The Dogs and The Crumbs from the Table: An Email to God

Father:

I lift up this cup to you, for the bile has begun to overflow; it has begun to soil my sleeves. You will hear me. You always did. You must.

I bring you this cup from the forgotten lands where life still haunts the dead. You know the place that I write about here: that forgotten land where the sun shies away and nights dread to enter. 

This cry is familiar to your forgiving ears. You were there too.  

I know you hear me. I know, because you felled the tens of thousands around me. You held back the mighty heavens and chided Hades into quietness – just so I could walk in safety and victory to the place you chose for me. You know that place more than any of us will ever know. You were born there.

I do not seek to hear your voice: on my table, is your answer. The Bible watches me with a smile with the answers, ready, even before my lips had begun forming these screams that shred me to wretched tatters.

Maybe the thorn was mine to bear; that there are wonderful mysteries just not destined for me? Maybe faith has yet to find a home in me to stay. Maybe, I must have to wait a bit longer so you perfect your great plans for me. I understand that my life remembers not to reflect you. That I am a wretch, like the grime of food long lost to the elements.

Nevertheless, Father, I wait – pacifying my intolerant rage by remembering your conversation with that Canaanite wretch.

She came and knelt before you, Father.

"Lord, help me!" she pleaded.

In your grace, quiet power and palpable authority you spoke:

"It is not right to take the children's bread and toss it to their dogs."

The universe stopped in its path. Israel could only help not crumbling to dust at your profound words. The winds across the mighty mountains of Canaan paused, afraid to move lest their breathless awe provoked you. Since the chronicles of life began, the master of the universe had never withheld his grace from a mortal being.

I saw the entire heavens stop in single minute of eternity, troubled and waiting just what the master meant, and what you would do. I saw the sun hold its light across your universe, rebuking the night from intruding into that fathomless moment.

Then, I saw the woman lift her chin, reverent, yet undefeated.  

Then the woman spoke.

Divine creation and created creation listened.

"Yes, Lord," she said, "but even the dogs eat the crumbs that fall from their masters' table."

You smiled, and gifted the woman your universe. The heavens rejoiced you.  

Yes, Father, even dogs wait for the crumbs to fall off the table. I wait for the crumbs to fall of your table…

The windstorm is unforgiving, Father. The battle is not bloody any more – there is no more blood to pay. The allies now draw their swords with my enemies. The more the victory, the farther my allies wander from me. My love now fights beside my foe. Life has sucked the heavens out of my comrades. My ancient armor is broken. I keep losing sight of you amid the bloodied multitude.

I keep falling, Father, and I stand alone in pretend poise and shallow strength as the endless expanse jeer from behind the mountains. Father, all I ask is this: I need a little hand here.  

I do not seek reprieve from this battle. I will not run from this. I will not lay down my sword ever. 

Let my armor splinter and shatter. Let the winds dry the blood along its edges. Let the storm come and lay down its terms of challenge. Let it dare, and I will stand against it.

However, Father, there is something I am desperate for. I do not seek to hear your voice. You already talk to me in your Holy Word.

All I seek, Father, all I seek, is a little hand here. All I seek is a little help here, Father. Help to not giving up. That is all I ask.  

Yes, Father. For, even the dogs waited for the crumbs to fall off the table. Even dogs eat the crumbs that fall off the table.   

Your son,

© 2014 An Email to God Al Ngullie © 2012 Al Ngullie 

Why our Japanese Hairdos now need Japanese Brains

For someone who has had a stint with long cantankerous hair, verdant spikes, and had even flirted with bell-bottoms at one point, I appreciate fashion in all its facets. 

My "contribution" to the scheme appears legit if at all my hoary heavy metal orientation is anything: Spikes, Goth metal chains, shredded skinny denims, Pumas and Converse. I still attend formal government dinners in tired denims, bombed-out ancient Chuck Taylors, and heavy leather wristbands, or my faithful traditional Naga warriors' necklaces. I love their look and feel, and you will never find me without a piece of leather or metal. Or war-worn denims.

That's my latest wristband (and my hand!). The triple band is the latest member of my family of rock accessories:) A wonderful friend gifted the gorgeous band to me. She has a good taste :)  

Now, fashion has a habit of provoking the borders of our cultural skirts especially if you happened to be someone from India's northeastern province. In 2010, The Telegraph called and sought perspectives about the then-climactic surge of interest in Korean and Japanese fashion that was pervading the youth population of the northeastern states. I told them it was merely a temporary movement by teenagers, not a projection of cultural mainstay that we ought to be concerned about.

I understand the national media's interest in the phenomenon, which spread during 2005-2012 across the more liberal states of Meghalaya, Mizoram, and Nagaland. I also understand the criticism from some sections of the stratum against the 'pretentious' movement. 

The Difference between Statement and Stating 

There must be a point of reconciliation somewhere though; a point of reference to gauge what exactly exemplifies (and differentiates) 

• Fashion as a culture of statement, from
• Fashion as a statement of culture  

But then, again, that contention is exactly where the possibility of 'cultural' confusion thrives. I'll try to explain both, and attempt to come at a point of reference between what just might prove itself to be superficial, and what could be of value. 

