The Second Homecoming in Shillong

As the pre snow hail, called “hyumun” locally softly patters outside my window and on the tin roof, I am taken back to the rolling green hills of Meghalaya. Most often, a flight can be the tedious wait toward a destination. Not so in the case of Delhi-Guwahati, where one is blessed with views of the Himalayas and the mighty Brahmaputra river barely twenty minutes post take-off.

My second trip to Shillong was a homecoming, the first being last year in September for recuperation from illness, perhaps more recuperation from life in a metro city.

I spend two hours gazing at the pure white of the peaks against the woolly white hue of the clouds. Nanda Devi, the Uttrakhand peaks and then the Kanchenjunga range keep me glued to the window. Just as I’m setting into a monotony, thinking other thoughts (similar to the effect of classical music), the mighty river makes itself visible through the clouds.

I don’t care much for Guwahati since it reminds me of the plains I grew up in but I’m sure it has as much beauty to offer as the hills that beckon me.

Shillong town’s beauty lies in its rolling hills, vast lakes (Umiam lake on the way up is a must stop) and it’s people. As the car passes through the city’s roads, I see women dressed in long aprons called "jainkyrshah" over their clothes, a tradition in Shillong; people munching on kwai (betel leaf and nut); liquor shops lined up alongside an impressive four lane highway and a scarred hillside baring deep red soil, recovering slowly from the onslaught of human infrastructure.

My home for a week is a Khasi home in upper Lumparing. Light green walls, linoleum floors and dainty white lace curtains greet me as does the loveliest flower I have ever seen—the “Lady Slipper”.

I’m tired from a long journey and after enjoying a breathtaking view from the terrace of the town, a monastery fluttering my heart with its prayer flags and a church swept clean next door, I retreat for a nap.

Khasi people are obsessed with cleanliness. Even dustpans are washed, wiped and kept away. Community cleaning on national holidays ensures that most streets are clean, grass cut short and fences painted. Despite the kwai chewing culture here, there are little or no spit marks to be seen.

The Khasis have a matriarchal society and it’s an interesting contrast for a North Indian girl to see—women donning the mantle of head of the house and men living with the wife’s family, children taking on the mother’s surname.

Music lies at the heart of Shillong. It is quaint to see how the people have combined tribal tradition with modern life. Church sermons are held in Khasi which as a language has a Roman script; western dresses are covered up with the checkered long apron, songs strum out of nearly every house and life is lived in harmony.

Food here is simple, like the people. “Jadoh” or a plateful of rice, meat, lentils, salad and hot chutney is served in special “Dukan Jadoh”, the answer to North Indian “dhabas”.

It is sad to see the effects of alcohol here though. A number of youth have no jobs and spend their time drinking away the monotony of a seemingly purposeless life.

I attend a traditional Khasi wedding where the beautiful dresses, the understated materialism and yet incredible happiness on all faces sweep me off my feet. Food is served in small guest rooms and no one complains. Everyone is happy, everyone is satisfied.

The people here are not very expressive. They’re shy and they’re a mystery, atleast to me. It’s not necessary that a Khasi person will smile back at you, or immediately come to your assistance. But it’s not because they’re rude. Their actions become generous with time; and no words are ever spoken when they do a kindness to another. I experienced this when as a vegetarian I was struggling with the food and when my hostess learnt of this, she quietly woke up early one morning and cooked me a North Indian meal of lima beans curry, eggplant and rice.

Most love, affection, anger, hurt is expressed in their eyes. And I’m slowly learning to appreciate the beauty of these people.

Religion is big here and Sundays are spent dressing up their best for church, where young love begins to sprout in shy smiles, elderly people chanting on their rosaries for heaven and animated sermons by dedicated pastors. One such pastor was so warm toward me, I could have convinced my atheist self to attend a sermon just to hear him speak.

After the madness of a wedding, I am invited to help at the bride’s house. All the women are here, while the men are sent to clean up at the guest house. Having been a single child with no siblings or cousins, I’ve always wondered what family truly feels like. In a tiny kitchen, eleven people squeezed in on small wooden stools, sipping “sha” (red tea) around a small coal stove, I now begin to understand what “family” really means. Being invited to share in the intimacy warms my heart to tears but I hold them back, smiling and wishing I could kiss each one of these ladies to show my affection toward them. Bahun, my friend, politely translates what her five aunts and mother are trying to convey to me in a mix of Khasi, Hindi and English—“we hope you’re not thinking we’re fighting; this is how sisters talk. We wish we could talk to you more”… I cannot explain the beauty of being in a community beyond such a simple statement. The feeling of inclusion is immense.

The next day, we celebrate Bahun’s birthday and I try and memorise the “bah” names of all the men in the family. It is an exhausting and boggling process and here’s what I’ve grasped- Bahbah, bahdeng, bahrit, bahdon. All the “bah” names mean eldest son, middle son, youngest son etc. Names like Hame, Wanna, Daphi, Adorea, Daker, Lit, Nahmar make my list longer but my love for them grows as I am fondly called Kong Deng. I did secretly want a Khasi name!

The last two days of my visit now appear and I feel heavy, having to leave so soon. We decide to go camping. My fellows in this are Mark (bahdeng) and Andrew (bahrit). Andrew’s dog Brunzi is my special friend and obliges me with a perfect camera pose.

We go camping near the local airport of Umroi. It’s amusing to see a road running right through the airport parking lot. Our camp spot is next to a deep, green stream and no human establishment in sight. We walk through fields of ginger and sweet potato to reach a pebbled, sandy bank, lush green grass and fresh running water.

Bahun, bahbah and a little girl called Dama help us carry tents, food and utensils to our spot. They leave and we begin to set up camp. Bahrit has promised to teach me how to catch fish with local techniques and although I know I won’t eat fish, I’m eager to catch one. Angling as a sport also has many, many takers in Shillong.

