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(Originally written by Dhiraj Ahuja, and very aptly conveys what I feel)
BEING A government officer’s son had its own advantages. There were disadvantages too. The moment I got a little cosy with some girl in the class, the next I was helping my siblings pack our bags for yet another posting. Had it not been for the KV (Kendriya Vidyalaya), it would have been very arduous. What a cultural churn it was! And that’s when I interacted with students from Northeast for the very first time. Everything was okay then and we mingled amidst each other sans any difference. However, when I joined the college at Delhi University (DU), I noticed that ’they’ had their own groups. Their groups were evident - was it because ’we’ had our own?
Whatever it was, it was quite different from the good old days at school wherein we looked so much alike wearing the same white and blue uniform, hair oiled and parted on the same side, kicking the lone football with our black ’Naughty Boy’ shoes and checking out each other’s tiffin during the recess.
I wanted to break the ice but couldn’t help break my group’s rule.
It was not just the high cheekbone looks that made them different. There were other differences as well. First, they had a fashion so different. When we went berserk over skin hugging jeans, they wore baggies four times their size. When we cut our hair short, they would keep ponies. What’s more, when we thought long locks are in, they would just knock them off.
They lived in separate hostels or would rent accommodation close to each other. Why were they looking for ’someone like them near them’ all the time? Did that herding give them a sense of security? That too, in their own country! Or was it that we made them think otherwise?
Why, at the very first place, did we call them chinki when we had no such names for ourselves? Where did that word come from? What were its origins? Seniors. We heard it from them first, and in no time did our juniors pick it up from us. It was perplexing enough to see them behave so differently but on second thoughts, was it because we were equally different, or indifferent? One thing though, they fared better than the rest of us when it came to BPO interviews. Possibly because they had a strong missionary English education background to leverage on.
Despite all the differences, we had one thing in common. We could not make out an Assamese from a Manipuri and they couldn’t differentiate a Punjabi from a UPite.
We are countries within a country. And that’s one divide that hurts the most. While the mainland was developing at a whopping pace, the Northeast was not. Why do we not have just a department, but a full fledged Ministry for the Development of the North East Region? Is it because the voice of dissent from the region, for obvious reasons, becoming a little too loud for mandarins in Delhi to ignore yet again? Why is it that no other region of the country warrants such a special attention?
When the Sardar called for unification of states towards forming one nation, the Northeast states like all other had pledged their participation too. Why have the fruits of independence and the ensuing development not been shared with them for six long decades? Why was the great Nehruvian call for industrialization meant for states other than Northeastern only?
When it comes to vacation, why is that beaches of Goa or the backwaters of Kerala have a high mindshare amidst us than the scenic sunrise of Arunachal Pradesh?
Why was JM Lyngdoh – Northeast’s rare participation in higher echelons of the democracy – looked at as someone special? Why did the TRPs of a channel hit the roof when Prashant Tamang and Amit Paul, both from Northeast, qualified as finalists for Indian Idol 3?
Sitting in air-conditioned environs of our homes in Delhi, we see it all coming from a different land. This does in someway explain as to why the students from Northeast think of us as citizens of a different land.
Did anyone sit up and notice the time allocated to representatives from Northeast during the parliamentary debate on confidence motion on July 22.
Somnath Da had magnanimously allocated a slot of two minutes for the lone Lok Sabha member from Nagaland, W Wangyuh Konyak. No parliamentarian had the patience or inclination to hear what he had to say. On the other hand, the House had all the time to savor Lalu’s wisecracks. A true reflection of the kind, and measure, of representation we have been giving Northeast in our national affairs ever since. It’s only logical for the people from these states to feel alienated from the rest of us, and as a result, for us to be alienated from them. The divide is getting bigger by the day and is hurting more than ever.
One really doesn’t know whether L Monika Devi from Manipur would have made a difference to our medal tally at Beijing but had she been an athlete from any of the mainland state, the authorities either would not have made such a faux pas or would have paid through their nose for it.
When the rest of us were celebrating Vijender’s win in Haryana, Manipur felt cheated, frustrated and angry. And that’s how it has been for 61 years now.
This write-up by Kaushik Basu, a professor of economics, Cornell University might give you some insight about Manipur.
I flew into Imphal, Manipur's capital, by a short Indigo flight from Guwahati on the morning of 8 January.
I arrive in Imphal with a blinding headache and flop down in bed in my artlessly large room in Hotel Nirmala. I try to read, but fall asleep.
When I wake up, the winter sun is streaming in through my open windows.
From my balcony I can see the chaos of Thangal Bazar - tarless streets, unkempt roof-tops, half-cemented buildings, the anarchy of low-hanging electric wires criss-crossing in different directions and tapped from below by small shops with rusty tin roofs.
The flashes of colour come from the women, in their stunning phaneks - sarong like wrap-arounds - and shawls. They seem to be endowed with an effortless grace.
There are few signs of the famous Indian economic boom here.
This is a region of a collapsing economy, huge unemployment, and interrupted power supply. I was assured that at most times it was safe to touch those exposed wires.
At night I go for dinner to the home of an old Manipuri friend.
It is a picturesque three-hundred year old house, with a quaint courtyard, mysterious stairways, muslin curtains and melodious wooden floors.
To get there one has to drive over a rock-strewn and dug-up road. It has been under repair for four years. When we reach the house, there is a power outage and we sit by lanterns and candles.
On the way back there is not a soul in the streets - life is too insecure for that - and my hotel has pulled down shutters from the ceiling which are bolted to the floor with padlocks.
The people of the north-east have high human capital - Mizoram's literacy rate is second only to the state of Kerala's. And it has a history that goes back 2,000 years.
Ratan Thiyam's Manipuri theatre is famous internationally.
An 11-year old boy, Honey Kenao, plays the tabla like a grand master. He is a prodigy - we will without doubt see more of him.
At various institutes and universities where I speak, the discussion is lively and engaged.
But beneath this, the region is simmering.
Insurgent groups routinely extort money from bureaucrats, shopkeepers and professors. Kidnappings are frequent.
Trucks on highways are often stopped by competing local powers and either have their cargo confiscated or are allowed to pass after paying a "tax".
Hardly any new industry worth its name is moving into the region.
If the region remains cut off from the rest of India, there is every possibility that it will erupt into internecine warfare of a kind not seen in India before. And that will be extremely unfortunate for a region that has so much potential. |
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