A Naga short story

 

By Shevlin Sebastian

There is a wall, about 20 feet in height, and painted in white. In certain sections, you can see bougainvillaea creepers.

Despite the height, the wall has a benign feeling to it. But things are not so pleasant when you look at the top. There is barbed wire all along the perimeter.

On the other side, the authorities had not painted it. There is moss growing in certain sections. The constant rain had chipped away at the grey paint. You can see the concrete bricks.

There is a large, open area. This is a place where several convicts walk up and down in the evenings. In certain areas, they marked lines on the ground with white chalk. There is a net strung across two poles. It is a volleyball court. In another area, they have put up goalposts. Sometimes, the convicts play games if the weather is pleasant.

This is a jail in Nagaland. Most men are serving life terms. The courts had convicted them of murder, arms and drugs smuggling and for using weapons against the state. Many of them have narrow eyes reflecting their Mongolian ancestry.

Sometimes there are fisticuffs. Then guards have to break up the fights. They put the men involved in isolation blocks for weeks at a time.

Two Naga men, Asangla and Dadi, are close friends. Each is undergoing a jail term of 25 years. The Indian Army and rebel forces engaged in a gun battle in a jungle. In the ensuing mayhem, the soldiers captured them. They wanted freedom for Nagaland, so that it could become an independent nation. In short, they wanted to secede from India.

They have already served for 15 years. While Asangla is 52, Dadi is 46. In the evenings, they sit next to each other, out in the open.

Sometimes, they wonder whether it had been foolish to think they could secure independence from the Indian union. It had a powerful army. What they did was give pinpricks, at significant personal cost. But their leaders had indoctrinated them about the need to get freedom. They were too young to understand what a gigantic task it would be. And how much they would have to sacrifice to achieve their goals.

Most of the Naga leaders have spent decades in jail. The life they led hollowed them out and shattered the equilibrium of their families. The rest of Naga society carried on. Not everybody was grateful for their contributions because they achieved nothing.

They were on the losing side.

Who cares about losers?

But this is the dilemma for freedom fighters. When they try peaceful methods, nothing happens. But when they use violence and then lose, they face wrecked lives and the crushing of their hopes and dreams. What is the way forward? Could they take part in the election process? But what if the government bans them? In many countries, there is no democracy. At least in this Nagaland jail, the police had beaten the duo, but had not tortured them. But in countries like Iran, China, Russia and Belarus, the state had tortured and even killed political activists.

But when Asangla and Dadi talk to each other, they have no option but to feel regret.

Asangla’s wife Lily is a teacher in a private school. The childless Dadi’s wife, Narola, works as a secretary in an office. For Asangla, it was painful to see the children growing up without his physical presence.

Asangla could not take his children to school. He could not celebrate their birthdays and teach them discipline. He missed out on earning a living and building assets for the family. Both he and Dadi had missed out on sex with their wives during the peak years of their masculinity.

Asangla’s son, Mhalo, now 20, had fallen into the wrong company, dropped out of school and was doing drugs. His wife complained about it to Asangla. When Mhalo came for a visit, Asangla begged him to change his ways. He wanted him to make new friends and to divert his attention by playing football or badminton. But his son seemed unmoved. For Mhalo, it was like listening to advice from a stranger. He had tied his hair into a ponytail, using a rubber band, and wore a steel bracelet.

Asangla feared for the boy’s future. He knew that from drugs to crime is not an enormous distance. His daughter, Rita, 18, was already staying with a musician in a live-in relationship. She wore short skirts and high heels all the time. At least, she stayed away from drugs and studied till Class 12 and now works as a secretary in an office.

Asangla knew the future of his children, like his own, was dark and unclear. Lily came every week and brought along some soaps and toothbrushes. They could not bring food items. She spoke; he listened. She had more news than him. He led the same regimented life from morning till night.

Asangla stared at her. More and more, she was becoming a stranger to him. And he was becoming a stranger to himself, too.

He no longer understood his motivations, dreams, or desires. He was rolling from one day to the other, his mind blank.

Asangla wondered whether Lily was faithful. And yet, he could not blame her if she sought sexual gratification outside of their marriage. Why shouldn’t she? He had opted to be a militant, so why should she lose out?

Anyway, Asangla never asked Lily these questions because he knew it was futile. There was no way she would tell him the truth.

What stunned them was how Naga society had forgotten them. Life went on. Nobody spoke about freedom and independence. They were in the thrall of the mobile phone and the consumer lifestyle. It was engulfing their society.

The duo felt they had no option but to bite their lips, maintain proper behaviour and hope to get out. In that way, they wanted to salvage the remaining years of their lives.

As for Dadi, he was childless. Narola always came dressed in colourful tops and tight jeans and high heels. As a secretary for an international NGO, she earned well. She spent most of her money on clothes, lipstick, perfume and other items. Dadi knew Narola was enjoying life. She has been to concerts and parties.

Sometimes, it was with her female friends and sometimes with a male companion. Who the man was, Dadi did not know. And he did not want to know. She could have divorced him any day, but so far, she had not. Dadi was not sure whether she would remain with him. He wondered whether she loved him, or whether she was too lazy to get a divorce. Maybe she had not found a man whom she wanted to marry.

They met when they were teenagers. They lived on the same road. It led to a romance and later, marriage. Both were in their early twenties when they got married. But Narola did not have any children. Dadi was not sure whether it was his problem or hers. Within three years of his marriage, he had joined a militant group.

His life changed. Dadi lived an underground existence. His parents passed away when they were only in their fifties. His only brother worked in Delhi in an IT firm. He married a Naga girl and had children.

Dadi was happy for him.

His brother had always been practical and smart. Now he was enjoying life, while he rotted behind bars, keeping company with tough people. All with massive egos. Nobody felt any sense of repentance. For many of them, murder was something they yawned at.

Dadi only felt comfortable in the company of Asangla because they had been comrades in the battles against the Indian Army. Once his wife Narola asked him whether he had taken the right path.

He said, “I thought I was on the right path. Nobody can live a perfect life and always make the right decisions. Sometimes, we make mistakes.”

She nodded, partly in appreciation because Dadi admitted he had made a mistake. She felt there was no point in ramming home the point about his errors. Dadi was paying for it every single day.

In December, 2021, a unit of the 21st Para Special Forces of the Indian Army had killed six civilians near the village of Oting in the Mon District of Nagaland, India. In the subsequent violence, eight civilians and a soldier lost their lives.

Some of their old anger and fire reared in the duo when they heard the news.

“We can never trust these Indians,” Dadi said.

Asangla told him to keep quiet.

“Our aim is to get out because of good behaviour,” he said. “So, let’s maintain our composure.”

Of course, the others railed against the Indian state. But Asangla was tired of it. He wanted to move on. At 52, he did not have the energy to change anything. All he did was worry about his children. He prayed every day that God would protect his children.

But, at night, like Dadi, he had a disturbed sleep. Images of him shooting Indian soldiers appeared in his mind. Blood was oozing out of their skulls. He had killed three of them. He wondered whether they were married and had children. Every day, their families must be cursing the killers. This was also the case with the families of the Nagas, whose males the Indian soldiers had shot dead. They must be cursing the soldiers for their trigger-happy fingers.

And this cycle of anger, hatred and violence has carried on for decades.

Who knows, it might go on for centuries.