Death and Dying in Northeast India: Indigeneity and Afterlife 9781032344225, 9781032524368, 9781003406693

Table of contents :
Cover
Half Title
Title Page
Copyright Page
Table of Contents
List of figures
List of contributors
Acknowledgements
Introduction: Death and Dying in Northeast India: Indigeneity and
Afterlife
1. The Thenness and Nowness of Rituals of Passage Among the Zo Christians: Death as Collective Engagement
2. Mortuary Beliefs and Practices Among the Khasi Tribe of Meghalaya
3. The Rhetoric of Death and Dying: The Khasi and Karbi Context
4. Imageries of Life and Death: The Case of Kombirei
5. The Death Rituals: An Analysis of the Socio-Religious Practices of Death in Bodo Society
6. The Men were Heroes while the Women were Victims: Commemorating the Mizo National Front Movement
7. War and the Dead: Funerary Rites, Mourning and Commemorating Second World War Deaths in Northeastern India
8. Navigating Death in Diaspora: Easterine Kire’s Nagaland
9. Death Rituals: An Insight into the Naga Ancestral Religion
10. No Rest for our Ancestors in Museums: Unpacking the Preliminary Impressions from the Repatriation Process of Naga Ancestral Remains
11. Dialogue with the Shindré: Death Rituals Among the Lhopo of Sikkim
12. The Body in Myth and Practice: Symbols of Death in Yumaism
13. Corporeal Traces and Sacred Lives: Examining the Mummified Relic of Kalu Rinpoche in Sonada, Darjeeling
Glossary of Vernacular Terms
Index

Citation preview

Death and Dying in Northeast India

This book formulates a new pedagogy of death with regard to Northeast India and shows how this pedagogy offers an understanding of alternative knowledge systems and epistemes. In documenting a range of customs and practices pertaining to death, dying and the afterlife among the diverse ethnic communities of Northeast India, the book offers new soteriological, epistemological, sociological and phenomenological per­ spectives on death. Through an examination of these eschatological practices and their anthropological, theological and cultural moorings, the book aims to reach an understanding of notions of indigeneity with regard to Northeast India. The con­ tributors to this book draw upon a range of subjects—from songs, literary texts, monuments, relics and funerary objects to biographies to folktales to stories of spirit possessions and supernatural encounters. It collates the research of scholars primarily from Northeast India, but also from Eastern India and offers an interdisciplinary analysis of these various belief systems and practices. This book will be of interest to those researchers and scholars interested in South Asia in general and Northeast India in particular, and also to those interested in the social anthropology of religion, cultural studies, indigenous studies, folklore studies and Himalayan studies. Parjanya Sen is Assistant Professor in English at Deshbandhu College for Girls, University of Calcutta. He is a 2023 Early Career Research Fellow, The Robert H. N. Ho Family Foundation Program in Buddhist Studies. He completed his PhD from the Centre for Studies in Social Sciences, Calcutta on Buddhism and colonial Bengal and was awarded the Ashok Mitra Prize for the best PhD thesis, 2021. A section of his thesis has been published as a chapter in Religion and the City in India (2022). He was also Nehru Trust Visiting Fellow for the Indian Collections at the Victoria and Albert Museum, London (2014–2015). Anup Shekhar Chakraborty is Assistant Professor in the Department of Political Science & Political Studies at Netaji Institute for Asian Studies (NIAS), Kolkata, India, and a member of Mahanirban Calcutta Research Group (MCRG), Kolkata. He was the recipient of the IPSA (Indian Political Science Association) ‘National Young Political Scientist Award’ (2020); the IDRC (International Development Research Centre, Canada), DEF (Digital Empowerment Foundation) and IDF (India Development Foundation) ‘India Social Science Research Award’ (2009); and the Post-doctoral C.R. Parekh Fellowship (2011–2012) at Asia Research Centre, London School of Economics and Political Science. He has researched on the Zo/Mizo people and has published extensively in this area.

Death and Dying in Northeast India Indigeneity and Afterlife

Edited by Parjanya Sen and Anup Shekhar Chakraborty

First published 2024 by Routledge 4 Park Square, Milton Park, Abingdon, Oxon OX14 4RN and by Routledge 605 Third Avenue, New York, NY 10158 Routledge is an imprint of the Taylor & Francis Group, an informa business © 2024 selection and editorial matter, Parjanya Sen and Anup Shekhar Chakraborty; individual chapters, the contributors. The right of Parjanya Sen and Anup Shekhar Chakraborty to be identified as the authors of the editorial material, and of the authors for their individual chapters, has been asserted in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reprinted or reproduced or utilised in any form or by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publishers. Trademark notice: Product or corporate names may be trademarks or registered trademarks, and are used only for identification and explanation without intent to infringe. British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data A catalog record has been requested for this book ISBN: 978-1-032-34422-5 (hbk) ISBN: 978-1-032-52436-8 (pbk) ISBN: 978-1-003-40669-3 (ebk) DOI: 10.4324/9781003406693 Typeset in Sabon by Taylor & Francis Books

Contents

List of figures List of contributors Acknowledgements Introduction: Death and Dying in Northeast India: Indigeneity and Afterlife

vii viii xi

1

PARJANYA SEN AND ANUP SHEKHAR CHAKRABORTY

1 The Thenness and Nowness of Rituals of Passage Among the Zo Christians: Death as Collective Engagement

17

ANUP SHEKHAR CHAKRABORTY

2 Mortuary Beliefs and Practices Among the Khasi Tribe of Meghalaya

33

REKHA M. SHANGPLIANG

3 The Rhetoric of Death and Dying: The Khasi and Karbi Context

42

MARGARET LYNGDOH

4 Imageries of Life and Death: The Case of Kombirei

59

REKHA KONSAM

5 The Death Rituals: An Analysis of the Socio-Religious Practices of Death in Bodo Society

71

JUNMANI BASUMATARY AND SUDEV CHANDRA BASUMATARY

6 The Men were Heroes while the Women were Victims: Commemorating the Mizo National Front Movement

84

MARY VANLALTHANPUII

7 War and the Dead: Funerary Rites, Mourning and Commemorating Second World War Deaths in Northeastern India DEEPAK NAOREM

100

vi

Contents

8 Navigating Death in Diaspora: Easterine Kire’s Nagaland

117

PRITHA BANERJEE

9 Death Rituals: An Insight into the Naga Ancestral Religion

132

VISHÜ RITA KROCHA

10 No Rest for our Ancestors in Museums: Unpacking the Preliminary Impressions from the Repatriation Process of Naga Ancestral Remains

146

TALILULA

11 Dialogue with the Shindré: Death Rituals Among the Lhopo of Sikkim

162

KIKEE DOMA BHUTIA

12 The Body in Myth and Practice: Symbols of Death in Yumaism

177

VISHAKHA SYANGDEN

13 Corporeal Traces and Sacred Lives: Examining the Mummified Relic of Kalu Rinpoche in Sonada, Darjeeling

196

PARJANYA SEN

Glossary of Vernacular Terms

213

Index

218

Figures

6.1 Martyrs’ Tomb, Khawbel village 7.1 A Phura dedicated to the dead ancestors in Wangkhei at the

outskirts of Imphal. 9.1 Monoliths in Chiludu that were erected by some of those who

have performed the ‘Feast of Merit’ in Zhavame Village, Phek

District 9.2 Couples from Zhavame Village wearing the Hapidasa shawl.

Only those who have performed the ‘Feast of Merit’ are entitled

to wear the shawl 9.3 Women from Zhavame Village wearing the Saparadu shawl 9.4 Kike (top) and Hapiteh (on the wall) in a traditional house in

Zhavame 10.1 A view of the Chungli Leper (Chungli Graveyard), the resting

place for the dead in Chungli Khel of Molungkimong village in

Mokokchung district, Nagaland 13.1 ‘Naturally’ preserved mummy of Lama Sangha Tenzin in the

village of Gue in Spiti Valley, Himachal Pradesh 13.2 Mardung of Kalu Rinpoche housed inside the Samdrub Dargye

Choling Monastery, Sonada, Darjeeling

89

105

133

142

143

143

159

201

208

Contributors

Pritha Banerjee is Assistant Professor in English at Vidyasagar Metropolitan College. She is pursuing her PhD from Jadavpur University, Kolkata on environmental humanities, with particular focus on Margaret Atwood. Among her recent publications are essays and chapters in the Rupkatha Journal on Interdisciplinary Studies in Humanities (2017), Re-thinking Environment: Literature, Ethics and Praxis (2017) and the Global Journal of Human Social Science: G Linguistics and Education (2017). Junmani Basumatary is Assistant Professor in Political Science at Bodoland University, where she is also pursuing a PhD. She has chapters and essays published in the monograph E-Pedagogy for Digital Age (2019) and in the Journal of North East Region. Sudev Chandra Basumatary is Assistant Professor in the Department of History at Bodoland University. He obtained his PhD in 2019 from the Gauhati University, Guwahati. He has jointly edited two books and he has also more than ten publications in his credit in UGC Care Listed journals and Conference proceedings. His area of research includes social history and tribal studies. Kikee Doma Bhutia is Research Fellow at the Asian Centre, the School of Theology and Religious Studies at the University of Tartu, Estonia. She obtained her PhD from the Department of Estonian and Comparative Folk­ lore, University of Tartu, Estonia. Her dissertation focuses on belief narra­ tives regarding Sikkim's Buddhist local protective deities. She was visiting scholar at the Department of Religion, University of Toronto (2018), and the Ohio States University, Columbus, USA (2020) and has worked as research assistant at the Namgyal Institute of Tibetology, Gangtok from 2014 to 2016. Anup Shekhar Chakraborty is Assistant Professor in the Department of Political Science & Political Studies at Netaji Institute for Asian Studies (NIAS), Kolkata, India, and a member of Mahanirban Calcutta Research Group (MCRG), Kolkata. He was the recipient of the IPSA (Indian Political Science Association) ‘National Young Political Scientist Award’ (2020); the IDRC

List of contributors

ix

(International Development Research Centre, Canada), DEF (Digital Empowerment Foundation) and IDF (India Development Foundation) ‘India Social Science Research Award’ (2009); and the Post-doctoral C.R. Parekh Fellowship (2011–2012) at Asia Research Centre, London School of Economics and Political Science. He has researched on the Zo/Mizo people and has published extensively in this area. Rekha Konsam obtained her MPhil and PhD degrees in Sociology from Delhi University. She has worked on the festival of Lai Haraoba. She taught as guest faculty at Delhi University and has been an Arts Research Grantee of the India Foundation for the Arts. Her research interests span broad inter­ disciplinary areas of culture, religion, gender, narratives, visual anthropology and folk traditions, with particular reference to everyday life and the politics of representation. Vishü Rita Krocha is a recipient of KPC Impact Journalism Award (2022). She has published three books of poetry, A Bucket of Rain (2011), Yearnings (2018), from the broken earth (2021) and co-authored several other books. She has written guest articles for The Hindu, The Indian Express and Scroll, and currently writes for The Morung Express. She was also a media fellow for National Foundation for India, 2021. Margaret Lyngdoh is researcher at the University of Tartu, Institute of Cultural Research. She received her PhD in 2016 from the University of Tartu, Estonia. She studied at Ohio State University, Columbus, USA, University College, Cork, Ireland and the University of Tartu, Estonia. She was awarded the posi­ tion of Albert Lord Fellow, 2016, at the Centre for Studies in Oral Tradition, University of Missouri. She also received the prestigious Estonian Research Council Grant and was the editor of the Journal of the International Society for Folk Narrative Research (ISFNR) 2019–2021. Deepak Naorem teaches history at Daulat Ram College, University of Delhi. His research interests include colonial Northeast India, literary cultures, script politics and WW2 in South Asia. Among his recent publications are articles in Asian Ethnicity (2020), The Indian Economic & Social History Review (2022) and Indian Historical Review (2022). He was the recipient of the Charles Wallace Fellowship (2019). Rekha M. Shangpliang is Professor in Sociology at North Eastern Hill Uni­ versity (NEHU), Shillong. She completed her PhD from NEHU on the role of forests the Khasi socio-economic structure. Her publications include the monographs Environment and Society in the Context of North East India (2018), Socio-Economic Dimensions of Forest among the Khasi (2013) and Forest in the Life of the Khasis (2013). Parjanya Sen is Assistant Professor in English at Deshbandhu College for Girls, University of Calcutta. He is a 2023 Early Career Research Fellow, The Robert H. N. Ho Family Foundation Program in Buddhist Studies. He

x

List of contributors completed his PhD from the Centre for Studies in Social Sciences, Calcutta on Buddhism and colonial Bengal and was awarded the Ashok Mitra Prize for the best PhD thesis, 2021. A section of his thesis has been published as a chapter in Religion and the City in India (2022). He was also Nehru Trust Visiting Fellow for the Indian Collections at the Victoria and Albert Museum, London (2014–2015).

Vishakha Syangden is a PhD student in the Department of English, Jadavpur University. Her work deploys an ethnographic approach to English Studies, with a focus on oral history and documentation. Her research mainly focuses on the conception of the body in its cultural and religious symbolism within ethnographic and fictional spaces. Talilula is a writer, researcher and educator based in Nagaland with an interest in the interstices of folklore and religion, indigenous performance aesthetics and graphic storytelling. A Dora Plus fellow and a Zubaan-Sasakawa Gran­ tee, she has published fiction and non-fiction for Zubaan and PenThrill and is a part of the research and media team at RRaD (Recover, Restore and Decolonise). Her graphic non-fiction, ‘1872’ by PenThrill was released in November 2022. Mary Vanlalthanpuii is a Research Fellow at the Asiatic Society, Kolkata. She obtained a PhD in Women’s Studies from the University of Calcutta. Her areas of interest include roles of women in politics of the church, insurgency, and women’s movement in Northeast India. She is one of the recipients of the Zubaan-Sasakawa Peace Foundation grants for young researchers from Northeast India, 2018.

Acknowledgements

We express our gratitude to the 11 contributors who have collaborated on this book. We thank them for taking the time out to research and write for this volume which focuses on a geo-cultural space that has been much overlooked within academia. It was important for us to have scholars from these ethnic communities talk about their funerary rites, rituals and tradi­ tions and we sincerely thank each of them for agreeing to be a part of this endeavour. Kaustav Chakraborty, we appreciate you putting us in touch. While working as an Assistant Professor in English at a small rural college in Sonada, Dar­ jeeling, Parjanya conceptualised this volume on death and belief systems among indigenous communities. Through Kaustav's connection, we were able to have a series of conversations that led to our eventual decision to work together on an anthology focusing on death and indigenous eschatological practices in Northeast India. Further, without the support of the respective educational institutions, that have shaped and nurtured us, this collaborative effort would not have been possible. We would like to acknowledge Suranjan Das, Honorary Director, Netaji Institute for Asian Studies and Anita Chattopadhyay Gupta, Principal, Deshbandhu College for Girls, for their encouragement. We thank Tapati Guha-Thakurta and Supriya Chaudhuri for their insightful comments and suggestions on the book. Their interventions have steered this collaborative venture in fresh directions. We would also like to thank Anna­ purna Palit for her inputs on some of the chapters. For the concluding chapter of the book that is based on fieldwork research carried out at the Samdrub Dargye Choling Monastery in Sonada, Darjeeling, Parjanya thanks Lama Wangel Sherpa for his cooperation and for giving him access to the archival material. Parjanya Sen Anup Shekhar Chakraborty

xii

Acknowledgements

Reader Discretion Some of the chapters and images in this book may be of a sensitive nature as these discuss and depict death and/or funerary monuments and mummified human remains. The content and images reproduced are purely for academic purposes. Reader discretion is advised.

Introduction Death and Dying in Northeast India: Indigeneity and Afterlife Parjanya Sen and Anup Shekhar Chakraborty

Approaching Death: Western Discursive Moorings and Indigenous Epistemes Throughout human history, death has generated a spectrum of meanings across different cultures. A socio-anthropological study on death and rituals needs to be framed vis-à-vis the more extensive understanding of the religious, cultural and ethnic systems and epistemes that inform these practices. This book is located at the crossroads of death and indigeneity, as understood in the context of the ethnic communities of Northeast India. In thus pitching the various ideas revolving around death with regard to the diverse indigenous communities of Northeast India, this book attempts to foreground indigenous knowledge systems and epistemes that often find themselves contravening a Western modern discourse on death. Christopher M. Moreman writes in his ‘Introduction’ to Teaching Death and Dying: The West has been described as a death-denying culture for some time, and though the meaning of this description may be debated, the fact of death’s uncertainty likely invokes a certain reaction of fear or avoidance in every person regardless of cultural heritage. ‘Death denial’ might more aptly be described as ‘death avoidance,’ ‘death ignoring,’ or perhaps euphemistically as ‘life affirming.’ (Moreman 2008: 1) Western discursive imaginings of death have found themselves shaped by notions of modernity. The perception of death as an intensely personal and individual experience has also been furthered by Enlightenment rationalism. Thomas Cattoi writes: ‘Kant’s call to moral autonomy and authenticity anticipates the postmodern sensitivity that prises individualism and self-realisation.… In our world, more than at any other time in history, dying is something that one has to do alone’ (Cattoi 2015: 13). This book attempts to shift the focus to alternate modes of imagining and configuring death, thereby also shifting the focus to indigenous epistemes revolving around notions of collective mourning. Death, across the DOI: 10.4324/9781003406693-1

2

P. Sen and A. S. Chakraborty

different communities in Northeast India, does not remain an individualised per­ sonal experience but becomes a collective and communitarian one, whereby the ‘collective’ begins to be foregrounded over and above the ‘self.’ Chakraborty emphasises the contentious use of the term ‘self’ in a tribal context, given that a tribal person derives his or her identity from the tribe’s collective and historical identity, which has been preserved and passed down through generations. As a result, the concept of ‘self’ expands to include a collective good and rights rather than individual benefit (Chakraborty 2021: 19). Additionally, Enlightenment rationalism has often tended to overplay the idea of mind-body dualism. Con­ trasted with this, animist, Brahmanical and Buddhist soteriology has foregrounded notions of non-dualism, emptiness of form and being (as seen in Buddhist Mad­ hyamaka and advayajña-na discourses) and the body as manifestation of the mind (Harris 1991). Modern eschatology has also often tended to treat death as an act of closure. This book debunks that position and argues instead for death as a mode of transition between states of being, where the moment of death seems to inau­ gurate a new set of possibilities. Death introduces not only the notion of an afterlife, but also an idea of spirit persons or persons belonging to a different order of being. In the context of North American indigenous belief systems and afterlife practices, Joseph A. P. Wilson conjectures: Concepts of the afterlife in animistic systems (where nothing is really dead) may appear idiosyncratic. Broad regional patterns are punctuated with innumerable local variations. While there is no single animistic eschatology, this perspective suggests that death is a change in natural state from one order of personhood to another. (Wilson 2018: 185). Wilson’s notion may also be used to look at a plethora of indigenous practices in Northeast India which, although they have over time been subsumed within Judaeo-Christian, Buddhist and Brahmanical traditions, often still retain their earlier animist variations. The chapters that comprise this book variously look at notions of afterlife, spirit beings as well as physical and material post-death traces. Through a set of sociological, soteriological, phenomenological and theological registers, as explored in these chapters, death becomes a continuum of sorts, linking the ‘beyond’ to the life ‘here.’ Death also formulates its own ecology, whereby ancestral and/ or spirit beings begin to be associated with natural places. In the process, inanimate sites become animated with a new lease of life and invested with new meanings. A conceptualisation of this tha­ natological ecology posits beings, spirit beings, places and material objects as part of an interlinked order. A cognisance of these modes of configuring death thus entails an epistemo­ logical shift, from the rational, scientific and modern discourses that pervade Western thought to alternative indigenous belief epistemes. The term ‘indigenous,’ too, needs to be used with some amount of caution, as it was through colonial and

Introduction

3

postcolonial encounters that certain traditions became invented as indigenous. In order to effectuate a disruption of the a-priori notion that these traditions some­ how did not exist prior to the colonial/ postcolonial encounter, we must first interrogate the forms through which these encounters were shaped and their geographical, historiographical, cartographical and statist ramifications.

Framing the Encounter: Introducing the Northeast Apropos the nation-state of India, the term ‘Northeast’ is ‘a colonial construct or, more specifically, a residue of colonial existence’ (Samaddar 2001; Chaube (1973) 1985). The Northeastern region’s history is marked by different forms of state formation prior to British colonial intervention and cartographic refor­ mulation. The pre-colonial period of the Northeast’s first phase is dominated by the emergence of local dynasties/chieftaincies. The second phase saw the ascendancy of the Ahom kingdom. In the case of Assam, therefore, the pre­ colonial period can be broadly divided into the pre-Ahom and the Ahom period. The waves of encounter and proselytisation by major belief systems such as Brahmanism, Tibetan Buddhism, Christianity and Islam also differed across the region, as did the indigenous revivalist movements to reconnect with their pre-proselytised ways of life. This, in turn, created hybrid cults and syn­ cretic systems through the process of reclaiming lost autonomies. These bor­ derlands are further characterised by their porosity as contact zones. In this sense, rather than functioning as distinct heterotopias, the region and its inha­ bitants have experienced a complex blend of cultures and have become a plur­ iversal topos. The British Raj’s administrative and cartographic interventions brought about a demographic rearrangement and fostered newer modes of conversations and exchanges. The area’s geographical proximity to maritime networks as well as Himalayan trade routes also created a mélange of cultures in engagement through trade and entrepot. This unique geo-topography fos­ tered two trajectories of encounter—while, on the one hand, the maritime net­ works ushered in trade from the Bay of Bengal’s shores through the Chittagong port right up to the Chin-Lushai Hills and the Naga-Patkai Hills and beyond into the frontiers of Northeast India, on the other hand, the Himalayan trade routes through Arunachal into Tibet into China and through Sikkim into Nepal and Tibet into China facilitated a different kind of religio-cultural transaction. Trans-border ethnic conflict alongside cultural and economic engagements exists in Northeast India today, just as it did in the past. These conflicts had, over time, led to the region’s fragmentation in the name of federal politics, and it continues to do so today. Prior to the East India Company’s annexation of Assam in 1826, the region’s hill tribes had regular exchanges with the plains people, as evidenced by the development of pidgin languages among the Nagas, such as Nagamese. Bengali culture influenced the Tripuri tribes, and the Zo/ Mizo tribes spoke Sylhet-Cachar Bengali (Chatterjee 1990: 6, 16, 149, 166). Punitive British expeditions led to the annexation of the Naga Hills in 1878, the Mizo (Lushai) Hills in 1890 and the present Arunachal Pradesh. From 1947

4

P. Sen and A. S. Chakraborty

onwards, the tribes in Northeast India have been coalescing politically under generic identities (Chakraborty 2021: 5). The territorial boundary that Independent India inherited had been deter­ mined by the needs of a foreign imperialistic administration, and it cut across many ethnic consolidations. This was an unavoidable consequence of defining the boundary. Myron Weiner has discussed how British control of Assam resulted in frequent changes to the map and boundaries (Weiner 1978: 84–87). From 1826 to 1874, and again from 1905 to 1912, and again from 1947 to 1971, the region’s administrative history reflects the territorial shape-shifts and car­ tographic contestations that altered administrative maps each time new states were formed within the Union of India, such as Nagaland, Meghalaya, Aruna­ chal Pradesh, and Mizoram. The formation of new states and the delineation of their boundaries necessitated the adoption of new political arrangements and man­ ufacture of customised ethnic identities for each region (Chakraborty 2010: 120– 178). Jelle P. Wouters refers to the ‘excessive production of a ethno-consciousness’ as a means of political mobilisation that involves ‘the objectification, delimitation, and politicisation of cultural, ritual, and material forms—by ensembles of both discourse and practice’ (Wouters 2022: 20). Wouters conjectures that Northeast India’s ‘dis­ tinctly postcolonial political history marked by tribal uprisings and ethnic move­ ments that advocated the political refusal of the Indian state’ has led to forms of ‘contemporary ethnic repositioning of communities in pursuit of leveraging the state’ (Wouters 2022: 21). In terms of statecraft and innovative cartographic incorporation, the region’s shape-shifting terrain has today introduced eight states under the umbrella of the Northeast. Its geographical expanse is diverse, as is its ethnic composition— valleys of Assam’s Brahmaputra and Barak, plains and hills of Tripura and Manipur, plateau of Meghalaya, serpentine hills and precincts of Nagaland, Mizoram, and snow-capped Arunachal Pradesh and the erstwhile Buddhist kingdom of Sikkim. This is, in addition to the region’s significant ethno-religio­ linguistic diversity, rural-urban and social disparities, and disproportionate human development indices across states. Wouters and Subba write: Considering the huge variation internal to this region, the unity and meaning of ‘Northeast India,’ its status as a single ‘thing,’ locational iden­ tity, or place is often cast in doubt, or seen as persisting within the ‘debris of its own contradictions.’ At a political and administrative level, however arbitrary a category it may seem, Northeast India is undoubtedly a place; that is, a socially consequential category, all too real in its effects, and an imposed position in the pan-Indian dispensation. (Wouters and Subba 2023: 2) Today, there is an undeniable desire to define and validate the terms ‘native,’ ‘indigenous,’ ‘immigrant,’ and ‘insider,’ as well as to demonstrate original habitation, even as competing communities attempt to produce a mélange of contested historiographies (Chakraborty 2012: 5–7).

Introduction

5

An Expanding Cartography: Locating Sikkim and the Darjeeling hills Through the second half of the 18th century, disputes emerged among the Himalayan kingdoms of Tibet, Nepal and Sikkim, which led to Chinese and British imperial intervention within these warring Himalayan kingdoms and resulted in the emergence of a new power politics in the Himalayas.1 Alex McKay underlines what the Government of India under the viceroy-ship of George Nathaniel Curzon saw as the ‘forward policy’ of empire, meaning a policy ‘which involved an expansion of imperial responsibilities beyond existing boundaries.’ Curzon, who favoured British India’s ‘forward policy,’ believed that the boundaries of empire needed to be defended through the creation of ‘buffer states’ beyond the frontier, ‘which separated two empires, usually came under the influence of one of those empires, and tended to eventually be taken over completely by the imperial power’ (McKay 2009: 14). As far as the Northeastern frontiers of empire were concerned, it may be noted that by the early 19th century, Sikkim and Bhutan had been reduced to ‘buffer states’ and that these independent Tibetan Buddhist kingdoms eventually became com­ pletely subservient to imperial control. The British Indian empire also ended up facilitating the creation of ‘contact zones’ which often covered geo-demographical regions that lay along these frontiers (Pratt 1992: 4) After the Gurkhas of Nepal overran Sikkim a second time, the British interceded resulting in the Anglo-Nepalese war of 1815–1816. The British eventually re-instated the Choegyal, concluding with him the Treaty 1

Nepal’s repeated incursions into Tibet had resulted in a border dispute. This dispute was further aggravated by the minting of new silver coins by the Gurkha ruler of Nepal, Prithvi Narayan Shah, which made the Nepalese copper coins already in circulation in Tibet redundant. Eventually, Nepal, under Bahadur Shah, son of Prithvi Narayan, attacked Tibet and the distressed Tibetan lamas directly appealed to the Chinese Qianlong monarch for assistance. The Chinese imperial military forces rushed to Tibet and repulsed the Gurkhas from the Tibetan plateau in 1792. The Sino-Nepalese war ended with the signing of the Treaty of Betravati on October 2, 1792. Simultaneously, the Gurkhas became involved in another war with the then Choegyal or ‘Dharma King’ of Sikkim, Tenzing Namgyal, in 1788. The Gurkhas stormed through Sikkim and gained control of the then capital, Rabdentse, forcing Tenzing Namgyal to go into exile in Tibet. His son, Tshudpud Namgyal, returned to Sikkim in 1793 and after failed negotiations with China, sought the intervention of the British. The Gurkhas overran Sikkim a second time, leading ultimately to the Anglo-Nepalese war fought between 1814 and 1816. The Anglo-Nepalese war ended with the signing of the Treaty of Sugauli on December 2, 1815 (ratified on March 4, 1816) between the Gurkha raja and the British East India Company. As a direct aftermath of this treaty, the Gurkhas ceded all areas east of the river Mechi (Sikkim in the east upto Kumaon and Garwhal in the west) to the East India Company. The British re-instated the Choegyal of Sikkim and through the Sugauli Treaty, virtually reduced Nepal to the status of a protectorate. The Sugauli Treaty would be replaced in December, 1923 by a ‘treaty of perpetual peace and friendship,’ one which has been retained (with minor modifications) between the nation-states of Nepal and India (post-independence).

6 P. Sen and A. S. Chakraborty of Sugauli on December 2, 1815 and concluding the Treaty of Titalya in 1817 with the Nepalese Raja. These two treaties ended up virtually reducing Nepal to the status of a protectorate. Additionally, these turned Sikkim into a ‘buffer state’ where the East India Company now assumed paramount power, the Choegyal being bound to refer to the British government the arbitration of any dispute that arose between his subjects and those of Nepal or any other neigh­ bouring state. The clauses which bound Sikkim and Bhutan to British India were ironically continued post India’s independence, with the result that Sikkim was eventually annexed in 1975 (Duff 2012). O’Malley’s Bengal District Gazetteers, Darjeeling mentions the ways in which Darjeeling and Kalimpong were acquired by the British from Sikkim and Bhutan. Through the machinations of Captain Lloyd, ‘the old Goorka station called Darjeeling’ where Llyod was stationed for 6 days in February, 1829 and until then a ‘terra incognita’ to the British, was seised by literally forcing a deed of grant a upon the Choegyal of Sikkim on February 1, 18352 (O’Malley 1907: 2

Ten years after the Treaty of Titalya was concluded, disputes arose on the Sikkim and Nepal frontier and were referred to the governor-general of India. Accordingly, in 1828, Captain Lloyd who was deputed to effect a settlement and in the company of Mr J. W. Grant, the Commercial Resident stationed at Malda, made a journey to the hills of Darjeeling. It is in Lloyd’s report dated June 18, 1829, reproduced in O’Malley, that the first mention in colonial records occurs of Darjeeling. Lloyd and Grant were ‘immediately struck with its being well adapted for the purpose of a sanatorium.’ Lloyd impressed upon the then governor-general, William Bentinck, the need for possession of the place, as a sanatorium, as a frontier trading centre that would eventually ensure British monopoly over commodities coming in across the Himalayas, and as a location of strategic importance for the empire’s ‘forward policy’ in the Himalayas. Grant further impressed upon Bentinck the need for pos­ session of Darjeeling, both as a sanatorium and as a military depot to ensure control over the key Himalayan pass into Nepal. Bentinck lost no time in deputing Captain Herbert, the Surveyor-General, to explore this Himalayan territory along with Grant. The reports of these two men ended up in the Court of Directors at White­ hall strongly recommending the project, as this supposed sanatorium would also be used as a temporary depot for housing the new European military recruits. Bentinck thereafter initiated negotiations through Lloyd with the Choegyal for the acquisition of Darjeeling in return for an equivalent sum of money. An opportunity arose in 1834–1835 with the incursion of some Lepcha refugees of Nepal into the Terai regions, resulting in Lloyd’s mediation. As a result, the Choegyal was compelled to sign a deed of grant on February 1, 1835. This deed of grant, ‘commendably short’, reads—‘The Governor-General having expressed his desire for the possession of the hill of Darjeeling on account of its cool climate, for the purpose of enabling the servants of his Government, suffering from sickness, to avail themselves of its advantages, I, the Sikkimputtee Rajah, out of friendship for the said GovernorGeneral, hereby present Darjeeling to the East India Company, that is all the land south of the great Runjeet river, east of the Balasur, Kahail and Little Runjeet River, and west of the Rungno and Mahanuddi rivers’ (O’Malley 1907: 21). The Choegyal was given a monetary allowance of Rupees 3000, raised in 1846 to Rupees 6000, although this was stopped after a dispute arose between the Choegyal and the Company. Dr. Campbell, a member of the Indian Medical Service (who was British resident in Nepal and later made Superintendent of the newly acquired area

Introduction

7

20–26). Likewise, the whole of Dooars, including the hill town of Kalimpong, was seised from the Bhutanese in 1865, forcing a treaty upon the king in return for an annual subsidy.3 In 1866, all these areas were merged to form the district of Darjeeling. Through the late 19th and early 20th centuries, both Darjeeling and Kalimpong became active British military and trading outposts and emerged as new kinds of ‘contact zones,’ where the British established their schools, administrative institutions, hospitals and also the vast industry of tea cultivation. These frontier zones of the British empire also became active sites for the production of British imperial networks of trade, espionage, travel and pedagogy apropos Tibet, in turn facilitating the production and dissemination of an imperial archive on Tibet that spanned a range of registers, from textual to visual dissemination to the circulation of material objects and commodities (Harris 2012; Martin 2016; Sen 2021). Although in administrative terms, Sikkim continues to be seen as part of Northeast India, the erstwhile Himalayan kingdom’s historical links to Tibet, Bhutan and Nepal locates it within a different spatial and cartographical topos—both in terms of a sacred geography of Tibetan Buddhism as well as through its cultural continuity with the rest of the Himalayas. Although Dar­ jeeling and Kalimpong, merged for administrative purposes with West Bengal in 1952, continue to remain outside the purview of Northeast India, the editors, through a laying out of this colonial-era historiography that has continued to heavily impact and influence postcolonial identity formations in the region, considered it important, from a cultural and sociological vantage point, to include the same as part of this book. Moving beyond historiographical exer­ cises and cartographic imaginaries, it is also perhaps important to posit parts of Northeast India as contiguous with a larger set of material cultural systems and

3

of Darjeeling) and Sir Joseph Hooker, another important British subject sent to Darjeeling, were imprisoned by the Choegyal, at the behest of Minister Namguay, popularly known as the pagla diwan of Sikkim. The British, in a show of military might, sent troops, which in February, 1850 crossed the Great Rangeet river into Sikkim. Although the troops were later recalled, the Choegyal was punished by not just the cessation of his annual allowance, but by making him cede all control over the Terai regions to the Company. The whole of this new territory, now placed under the newly created Superintendent of Darjeeling, totalled about 640 square miles. Towards the beginning of 1862, yet another dispute arose between Bhutan and what was now British Darjeeling. Accordingly, in 1863, a special mission was despatched under Sir Ashley Eden to negotiate with the king of Bhutan. According to O’Malley, the Bhutanese treated this mission with disdain, ‘the British Envoy was openly insulted’ and a treaty was forced out of Eden as per which the Government of India was to renounce the Bhutan Dooars (O’Malley 1907: 26) on the Assam frontier. The Company eventually decided to annex the Dooars, and a military envoy of sufficient strength was dispatched in 1864. The Bhutanese were easily overwhelmed, and, as a result, the whole of the Dooars area was occupied by the British forces by January, 1865. A fresh treaty (called the Treaty of Sinchula) was executed with Bhutan in November, 1865, by which nearly the whole of the Bhutan Dooars/ Terai including the hill town of Kalimpong, were ceded to the British.

