HEELS

Every time I see my mother
Steal wistful glances
At seductive heels
She can no longer wear
My heart breaks a little. 

NATIONAL ANTHEM

I don’t remember the first time I heard the national anthem

nor the first time I learnt to sing

“Jana Gana Mana….”

at the top of my voice.

It must have been in one of the schools I went to

for my formal education, for mark sheets, for certificates,

for documents I have now learnt to laminate

(to avoid wear and tear)

because I know they are as important, if not more,

as the beat of my heart during job interviews.

“…. Adhināyaka jaya hē, Bhārata-Bhāgya-Vidhātā

Pañjāba Sindha Gujarāta Marāṭhā, Drāviḍa Utkala Baṅga

Vindhya Himācala Yamunā Gaṅgā, Ucchala Jaladhi Taraṅga

Tava śubha nāmē jāgē, Tava śubha āśiṣa māgē,

Gāhē tava jayagāthā….”

I don’t keep count

of the number of times I have sung the national anthem

duly standing in attention

but it can’t be less than the number of anniversaries

India has celebrated its Independence day.

Yet my tongue refuses to caress the words of the anthem

with ease and eloquence

and fumbles, instead, through the lines

like my fingers did

the first time they learnt to type on a computer keyboard.

You see, every word in the national anthem

is a challenge to my tribal tongue

that is more used to a slightly altered version

of the English alphabet than it is

to the Devanagari script.

It must be of no surprise to you then

that the meanings of the words, and the lines

are as evasive to me,

as the colors of the rainbow are

to my color blind eyes.

So when you get confused about my identity

and where I am from, the God I worship,

the way I dress, the way I look and behave,

and the lores that lure me,

remember that I am just as confused

for I am alleging my loyalty to a country

through an anthem

that has to be explained to me

for me to understand                                                                                                                  

what it means.

“….Jana-Gaṇa-Maṅgala-Dāyaka jaya hē, Bhārata-Bhāgya-Vidhātā,

Jaya hē, jaya hē, jaya hē, jaya jaya jaya jaya hē.”

Football – not just a game, but a narrative of the Mizos

As it continues to sink in that Aizawl FC are the new champions of the I-League, fans who have come to be a part of the historic moment are slowly making their way back to Mizoram and other cities across India with pride and joy, content with the knowledge of the achievement of the club from their land.

  

It is only befitting that a state which is so passionate about football should have the trophy in its hearth, acting as a constant reminder for its people that the sky really is the limit if they work as hard for anything as they have for football.

For a people with an obscure history that relies heavily on oral traditions for its reconstruction, recognition at the national level in our great land of “unity in diversity” cannot be just a football thing; it is a matter of pride, a way of reasserting their worth and capabilities.

A close knit community, the Mizos had traditional institutions called “Zawlbuk” which served as dormitories for young men past adolescence. There, they were taught everything they needed to know about life in their beautiful hills even before they were introduced to modern education. They learnt as a group and performed almost all activities as a group which, perhaps, is one of the reasons why the Mizos are so zealous about the game where teamwork is one of the most important aspects.

News of Mizoram or the Mizo people are rarely heard or seen in the national media, and even the ones that do would often have the capital city of Mizoram, Aizawl spelt incorrectly. Hopefully that will change now that a club based in the city has been crowned champion. Even if one cannot take the trouble to check the correct spelling of a capital city in faraway Northeast India, surely one can spare a few extra seconds to check the spelling of a football club that has thwarted clubs from other cities that are easier to spell.

For several reasons that could be understood only by the Mizos themselves, or people from their sister states in Northeast India, or anybody who has ever shown sincere interest in the people from the region, football cannot be looked  at as just a sport or as a source of entertainment. It has become and has to be a narrative of the Mizo people now that the club has helped garner interest in Mizoram.

Mizoram failed to capture the attention of mainstream media in 1966 and the following twenty years when she fought for independence from India, during which the people suffered all kinds of misery and torture. Though Mizoram attained full-fledged statehood in 1987, it remains obscure to the rest of India even today just as its own history was obscure. Apart from being distanced from mainland India geographically, religious, cultural and linguistic disparities have contributed to a feeling of isolation among the Mizos.