This is my perspective:

The wave of "Korean" and Japanese "fashion"  would have had been more palatable had the brains and minds of the Koreans and Japanese also arrived with the hair. 

South Korea and Japan walk among the most progressive societies of the world: It is not just their roads, public services, or their obsession with accountability and clean governance. It is also about how they treat their interpersonal lives, family, and community; how they treat public property; how they value their cultural heritage; how they effectively engage education to create catalysts that inject humanism into their pursuit of positive living and productive social will. It is about how they inspire social activism, and how proactive in dealing with corruption, social injustice, and flawed leadership. It is about how they inspire values, and respect for identity even in the face of a world lost to materialistic ethos. 

In other words, at best, Japan / South Korea can meet third-world societies such as ours only at a point of dichotomy. 

If one would just take a minute of introspection, and examine the aesthetic motivation that nurtured the two great Asian cultures, we will find that we are primarily cavemen that just about discovered branded and expensive cars. Forgive my self-righteous denunciations, for I, too, am part of it. Our attitudes to thoughts and systems, education and activism, corruption and governance, and people and society, satisfy motives that are characteristic of small, third-world minds — and living.

Likewise, our attitudes do not reflect the goodwill that we pronounce in the media, social networking communities, and families and relationships. Our progressive statements do not reflect in the behavior of our government. Even basic social propriety is limited only to a few knowledgeable sections of our 'educated' population. Our sartorial expressions do not hold water: Our holism finds reflection only in the small variables, but never in the important demands of social responsibility. in the past more than 50 years, we have failed in the greater goals of development and in the way we demonstrate our ideas of peace and war, progress and activism. 

The Good Fashion = Good Human Quotient  

Now, the preceding statements must sound as if a good set of apparel compulsorily demands a socially — and personally, no less — humane makeover. Perhaps, perhaps not. That line is a blur. Nonetheless, allow me to explain again another point of reference:

To the Koreans or the Japanese, fashion is not an elective compulsion. It is a creative diversion they can afford. I saw a meme on Facebook once. The image showed a young woman, purportedly from NE India. The first image to the composite meme showed her in tasteful apparel. The text in the first image was this: "When outside."

Now the second image showed her in a dingy, dim bamboo dwelling (a bamboo kitchen?). She was dining on "sukha maas chutunty" ( a basic spice-paste made of dried fish and chili. It is consumed as a condiment by tribal communities in NE India). The punch-line on the image was this: "Sukha maas chutunty after coming home." In the corner of the image was the wildly popular symbol of sarcasm known as the "Bitch Please" face.   

That is not to say a person cannot be fashionable, or have a taste for fashionable apparel, if his economic condition failed to qualify conventional standards of elitist narratives. Not at all. What the Meme meant, I believe, was this: We are placing superficial interests and shallow pursuits ahead of real issues and real demands of well-being. 

Allow me, again: My mom returned from the church once, and narrated a conversation she had with a parishioner. "We're barely surviving on their father's meager salary, but they (her children) only want the latest expensive clothes. How can we survive?" the church member, a mother of five teenagers, seems to have told my mother. 

That, my friend, is my point of reference; the difference between the Japanese / Koreans and most youths from NE India.         

Personally, I do not judge what our youths wear. I'm fickle and wild when it comes to fashion too. However, the challenge, I would like to believe, is in trying to be a good person and a proactive citizen when it comes to the problems facing our society, or who I am to my family and friends. The latter is more important to me. I would like to believe that I try to live with that conviction whether I am expressing my opinions in the mass media, or interacting with readers and friends on Facebook. (Would you like to be a part of my small world on Facebook? You'll find me here) 

I do not bother about what could be Japanese or Korean, Nigerian or Burmese, much less about what was American or Martian. My only concern is our youths giving preeminence to fashion sense, when we urgently require a sense of responsibility for the sad direction Nagaland has taken. We always dressed well, but we are also regressed, especially now that our land and people remain in tatters since 20-30 years ago. 

The Koreans and the Japanese can afford to exploit the realms of fashion or philosophy. Why? The answer is simple: the demands of economics, good governance, social harmony, peace, cultural accountability, and the pursuit of social welfare are already in place. Us, we are still looking out our caves. That is not to say Japan or Korea are paradise - just that they do what needs to be done to make their societies a bit of a paradise.

As long as our youths do not learn to appreciate the finer values of civilization in mind and in initiative first, our society shall never find value and beauty in us. After all isn't fashion all about reflecting what is valuable and beautiful?    