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practices of the Himalayas, thereby creating a macrocosmic epistemic system. In this sense, areas lying within the nation-state of India, such as the Union Ter­ ritory of Ladakh, the Kinnaur, Lahaul and Spiti regions of Himachal Pradesh and parts of Chamoli and Kumaon-Garwhal in Uttarakhand in India, along with Nepal, Bhutan and Chinese controlled Tibet need to be read in as part of a set of interlinked and contiguous cultural systems of the highland Himalayas. One would need to move beyond the oft-myopic configuration of bordermaking and formation of modern nation-states into an imagination of a larger network of lived indigenous material cultures, not necessarily sharing a homo­ genous cosmology. Locating the Northeast within this macrocosm thus becomes important in order to highlight the ties and affinities that have historically shaped its myriad cultural articulations. In this sense, our book intends to move beyond an established political (and pedagogical) exercise and read the North­ east as part of this larger pan-Himalayan pluriverse.

Configuring the Afterlife: Interrogating a Pluriverse of Belief Systems In mapping death and post-mortuary practices among the various indigenous communities of Northeast India, the book does not attempt to project any homogenised idea of the Northeast. Rather, the different chapters that comprise this book seem to highlight the fact that there cannot be a unified cosmology of belief patterns nor a universal phenomenological notion of ‘experience’ apropos the different ethnic communities of the Northeast, nor can there be a homo­ genous set of cultural practices that define the Northeast. In this sense, this study on death and afterlives in Northeast India is predicated not upon an attempt at reaching a universalising template, but rather on the postmodern notion of difference. Despite an interlinked historiography of the region, the difference between belief systems, cosmologies, cultural practices and lived his­ tories is the very ideological framework through which the Northeast posits itself as a distinct geo-political entity separate from the rest of India. Contrary to this diversity and difference that are characteristic of the lived material cultural practices of the region and its varied epistemes, there is an attempt to produce a paradigm of ‘one-ness’ posited against the ‘other-ness’ of the Indian state. This book then begins to question this production and dissemination of a ‘unified’ ethno-indigenous self and instead proposes difference as its main premise of foregrounding the faith systems and cultural practices of the region. Premised upon this difference, Northeast India continues to be marked by diverse, heterodox and pluricultural systems of ethnicity, language, religion and culture. In this book, our concern has not so much been with the political and administrative registers of framing Northeast India, but rather, with a series of eschatological encounters with indigenous belief systems and socio-cultural practices. Here, it may be important to re-evaluate the very use of the term ‘religion’ to describe the various sets of practices and faith structures that can be encountered in this region. Within colonial history writing, the ‘East’ and ‘West’ emerged as two distinct conceptual categories, where, the process of

Introduction

9

differentiating between the ‘West’ and the ‘East’ began to feed into the attempt of writing a progressivist universal history of humanity which sought to assimilate all civilisations within an ascending teleology culminating in the achievements of the capitalist nation-states of Western Europe (Sen 2021: 5–6). Such a teleologically unfolding historiography demanded that ‘religion’ itself be framed as a discursive watertight category, backed by documented textual evidences. Cultures that were primarily oral and relied heavily on forms of orature escaped this categorising imperative of Western historiography. The different indigenous belief systems and material cultural practices intrinsic to Northeast India have relied upon different oral cultures and often lack a sys­ tematised theology or set of religious texts. In this sense, the use of the term ‘religion’ to read these diverse gamut of cultures needs to be reconceptualised into a configuration of orally preserved and disseminated set of practices and epistemes. In Northeast India, the various indigenous communities assign values, both natural and symbolic, to death and the afterlife. The chapters in the book explore how specific faith systems and cosmologies—animist, shamanist, Buddhist, Brah­ manical and Judeo-Christian—inform and interact with both the everydayness and the exceptionalism of death. In certain cases, as some of the chapters explore, the transition from forms of shamanism and animism to monotheistic Christianity has led to contestations and reformulations of the very notion of indigeneity. In other cases, these animist and shamanist traditions have been strategically co-opted and appropriated within a Buddhist or Brahmanical paradigm. The chapters explore a wide array of eschatological practices and their representations—oral, aural, visual and textual—within cultural memory. The contributors to this book draw upon a range of subjects—from monuments, relics and funerary objects to death rituals to biographies of individuals to folktales to spirit possessions and supernatural encounters to literary texts, and deploy a range of methodological approaches. Anup Shekhar Chakraborty’s chapter focuses on how elements of rituals associated with rites of passage after death transform public and private spaces temporarily and reintegrate the deceased into the community. Chakraborty explores how death among the Zo/Mizo people is marked by a call for com­ munity remembering, collective sorrow, and collective congregation that involves invoking the tlawmngaihna code. Zo/Mizo mourners use the tlawmn­ gaihna code and sing hymns (Khawhar zai) in the bereaved home (Khawhar in). The funeral singing brings hope, joy, and memories. Khawhar zai as a collective practice is geared towards helping the Mizo mourners. Through singing, parti­ cipants in the Khawhar zai khawm can look to the future with hope. Besides providing solace for the grieving, the gathering evolves over time into a fel­ lowship of tea and lively talk that strengthens communal bonds. The group singing changes the event’s main goal, and has a transforming emotional impact on the participants, as well as amplifies the members’ shared grief. This ethno­ graphic account of congregational practices in Mizoram draws upon ideas on intergenerational performativity and collective remembrance through the inherited codes of tlawmngaihna.

10

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Rekha M. Shangpliang’s chapter discusses mortuary practices among the Khasi of Meghalaya that form an important part of the community. These funerary practices have traditionally been used as part of the grieving process for the deceased’s living family members. The unique set of beliefs, practices, rites, and rituals associated with the Khasi traditional indigenous faith is known as Niam. Shangpliang examines the rituals of ThepMawbah, also known as the Khasi bone burial ceremony, a time-honoured ritual that demonstrates a strong adherence to the matrilineal norms of maintaining a clan ossuary, and has been passed down from generation to generation. She also looks at another post-cremation practice unique to the Khasi people—the erec­ tion of monoliths or mawbynna, tall stone slabs of varying sises, in honour of ancestors and heroes of legend. Exploring this further, Margaret Lyngdoh’s chapter theorises how among the Khasi of Meghalaya and the Karbi of Assam (the Khasi hills in Meghalaya and Jaintia Hills in Assam being geographically contiguous areas, despite their location within two different state-formations), mortuary practices are linked to indigenous ontologies, and inform notions of ethnicity, identity and subjecthood. Using a set of ethnographic methodologies, Lyngdoh formulates the ontological category of ‘ancestor persons,’ and ascribes an agency to these beings. Death is read here not as a closure, but rather as a ‘processual event.’ Lyngdoh further posits death as a ‘communicative agent’ that sets in motion different traditions and creates sacred landscapes. Lyngdoh’s study shows how ancestors are agential beings and not merely passive characters within an ela­ borate indigenous cosmology. This chapter highlights how such indigenous practices often posit an alternative episteme, that remains outside the discursive grasp of Western ‘modern’ configurations of death. Moving from Meghalaya to Manipur, Rekha Konsam’s chapter examines a different ethnic group in Manipur, the Meitei, who are the numerical majority in the state and are mainly adherents of Vaishnavism. This chapter contrasts two ideas—the symbolic import of the Kombirei flower among the Meitei of Manipur and the shift in funerary practice from burial to cremation owing to shrinking space. Within the Meitei community, this bluish-purple iris flower, noted for its unusual colour, is specifically associated with Cheiraoba, a ritual marking the change of a cyclical year. In Meitei folklore, Kombirei is associated with the romantic tragedy of Mainu-Pemcha that ends with the lady, pregnant with a child, hanging herself on the very tree at the foot of which the lovers were to meet before daybreak. As was the custom for death by suicides, Pem­ cha’s body was not cremated but disposed at the nearby foothills accorded for such purposes. Konsam looks at how, today, dead (by suicide) bodies are instead cremated and these areas have ceased to serve the same purpose. Fur­ ther, with the scarcity of land, these sites have been taken over by the needs of the growing human settlement. Konsam draws a direct connection between growing urbanisation, the erasure of an earlier practice and sightings of spirits and whispers of disembodied voices. Konsam’s chapter offers an ecological framing of an indigenous practice—the symbolism associated with the flower, in terms of its ritual

Introduction

11

and folkloric stature, along with a growing awareness of the need to save it from extinction, is pitched against the changing norms in mortuary practices owing to the gradually expanding urban landscape of Imphal, Manipur’s capital town. The book thereafter shifts to Assam, where Junmani Basumatary and Sudev Chandra Basumatary examine death rituals among the Bodo, the largest indi­ genous tribe of the state. The Bodo mostly adhere to Bathouism (lit., ‘five-fold principle’) which is polytheistic in nature and based on the belief in a supreme deity called Bathoubwrai. Also, the Bodo have a predominantly oral culture as opposed to written history. The chapter examines the Bodo socio-religious practices of death, and rituals revolving around the disposal of the dead body and post-funeral rites. It looks at how these beliefs and practices derive their legitimacy through Bathouism, a belief in Bathoubwrai and through ideas of transmigration and rebirth. It critically documents these Bodo cultural prac­ tices—from purification rites to Dahagarnai that concludes the mourning period to the practice of plastering the corpse with mud in a corner of the family courtyard. The chapter also examines the changes that took place over time visà-vis the disposal of the dead—from earlier ways of disposing the dead body by leaving it in the forest to be consumed by wild animals, to burial, to cremation which is currently practied. In doing so, the writers examine the Brahmanical influences that have, over time, appropriated and co-opted the earlier animist funerary rituals of the Bodo. The chapter also looks at how the dead are com­ memorated through oral folklore, chants and ritual verses. The next two chapters, by Mary Vanlalthanpuii and Deepak Naorem, explore a different mode of commemoration, through the construction of funerary monuments. These two chapters, although they examine two different ethnic groups in two different states of Northeast India, nevertheless remain in dialogue with each other by thematically weaving together the discourse of monumentality with indigenous funerary customs. Vanlalthanpuii’s chapter seeks to map the graveyard monuments of the Martar Thlanmual or Martyrs’ Cemetery, Aizawl, Mizoram, inaugurated in 2008 by the Mizo National Front (MNF) and the gendered politics that have produced such a form of com­ memoration. Public monuments serve as important sites of historical memory. Cemetery monuments, in particular, need to be located at the intersection of private and collective memory. In Mizoram, the Martyrs’ Cemetery seeks to commemorate those that died from 1966 to 1986. The cemetery includes an obelisk with a cross and granite plaques, each bearing the name and addresses of 1563 individuals declared as martyrs by the MNF. This chapter addresses how these monuments, while foregrounding an indigenous identitarian aspira­ tion, are nonetheless exclusionary through their omission of women. Van­ lalthanpuii argues how such a mode of state commemoration reinforces the stereotypes driven by patriarchy. The erasure of women from this statist project of commemoration valorises the role played by men as protectors of the weak, while simultaneously mapping the indigenous ethno-national aspiration onto the body of the dead man. Her chapter explores how through this process of writing a martyrs’ history of men, women’s roles within Mizo society is

12

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reduced to that of mothering and nation-birthing. The chapter also analyses how the politics of construction of this Martyrs’ Cemetery is implicated within popular perceptions of gender—i.e., the MNF men as Pasaltha (lit., warriorheroes), and the women as victims. The chapter seeks to thereby complicate any straight jacketed or homogeneous definition of heroism that undercuts the Mizo statist project. Lastly, the chapter explores the processes of an alternative mode of commemoration by Mizo women themselves, and through this, their con­ testation of the very notion of the ‘martyr.’ Providing a different take on monumentality with regard to burial sites, Naorem’s chapter begins with the twin battles of Imphal and Kohima during Japan’s quest for creating the Greater East Asia Co-Prosperity Sphere that left at least 60,000 Japanese and 20,000 Allied dead soldiers, along with many unaccounted-for dead civilians, in effect converting the former Naga Hills and the state of Manipur into an extensive graveyard. Naorem postulates that existing historiographies on the twin battles primarily engage the perspective of former empires—British and Japanese—of ‘glorious victory,’ ‘guilt,’ ‘shame’ and ‘victimhood,’ thus subsuming local histories of the war within this imperi­ alist metanarrative. The chapter attempts to look at narratives of the war, by placing the dead bodies of the soldiers at the centre of enquiry, whereby these bodily remains become powerful sites of cultural, religious and political mobi­ lisation. Naorem looks at how these tombs continuously reproduce the imperial narratives of the war by re-enacting mourning and funerary rites and other commemorative practices such as maintaining the graveyards, building shrines and museums, and more recently through the emerging of ‘war tourism’ in the region. Ironically, the local war deaths and the bodily remains associated with these deaths are rarely commemorated or represented in these graves, shrines and funerary rituals. The chapter argues that this absence leads to an eventual erasure of local memories and narratives thus creating a cultural amnesia, that begins to pervade the community consciousness. Shifting trajectories from funerary monuments to death lore, Pritha Bane­ rjee’s chapter explores how folklore and myth perform the important function of imagining forms of continuity between life and death, through Easterine Kire’s ecocritical narratives in Son of the Thundercloud (2016), When the River Sleeps (2014) and the illustrated The Rain-Maiden and the Bear Man (2021). Keeping alive such folklore in an increasingly anthropocentric world becomes crucial towards preserving alternative forms of knowing and experiencing that are easily excluded by hyper-rational epistemologies as mere stories. Banerjee examines how Kire’s narratives give a written form to the oral histories and philosophies of the Angami Naga, embracing the tags of ‘storytelling’ and ‘fic­ tion’ to speak about the liminal spaces between death and life. Banerjee ana­ lyses the ways in which the loss of oratures, myth and legend become a parallel for the death of an organic conception of nature, thereby suggesting the importance of storytelling and folklore in sustaining the ability to perceive an interconnected web of life and death. A very important formulation that Bane­ rjee approaches is the idea of ‘healing through storytelling,’ whereby death lore,

Introduction

13

that predicates itself on an alternate episteme of ecology, is shown to ultimately serve a cathartic function within a community rift by different forms of vio­ lence. This formulation, Banerjee shows, is intrinsic to Kire’s ecocritical representations. Vishü Rita Krocha’s chapter is an ethnographic study of the Naga of Zha­ vame village and their indigenous peoples’ resistance to Christianity, which is perceived as a non-indigenous religion with no epistemological link to tradi­ tional ways of life. Krocha studies the inhabitants of the Zhavame village in Phek District, near Manipur, and their conversion from animism to Christianity during the 1870s. She explores how ‘pagan’ traditions were ostracised by white missionaries, colonial administrators, and ethnographers, and the main deities of the Ao, Lichaba and Longitsungba became co-opted. Krocha also looks at how the Naga of Zhavame have refashioned and navigated the process of Christian proselytisation. Unlike the other chapters in this volume, Krocha foregrounds the personal by narrating her maternal grandfather’s biography. She describes her grandfather as the great-grandson of a seer, and analyses his story as a case study to understand the discursive shift from animism to Christianity. Talilula’s chapter provides a different take on Naga cultural forms by shifting the focus to ancestral remains and the politics revolving around their proposed repatriation. Her chapter looks at the demand for repatriation of Naga ances­ tral relics housed variously across museums in Europe, such as the Pitt Rivers Museum and Ashmolean Museum of Art and Archaeology in Oxford, Weltmuseum Wien in Vienna, Museum Der Kulturel in Basel, the Humboldt Forum in Berlin and the anatomical museum in Edinburgh. Talilula examines the for­ mation in 2020 of the RRaD (Recover, Restore and Decolonise) comprising a research team of native Nagas, the political ramifications behind its formation and its various attempts at ‘producing’ a public opinion in favour of a possible repatriation. Talilula’s chapter deploys ethnographic methodology into an interrogation of the collective trauma of a community whose sacred ancestral remains became objects of colonial antiquarian collection that sought to pro­ duce a discourse of the Naga as ‘barbaric.’ She also explores the possible afterlives of these relics, in a now Christian majority state, if and when these are repatriated to the community who are the rightful custodians of this past. The book then shifts registers, both geo-demographical and religio-cultural, into an analysis of spirit possessions by shindrés or ‘spirits of the dead’ among the Lhopo or Bhutia of North Sikkim. Kikee Doma Bhutia’s chapter provides an ethnographic account of the funerary practices among the Tibetan Buddhists of North Sikkim and delves into specific case studies involving possession by shindré or spirits of the dead. Bhutia uses a phenomenological approach into interrogating death rituals among these Buddhist communities and uses this to gain a better understanding of the social rituals that revolve around death and dying. In one particular case study, Bhutia also shows how a non-Buddhist who had accrued ‘good karma’ received a proper phowa or funerary ritual in accordance with Buddhist tradition, thereby highlighting the forms of cultural

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encounter between the local Nepali and Tibetan Buddhist people of Sikkim. Bhutia’s chapter focuses on belief narratives and how these do not have any fixed epistemologies, being shaped instead by cultural encounters, increasing modernisation and changing economic, social, ethnic and political scenarios. Vishakha Syangden’s chapter aims to understand the visibility of the body as interpreted through the religious narratives and practices of death among the Limbu, one of the native Himalayan ethnic groups of the Eastern Himalayan region cutting across Nepal, Bhutan and India. The Limbu are followers of Yumaism, a form of ancestral worship that involves the deification of deceased ancestors. Spirts are believed to have the power to intervene in affairs of the living and are thus worshipped as gods and goddesses. As Syangden examines, Yumaism denies the body as an entity connected to the divine, an idea that runs contrary to Semitic notions of a transcendental god. Embodiment of deities is entirely denied, as they are conceptualised as formless, transcendental energy. A separation exists between the ethereal realm of the sacred and the temporal realm of the diurnal. Syangden’s chapter also interrogates the roles played by the community shamans or phedangmas, who become spirit bearers during funerary rites. While inhabiting a state of possession, phedangmas are able to invoke samsires or ‘souls of the departed person’ who then become ‘the sources of power for the shamans.’ In this context, Syangden studies death rituals like Mangenna and Nahangma within the Limbu community. Parjanya Sen’s chapter studies a distinct mode of post-death commemoration among Tibetan Buddhists, the making of mardungs or whole-body relics of high incarnate lamas. This last chapter of the book is based on the Darjeeling Hima­ layan region of Northern West Bengal. Sen historicises this practice of whole-body relic consecration and worship, locating it both within Buddhist theological dis­ courses on relic making and, more specifically, within Tibetan Buddhist lived cul­ tural practices of relic veneration. Thereafter, Sen proceeds to unpack the process of consecration as whole-body relic of the remains of Kalu Rinpoche or Karma Rangjung Kunkhyab (1905–1989), housed in the Samdrub Dargye Choling Mon­ astery, established in 1966 in Sonada in the Darjeeling district of Northern West Bengal. Sen’s chapter weaves together a critical biography of Kalu Rinpoche from existing accounts and hagiographies, and explores the processes through which he is fashioned as trulku or a high incarnate lama. Sen reads this process of transfor­ mation into relic object of the lama as a continuation of the sacred biography of the practitioner and foregrounds how both biography and relic become important modes of post-death commemoration playing off each other. Sen’s chapter, although it examines the making and afterlife of a particular mummified relic object in the Darjeeling hills, also posits this process as part of a larger Tibetan Buddhist continuum in the Himalayas. This concluding chapter then ties in with the claim made earlier in the Introduction—the need to locate the funerary prac­ tices of the ethnic communities of Northeast India as being contiguous with a larger set of Himalayan indigenous death customs. The book straddles together different disciplines—from theology to cultural anthropology to folklore studies to indigenous studies to South Asian studies to

Introduction

15

Himalayan historiography to literary studies. It represents a coming together of academics and scholars mainly from India’s Northeast, but also from Eastern India, and collates their research into an edited book. Death and dying are hermetic processes accessible only to the said person and the immediate com­ munity of grievers. As such, it was ethically important for us that insiders to these different indigenous communities wrote about the thanatological rituals and epistemes concerning the particular communities and their accompanying belief systems. As the aspects and areas covered in this book are diverse, the editors have consciously avoided a uniform phonological template for spelling vernacular words, leaving it to the individual contributors.

References Cattoi, Thomas 2015. ‘Ars Moriendi after Kant’s Turn to the Subject.’ In Thomas Cattoi and Christopher M. Moreman (eds). Death, Dying, and Mysticism. The Ecstasy of the End. New York: Palgrave Macmillan. 1–14. Chakraborty, Anup Shekhar 2010. ‘The Evolution of ‘Zomi’ Identity and Politics in Mizoram.’ Unpublished PhD Dissertation. University of Calcutta, Kolkata. Chakraborty, Anup Shekhar 2012. ‘Contested Landscape And Befuddled Public Sphere: Media, Democracy And Public Participation In Darjeeling Hills.’ Postdoctoral research, London School of Economics & Political Science. C.R. Parekh Fellow 2011– 2012. Miemo. Chakraborty, Anup Shekhar 2021. ‘Social Imaginaries, Minorities and the Postcolonial History of a Region.’ In G. Amarjit Sharma (ed.). State vs. Society in Northeast India: History, Politics and the Everyday. New Delhi: Sage Publications. 3–25. Chatterjee, Suhas 1990. Mizoram Encyclopaedia, Vol. 1. Bombay: Jaico Publishing House. Chaube, S. K. (1973). 1985. Electoral Politics in Northeast India. Madras: Universities Press. Duff, Andrew 2012. Sikkim: Requiem for a Himalayan Kingdom. New Delhi: Penguin India. Harris, Clare E. 2012. The Museum on the Roof of the World: Art, Politics and Repre­ sentations of Tibet. London: University of Chicago Press. Harris, Ian Charles 1991. The Continuity of Madhyamaka and Yoga-ca-ra in Indian Maha-ya-na Buddhism. Leiden: BRILL. Martin, Emma 2016. ‘Translating Tibet in the Borderlands: Networks, Dictionaries, and Knowledge Production in Himalayan Hill Stations.’ The Journal of Transcultural Studies 7 (1). Heidelberg: University of Heidelberg Press. 86–120. Accessed 10 December, 2018 https://doi.org/10.17885/heiup.ts.23538 McKay, Alex 2009. Tibet and the British Raj: The Frontier Cadre 1904–1947. New Delhi: Indraprastha Press. Moreman, Christopher M. (ed.). 2008. Teaching Death and Dying. New York: Oxford University Press. O’Malley, L. S. S. 1907. Bengal District Gazetteers Darjeeling. Calcutta: The Bengal Secretariat. Digital Library of India Item 2015.55889. Accessed 7 January, 2019 https://a rchive.org/details/in.ernet.dli.2015.55889/page/n7/mode/2up Pratt, Mary Louis 1992. Imperial Eyes: Travel Writing and Transculturation. London: Routledge.

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Samaddar, Ranabir 2001. A Biography of the Indian Nation, 1947–1997. New Delhi: SAGE Publications. Sen, Parjanya 2021. ‘Re-Imagining a Cultural Geography of Buddhism in Colonial Bengal: Travels, Sites and Lived Histories.’ Unpublished PhD Dissertation. Jadavpur University, Kolkata. Weiner, Myron 1978. Sons of the Soil: Migration & Ethnic Conflict in India. New Delhi: Oxford University Press. Wilson, Joseph A. P. 2018. ‘North American Indigenous Afterlife Beliefs.’ In Christopher M. Moreman (ed.). The Routledge Companion to Death and Dying. London: Routledge. 184–193. Wouters, Jelle J. P. (ed.) 2022. Vernacular Politics in Northeast India Democracy, Ethnicity, and Indigeneity. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Wouters, Jelle J. P. and T. B. Subba (eds) 2023. The Routledge Companion to Northeast India. Oxon: Routledge.

1

The Thenness and Nowness of Rituals of Passage Among the Zo Christians Death as Collective Engagement Anup Shekhar Chakraborty

Initiating the Uninitiated What causes the Zo hnahthlak to participate in death as a collective? The Mizo people’s emotions and collective reaction to any individual’s death might be aggravating to others who are not familiar with them. Death among the Zo/ Mizo people is marked by a call for community remembering, collective sorrow, and meeting Death collectively by invoking the tlawmngaihna code, in contrast to many cultural customs. Among those who are grieving, the physical body’s existence is essentialised. According to Mizo culture, ‘the soul may leave its body anywhere, but the body leaves its people only in its home among those waiting to grief.’ Death is celebrated as an initiation of the corporeal into an awakened spirit on its journey to ‘Pialral,’ and ‘Van ram’ (that worldly realm). In Mizoram, proselytising through a succession of spiritual revivals increased the Church’s influence starting in 1906 (Lalsawma 1994; Vanlalchhuanawma 2006). Over time, the churches increased their sway in all facets of life, including death. A Mizo death is acoustically commemorated and signalled to the rest of the community by singing hymns for at least three days and nights in the bereaved home, gathering a large number of community members to the Khawhar in (home in mourning). The hymnal, known as Khawhar zai, was written between 1919 and 1930 by Mizo Christians. The Zo people’s collective mourning and experience with death are profoundly understood by the Khawhar zai repertoire. According to Doliana (1985), Lalengliana (1985), Darchhawna (1989), Boichhingpuii (1999), Lalliantluanga (2004), and Lalramliana & Vanlalsiama (2007), these songs are known as Khawhar hla and their group singing is known as Khawhar zai. Through the collective expression of hope and joy through funeral singing and the believers’ reflection on past losses, the group singing lessens the impacts of loss and grief. Participants can practise and learn to express feelings that are appropriate for the Mizo response to mourning through the practise of Khawhar zai. The under­ lying conflict between the community’s support and each person’s use of Khawhar zai to communicate their grief will be a key topic of discussion in this chapter. It talks about how Mizo people deal with death, in part because of Khawhar zai’s function. The conversation made reference to congregating at the ‘Khawhar in.’ The debate would start with an anthropological account of the code of DOI: 10.4324/9781003406693-2

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tlawmngaihna, then move on to a description of collective grief rites and practises in the Khawhar in, as well as an analysis of the practice’s emotional and empathic consequences.

The Thenness: The lore of the Mitthi khua, Rih Dil and Flower of No return The legends of the Mitthi khua, Rih Dil, and Flower of No Return are part of the Kuki-Chin-Mizo oral traditions.1Rih Dil (lit., Rih lake), which is about 22 kilometres from the Champhai area of Mizoram, is thought to be a haven for the souls of the deceased to reside after death. Before Christianity, the Mizo people believed that after death, the soul went directly to Rih Dil. Before returning to the deceased’s hamlet and house, it spent a few lonely days wan­ dering by the lakeside with other spirits. Every time they went down to eat, family members would ask the wandering soul if it would like to partake of the food and reserve a place at the table for it. The soul would return to Rih Dil after three months of wandering in the afterlife. The soul would then continue to roam, until arriving at the fabled Hring Lang Tlang (lit., mountain/hills visible to the spirits). At the top, the soul would take a fabled flower called Hawilo Par (lit., flower of no return), and forget all of its previous ties to other people. After that, it would consume water from a nearby spring known as Lungloh Tui (lit., the water of forgetfulness), and any yearning to reflect about the human village and earthly life would be slaked by the water. The soul would then travel forward from this point to the afterlife. The Kuki-Chin-Mizo Folklore tells the tale of a group of Pasaltha, or ‘brave warriors,’ who went on a hunting trip by the lake. One of them had trouble falling asleep when night fell. He heard voices while he was still awake. Sadly, one of the voices that appeared to be his wife said: When I left my children, I didn’t inform them that I had hid some dried meat in a brand-new earthen pot that hadn’t yet been used for cooking or that I had placed some eggs in a bin of bran behind an interior wall. Their father is away taking part in big game hunting. When he got home, he discovered that his wife had passed away while he was away. The dried meat and the eggs were exactly where she said she had hidden them when he went looking for them.2 1

2

The ‘Kuki-Chin-Mizo oral traditions’ is a blanket term used to refer to the common ‘oral traditions’ of the people living in and around the region of the present state of Mizoram in India; and the neighbouring areas including the Chittagong Hill Tracts in Bangladesh and the Chin Hills in Myanmar. The oral traditions are the common heritage of the people and a widely found with certain degrees of interpolations and changes. These tales have been recollected by way of memories by the author who grew up in the Zo Hills listening to these fabulous tales.

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Even today, a row of tall bushes lines the edge of the lake and reflects the quiet waters as Mitthi Pal (lit., a fence for the dead). The dead man’s fowl, also known as Mitthi Ar, is a rare wild bird that is supposedly unique to that area. The myth still exists in Mizo songs and poems as a route to the Mitthi Khua (lit., land/village of the dead, a reference to death and the hereafter), despite being proselytised today.

The Nowness: Politics of ‘Tlawmngaihna,’Performativity, and Social Welfare In modern times, the conceptions of ‘Social Welfare’ promoted by the Church and its agencies, particularly the YMA (Young Mizo Association), the KTP (Khristian Thalai Pawl), and the youth organisations, have been linked to the social norms of ‘Tlawmngai,’‘Huaisen,’ and ‘Pasaltha.’ The Zo/Mizo persona is going through a lot of internal reflection. The idea of a progressive and enligh­ tened Christian society is heavily encouraged alongside nostalgia for a roman­ ticised past filled with images of a formerly valiant and honourable people who in ‘daily life’ followed the code of ‘tlawmngaihna’ in letter and spirit (Goffmen 1956; Lefebvre 1991). A potent portrayal of the desire to establish and ‘belong’ to an Ideal Zo Christian State has occasionally resulted in the church and its organisations interfering in both private and public affairs in a voyeuristic manner (Downs 1983; Thomas 1993; Chakraborty 2008; 2009). The Zo code of ethics, known as ‘Tlawmngaihna,’ is widely regarded ‘as the living principle of the Zo/Mizo civilisation,’ despite some hybridisation over time. It continues to hold the ‘symbolic structure of community’ together (Cohen 1985). A conflict of interests between ‘archaic traditionalism/Christian ethics’ and ‘the culture of individualism/globalised society’ frequently comes from the compliance that the Nexus of Patriarchy demands. The boundaries between the public and private spheres merge, and the Nexus of Patriarchy gains a lopsided hegemonic position (Zama 2006). The hybridisation of the ‘tlawmngaihna’ code in urban settings goes hand in hand with these numerous issues. The idea of tlawmngaihna, which predates Christianity, is still present but has been hybridised. Today, ‘tlawmngaihna’ consists only of neighbourhood projects like ‘Hnatlang’ (community service) and ‘Thlan lai’ (grave digging) carried out by the YMA or KTP.3 The core of the code, which is currently being progressively destroyed over time, is utilised as a tool to demonstrate compliance with the Ideal Zo Christian State-building program’s rules. Social ridicule and, in more extreme circumstances, exclusion are used to punish people who choose not to participate in such a public exhi­ bition of ‘tlawmngaihna.’ The dynamics of Zo/Mizo economics and justice, on the other hand, are ‘based on the psychology of compensation’ as opposed to 3

Pu Zaliana, Personal Interview; Professor Thangchungnunga, Personal Interview; Professor F. Lalremsiama, Personal Interview; Professor Lalrinthanga, Personal Interview.

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social justice: they make every act in the Mizo society compensable in economic terms, i.e., a fine is the only remedy for any crime or misdeed (Stevenson 1943 (1986); Lehman 1978; Awia 1992; Chatterjee 1995). One can make up for missing out on the tlawmngaihna public display by paying a forty rupee fine. The ‘tlawmngaihna’ code serves as both a tool and a weapon for controlling ‘outsiders,’ primarily the ‘Vai’ (Chakraborty 2012). The colonial encounter and proselytisation that took place in the then-Lushai Hills actively engaged in ‘taming the wild tribes,’ changing them from ‘head­ hunters’ to ‘soul hunters’ (Comaroff & Comaroff 1991; Zairema 1978; Chak­ raborty 2016). Christianity and the Zo hnahthlak first interacted through a series of spiritual revivals that took place in 1906, 1913, 1918, 1930, 1935, 1948, 1984, 1988, and 1990 (Downs 1971;1992; Hluna 1985; Chhangte 1987; Dena 1988; Lalsawma 1994; Vanlalchhuanawma 2006). These revivals further moul­ ded the Zo into the Christian mould, or ‘being one in/with Christ’ (Lewin 1869;1870;1912; Lorrain 1912; McCall 1949; Lloyd 1994;1998; Kipgen 1997; Gougion 1980). These were characterised by ‘spontaneous dancing and singing’ (‘Hlim Rui’), ‘bouts of fits,’ etc. It’s interesting to note that during these revi­ vals, Zo/Mizo women had a big part to play in expressing themselves through dance and praying to the divine (Ralte 1993; Chatterji 1975). The Zo adhere to a ‘Localised Gospel,’ which incorporates both Judeo-Christian and Victorian influences (Chakraborty 2016).