With no proper platform to validate their identity, their ethnicity and their culture in the national scene for a long time, when a Mizo shouts AIZAWL FC or sings the state song RO MIN REL SAK ANG CHE at the top of his or her voice during a match, it is not just for the football club, but for Mizoram, for the Mizo people, for the Mizo culture…

Football, a game loved dearly by the Mizos has not just entertained them or given them a sense of achievement this I-League season; it has given them a voice. It has reaffirmed the identity of the small minority community that has been sidelined for far too long though they have been standing in attention singing the national anthem since 1950.

The more than 2500 fans travelling home with cherished memories will not just tell their children and their grandchildren that they saw Aizawl FC lifting an erstwhile I-League trophy in person, but will add with pride that in 2017, they saw Mizoram being celebrated all over the nation because of the game they love, football.

All Roads Lead to Rajiv Gandhi Stadium

At least that was what it felt like today. The day of the eagerly awaited match between Aizawl FC and the oldest club in India, Mohun Bagan AC. Tickets for the match were already sold out by Tuesday. The unfortunate ones who did not have the foresight to buy theirs early were looking for tickets in the black market willing to spend more cash than the tickets actually cost. The match had been a common household topic for the last few days. All local newsapers anticipated the match. And then the fateful day arrived bringing with it a heavy downpour of rain and thunder.

No queue is too long if it leads to a football match 

But that did not deter passionate football fans from moving towards the stadium. Everybody knew how consequential today's match was to be. After all, the match could determine the team that would lift the trophy. But Aizawl's winning goal by Zotea in the 83rd minute was not enough to declare them champions in the match which ended 1-0 in favor of Aizawl FC.

Braving the rain for their team

Both Mohun Bagan AC and Aizawl FC still have a chance at the title, though Aizawl's chances look slightly better with them needing just a draw in their final match this season which is to be played against Shillong Lajong FC at Shillong on the 30th of this month. Hopefully Shillong will be ready to welcome a large number of football fans from Aizawl that weekend.



Coming back to today, it must have been a touching sight for AFC players and officials to see so many fans gather to watch their team in action and to cheer for them in spite of the rain and all the inconveniences rain can bring sometimes.

All prepped up for the match

Raincoats and warm jackets were a must wear

A member of the Red Army, a name for hardcore AFC fans

Where there is a wheel or two, there is a way



For most of the Mizos, Aizawl FC is more than just a football club. The club is an unofficial ambassador of the state and Mizo culture. To see them at the top of the I-League table has made all Mizos immensely proud of them. Recognition at the national level is rare, but Aizawl FC have grabbed the attention of a huge section of the Indian nation. Hopefully, at least all football fans from mainland India will now know what every Indian should have known since Elementary school; that Mizoram is a state in India and that the Mizos are not Chinese or Japanese.



Football, a game that is passionately loved by Mizos, has always played a huge role in the lives of the Mizo people but it has only been a few years since it became an avenue seriously considered as a viable profession. Today, Mizoram can proudly claim that some of the best players in India are the sons of its soil.



Eight days from now, I-League will have new champions. Whether Aizawl FC become the champions or not, they will always be remembered with fondness and affection by the Mizos. Aizawl FC will continue to be an inspiration for younger children who aspire to be professional footballers, and for other clubs with modest budgets as they have shown that a huge budget is not the most important thing when it comes to the beautiful game. 



As of now, the future of Indian football and the decisions that will be made by the AIFF remain unclear but the hope is that this I-League season and the amazing story of the club that got relegated and reinstated will serve as a reminder that football is about passion and teamwork, and not to be misused as a platform for power play.



As Aizawl FC coach Khalid Jamil fondly says of his boys, "Dil se khelte hai", let's hope all further decisions will be made from the heart and with genuine desire to see the beloved game progress in India.

"A Blog of One's Own"

My great aunt once told me, "Just because one is a woman, it does not mean she cannot carry a 50 kg bag of rice on her own. She will just do it differently, and not like a man does at one go. She will take a basket or a bucket, and use that to carry as much rice as she can. If she repeats this three or four times, she will have moved all the rice in the bag to the exact spot she wants the 50 kg bag of rice to be at." I have always felt her narrative has a lot of wisdom to it.


