Banamallika Choudhury

Past two weeks I have been working/hanging with a bunch of youngsters. Read that as, my entire time and existence engulfed in hyper energy, chaos, hormones, irreverence and lust confused as love. The number of love songs and corny love quotes I hear in an hour these days is more than the rate of India’s population growth per minute. Fortunately (?!), my youngsters are comical. In fact too comical even to my only-absurd loving self. I have not been able to have a ‘serious’ conversation for longer than two sentences in past few days without somebody saying something funny followed by hollers of laughter. And I am not complaining… So I am in Mizoram, based in a place called Lawngtlai, travelling to places called Thaltlang, Sentetfiang, Sangau, Siachangkawn, Vartek. If you try to check these places up on the map (assuming you know where Mizoram is) you won’t find them. They are so far away from the world’s understanding of the world that (I think) they have managed to escape Google and CIA...

Currently no one is paying me for anything. I am not doing anything for money. And I am finding it increasingly difficult to avoid that unavoidable question that strangers ask you every time you meet some – ‘so, what do you do?’ Or the slightly different original version from the ones who are no strangers to you – ‘what are you doing these days?’ My definitive answers like – ‘um..uh…actually I am writing’ (a lie that has been told for so long that now its almost a truth. At least no one can challenge it) or – ‘err.. eh.. I do not know’ or even the one that I deliver with dead-sure confidence – ‘aaa.. I think I am thinking of planning to do something’ - get some of the world’s best really-unbelieving, very-insulting and supremely-mocking expressions. Some of our Bollywood actors could learn from my questioners. Anyway, before I digress, the story I am trying to tell is that, to avoid these questions and more to avoid giving my questioners more opportunity to practice their disbelieving,...

I get a call from Popo (name changed) in the middle of a busy day – ‘I am coming for Bihu!!! Will have to do a lot of utpat (its English equivalent will be something like excessive fun, the kind that makes you so happy that it irritates your neighbour, family and other people around you and make them very unhappy).’ Just his excited tone gave me an immediate hangover. My body remembered all that I will have to go through (indubitably with my consent and desire) during the festivities. And my mind remembered the last Bihu… I had just arrived back from South Africa. And my 15 year stint out of North-East had kept me away from Bihus for many years. All that I remembered of Bihu was the essay we had to learn in primary school – “Bihu is our national festival. There are 3 Bihus in a year… On the first day of Rongali Bihu we wash the cows and the buffalos with halodhi (turmeric) and mah (lentil) paste. We touch our elders’ feet and dance Bihu dance. Rongali Bihu is the festival of fun and jo...

The other day, I had to go see the owners of my flat to pay my rent. I also had to make complaints about a few things not working in the house – a plug in the kitchen, the bathroom light, the bedroom fan… The good landlords assured me they will send an electrician in the evening and then all full of consideration and concern for me asked– “Do you have problems if a Muslim enters your kitchen?” I took a few seconds to register the question before I burst out laughing. While shaking my whole body in all directions with convulsive laughter I managed to shake my head sideways and say – ‘No, there is no problem.’ The elderly couple waited for my epilepsy to subside and said with hurt sensibility – “We have no problems either. We let them enter the kitchen.” (In the same tone that whites say, ‘I am not a racist. Some of my best friends are black.) I called up all my friends to tell the story and everyone laughed almost as hard as me. Some of course laughed harder. One Muslim-phile (he i...