The Corporeal World’s Materialities: Then and Now The material customs surrounding death highlight subtle facets of preserving pre-Christian tribal customs of grieving (Thanga 1978; Ray 1982; 1993; Lianh­ mingthanga 1998). The festival of Mim Kut used to satisfy the annual need to remember the deceased in pre-proselytisation times. Celebrated around Sep­ tember, it functioned as both a harvest festival and a festival for the dead, in which the first fruits were offered to the spirits of those who were starving in the afterlife, based on the legend of Ngama, who discovered the pitiful condi­ tion of his wife Tlingi in Mitthi Khua (village of the dead). The Tahna Kut (Weeping Festival) also served the purpose of remembering the dead, and these two festivals lacked the joyful atmosphere of the other festivals’ (Zairema 1978; Ray 1983; Nag 1993; 1998; Heath 2016). The collective remembering of the dead marks a collective encountering of death among the Zo hnahthlak. In its own ways, Death draws the Zo hnahth­ lak collectively into the home of the bereaved to engage collectively in grief, remembering and encountering death (Davey 1890). In doing so it instils the Christian visions of the Kingdom on earth and the fragility of the ‘this wordly life’ (Matthew 6:19–20, King James Version (KJV) 1900; James 4:14, King James Version (KJV) 1900) through the popular Jim Reeves’ gospel song ‘this world is not my home’ (1962, Album: We Thank Thee). The Zo/Mizo Christians’ understanding of life on earth, also known as the lifeworld, and life after death, also known as either a life in heaven (Pialral) or

The Thenness and Nowness of Rituals of Passage

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a life in hell (Meidil), defined the blueprints for the imagery of the realms of ‘politics’ and ‘ecclesiastics’ that was passed down from pre-proselytised times and from proselytised times (Davis 2005, 2008; Darchhawna 2014). This earth is not my home, a concept that looms big and feeds the desire to ‘rejoice,’ ‘encoun­ ter,’ and ‘be one with the creator—Lal Isuah (Jesus Christ’).’ Pre-Christian cos­ mology and Christian cosmology are intertwined with ‘believers’ (Piangthar, lit., the re-born) (Chakraborty 2016). The Zo people sung songs of sadness like Khawhar zai and T ¸ huthmun zai and other songs that suited their mood during these festivals of com­ memoration of ancestors in pre-proselytised times, such as the Mim Kut and Kangral. Days like these were spent engaging in participatory intoxication with family members while drinking endless rounds of Zu (rice beer) (Ray 1983; Samuelson 1991). As indicated, the community sang to comfort the grieving family after the occurrence of death. It’s intriguing to consider that if the appropriate time to bury was delayed for any unanticipated cause. The community participated in ‘ruang mengpui,’ (lit., stay vigil with the dead) a nightly vigil for deaths brought on by illness or natural causes. If the demise was accidental or a suicide, however, it was nevertheless interred that day, even after dusk.4 The event of death would not include singing songs of lamentation, though it would be followed by musical performances like beating the traditional drum known as the Khuang. These songs were not performed until after the body had been removed from the house and disposed of, and they served as a symbol of temporary emptiness (Khawhar, Lu sun).5 If a person passes away after the predetermined morning hour, the burial occurs the next day. In this instance, the body will remain in the house throughout the night, and the all-night wake in the deceased’s company will be known as ‘Ruang thlak zan.’ In this case, the singing session of the YMA is known as mitthi lu men.6 In contrast to the Khawhar in, where singing often lasts no longer than three hours, the young people congregate in the residence, where singing will last all night long till daylight. In the case of death due to natural causes, the dead body would be placed in an open casket, cushioned by traditional Mizo cloths (puan) as well as flowers (pangpar), which could be both fresh and artificial. The closest female rela­ tives would surround the coffin, and weep and sing over the body. Other close friends and relatives would fill the home, along with any others who arrived early enough to obtain a seat. Except for breaks for refreshments or speeches, people would sing Khawhar zai for as long as they were gathered in the home. It is part of what announces the death to the public, and a person entering the home is likely to find a seat after greeting the bereaved family, bow their head 4 5 6

Pastor B. Lalnunzira, Personal Interview; Pastor L. H. Lalliansanga, Personal Interview. Rev. K. Lalthlanpuia, Personal Interview; Rev. Zaithanmawia, Personal Interview. Pu Kitea, Phone conversation with the author.

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to pray, and join the singing immediately. Since the hla hriltu (lit., song reader) proclaims the text, the majority of mourners do not read the words from a hymnal. Instead, they hear the lines of the text, repeat them, and join in with the Khawhar hla’s singing.7 The female members stick to the assigned roles of cheerfully preparing and distributing tea and snacks, distributing ‘Kuhva khor’ (lit., Areca Catechu nuts and betel leaves/paan), cleaning tea cups (lit., YMA no i.e., YMA mugs/cups), ushering visitors, consoling the relatives especially the infirm and the elderly in the bereaved family, and occasionally leading the singing as hla hriltu (lit., song reader). The last mentioned role hla hriltu is a relatively new role that female members have taken up and has remained a vexed issue and contested role. The Zo people remain divided if this emergent role is thiang (lit., permissible by customs) or thiang lo (lit., not permissible by customs, taboo) for women to take up.8 The Zo hnahthlak (Zo/Mizo people) learn the subtle social expressions, unspoken rules, and roles of performing and participating in the display of tlawmngaihna in the Khawhar in through their participation in the YMA. They engage and voluntarily participate in this collective grieving from a young age. At various levels, the performance and exhibition of tlawmngaihna codes in the Khawhar in is regarded as a ‘chawimawina’ (lit., honouring). It is a ‘chawima­ wina’ of the deceased, the grieving family, the person acting out and displaying the code, the YMA of the particular Veng (lit., locale), the KTP, the deceased person’s close family and friends, and others. As a result, the tlawmngaihna code develops into a national one that reflects the ambitions of the Zo hnahth­ lak for ethnonationalism.9 The gathering outside the deceased person’s home, where people are speaking and drinking tea, reflects the informality permitted during the mourning.10 This indicates a degree of liberty given to people (especially the youths) attending the condolence service to make conversation and circulate jokes with adult content (lit., Zamoh) and engage in some form of courtship with young girls (lit., Nula rim) outside the house and enjoy tea and tobacco. The number of mourners gathered for a funeral depended on how well-liked the deceased or the bereaved family was. In that event, the assembly would fill the entire block and spill into the other courtyards. In contrast to suggestions that theorists have made in other contexts about wanting to protect the home from malevolent spirits, pragmatic motivations for sitting outside can be offered, such as the need to hold conversations without disturbing the singing and the logistical demands of the home’s size. The informal assembly of males outside the house designates the ‘Khawhar in’s ritual space border. Through the presentation of tlawmn­ gaihna and group singing in the space of the Khawhar, this ceremonial space, 7 8 9 10

Pastor Lalnuntluanga, Personal Interview.

Pi Vanramchhuangi, Personal Interview.

Pu Lalchamliana, Personal Interview; Pu Lianhmingthanga, Personal Interview.

Pi Rochhungi, Personal Interview; Zorama, Personal Interview.

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albeit only present for a very brief period of time, profoundly strengthens the ethnonational desires.11 The overflow of the ritual space the ‘Khawhar in’ from the ‘home’ to the connecting steps and passages through the locality offers an interesting coun­ terpoint to the idea of the home as a private space, since the otherwise public space of the road, the steps conversely become a private and intimate space during this collective engagement. It provides an intriguing contrast to the idea of the private home as a public space because the once open space of the road is transformed into a private and intimate area which no one can pass without acknowledging the recent death and loss. About an hour before the scheduled time of burial, the funeral service is held in the home. At the appointed moment, the singing stops, and the pastor who is normally seated in the middle of the home near the musicians stands to take the helm of the service. For church leaders, each denomination has produced a manual that includes sug­ gestions for prayers, readings, and service orders for burials, as well as varia­ tions for deaths in unusual circumstances (MAL 1975; MPKLMBK 2005; MBK 2009; Doliana 1985; Lalengliana 1985; Darchhawna 1989; CYMA 1994; Boich­ hingpuii 1999; Lalliantluanga 2004; Lalramhnaia & Vanlalsiama 2007). Despite their training in these practises, the pastors tend to make the atmosphere relaxed and non-liturgical. Usually, with the Catholic Church and Catholic families serving as an exception, printed papers with the required liturgy are provided for participants to follow. The pastor gives a brief homily, sings a few songs from the Khawhar zai repertoire, and gives a few family members, friends, and associates time to speak.12

Songs of the Dead/Songs for the Dead Over the Years: The Songs for the Re-awakened The Dead Songs/Songs for the Dead as the Songs for the Re-Awakened have evolved over time. The term ‘Khawhar hla’ refers to a group of hymns written between 1919 and 1930 by the first converts among the Zo people, who accompanied them with solo wails and the rhythm of traditional drums (TRI 1991; Thanmawia 2009; Rokunga 1952; Lalliantluanga 2004; Lalramhnaia & Vanlalsiama 2007). The complex ritual of collective singing (‘Khawhar zai’) of the ‘Khawhar hla’ (songs for the dead) connects the continuities, circumvents, and changes in the ‘Zo Christian modes of life’ with that of the pre- Christian days of the ‘Pi leh Pu hun lai’ (the time of the forefathers/ancestors). For everyone gathered in the ‘Khawhar in,’ the gathering in the funeral home transforms into a joyful one experientially. A profound sense of serenity, hap­ piness, hope, and reawakening is evoked by the idea of rejoicing and joining 11 Pi Evelyn, Phone conversation with the author. 12 Pastor B. Lalnunzira, Personal Interview; Pastor L. H. Lalliansanga, Personal Inter­ view; Pastor Lalnuntluanga, Personal Interview; Rev. K. Lalthlanpuia, Personal Interview; Rev. Zaithanmawia, Personal Interview.

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those who are singing in praise of heaven as well as the possibilities that the promised Kingdom in heaven (Khawpui, lit., great town or village) holds in store for all believers and in that sense takes the form of songs for the re-awa­ kened. It is important to note that the majority of ‘Khawhar hla’ composers and vocalists in the past contextualised their visual limitations to a Khawpui (lit., large village). The scope of a Khawpui has, of course, grown much more unbelievable in the modern context, but at the time, this was the most extra­ ordinary representation of urban area that could be envisioned.13 The phrase is still associated with an urban domesticity and homeliness, a curiously public intimacy, which is appropriate for the songs’ popular depic­ tions of heaven. It is recognised that singing the Khawhar zai at the Khawhar in is an essential component of the grieving process for expressing one’s par­ ticipation in God’s Kingdom. This religious claim is similar to the social claim of veng membership made by taking part in Khawhar zai. These funeral songs are a subset of the more well-known ‘Lengkhawm zai’ genre (Boichhingpuii 1999; Lalramhnaia & Vanlalsiama 2007; Manvela 2008). Including their com­ pilations by Music Sub-Committees of the Churches from the various veng in Mizoram, these songs have undergone stylistic modifications and evolution (YMARSB 2009).14

Transmutations and Amplifications in Current Times Khawhar zai is a participative musical style, as is any communal singing. It involves a group of people who come together as a result of the crisis of death, as the preceding section has described. On the surface, the songs’ harmony singing appears to make the singers feel the sadness of the dead family. An alternate theory, however, is that the community’s internal divisions and var­ iations in emotional experience are hidden by the singing of Khawhar zai (Heath 2016). A few of the informants mentioned that the Khawhar zai ’s communal singing might frequently bring up memories of not just the departed but also memories of the participants’ own past experiences with losing loved ones and family members.15 However, the majority of those present at home and those singing the majority of the songs do not have close ties to the deceased. Although many claim that their presence gives the mourners con­ solation, it is important to consider the core of their own involvement and the various kinds of nostalgia that the singing may arouse for these ancillary members. This chapter makes the case that for them, remembering and missing their deceased family is the most pervasive emotion.16 13 Pastor B. Lalnunzira, Personal Interview; Pastor L. H. Lalliansanga, Personal Inter­ view; Pastor Lalnuntluanga, Personal Interview; Rev. K. Lalthlanpuia, Personal Interview; Rev. Zaithanmawia, Personal Interview. 14 Pu Kitea, Phone conversation with the author. 15 Pi Ramthianghlimi, Personal Interview; Pi Vanramchhuangi, Personal Interview. 16 Pi Elizabeth Mannou, Personal Interview; Pi R. Laldingliani, Personal Interview; Lallianchhunga, Personal Interview; Pu J. Lalhruaisanga, Personal Interview.

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The individual experience of Khawhar zai has a depth to it that interacts with their imaginations, which are situated in personal situations of mourning and amplify such emotions. Few respondents mentioned that they sing and recall their deceased family members at the Khawhar in rather than the person they go to in their time of sadness. The collective feelings of collective reflec­ tion, desire, and nostalgia that acknowledge the reality of loss and engage with the issues of existential concerns and uncertainties that death presents to bereaved Christians are sparked and amplified by the Khawhar zai.17 The musical and poetic expressions of mourning among generations who attend the congregation to grieve collectively and bring comfort to those in agony are transformed by the ‘Khawhar zai/Khawhar hla’ through music and poetry (Thanmawia 2009).

Merchandise and Commercialisation Traditional attitudes on ‘death’ and ‘tlawmngaihna,’ which were strong, are changing, especially in metropolitan areas. Even though people, especially young people, take part in ‘Mitthi ralna’ (condolence), ‘Khawhar tleivar’ (night vigil at the home of the bereaved), and other ‘death’ related cere­ monies. These tlawmngaihna-related rituals are no longer performed singly or in solitude; rather, the entire feeling is given a public twist, emphasising visibility.18 In an exhibitionist manner, vigilante community-based organisa­ tions like the YMA assist the grieving families during difficult times. Van­ ramchhuangi criticises the way ‘Death’ has been made into a product. The YMA cups used to serve tea (thingpui) and other community services like serving tea, biscuits, cakes, and pastries have become appealing yet ‘ugly business’ in the Zo/Mizo society. These materialities are connected to prac­ tises of death, condolence, bereavement, coffin making, designing, floral arrangements, and amplifying the songs of the dead in the house of bereavement (Lalruatfela Nu 2006). The personality and reputation of the person who had passed away had a major role in determining the Khawhar in’s atmosphere. According to the respondents, mourning is felt to be more intense when a person dies young or under unfortunate circumstances.19 However, it also appears to be true that the environment has the power to explicitly bring back memories of the deceased, including their worship practises.

17 Pi Elizabeth Mannou, Personal Interview; Pi R. Laldingliani, Personal Interview; Pi Ramthianghlimi, Personal Interview; Pi Rochhungi, Personal Interview; Professor Lalrinthanga, Personal Interview; Pu Zaliana, Personal Interview; Zorama (Kamal Chettri, Personal Interview. 18 Pi Bawichhingpuii, Personal Interview; Professor Lianzela, Personal Interview; Pu Lalrinkima, Personal Interview. 19 Pi Ramthianghlimi, Personal Interview; Pi Rochhungi, Personal Interview; Pi. Pari, Personal Interview; Zorama, Personal Interview.

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Death’s Virtualisation and Digitalisation The wave of virtualisation and digitalisation has converged with the Zo hnahthlak’s death ceremonies. This is marked by the distribution of CDs and video recordings of the events tracing the death and its rituals among family members and relatives. In the contemporary Pandemic and post-Pandemic times, the utilisation of technology and computer-aided mapping of the ‘Kha­ whar in’ is an intriguing development. Through the ritualised singing of Kha­ whar Hla, the community mourning and contact with death are heightened by technology and visualised on Google Maps. Through the dissemination of photos of the ‘Khawhar in’ magnified or surrounded in colour codes, the iconic YMA flag and the Black flag signifying the presence of a ‘house in mourning’ (Lu sun in/Khawhar in) are made more obvious. The route from the closest motorable road to the perilous terrain or winding stairs up or down the hills, as well as the time needed to get there (the house in mourning), were auto­ matically calculated and plotted in Google Maps and distributed via WhatsApp, Telegram, or social media sites like Facebook. In some ways, having these details in writing helps to confirm that the person is an insider who deserves to be remembered as a whole. The outpouring of condolences (Thusawi) highlighting the deceased’s life and his contributions to Zo Christian ways of living and the living notions of tlawmngaihna can com­ fort the grieving family by acting as a beacon for the evangelical hope of reunification.

A Collective Remembrance The service is only offered for an hour. The congregation is asked to stand for the final song, after which the young men will bring in the coffin’s lid and seal it for burial. Most individuals will leave the house (Khawhar in) and gather out­ side around this time. There will be a photo shoot with the coffin prior to the burial. It will be taken outside and placed on a trestle table, surrounded by floral gifts from well-wishers. In front of the casket would be the informational noticeboard that was hanging outside of the house (Khawhar in). The same as at a wedding, a list of groups to be photographed would be created and announced. After being photographed standing and sitting in rows behind the coffin, the family and friends would be formally introduced in the order given. These photos would eventually be included in memorial and death anniversary videos, often shown on television, and have evolved as an essential part of farewell bidding. These photographs and videos achieve revalidations of the presence and performance of the collective ethnonational ‘tlawmngaihna’ code and a digital re-memorialisation through display in social media. Post-funeral the crowd gradually thins out over the ensuing days, though some still come back to the house to comfort the grieving family and sing Khawhar zai. Community members would stop by the house every day, mostly in the afternoon, to pay their respects and sit and sing in the house. These are

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typically older members of the community; the mood is laid-back, some people could stand and dance while they sing. The night after the funeral, at around 7 o’clock, all the young people from the neighbourhood join the immediate family to start the few nights of Khawhar lenpui. The singing sessions sponsored by the YMA soothe the bereaved. The house is now a Khawhar in (house of bereavement), rather than a mitthi in (house with the dead body). As a result, the remaining rituals are more focused on showing support and sympathy for the bereaved family than on reintegrating the deceased into society. Thlan nghah ni is the name of the day following the funeral. In the evening around 6 or 7 o’clock, they would split up to make room for the young people (thalai) who by this time would have begun to show up for the night. All of the furniture, equipment, and refreshments are provided by the YMA. Every night, all young people (unmarried individuals between the ages of 18 and 40) are expected to attend and lend a hand as needed. There is no set schedule for either the daytime or the night time. The song will be initiated and led by the drummers, and there will be time set up for talks, announcements, and a break for refreshments. The congregation will stand for the final song before leaving together. This period of collective grief would continue anywhere from three days to a week. The length of time of the grieving process relied on the local custom or the veng’s YMA, and was frequently influenced by the family’s wealth, social standing, and popularity, and on the individual’s visibi­ lity in community services and in the church during their lifetime. It is suggested that people acquire and understand the collective performative meaning of the rituals at an early age through the YMA’s important involvement in organising many of the funeral and condolence arrangements, including the singing of Khawhar zai. The majority of young people must attend a Khawhar in at some time during the process to complete a specific obligation and are conse­ quently exposed to the singing since the organisation expects its young members to carry on various responsibilities related with the rituals. The group’s nightly sing­ ing is meant to reassure the grieving. Additionally, there is a clear aim to invest in educating the youth about Zo methods of healing the grieving through collective singing, participation and collective remembering. Through the practise of the morally bound tlawmngaihna codes, the ‘collective engagement in grieving’ for the cushioning of loss churns the desired flow of intragenerational sense of community and the ethnonational values of the Zo hnahthlak.

Bringing the Discussion to a Closure The chapter’s discussion reveals: 1 2 3

the colonial encounter and proselytisation’s effect on the Zo people; Zo’s interaction with the other’s novelty and its incorporation into the established order; and bodily reawakening via ‘Khawhar hla’ as a link between those participating in traditional death songs and dances as well as Christian hymns.

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This makes it possible to identify the liminal stage of the transition from the real to the physical. The contemporary amenities are blending new media with the traditional ones in the Zo tradition of ‘Khawhar hla,’ for instance, the combination of a virtual medium and an audio-visual ritualistic medium. Through singing, participants in the Khawhar zai khawm can look to the future with hope. Instead of providing solace for the grieving, the gathering evolves over time into a fellowship of tea and lively talk that strengthens communal bonds. The group singing changes the event’s main goal, has a transforming emotional impact on the participants, and amplifies the members’ shared grief. Other communities (proselytised and non-proselytised) in Mizoram, including the Gorkha, imitate the Zo practises relating to death through hybrid rites.20 In situations with few or no bereaved family members, there is a negation of the need to transform or intensify such emotions. In such a situation, the Khawhar hla zai’s function is lost. This brief ethnographic account of congregational practices in Mizoram has focused on how elements of rituals associated with rites of passage after a death transform public and private spaces temporarily, reintegrate the deceased into the community, and train the intergenerational performativity and display of the inherited codes of tlawngaihna to collectively remember and encounter death through the ritualisation of rites of passage through these songs for the dead.

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20 Zorama, Personal Interview.

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Lalsawma 1994. Revivals: The Mizo Way. Aizawl: Lalsawma, Mission Vengthlang. Lefebvre, Henri 1991. Critique of Everyday Life, Vol. 1. London: Verso. Lehman, F.K. 1978. The Structure of Chin Society. Calcutta: Firma KLM on behalf of Aizawl: Tribal Research Institute, Aizawl. Levi-Strauss, Claude. 1968. The Savage Mind. Chicago: Chicago University Press. Lewin, T. H. 1869. The Hill Tracts of Chittagong and the Dwellers Therein. Calcutta: Bengal Printing Company. Lewin, T. H. 1870 Reprinted 1978. Wild Races of South-Eastern India. Aizawl: Tribal Research Institute. Lewin, T. H. 1912 Reprinted 1977. A Fly on the Wheel. Calcutta: Firma KLM on behalf of Aizawl: Tribal Research Institute, Aizawl. Lianhmingthanga 1998. Material Culture of the Mizo. Calcutta: Firma KLM Private Ltd. And Aizawl: Tribal Research Institute. Lloyd, J. M. 1994. On Every High Hill: Harvest in the Hills. Aizawl: Synod Publication Board. Lorrain, Reginald 1912. Reprinted 1988. Five Years in Unknown Jungles: For God and Empire. London and Guwahati: Spectrum Publications. Manvela, C. (ed.) 2008. Mizo Rohlu Lengkhawm Hlabu. Champhai: Kahrawt Branch YMA. McCall, A. G. 1949. 2003. Lushai Chrysalis. Aizawl: Tribal Research Institute. Mizo Academy of Letters (MAL) (eds) 1975. Mizo Zia-Rang. Aizawl: J. K. Printing Press. Mizoram Baptist Kohhran (MBK) 2009. Pathian Fakna Hla Bu (Staff Notation and Tonic Solfa). Lunglei: Baptist Church of Mizoram. Mizoram Presbyterian Kohhran Leh Mizoram Baptist Kohhran (MPKLMBK) 2005. Kristian Hla Bu (Tonic Solfa). Aizawl: Synod Literature & Publication Board. Nag, Chitta Ranjan 1993. The Mizo Society in Transition. Delhi: Vikas Publishing House. Nag, Chitta Ranjan 1998. Mizo Polity and Political Modernisation. Delhi: Vikas Publishing House. Ralte, Lalrinawmi 1993. Crab Theology: A Critique of Patriarchy—Cultural Degrada­ tion and Empowerment of Mizo Women. Episcopal Divinity School, UMI Disserta­ tion Services, Michigan, USA: A. Bell & Howell Company. Ray, Animesh 1982. Mizoram Dynamics of Change. Calcutta: Pearl Publishers. Ray, Animesh 1993. Mizoram. New Delhi: National Book Trust. Reeves, Jim. 1962. ‘This world is not my home’. Album: We Thank Thee. Genre: Gospel. www.youtube.com/watch?v=LhnXMCqZrdg (retrieved on 22 April 2021). Reid, A. S. 1976. Chin-Lushai Land Including a Description of the Various Expeditions into the Chin-Lushai Hills and the Final Annexation of the Country. Calcutta: Firma KLM Private Ltd for Tribal Research Institute, Aizawl, Mizoram. Reid, Robert 1942 Reprinted 1976. The Lushai Hills. Calcutta: Firma KLM Pvt. Ltd. Rokunga 1952. Thalaite Hla Bu. Aizawl: Gosen Press. Samuelson, Rami Sena 1991. The Mizo People: Cultural Analysis of life in a Mizo village in the 1890s. Ann Arbor, USA: University of San Francisco, UMI. Sangkima 1987. Zawlbuk and its abolition: A significant event in the history of the Mizos. Proceedings, NEIHA, 8th session. Shakespear, L. W. 1927. Reprinted1977. History of The Assam Rifles. Calcutta: Firma KLM Pvt. Ltd. Aizawl: Tribal Research Institute. Stevenson, H. N. C. 1943. First Indian reprint 1986. The Economics of the Central Chin Tribes. Aizawl: Tribal Research Institute. Thanga, L. B. 1978. The Mizos: A Study in Racial Personality. Guwahati: United Publishers.

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Thanmawia, R. L. 2009, November. ‘Heritage of Mizo Traditional Song and Music.’ Indian Folk Life, 34. The Holy Bible. King James Version (KJV) (1900), James 4:14. https://www.biblegate­ way.com/passage/?search=James 4&version=KJV(retrieved on 22nd April 2021). The Holy Bible. King James Version (KJV) (1900), Matthew 6:19–20. https://biblia.com/ books/kjv1900/Mt6.19 (retrieved on 22nd April 2021). Thomas, E. J. 1993. Mizo bamboo Hills Murmur Change (Mizo Society Before and After Independence). New Delhi: Intellectual Publishing House. Tribal Research Institute (TRI) 1991. Mizo Hla Hlui Pawimawh Lawrkhawm. Aizawl: Gosen Press. Vanlalchhuanawma 2006. Christianity and Subaltern Culture (Revival Movement as a Cultural Response to Westernisation in Mizoram). Delhi: ISPCK Woodthorpe, R. G. 1873 First Indian reprint 1980. The Lushai Expedition 1871–1872. Guwahati: Spectrum Publications. YMA Ramhlun South Branch (YMARSB) 2009. Khawhar Hlabu: Thalai Hlate. YMA Ramhlun Branch Music Sub-committee. Aizawl: Five Brothers Offset Press. Zairema, Rev. 1978. God’s Miracle in Mizoram (Glimpse of Christian work among Head-Hunters). Aizawl: Synod Press. Zama, Margaret Ch. 2006, July. ‘Globalisation and the Mizo Story.’ Indian Folklife 22: 10–11.

Personal Interviews 1. Pastor B.Lalnunzira (Lecturer, Bishop’s College), Personal Interview. Beckbagan, Kolkata: 30 September 2009. 2. Pastor L. H.Lalliansanga, Personal Interview. Beckbagan, Kolkata: 30 September 2009. 3. Pastor Lalnuntluanga, Personal Interview. Beckbagan, Kolkata: 31 September 2009. 4. Pi Bawichhingpuii (Director, ‘Tribal Research Institute,’ Art & Culture Department, Government of Mizoram, McDonald Hill), Personal Interview. Zarkawt, Aizawl: 23 January 2008. 5. Pi Elizabeth Mannou (Lecturer, Department of Political Science, Kamlanagar College, Chawngte), Personal Interview. Tanhril, Aizawl: 10 March 2010. 6. Pi Evelyn. Phone conversation with the author. Kolkata, Aizawl. 21 April 2021. 7. Pi R.Laldingliani (Lecturer, Department of Political Science, Kamlanagar College, Chawngte), Personal Interview. Tanhril, Aizawl: 10 & 11 March 2010. 8. Pi Ramthianghlimi (Student, Bachelor of Theology), Personal Interview. Beckbagan, Kolkata: 31 September 2009. 9. Pi Rochhungi, Personal Interview. Babutlang, Aizawl: 18 February 2008. 10. Pi Vanramchhuangi (‘Ruatfelanu’) (Director HRLNMizoram, SocialActivist), Perso­ nal Interview. Chaltlang, Aizawl: 28 & 29 January 2008. 11. Pi. Pari (a Burmese resident married to an Indian Zo/Mizo), Personal Interview. Saron Veng, Aizawl: January—February 2008. 12. Professor F.Lalremsiama (Department of History, Johnson’s College), Personal Interview. Khatla, Aizawl: 26 January 2008. 13. Professor Lalrinthanga (Department of Public Administration, Mizoram University, Chaltlang Campus), Personal Interview. Aizawl: 19 January 2008. 14. Professor Lianzela (Department of Economics, Mizoram University, Main Campus), Personal Interview. Tanhril, Aizawl: 24 January 2008.

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15. Professor Thangchungnunga (Department of Economics, Mizoram University, Main Campus), Personal Interview. Tanhril, Aizawl: 24 January 2008. 16. Pu J.Lalhruaisanga (Lecturer, Department of Political Science, MICE), Personal Interview. Venghlui, Aizawl: 29 January 2008. 17. Pu Kitea Phone conversation with the author. Kolkata-Aizawl. 21 April 2021. 18. Pu Lalchamliana (Sr. Lecturer, Department of Political Science, Pachhunga University College, Aizawl), Personal Interview. Tanhril, Aizawl: 8 & 11 March 2010. 19. Pu Lallianchhunga (Lecturer, Department of Political Science, Mizoram University, Chaltlang Campus), Personal Interview. Aizawl, Mizoram: 19 January 2008. 20. Pu Lalrinkima (Lecturer, Department of Political Science, Lunglei Government Col­ lege), Personal Interview. Lunglei, Mizoram: 1 February 2008. 21. Pu Lianhmingthanga (Senior ResearchOfficer, ‘Tribal Research Institute,’Art & Cul­ ture Department, Government of Mizoram, McDonald Hill), Personal Interview. Zarkawt, Aizawl: 21 & 22 January 2008. 22. Pu R.V.L Pana (Sr. Lecturer, Department of Political Science, Hnahthial Government College), Personal Interview. Tanhril, Aizawl: 16 March 2010. 23. Pu Zaliana (Senior ResearchOfficer, ‘Tribal Research Institute,’Art & Culture Department, Government of Mizoram, McDonald Hill), Personal Interview. Zarkawt, Aizawl: 22, 23 & 24 January 2008. 24. Rev. K. Lalthlanpuia, Personal Interview. Beckbagan, Kolkata: 31 September 2009. 25. Rev. Zaithanmawia, Personal Interview. Beckbagan, Kolkata: 30 September 2009. 26. Zorama (Kamal Chettri) (Third generation Gorkha), Personal Interview. Babutlang, Zarkawt: Aizawl. 16 January 2008 & 12 March 2010.

2

Mortuary Beliefs and Practices Among the Khasi Tribe of Meghalaya Rekha M. Shangpliang

Introduction ‘Bam kwai ha iing U Blei’—a connotation used by the Khasi while referring to a deceased person sums up the belief that, after death, the spirit of the deceased stays in the abode of their god in eternal peace, harmony and goodwill. Mor­ tuary practices are a significant feature of every community and have served as a part of the mourning process for the surviving family of the deceased. In many traditional cultures, death rituals remain at the centre of social life, for it is socially agreed that there is a connection between the living and the dead. Though evidently it has been found that human burials evolved prior to cre­ matory customs, no archaeological evidence has been found that brings to light the fact that a particular procedure to dispose of the dead dominated a con­ tinent at any given point of time in history. According to the French archae­ ologist Joseph Dechelette, several mortuary practices may have co-existed during the Paleolithic and the Neolithic ages. Early studies on mortuary customs and practices are normally studied in the context of ‘primitive religion.’ E. B. Tylor’s work Primitive Culture (1871) devel­ ops the argument that ‘animism or the belief in spiritual beings, arose in the con­ text of dreams and death experience.’ Tylor examines the idea of a body-soul dichotomy that can be perceived in dreams and is thereby projected onto the event of death, thus creating the connection between life and death as well as the philo­ sophy of believing that death is the gateway to transcend into another chapter of existence, as spirits and souls. This idea is further elaborated by Frazer (1886) who argues that all mortuary beliefs and practices are ways and means to appease the dead due to the fear of the ‘deceased’s ‘ghost-soul.’ Frazer writes: The nearly universal practice of leaving food on the tomb or of actually passing it into the grave by means of aperture or tube is too well known to need illustration. Like the habit of dressing the dead in his best clothes, it probably originated in the selfish but not unkindly desire to induce the perturbed spirit to rest in the grave and not coming plaguing the living for food and raiment. (Frazer 1886: 74–75) DOI: 10.4324/9781003406693-3

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Funerary traditions are usually premised upon sociocultural units. These units contain beliefs and meanings that continue to bestow assurance, respect, and dignity upon the deceased even after they have left their social and material abode. Through his empirical study of the Californian aboriginal groups on the disposal of the dead The Handbook of the Indians of California (1925), A. L. Kroeber has analysed the role of customs as norms deeply motivated by the permanence of emotions and sentiments attached to the dead. In this way, Kroeber demonstrated the role of customs as norms. According to Kroeber, the ‘core’ characteristics that define the various historical and cultural interpreta­ tions of mortuary practices are variations in rites and rituals, as well as the existence of cultural traits (Kroeber 1927: 308–309). In his seminal essay ‘A Contribution to the Study of the Collective Repre­ sentation of Death,’ which was published in 1960 alongside another essay titled ‘Death and the Right Hand,’ the French sociologist Robert Hertz sheds light on the emotional impact of a death in relation to the social position of the deceased as well as the work of mourning that is done by the survivors. Even after almost a hundred years, Hertz’s essay is still an important source for many writers, that ‘is now widely recognised within the sociological community as an important historical and theoretical reference point’ (Davies 2000: 97). What makes Hertz’s essay interesting are the three levels of explanation that emerge, which can be understood clearly by looking at the accompanying illus­ tration by Metcalf and Huntington (1991: 83). Bronislaw Malinowski, an ethnographer who studied the Trobiand Islanders of Melanesia, is one of the people who should be mentioned in connection with studies of death rites based on ethnographic research. His research on the natives of Kiriwina (Malinowski 1978) reveals that death serves as the catalyst for two distinct chains of occurrences, both of which are independent of one another. It is believed that the soul, referred to as Baloma, of the deceased leaves the body shortly after death and travels to another world where it lives a shadowy existence. Whenever there is a death in the family, there is a period of mourning during which there are a series of mourning feasts that are carried out. During these feasts, uncooked raw food is distributed, and it is expected that it will be consumed on the spot. Malinowski, however, does not place a significant amount of importance on these mourning rites because, in his opi­ nion, they have absolutely no connection to the spirit or the Baloma. More important for Malinowski are connotations accompanying the phrase ‘wander­ ing of the spirit.’ When the spirit leaves the body, a remarkable thing occurs to it: it travels to an island known as Tuma, which is located a few miles away from the main island of the Kiriwina. This island is the destination of the spirit. There is also the belief that the spirit takes on the form of a Kosi, or the ‘ghost of the dead man.’ This Kosi is said to have a brief and unstable existence in the village where the deceased person once lived, frequently haunting the locals in their gardens or on the beach. It is interesting to note that the native people do not feel ‘fear’ when they come into contact with the so-called spirits, but rather that they have a close association with them. Malinowski also mentions a man

Mortuary Beliefs and Practices

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named Moni’gau who travels to the Tuma island frequently and delivers mes­ sages to the people there from the spirits. Dreams are another significant way in which the living world and the spirit world can communicate with one another.

