt was deemed to always have a fine brew of Zu in stock, and the members were held in high regard if their Zu was exceptional. The Christian influence which termed the consumption of Zu as a mortal sin and was seen as something to be done away with. This became legally enforced when the Mizoram Liquor Total Prohibition Act (MLTP Act) came to effect in 1995. It was repealed and replaced with the more lenient Mizoram Liquor Prohibition and Control Act, 2014,(MLPC Act).The public reception of the new law was varied, ranging from outright protests and outrage to joy and delight. While some were apprehensive about public safety, others welcomed the repeal as they hoped it would do away with health and safety concerns brought by the drinking of bootlegged liquor and locally brewed alcohol which tended to be tampered with and diluted with dangerous chemicals. The church institutions openly spoke out against the lifting of the total prohibition and opposed it on the principle that it was ‘unchristian’ and would lead to the moral degradation of the society. The recent political election in Mizoram on November 2018 witnessed the formation of a new government for whom, according to many of the interviews of the party leaders, the banning of alcohol was the first priority. This agendum was whole-heartedly supported by the Church and eventually tipped the scales in their favour, helping them win the election.

“To ban does no good, I agree to that, if only we knew how to drink properly”. This time I think I managed to convince my Mom to see things my way.

17 Traditional drum 18 Liquor

“The people who do not drink are more drunk than the ones who partake. This is the colonial hangover. I see no sign of progress if we continue like this.” I said with a rancorous tone.

“Your romantic notion of the heart-shaped lake is also your colonial hangover”, my Sister fired back with a snickering face.

“Maybe we do carry the egg of the colonial legacy. They are weighing us down”.

Trying to be non-political, I turn to my sister and attempting my best in sarcasm I said, “Let us not turn water into wine, we came her to enjoy, not debate. Besides we still have to do boating.”

“Yeah, let’s do that before if becomes colder”.

I saw a dug-out canoe tied to one of the lone trees standing at the bank and I was going for it. “We are not going into that” my Mom said.

“Well suit yourself to the plastic boats, I am riding alone”.

“No, that’s dangerous, besides we need to be together, this is the real trip”. Unconvinced but not daring to disobey my Mother. I reluctantly climb in one of the ‘tourist boat’ that was brought in here recently. We paddled quietly into the waters, behaving more properly as we moved farther away from land. Everything looked and seemed calm and serene. Everything seemed to recede from this vantage point, it is as if we’re being pulled slowly unto death itself. But then death suddenly seemed beautiful and painless.

Ever keen to bring home souvenir, my sister opened her glass bottle and started filling in the waters. But I soon realised this was for me as she handed it over to me and said, “Keep this with you, let this be a reminder to stay true to your identity and culture. Wherever you go, whatever you do, you are what you are. They say that even a fraction of the water taken in isolation at anyplace, the water muddies whenever the water in the lake here muddies.”

We left with unfinished conversations.

References:

Ahmed, Ali. “Mizo hills:Revisiting the Early Phase”, Scholar Warrior, Autumn 2011.

Hrangthiauva and lalchungnunga. Mizo Chanchin. C. Chhuanvawra, Aizawl, 1978.

Lalthangliana, B. India, Burma leh Bangladesh-a Mizo Chanchin, Swapna Printing Works(P) Ltd., Kolkata, 2014.

Lewin, T.H. Hill Tracts of Chittagong and the Dwellers within, Tribal Research Institute, Reprint, Aizawl, 1869. Lloyd, J. Meirion. History of the Church in Mizoram; Harvest in the Hills, Synod Publication Board, Reprint, Aizawl, 1991.

L.K. Pachuau, Joy. Being Mizo: Identity and Belonging in the , Oxford University Press, New Delhi, 2014.

L.K. Pachuau, Joy and Van Schendel, Willem. The Camera as Witness: A Social , Northeast India, Cambridge University Press, New Delhi, 2015.

Lalthangliana, B. India, Burma leh Bangladesh-a Mizo Chanchin, Swapna Printing Works(P) Ltd., Kolkata, 2014.

Ngul L. Zam, B.A. Mualthum Kampau Guite Hausate Tangthu (History of Guite Chiefs the Sovereign of Three Mountain Regions)(Amazon/CreateSpace, United States, 2018), 44-46,ISBN 978-1721693559

Rih-Li-Pui Khi Thlafam Leng kaina(?), A Science Expedition report. 1995, Mizoram Science Journal April (pdf copy)

Thanmawia, R.L, Mizo Hla Hlui (Mizo Folk Songs), Gilzom Offset, Aizawl, 2012.

Tharoor, Shashi. An Era of Darkness (The British Empire in India),Aleph Book Company, New Delhi, 2016

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Woodthrope, R.G. The Lushai Expedition, 1871-1872. Hurst and Blackettt, London, 1873.

Vumson. ‘Zo History’from burmalibrary.org/docs12/Zo_History-Vumson.pdf.