Mark and Andrew begin to set up the tents while I busy myself with the task of collecting firewood, deeply enjoying the process of chopping wood with a large khukri (knife/dwarf sword).  We light a fire and evening hunger pangs are satiated with red tea and Maggi (I doubt our country would survive without these two minute noodles).

Two little cowherds now drop by the campsite and I have a rather funny, exasperating conversation with them since they know only Khasi. I do manage to give them food, know their names (Damanbha and Khlembok) and am asked to name their new calf who I promptly call “Pitkoo”.

Bahrit uses the presence of the cows to get fresh cow dung which mixed with wheat flour is excellent bait for fish. I, however, refuse to touch it, watching Bahrit make the dough and fix it on our fishing rod and bamboo poles used for angling, locally.

I am now told that in the middle of the stream lies a whirlpool and many have drowned here. So, it’s not surprising to hear sounds of walking right outside our tents in the middle of the night.

Bahrit, for a while becomes a little boy, when he burns his hand (rather badly) on a hot stone from the stove and I mother him, fixing him up with toothpaste rubbed onto the burn.

Beer and homemade sohiong (Meghalaya cherry) wine makes all three of us happier as our country chicken roasts on a makeshift bamboo barbeque and we prepare to make curry and rice. After the drive and hours spent setting up camp, we’ve all got ravenous apetites and silence descends for a while as we munch.

Now, Khlain (meaning strong), a middleaged man from a nearby village visits us. He is Bahrit’s friend and he also conveys a message to me—“ you and I don’t share a language but we have love in our hearts and that should be enough”. He smiles after saying this, baring betel stained teeth and a heart of gold. He regales me with Hindi songs he picked up (laughing hysterically at the end of each one) but has no idea of what they mean.

I go to bed happy, leaving the men to converse late into the night.

I re-visit Shillong café, an uptown little retreat in town where I met Lou Majaw, a maverick rockstar whose mutlicoloured, unmatching socks , leather cuffs, waist length silver hair and short pants have him etched in my memory.

It’s nice to meet work colleagues in a place where none of us work. It’s different and amusing, especially when we are kicked out of a bar because women are not allowed (and I’m the only one).

My visit ends and I leave with a heavy heart. Mark and Bahrit drop me off, with a bottle of hot local chillie pickle. I know I will be back again; to unearth this place’s secrets and mine too.

Shillong, nga ieid ia phi (I love you).

If you're interested in camping holidays in Meghalaya, message me and follow us on Instagram: Tented_Tribals

This is My Story

Four years old, plucking white jasmine flowers in a tattered, tiny wicker basket

Hoping to spread a fragrance into the slowly rotting lives of a fighting couple

A year passes by and now visuals include broken beer bottles thrust just an an inch away from flesh

Threats, tears and fights as she sits by the courtyard door, gulping down fear

Wondering when she will see them hug and smile again.

At seven, life becomes about fooling the creche nanny into believing she is asleep.

Forcing dreams to come to her, asking the mind to play movies as she does even today.

Teenage meant DOS games, cheap English music and telephone conversations held in incandescence

In a hot study room, far off from the main house where grandmother fought off asthma to cook a square meal.

School meant making chart drawings that could never compete with the straight lines drawn by mothers.

Embroidering with vengeance, for an extra grade, knowing deep down she was the only one in the classroom doing this alone.

Silence would come naturally, the only alone time coming in the toilet where she spent hours scanning newspapers for happy stories.

Stories became essential to living, they still do; except now, she creates them to bely reality.

Invitations to birthday parties were joyous occasions; Junk food satiated the need for a mother’s love

And yet, she drifted away from the biological mother—wanting to act cool when she visited as the whole classroom stared in confusion and relief at having their own mothers back home.

Homework was about individual struggles and when a teacher got her homemade cookies, she lit up.

Food was so essential, and still remains; except now she cooks with a vehemence—my child will never suffer this.

As the years passed, sports became the punching bag against bitterness, drugs and alcohol.

Each “takk” of the ball against the racquet, raising up dust and tiny hairs was revolt.

Stories became so essential, she sometimes altered her own reality and smiled when people walked away intrigued.

Pity was hated, pity was scorned. So were those that gave it to her liberally.

This is my story and I am not ashamed to share it anymore.

Moving to the mountains because

City noises were so loud she thought she was shrinking.

In poems, came out words, expressing feelings she never knew she really had.

In crowds, she still stands in a corner, puzzled at moving jaws, hidden smiles and open politics.

She cringes away from all of it—social behaviour, not something she ever grasped.

She can’t sing or chant or speak with the rest, in unison.

And she wonders, why it’s so. Her voice never matches that scale. Perhaps, its nothing.

Perhaps, she is only tone deaf. To voices too.

She spends hours gazing at people, wondering what stories lie within and around them.

She needs to be alone to express and the air around her is all that listens.

So do her dogs. She likes to talk to them. Their responses, unworded, speak more to her

Than the daily phone calls of her father.

Deaths have taken away people from her and now?

Now, she only shrugs and says “all right”

Is that rude, she wonders?

She feels most keenly when she is alone and yet she craves human touch, human love

Human words that whisper to her, “it’s going to be okay, I’m here”.

She wants to walk away and yet she is drawn in.

Peace lies in puppies and walks and staring blankly at the wall.

This is what life is about now.

Instead of work presentations, heels and thoughts of “settling down”.

She’s okay with it, but are you?

This is my story and I am not ashamed to share it.

Life is a snow flake and you’ll never see its million shapes till you really open your eyes to it.

Life is a tree—standing still but really, constantly changing, moving.

To her, life is this and this is what it might remain.

This is my story.