The Khasi and their Religion ‘Ka Niam Khasi’ Among the many different ethnic communities that call the mountainous region of India’s Northeast home, the Khasi hold an important place, not only from an ethnic but also from a linguistic perspective. The meaning of the word Khasi can be construed in a variety of ways. According to Hamlet Bareh’s interpretation, the term Khasi means ‘born of the mother.’ The prefix kha means ‘born of,’ and the suffix si refers to ‘ancient mother.’ This interpretation emphasises the matrilineal nature of the Khasi, who can trace their ancestry back to the figure of the mother. The history of the Khasi people as a racial group is shrouded in mystery, which has often prompted historians to ask the question ‘Who is a Khasi?’ The Land Reforms Commission for Khasi Hills (Vol. 1) opines that a person who is acceptable as a Khasi is one whose parents descended since time imme­ morial from the descendants of the people inhabiting ka Ri Khadar Doloi, Ka Ri Laiphew Syiem, or anyone who has adopted Khasi socio-political customs and ways of life, conducts and comports himself as a Khasi, speaks the Khasi language and follows a matrilineal system. It further elaborates on this defini­ tion to include male adults who have the right to take part in traditional dur­ bars of the Khasi in the place where he lives, or take part in the election of hereditary chiefs of his elaka in which women cannot take part (Rymbai et al., 1973: 34). David Roy has defined a Khasi as a person who is a descendant of the folk who found a home in these hills, and is governed by Khasi laws of con­ sanguinity and kinship. A Khasi is a Khasi because of his religion (Niam) which is supposed to regulate all his thoughts and activities. Hamlet Bareh describes ‘Khasi’ as a general term encompassing the various tribes and sub-tribes inhabiting the Khasi and Jaintia Hills namely: 1

2 3 4

5

Khynriams or Nonglum (Khasi proper) inhabiting the middle ranges of the Khasi Hills, comprising the Khynriams proper and their allied tribes in the central plateau; The Pnars inhabiting the central plateau of the Jaintia Hills. The Pnars are also called the Syntengs, but they prefer to be called Pnars; The War people of the south, comprising the Shella people and their allied tribes; The Amwi people and their allied war, synteng and other tribes in the south Jaintia Hills who are apparently descended from the present KhasiPnars during their earliest period of settlement in the land; The Bhoi people, both Khasi and Pnar, inhabiting the north of Khasi and Jaintia Hills and their different sub-groups. (Bareh 1985)

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According to A. S. Khongphai, the non–controversial definition of a Khasi is a person born of a Khasi mother, irrespective of the fact whether he is a Khasi or a non-Khasi. However, this definition has been modified with the introduction of Khasi Lineage Bill in 1997, which defines a Khasi as one whose parents are/ were both Khasi and whose clan name is taken from the mother. For those born of a Khasi father and a non-Khasi mother, the Bill has invoked the old custom of Tang Jait—a ceremony by which a new clan bearing the name of the non–Khasi mother is created. The bill further states that to be a Khasi, the person will have to know the Khasi language unless prevented from knowing it by circumstances beyond his control like living outside the area. He must also observe and be governed by the Khasi matrilineal system, Khasi law of inheri­ tance and succession and the Khasi laws of consanguinity and kinship. The various myths and legends associated with the origin of the Khasi provide us with some evidence about their long period of association with gods and heavenly beings. One such interpretation is incorporated in the legend of the Hynniewtrep-Hynniewskum or the Seven Huts—the Seven Nests. This legend tells the story of how god in the beginning created 16 families and let them stay with him in heaven. He allowed them to move freely between heaven and earth with the help of a golden ladder which tou­ ched the top of a mountain peak name Sohpetbneng (the navel of heaven) until one day when seven of them chose to remain on earth leaving the remaining nine in heaven. From that day god removed the ladder and the seven families on earth came to be known as Ki Hynniew Ha Tbian (the seven below) and those who remained in heaven as Ki Khyndai Hajrong (the nine above). The Khasi, as we know them today, according to this folklore are the descendants of the ‘seven below.’ The migration pattern of the Khasi has also led to a paucity of beliefs and traditions about the movement of this tribe into the hills that took place in times past. The commonly accepted view is that they came from the Far East and used the same route of migration followed by other immigrants from Burma. Gurdon states that many affinities can be traced between the Khasi and the Mon-Khmer from the Far East on grounds of physical resemblance (Gurdon 1975). It is also interesting to note that the Himalayan ranges have a close association with the Khasi because of they have their own name for these ranges ‘Ki Lum Makachiang’ which indicates that the Khasi had once settled in the neighbourhood of the Himalayas, or at the foothills of these mountains around Darrang, Sadiya and Dibrugarh (Bareh 1985). According to J. R. Logan, the Khasi have a close relationship with the Mons or Talaings of Pegu and Tenasserim, the Khmers of Cambodia and the inhabi­ tants of Aman. Logan identifies a tribe called the Palungs who inhabit the Shan states of Myanmar, as the closest kinsmen of the Khasi. Roy surmises a shared history between Khasi and Munda owing to the similarity in the language and funerary rites and rituals of these two communities. Walter G. Griffith opines that the Munda of the Chota Nagpur area in Eastern India are the ancestors of the Khasi (Bareh, 1985: 46).

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Many historians believe that the Khasi are linguistically and racially an offshoot of the Mon-Khmer branch of the Austro-Asiatic people, and that their migration into the highlands of Asia occurred in the distant past (Bareh 1985: 67).

The Concept of God among the Khasi ‘U Blei,’ the name given to the supreme deity of the Khasi, represents a triad– the creator, the sustainer of the universe and the omnipresent. To the Khasi, the term Blei or ‘god’ may connote a variety of meanings depending upon the con­ text in which it is used. There have been misconceptions about whether the Khasi believe in the existence of only one supreme being, the creator of the world or the superintendence of divine agents and spirits, who are likewise read as gods. P. R. T. Gurdon writes: The Khasis cannot, however, be said to worship the Supreme God, although it is true that they sometimes invoked Him when sacrificing and in times of trouble. The religion of the Khasis may be described as animism or spirit worship, or rather the propitiation of spirits both good and evil on certain occasions principally in times of trouble. (Gurdon 1975: 105) In this context it is worth mentioning how the Khasi have a deep sense of honour and reverence for their dead ancestors and invoke their blessings whenever they perform ritualistic prayers for the living, such as the naming ceremony of the infant, marriage rituals and also during the bone burial ceremony in the respective clan ossuaries. The Khasi, besides paying reverence to the memories of the deceased ancestors, also mandatorily offer food items on flat table-stones to the spirit of the deceased. The strong influence of the matriarchate in the Khasi society draws our attention to the role of Ka Iawbei (the first ancestress of the clan), U Thawlang (the first father) and U Suitnia (the first maternal uncle) who are also given a position of importance within Khasi belief system. H. O. Mawrie, a renowned Khasi writer mentions that a theological under­ standing of the Khasi conception of U Blei is that god is non-gendered and nonunitary. Mawrie holds the view that the Khasi god remains an abstraction, and can be perceived through various manifestations, revelation and intuition. U Blei is often revealed through nature, an ecological manifestation that posits the idea of a Khasi cosmology premised upon nature worship. Different names have been associated with U Blei—U Nongbuh Nongthaw (the supreme planner and creator); U Nongsei U Nongpynlong (the giver and dispenser of life); U Nongthawbynriew U Nongbuhbynriew (the creator and controller of humankind); U Nonghukum bad U Nongsynshar (the supreme commander and ruler); U Leilongkur (the god of the clan); U Leimuluk (the god of the state); U Leijaka (the god of territory) and U Leikhyrdop U Leikharai (the god of war). These are myriad manifestations that presuppose that U Blei permeates every sphere of human life and activity (Mawrie 1981: 34).

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Mortuary Rites and Belief Systems among the Khasi The Khasi believe that life on earth is temporary—ka iingshongbasa (tem­ porary home)—and that after a person dies his spirit goes to the abode of U Blei in which it partakes in eating bam kwai ha iing U Blei (U Blei’s betelnut) and enjoys eternal peace, harmony and goodwill. The death rituals of the Khasi are very elaborate which bear testimony to the fact that the Khasi attach deep significance to and venerate the departed soul. In the first instance, whenever a death occurs in any family, one of the members bends down towards the ear of the deceased person and calls him or her by name three times to make sure that the person is no more. If there is no response then it is confirmed that death has occurred and the family members begin to lament. The actual rites and rituals pertaining to the deceased person then begin to take place, which involve the bathing of the body with warm water and thereafter, placing it on a japung (bamboo mat). A series of customary practices follow. The body, after being washed, is wrapped in a white cloth, and one of the most notable characteristics of this wrapping is that the turban and waist-cloth are folded from left to right, rather than from right to left, as is customary for living people. Following this, a ka lengkpoh (hen’s egg) is placed on the deceased person’s navel, and nine fried grains of riewhadem (corn) are tied around the head with a string. In the home of the deceased individual, a rooster known as U ‘iarkradlynti, which literally translates to ‘the rooster that scratches the way,’ is slaughtered in the belief that the rooster would clear the path for the spirit of the deceased person as it makes its way to the heavenly abode. If a sacrificial offering is not made, the process of preparing the deceased body for its final journey to the cremation ground cannot be considered com­ plete. If the body is to be cremated in a masonry pyre, then U masikynroh is performed that involves the sacrifice of a cow or a bull. If it is going to be placed in a coffin, then U niangshyngoid or the sacrifice of a pig takes place. If it is intended that the funeral pyre be adorned with flags, then the ritual of U iarkait is followed by sacrificing a fowl. Following this, portions of the left leg of the fowl and the lower part of the jaw of the bull or cow are kept aside to be offered during the time of the bone burial ceremony.

The Last Journey to the Cremation Ground and the Afterlife The Khasi give a high level of importance to the particular day of the funeral because they believe that this day marks the moment that the deceased person officially moves on from the temporal world. Gurdon describes in his book The Khasi how the body of the deceased person is escorted with the sounds of sharati (flutes) and ka ksing (the beating of drums), and how coins are scattered all along the route. It is also traditional for one person to walk in front of the funeral procession and place pieces of branch from a tree called dieng shit at regular intervals all the way until the procession reaches the cremation location.

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This person is known as the dieng shit bearer. This is done to ensure the soul will not get lost but will instead make its way to its correct destination. When the procession reaches the location of the cremation, the body is placed over a bamboo pyre with the head facing west and the feet facing east, or with the head facing north and the feet facing south, depending on which tradition is being followed. The next step is the lighting of the pyre in a specific order, beginning with the members of the kur (clan) and then moving on to the others. When everyone present has lit the pyre, the ka lengkpoh is shattered on top of the pyre while a prayer is recited to lead the soul to its final resting place.

The Significance of Ki’namtympem or the Three Arrows It is essential to recognize the significance of the three arrows, as they represent a connection between the two milestones in a person’s life—the naming cere­ mony and the death ceremony. If the deceased person was a man, then three arrows are shot one after the other in three different directions: first to the west, then to the north, and finally to the south. According to D. H. Lyngdoh, the three arrows may be related to the ones that were placed at the naming cere­ mony of the deceased, which therefore corresponds to the responsibilities that the man was assigned throughout his life beginning with his birth and reaching a closure with his death. The purpose of these three arrows, then, is to shield the spirit of the departed from any impediments of any kind that might stand in the way of the spirit’s ascent to the abode of U Blei (Tariang 2012: 165). Before leaving the funeral place the relatives and well-wishers share betelnuts with one another while also placing some on the pyre with the words, ’Khublei, khieleit bam kwai sha iing U Bleiho’ (good bye, go and eat betel-nut in the house of U Blei).

The Mawbah or Bone-Burial Ceremony The gathering of the uncalcined bones and ashes of the clan’s deceased mem­ bers and their bestowal in the mawbah is the most important religious cere­ mony that the Khasi perform. This is because the mawbah is considered to be the ‘great cinerarium’ of the kur (Gurdon 1975: 140). The gathering of bones through a ritual helps to reinforce the kur’s role as an essential component of society. During the repositioning of the bones, the Khasi kur expands its scope beyond the familial sphere in order to act as an obligatory unit and consolidate its members. After the cremation process has been completed on the body, it is traditional for the relatives of the deceased to make three trips beginning at the feet and working their way up to the head in order to collect the bones that have not been calcined. Only the female relatives perform this ritual, which consists of washing the bones three times and carefully placing them inside a white cloth. The collectors are not permitted to turn around or retrieve anything that may have fallen to the ground during the course of the journey. After this, a

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straightforward ceremony takes place, during which the gathered bones and ashes are moved into a mawshyieng, a term referring to a small stone cairn. After a few weeks have passed, there is another ceremony that takes place after assuring that all members of the clan are at peace with one another and that there are no differences between them. This ceremony is known as kynrong­ shyieng, and it takes place in the presence of the clan members. This ceremony marks the beginning of the journey of the clan, along with the bones and ashes, to the repository of bones known as Mawbah. This journey to the final repo­ sitory is an important one; an elderly person leads the way, strewing along a line of route with leaves from the Dieng shit tree as well as grains all the way to the cairn at the end of the path. On arriving at the location, a sacrifice is made to U‘iarkradlynti, and offerings are placed in a basket before being hung at the entrance of the mawbah. Following this, there is dancing, and then an offering of food and alcohol is made to the ancestors on a stone that is placed in front of the tombs. Death here becomes a collective practice apropos the Khasi kur. It is intrinsically linked to the sociological role performed by the kur and no longer remains an individual affair. Notions and patterns of kinship then begin to be linked to ritual performances revolving around the death of a clan member. In recent years, as a result of modernisation, the spread of Christianity, and the adoption of a foreign worldview, the ceremony of collecting the skeletal remains of deceased clan members and placing them in the main clan ossuary has begun to become less common. The fact that many clan members are now dispersed across a wide area and have their own independent families has made it challenging for members of the clan to get together and continue observing these traditions.

The Re-Union of the Soul with the Ancestors The matrilineal principle of tracing descent from the woman is expressed through death and mortuary customs practised by the Khasi. This principle is known as Long jaidna ka kynthei, which translates as ‘from the woman sprang the clan.’ The Khasi hold Ka Iawbeitynraior, the primaeval or root ancestress of the kur, in the highest regard of among all the deceased members of the kur’s lineage. Ka iawbeitynrai or ‘memories of their root ancestress’ are not only revered by the Khasi, but they are commemorated through offerings known as ai bam, food placed on flat table-stones. This is done for the primary purpose of appeasing the spirits of the ancestors who have passed away in the hope of having a happy and prosperous life in the temporal realm. The erection of table-stones, cromlechs, and monolith-like structures or Mawbynna to commemorate the deceased parents or ancestors is another important aspect of mortuary practises among the Khasi. This depicts the importance that is given to the veneration ancestors. Whether Mawbynna are erected to serve as seats for the spirits of the departed clansmen on their jour­ ney to the beyond, they also serve as symbols of pride to commemorate a king’s

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glorious reign. These structures have a long history of origin that narrates how, despite their enormous weight, they were brought from far distances in the absence of modern transport. Either as seats for the spirits of the departed clansmen or as symbols of the grandeur of the ruler’s reign, these stones have been an exemplar of a long-standing practice through generations.

Conclusion The fact that Khasi death rituals have been observed in a variety of different ways over time is demonstrated by their contemporary forms of practice. The Khasi people have undergone numerous shifts in both their traditional practises and their belief systems as a result of the effects that globalisation and late capitalism. Such shifts may be attributed to a number of factors, such as mod­ ernisation of education, socio-economic reasons, and other developmental fac­ tors that have eroded many old customs that were once practised. Even after taking into account shifts in social mores and the accompanying technological advances, the above-outlined mortuary practises among the Khasi remain enduring. Their continued veneration of U Blei Nongthaw provides the impetus for the propitiation of spirits and the souls of the deceased. It remains to be seen how such practices eventually fare among the longest surviving matrilineal society in the world.

References Bareh, Hamlet 1985. The History and Culture of the Khasi People. Guahati: Spectrum Publications. Davies, Douglas J. 2000. ‘Robert Hertz: The Social Triumph over Death.’ Mortality 5 (1): 97–102. Frazer, James G. 1885. On certain Burial Customs as Illustrate of the Primitive Theory of Soul. US: Harrison & Sons. Gurdon, P. R. T. 1975. The Khasis. New Delhi: Cosmo Publications. Kroeber, A. L. 1927. ‘Disposal of the Dead.’ American Anthropologist 29 (3): 308–315. Malinowski, B. 1978. Argonauts of the Western Pacific. Delhi: Routledge. Mawrie, H. O. 1981. The Khasi Milieu. New Delhi: Concept Publishing Company. Metcalf, P. and R. Huntington 1991. Celebrations of Death: The Anthropology of Mortuary Ritual. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Roy, Hipshon 1979. Khasi Heritage. Shillong: Seng Khasi. Rymbai, R. T. 1980. ‘Some Aspects of the Religion of the Khasi-Pnars.’ In Sujata Miri (ed.). Religion and Society of North East India. New Delhi: Vikas Publishing House Ltd. Rymbai, R. T. et al. 1973. Report of Land Reforms Commission for Khasi Hills. Vol. 1. Shillong: Government of Meghalaya. Tariang, J. K. 2012. The Philosophy and Essence of Niam Khasi. Shillong: Ri Khasi Press. Tylor, Edward B. 1871. Primitive Culture. London: John Murray.

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The Rhetoric of Death and Dying The Khasi and Karbi Context Margaret Lyngdoh

Beginning with the premise that mortuary customs are immanent to indigenous1 ontologies2 in the context of Northeast India, this article will outline case stu­ dies that connect mortuary customs with expressions of personhood and iden­ tity. In the Khasi and Karbi contexts, death rituals (including beliefs3 linked with these), are processual events, and can be looked at as facilitating the movement from being human persons into the more anonymous category of ancestor persons. The second aspect involves the socio-psychological mechanisms of grieving or coping with the vacuum that an individual’s death brings about. Additionally, I look at ‘death’ to be a resource, a communicative agent that engenders multiple traditions in practice. These practices interlink to create a web of the patterns that then recur in different contexts. Taking such a per­ spective would illustrate the vital connections that are inherent in both cosmologies. For example, footprints of ancestors can be embedded into the landscape like the crest of Sohpetbneng Hill which is connected with the Khasi origin myth linking these footprints to the concept of the ‘children of the seven huts’ (khun u hynniewtrep, in Khasi) making these ‘footprints’ into the tangible aspect that validates the oral narrative. Another example of death as manifested in physical places is the abandoned forest of Slang Abre in East Garo Hills which is narrated as the land of the dead that was consequently abandoned. The primary data that informs this whole article is collected through primary fieldwork in specific regions of the Karbi and Khasi Hills. Contemporary volumes on research in Northeast India engage with themes within the region that are reflective of its multifaceted nature. Popular topics involve political ramifications as well as conceptualisations of the ideas of ‘borderlands’ (Karllson & Kikon 2019; Kikon & McDuie-Ra 2021; Subba & Wouters 2023; Wouters 2022; Ramirez 2014). A broad survey of these recent 1 2 3

I will clarify my usage of this term in the following sections because there are mul­ tiple ways in which this word can be mobilized. See Tafjord 2017. I mean the entirety of the cosmology, beliefs, practices, realms and realities that make up indigenous worldviews. I clarify that I use the term ‘belief’ in its folkloristic usage. Rather than looking at ‘belief’ itself, I look at expressions of beliefs, for instance, what does one ‘do’ when one performs a belief?

DOI: 10.4324/9781003406693-4

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publications describes Northeast India as grappling with questions of margin­ ality (Ramirez 2014), the recipient of privileged draconian mainland Indian laws, contestations between traditionality and modernity that frequently engage with issues of the political landscape, resource extraction (see Karllson & Kikon 2019), and the problematics of globalising religions (see Longkumer 2020). Thus, Northeast India is seen to be a geographical locale that is pro­ jected to be inherently problematic in context of the mainland. Issues pertaining to indigenous legal systems, customs, and land laws are also topics that fascinate international scholars of the region. But Northeast India is also a landscape that incorporates tracts of migration routes as sung or chanted in narratives, epics, and other folklore. The vernacular life of indigenous com­ munities in the region is replete with conceptualisations of congruent geo­ graphies (by which I mean parallel realities that can only be traversed by ritual performers, or ‘special’ individuals); placelore (wherein places are sacralised or storied with dense folklore) or liminal ontologies. The role of tradition in informing these indigenous ontologies, the presence of transformation tradi­ tions and the affluence and diversity of mortuary cultures and traditions of possession amongst others are rarely engaged with. The geography is charged with stories and folklore as well as belief that is expressed through multiple religions or ordinary, everyday practices. These topics are infrequently engaged with because of the difficulty of access as well as the contentious nature of the corpus of knowledge itself: it is hard to treat narratives and practices of human animal transformations seriously because such phenomenon remain outside the realm of ideas of enlightenment or mis-aligned with the multiple phenomena of modernity that Northeast India is still grappling to engage with. Even if these topics are engaged with, they are safely dealt with in the realm of the ‘story­ world’ (Valk 2015). However, research on indigenous religious landscapes receives lesser attention in Northeast India. The last ten years have seen a dra­ matic uptick in studies carried out in this field, but still remains peripheralised due to the nature of the content of the research.4 Among the Karbi and Khasi groups, the topic of death and the practices asso­ ciated with it comprise core aspects that evoke discomfort, grief, and revulsion among outside audiences including those who may belong to another community of the same indigenous group: specifically, Khynriam Khasi have the jocular expression to denote the Lyngngam Khasi as Lyngngam bam briew, which translates to ‘Lyngngam are cannibals.’ Such stereotyping is generally common within the indi­ genous encounter with world religions, where Christian converts often ‘other’ and label people who may still practise the indigenous religion and even demonise or humiliate them on the basis of the ‘demonic’ nature of the indigenous religion.5 To 4 5

See Scheid 2022 for an overview of research on indigenous religions in Northeast India. I use the term ‘indigenous’ to mean a historically and geographically contingent people. I also use the term ‘indigenous religion’ as a way to invest agency to these loosely linked, site specific practices.

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illustrate, such an event occurred in Mylliem in August 2017 when the cremation rituals of a ritual performer belonging to the indigenous Khasi religion was stopped by the Christian community in the village on the basis that cremation is an unhy­ gienic practice and would pollute the nearby environment. Death rituals for the Khasi involve cleansing of the pollution of death. The correct performance of death rituals also ensures the continuity of the clan. The interruption of such cleansing rituals thus went on to become a source of community trauma. There was a huge outcry from civil rights groups and eventually, the cremation was carried out amid tight security provided by the police.6 Two contexts are explored to bring out the significance of mortuary practices and beliefs in the backdrop of Northeast India: that of the Khasi and Karbi. These comprise two indigenous communities that reside in different States of Meghalaya and Assam. Karbi Anglong shares a geographically contiguous border with Khasi and Jaintia Hills. As such, the two communities share and interchange folklore and cultural motifs. I do not intend to make a comparative analysis of the manifestations among Karbi and Khasi; rather, I look at sitespecific manifestations of funerary practices in the context that they derive from. Doing so provides legitimacy to practices that have long been attributed to being mere ‘borrowings.’

The Khasi Context The Khasi people primarily inhabit the Northeast Indian state of Meghalaya but scattered numbers may be found also in the neighbouring state of Assam as well as in Bangladesh. The major Khasi communities include the Khynriam, Pnar, Bhoi, War, and Lyngngam while the minor groups are Biate, Nongtrai, Muliang, Marngar etc. The endonym popularised among the Khynriam Khasi group to designate all the Khasi communities is Ki Khun U Hynñiewtrep (lit: Children of the seven huts) following the origin myth wherein seven families came down from heaven and populated the earth. This term is widely used as an identity marker among all the Khasi communities. The conventional view about the origin of the Khasi people is that they are a people of Austric origin who migrated from Southeast Asia, speaking a Mon– Khmer/Mon–Annam linked language. Linguistically, the Khasi language belongs to the Austro-Asiatic group. According to the Statistical Profile the population of Khasis numbers about 1.3 million (Statistical Profile, 2013: 167). Khasi society is matrilineal where the female plays a significant part in the domestic functioning of the immediate family and ritual observances associated with the clan. Traditionally, the matrilineal social make of the Khasis inter­ weaves a complex genealogy which is linked to clan deities. 6

‘Meghalaya: Cremation of Seng Khasi’s Elder faces stern opposition from locals.’ 2017. The Northeast Today. Migrator. Available at https://thenortheasttoday.com/ states/meghalaya/meghalaya-cremation-of-seng-khasis-elder-faces-stern/cid2548537. htm accessed 14 June 2022.

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Variously, clan ancestresses sometimes could be non-humans who came into the human world to procreate and institute clans. For example, the Syiem clan of Sutnga originated from the water ‘spirit’ Li Dakha; the Kharpuri clan origi­ nated from the union between a puri (a kind of water entity) and a human. Although, the clan deity is sometimes also the primeval ancestress of the clan, this is not always the case. To exemplify, the clan progenitor of the Talang clan is Mei Talang, but for those Talangs, who live in present day Chyrmang vil­ lage, the clan deity is the River Goddess K (I do not have permission to ‘carry’ her name outside her geographical locale). In this case, the clan deity remains separate from the once-human primeval ancestress, who becomes apotheosised through clan reverence. With regard to the matrilineal social system of the Khasis, two features may be isolated: one is lineage which is passed through the female line and the other is the line of inheritance. Descent is typically traced to the female progenitor of the clan and continues through the female line (Can­ tlie, 2008 [1943]). The Niam Tynrai, or traditional faith of the Khasis is also called Ka Niam Tip Briew, Ka Niam Tip Blei (lit, Man knowing God knowing ritual). According to the tenets laid down by the Seng Khasi, an institution set up in 1899 to preserve the values of the Khasi clan and community practices, man’s duty on earth is to earn righteousness—ngi wan ha kane ka pyrthei ban kamai ia ka hok. This is the primary duty of man, to live a good life, fulfilling one’s duty to the clan. In order to do that he must follow the unwritten rules of ‘knowing-god’ and ‘knowing-man,’ which define the basic principles of this religion according to the Seng Khasi.7 Presently, 83.5 percent of the Khasis follow the Christian religion, and the major denominations are Catholic and Presbyterian. Other minority Christian religious groups include the Church of God, Seventh Day Adventists, Assembly of God, Church of Jesus Christ, the Baptist Church, Church of Northeast India, etc. Transformational processes of westernisation and modernisation among the Khasis may be connected with colonialism and the beginning of Christian proselytisation. Responding to the pressure to convert, a section of Khasi thin­ kers began a counter movement in the form of the Seng Khasi. The Seng Khasi, instituted on 23 November 1899, is a socio-cultural society that was initially begun as an effort to promote and preserve the interests of the Khasi Religion 7

Knowing man’ implies the correct performance of relationships between fellow humans. This rule may be perceived in two ways, firstly, man should know that he came into this world through God’s decree. His life has a mission and a purpose and whatever power he has, it is the one bestowed by God. This power is called, ka rngiew. It is a power which is inherent in man and it is there with him and in him as solid as anything to uphold him against anything which might shake him in his life; it is an ever-sustaining power which helps him to succeed in his endeavours and undertaking. Secondly, man does not come into this world all on his own, he has his clan. His clan is a composite group of all those who have come and descended from the same ancestress. He has a personal cause as well as his family cause. He is responsible for himself as well as for his family and jointly with others for the cause of the clan of which he is a member (Mawrie 1981).

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(‘religion’ here is used despite the lack of institutional authority, sacred texts etc, for the purpose of giving agency to, and empowering Khasi indigenous practices and beliefs). Seng Khasi has now, in some circles, become synonymous with the Khasi religion. Parallel to the formation of the Seng Khasi, the first Khasi printing press, the Ri Khasi Printing Press, was started in 1896 by Jeebon Roy for the purpose of printing books, essays, and newspapers ‘clarifying’ the tenets of the Khasi religion to respond to the powerful influence of missionary work in the Khasi Hills. As mentioned earlier, mortuary customs facilitate the movement of an identifi­ able person, into the category of anonymous ancestor who is held to be responsible for the upkeep and well-being of family and clan members. Thus, individual per­ sonhood transforms into that of collective personhood where clan identity takes precedence. But the conversion to Christianity has created a vacuum in the space previously occupied by ancestors. However, the indigenous mortuary practice of keeping a body for a specific period of time at home after death, the observation of the three-day funeral feast, the keeping of open doors and windows during this period, etc. are practices that are observed in Christian death rituals also.

The Karbi Context The Karbi community inhabits the multi-ethnic Indian state of Assam. According to the 2011 Government of India Census there are about 500,000 Karbi who inhabit the twin districts of Karbi Anglong. Karbi indigenous people speak a Tibeto-Burmese language. This community has one of the highest human poverty indices in the state (according to the 2003 Assam Human Development Report). This means that development in terms of basic infra­ structure, as well as social welfare is lacking. About 88.5 percent of the popu­ lation is rural, dependent on agriculture for a living. The headquarters of Karbi Anglong is located at Diphu, close to the Meghalaya and Nagaland state bor­ ders in Northeast India. It is worthwhile to mention these historical inequalities in order to under­ stand the contemporary religious landscape of the Karbi which is inevitably tied to the community’s mortuary customs. Published in 1908, the ethnographic manuscript The Mikirs is the first notable work published about the Karbi community, written by Edward Stack (1850–1887) and Charles James Lyall (1845–1920). In collaboration with a Karbi person named Sardoka (baptised as Sardoka Perrin Kay), Edward Stack carried out meticulous examination of the Karbi (exonym, Mikir). His death in 1887 brought his work to a halt. Twenty years later, in 1904, on the advice of administrative officer Sir Bamphyle Fuller, who charted a comprehensive scheme to undertake a documentation of the ethnographic life of the tribes of Northeast India, Charles James Lyall, began work on the manuscript that has now come to be called The Mikirs. Lyall apologises extensively at the inadequacy of the material he had, which consisted chiefly of Stack’s somewhat random handwritten notes. Hence, the gaps in (mis)understanding of the Karbi began with the publication of this manuscript.

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Over the last few decades, although Karbi Anglong managed to secure a geographical status as an autonomous district within the political state of Assam, recognition of the Karbi people has not been accorded. The context of discrimination and marginalisation informs one significant reason that there is a proliferation of religious reform movements among them because conversion is now seen as a means to alleviate the Karbi condition and enable acceptance in the context of the dominant caste Hindu Vaishnava Assamese population. Further clarifying my usage, I use the term ‘indigenous’ and ‘religion’ with reference to the Karbi, referring to ‘type 2’ of what religious studies scholar Bjørn Ola Tafjord calls as an ‘ethno-political concept’ (2017). This categorisation lays stress on activism and politics on behalf of Karbi traditions and culture, because a group of highly motivated Karbi thinkers have been using the medium of ‘writing as activism’ in order to clarify and simplify philosophical and traditional aspects of Karbi religion. Further, in an effort to name, codify, and revive traditional Karbi religious practice, the traditional Karbi ‘religion’ is now variously called Hemphu-Muk­ rang (lit., Lord of the House), Honghari (lit., sanskari, ritualistic, first used by Baptist missionaries), Aron Ban, or Aron Barim (lit., Old rule), in the commu­ nity itself. It was described as demon worship by early Baptist missionaries (1901); and in the works of contemporary Karbi writers, the Karbi religion is described as animist. The traditional religion, Hemphu-Mukrang, is followed by the majority of the population. It is centred around ancestor/spirit propitiation interspersed with ritualised practices in their everyday life. Ritual and the recitation of the origin myths are interwoven into the semantic constructions of the Karbi lan­ guage. Within the narrative discourse of the Karbi, origin stories play a central and significant role. These narratives are linked with the religious practices. There is no Karbi word to denote ‘religion.’ But the vernacular ontology of divine powers, the hierarchy of spirits and their propitiation, elaborately per­ formed rituals connected with the human life cycle, comprise a complex and multi-layered epistemic system which furthers meaning to the history, folklore, persecution, and migration of this tribe. The language used during the perfor­ mance of a ritual is stylised, archaic, and upheld as sacred. The language of ritual then becomes a special form of incantation. This is because the Karbi are still largely an oral culture, and the religion is not institutionalised. The oral tradition is the central menas through which rituals are mediated. Traditions are clan and kinship based, with relationships acknowledged between humans and nonhumans. In present-day Karbi Anglong, there is a proliferation of religious sects that are at best described to be a ‘blend’ between a world religion, Christianity, and Hempu Mukrang.

Death Rituals Among Khasi: Discursive Reframings of Indigenous Belief As mentioned before, Khasis comprise different communities among whom mor­ tuary customs, beliefs, and practices are varied. But among all the communities,

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the death process itself is revered and assumes central importance. Regarding practices in the western Khasi Hills, in the monograph on the Khasis, P.R.T. Gurdon writes about the Lyngngams saying that ‘they do not have any special birth customs’ (Gurdon 1907). Karland Langrin (in Seiñduli Village)8 a noted Khasi tradition bearer on September 4, 2014, in a personal interview, remarked, ‘The most significant ritual in the life of the Nongtrai is the death ritual. This is because people from Lyngngam respect the death of a person the most.’ This statement goes on to explain why birth or marriage rituals, although existent, are not as elaborate or philosophically detailed as are post-mortem rituals. This sig­ nificance attributed to death as a transformative process, may also be found among the Karbi. As mentioned earlier, about 87 percent of the Khasi population is Christian. This means that Christian theology is now observed with regard to beliefs about the dead. In Khasi indigenous belief, death, dying, and ‘bad’ deaths incur consequences that, in order to be remedied, require cleansing. These cleansing rituals now fall within the domain of demonised practices by the Khasi Chris­ tian Church (which includes the myriad forms of Christianity, the most domi­ nant of which are Presbyterianism and Catholicism). But it does not mean that the dead lie quiet, waiting for the Second Coming of Christ, if they have died ‘badly.’ Rather, they find ways to interact and communicate with the living. I cite here an article that I wrote for a newspaper in February 2022. Tyrut is the analogue of the curse concept and is associated with death. Tyrut is invoked on the event of a traumatic accident like a woman dying at child birth; a death due to an accident, murders, suicides, etc. Khasi writer H. Onderson Mawrie writes that Tyrut is the ‘Queen of Evil Spirits’ Ka tyrut, which is a curse or taint, is associated with a location that is the scene of a tragedy; it is an ‘evil’ associated with place, and this evil exists at a given place. The tyrut may be analogous nominally with a curse, but the concept of tyrut also incorporates the idea that remnants of the person embed themselves into the place where the incident occurred because blood has soaked into the ground. Because of this, the place is considered to be unclean and tainted, a place of repeated misfortune that continuously pla­ gues the living in the form of bad luck or accidents and death. The only way to get rid of the tyrut is to perform a purificatory ritual known as the mait tyrut or ‘hacking the tyrut.’ The tyrut, is sent back to its dwelling place in the westerly direction through this ritual. Within the vernacular perception of place among the Khasis, numerous incidents and experience narratives about ka tyrut are narrated across multiple media—social net­ works, newspapers, legend narrations and others. Tyrut is most commonly associated with place. For the Khasi community, death is a key component in fulfilling a human being’s role in the well-being and regeneration of the clan. In life, an 8

Karland Langrin, Personal Interview.