© 2014 Minding the Asian Hair Al Ngullie © 2012 Al Ngullie 

Dandelions

Dandelions always fascinate me. These lovely, tiny, humble, wild flowers represent survival, strength, and renewal. I'm afraid my writing skills at poetry are woefully inadequate, much less even offer a semblance of civilized verse. I struggle to learn from my friends Rita Krocha and Temjen Anichar, and my accomplished doyens Monalisa Changkija and Temsula Ao whose middle names are poetry, and justified by their accomplishments as persons of verse in the industry. Nonetheless, I dedicate this small "poem" (or whatever it appears to be) to the wonderful woman I love. (Image source: Baldmountainretreat) 

                                                        Wherever you are,

                                                        I hope you hear me.

                                                        No matter how far,

                                                        I hope you see,

                                                        My name, from afar.

                                                        I call out your name,

                                                        As wandering winds do,

                                                        When the storms they hide,

                                                        Struggle to break through.

                                                        I call out your name,

                                                        For reasons, just the same.

                                                        I hope you hear me.

                                                        I bring nothing,

                                                        But dandelions so tiny,

                                                        And joyful they sing.

                                                        I hope you hear me,

                                                        It is I.

                                                        Poverty stalks my gift,

                                                        But It is all, I can give.

                                                        I just wanted to know,

                                                        How you have been.

                                                        I cry your name,

                                                        From this naffer alley.

                                                        Lonesome is the path,

                                                        On which men of war rally;

                                                        Littered with spirits broken,

                                                        And scattered stories unspoken.

                                                        Fondness, has no regret;

                                                        Faith, owes no secret.

                                                        I remember you,

                                                        I remember your heart, too.

                                                        I hope you’re in goodness;

                                                        I hope you hear my wishes.

                                                        I only wanted to say ‘hello’,

                                                        And gift you these dandelions,

                                                        That smile from meadows so yellow,

                                                        That smile from meadows so yellow.

© 2014 Color of Dandelions Al Ngullie © 2012 Al Ngullie 

Passionflower for Thursday

I worship the way she walks. How gently, yet confidently, she floats in. You do not deny passage to princesses. She walked in today too, just as the princess she was.

Her hair is a cascade of liquid crystals, and her steps leave joyful blossoms of diamonds and grateful earth when she walks. She is a princess. Her name is panacea.  She is rain. My rain.

Thursday was an angry day in our fetid, sweltering city of Dimapur. The day was interesting. I cooked a wonderful pile of something. Later, I would fail to recognize my creation at the dining table. Nevertheless, mom was all too happy to care what I concocted in the kitchen. United and standing tall, mother and son vanquished whatever it was that I had prepared in the name of glorious hunger.

The food followed a bout of what we now call “Imkumtime” (No, you may not ask what the name means. It is classified space).

So there we were, bloated in God’s rich nutrients and seated for Imkumtime:  It is a leisurely moment where we spend time with each other. Sometimes we talk; sometimes we just sit and read that day’s headline; sometimes we exchange our theories about why Chelsea (our team) has had a poor run since winning our Champions trophy the previous season. Imkumtime is a time no other human dare intrude. Ever.  

After Imkumtime, I made tea and cleaned the house. The day outside was pleasant on Thursday morning. It was warm but not searing. It was perfect for another writingthon for me.   

Restlessness is my name. I do not remember a time that I wasn't writing three articles side-my-side, or have a guitar in my lap while writing (or typing, in the recent years). I am the king of multi-tasking. I love how ideas converge, fight, and bloom into a clear perspective. I worship how they piggyback a string of random ideas, each as disconnected as the other, yet still managing to make sense. Multitasking can be an obsessive but rewarding foible if you made a habit out of it.

All of us have capricious writing habits. For instance, my friend and writer, the accomplished Easterine Iralu, wrote to me recently stating that she junks entire manuscripts to restart writing if she found it didn't appease her literary hunger. I can empathize with the first novelist from among the Nagas: By sheer habit, I open three-four new Word documents and start recording my thoughts. The article that fails to satisfy is fodder for the recycle bin. 

There are those times too, when I delete entire batches of completed articles only to start writing “new ideas” again. Sometimes, it is not one, but an entire batch of completed articles that I delete.

Thursday was yet another writingthon for me. When two articles failed to pan out, I erased the lot and started another. The third piece was progressing well, but then the weather began picking up in the afternoon.  So did my restlessness. Alongside the in-progress article, I began parsing some HTML and programming Codes for the Eastern Mirror website, my current employment.

As the afternoon peaked, the work began turning insufferable: the ideas in my writing became erratic, parsing errors began creeping into my HTML and I wanted a cup of tea – if not for the gradual hum of winds that began around 4:00 PM from somewhere west. I smelled her. She was not far.

She came. She came gently at first, before announcing her regal self fully with a joyful shower.

Mom was too happy welcoming the rain. She opened all the doors and windows and let the winds in. Summer fled.  She was here.

She wears panache.  I love the rain. I love how she brings a gift of memories and the beautiful face of the woman to whom I have given my heart.    

'Passionflower’ is a song by British musician Jon Gomm. This song has no doubt that the rain belongs to me. 

 

© 2014 Thursday and Rain Al Ngullie © 2012 Al Ngullie