Monsoon In Nagaland: Dust In The Wind, Mud On The Ground

—Nini Lungalang

DUST. It is dust that moves through the frail Kohima ether, reaching out to greet lonely trees that stand out like nervous runaway fugitives that have stolen one more day in the sun on their own. It is dust that gathers in the nooks and crannies of this little town and it is this same dust that rears the clouds that turn on their hooks, bathing the countenances of hilltops and homes into gleaming, waxy figures that house the dreams, fears and aspirations of so many people. It is this same dust that found its way to Nini Lungalang, an extraordinary Naga poet and piano teacher෴ who brought paper to pen to write Dust, a poem that delicately and powerfully invokes in 40 sparse lines, the historical and sociological contours of the Naga world, symbolised in the dust that covers the crags and sinews of the arid landscape fields that line the edges of Naga villages. Dust represents so much more than the ashy dryness with which it is usually associated, and a foreshadowing of the arrival of its direct nemesis—the recalcitrant monsoons.

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In Nagaland, the monsoons eat their way into the harvest season when the spring-summer crops are brought into granaries and storehouses by August or September. This yearly return of the monsoons happens by the end of May or June, sometimes when the first bloom of the azaleas meet the eye. In Kohima, where I gestate, it is a season that fattens the hinges of doors and windows, while wooden homes creak and breathe in outlandish murmurs, as battalions of leeches and crawlies come out to play. A prolonged absence of the sun thickens the homes, making the walls doubly layered with the damp coldness of peaty air. Needless to say, the Kohima monsoons are volu­minous, especially when they’re accompanied by the theatricality of the winds that hurl themselves from mountain tops, making make-shift kites out of t-shirts, kitchen scrap and plastic toys. However, behind the cinematic and poetic evocations of the Kohima monsoon lurks a much larger and darker reality, one that is 💯the result of the gross anthropocentrism the world over; an essence that lies at the heart of contemporary late capitalism that is characterised by vapid consumerism and excess, and exacerbated by developmental politics and policies that have taken nature hostage. This is not specific only to Nagaland but the world over, and an issue that has been at the heart of critical public discourse over the past few decades.

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A friend of mine who visits Nagaland every year, once said something that remained with me for a long time. He remarked that Nagaland seemed as if it was always in a state of doing and undoing. There is always construction of some sort going on in almost every part of the state, and there is always somet🌃hing being pulled down, creating an entire empire of dust. He was referring to the prolonged and delayed highway constructions that have been going on since 2016, and the resultant deforestation that has annihilated natural springs, forest cover, destabilised biodiversity, reshaping and customising mountains and hills to the beat of developmental policies, with little to no sustained and mindful reforestation. This is particularly melancholic for ma💙ny because as a people, we have traditionally and historically been the people of the land. Our villages, one of the most important marker(s) of our tribal identity, were built and situated strategically along forests, and much of our folklore, verbal arts and belief testify to this special kinship we share with nature and the environment.

Especially, in the absence of a written script that documents our history, our r𓂃ich oral tradition is often taken as a point of departure for understanding our historical and psychological gangways. This literal and metaphorical distancing from the natural environment is not only a hallmark of a larger-than-life modernising drive, but oꦡne that is potentially destructive if it is not compensated adequately. In the name of development, the town of Dimapur, also known as the commercial hub of Nagaland, has progressed so much that there are hardly any trees that line the roads or homes around the main town areas. Groundwater supply is dwindling, even as more and more buildings are rising. The absence of a robust and strong building bye-law that not only protects soil but also ensures safety of buildings and structures in earthquake-prone Nagaland is something that might cost us. While in Kohima, due to overpopulation and lack of water supply in the dry seasons, water tankers, like giant tortoises, move cautiously among the narrow, winding roads, delivering water to homes for Rs 600-650 for 1,000 litres.  As more and more natural spring water streams and water points that have quenched the thirst of people through generations are cut off from their tributaries, access to free water for domestic usage will become costlier and breathable air may reach current city-levels such as Delhi.

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Today, as the rains lash out murderously in parts of Northeast India, congealed dust finds new currency in the form of mud, grime and peat, as it meanders through halfway mountains and unfamiliar, unnatural thickets birthed by humanity’s prodigious ways. Landslides and floods are no longer rare occurrences; they are part of the cycle of tragedies that our hearts and minds have become accustomed to.  The monsoon😼 is no longer a pretty portrait. Perhaps, it is too late to give the earth back its shape, but it is surely not too late to acknowledge that we have reached environmental limits and make much more ecologically ethical and informed decisions not tainted by political and personal ag­e­nda or hubris, if we wish to delay our journey to the apocalypse.  

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(This appeared in the print edition as "Dust🎶 to Dust")

(Views expressed are personal)

Beni Sumer Yanthan is a poet, folklorist and assistant professor of English and Cultural Studies at Nagaland University, Kohima