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individual must earn righteousness by fulfilling his duty to his/her family and clan. In death, the individual becomes part of the ancestors who are actively involved in the ensuring the well-being, prosperity, and lineage of the clan by communicating actively with the living members of the family, through divination and sometimes, dreams. The function of an ancestor is not a passive existence in the occasional memory of the family, but an active, participatory role. When death is not peaceful, the process of tran­ sition from being a member of the clan to becoming an ancestor within the clan, is thwarted. When accidents occur and the role of the individual within the clan is not fulfilled, the tyrut is activated. (Lyngdoh 2022a) However, this concept of the ancestors who exist on an everyday participa­ tory basis with the living is now increasingly replaced with the concept of Christ who ‘lives and walks, always present’ with a Khasi Christian person in a discursive reframing of the older belief of the constant presence of ancestors.9 In the orally transmitted conversational genres that other Khasi communities participate in, the jocular stereotype associated with Lyngngam Khasi, who inhabit the westernmost borders of the Khasi Hills, is lyngngam bam briew (‘Lyngngam eat humans/Lyngngam are cannibals’). In 2012, I naively went to the West Khasi Hills in an attempt to ‘deconstruct’ this label. After a decade of fieldwork in the region, I would say that the complex of beliefs that contribute to the creation of this label is the misrepresentation and misunderstanding of the density and variations of death rituals and beliefs among the Lyngngam, Muliang, and Nongtrai communities (Lyngdoh 2022b). The Lyngngam practices that contribute to the perpetration and creation of such labels involve their very special death rituals, for example the Phor Sorat (an elaborate ceremony carried out over the course of a long time and involves a great deal of expense): Phor or Phur means to dance with the accompaniment of traditional drums and musical instruments on the occasion of someone’s death. It is the last ‘party’ that is thrown symbolically by the dead for the living. Even though Christian Khasis no longer practise Phur, one year from the death of a person, a major commemorative party is thrown complete with a Holy Mass or prayer service for the departed, along with food and drink. This completes the period of mourning for the dead. According to the origin narrative of how the Phur dance began, a boy named Synring and his mother lived peacefully in the Khasi Hills until one day she suddenly died. Synring thus became very lonely. One day when he 9

For a comprehensive take on the negotiations between Khasi Christianity and the indigenous religion see, Lyngdoh, Margaret (2020). Christian and Indigenous Reli­ gious Practices among the Khasis of Meghalaya, India. In: Brill’s Encyclopedia Of The Religions Of The Indigenous People Of South Asia (BERIPSA) (xx−xx). Neth­ erlands: Brill.

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M. Lyngdoh was working in the fields he saw a sow. Thinking that the sow would destroy the crops, Synring shot at it with his arrow. But he wanted this arrow back and so he followed the injured sow and reached the land of the dead. The sow turned out to be his mother who had come to help him. Thus he lived happily with her for a while. But his mother told him that it was not his time to live in that world, and so she told him to go back to the human world. She gave him some drums and musical instruments and told him to collect her bones and place them in the clan ossuary. She fur­ ther asked him to hold a feast and a ceremonial dance which then came to be called Ka Phur Ka Siang (lit., ka is the denominative of the feminine gender; ‘dance and veneration of the dead’). (Lyngdoh 2022b).

The account of the Rashir historical funerary practice was collected from Theocratis Riangtem:10 So, say for instance, an old woman from the Rashir has died. After three days and three nights she sits up, she does not talk to anyone but she sits up. Then the ritual performer of the clan, the clan members and the elder of the family are present there, they make a ritual, you know, like a prayer and then they ask, ‘How many heads do you want?’ Then the ritual per­ former (nong kñia) gestures with his fingers showing one, two, three, etc. If it is three human heads she wants, the corpse falls back. Until the specific number that the corpse wants is gestured, it continues to sit up. There have been cases where even 12 heads have been demanded. Then the ritual per­ former informs the clan that it is so and so number and the clan gathers in great secrecy and they confer saying, ‘She has asked for so many human heads, what shall we do? The Rashir clan now mostly can be found in the Lyngngam area. Most of them are Christian converts, but we hear that some of them still exist (meaning that they still practise the traditional customs) in different places … when we were younger, in winter time, we were afraid to wander around because of the Rashir.… My mother told me that when she was young, it was well known that the Rashir hired people, outsiders, to bring human heads. They had so much power that they would carry the human heads through the villages, and they didn’t care about anyone. We got the smell of decomposing corpse when they went by, but they didn’t care. But now, Madam, they just take a finger, an ear, the nose, etc., in order to sacrifice to their dead. Yes, we have heard that they do it this way now. Now, these Rashir, what they do if one of their clan or family have died, after three days … they do not cremate the corpses…. When someone from the Rashir clan dies, they do not like or allow anyone else from another clan or an outsider to look at the dead body. 10 Theocratis Riangtem, Personal Interview.

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Why this is, or what there is, I don’t know … Rashir keep the death a secret and we have a suspicion that the feeding of the corpse takes place in the presence of other human heads that are procured. Khasi writer, Lostin Lawrence Kharbani11 told me and I quote him: The Rashir were very strong in head hunting and my grand uncle (who was the brother of my paternal grandmother) married into the Rashir clan. My grand uncle became very powerful at headhunting. He died in 1976 or 77. He was from Nongrathaw village. In his time he was the clan leader of the Rashir and very famous. But among the Lyngngam, it is not only the Rashir who have special funerary rituals. The members of the Borchugrei clan are also said to participate in the phenomenon of reanimating corpses. But for the Borchugrei clan, the head hunting and the taking of human lives is done by the reanimated corpse itself. While for the Rashir, every death in the clan requires a sacrifice, among the Borchugrei clan, physical symptoms in the dead body associated with special putrefaction and the swelling of the nose signify the reanimation process. In an honest and difficult conversation with an elder belonging to the Rashir clan, in June 2016, Nattiram Rashir12 talked about the extent to which his family was stereotyped and subjected to discrimination as a result of the dis­ cussion and proliferation of negative sentiments against his clan. Death prac­ tices ascribed to the Rashir clan present a challenge because these narratives are transmitted only with the in-group, in this case, the Lyngngam and Nongtrai and not among other communities of the Khasi. Rosterwell Borchugrei, 67 years old, told me during my fieldwork in June 201613 that the Khie Mangsha (corpse reanimation) only happened to an ancestor once and that it has never occurred again. This contrasts with the accounts which I collected from the inhabitants of other villages who insisted that this reanimation happens whenever a Borchugre dies. In the same con­ versation Rosterwell Borchugre told me about the selective discrimination levelled against them are based on the allegation of the Borchugre clan being outside the Khasi ethnicity, and having special ‘demonic’ qualities. One of the most striking things about this interview was its context where Mr. Rosterwell told me of his brother who was killed in a hate crime associated with mob violence against his clan. These ‘special’ clans like the Rashir, Borchugrey, etc whose death rituals include the processes of corpse reanimation, and histori­ cally situating human sacrifice (see Bareh 2001, Nonglait 2012, Lyngdoh 2022b) have now converted to Christianity and seem to have a radical discontinuity with older practices. 11 Lostin Lawrence Kharbani, Personal Interview. 12 Nattiram Rashir, Personal Interview. 13 Rosterwell Borchugrei, Personal Interview.

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Karbi Rhetoric of Death and Dying: Singing the Pathways of the Dead There is no word in the Karbi language to denote time. Time is relative and subject to conscious or unconscious social processes. The Karbi understanding of time is linked with death; time is not linear. Instead, living and dying are understood as primary parallel states of being which sometimes overlap in special situations. The Karbi view the death state as being a reverse, mirror existence which is similar to life as the living conceive of it. The concept of the restless dead also exists among the Karbi in a way similar to what understood among other communities. People lose life in different ways—illness, accidents, suicides and others. But among the Karbi, the most unacceptable way to die for a human being is to be killed by a tiger. Such a person will be reborn as an animal with special marks and he/she will not gain admittance into the Chom arong or the place of ancestors. Spatially, the place where such an event has occurred will be forever impure, a place of silence and curse—a long le’ kerem; where the earth has been defeated. This is illustrated by a Karbi proverb: long ing reng rey, li ing reng rey—where there is no sound of rice being pounded, where no insect will cry out. Further, the correct per­ formance of death rituals is inextricably linked to the soul’s onward movement to the ritlo pharlo which is the place of a soul whose secondary death rituals have not been performed (Chomangkan) and then finally to the land of ancestors. Among other categories of souls, five kinds of souls are relevant in this con­ text: Karjong is the Karbi term for a dead person’s soul that can reach the vil­ lage of ancestors (chom rongme chom rongso) only after the performance of the Chomangkan death ritual which can take years because of the expenses involved. The second type of soul is the chamburokso which can belong to an ancestor or the third kind of soul—a tirim. Ancestor spirits are not passive entities who were alive once and have become benevolent protectors of the clan. Karbi ancestor spirits appear as engaged and dynamic, interacting with and involved in the process of clan building and clan progress. The vocalisation of the correct chronology of ancestors is vital in a ritual. If a mistake is made, there are heavy repercussions. The fourth kind of soul is the pharlo, which strays from the body during sleep. Dreams are a manifestation of the wander­ ings of a pharlo and it is necessary that that pharlo is able to return to the body, or else the person dies. Karbis thus never sleep with a water jug or a glass of water close to the head, or the pharlo might drown inside it. In case of problems special rituals are carried out to call back the soul. The fifth kind of soul manifests itself when a person dies ‘improperly,’ or has been subjected to a bad death, and his soul is said to inhabit the forests and frightens passers-by without causing them any harm. These are referred to as thi-phalangno. Reincarnation or rebirth is a concept central to Karbi epistemology. Persons belonging to a given clan will be reborn into that clan again. In the time period after death of the person and the performance of the Chomangkan, the soul goes into a place called the Ritlo Pharla which is an in-between place for the

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spirit to be at. The soul can be reborn while it is in the ritlo-pharla. Rebirth, or reincarnation does not conform to the Hinduised notions of rebirth, although there are some analogues. Rebirth can take place so that the soul of a death person can ascend onto that of a living person and make itself known to the family. In such cases, the family has to change the name of the person into that of the spirit who is ‘born’ into the body of the other person. I collected the narrative of an incarnation event from a Karbi scholar and activist Dharamsing Teron in 201314 which involves his family friends: It was in 1975 that Sabin was born to Mary and Mark of Diphu. Being the youngest of four siblings Sabin, was the centre of attention. It was when she was 3 years old that Sabin stopped walking and she became almost lame and had to be put in a cradle for nearly a year. She became sickly, pale, and was not responding to medicines. Her father performed sa-ng­ kelang or divining ritual and found that his daughter needed a name change. But he was reluctant as the name suggested in the divination was Karé. Kare was the first wife of one Robin Terang, a rich and influential man, who mistreated and tortured her. One of the ways in which her hus­ band brutalised her was by tying her to a tree in the family court yard for a long periods. She died most unhappily after giving birth to five children. Before her death, she understood that she would come (be reborn) in twelve different incarnations, each behaving more outrageously except the twelfth when she would be herself, a good woman. The story was known to the close knit family circles and the parents of Sabin were adamant that their little daughter would not be named after Karé. They inquired about Karé’s different incarnations and all were repulsive. But the parents were desperate with witnessing the plight of their 3-year-old daughter. The parents came to know that their daughter, if named Karé would be the twelfth incarnation which gave some hope and accordingly, reluctant though they were, named her as Karé Rongpi. As soon as the ritual of tying of the five strands of yarn, Karé in her new ‘self’ underwent a strange change of personality. She was happy, she began to eat again and doing the fidgety run­ ning around as if nothing had happened to her from the next moment or two. The name change worked and the family members of the woman (eldest son from Karé’s earlier life) was informed who came with gifts and acknowledged that ‘she’ indeed was his mother. In the household of Karé’s earlier birth, they heard strange noises of opening/closing of a box which belonged to Karé. They also got a strange smell of so:ik [Croton caudatus Geiseler (Euphorbiaceae)], used traditionally by old generation Karbi women who colored their teeth black as a beautification process and a preventive of tooth decay. Chomangkan, (or Chomkan, or Karhi), the post-mortem secondary three-day funerary festival, is a celebration of life as much as it is a celebration of death. 14 Dharamsing Teron, Personal Interview.

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It is expressive of Karbi constructs of ambivalence and balance. Within the Karbi religious worldview, two entities, Hi’i and Arnam, are the vernacular equivalents of demon and deity. These two words are spoken together—Hi’iArnam but it is never said in reverse. During the Chomangkan, both manifes­ tations are equally revered and propitiated. The Chomangkan has its origin in the narrative of Thereng Vanreng, of which are existent, several versions. I will outline one version for the purposes of this chapter: The bodyguard of the King, Mai Thengrak, was a person called Bura Bey. His wife’s name was Kasang Ingtipi and his son was There Bey. Bura Bey died while his son was still young. After his death, Kasang Ingtipi carried on by working hard so that she and her son had means and self-sufficiency. When There Bey grew up to a marriageable age, his mother arranged a match for him with Kave Timungpi, a girl hailing from the same village. The match was arranged in the Karbi tradition. With good fortune, Kave and There Bey were in love with one another ever since they were little children. But fate intervened and Kave fell very ill. She summoned her beloved to her bedside and gave him instructions. She said, ‘Dear There, I know that we will not be together in this world and I will depart from here very soon. But here are my instructions and maybe our love can beat death after all. When my corpse will be carried for the cremation, hide in the bushy grove. After the funeral party departs, a wild cat will appear there, which is a messenger from the nether world. If you hold on tight to this animal’s tail. You will able to return to the world of the dead easily. Nothing will harm you … we will begin our life together there.’ As Kave had foreseen, a few days later, she died. After the cremation was over and the funeral party had departed, there was only silence and There Bey at that place. A wild cat appeared suddenly and There Bey caught hold of its tail and, thus he was led into the underworld by the cat. There he met all his dead family members and life in the world of the dead was not much different from the world of the living. People are born, marry and enjoy a normal life. But in order for a soul to be allowed entry into the world of the dead, certain rituals have to performed. There are no exceptions. The inhabitants of the underworld thus taught There bey all that needed to be done for a soul to be allowed into the Chom Arong. Accordingly, There Bey came back to the world of the living and news about the miraculous event spread far and wide. A relationship was thus established between the world of the living and the dead with There Bey as the go between who would impart news to both worlds about the going­ ons on either side. In time, there Bey came to be known as Thi-reng Van­ reng which means, ‘to die-to live, to come-to live. A singular characteristic of the Chomangkan is the singing of the Kacharhe, which is a lament sung only by women known as the charhepi, in order to

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show souls the way back to the place of Karbi origin or the Chom Arong; the village of ancestors. This is a significantly long narrative song sung in various stages during the chomangkan—the words, as well as the melody is believed to take a soul back to the place of origin, analogous with the world of the dead, or the imagined homeland. The concept of heaven and hell is absent in Karbi worldview. I would stress that it is the charhepi whose song, kacharhe leads the soul for the dead into the village of ancestors, or chom arong. This song is sung for three days continuously during the chomangkan. A noteworthy part of this festival that is fast-becoming obsolete in light of new forms of morality through the incursions of new religions (like Christianity and various forms of Hinduism) is the singing of obscene or erotic songs— kapa’er—which also has a narrative origin. It follows that in order to teach the entire human race how to procreate, the deity Sai-Deri incited feelings of irre­ sistible lust among the members of the youth dormitories on their way to a funeral. At the end of the orgy, the elders were angered at finding out what had happened. But the youth leaders explained that it was the fault of the deity SaiDeri. Since then, all restrictions were removed against verbal obscenity during a Chomangkan. There is an overt and obvious sexuality that is displayed during the performance of some of the rituals of the funerary festival. However, at the Chomkan I attended, the participants made a monumental effort to censor all gestures, words and events pertaining to sex and sexuality. It is believed that a Karbi person has to dance at a Chomangkan at least once in his/her lifetime in order to escape from engaging in an incestuous dance in the village of ancestors. The obvious connections between sex and death is thus made explicit through the performance of kapa’er (Teron n.d.). However, there are large-scale conversions among the Karbi to newer religions owing to the heavy cost of traditional rituals. Also, another example of the attraction of other religious movements like the Lokhimon Sangha in Karbi Anglong incor­ porates a healing and medicinal aspect to its religious practice which allows believers to access traditional Indian health care at nominal rates. Thus fol­ lowers get access to Ayurvedic medicines cheaply and the success of healing is attributed to the mercy of Lokhimon.

Concluding Remarks I will conclude with some observations. In the Khasi context, the negotiations and strategies of meaning-making are employed by Christian converts in their negotiations with various denominations of Christianity. Censorship is thus reserved not only towards non converts but also towards followers of other Christian denominations. On one hand, through such processes, non–convert Khasis are ‘othered’ and/or demonised and ostracised by the community. Here, I hypothesise that traditional practices pertaining to death rituals remain on the outside—residues of an earlier belief system that cannot accommodate them anymore. Christianity in this context also remains silent about these practices because these narratives exist outside of the demonising discourse of the

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Church. This is further accentuated by these narratives coming from Christian converts who do not demonise the rituals. The processes that underline stereo­ typing, otherisation, marginalisation, and demonisation present a crucial point in my research. In other instances, I would conjecture that the Church has a tendency to demonise all those practices that lie ‘outside’ the purview of its religious ideology. So why did the ‘Christians’ who were telling me the narratives of spirit propitiation, corpse re–animation, etc. not tell me about these narratives about death in a pejorative manner? Why were the Church members, who I inter­ viewed, not demonising the members of the clan reportedly responsible for head– hunting? In the interviews, there was no condemnation or demonisation of the Rashir clan, to whom are ascribed ‘unnatural’ mortuary practices. These accounts were narrated to me in a non-opinionated manner. These attitudes then present a certain perspective of historicisation and projecting these practices into a past that is perceived as ‘primitive and savage’ and outside of the civilising discourses of modernity, seen as synonymous with Christianity. The Khasi mainstream stereotyping of the Lyngngam—i.e., of Lyngngams being cannibals—are not shared or talked about openly. I infer that there is a fear that if such narratives become common knowledge, it would lead to further stereotyping and marginalisation of a community which is already on the boundary of having the label of ‘non-Khasi’ ascribed to them. So even if there is marginalisation of certain groups inside the community, these modes of mar­ ginalisation appear as insular. The Karbi perspective of mortuary practices and the veneration of ancestors is corroborated by Kareng Ronghangpi where she talks about how places play a role in Karbi mortuary epistemology in a conference paper that details the Karbi enchanted landscape in June 2022: Chomarong is the place that ensures continuity: between the clan in its ‘entirety’ comprising of living and dead kin. The living inhabit the physical reality of Karbi Anglong, and the dead inhabit chomarong. Continuity is established through the frequent travels of the living and the dead to each place as and when the need arises. Places are often constructed in narrative genres such as the charhepi’s laments that depicts the journey of the soul, and in this narrative the names of places and mountains are stream is mentioned which in a way can be understood as a way of in shaping the environment of tradition communities both in their daily surroundings and in the fictional landscapes. There is a notion of interlap when it comes to the village of the living and the village of the dead conferring to the narratives. She notes the cyclic nature of Karbi worldview which ‘recycles’ souls through notions of reincarnation and the adaptation of the traits of ancestors that become part of the living person, in the case of the ancestor being reborn onto a person. Such an event is called amenchi. Personhood changes if an ancestor chooses to come onto the body of a living person as the narrative cited by Dharamsing Teron implies. Death among Karbi and Khasi fulfils the process of transformation from person to ancestor; personhood is thus subsumed into the anonymous category

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of the collective generally known as ancestors. Finally, I would like to turn to the devastating consequences of the divisive function of folklore which serves to separate, isolate and marginalise groups of people based on certain stereotypes and how it becomes exploitative. Talking about the divisive function of folklore of Thlen (a wealth-bringing ‘demon deity’ among Khasi), I reiterated that, ‘Folklore that has such destructive results persists over time only if it is sup­ ported by the social mechanisms that create it and through the transitions that every society experiences’ (Lyngdoh 2015: 184). If expressing social conditions is one of the functions of folklore, then such stereotyping, marginalisation and othering is illustrative of the need in societies to carefully re-evaluate and re-examine their cultural values and norms that allow for and tolerate violence against fellow human beings.

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Tafjord, Bjørn Ola 2017. ‘Towards a Typology of Academic Uses of “Indigenous Religion(s)”, or Eight (or Nine) Language Games that Scholars Play with this Phrase.’ In Greg Johnson and Siv Elen Kraft (eds). Handbook of Indigenous Religion. Leiden: Brill. Wouters, Jelle J. P. (ed.) 2022. Vernacular Politics in Northeast India: Democracy, Eth­ nicity, and Indigeneity. New Delhi: Oxford University Press. Valk, Ülo 2015. ‘Conceiving the Supernatural through Variation in Experience Stories: Assistant Spirits and Were–Tigers in the Belief Narratives of Assam.’ Shaman 23 (1–2): 141–164. Teron, Dharamsing (n.d.). ‘Why Kapa’er, an Erotic Song is Sung During Chomangkan.’ Karbi Anglong Today. www.facebook.com/karbianglongToday/videos/396677059156680/ acces­ sed 21 August 2022.

Personal Interviews 1. Karland Langrin (tradition bearer, school teacher), Personal Interview. Seiñduli Vil­ lage: 4 September 2014. 2. Theocratis Riangtem (school teacher), Personal Interview. Nongmyndo Village: 21 January 2013. 3. Lostin Lawrence Kharbani (Khasi writer), Personal Interview. Shillong city: December 2013. 4. Nattiram Rashir (farmer), Personal Interview. Nongmatsaw Village: June 2016. 5. Rosterwell Borchugrei (school teacher), Personal Interview. Malongkuna Village: June 2016. 6. Dharamsing Teron (Karbi writer, activist and scholar), Personal Interview. Dokmoka Village: April 2013.

4

Imageries of Life and Death The Case of Kombirei1 Rekha Konsam

Shingen madi kanano

Taibangpung-gi leirang natte,

Khamnung pung-gi leirangni

(That flower It is not a flower of this mortal realm It is a flower of the other realm) Leirol composition by Khongnang (Devi, Kh. D 1990: 52)

Introduction The bluish-purple iris flower that grows in the wetlands in the valley of Manipur is known to the Meiteis as kombirei. Appreciated for its beauty and its unusual colour, it is a flower that has come to be closely associated with Cheiraoba, a spring ritual marking the change of a cyclical year. Despite its cultural significance, it is also one that had once been threatened to extinction. It had become such a rare sight that even in the busy Cheiraoba markets, one could only find bits and parts of the plant in the small bunch of flowers made specially for the ritual. This was until concerted efforts were made to re-dis­ cover an appreciation for this flora and re-rooting it into the culture-scape of Meitei indigeneity and tradition. What is interesting in this process is the adoption of a plant hitherto considered ‘wild’ and hence not planted within domestic enclosures now becoming one that graces personal spaces of home gardens. For a flower that was once believed to have been inauspicious and not con­ sidered appropriate to be planted (or confined) within domestic spaces, the call to ‘save’ the indigenous flora appears to have cut across certain cultural cate­ gories. What is ironic is that, while, on the one hand, the symbolism associated with the flower in terms of its ritual and folkloric stature has led to a growing consciousness to conserve it in this region, on the other hand, the changing 1

English translations cited here are by the author in collaboration with Kh. Surendra Singh

DOI: 10.4324/9781003406693-5

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norms in mortuary practices and gradually expanding urban landscape of Imphal have contributed to its near-extinction.

Life, Death and the Ritual of Renewal Spring, in many cultures, is the time for a new beginning, a re-affirmation of sorts. It would not be wrong to conjecture that the most poignant rite of the Meiteis (Hindus as well as non-Hindus) in this season is the Cheiraoba. Observed on different days depending on one’s religious affiliation and with slight variations, the essence of Cheiraoba remains the same across religious affiliation. It is translated as equivalent to the Gregorian New Year because of the fact that it marks the start of the new year, at least broadly speaking. Beyond this broad transliteration, there are disagreements on how it is not just about welcoming a new year. Some of the arguments being weighed on this point refer back to the almanac, while others point to the rites and rituals accompanying the observance of Cheiraoba. Across the divide over religious affiliation – Hindus and non-Hindus – the essence of Cheiraoba as celebration of a new year is preceded by the ominous fact of death looming large over the commencing year. It marks the closing of the old year as much as the beginning of a new year. As much as humans wish for good tidings and symbolically usher in everything that is desirable, the start of the year also brings along the undesirable. It is the natural order of the uni­ verse, where death and life are locked in mutual interrelation. Meitei beliefs hold that human deaths for the coming year are pre-decided. This happens on the eve of Cheiraoba. On this fateful night, the gods note the names of each person on a chei (stick or pole) and a selection is made among the many cheis. Those whose names are on the selected cheis are destined to die the commencing year. It is from this process of selection (and ‘laoba’ or announcement) of sticks/ people among the gods that the name Cheiraoba is derived.2 There is another aspect of this ritual. As a state ritual, the king is absolved and his sins are washed away literally through a ritual bath. His ‘sins’ or moral burdens do not disappear but are passed onto another person who bathes in the same water that absolves the king. This is the man appointed as the year’s Cheithaba. This is an official position and his duty is that of the state chronicler who makes an entry in the state chronicle known as Cheithaba—morally, he takes on the burden of the sins of which the king has been absolved. Dread foreshadows the joy of embarking on a new beginning; every begin­ ning has an end and every end leads to a new beginning. In other words, joy and dread go hand-in-hand. The customary beginning of the new year’s first meal, hence, is a taste of bitterness. This is usually a bite of fresh turmeric with a sprig of brahmi (Indian pennywort)—some families use the fresh young buds of guava leaves for the same purpose. This precedes the lavish meal of the new 2

This segment is known as shingtek-shingthaba and is much more detailed than described herein.

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year that is cooked in every kitchen and shared with the neighbours. The items on the lunch platter include different items of varying flavours—boiled, fried, mashed with chillies, stir-fried, alkaline, seasonal mixed vegetables and fruits (fish and sweets are optional). The spread of food is lavish, as, despite the sharing of kitch­ ens, every home cooks plenty. Food has to be plentiful on this day to foster a year of prosperity and in the hope that there is no lack of it during the coming year. In this ritual of renewal, the offerings primarily consist of seasonal specialties in fruits, vegetables and flowers. Many of the vegetables are not year-long, rather young shoots that are consumed as seasonal items. Among these seasonal fruits, heiri (fruit of rattan cane) is an absolute requirement, but other seasonal fruits also feature prominently. Three flowers merit attention: kombirei (iris), leiri (symplocos), and kusumlei (safflower). Various explanations have been put forth to explain the relation between the three to the ritual. Although, during this period, the Cheiraoba market is customarily flooded with the three flowers, very few actual references link the Cheiraoba ritual to the flower lore or leiron. This link needs to be perhaps posited through a conceptualisation of the ominous or the dreadful. I prefer the term ‘ominous’ rather than the term ‘inauspicious’ that is frequently used and attaches a negative connotation to the kombirei. I elaborate on this further in the following section.

Kombirei and the Tale of Mainu Pemcha The curious mix of hope and dread plays an important part within the popular lore of kombirei that draws on the romantic tragedy of Mainu Pemcha and Borajaoba. In the story, Pemcha is a common girl from a lower social status (community of Konok Bamon). She happened to catch the eye of a nobleman who desired to make her his concubine; but she was already in love with Bor­ ajaoba, a man who was from her own community and of a similar social status. With no way to refuse the nobleman, they planned to elope. They promised to meet under a big tree before daybreak. However, on the appointed day, Bor­ ajaoba failed to show up at the agreed time. As daybreak approached and the cover of darkness was lifted, Pemcha resigned herself to her fate. Refusing to accept the nobleman’s advances, she hung herself on the very tree at the foot of which the lovers were to meet. As it turned out, Borajaoba had been delayed and by the time he reached the rendezvous point, he found Pemcha’s pregnant dead body hanging from the tree. The popular lore of kombirei is a love story that never quite culminates into a ‘happily ever after’ with two lives cut short: that of Pemcha and her unborn baby. The romantic tragedy of Mainu Pemcha is exacerbated by the fact that even in death, her body was not accorded the full honour of a proper crema­ tion. This was a custom of the time in the case of death by suicide, more spe­ cifically for those who had taken their own lives by hanging themselves. In such instances, the body was not cremated but disposed of at particular designated locations. Pemcha’s body was disposed of in an area known as mangarak kanbi near the Langol ranges.

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Mangarak kanbi was a dreaded stretch of wilderness, located a little distance away from residential neighbourhoods. People usually avoided it as much as possible and if one had to pass its vicinity, they mostly preferred to do so during the more ‘social’ hours, before sunset. This was an area that people did not loiter about, but ventured into only for specific purposes. A wasteland once, this was an area in the periphery of the main town of Imphal, the capital of Manipur. Changes in demography and land-usage pattern of a growing urban Imphal also meant spatial expansion and a re-negotiating of spatial notions. The area that was once isolated from residential areas and had remained in the peripheries, both physical and folkloric, now needed to be peopled, even as the wetlands of Manipur were fast disappearing. In the story of Mainu Pemcha, the kombirei flower finds a poignant mention. It is said that when Pemcha had once gone on pilgrimage to the Nongmaijing (Baruni) hills, she caught sight of the flower that bloomed in the swampy foothills in the Yaralpat area. Today, this pilgrimage is an annual event that takes place sometime around February-March: known to Hindu Meiteis as Baruni and to non-Hindus as Chingoi Iruppa. People embark on the pilgrimage the evening before, after taking a dip, and reach the shrine at the hill to offer prayers early the coming morning. The story goes that, enroute, Pemcha caught sight of the iris whose habitat was the Yaralpat wetlands. She took some sap­ lings and planted them in her own neighbourhood of Lamphelpat, another wetland area. Thus, it is said that the flower found a new habitat through her. Folklore also has it that when Pemcha died and her body was disposed of, the flower sprang up at the exact spot where her body had been disposed. The story of Mainu Pemcha has been made even more popular with its adaptation into a radio drama and into a film with the title Kombirei, as well as immortalised through a song that posits the flower as located in Lamphelpat and Yaralpat. This connection has been so firmly embedded within popular imaginary that these two wetlands are now seen as the ‘natural’ habitat of the Kombirei.

Flower from the Land of the Dead In the performer Khongnang’s leiron composition for Khongjom Parva (a kind of story telling) performance, Kombirei is a flower that was originally brought into the human world from the other world. To be more specific, the term used is khamnung referring (with greater immediacy) to the world of the dead. In that immortal realm, it blooms as a pristine white flower but after it was brought into the mortal realm, it blooms with a bluish-purple tinge ‘coloured’ by the trappings of the human world. According to Khongnang’s leiron, Kombirei was brought into the mortal realm by Khamnung Yaiding. She was the last wife of Thongaren, Lord of Khamnung. She wished to have a taste of mortality but her husband refused her, stating that humans are characterless and fickle—that theirs was a world of lies and deception, of death and diseases. He expressed his

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fear that spending time in that realm, she might herself be tempted to change her ways. Yaiding would, however, not be persuaded. She persisted in her request until Thongaren acceded, inspite of his reservations. Thongaren pointed to a white flower and told Yaiding that it is the flower of the immortal realm of Khamnung. He told her that when this white flower turned black, it would signify that she had had a change of heart and had become adrift from the ways of the immortal realm. Yaiding reiterated that she sought only to experience the mortal realm and promised not to be tainted by it. To remind herself of this promise and to ensure that she did not veer away from her celestial path, she asked for a sapling of the plant so that she could carry it with her on her sojourn. Yaiding descended to the mortal world with the sapling. She planted it in the land of Kege-Moirang along the Loktak Lake and took off to experience her now mortal existence. She entered the birth cycles of mortal beings. In Moirang, in the land of the god Thangjing, she was born as a human and embarked on the path of love and attachment as part of human life. While Yaiding was thus absorbed in her mortal life, the sapling that she had planted grew to maturity and was ready to bloom. The poet describes the flower with similes: the stalks are compared to a young woman’s calves; the downwardturned petals are like the smooth shuttles of a weaving loom; the flower bud is reminiscent of the slender human fingers and when it spreads out in full bloom, it is the colour of the season’s first rain-laden clouds that are just about to fall and bear streaks of copper. It blooms along with the season’s first flush of rain (the premonsoon showers). The flower that bloomed from the sapling planted by Yaiding was no longer white, its colour had darkened. In other words, Khamnung Yaiding had had a change of heart and had broken the promise made to Thongaren. Because the flower bore witness to her words to Thongaren, on realising the change that had come within her, the flower came to be so named as ‘konbirei’ (konba hugging, rei/lei flower). Shabi Shanou kayagi Nungshi nungngol tengthalei Nuja pukning huba lei Khamnu thongngarenbu kon touduna thamlammi haibagi Leirang koloi mamingthon Ema Loidamlei loidam nawa konbirei Takyel patki Kondonlei Meitei sana leibakta sin thungna saatpa lei Leirang Konbirei.

