Jewish Carpenter Town

Join an NGO: see every small town in India. In four years I’ve clocked 15 and can’t wait to add Aizawl to the list.

Aizawl is an hour’s drive from Lengpui airport. We were bumping down the hill in the ubiquitous battered Tata Indica taxi, past tall dense bamboo groves and ochre patches where the forest has been burnt clear. Perhaps it all looks better in the monsoon, but this was a dry hard drive with nothing interesting to look out at. Swirls of dust as we navigate the roads under construction and by the time we arrive in Aizawl we are covered in a fine layer of yellow grime.

I notice along the way that the most common industry is auto repair, sales, service. Every few hundred metres there is a garage, wiry young men streaked in grease, sauntering around in their kacchas while their one pair of pants dry, chewing supari and shooting the breeze, waiting for someone to have a break down. It occurs to me that in an area that is so heavily dependent on access by road, the most robust industry would be the sale and service of light and heavy vehicles.

Twisting up and down the hills Aizawl clings to, we arrive at the government tourist lodge at Chaltlang. I am dizzy from the number of turns and twists we take; turn a corner and suddenly there is a road winding up, another burrowing down. I feel like my inner compass is in a tailspin. I have no landmarks to moor my perceptions to. I feel like I am very far away from everything I know.

Our dinner that first night was bland and boring. A vegetable noodle soup that was all cornflour and not much else. An egg fried rice that was brown and deep fried. We went to bed feeling a little sorry for ourselves and remembered the delicious meal Paramita and Rajesh treated us to in Calcutta the night before – bhetki paturi, papda jhal, dal-rice, malai chingri. Oh and my latest most delightful discovery – gondhoraj (“The King of Aromas”) lebu (Bengali for lemon), the most delicate lemon ever. I smuggled two lemon wedges from the restaurant into my bag, sprinkled them with water and wrapped them in tissue. I would stick my head into my bag and inhale their delicate flavours whenever I felt hungry.

There is nothing exciting about the town of Aizawl. It’s a sad town, lacking in charm or heritage. Ugly tin shanties on stilts rub against higgledy-piggledy piles of concrete. The spindly arms of drain pipes shoot out from everywhere, making a crazy lattice of right angles that keeps the entire creaking moaning mass clinging on to the shaved hillside. I try to count the numbers of levels of houses that burrow deep into the hill, and then give up. The latest addition to this sorry vista is a mall, courtesy Hafeez Contractor.

The one charming market we visit is set on a steep torturous incline. Local farmers present everything from salty whelks to varieties of gooseberries and birds eye chilies that we hungrily sample and stock. Opposite them a string of makeshift stalls selling bags, hair clips, Hello Kitty pencil boxes, socks, frilly underwear from Yangon, Bangkok, Hong Kong. We also discover Solomon’s Cave, an indoor market for the latest fashions in shoes, bags, and underwear from all across the Far East. Every single shop has suitcases stashed outside, inside, under counters, everywhere; I figure that’s how the maal comes in. I find a neat red bag after some feeble attempts at haggling. All the shopkeepers are young and old women who are the best advertisement for their wares. They wear the latest pointy shoes in metallic colours, slinky camisole tops, and very smart trousers.

A bumper sticker in Aizawl: ‘My boss is a Jewish carpenter’.
“Hudred ers ago we were ed utters” says Sailo through the betel leaf and betel nut mush in her mouth. “And then there was Christianity.” The church is so powerful in Mizoram that it even controls the politicians she says. Christianity has taken over pretty much all of Mizo culture. The church is a strong unifying force in much of the North East, and particularly in Mizoram. Much of the beautiful music of its young people is in the praise of God. Those who don’t follow Jesus sing in rock bands and do drugs. And their mothers pray for them in church.

In the 80s when struggles for self determination in the North East became louder, the members of the Young Mizo Association (a youth group with some measure of political clout) would go house to house and warn women not to wear salwar kameez and glass bangles, two arbitrary symbols of the Hindu Heartland. “We are Christians so we must wear skirts and trousers and dresses” says Sailo. Of course the women have always worn the mekhala in these parts, the lungi-like wrap woven in vibrant patterns.

