Yurreipem Arthur
I left my job in New Delhi and headed home all for the love of my parents who, for the love of me, insisted I pack my bags and be on my way again, this time maybe down south to Bombay where my brother lived. My palmist friend never told me that my next stop in life’s highway was many hundred miles closer home.
I had always disliked Dimapur, largely because of the humidity. It had figured in my geography only as a transit point, a town with no character, I convinced myself. (Residents of Dimapur, I beseech you to take my humour with a pinch of sugar) The one clear memory I have of Dimapur was of sometime way back in the early 80’s. Flashback. It was just supposed to have been a ride along the highway but we landed there, at my aunt’s place. 15 minutes in the house was all it took for my younger sister, notorious for her mischief, to break the heavy flush covering with a massive CRASH!!! She must’ve been just 5 or 6 years old, and how she managed it beats me still. My parents packed us into the car and we went scurrying back to Kohima.
Very many years later I find myself headed again to the land of the broken flush cover. When I accepted this assignment, I sternly set a 3-month timeline, after which I would reorganize my bags and tarry along. It has been 80 whole days, which makes it 10 days short of 3 months but I have already stopped thinking about leaving for the time being. Have I been turned into a Dimapur believer? Or have I stopped thinking at all? Or have I started thinking and working the way most people I have interacted with in this town do? Allow me to elaborate.
New Delhi being a fast-paced cosmopolitan city, Dimapur was turtle’s race for me. Everything worked way too slow. I could maybe do a research on the number of ways people could get distracted at work. It reminded me of my cousin’s massive knuckles and the knock on my forehead so generously handed out everytime he was assigned to supervise me study, reason being lack of concentration. There was no end to my complaints and criticism of the working lifestyle here. And in the office I soon gained the unfortunate notorious reputation of being a critic to everything. Do not, however, make the mistake of taking me to be the sour old Grinch. I love my work, even if it stretches 17 hours a day. My work is my play. And when monotony creeps into my work, I escape for a while to my music and I am refreshed.
Edison said that opportunity is missed many a times because it is dressed in overalls and looks like work. If it resembled fashion on Vogue and Elle, we’d be producing the finest people. But alas! It is not so and the truth is less that attractive so we continue walking our slow pace until poverty and frustration overtakes us.
We sleep, even as the rest of the world hurries by. No names taken, there are those who work with everything they have and then there are those who would be happiest testing the comfort of the hammock or the bean bag. Surely it amazes me but will we wait till an indigenous sun is created to make hay? Our forefathers were famous for their bravery. They couldn’t have earned their reputation sitting idle, there must have been sweat and toil involved. So, is our lifestyle now a symbol of foreignness in relation to what must have been once upon a time?
It was April 2004 and I decided it would be a month’s break. I was home on time to catch the last colours of the April bloom. May came and left, I remained. June came and left, I had no intentions of leaving. July poured right through, I stayed on. August still rained on everyone and I was learning to milk the cows. September, I would wake up in the morning to clear the lawn of fallen leaves. October, old man winter makes a feeble entrance. November blows in the chill, Sunday mornings in church are getting bitingly torturous. December, everyone heads home like migratory birds. January, behold! It’s a new year and seven adorable pups have seen the light of day. February, I’ve had enough of the cold but not enough of the warmth of home. March, the birds begin to chirp, the sound of hope. April, the pups find homes one after the other. May, it’s been a year and there are talks of the Morung Express in the air. June finds me there, as part of the Morung.
I reunite with old friends; I shake hands to make new ones. I have befriended a dog too whose name I still don’t know. Do pets have souls? Just throwing a random question. The best thing about the Morung? The rosy lips (whoever said rosy applied only for cheeks) from the chewing of beetlenuts or paan by the entire office, mouths perpetually in motion, like cows chewing their cud. And then follows the quite disgusting habit of spitting into the dustbins. Spittoons were never part of our culture anyways, we’d argue.
And the hierarchical structure works the other way round in this office. Those working on the lower ground gets the luxury of the air conditioner and as we move further up, the comforts are denied. And so, since the power on the first floor cannot carry the weight of the AC, we have Siberia and Sahara in the same vicinity. I’m lucky to be a Siberian! But I wait everyday for my visit to the Bedouins who invite me up to partake of their food. “Apem, phone call” is the signal. I needn’t be called twice.
Just made a word count and reached four digits. Time for me to wrap up but not before I tell you how I wrap up work everyday. (visualized dramatically)
Scene 1, act 1: A few people working in the office room downstairs. You can feel the tension in the air.
Scene 1, act 2: Spotlight moves to a character (lets call him Aküm) who walks in and announces his entry by clapping his hands.
Scene 2, act 1: Aküm in his loud voice, “Cho, cho, beshi deri hoishe de”. All smile and think he should get a new line. Aküm is part grinning too because he knows this is routine.
Scene 2, act 2: Work is now at a fast forward speed. Everyone feels the deadline. (Hands dash across computer keyboards, paper is fed into the printer)
Scene 3, act 1: Voila! One more day at the newspaper office is successfully over. All say their goodbye’s and are dropped home. (Characters take a bow)
82 days, 82 whole days. This has been enacted out to the exact. A few more hours and I start with my 83rd.