To many a lover A flower in the dialogue of love and agony A flower of breathtaking beauty Hugging Khamnung Thongaren endearingly And so it came to be named. Born embraced by the mother, the child kombirei The saplings of the flower are Like the jasmine of Takyel wetlands, It blooms across hugging the Meitei land, The flower Konbirei Devi, Kh. D (1990: 55)

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Moorings of the Landscape Kombirei! Kombirei! Yaralpat ki kombirei! Paima pukning nungollei Momon nokliye Pakhong chanliye

Kombirei! Kombirei! Kombirei of Yaralpat! (flower) that makes a heart flutter Smiling softly Posing a riddle

The above lines from the title song of the feature film Kombirei (1989), pro­ duced and directed by G. Narayan Sharma, have remained popular since it was first released 33 years ago. It has influenced popular imagination of the Kom­ birei and its natural habitat as located in the wetlands of Yaralpat, and later, at Lamphelpat. This was fed by the already existing lore of Mainu Pemcha which seemed to have been revived within popular imagination through the vivid moving images, poetry and music of the film. As popular as this song has been in associating the two wetlands as the Komberei’s habitat, the lyrics are other­ wise framed as hopeful dreams of a blooming romance and say little about the flower that stands witness to it. The song has managed to thus establish the flower in the locales of Yaralpat and Loktakpat to this day within popular imaginary. The flower used to be sighted growing in the wild in these areas for a long time, thereby further emphasising this association within popular imagination. However, as per the Leiron lore, the Kombirei is said to be located in the vicinity of Loktak Lake making it its initial habitat (Singh 1971; Devi 1990). Kegegi lamdi lamnungshi Moirang gi lamdi iwaikon Loktak pat ki ithak ipom kijei haibagi matagum Konna chikna konsinbi Guru taretna yarou saji sangai gi mawong louraga Tasinduna thupkhiba mapham Moirang tashigon na konba lam Maram thumkhongna chingba lam Kaoren sidabi Langnubigi yawa kangyeipham Hanouna leng-leng chat Pulleina sabuk yeiba lamsida Khamnung yaidingna leirang tharammi Shingnang kangbi thangda Moirang leikai lakla marangyaida Taibang langon oikhido

Beloved land of Kege The land of Moirang As though fearful of the Loktak waves Gathering unto itself The seven gurus taking the form of the sangai deer Had gone into hiding Surrounded by the grasslands of Moirang The land gathering around the salt well regions The meeting ground of goddess Langnubi Where the tender foliage frolics In the land lush with the pullei plant Khamnung Yaiding planted the sapling Among the stalks of shingnang plants Then she set off to Moirang localities To take human birth Devi (1990: 54)

In the above passage, the poet describes the geography of the location where Yaiding descended and planted the sapling that she had brought with her. It is

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the beloved land of Kege-Moirang (the two words are used to refer to the same area, unless otherwise differentiated). It is an area exposed to the waves of the Loktak lake—not in its midst, but in its periphery where the waves are able to reach. The lake is the place where the seven wise men went into the waters preparing to leave the mortal realm. This is the place where the Sangai, the brow-antlered deer, inhabits. The area home to the Sangai is the region where the swampy wastelands of the Moirang grassland spread out. It is the region where salt wells are also found. In this area, the tender foliages of the hanou grass wave and the pullei (an edible plant of the zingera beraceae family) grows thick. The sapling was planted among the stalks of shing­ khang, a reed-like grass. The idea here is that it grows not in the water, but along the swampy edges. The references drawn here are specific and embedded in ecological and cul­ tural knowledge brought together through poetry—a technique neither new nor unique to this one poem, but one often used within Manipuri literature. The ‘seven gurus’ refers to the seven gods that figure prominently in the creation of the universe. They are tasked with helping the creator god. Meitei belief holds that following the time of creation, these seven gods went into hiding. They disappeared. In ‘hiding’ themselves, they took a different form. This was that of the Sangai deer, known to the world as the brow-antlered deer and more popularly referred to as the dancing deer. Herein is contained the geographical description that locates the Sangai’s natural habitat as the floating phumdi grass, and also the reason why it is referred to as the dancing deer. It also speaks of the reverence attached to the Sangai within Meitei lore and how it came to be regarded as a sacred animal. Thupkhiba is a respectful term to refer to the event of death or passing on. In the context of the creation myth, it is used to refer to the separation of humans and spirits into two different realms of existence. Unrelated and unmentioned within these flower lore lyrics, one is also reminded of the sevenmaichou (high priests) who are believed to have disappeared into the waters of the Loktak while performing an appeasement rite meant to save the land from an impending catastrophe. The story goes that these maichou had gone, prepared for the catastrophe. However, the magnitude of the cata­ strophe being very high, it is said, that all the seven high priests lost their lives. These deaths have been open to multiple readings and different inter­ pretations have been forwarded. Some say that they disappeared and that their bodies were never found, others connect it to conspiracies and secrets that involve those in power, and yet others link it to the mysterious ways of the world and the power of the infinite that works in myriad ways within the lives of people. What remains sacred is the site of Loktak not just as a natural lake, but also as a place of death and commemoration. The hanou foliage around the Loktak is also said to wave gracefully and beckon to passers-by to spend a moment in its green serenity. The hanou is a particularly favourite fodder for cattle, while the tender shoots of the pullei plant are a popular seasonal

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vegetable relished during springtime. A major source of this vegetable for the valley dwelling Meiteis has been the areas surrounding the Loktak, more spe­ cifically the Mayang Imphal and Keibul Lamjao areas. It is intriguing how images of death, life and life-sustaining elements are brought together and interweaved with the story of the origin of Kombirei as it remains rooted at the physical location of the Loktak area. This can further be juxtaposed to the concept of water as the source of life within Meitei worldview—an idea highlighted in the Lai Haraoba ritual (Konsam 2016).

Imagery of Life and Death Mikhail Bakhtin (1984) in his work on folk culture addresses the idea of a car­ nival. In doing so, he draws attention to a painting that he finds particularly striking. This is the painting of a grinning pregnant old woman giving birth. It is grotesque to many. Bakhtin, however, sees it in a different light; for him, the painting seems to embody the very ‘essence’ of the carnivalesque. He points out how the old woman represents life at its end, while her pregnancy and birthing indicate a life that is just about to begin. It also points to the quintessential ‘carnivalesque laughter’ that is embedded in folk humour—a laughter that is impersonal. The dictates of ‘official culture,’ as per Bakhtin’s use of the term, is such that the idea of an old woman being pregnant is something ‘unimaginable,’ some­ thing ‘shameful’ and ‘grotesque.’ But, in this painting, the woman is not just pregnant; she seems to be grinning rather than be ashamed. Much like the car­ nival, the painting symbolically turns the world upside down and thereby highlights the imposed order of society. The pregnant woman giving birth presents a contrasting imagery to that of a youthful pregnant Pemcha left hanging on a tree at day-break. Whereas the old woman represents life at its end with the baby being born as marking a new beginning, Pemcha and her unborn baby represent life that has been cut short. It is a forlorn picture of lives that have not lived their course—one cut short in its prime and another yet to begin, a potential life. Perhaps, Pemcha’s narrative can also be read as one that goes against ‘official culture,’ to use a Bakhtinian term. The clown becomes the king and vice-versa, the orders of the known world being turned upside down during the carnival— Pemcha subversively rejects the approach of the nobleman and instead becomes pregnant with her lover’s child. Unlike the carnivalesque however, Pemcha’s subversion is short-lived and ends in death for both her and the unborn child. As a new day breaks in, it is not light that she sees following her carnivalesque interlude and subversion. She instead sees darkness, and unwilling to perhaps face it, she hangs herself. The story of Mainu Pemcha remains commemorated as folklore. Interestingly, it is also believed to be based on a real story that took place during the reign of Maharaj Chandrakirti (1850–1886). Other local folklorists have dated the lore to a later period, sometime around the Anglo-Manipuri War of 1891, and the power

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struggle between the Karta brothers in the period following Chadrakirti’s reign up to the crowning of Churachand in 1891 by the British. The historical origins of the lore may have been suppressed as it involved people in positions of power. Although these historical details cannot be ascertained, the lore is believed to be based on people and events that actually took place. Despite the threat posed by officialdom, the story of Mainu Pemcha has survived as a ‘tale,’ a folklore without a personalised signatory ‘author’ and as narrated to anyone who cares to listen. It has been passed down in subversive ways by obliter­ ating certain parts so as not to invite the ire of those in power; until its re-emerging through new mediums such as stage drama, radio drama (audio), literature (books) and films (AV). Ironically, Mainu Pemcha was the title of the first attempt to make a feature film in Manipuri. This was in 1948, but the film never saw the light of day. It was only in 1972 that Manipur saw its first film in the form of Matamgi Manipur. Meanwhile, Kombirei, the feature film, was released only in 1989.

Death and the Romantic Speak Within Meitei worldview, romance has a distinct place. In the Lai Haraoba rituals, the lore of Panthoibi and Nongpok Ningthou are points of reference bringing together the various themes of creation. Although this is not a straight­ forward story, it contains certain romantic elements within it. A romantic theme also marks the mortuary hymns: Mamang Leikai thambal Sat-le Khoimuna ille khoiraba Sabi lao lao chatsi lao Kallakpa yammi kanjaoba yammi Mangda tharo lao. Lansonbi gi lamyaida Monnuna ware pot-thaba Ipam lamdam yenglubadi Pammuba lamdam tamhoure Chekla paikhrabana Pombi hanjinlakpada Chekla-gi kaidongpham khangdabana Pombi kakngaonare Saabi ene-macha pammubi Chingnung-gi sana lok-tagi paibiraklone

The lotus is blooming in the east The drone has started hovering Come, my beloved, let us set off Many are envious, many are jealous Lead the way Midway through the path of Lansonni The monnu bird gets tired and takes respite Looking back at one’s natal home The beloved land is far away The bird has taken flight And when it comes back It has no place to perch on The bird feels lost Dearly beloved, From the depths of the golden gorges in the hills Fly back

The above lines are often thought of as romantic on first read. It tells of a long taxing journey made by two lovers. The lovely lotus bearing a certain cultural value is blooming, and, attracted by it, the ‘selfish,’ ‘obnoxious’ flirta­ tious drone hovers over it. This can also refer to young women and men respectively. Leaving behind all these, the lover encourages his beloved to go with him. As they go on their journey, the beloved looks back lovingly to the place they have left behind, their natal home, far off in the distance. Having

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left, the beloved cannot return back to the same place for the place is no longer there. However, in the final line, the lover is no longer with the beloved. He asks that she return to her native place. In Meitei literature (including folk, oral, ritual literature), words/prose/poetry can have multiple meanings, allowing one to read them in different ways, although the context may not always be clear unless one knows the subtext. The above lines are part of a mortuary hymn. Romantic speak, when read in the context of the dead and the departed, is about the journey of the departed soul as the beloved, and the lover as an infinite power to whom all lives ulti­ mately return. The hovering drone around the lotus flower are references to all worldly attractions. The bird that has flown is the soul that has left the body, and, once the two have been separated, it cannot go back to it again. The soul is hence bereft. It can only return to life after re-emerging (rebirth) again from the darkness of death. Darkness, within Meitei worldview, is the beginning as much as it is the end (Singh 1987). Geschiere (1997) warns us against the problems in translation from one language to another. It needs to be emphasised here that darkness, within Meitei conceptualisation, does not necessarily stand in opposition to light, in the way that black and white do in the Christian world. Night and Day are not locked in binary opposition; the darkness of night is the end of the day and it is from this darkness that the next day emerges. The day itself is divided into two parts—the emerging first half when the sun is on the ascent, and the second half when it is in descent. The three parts of a day are conceptualised as three gurus—Mangang, Luwang and Khuman. In terms of colour symbolism, Mangang represents the day during its ascent; its colour is a bright red (with hints of yellow). Luwang represents the day during its descent; its colour is white, reminiscent of the midday when the phase begins. Khuman is the night with the colour amuba (black). The fact that cultural perception of colour varies is not new. As such, it is important to note that amuba translated as ‘black’ into English, does not con­ tain the full cultural import of the word in Meitei. Within the Meiteilon speaking populace, the term amuba is used to refer to all dark shades generally, and specifically, to blue. Hence, lei amuba (black flower) often refers to the rich blue butterfly pea (aparajita) flower. Similarly, the bluish-purple of Kombirei is referred to as hinting towards amuba and hence the descriptions of the dark rain-laden skies. This makes more sense if we approach colour as a part of a classificatory system. The three colours referenced here correspond to the triad noted by Victor Turner (1970). Looking back into the three flowers of Cheir­ aoba, one would notice that they are also of the same triad—Kombirei as the dark/black; Leiri as the white and Kusumlei as the ochre/red, thus providing a triadic colour scheme. Death and diseases are characteristic of mortal existence, but so are love and desire. In contemporary Manipur, one often comes across the expression punshi gi lanpham (lit., ‘struggle for living’). The phrase refers to the struggle for life as being war-like. As against this, taibang kumhei is an expression that is more

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frequently used in a mythological context where mortal existence is seen as something appealing to the gods. Theirs is an eternal realm: there is no death, greed, and so on. It is an immortal world full of virtues and goodness. It is qualitatively different from the mortal world. The mortal realm is replete with struggles, suffering, deceit, illness and death—just as Thongaren tells Yaiding. Nonetheless, it is a world of apam­ nungshi—desire, want, attachment, love, loss, longing, sentiment, jealousy and envy. There is no knowing when death may stake its claim. It is unpredictable, a world where mortality makes one’s experiences more intense, because of the finitude of this life. Hence, it is also a world that charms even spirits and gods and tempts them to try and experience its ‘trappings.’ The tragic romance associated with Kombirei is not just the ill-fated lore of Mainu Pemcha, but also of Yaiding and Thongaren. Yaiding has a change of heart after savouring mortality; of this, the colour of the flower stands testi­ mony. On the other hand, for Mainu Pemcha, the flower is testimony to the unfulfilled love accompanying her even to death, when it springs sporadically at the site where her corpse is disposed of. Thus, in Meitei culture, Kombirei becomes associated with broken promises, shattered dreams and unfulfilled love. These associations mark the flower as an ominous one, that is not con­ sidered fit to be grown in one’s homestead, much less to be presented or worn as an adornment. The ‘ominous’ ness surrounding the Kombirei is given emphasis through its association with death by suicide. As mentioned before, not all deaths are accorded the full honour of mortuary rites in the traditional Meitei custom. Deaths are differentiated; specifically, in case of suicide deaths where the technique or means of disposal of the corpse is different. Durkheim (1952) in his classic tract on ‘Suicide’ mentions how different means used to kill oneself can have different meanings within society. It is outside the purview of this chapter to comment at length on how different modes of death are differ­ entiated and the kind of mortuary rites customarily sanctioned, based on these modes. In Pemcha’s case, it was suicide by hanging. Traditionally, such deaths were not accorded customary rites, although, today, things have changed.

Contemporary ‘-Scapes’ and Re-rooting Kombirei: Domestication of a Wildflower Until a few years back, there was a time when the Kombirei flower had almost but disappeared. Even in the Cheiraoba market, the flower was hard to find, in spite of it being a special item and the highlight of the season. Where the flower had become rare, the leaves were used as substitutes within ritual offerings. And yet, for all its beauty and literary adulation, it remained a plant that was inauspicious. It was excluded from the list of plants that could be cultivated within the domestic space of private gardens. In itself, the idea that some plants are not to be planted within domestic com­ pounds while others are allowed, can be understood vis-à-vis a classificatory

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system that has as much to do with cultural categories as with floriculture (Goody 1993). Until recently, Kombirei largely remained a wildflower that flourished in the wetlands in and around the Imphal valley as its natural habitat. In the wild, how­ ever, with no one to particularly care for it and the demand of a growing popula­ tion accumulating in the valley, it did not fare well. It was threatened. In 2008, the well-known Manipuri popular musician Sanaton started the Kombirei Garden at Yaralpat with the expressive intent of promoting the flower that had been threatened to near-extinction. It is said that he started with one sapling and propagated it in such a way, that it has now become a sight to behold every spring. Sanaton’s inspiration was the poignant place that the flower had in Manipuri culture. This served as a call to many others and helped popularise the flower. It encouraged people to plant it in their own domestic gardens. Conjoined with the call to sustain ‘tradition’ and ‘indigeneity,’ many gardening enthusiasts started planting it in small containers in their home gardens. From once being threatened to extinction, the Kombirei is now celebrated and flourishing. It is no longer a wildflower, but through its cultural and botanical resurgence has assumed a place of pride in many domestic compounds; also, sui­ cides (by hanging or otherwise) are now accorded full mortuary rites. These changing ‘-scapes,’ as used by Appadurai (1996), have given a new lease of life to Komberei, both in terms of its cultural value as well as its botanical resurgence.

References Appadurai, Arjun 1996. Modernity at Large: Cultural Dimensions of Globalization. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press. Bakhtin, Mikhail M. 1984. Rabelais and His World. (Tr. Helene Iswolsky). Bloo­ mington: Indiana University Press. Devi, Kh. D. 1990. Leirol. Kakching: People’s Museum. Durkheim, Emile 1952. Suicide: A Study in Sociology. (Tr. John A. Spauld). New York: Free Press. Geschiere, Peter 1997. The Modernity of Witchcraft: Politics and the Occult in PostColonial Africa. Charlottesville, VA and London: University Press of Virginia. Goody, Jack 1993. The Culture of Flowers. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Jones, Nicola 2017. Do You See What I See?www.sapiens.org/language/color-perception/ Konsam, R. 2016. Cultural Contestation within the Lai Haraoba in Manipur. Unpub­ lished PhD Dissertation. Delhi University, Delhi. Narendra, M. and A. Chitreshwar 1995. Leirol Tengtha. Imphal. Singh, L. Bhagyachandra 1987. Philosophy of Meitei Religion Before the Advent of Vaishnavism. Manipur. Taussig, Michel 2003. ‘The Language of Flowers.’ Critical Inquiry 30 (1): 98–131. Singh, R. K. Sanahal 1971. Leirol. Imphal. Turner, Victor 1970. Forest of Symbols: Aspects of Ndembu Ritual. Ithaca and London: Cornell University Press.

5

The Death Rituals An Analysis of the Socio-Religious

Practices of Death in Bodo Society

Junmani Basumatary and Sudev Chandra

Basumatary

Introduction Rituals vary according to society and community. They have various meanings depending on the context, ranging from social to religious. Rituals are, in many ways, the formal performance of a ceremony, usually done in the same way over and over with few variations across time and space. ‘A rite is a religious or other solemn ceremony or act, and a ritual is a religious or other solemn cere­ mony made up of a series of actions done in a particular order, such as the fertility rituals of the past,’ according to the Oxford Dictionary. As a result, religion and ritual are inextricably linked. A ritual is a specific way that a ceremony is performed, whereas a rite is a more general term for a ceremony. Human life consists of a series of transitional rites known as rites de pas­ sages. Every change of place, state, social position, and age is accompanied by rites de passage. According to Arnold Van Gennep: A person’s life in society is a series of transitions from one age to another and one occupation to another. Transitions from one group to the next and from one social situation to the next are regarded as inherent in the very fact of existence, so that a man’s life becomes a series of stages with similar ends and beginnings: birth, social puberty, marriage, fatherhood, advance­ ment to a higher class, occupational specialisation, and death. There are ceremonies for each of these events, and their primary purpose is to allow the individual to move from one well-defined position to another equally well-defined position. (Van Gennep 1960: 2–4) As stated by Van Gennep, a person’s life in any society is a series of changes from one age to the next. People believe that transitioning from one group to another, and from one social situation to the next, is a normal part of life. As a result, an individual’s life is viewed as a series of stages with similar beginnings and endings, such as birth, social puberty, marriage, motherhood, social class advancement and death. There are ceremonies for each of these, and their pri­ mary goal is to help the person move from one clearly defined position to DOI: 10.4324/9781003406693-6

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another. Because the goal is the same, it stands to reason that the routes to get there must be similar, if not identical (Van Gennep 1960: 2–4). Life unfolds in a cyclical order. Van Gennep explains that death is one of several life cycle orders that require ritual observance (Van Gennep 1960: xvii). Death rituals or mortuary rites begin with a person’s death. This cycle may be described using the Hindi phrase Aanth hi Arambh hain (the end is the beginning). In every society, death as a distinct ritual is performed differently. ‘Death ritual, like much of human behaviour, is an expression of a cultural blueprint, of attitudes, values, and ideals,’ writes Cohen (n.d.). Catherine Bell in Ritual Theory, Ritual Practice (2009) describes rituals as ‘action’ or ‘performance’ separating these from religion and beliefs. As a result, it is a ‘particularly thoughtless action-routinised, habitual, obsessive, or mimetic-and, as such, the purely formal, secondary, and mere physical expres­ sion of logically prior ideas.’ According to Edward Shil, however, who is cited by Bell, ‘beliefs could exist without rituals; rituals, on the other hand, could not exist without beliefs’ (Bell 2009: 19). According to Barry Stephenson: Ritual is used in three distinct but related ways. First, ritual is conceived of as a collection of activities. Second, in scholarship, ritual is described as a cultural domain, arena, stage, or field in and out of which people act and are acted upon … ritual is sometimes presented as an ideal type, a mode of interaction and engagement with the world. Third, ritual is sometimes regarded as an actor in and of itself. Ritual has force, power, efficacy, or agency as a medium. (Stephenson 2015: 70) The term ‘ritual’ remains closely associated with religion. Ritual has frequently been misconstrued as religion in popular parlance. Ritual, according to Cohen, is a behaviour. It is both personal and private behaviour, as well as social behaviour. Solidarity rituals are exemplified by a sick patient praying for strength to endure pain and a soldier praying for protection while subject to bombardment. Accord­ ing to Anthony Wallace (as quoted by Cohen), ‘ritual is religion in action.’ For Lessa William (as cited by Cohen), ritual generally necessitates a sacred context. However, the primary requirement is that it be accompanied by sentiments, values, and beliefs that go beyond the utilitarian. Ritualistic behaviour is defined as habi­ tual, socially sanctioned, symbolic, and devoid of practical consideration. Cohen cites Max Gluckman, who emphasises the social aspects of ritual and the impor­ tance of supernatural sanctions in enforcing conformity. The performance of pre­ scribed actions, with the expectation that the behaviour will express and amend social relationships and help to secure mystical blessing, purification, protection, and prosperity, is referred to as ‘ritualisation’. Certain cultural settings have been observed to change over time. Jacqueline S. Thursby reveals how mortuary practices in America have evolved over time.

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‘Ritual responds to change, usually formulaic according to the belief system or cultural practices followed’ (Thursby 2006: 17). Death rituals are inextricably linked to a society’s religion. These are structured and patterned. All rituals are observed in a structured manner, pre-planned by a society or community. Rites and rituals can be found in a society that has established spatial boundaries. Death studies provide a wealth of cultural and individual behaviourial knowl­ edge. Collective countenance instils in the human mind a desire to comprehend cultural and social practices. ‘It leads to people’s notions of gods, souls, wit­ ches, spirits, and after worlds,’ Cohen says. It promises access to their beliefs, value systems, and social and moral worldviews (Cohen n.d.). Drawing upon these theoretical frameworks, this chapter focuses on death rituals from a socio-religious standpoint. It examines Bathouism’s account of ritual practices in Bodo society and descriptions of mortuary practices within a contemporary context. Research by Durkheim, Hubert, Mauss, and Hertz have focused primarily on a narrow range of data pertaining to a small region. Durkheim studied Australian totemism; Hubert and Mauss examined Hindu and Hebrew sacrificial rites; and Hertz studied Indonesian mortuary rites, pri­ marily among the Dayak peoples (Hertz 1960: 14). In this chapter, Bodo rituals have been studied as located within a clearly defined cultural region, where cultural practices have been examined within the context of the ideas and practices generating these. The authors have also used secondary sources in their study of Bodo death rituals and funerary procedures. The primary sources were gathered through convenient sampling and unstructured interviews.

Bathouism, Bodo Ritual and Customary Law In Bodo society, oral tradition is kept alive through folk tales, chants, and verses. This tradition forms the basis of Bodo customary laws, beliefs and tra­ ditions, all of which have an impact on day-to-day life. Fathwi Lai Bisinai (tearing of the battle leaf to mean divorce), the number of Bathou Asar-Khanti (principles to rule the society) that have been orally transmitted, rules of hunt­ ing and hunting-related chants and folk song, the Bwirathi (a group of women to welcome the bride and groom) system, the rules of house construction, sea­ sonal festivities, marriage rituals, birth-related rituals, etc. are all enshrined within the customary laws. That are transmitted orally.1 Bathou has been practised by the Bodo for eons. The term Bathou is derived from the name of the supreme deity Bathoubrai (Boro 2014). It revolves around the worship of 18 pairs of gods and goddesses such as Mwnsinsin bwrai— Mwnsinsin burwi, Si Bwrai—Si Burwi, and others. The word Ba means ‘Five,’ and the word Thou means ‘Deep.’Bathou is a compound word that refers to the five deep spiritual elements of creation that every devout member of the race must follow. In their religious functions and festivities known as Kherai and Garza, they worship Bathoubrai and other gods and goddesses (Boro 2014: 11). 1

Surath Narzary, Personal Interview.

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Close examination reveals that Bathouism or its philosophy is numerologically linked with the number ‘five.’ Typically, the Bodo do not have a fixed place of worship, such as a temple. The Bathou religion does not practise idol worship. They honour Bathou by growing a Sijou plant (Euphorbia Splendens) and erecting an altar in their home. However, they have recently begun construction of a Bathou temple for worship. Through encounters and amalgamations with other ethnic groups, the Bodo traditional religion has undergone some changes over time. ‘The tradi­ tional religion of the Bodo provides an interesting example of the fusion of pan Indian religious traditions and specific ethnic or primitive religious traditions,’ according to Anil Boro. Today, a sizable number of Bodo have converted to Christianity and to different sects of Hinduism (Boro 2014: 13). Rituals within Bodo society revolve as much around religion as they do around geographical location. Within the Bodo, locational variation has also led to a variation in the observance of rituals revolving around death. Bathou rituals are distinct from Brahma Dharma. The Bodo simultaneously practise Brahma Dharma, which is closely related to Hinduism, wherein believers pri­ marily offer Jyagya-huti to their god (Brahma 2001; Banerjee 2006). Bathou is also distinct from Christianity which, as mentioned above, has been becoming increasingly popular among some members of the Bodo community.2 The Bodo, who worship many gods and goddesses, practise a variety of rituals. Seasonal, agricultural, and religious festivals such as Bwisagu, Kherai, and Garza are observed (Boro 2014: 13, 43). Similarly, the most important rituals and ceremonies associated with their life cycles are birth, death and marriage. At the beginning of all ceremonies, the Bodo offer worship to Bathou as their prime god; and these rituals derive their sanction from Bathouism.

Death Ritual and Method of Disposal of the Dead Death rituals are an integral part of the Bodo society. Although the Bodo follow their own traditions, the spread of Hinduism has had an impact on their traditional rites, rituals, and ceremonies. This was owing to their proselytisa­ tion to Brahma Dharma at the turn of the 20th century. Although some of the

2

The Bodo had established powerful kingdoms during the ancient and medieval period, under several names, and in numerous locations throughout northeastern India. Some of them included the Asuras, Danavas, Salasthambas, Burmanas, Chu­ tiyas, Koches, Kacharies, and Tiprahs. Brahmanism coaxed the Bodo kings into Sanskritisation. The Bodo kings declared themselves avatars of the Hindu god Vishnu in order to legitimise their political authority. However, their subjects did not convert and continued to hold on to the traditional beliefs and practices. Fol­ lowing these kings, the emergent middle class became saranias after being prosely­ tised into the neo-Vaishnavite religion, and this was followed by another wave of proselytisation to Christianity through British colonial encounter in Assam in 1826. Later, Gurudev Kalicharan Brahma spear headed the Bodo revivalist consciousness under the name Brahma Dharma.

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rituals and rites underwent transition due to the spread of Brahma Dharma, they were not altogether erased. James Hastings looks at death as a ‘total cessation and the last crisis of human beings.’ It affects not only humans, but all living things on the planet. According to conventional wisdom, when life ends, the soul must depart from the body (Hastings 2001: 415). The Bodo term Thwinai refers to death as the final journey of a living being. In the Bodo language, death is referred to as Hang-Wngkharnai, meaning the departure of the life breath. The funeral rites of the Bodo society follow a specific procedure. This set of funerary rites is known as Gwthwigarnai, which translates as ‘throwing away the dead.’ Three customs are common among the Bodo. Some bury their dead, known as Gwthwifobnai; while others burn them, known as Gwthwisaonai; and a third group simply transports the corpses to the burial ground and leaves them there, known as Landangwigarnai. The Landangwigarnai is followed only in rare cases and in specific situations (Narzary 2020: 112). The cremation of dead bodies is a more recent phenomenon among the Bodo. This was adopted after the spread of Brahma Dharma. Today, this is mostly followed by the Hindu converted Bodo,3 as the oldest methods of disposing of dead bodies involved openly throwing the bodies as well as burial. The emphasis in this particular study will be on the burial of the dead body or Gwthwifobnai. According to Hodgson, the Bodo used to bury the dead in graves; however, permanent graveyards were not common due to the Bodo’s migratory habits (Hodgson 1847: 179). Endle mentions both burial and cremation practices (Endle 2010: 79). Gwthwisali is the Bodo term for a cemetery or a cremation site. It appears that the Bodo did not invent the concept of a graveyard or of cremation very long ago. They used to bury the dead in a field or in the jungle far from the village (Narzari 2014). This suggests that burying dead bodies in graveyard was uncommon and not widely practised within Bodo society. They believed, however, that they had designated areas where dead bodies could be openly thrown.4 Settled agriculture gradually led to permanent human settle­ ment patterns in the form of villages. The villagers then began the Bathouism­ based practice of burying dead bodies. Gwthwibari, the Bodo’s permanent graveyard or cremation ground, where they bury or cremate dead bodies, is currently located at a considerable distance from village dwellings. Usually, the Bodo built their cemeteries near rivers so that their traditional death rituals could be performed quickly. There are various interpretations of what befalls an openly thrown dead body. If it is not consumed by wild animals, it is assumed that the deceased person sinned while alive, which is why even wild animals do not consume the dead body (Bargayary and Singh 2019: 444–445). Another belief holds that the dead person’s body is left at the intersection of the three borders, known as 3 4

Derhasat Narzary, Personal Interview. Surath Narzary, Personal Interview.

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Simamwntham, and that wild animals are unable to consume it. Whenever this happened, the deceased’s family members would go to the location and gently move the body. Another belief was that if the deceased had more than three Gwrjiyabijamadwi (matrilocal sons-in-law), wild animals would not eat (Narzi 2003: 97). There is another custom prevalent within Bodo society, dealing with the dead bodies of people who have committed sins or anyone who has been socially boycotted. Their corpses are thrown in the jungles. With the passage of time, the older method of disposing of a dead body, i.e., openly throwing the body, has been abandoned (Bargayary and Singh 2019: 444). Instead, the Bodo began to prefer the burial of a deceased’s body, even as those co-opted by Hinduism preferred cremation. The disposal of the dead body is carried out immediately after a person dies. It is associated with a number of formal rituals. The three primary functions of the last rites of death and mourning are as follows—first, the disposal of the deceased’s physical body; second, allowing the deceased’s soul to begin its journey from the land of living to the land of resting; and third, the restoration of social relationships between the deceased and those who survive, something that has been disrupted by the physical event of death (Bargayary and Singh 2019). When a person is discovered or declared dead, the bereaved family informs the relatives, villagers, friends and others so that the person’s final rites and rituals can be performed. A funeral ceremony is organised and attended by everyone in the village, including friends and well-wishers, but not by women or children. After a death is officially announced, villagers and others who knew the deceased well during his or her life, gather at the deceased’s home to assist the bereaved family with the last rites. Gwthwibathi refers to a type of bamboo trellis. According to the size of the dead body, it is made of a fresh single mature bamboo called Ouwagubwi. It is used to transport a deceased’s body. The dead body is removed from the house by family, friends, or villagers. The area is cleaned with cow dung and water before keeping the dead body. After that, water is used to wash the dead body. Family members apply oil to their bodies and hair, comb their hair with a Khanjong (comb), and put on new clothes (Endle 2010: 46). Someone of the deceased’s biological sex washes and dresses the deceased’s body. The dead body is brought out to the courtyard and placed on the Gwthwibathi, after it has been washed and dressed. When the dead body is placed on the Gwthwi­ bathi, which has already been covered with a Dharha (mat) and a new cloth, the head is turned toward the south. A special meal comprising chicken, boiled without oil, turmeric, onion, or salt is prepared for the last feeding of the deceased. Water and rice beer are also served, along with a small amount of rice. The food is placed near the body’s head. The first people to feed a dead body with their left hand are the family members. They are followed by friends, villagers, and well-wishers. When carrying food and water to the deceased, a Phakri Bilai (leaf of the peepal tree) is used. Following this, everyone gathers

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near the deceased’s Gwthwibathi. A village headman or an elderly male person speaks about the deceased, praising the deceased’s good deeds and praying for the deceased’s eternal peace. After expressing their grief, everyone stands together and prays to the god. This ritual does not necessitate the use of an Oja or Douri (priest). After the family members have performed all necessary rituals at the house, the dead body is wrapped in a new white cloth made for the deceased and tied with Ouwatheowal (bamboo slit). Raidwng (cane rope) is also used in some areas to tie things together (Binay Kumar Brahma 2017: 52). The Gwthwibathi is carried by four men. The bodies of the deceased, if parents or guardians, are carried by their sons, while the bodies of children are carried by their fathers. If a parent does not have a son, four family members, friends, or villagers may carry the Gwthwibathi to the graveyard or crematorium on their shoulders. Before pla­ cing Gwthwibathi on their shoulder, they must circle the body five times for men and seven times for women (Basanta Kumar Brahma 2017: 32). The person carrying Gwthwibathi should not sit until they arrive at the cemetery. After transporting the deceased’s body to the cemetery, family members tear down the walls of the deceased’s home to allow the corpse’s soul to leave. Khundun­ gaowa (white thread) is tied to every house till the corpse reaches the grave­ yard. A man from Narzary (a Bodo title) or an older man from the village leads the procession with a piece of bamboo filled with cow dung, land and water, gold rings, basil leaves and bent grass (Narzi 2003: 98). Starting at the dead person’s house and ending at the graveyard, white threads are spread along the path by ripping them into small pieces. The man carrying the Buntha (paddy straw) and white thread must walk in front of the Gwthwibathi as a sign of the departed soul.5 The spot, where the body is laid, is covered with a thin layer of mud and a songrai (bamboo tray), is as soon as it is taken to the graveyard. This left until the funeral party returns from the cemetery to complete the job. It foretells where the deceased’s soul will go after death. When people return from the cemetery following the funeral, the songrai is lifted and the area is checked for footprints. Any discovered footprint is thought to be the dead person’s foot­ print in the next life (Narzary 2020: 70). If there is an animal footprint, the person will be reborn as an animal, and if there is a human footprint, the person will be reborn as a human, implying that the Bodo believe in transmi­ gration of the soul. The burial ground is purchased first, from the deity or Mwdai to whom it is assumed to belong, by throwing some cowries (coins) on the spot, and then a grave is dug out before the body arrives (Narzary 2020: 113). People from the Basumatary group, on the other hand, are exempted from purchasing land because they are considered landowners within the Bodo community (Basuma­ tary et al. 2022: 76). Gwthwibathi is planted when land is purchased. The body’s head should be facing south at this point. A grave or burial pit is created 5

Romesh Basumatary, Personal Interview; Bakul Chandra Daimary, Personal Interview.

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by digging in the northern and southern directions. When all of the funeral rituals are completed, everyone within the funeral party gives the dead body a small amount of water using the leaves of the Phakri Bilai (Narzary 2020: 113– 114). The phrase ‘you and I are completely separated as of today’ is recited (Narzi 2003: 114). The dead body is then buried with its head to the south, and a crimson thread is inserted between its lips. The next-of-kin then proceeds to fill the grave with earth, followed by others.6 The use of a red thread indicates that the dead person’s lips will be red and thin when rebirth occurs, i.e., a sign of beauty (Narzary 2020: 114). However, before burying the body, friends and family must walk around it, five times in the case of a male and seven times in the case of a female (Endle 2010: 47). Some money and cowries are buried with the body, as charge to be paid by the soul to cross the river by boat, or to purchase some necessary food on the journey. It is customary to bury the deceased’s belongings, along with a knife and other daily living tools, with the hope that the departed will use these until their rebirth (Narzary 2020: 114). As mentioned earlier, when burying a deceased person, the head should face south and the leg should face north. However, the Bodo of the Goalpara district oriented the body’s head north. In Hindu religion and culture, the corpse’s head is turned north. As a result, it may be considered a Hindu influence among the Bodo living on the Brahmaputra river’s south bank. After placing the body in the graveyard, the sons are the first to begin filling the grave with soil, followed by the relatives and other mourners. A sheath of plantain leaf is inserted from the dead body’s nose all the way up to the earth’s surface to allow the departed soul to breathe (Narzary 2020: 114). Furthermore, it is customary to plant a banana tree next to the grave of a young Bodo man who has never married, in order to make his afterlife more fruitful than it has been thus far. When a Bodo woman passes away, a peepal branch is placed close to her grave in the belief that she will be granted a lush head of hair upon her rebirth (Das 1999: 78). In the case of a man, a peepal branch is placed near his grave in the belief that his spirit will seek refuge in that branch until he finds a place of eternal abode. In his book The Kachari, the monographer Sydney Endle states, ‘In order to pro­ tect the deceased’s spirit from the rain and sun, a crude thatched shed is built by the graveyard’ (Endle 2010: 48). It seems to indicate that the Bodo society has whimsical notions or beliefs about a deceased’s spirit. Making a home out of a peepal branch or a crude thatched shed indicates that the spirit takes its time leaving the mortal world. Leaving cooking utensils, a knife, and a coin on the corpse also gesture towards this.7 A child who dies is usually buried rather than cremated. When a person dies from a snake bite, their body is floated down a river on a plantain raft. It is done in the hope that the deceased person resurrects (Narzary 2020: 115). 6 7

Romesh Basumatary, Personal Interview; Surath Narzary, Personal Interview. Romesh Basumatary, Personal Interview; Derhasat Narzary, Personal Interview; Bakul Chandra Daimary, Personal Interview.

