STRANGERS OF THE MIST

"Time is of the essence. India has wasted fifty years dealing with its rebellious minorities in the northeast. It cannot afford to continue this piecemeal approach. Only a doctrine embracing regional, economic, environmental and security concerns can transform the jungles of unrest into communities of prosperity……By 2020, there will be 220 million Bangladeshis and one billion Indians. Without policies on population growth, migration, flood control and agricultural production, sharing of resources and better cooperation, they are fated to confront each other in savage conflicts……….." Thus concludes the lucid narration of the northeast in the book "STRANGERS OF THE MIST" by Sanjoy Hazarika. Yes, I know I am late, but thanks to Sandeep da for lending me this lovely book. As good books usually do, I am sill reeling under the charisma of this book which was first published in 1994. How beautifully Mr. Hazarika described ‘Affinity’ and ‘Identity’ as the major players in the never ending war of separateness in our part of the country! I too went to a sojourn of the crisp mornings that bathed the distant hills a breathtaking azure, the wiry farmers that treaded the narrow roads balancing bamboo poles across their shoulders with cane baskets filled up with vegetables, chicken or eggs, and of course the rains with the warm,wet, sensuous smell of fresh earth , so fresh that you could almost taste it. Mr. Hazarika’s amazing description of each and every aspect of the northeast mesmerized me. I had to finish the book in a single night, not because I had to return the book urgently to its owner, but it had me hooked, practically! Saadulla, Gopinath Bardoloi, et al came alive in front of my eyes. I toiled with Koza’s descendants that night in search for the identity of the Nagamese people, I died a thousand death during mautam in Mizoram when the bamboo flowers ushered in death. Yes, that night Mr. Hazarika narrated the love of Krishna and Radha in Manipur, and show-caused the tragedy of the indigenous people of Tripura who are now a non entity. As the stars gazed down at me mockingly, an Assamese with pleasant words about her home but preferring to stay far away for whatsoever reasons, I found my self lost in the misty eyes of the old man from Arunachal Pradesh when he looked out at the paddy fields across from his house. As the lone grave of the silent village in Meghalaya wept alone, I could sense a feeling of helplessness, a wave of sorrow sweeping my mind. The sky turns a hue lighter as I read the last paragraph of the book. I lie down for a couple of hours of sleep, just for the namesake, and wonder who I am, what I am doing, where I belong. I fight a losing battle with my personal priorities, though I know that no body has seen the future. The retrospection continues, and when I find Sanjoy Hazarika is listed as working in Jamia Milia Islamia in Delhi, I make a secret wish to meet the man with the moonlit pen. Maybe someday soon……Thank you Sandeep da…