The influence of Western culture, attitudes and habits are strong, so Britney Spears and the latest boy bands are more popular than Sukhdev, and the North East has been known for its rock bands that still strum a mean Novembalain. Despite this there is an emphasis on reviving Mizo culture so young people are expected to learn traditional songs and dances. I mention to Bakul that if Indian Idol wasn’t such a Hindi-film music driven program it would be young people from the North East who would be youth icons. Every other young person we meet seems to be blessed with the gift of music.

Today the Heartland is slowly infiltrating Mizo culture through – what else – an Ekta Kapoor soap. Kasauti Zindagi Ki is wildly popular because it has been dubbed into Mizo. Prem and Anurag are the most recent heartthrobs. I have no idea who they are. In one market we come upon a stall of postcards of Kasauti stars, and five girls fighting for the best ones.

We find the only real restaurant in Aizawl – David’s Kitchen – and fall upon it as if it were our mother’s kitchens. It is said to have the best Thai soup this side of…well, Thailand I guess. We order mocktails in our relief and excitement at being in a clean airconditioned space with comfortable chairs and a menu. And the Chinese food we ordered was tasty MSG fried Indian Chinese…just what we needed! We befriend Jennie, the very professional and attentive hostess. And like everyone else we meet she is sweet and friendly and wants to know what two outsiders are doing in this sleepy town. “HIV, gender, workshop” we mumble through mouths full of deep fried prawns.

Jennie lives in South Extension Part 2, at a warren like PG probably, not far from where I used to work in Delhi, and is a hostess at a Chinese restaurant at a fancy five star hotel in Nehru Place.

“I really don’t like my job because its so much stress, there are just too many rules” she says her narrow frame shuddering slightly at the memory of it.
“I have to look perfect and be perfect all the time. Even if my eyeliner is a little smudged I get told to touch it up. But I really like the outfit I have to wear. “It is a beautiful deep red silk cheong sam with dragons embroidered on it”, she says, now smiling toothily again.

I ask her why she is in Aizawl. Her father thinks she needs to come back because Delhi is too unsafe for a young woman.

“But I have to go back, though my father doesn’t know that yet. I can’t earn anything here. With my job in Delhi I can think about some sort of saving.”

“So what do you like to do in Delhi Jennie?”

“ Mmmm… when I get paid then I like to go to a nice restaurant with a friend, order a glass of red wine (giggle) and have somebody else wait on me and serve me.”

I think India is a country that spends most of its time getting high. Everywhere you go there’s always some local brew, something to smoke or chew or inhale. In Mizoram practically every store has its own paanwallah. Everyone chews betel and the friendliness of a people who have always been one tribe, one clan, is most evident in its sharing of paan. You’re walking down the road and want to replenish the mulchy humus in your mouth, and find you’ve run out of betel nut shavings. No problem, just ask that boy over there loitering by the taxi, or that harried mother running after her children, or that old geezer fixing motorcycles.

Toli (?) a verbose young taxi driver tells us he just got out of jail. The cops found him sneaking off to an illegal brewery (prohibition is strongly enforced in Mizoram, which I wish I had known about), beat him up, made him pay Rs. 1000/- and spend a night in jail. Tomorrow he’s off again to get high and asks us if we want to go along. We politely decline.

Marilyn Manson chants ‘I don’t love the drugs but the drugs love me’. Well, that’s probably true for most young people here. There seems to be little else to do but sing to Jesus, and do drugs. Sailo shows us terrible pictures of what happens to young men who melt Spasmo-proxyvon tablets and then inject the fluid intravenously. You either die or find the JesusLite. We met one of the success stories, a young woman who was a junkie for 12 years and then came over to the Other Side. She is now cutting an album and travels all over the region singing to addicts and encouraging them to give it up. She was off to Delhi to sing at a big UN sponsored music festival on International Women’s Day. I don’t say it out loud but I don’t think Jesus is the answer. I think the answers involve larger issues of politics and economics, and providing more opportunities for young people in this area.

As the fabric of this fascinating society becomes more readable, I realize there is something else I have been reading: the mottos painted on school and college sign boards. A sample of my favourite ones that probably tell you more about Aizawl than this long story can.

“Win Gold and Use it”

“Integrity through Jesus”

“Help to help themselves”

“Come into the light”

“I am for God and the Country”