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Within the Bodo who, co-opted by Hinduism, practise cremation, there is an intriguing tradition that involves the removal of the lungs before the corpse is completely burned. The lungs are then wrapped in a plantain leaf and inserted into a crab hole on a riverbank or pond (Narzary 2020: 115). The rest of the corpse is then burned until it is completely consumed by fire. Following these rituals, those attending the funeral cook rice in an earthen pot and leave it, along with the pot and a bucket of fresh water, for the deceased’s soul.

Gwtharjanai (Purification) The entire funeral procession is regarded as unclean. As a result, all participants must undergo purification. Following the completion of the funeral rituals, everyone takes a bath in a river or stream, chews a small number of dry jute leaves (narzi), which is then spit out again, touches the fire, and then receives holy water (Dwi Shanti) from a Douri of the Narzari clan, who has been waiting for the occasion near the river bank since the beginning of the funeral process. After the funeral procession is completed, the funeral party, primarily those who actively participated, bathe in the river and chew jute leaf (Narzior­ garnai). The practice of chewing dried jute leaves is used to permanently break ties with the deceased. It’s called Narziorgarnai, which literally means ‘bite off dry jute.’ Before allowing each person to leave for home, a man (Dwi Shanti) purifies them with holy water (Narzary 2020: 115). The funeral members return home after this purification (Gwtharjanai). They must also re-purify themselves by sprinkling holy water at the gates of their respective houses. One of the family members arrives with holy water, seven pieces of rice on a banana leaf, and bent grass to sprinkle at the gate. They are permitted to enter the house after praying to Bathou. After three days, an Oja or Douri (priest) or elder person sprinkles holy water on the deceased’s family members to cleanse them (Narzi 2003: 193–194). On the day of the funeral, the mourners gather in the evening at the deceased’s home, where Zumai or Jou (rice beer) is served.

Dahagarnai The words Daha, which means sadness or mourning, and Garnai, which means to give up, signify the end of the mourning period. Within Bodo tradition, it is known as Khalaigarnai or Suagarnai. During this period, family members pre­ sent jewels, new clothes such as Dokhna (a female attire) and Jwmgra (stole) to the female deceased, and new clothes such as Gamcha (male attire) and shirts to the male deceased. ‘Jou’ (wine) is offered to the departed soul, along with culinary items prepared with the left hand, such as rice and curries.8

8

In South Asia, the use of the left hand in daily life is socially and culturally restricted to unclean purposes. The Bodo use of the left hand while preparing a meal to offer to the departed soul has a different socio-cultural import in this context. See Romesh

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The bamboo grove used in the mortuary ritual is not reused nor abandoned. The deceased person is treated as separate from the living world. This is observed through the Gwthwinwbaonai, or the separate ‘offering to the deceased.’ This rite is performed by a Douri or Oja on the courtyard’s southern side, with the Douri or Oja facing south and being half-seated. During the ceremony, family members kneel on the ground and offer prayers to the depar­ ted by presenting the items collected and prepared for the deceased’s soul (Thursby 2006). Previously, the Gwthwinwbaonai ceremony used to be held on a riverbank, rather than in the courtyard of the house (Binay Kumar Brahma 2017: 53). After the prayer, the offering was carried to the riverbank and left there. The next day, the family threw a party and invited every member of the village, as well as friends, family, and well-wishers. It is also said that if the feast cannot be served on the day of the Gwthwinwbaonai ceremony, the family can postpone it until a year later, depending on the deceased’s family’s convenience. In this case, the family must perform puja to inform their gods and goddesses, as well as the souls of the dead, that the feast has been rescheduled. Following this, they can schedule the feast to any convenient day. Rice, beer, meat and other food items are served to those invited to the feast. The size of the grand feast is determined by how much money the deceased’s family has. Pork meat is typi­ cally cooked with banana peels, rice, and a small number of dried jute leaves. Food that is left over is thrown out of the house. No one can take the food that is being discarded. If someone is caught taking discarded food, they face a punishment known as Khaoalibad (one of the punishments that prevail within the Bodo society in accordance with customary law).

Phandra: Entering Rebirth Banqueting or feasting rituals in the name of a deceased person are common in many cultures and societies around the world. ‘Throughout the world, funeral rites and associated foods—even feasts—have been a traditional part of beha­ viour associated with responses to the spiritual and sacred nature of death,’ writes J. S. Thursby (Thursby 2006: 79). Thursby discusses the bouquet culture in mortuary rituals in countries such as the United States, Europe, Africa, and Asia (Thursby 2006: 79–80). Interestingly, the Bodo, as an ethnic tribe, have a community feasting ritual, though not on the funeral day, but a few days after the mortuary rites have taken place. As a chronological rite, the Phandra represents the final rite of passage. It is performed on the seventh day after death. It is a feast day organised by the deceased person’s family for the villagers, rela­ tives, and friends of the departed.9 This ceremony is similar to the Sraddha, a Hindu funeral feast (Brahma 1992: 74). Many Bodo scholars, including Bhaben

9

Basumatary, Personal Interview; Derhasat Narzary, Personal Interview; Bakul

Chandra Daimary, Personal Interview.

Derhasat Narzary, Personal Interview.

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Narzi, Kameswar Brahma, and Premananda Machahary, have used the term Saradu, which is unmistakably derived from the word Sraddha (Narzary 2020: 74). In any case, the Bodo have had a long-standing custom of holding a funeral banquet after death called the Phandra. The philosophy of the Phandra ritual is similar to that of the Bodo’s Har­ iaoswnai ceremony, which is performed when a new baby is welcomed into the community. The Bodo believe that life has three aspects: life before birth, life now, and life after death or rebirth (Narzary 2020: 75). It is believed that a newly born child has had a previous life. The ritual of Hariaoswnai is how a new baby is welcomed into the community. During this rite of passage, the Douri speak words of welcome to the child into the community, regardless of caste or religion. One of the main reasons for performing Phandra is to release the soul of the deceased from earthly life so that the deceased can be reborn. If the Phandra is not performed, the soul of the deceased cannot move on to a new life or attain rebirth (Narzary 2020). The Bodo belief in rebirth can also be discerned in their examining of foot­ prints after the burial of the corpse. Additionally, the rites of welcoming a new baby into the community are accompanied by the baby being purified in order to be accepted into Bodo society. This is indictive of the belief that the child was born within a different community in its previous life. Although the idea of rebirth or reincarnation is undoubtedly present within the Bodo community, its exact ramifications are yet to be studied.

Conclusion The Bodo do not have a written history about their origin and civilisation. Whatever text has been compiled from oral customs, remains open to inter­ pretation and debate. As a result, the language of thought receives its articula­ tion through action. The thought remains shaped by tradition and customary usage, which have, however, altered over time. As examined, some of the Bodo rituals of death bear resemblance to Brahmanical traditions. Over the course of time, the more organised religions have influenced the traditional Bodo system. Many Bodo have now converted to Hinduism/Brahmanism or Christianity. In spite of this, the tradition Bodo death rites and ceremonial rituals have con­ tinued to remain popular among the converted Hindus. Indeed, many of the traditions or customs of Northeast India’s different ethnic groups have been assimilated into other cultures. The Bodo are no exception in this regard, having been culturally assimilated to some extent by Hinduism, particularly the Brahma Dharma, by the first half of the 20th cen­ tury.10 When a custom is adopted by another religious tradition, it becomes known by a different name or term. As a result, the Bodo term Phandra has been replaced by Saradu, a distorted word for Sraddha. The Phandra used to be 10 Bakul Chandra Daimary, Personal Interview.

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traditionally performed after seven days, i.e., on the eighth day.11 The Saradu, which is observed on the 13th day after death, is thought to be an assimilated custom influenced by Brahmanism.12 Christianity, a late entrant among some of the Bodo, has on the other hand, altogether nearly negated these practices.

References Banerjee, Dipankar 2006. Brahmo Samaj and North-East India. New Delhi: Anamika. Bargayary, Nushar and Oinam Ranjit Singh 2019. ‘Death and Death Related Rites, Ritulas, Customs and Traditions of the Bodos: A Historical Study.’ International Review of Social Science and Humanities 9 (7): 443–450. Barua, K. L. (reprint) 2008. Early History of Assam From the Earliest times to the End of the Sixteenth Century. Guwahati: LBS Publication. Basumatary, Lochan Chandra 2014. Boroni Assar-Khanthi. Chirang: Offset Press. Basumatary, Ramdas 2011. ‘Some Ideas on Bathou.’ In Leeladhar Brahma Bathou Rai­ thai Bidang (Gibi Khwndw) p. 193. Kokrajhar: Onsumwi. Basumatary, Sudev, Joydip Narzary, Junmani Basumatary and Milton Basumatary 2022. ‘Surnames of the Bodos: Origin and Practices.’ Vegueta 22 (8): 73–81. doi:10.5281/ zenodo.6992705 Bell, Catherine 2009. Ritual Theory, Ritual Practice. New York: Oxford University Press.

Boro, Anil 2014. Folk Literature of the Bodos. Guwahati: N.L. Publications.

Brahma, Basanta Kumar 2017. Boro Samajari Nem Khanthi arw Fwthathi. Kokrajhar: NP

Brahma, Binay Kumar 2017. Boroni Subung Harimu. Guwahati: N. L. Publications.

Brahma, Kameswar 1992. A Study of Socio-Religious Beliefs, Practices and Ceremonies

of the Bodos. Calcutta: Punthi Pustak. Brahma, Manik Kumar 2001. Gurudev Kalocharan Brahma—His Life and Deeds. Kok­ rajhar: N.L. Publications. Chatterjee, Suniti Kumar (Reprint) 2011. Kirata Jana Kriti. Calcutta: The Asiatic Society. Cohen, Milton (n.d.). www.qcc.cuny.edu/SocialSciences/ppecorino/DeathandDying_ TEXT/table_of_contents.htm accessed 9 August, 2022. Endle, Sidney 2010. The Kacharis. Delhi: Low Price Publications. Hastings, James 2001. Encyclopeadia of Religion and Ethics, Vol. IV. New York: Charles Scribener’s Sons. Hertz, Robert 1960. Death and the Right Hand. Aberdeen: The University of Aberdeen. Hodgson, B. H. 1847. On the Aborigines of India. Essay the First on the Koch, Bodo and Dhimal Tribes. Calcutta: Thomas Baptist Mission Press. Narzari, Bhaben 2014. Boro Kacharini Samaj arw Harimu. Kajalgaon: Chirang Publication. Narzary, Sushanta 2020. ‘The Village of the Bodos: A Study on Socio-Economic, Cul­ tural Tradition and Change (With Special Reference to the Bodos of Undivided Kok­ rajhar).’ Bodoland University. Narzi, Bhaben 2003. Boro Kachahrini Somaj arw Harimu. Guwahati: Bina Library. Narzray, Dahal Kungur 2020. ‘Customary Laws of the Bodo.’ Bodoland University. Stephenson, Barry 2015. Ritual A Very Short Introduction. New York: Oxford Uni­ versity Press. 11 Derhasat Narzary, Personal Interview. 12 Romesh Basumatary, Personal Interview.

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Thursby, J. S. 2006. Funeral Festivals in America: Ritual for the Living. Kentucky: The University of Kentucky. Van Gennep, Arnold 1960. The Rites of Passage. Chicago: The University of Chicago Press.

Personal Interviews 1. Romesh Basumatary, Personal Interview (conducted by Junmani Basumatary) Kok­ rajhar: 5 August 2022. 2. Surath Narzary, Personal Interview (conducted by Junmani Basumatary) Kokrajhar: 4 September 2022. 3. Derhasat Narzary, Personal Interview (conducted by Junmani Basumatary) Kokrajhar: 13 August 2022. 4. Bakul Chandra Daimary, Personal Interview (conducted by Junmani Basumatary) Kokrajhar: 2 August 2022.

6

The Men were Heroes while the Women were Victims Commemorating the Mizo National

Front Movement

Mary Vanlalthanpuii

Introduction This chapter attempts to map the graveyard monuments of the Martar Thlanmual or Martyrs’ Cemetery in Aizawl, Mizoram, which was inaugurated in 2008 by the Mizo National Front (MNF), as well as the gendered politics that have resulted in such a form of commemoration. Public monuments are important historical memory sites. Cemetery monuments, in particular, must be placed at the crossroads of private and collective memory (Malone 2017). The Martyrs’ Cemetery in Mizoram seeks to remember the 1,702 people who were declared martyrs by the MNF and died between 1966 and 1986. The cemetery contains an obelisk with a cross and granite plaques with the names and addresses of those who were killed. The discussion will address how these monuments both foreground an indi­ genous identitarian aspiration and, at the same time, exclude women. I argue that this form of state commemoration reinforces the stereotypes driven by patriarchy. The erasure of women from this statist project of commemoration valourises the role played by men as protectors of the weak, mapping the indi­ genous ethno-national aspiration onto the body of the dead man. The chapter investigates how writing a men’s martyrs’ history reduces Mizo women’s roles to nation birthing and nurturing. The state’s construction of this Martyrs’ Cemetery reinforces popular gender stereotypes, namely that MNF men were Pasaltha (lit., warrior-heroes) and women were victims. The purpose of this chapter is to complicate the simple definition of heroism that supports the Mizo statist project. Finally, the chapter will investigate the processes of Mizo women’s alternative mode of commemoration and, as a result, their contesta­ tion of the discursive notion of the ‘martyr.’ Scholarly attention to commemorative acts and monuments, fuelled by the need to re-examine how the memorialisation of violence and suffering affects the present, is still relatively new. Within this framework, feminist scholars have begun to question how women are represented, if they are indeed repre­ sented, as well as their absence from commemorative monuments. Focusing on the question of women’s representation in the MNF Martyrs’ Cemetery is important for many reasons. First, it is the most significant public monument in DOI: 10.4324/9781003406693-7

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Mizoram. Second, it museumises the MNF’s struggle for freedom by com­ memorating the people who were killed fighting for independent Mizoram. There are, however, a number of omissions since the MNF Martyrs’ Cemetery focuses exclusively on uniformed victims—it has omitted the civilians martyred who together number in the hundreds of thousands. Those killed include men and women who were government servants, farmers, traders, teachers, homemakers, etc. Among those martyred were women, who left their homes to become volun­ teers in the underground movement. While these women did not engage in military activity, their roles as nurse, typist and cook meant they too were active on the front lines. Women who participated in or died due to the consequence of insurgency have no place in this martyr’s cemetery. The cemetery has now become a contested ground because it has been argued that the martyr’s cemetery was assigned a single interpretation of heroism and sacrifice. While the cemetery was expected to include all those who lost their lives during these periods, it has been seen as ignoring the suffering of the gen­ erations that lived through these periods as well as Mizo volunteers who lent their support to the movement from outside Mizoram (Roluahpuia 2018: 43). The selective martyrs in the MNF Martyrs’ Cemetery generate the historical narrative of the MNF movement as an act of heroism where only the deaths of MNF volunteers remain commemorated as martyrs. In exploring these issues, I will examine several texts and narratives from dif­ ferent political arena, including interviews with male and female volunteers who went underground during the MNF movement. These interviews reiterate the presence of women in the underground camps, some of whom were incarcerated or killed. Excluding them from the MNF commemoration is problematic. This study will also attempt to unravel how widespread gender stereotypes became implicated in the construction of the MNF Martyr’s Cemetery. This analysis will shed light on how the MNF party tried to use martyr’s cemetery to control the understanding of historical events and boost nationalist fervour.

The MNF Movement and the Politics of the Construction of Martyrs’ Cemetery To understand the politics behind constructing the MNF Martyrs’ Cemetery, it will be necessary to include a brief outline of the insurgency with attention to the details the MNF leaders seek to historicize. The Mizo National Front was formed in 1961 as an ethnic nationalist movement demanding secession of the Mizo state from India. The MNF emerged from the Mizo National Famine Front, a movement protesting the Assam government’s inaction during the Bamboo famine that affected the Lushai Hills district severely in 1958. This was the beginning of the insurgency in Mizoram that lasted over 20 years when the Indian Government imposed counter-insurgency measures in the region and MNF insurgents took shelter in underground camps for more than two decades. During the conflict, several volunteers and civilians lost their lives while fighting for independence.

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Beginning on September 20, 1980, the MNF in the underground camp observed Martyrs’ Day to remember their comrades killed by the Indian Army (Rohmingmawii 2018: 132). The MNF wanted to link this Martyrs’ Day to the Mizo traditional festival Mim Kut, a festival in honour of the dead held after harvest season to commemorate deceased members of the community (Angom 2020: 56). During this season, it is believed that departed souls rise from their graves to visit their relatives, who make offerings of vegetables and rice to honour these souls. On this special day, the MNF places wreaths and bouquets on martyrs’ graves. Although there is no written record of the number of female volunteers in the MNF movement, the historian Hmingthanzuali writes that 71 female volunteers joined the MNF from 1964 to 1968 (Hmingthanzuali 2010). However, only some of the female volunteers were in the underground camps when the insur­ gency broke out in 1966. They fought alongside the men and suffered with the men. Through interviews with senior MNF volunteers, I have surmised that 18 women entered the underground camp in East Pakistan (currently Bangladesh) to serve as nurses and office staff and perform various supporting roles (Vanlalthan­ puii 2019: 10). Some of these women fought alongside the men, and the women who were left in the villages supported the MNF in several other ways while suffering hardship and violence during the armed conflict between the Indian government and the MNF. The MNF ended the insurgency after they signed the Mizoram Accord with the Government of India on 30 June 1986. Following this, the MNF, under the leadership of Laldenga, ran an interim government for six months. Mizoram was granted statehood on 20 February 1987 and the MNF Party formed suc­ cessive state governments from 1986 to 1988, 1998 to 2008, and 2018 until date. When the MNF formed a government in 1998, its leaders decided to construct a grand martyrs’ grave in the centre of Aizawl city to honour Mizo freedom fighters who had sacrificed their lives for the Mizo nation. In October 2000, the MNF leader Zoramthanga, the then Chief Minister, held a meeting with four ministers from his cabinet, and delegates from the Upa Pawl or Elder Associa­ tion, MHIP or Mizo Women’s Organisation, Central YMA or Young Mizo Association, and MZP or Mizo Student Union to discuss the creation of a Martyrs’ Cemetery. At the meeting, the attendants agreed to construct an inclusive martyr’s cemetery for all who had laid down their lives for the Mizo nation. They set up a committee without any political party affiliation for the Martyrs’ Cemetery and made it responsible for identifying the area and listing the names of martyrs irrespective of their relationship with the MNF (Lalsawmvela 2014). A particular family’s land in Luangmual was bought in 2001. Chief Minister Zoramthanga laid the cemetery’s foundation stone on 20 September, 2002. Work on the cemetery began in 2005, and it was finished in 2008. The com­ mittee promised the Martyrs’ Cemetery would include Mizo warriors who had died for the Mizo nation since the British colonial period and would not belong to any group or political party. Anyone who had died because of insurgency

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would be counted as a ‘Martyr for the Mizo Nation.’ Working from the list of ex-gratia applicants, the committee started with the names of 2,400 martyrs. After examining these lists in consultation with the Mizo National Army, 1,563 individuals were selected to be included in the cemetery.1 Since then, more names have been added so that, now, 1,702 names have been immortalised through this cemetery. The cemetery was built on a 2,660 square metre compound capable of accommodating more than 2,000 granite plates with the names, addresses, and death dates of those martyred in the insurgency. Collecting and compiling the list of martyrs to be inscribed in the cemetery was not an easy task. According to Zama, the appointed member assigned to compile the list of martyrs, it has been a difficult task to decide whom to include as martyrs. Some felt it was not appropriate to include kawktu or informers (because kawktu served in the army, not the MNF) with freedom fighters although they were killed because of insurgency. The families of some civilians who had no attachment to the MNF did not want their fathers included because they blamed the MNF for these deaths. Others, who wished to have the names of the deceased, were neglected. For instance, Kunga from Khawbel village says, ‘we surrendered as volunteers, my brother died and was buried at Ranchi and I was almost dead but it was so unfortunate that no one takes notice of our sacrifice.’2 However, Zama says that lack of communication and information has made it impossible to include the names of all those in MNF who died.3 The construction of the Martyrs’ Cemetery has generated controversy between the two major political parties in Mizoram, which have constructed their own martyr’s cemeteries. In 1997, the Congress government, under the leadership of Lalthanhawla, founded a Martyrs’ Cemetery at Sesawng village on the outskirts of Aizawl. Intending to be more inclusive, Lalthanhawla inau­ gurated the martyr’s cemetery on 7 June 1997 to commemorate those who lost their lives from 1966 to 1986. Over 1300 names were inscribed in this cemetery. However, some complained that it was not called a Martyrs’ Cemetery. Instead, the signboard in the cemetery read: Mizo huntawng rapthlak rambuai a pawi mang e, heti zat hian thlanlungah zam maw [It is heart-rendering that the Mizos had undergone terrible disturbances; there lies so many on the tomb]4 1

2 3 4

The MNF volunteers are divided into two groups—the Ex-Mizo National Army (Ex-MNA) and Peace Accord MNF Returnee Association (PAMRA). The Ex-MNA are the MNF volunteers in the underground camp since 1966 but returned to Mizoram before the peace accord was signed while PAMRA is volunteers who returned after the peace accord was signed. Pu Kunga, Personal Interview. His brother suffered from mental illness while in prison and died at Ranchi, Kunga’s family has no chance to visit his burial till date. Pu C. Zama (Ex-MNA), Personal Interview. Translated by Dr J.T. Vanlalngheta.

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The MNF complained the cemetery contained no reference to martyrs’ or free­ dom fighters’ deaths. According to Zama, the cemetery was made inside the police complex and the signboard seemed to blame the MNF instead of show­ ing respect and appreciation for the freedom fighters.5 In response to these accusations, Vanlalawmpuii, a female former member legislator belonging to the All-India Congress Party said that the Congress Party was willing to hand over ownership of the Martyrs’ Cemetery to the MNF to renovate but they ignored the offer and created a new Martyrs’ Cemetery. While martyrs deserve respect, she argued that it was unfortunate to see the Martyrs’ Cemetery used for political gain. She claimed the Martyrs’ Cemetery constructed by the Congress Party was not intended for political gain and the Congress Party was still willing to include more martyrs in this cemetery.6 The Congress Party president Lalthanhawla criticised the MNF for erecting a new Martyrs’ Cemetery and seeking political favour through the remains of the martyrs. He said that the MNF was in power for ten years before it paid any attention to martyrs. He claimed the Congress government showed respect to martyrs and founded the Martyrs’ Cemetery before the MNF. Other criticism of the MNF of politicising martyrs came from the families of martyrs themselves. On 21 September 2016, the Mizoram Martyr Family Asso­ ciation (MMFA) issued a press release containing their appeal to the MNF. While expressing their appreciation to the MNF for observing Martyrs’ Day, the MMFA asked the MNF to remember martyrs not just on Martyrs’ Day. They pointed out that the MNF movement gave birth to a population of widows and orphans. These people expected a great deal from the MNF gov­ ernment. However, as victims, they did not get the recognition they deserved from the MNF government. The MMFA was disheartened by the fact that MNF neglected the families of martyrs and many volunteers who survived the underground camp (Mizo Archive 2016). They insisted the MNF stop playing with the martyrs just for political gain. Questions surrounding the lack of women’s names in the martyr’s cemetery have not been examined. Admittedly, it is difficult to study the exclusion of women in the MNF commemoration since it is impossible to uncover the names of all the women incarcerated or killed during the time of resistance. For example, we know that Darhminthangi, the wife of Captain Vanlallawta, was shot dead with five male volunteers when East Pakistan Army ambushed their boat in 1971. Lalthlana Sailo, a volunteer travelling behind their boat when it was attacked, said, ‘It was shocking to see Darhmingi lying dead on the floor with her young child Samuel still breastfeeding and the six volunteers killed in this attack were buried near Mizo House in Rangamati (Sailo, 2021: 118). Little is known about Darhmingthangi other than her name but this is more than we 5 6

Pu C. Zama (Ex-MNA), Personal Interview. MNF Party followers in the local claimed they did not accept the martyr’s cemetery constructed by the Congress Party. https://mizoarchive.wordpress.com/2016/06/03/m nf-te-chu-ruhro-politic-a-in-awih-nun-tum-an-ni/

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know about other women involved in the resistance or those killed who did not have prominent MNF husbands. Samuel, Darhmingthangi’s son, now serving as a pastor in the Baptist church in Lunglei, said he knew nothing about his mother other than what he learned from the literature of the MNF movement.7 Several MNF volunteers were consulted to understand how many women had died in the underground camp but there was no consensus regarding the number. They all remembered the occurrence of female deaths in the underground camps but not the details. However, a few sources do provide the names of female freedom fighters. One of these is a memorial stone from Khawbel village containing the names of three female martyrs: Saichhungi, Dartluangi, and Lalchhuangi, the gravestone reads, ‘For God and our nation, our brothers and sisters have sacrificed their lives, they shed their blood for the freedom of the generation to come’ (Figure 6.1). Their names, however, are not mentioned in the existing literature on MNF martyrs or warriors and they have not been included in the MNF Martyrs’

Figure 6.1 Martyrs’ Tomb, Khawbel village8 (Photograph by Zothanpuia Royte)

7 8

Rev. Samuel Lalremsanga, Phone conversation with the author. Photo credited to Zothanpuia Royte, Khawbel.

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Cemetery. Speaking to the family of Saichhungi at Khawbel village, Vanchhuma says: Soon after the 24 volunteers of us took shelter in the camp outside our village, the army entered our camp during dawn and these three women were shot dead at the spot along with other male volunteers…. We escaped and run for our safety but armies captured other injured volunteers who were unable to escape and shot them all in the village. The dead bodies lying in the camp were burnt on the spot and other volunteers, killed in the village were buried in the local graveyard. As far as my knowledge, none of the volunteers killed from Khawbel village are included in the MNF Mar­ tyrs’ Cemetery.9 This might explain the exclusive nature of the MNF Martyrs Cemetery despite the initial intention to make an inclusive memorial for recognising the sacrifice made in the name of MNF. The MNF has been keen to present its ties to patriotism by commemorating warrior martyrs in the public domain. Instead of occupying the Martyrs’ Cemetery built on the outskirt of Aizawl, the MNF created a fresh Martyrs Cemetery at the centre of Aizawl to capture public attention. Constructing another Martyrs’ Cemetery was a political, not a his­ torical, decision, and its effect have been to produce a particular version of the history of the MNF movement for political gain.

Martyrs’ Cemetery as a Religious Symbol Religious symbols often occupy spaces in graveyards with crosses found in Christian graveyards. In Mizoram, Christian gravestones usually include a cross, the deceased’s name, with the dates of birth and death inscribed. Some gravestones have inserted the dead person’s favourite Bible verses or hymns. Nowadays, gravestones made of granite have replaced those with other kinds of stone. The size and design of the gravestones vary according to local codes and practices. Wealthier families use marble for gravestones while the poorer ones use just a wooden cross with their names and dates of birth and death written on it. The MNF decorated the Martyrs’ Cemetery by erecting a ten-foot-high obelisk topped with a cross to portray their slogan, ‘For God and our country.’ Christ’s suffering at the cross is a central motif in Christianity and the cross itself signifies death or voluntary self-sacrifice. By putting religious symbols in the martyr’s cemetery, the MNF elevates ethnic nationalism to a religious act of Christians against Hindus with the cross signifying the sacrifice made in the name of religion. For Christians, a martyr’s death is a Christ-like death, approved by the church. Missionary martyrs are considered as precious treasures of the church and occupy a special place within the church. The Mizoram Baptist Church 9

Pu Vanchhuma, Personal Interview.

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observes Martyrs’ Day annually on 27 March to commemorate their mis­ sionaries who were killed/died in their mission fields. It is believed that those who died in the name of Christianity have gone directly to heaven where they have achieved eternal salvation; several Mizo hymns foresee a place in heaven for such martyrs. Since the beginning of its formation, the MNF has realised that raising reli­ gious differences with mainland India would serve as a dynamic instrument for developing nationalism. They have convinced people that God was on the side of the Mizos and cast themselves as the guardians of Christian culture that need protection within a Hindu state (Pachuau 2014: 133). For volunteers, the Mizo movement was synonymous with Christianity and joining MNF was affirming their faith. The MNF army in the underground camp was encouraged to make a vow: Felna avanga ram a that dawn chuan nang hmasa la, thihna avanga ram a that dawn chuan kei ka hmasa ang. [Be the first if the country is to progress because of righteousness. However, I shall be the first if the country is going to progress at the cost of death.]10 (Khupchong 2017) The MNF intended to inculcate the spirit of nationalism in their volunteers by tying this nationalism to the Christian virtue of self-sacrifice. In this way, the MNF tried to construct a local understanding of the conflict by shifting the focus from an ethnic movement to religious freedom. Therefore, those who were martyrs for the nation were also seen as martyrs for their religious faith. While recounting several reasons for joining the MNF movement, religion played a crucial role for the volunteers. They regarded participation in the movement as a Christian mission with some even proclaiming that their faith in God was what encouraged them to join the movement. For instance, Thanh­ rangi, a female volunteer says: ‘My refusal to live with an idol worshipper compelled me to join the movement.’ She and others considered that living under the Indian state, which they interpreted as ‘Hindu,’ was betraying their Christian faith.11 It is quite obvious that, particularly for the MNF, the volunteers who lost their lives were considered to be martyrs for the purpose of protecting the Christian religion from the ‘Hindu rulers,’ i.e., the state of India. In the eyes of the MNF, the volunteers who were killed in the conflict were the same as the missionaries who were killed while serving in their respective mission fields; the MNF recognises the sacrifices of both groups as serving a religious cause. It 10 Translated by Dr J.T. Vanlalngheta. 11 Personal Interviews with female volunteers who went underground during the MNF movement: Pi Tinsangi; Pi Thanhrangi; Pi Hrangzovi; Pi Lalthansangi; Pi Lalthla­ muani; Pi Rebeki; Pi Thangmawii; Pi Lalchhawni; Pi Chawlmawii.

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would appear from the decorations that surround the cemetery that the MNF is trying to make a connection between the deaths of the volunteers and the sacrifice that Jesus made on the cross. This was an attempt to extend the reli­ gious component of the MNF movement and place it within a larger political objective. Although the MNF has made a concerted effort to memorialize the passing of male volunteers, the graves of women who lost their lives during the conflict have not been commemorated within this cemetery space. The MNF was given authority over the cemetery not long after it had first been opened to the public. They exhumed the skeletal remains of MNF volunteers who had been laid to rest in a variety of locations and reinterred them in new caskets before moving them to the martyr’s cemetery. The skeletal remains of four male volunteers who had been buried in Kawlhawk and Buarpui village were moved to this Martyrs’ Cemetery on 1 June, 2016, after having been discovered in those vil­ lages. Once again, on 6 May, 2017, the skeletal remains of five male MNF volunteers were recovered from the village of Kolasib so that they could be reburied. During the years 2018 and 2019, the skeletal remains of 31 male volunteers were relocated and reinterred. On 12 June, 2018, the former MNA (Mizo National Army) held a solemn funeral service for the 14 male volunteers whose skeletal remains were found and recovered. Those who were invited included religious leaders, leaders of the MNF, as well as the families of those who were martyred. In the ceremony, Zoramthanga, the MNF president and the Chief Minister of Mizoram said, ‘Our martyr’s warriors had given their today for our tomorrow. For God and our country, they surrendered their lives and, if not for their sacrifices, our missionaries would probably not have con­ tinued their gospel mission’ (Lalnuntluanga 2018). Zoramthanga portrayed the MNF as Christian martyrs who died for the religious freedom of Mizos. The Martyrs’ Cemetery contains a number of symbols that convey the MNF’s conception of what it means to be a martyr. The obelisk with the cross represents a sense of responsibility that rests on the shoulders of men; the ver­ sion of military responsibility proclaimed by the cemetery is the Christian interpretation of a heroic male tradition (Davis 1993: 116). This reinforces the separate socialisation of men and women, in which men are seen as willing to give their lives to protect their communities and women are seen as being in need of protection from others.

Heroism Feminist scholars have argued that focusing on heroism undermines the female story (Frisk 2018: 97). The term ‘heroism’ has long been considered as referring to men’s acts and sacrifices and can be regarded as an endorsement of masculine virtues. For Mizos, the term Pasaltha (hero) implies a good husband. In a broader sense, it may refer to a hero of a village, a defender who protects vil­ lagers from the attack of enemies or wild beasts or a provider, one exception­ ally skillful in killing wild animals for a public feast. Hence, the Pasaltha

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occupies a high status in the village and provides the village security; he is seen as a key figure within traditional patriarchy as he serves as the guardian of women. The MNF used the term Pasaltha, addressing male volunteers as Hnam Pasaltha or warriors of the nation. From the beginning of its formation, the MNF military structure provided males with opportunities to prove their hero­ ism but they denied women opportunities to show their strength and capability. According to the constitution laid down for Mizo National Volunteers in 1967, a volunteer could become a member of the ‘Mizo Army’ only if he passed the Mizo National Volunteers training; women were given nurse training. When the Indian army threatened the MNF volunteers who were living among the general population, volunteers left Mizoram and found shelter in the areas surrounding Mizoram where they formed eight battalions representing the names of traditional male warriors such as Taitesena, Chawngbawla etc. to signify MNF patriotism (Hmingthanzuali, 2010). The names of female warriors, for example, Ropuiliani, who fought against British authority were never mentioned. The male-centric MNF military structure placed women within a separate sphere. Tinsangi, the senior-most surviving female volunteer, says they worked hard to roll tobacco cigarettes for the men and performed the duties of ‘mothers’ in the camp. The best-educated women became office clerks and typists. Lalthlamuani has undertaken military training with MNF male volun­ teers while in Mizoram; however, this woman did not enter the battlefield after moving to the underground camp. Similarly, Thanhrangi and Hrangzovi state they had to perform military training alongside the men but they were not allowed to enter the battlefield. Gender stereotypes prevented them from showing their courage and becoming ‘heroes.’ The Bangladesh declaration of Independence in 1971 ended the MNF occu­ pancy of military camps inside Bangladesh and forced many volunteers, including women, to return to Mizoram. After the signing of the Mizoram Accord, the underground life of two decades ended and the return of 523 MNF underground personnel, including 44 women and 92 children received a heroic welcome across the region (Banerjie 1986). A large crowd gathered in the streets of Aizawl to welcome the MNF with joyful spirit and songs. Banners on every corner of the street said, Mizoram Pasaltha leh Martarte kan lo lawm a che u or ‘We welcome our heroes and martyrs for the Mizo nation’ (Roluahpuia 2015: 41). Since then, the MNF male volunteers have been heroes in the public eye. By restoring the traditional status of Pasaltha, the MNF male returnees were looked upon as heroes while the women volunteers were discounted. This attitude effectively influenced the post-conflict situation: male volunteers came out as heroes and became politicians; female volunteers returned home to become homemakers and stay away from politics. This prevailing attitude per­ sists even upon their deaths; the deaths of male volunteers such as Pasaltha Lalhleia, Pasaltha Laltuaia continue to evoke adulation and reverence. Adopting the title of Pasaltha, they were repeatedly referred to as patriotic icons.