And with today being International Women's Day, I thought I'd write a bit about myself, after all, I am a woman. My thoughts may sound a little incoherent but they are heartfelt.


I was just a baby when my paternal grandmother died. So, my mother and her mother, assorted aunts and great aunts are the women I watched up close as they performed their roles as human beings and as women. I come from a family where the women are incredibly skilled. For instance, both my mother and grandmother can sew, knit, and weave. They could have made careers out of these skills. They are good at gardening, cooking, and other domestic chores traditionally left to women. My mother arranges flowers beautifully, and also makes pretty artificial flowers. And before they got married, my grandmother and her sisters would sing in the church, beautifully, if hearsay is to be believed. I grew up with notions that such skills are fundamental for one to be a complete woman.


But growing up, I realized how different I was from them. I was an utter failure at many of the things they are good at. In fact, the only genuine interest I share with my mother and grandmother might be our love for reading. Both of them are avid readers.


Coming back to me... I am not exactly the most graceful of women. I had a phase where I felt like a failure in a woman's body. I felt unfit to be a woman, but did not feel fit to be a man either. I felt lost between two worlds or two genders because of my perceived notions of what it means to be a woman, or a man.


Today, a lot of that has changed. I am now more confident about myself. I have learnt to embrace my taste - in people, clothes, music, books, movies, and everything else. I once saw a line by somebody which read, "Everything interests me, nothing holds me." Those words stayed with me, because they made sense of the mess I felt I was. Seeing women I am familiar with busy themselves with the same task for several hours at a stretch, or hearing people talk about how passionate they are about something makes me wonder if I have no real passion. And I think I don't. Maybe I'll find my passion someday, maybe I won't.


Most importantly, I am now confident in my identity as a woman. And as a woman, I feel a complete human being. In societies which have patriarchal inclinations, a woman is often considered incomplete if she is unmarried or without a male presence in her life as she is expected to fulfill roles as a wife, as a child bearer and as a home maker. Her significance is unfortunately considered in terms of her ability to perform these roles.


But I refuse to see myself as incomplete, or as a lesser being because I am a woman. I refuse to call myself weak because I cannot lift a 50 kg bag of rice. A woman's strength is not to be measured in terms of a man's strength or ability. I shall do things my way, my woman way. And in doing that, I shall find in me a complete being,


Having said that, I hope to find a man I love enough to marry someday. A man who will cross roads with me in the midst of a heavy traffic because I am terrified of crossing roads. A man who will help fix my technological problems because I can just about switch on and off my phone and laptop. A man who would be willing to work hard, and live frugally so that we may save enough money to go to Old Trafford someday. A man who will understand when I need space. A man who will respect my opinion. And I hope I will be the woman who can be to him what he will be to me.


And in the meantime, I shall celebrate the woman that I am.

NIRBHAYA

You fought, Nirbhaya.


For yourself, for us all.
They call you “the fearless one”
as you so well deserve.


Your relentless struggle
was not in vain, not for nothing.
All the screams you mustered
and the tears you let fall
found their way to the hearts
of millions, of women everywhere.


You held on, as hard as you could,
never giving up. The angels must have held you
on their laps, to comfort you
as you lay in pain, brutal pain.
You were divine through it all,
sanctified by your courage.


Alas! You had to be freed of the pain
with a last breath that sought an unity
of millions of souls, of women everywhere.


Thank you, Nirbhaya, for your fight.


PS: For the girl who was ruthlessly gang raped by a group of young men in a bus in Delhi. I have called her Nirbhaya here, using the name the media calls her by. 

Love in the time of war

In the distance
A bell rings
Once, twice, and then thrice.


In the sky
A lightning strikes
Once, twice, and then thrice.


Meanwhile, they embraced
Yearning for each other
Unwilling to let go,
Only the throbbing beats of their hearts
On their side,
The sky weeping the tears
Of their pain.


Where love was but a language
Alien, and incomprehensible
Nobody cared
How they loved.


The final call,
Amidst the thunder
“Retreat, time to depart.”


One lingering kiss,
The last, for both lifetimes.