By Aiyushman Dutta

I take great pride in being a northeasterner and though I like to proclaim that all the states are equally beautiful in its unity and diversity, two states have always held a cherished position in my heart. One is Assam, my home state and the other being, Nagaland – a state which has continued to fascinate me throughout my growing up days and which continues to do so even now. Both states are similar in a lot of ways and I have always felt that I can relate to my Naga friends and colleagues in a much better way than I can do to those belonging to other states. Maybe it was my fixation for the western world’s influence on us urban educated professionals, partially captured in the words of one of my friend who haughtily used to proclaim- a generation obsessed with America’s hard sell in the third world – or maybe it was pure love. I don’t know but right from those trips to Nagaland Gandhi Ashram and watching the grand old man, Natwar Thakkar recount his struggles while establishing a Gandhi ashram in Mokokchung to those long drives in Dimapur, where we friends used to just drive around circular road drinking ‘Roxy’; from watching the roads of the state progressively worsen each day along with all other basic human amenities to hearing friends and Intravenous Drug Users (IDUs) acquaintances recount those daring(?) escapades from the bullets of the state’s many underground activists; from getting stoned in the hallowed atmosphere of the run down stadium in Dimapur amidst the company of the spirits of dead bodies which used to be dumped there to those occasional meetings in the dilapidated building which houses my office and listen to my colleagues complain over army regulation rum, “What possible story can a journalist get from Nagaland?”. Yes, my tryst with Nagaland has indeed been a long one notwithstanding those gigantic upheavals that we used to carelessly dismiss as mere skirmishes.

My recent trip to the financial capital of the state was uneventful, as usual. Yet, I still encountered a lot of changes; changes that indicate the approaching death of this rich and diverse state blessed with abundant natural resources and warm, loving people. In many ways, this sleepy town has become a garrison town, where the sounds of the chirpings of birds have been replaced with gunshots and shrieks and which have come to be accepted as part and parcel of life. On getting down from the train at Dimapur Railway Station, I stealthily avoided the path of the auto drivers who were on their constant lookout to pounce on any prospective fare coming out through the broken down archway. Though this time around, I somehow got the impression that their energy too, has mellowed down a lot from last fortnight, when I was last running away from them. The rickshaw took a hitherto hidden and long road filled with potholes of the size of drains and as we bumped our way through yet another pothole with hordes of armed people dressed in army fatigues watching us, I just wondered, “All this just for a plot of land??”.

The tears have long dried up and the eyes of the people only show their resilience; resilience to somehow tide over this crisis with the hope that better days will come but unfortunately, this resilience is giving way too. Only a void exists and the void is getting bigger with each passing day. Those who have the money and contacts move out from their state to seek greener pastures elsewhere while does who can’t, simply gear up and prepare themselves to face the most bitter aspects of the human condition. Over tea with my childhood friend, as we discussed another mutual friend and who has now left for Malaysia, he just said, “There’s nothing left here, kokai. We’re staying here just because this is our home-town”.

I have always believed that the Indian system – be it political, social, educational, et al – gives rise to only a singular breed of people; those called dependents of the government machinery lurking for a government job and who ultimately turns into defendants for a cause that may seem to have no end. Same is the case in this land of the erstwhile ‘head-hunters’, though there are hardly any dependents left there anymore. I had ventured once again into my singular world of ‘dreams’ and from which I was awakened by the jostling of military personnel as they made their way to the roof of our office to shift turns at their daily vigil.

In the evening, as I tried to keep my balance in my colleague’s battered scooter and as we made our way to catch John Schlitt of Petra fame croon gospel numbers in front of a crowd which desperately needs peace, my eyes fell on a coffin maker’s shop in the Nagaland Shopping Mall. Similar to all other institutions, the Nagaland Shopping Mall is a mall in the real sense of the term but which only houses shops dealing in second hand clothes for the IDU’s of the state to exchange their jeans and get the money to buy their regular fix. The Coffin Maker’s shop was just like the other shops in the building – battered, worn down and in desperate need of an overall make-over. And as we passed through the battered sign-board that proclaimed in huge letters – Megadeath Coffins – I couldn’t help sighing. Nagaland is surely dying a mega death. We can only comfort ourselves by remembering the words of Percy B Shelley, “Oh Wind! If winter comes, can spring be far behind?”

(The writer is a journalist who has dribbled extensively in print and alternative media in Assam and New Delhi. He is presently the cultural reporter for The Sentinel and can be reached at optionaldutta@gmail.com)