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A signboard by the entrance of the Martyrs’ Cemetery clarifies the MNF notion of martyrdom: We, who had sacrificed the lives for the country and had toiled to the limits of our abilities had given it over to the hands of the new generations to carry on what had been left undone by us.12 The indicates an attempt to influence the male MNF volunteers’ future political careers as well as validate the deaths of MNF male volunteers as the sacrifice of heroes and warriors. The entrance to the cemetery is denoted by a wrought-iron gate, and the headstones, which are made of marble plates, inserted in a square box made of concrete, are inscribed with the names and addresses of the deceased along with the date of their passing. Seven individuals who the MNF has designated as martyrs are honoured on a single marble plate. At first, the committee in charge of the martyr’s cemetery decided to honour every civilian who had died as a result of the insurgency (Lalsawmvela 2014). However, going by the lists within the cemetery, it seems as though it is reserved only for the heroes of the MNF, or those who died while fighting for the MNF. This excludes the individuals who served the nationalist cause in a variety of other capacities and those women who died while protecting their husbands and children. Through this form of valorisation, men seem to become the historical agents. The power of this historical narrative is, indeed, such that the MNF party was able to win the election for the second term by a significant margin of votes, immediately after the construction of the martyr cemetery. It is possible for us to argue that the MNF martyr’s cemetery glorifies mas­ culine virtues while downplaying the suffering and sacrifices made by women. It demonstrates male physical performance, which, in turn, presumes that women play the role of passive nurturers and care-givers within the process of nationbuilding. Women’s everyday acts of bravery, such as giving aid to the wounded and taking care of the family in times of uncertainty, are excluded from what is perceived as ‘heroic.’

Victim Feminist scholars have argued that war is a powerful instrument for the gen­ dering of political identities: every conflict casts men as warriors and women as victims (Dowler 2002: 161). Seeing women as victims of war prevents them from being recognised for their strength and patience. The MNF movement actively generated gender identities in the process of nation building. Like men, women joined the movement to support the MNF’s political goals. Although these women left behind their jobs, parents and children, and in some cases even sacrificed their lives, they have been remembered as victims needing pro­ tection from various kinds of violence. 12 Translated by Dr. J. T. Vanlalngheta.

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Instead of dwelling on women as wives and mothers victimised by political violence, one can examine women’s participation in the MNF movement. For example, Zari was suspected to be involved in the assassination of Inspector General of Police G.S. Arya in 1975 and she was sentenced to imprisonment on 24 January 1975 (Hmingthanzuali 2021: 10). She was charged with providing shelter to MNF rebels and hiding their ammunition in her house. There are accounts of women who bravely confronted security officials entering the vil­ lage. For instance, Lalkhumi, a former Hindi teacher working at Lunglei says that her ability to speak in Hindi saved several men in the locality from being imprisoned, when 12 men were captured in relation to the killing of a security official at Pukpui village in 1976. Lalkhumi bravely confronted the security forces and finally, these men were freed from prison. She also rescued MNF volunteer Sailova from prison after negotiating with the security forces.13 Meanwhile, there are accounts of women in the villages who supported the MNF by providing shelter, food and local cigarettes to the MNF rebels in their hiding places and transmitting information to the MNF rebels. The MNF could not have survived without the support of the civilian population, particularly women, because women were not only the supporters of the MNF but also their lifeline (Nag 2012: 5). It is equally important to acknowledge that women stepping outside of tra­ ditional female roles during wartime could be defined as a different kind of heroism. When men died, women had to assume the role as head of the family. Women had to leave behind the traditional roles they had played, find alter­ native sources of livelihood, feed their families, care for the children and elderly, and keep the family together. Even though women took care of and protected their families, they were portrayed as passive victims, and their agency was denied (Roluahpuia 2020). This denial of their active roles has reproduced gender stereotypes in post-conflict Mizoram. At the same time, the characterisation of women as victims has validated the sacrifice of MNF males for the nationalist cause thus excluding women from commemoration as agents of change. Despite women’s tremendous contribution to the MNF movement, people hardly recall their names. What can be done to remember these women, and why are killing and bombing given more value than nursing and feeding? It appears that killing is more deserving of being commemorated than nurturing. However, this ties back to the Christian religion if we associate the idea of killing/dying for the ‘nation’ to the trope of Christ dying on the cross. Although sexual violence is a powerful weapon of subjugation used during conflicts, the level of stigma attached to victims often prevents the truth behind the incident. In the case of Mizoram, the issue of rape remains largely difficult to document due to the social stigma attached to it (Chakraborty 2010: 960). There are evidences of women succumbing to injury because of sexual violence. Malsawmi, a young lady from Kolasib village jumped from the cliff to escape 13 Pi Lalkhumi, Personal Interview.

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from the army who tried to rape her and suffered from a traumatic brain injury till her death (Zama 2014). While there has been an unaccounted mass rape of women by the Security Forces (Chakraborty 2008: 31), the public has heard of only two women to date. As a result of the incident, both of them suffered from mental insanity and were taken care of by their siblings. Although many women were apprehended and arrested, it is impossible to determine the extent of sexual violence because the victims have remained silent. Because of this, it would not be possible to commemorate this through the cemetery unless one has the specific details of what actually occurred. Also, how could the MNF commemorate women who remained silent about the sexual violence perpe­ trated on them? On the other hand, we can argue that the denial sexual violence can itself be read as an attempt at maintaining patriarchal control. In another scenario, the social stigma that is attached to the act of raping gives the impression that men are unable to protect their wives and girlfriends. Within a patriarchal society that interprets a man’s gendered role as the ability to protect ‘his’ woman, the army has attempted to apply this strategy of humiliation to other men in order to humiliate those men. It is possible for us to argue that within a society where family honour is tied to women’s sexuality, a violation of a wife or daughter can be seen as a violation of the husband or the father. Therefore, it is reasonable to assume that the Mizo National Front (MNF) desired the cemetery to represent the final resting place of Mizo fathers and sons so as to place the sacrifice of males at the forefront of public com­ memoration rather than bringing attention to the female victims of sexual vio­ lence. Because honouring those who have survived sexual assault would undermine the pride attached to nation building. In order for the MNF to suc­ cessfully restore the traditional patriarchal order, it was necessary for them to remove all public memories of sexual violence. As a direct consequence of this, the cemetery for martyrs does not contain any reference whatsoever to the sexual assaults, atrocities, or experiences of torture that took place; the MNF cemetery is silent on the subject of sexual violence. In the end, the suffering and sacrifices of women were nothing more than a bargaining instrument for the MNF movement to obtain political power, which led to the delegitimisation of women’s sacrifice within the official memorial ground of the Martyrs’ Cemetery.

Conclusion By locating the martyr’s cemetery in the geographic centre of Aizawl city, the MNF was able to create a grand and iconic image of national commemoration. This cemetery provides evidence of the experience of insurgency by displaying the lists of those who the MNF considered to be martyrs for the Mizo national freedom struggle, regardless of their relation to the MNF. The lists are dis­ played regardless of whether or not the individual was a member of the MNF. The leaders of the MNF have asserted on multiple occasions that the cemetery is not the MNF’s exclusive property but rather, that it belongs to everyone. Although it was stated that Mizo warrior martyrs from the colonial period

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would be displayed at the cemetery, the names of warriors from earlier periods were not included on the headstones. This martyr’s cemetery appears to have ignored the memories and concerns of women, based on the presumption that men died and the women mourned them. This is a dominant narrative in the public experience of insurgency, even as the cemetery has failed to reflect a universal experience of insurgency. It appears that this martyr’s cemetery ignored the memories and concerns of women based on this above presumption. The intention of the MNF to show their sacrifice as being in the larger public interest for the sake of political gain is communicated through these selected lists that are displayed in the Martyrs’ Cemetery. By placing an obelisk on the cross, they attempted to depict the death of volunteers through the prism of Christianity. This is premised upon the male heroic Christian tradition. Heroism is constructed as a masculine ideal and women’s agency is disregarded. In this way, the MNF differentiates the deaths of men and the deaths of women by stating that men died as warriors and women died as victims. The cemetery has refused to commemorate those women who not only played a heroic role during the conflict, but also cared for and nurtured MNF rebels. Some women took on traditional men’s roles after the death of their husbands. Statues and monuments are erected to honour the nation, its heroes, and its victories; however, in the case of Aizawl, such modes of commemoration omit the stories of women responsible for providing for the family, as well of the man who had lost his leg and was unable to fight, or the child who was too young to contribute in any way, or the elderly person who required care. No monument exists to honour these people because they are seen as ‘passive’ and ‘redundant’ and, as such, remain outside the rhetorical imagination of the Pasaltha.

References Angom, Rebecca 2020. ‘Christianization and its Impact on Mizo Culture.’ Journal of Humanities and Social Sciences Studies (JHSSS) 1 (2): 55–61. Banerjie, Indranil 1986. ‘After two decades of underground life, Mizo rebels given a tumultuous welcome.’ 31st August. www.indiatoday.in/magazine/nation/story/19860831-after-two-deca des-of-underground-life-mizo-rebels-given-a-tumultuous-welcome-801166-1986-08-31 acessed 14 April 2022. Chakraborty, Anup Shekhar 2010. ‘Memory Of A Lost Past, Memory Of Rape: Nos­ talgia, Trauma And The Construction Of Collective Social Memory Among The Zo Hnahthlak.’ Identity and Politics 11 (2): 87–104. Chakraborty, Anup Shekhar 2008. ‘Emergence of Women from Private to Public: A Narrative of Power Politics from Mizoram.’ Journal of International Women’s Studies 9 (3): 27–45. Davis, Jon 1993. ‘War Memorials.’ The Editorial Board of The Sociological Review 1993. Oxford: Blackwell. Dowler, Lorraine 2002. ‘Women on the Frontlines: Rethinking War Narratives post 9/ 11.’ Geo Journal 58 (2–3): 159–165.

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Frisk, Kristian 2018. ‘What Makes a Hero? Theorizing the Social Structuring of Hero­ ism.’ Sociology 53 (1): 87–103. Hmingthanzuali 2010. ‘Women in Mizo History changing roles status and participation from 18th to 20th century.’ Unpublished PhD Dissertation. University of Hyderabad, Hyderabad. Hmingthanzuali 2021. Voices behind Bars: A Mizo Woman’s Prison Writings. New Delhi: Zubaan. Khupchong, T. S. 2017. ‘Khawvel ngaihsan martarte.’ Chhemdam Thlifim. https://chhem damthlifim.blogspot.com/2017/09/khawvel-ngaihsan-martarte_15.html 20 May 2022. Lalnuntluanga 2018. ‘Martar ruangruh 14 Synod Conference Centre-ah hun hman a ni.’ Times of Mizoram. https://www.timesofmizoram.com/2018/06/mnf-martar-ruangruh-14-thlahna­ synod.html 12 May 2022. Lalsawmvela 2014. ‘Mizo hnam tana Martarte Thlanmual Chanchin.’ Hriatzauna Changtlung. 2–3. Malone, Hannah 2017. Architecture, Death and Nationhood Monumental Cemeteries of Nineteenth-Century Italy. New York and London: Routledge. Mizo Archive2016. ‘MNF hian martarte a hmangaih tak tak em.’ https://mizoarchive. wordpress.com/2016/09/26/mnf-hian-martar-te-a-hmangaih-tak-tak-em/ Nag, Sajal 2012. ‘A Gigantic Panopticon: Counter-Insurgency and Modes of Disciplining and Punishment in Northeast India.’ Policies & Practices 46. Pachuau, Joy L. K. 2014. Being Mizo, Identity and Belonging in Northeast India. Delhi: Oxford University Press. Rohmingmawii 2018. ‘Impact of Memory and Post-Conflict Reconstruction Efforts in Mizoram.’ Mizoram University Journal of Humanities & Social Sciences 4 (2): 125– 138. Roluahpuia 2015. ‘Memoirs of a Mizo Rebel.’ Northeast Review. Roluahpuia 2020. ‘Politics for Peace and the Peaceful Silence.’ Seminar Magazine 732: 41–44. www.india-seminar.com/2020/732/732_roluahpuia.htm 22 June 2022. Roluahpuia 2018. ‘Memories and Memorials of the Mizo National Front Movement, Problems and Politics of Memorialisation.’ Economic & Political Weekly 53 (25): 38–45. Sailo, Lalthlana 2021. Vangvat kai lai nite. (Tr. Mary Vanlalthanpuii). Aizawl. Vanlalthanpuii, Mary 2019. Women’s Action in Mizo National Front Movement 1966–1987. New Delhi: Zubaan. Zama, C. 2014. Untold Atrocities. (Tr. Mary Vanlalthanpuii). Aizawl.

Personal Interviews 1. Pu Kunga, Personal Interview. Khawbel village, Mizoram: 24 June 2022. 2. Pu C. Zama (Ex-MNA), Personal Interview. Chawnpui Veng, Aizawl: 13 April 2022. 3. Rev. Samuel Lalremsanga, Phone conversation with the author. Lunglei: 19 November 2021. 4. Pu Vanchhuma, Personal Interview. Khawbel village, Mizoram: 23 June 2022. 5. Pi Tinsangi, Personal Interview. Dawrpui, Aizawl: 16 May 2018. 6. Pi Thanhrangi, Personal Interview. Tuikual, Aizawl: 19 May 2018. 7. Pi Hrangzovi, Personal Interview. Saitual, Mizoram: 2 June 2018. 8. Pi Lalthansangi, Personal Interview. Chawnpui, Aizawl: 23 June 2018. 9. Pi Lalthlamuani, Personal Interview. Tuivamit, Aizawl: 13 July 2018.

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10. Pi Rebeki, Personal Interview. Dawrpui Vengthar, Aizawl: 19 July 2018. 11. Pi Thangmawii, Personal Interview. Kolasib, Mizoram: 26 July 2018. 12. Pi Lalchhawni, Personal Interview. Northeast Khawdungsei, Mizoram: 9 August 2018. 13. Pi Chawlmawii, Personal Interview. Chawlhhmun, Aizawl: 15 August 2018. 14. Pi Lalkhumi, Personal Interview. Mualpui, Aizawl: 26 June 2022.

7

War and the Dead Funerary Rites, Mourning and Commemorating Second World War Deaths in Northeastern India Deepak Naorem

Introduction The news of the advancing Japanese army reached the capital of Manipur, a princely state in January 1941, in the form of nebulous rumours and prophecies. A prophecy, Nongpok thong hangba (opening of the eastern gates) had foretold the arrival of an army from the east to liberate the people from the foreign rulers. In December 1942, Christopher Gimson, the Political Agent of Manipur and Maharaja Bodhchandra declared Manipur an ‘Operational Area’ and handed over the administration of the state to the commander of the Allied forces in Imphal.1 The first major repercussion of the war was felt in the form of nearly 200,000 war refugees who swarmed the capital of the state in early 1942 (Tyson 1945; Tinker 1975).2It was followed by bombing raids in the region by the Japanese Imperial Air Force which created severe panic, destruc­ tion and deaths.3 The Japanese army halted on the eastern banks of the Chindwin River, but an invasion of strategic Allied strongholds such as Imphal, Kohima and Dimapur was imminent. A large Allied army also moved into the region in 1942, fortifying the region to defend the collapsing British Empire in Asia from rising Imperial Japan. Soon the region was engulfed by a major military confrontation between the Allied and the Japanese forces leading to the twin battles of Imphal and Kohima between 8 March and 18 July 1944. The twin battles resulted in high casualties on both sides, converting the entire region into an extensive graveyard. The Allied forces sustained nearly 20,000 casualties, meanwhile, the Japanese sustained a much larger casualty, around 60,000, a significant number of them due to exhaustion, starvation, and malaria during their torturous retreat to Burma which was described by the 1 2

3

Letter from Mr. Gimson, Political Agent in Manipur, to Maharaja Bodh Chandra, dated December, 1942, Manipur State Secretariat Library, Imphal; Draft Authority for the declaration of Operational Area. Manipur State Archives, Imphal. Gimson’s Papers, Small Collection Box 11, Notes ‘Notes on the War in Manipur, early history and background. The Bombing of Imphal, Civilian Relations with the Army, Economics, Assam Relief Measures, etc. 1940–43.’Centre of South Asian Studies Archive, University of Cambridge, Cambridge, p. 25. Gimson’s Papers, The Bombing of Imphal, pp. 6–8.

DOI: 10.4324/9781003406693-8

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soldiers as ‘road of bones’ (Keane 2011). The British empire survived in Asia, at least for a few more years, however, it was traumatic for the Japanese, since their imperial ambitions ended with their defeat. It is difficult to estimate the number of civilian deaths since we do not have any official number of such deaths. Official reports of deaths of civilians in specific incidents are however available such as the deaths during the aerial bombings of towns in Imphal valley. For example, the bombings on 10 May 1942 killed nearly 200 civilians in the heart of the capital of the state.4 The deaths in the upland regions of the state and the Naga Hills, where the situation was even grimmer due to its direct occupation by the Japanese army, are even more difficult to estimate since the documentary institu­ tions of the state were largely absent in the upland regions even before the war. Severe cholera epidemics also swept the region, adding to the number of civilian deaths. Destructions in the region were however not only caused by the invading Japanese army, but also by the Allied army during their war preparation by destroying properties and displacing the local population, and practising scorched earth policy in the region during the war (Naorem 2020a: 96–121). The destruction brought by the war in the region can be envisioned from the large number of petitions written by individuals and groups from the Manipur and the Naga Hills seeking relief, rehabilitation and monetary compensation for losses incurred due to the military actions of the Allied and the Japanese army (Naorem 2020a: 110–115). A total number of 107,747 petitions from Manipur state and 16,000 petitions from the Naga Hills were received by the Claims office in Shillong by 1949.5 These petitions are extensive testimonies of local experiences of the war. For example, a petition from 106 households of Naorem Uttrapat village informs us about the widespread devastation in their village and the surrounding region.6 The village was located close to the headquarters of the 17th Division of the Allied Army, and due to the advance of the Japanese army in 1944, the village was flooded by the Allied troops who vandalised and confiscated the village properties. The village became a site of a major battle between the Japanese and the Allied armies. When the villagers returned in late 1945, they could not recognize the landscape of their village, which was in utter ruins, scattered with the carcass of dead animals, soldiers and civilians. It was in such circumstances that the villagers of Naorem Uttrapat decided to write petitions to the state demanding relief and compensation for their losses, and scripted their testimony of the horror the war brought to their lives.

Commemorating the War The end of the war was followed by different types of commemorations by the Japanese, the Allied power and the Indian state. Monuments, museums and war 4 5 6

Gimson’s Papers, p. 6 Memo written by Special claim officer UmakantaSarma to U.N. Deka, State claim officer, Manipur, Memo no.2185/Claims dated 10 August 1949, Manipur State Archives, Imphal. Civil suit no 54 of 1956, R-21-S-B/63, MSA; petition filed by Ayekpam Dhanendra dated 23.4.46, R-13-S-B/34, Manipur State Archives, Imphal.

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graves were commissioned to commemorate the war, followed by the writing of military histories, memoirs, biographies and autobiographies of war veterans (Geoffrey and Brett-James 1965; Slim1956; Khan 1946). These works, narrated from either the perspective of an individual veteran or a military regiment nar­ rate how the invading Japanese army was defeated by their untold sacrifices, which led to the defence of the British Empire in Asia (Bayly and Harper 2004). Recent works continue to emphasise similar military histories of the war (Katoch 2016). They disseminate two popular narrative tropes: victory and sacrifice. Allied soldiers are depicted as heroes, who defended the region from a disastrous Japanese occupation and in the process sacrificed their lives. Histor­ ians have recently revised their opinions about the Allied campaign in Asia and they describe it as another attempt to reconquer and recolonize Asia after the retreat of the Japanese forces (Bayly and Harper 2007; Hock 2007). Indian nationalist narratives also locate the twin battles within the larger history of the Indian National Army (INA) and Indian nationalism. The ‘nation-making’ projects of the Indian state in the region included an appropriation of local histories into the national history, and the participation of INA in the twin battles and recruitment of locals emerged as a popular site for such projects (Naorem 2020b). The Japanese narratives on the other hand interpreted the twin battles as a blunder and a miscalculation by the military leaders which led to the death of thousands of Japanese soldiers. While largely ignoring the role of Japanese imperial projects which resulted in the disastrous twin battles and the devasta­ tion of the region by their invasion, the Japanese metanarrative of the twin battles looks at the Japanese soldiers as victims, who suffered and perished in the dense jungles and mountains of the region. Japanese cinema and popular literature also contributed to the process of creating such narratives. Michio Takeyama’s novel Harp of Burma (1946) became very popular for its invocation of the imageries of dead bodies of fallen Japanese soldiers in the jungles of Burma. Tomotaka Tasaka’s Five Scouts (1938) and Mud and Soldiers (1939) also depicted the struggles of Japanese troops rather than the violence perpe­ trated by them on the Chinese population. They portrayed a more sympathetic view of the Japanese soldiers who fought Japan’s imperialist wars and sacrificed their lives on battlefields scattered from the Pacific Ocean to the jungles of Manipur and Naga Hills. Such depictions of the soldiers and the imageries of their dead bodies shaped the post-war Japanese imagination of the war and their role in the war violence. The multiple narratives of the war became a ubiquitous part of com­ memorations, monuments, memorials and graves, which have always been sites of contestation for competing historical narratives. Recently, there have been intense debates regarding public monuments and memorials in Europe, Asia and the United States regarding the histories and public memories they repre­ sent or erase. This even led to the demands and actual removal, vandalisation and toppling of public monuments and memorials. Erin L. Thompson in her work on confederate memorials and memorials in the United States (Thompson

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2022), argues that ‘monuments are not how we learn about the past. Often, they erase the past.’7 War memorials, monuments and graves are hence not only sites of memorisation, they are also sites of erasure of histories. Marita Sturken also argues that post-9/11 memorialisation and memorial projects in the United States represent a good example of the politics of memory, and a contestation over who are to be memorialised and represented, and who are to be forgotten and erased (Sturken 2022). These works also raise questions about who decides whose deaths are to be mourned and grieved in these memorial sites and who owns the means of representation. In many regions, contestation of memories of the Second World War is between the local, national and global/international narratives of the war. In some cases, the local memories are appropriated and privileged by the state such as in Singa­ pore, and in other cases like in Northeast India, national and international mem­ ories are instead promoted. Hamzah Muzaini and Brenda A. A. Yeoh argue that the national war memory at Changi Chapel and Museum in Singapore emerged as a site of contestation between local memories and international memories asso­ ciated with them (Muzaini and Yeoh 2005). The Singapore state, to ‘localise’ the site and to make it more appealing to the local population invoked and imprinted the local narratives of the war at the site, which was contested by Australian nar­ ratives (Muzaini and Yeoh 2005: 5–15). It shows that states play a significant role in deciding whose lost lives are considered grievable and mourned at memorial sites. Judith Butler argues that it also depends on the ‘frame’ through which life and death are perceived by various societies (Butler 2016). During and in the aftermath of the war, one question that is posed to human societies, states and empires is whose lives are to be mourned and whose lives are to be forgotten. This answer is usually decided by those in power and those who waged the war such as colonial empires and post-colonial states, and their ‘frame’ of life and death. Butler argues that grieving for lost lives is only for those whose lives are seen as lives, to begin with by societies and states. Grieving is not possible for those lives, which were never seen as actual lives, to begin with. She argues that this is the frame through which life and death are perceived. Lives of various categories of human popula­ tions such as refugees, immigrants, minorities and the colonised are not seen as real lives and they are seen as living wretched and irredeemable lives. They are abandoned when they were alive, and they are forgotten and un-grievable when their lives are lost. The lives of the colonised population in frontier regions like Northeast India are not deemed as grievable by colonial states. Hence, they are not represented in their narratives, memorials, and commemorative events. Butler argues that this can be corrected by recognising the ‘precariousness’ of life or sign of humanness, by recovering their voices or representation; and such acts have the power of interrupting and breaking the frames through which lives, and death are seen, and the grand narratives of war and their memorials and commemorations (Butler 2016: 63–100). 7

‘The Historian Scrutinizing Our Idea of Monuments,’ Alexandra Schwartz, 2002, The New Yorker Interview, March 2.

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Dead Bodies as a Site of War Commemoration Historian Thomas Laqueur argues that human societies have universally rejec­ ted the Diogenean indifferent attitude towards dead bodies and produced cul­ tures to deal with not only the phenomenon of death but also our mortal remains (Laqueur 2015). He further argues that the dead bodies continue to matter for individuals, communities, and nations. Death is one of the most important events in life, and societies perceive different types of death and produce different traditions and practices to normalise different types of death. Similarly, societies also produce different mortuary, funeral and mourning practices and rituals for different types of death. Anthropological studies of death and burial practices also demonstrate that, in many societies, burial and mourning rituals are designed and conceptualised based on the station, exploits and community perception of the dead person(s) (Tradii 2020: 12). Societies in Northeastern India also developed different types of mortuary, mourning and funerary rituals for different types of death. For example, the Meitei in Manipur maintained a distinct separation between normal deaths and undesir­ able or improper death, which is locally known as misichadanasiba, and the latter type warrants a different type of funerary rituals such as the chupsaba ritual (Kshetrimayum 2009: 48). This ritual was meant to ensure that undesirable deaths are not repeated in the same family. Similarly, dead bodies of individuals who died by suicide were neither cremated nor buried until recently but were disposed of in specific sites. Such rituals are followed by monthly and annual mourning and com­ memorative events to propitiate the dead. In the recent period, many com­ memorative events and memorials have emerged in the region which commemorate the death of historical figures from the colonial period and those who were killed or disappeared during the decades of military conflict with the Indian state. The most popular memorial is the Shaheed Minar, located in the heart of Imphal, was erected to commemorate the war dead who sacrificed their lives during the Anglo-Manipur War of 1891. Recently, a public memorial has also been built at Kekrupat in Imphal to commemorate the death of eighteen people who are regarded by the public as the ‘martyrs of the Great June 18 Uprising of 2001,’ a recent political upheaval in the state. Apart from these state-sponsored and well-known public memorials, it is also quite common to encounter local commemorative tombs known as phura (Figure 7.1) in many localities across the state. I call them vernacular memorial sites, and they are maintained by the local clubs and families and are not widely known beyond the local memoryscape. These vernacular memorial sites commemorate the deaths of local heroes, martyrs, and even beloved family members. Some of them are connected to historical and recent events but are yet to receive recog­ nition from the state and the civil societies. A few decades ago, one would easily encounter these phuras in large num­ bers, along the sandy riverbanks and on the lower slopes of hill ranges in the state. Most of them have disappeared, in a state of utter neglect or washed

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Figure 7.1 A Phura dedicated to the dead ancestors in Wangkhei at the outskirts of Imphal. (Photograph by the author)

away by the frequent floods. They are also regularly vandalised by the state since they commemorate events and persons who defied the state and its legiti­ macy in the region. Similarly, many communities in the state also erect mega­ liths in honour of family members or distinguished people after their death. For example, the Liangmai community erects a megalith called Kasaibao Tusom (Menhir with flat stones) to honour important members of the community after their death (Devi 2017: 723). Several cases of local deaths during WW2 are also commemorated at the local level. The Khurai Thangjam Leikai Memorial in Imphal is an example of a vernacular memorial site that commemorates the death of 90 civilians in April 1943 when a Japanese bomb landed on a religious gathering. One of the many concerns in the aftermath of war and other large-scale violence is the treatment of dead bodies, especially of soldiers. This was even more pertinent for the world wars, when a large number of soldiers died, thousands of miles away from their home countries. It became a major concern for many countries to either arrange proper burials in the overseas military graves or to exhume them and repatriate them for proper burials in military or family graves at home. This was a major political concern in Britain after WWI

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as the public demanded the return of the dead bodies of the soldiers after it was prohibited by the British government (Tradii 2020: 1–2). The Imperial War Graves Commission (IWGC), under Sir Fabian Ware was recognised in 1917 by a royal charter to record temporary burial sites and to facilitate exhumation and reburial in military graves (Crane 2013). Tradii argues that public percep­ tions and sentiments towards the dead soldiers played a significant role in shaping the work of the IWGC. Julie Summers argues that the great importance given to the commemoration of the dead by the public and the military after the First World War led to the foundation of the IWGC, whose main work was to treat the dead bodies of the soldiers by building and maintaining war cemeteries where the dead soldiers would be reburied with appropriate procedures and ceremonies (Summers 2010). The Commonwealth War Graves Commission, (renamed, CWGC) continued the work of treating the dead bodies of soldiers after WW2 and today maintains the graves of more than 1.7 million war dead and memorials at 23,000 locations across the globe, keeping the memories of the dead soldiers relevant. Dead and their bodily remains have many afterlives, which are either sociological or political. Like the public memorials and monuments, they also emerge as a site of memorisation as well as the erasure of history. Katherine Verdery argues that dead bodies were invoked for political and ideological assertion in Eastern Europe after the fall of Communism (Verdery 2000). She argues that bodily remains of dead Communist leaders were desecrated and destroyed, meanwhile, bodies of political exiles and religious martyrs were exhumed, repatriated, and given proper burials. Even bodies of ordinary vic­ tims of political and ethnic cleansing became sites of political mobilisation through the process of exhumation and building memorials over the unmarked graves, and in the process, political and ideological shifts in Eastern Europe were legitimised by systematically exploiting the dead and their remains. Similarly, works which look at the objectives of CWGC interpreted it as an imperial project to commemorate the vast multi-racial and multi-cul­ tural British empire, through the commemoration of dead soldiers who were recruited from different corners of the Empire. The end of the war led to the beginning of decolonisation of former British colonies like India, where many war graves are now located. Sam Edwards described such graves and ceme­ teries located in former colonies as ‘enclaves of empires’, which continue to produce ‘an empire of memory’ (Edwards 2018: 255–286). The British Empire continue to live through these imperial memories, inscribed on these war memorials and graves. There are a total number of 27 war cemeteries and memorials across India, which commemorates the dead from the two World Wars. Seven of these cemeteries and memorials are located in the Northeastern states—Imphal Cre­ mation Memorial, Digboi War Cemetery, Guwahati War Cemetery, Kohima Cremation Memorial, Imphal Indian Army War Cemetery, Kohima War Cem­ etery and Imphal War Cemetery. These cemeteries house thousands of graves of commonwealth soldiers and non-commonwealth soldiers such as Chinese,

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Burmese, Italian, American and Belgian. Some graves also belonged to the subaltern class such as labourers, sweepers, porters, and cooks. Local Naga and Kuki dead soldiers who served in the colonial army regiments were also com­ memorated in these cemeteries. The list of 626 Manipuri veteran survivors (mostly Kukis), prepared after 1945 and maintained by the Rajya Sainik Board, under the Union Ministry of Defence shows that many locals were also recrui­ ted into the regular army, mainly in the Assam Regiment and Assam Rifles. Most local soldiers are commemorated in the Rangoon War Cemetery, such as Rifleman Thangjadao Kuki of Assam Rifles and Sepoy Paokhohsei Kuki of Assam Regiment. Few local soldiers are commemorated in the cemeteries loca­ ted in the Northeastern States, for example, Riflemen Sheikhonlen Kuki of Assam Rifles in Kohima War Cemetery, Sepoy Hlungkhothang Kuki of Assam Regiment in Imphal Cremation Memorial, and a nameless Naga Sepoy of the Royal Indian Army Service Corps in Imphal War Cemetery. Similarly, a few civilian war dead are also commemorated in these cemeteries, for example, Achungpa Kabui-Naga, Demhau Kuki and Bajet Pao Kabui-Naga. The participation of locals on the side of the Allied forces was not only as regular recruits in the colonial army. They assisted the Allied forces as irre­ gulars, levies, spies, porters, and interpreters (Khrienuo 2013: 57–69; Pum 2014: 667–692). They were considered by the Allied forces as their ‘loyal allies’ (Pum 2019: 307–334) and many of them fell during the military actions against the Japanese forces. They are rarely commemorated in these war memorials and cemeteries across the region and are mostly confined to the vernacular memorial sites and memories of family members and communities. Recent works also pointed out that many locals belonging to communities such as Meitei, Naga and Kuki-Chin tribes did not support the Allied forces and instead contacted and joined the ranks of Indo-Japanese forces even before the invasion began in 1944 (Guite 2010: 291–309; Dena 1974: 365–69). Indian state and Indian nationalist history have appropriated them as freedom fighters, as part of their nation-building project in the region since the 1950s (Naorem 2020b), however, they rarely find any space in the Japanese meta-narrative of the twin battles. The post-war Japanese reaction to war deaths and violence is more compli­ cated than it is generally perceived. The Japanese state, media and many orga­ nisations attempted to produce a glorified meta-narrative of war and victimhood, where Japan and Japanese soldiers who were killed during the war on battlefields across Asia were seen as victims. The dead soldiers and their bodies were romanticised, memorialised, and commemorated by building shrines on the battle sites and by repatriating their bodily remains to Japan for proper funeral rituals at war shrines like the controversial Yasukuni shrine located in Tokyo. However, these narratives were even questioned by many former soldiers, who spoke out about the violence, they unleashed during the war (Watanabe 1981; Watanabe 2004; Yasuda 1963; Yasuda 1969; Fukuma 2021: 212–217). Takashi Inoguchi and Lyn Jackson argue that there is a 8

www.cwgc.org/find-records/find-war-dead/ accessed 21 October 2021.

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difference in the ways how the German and Japanese public and society remember the war (Inoguchi and Jackson, 1998). In Germany, war violence, guilt and responsibility are admitted by the German state and citizens collec­ tively, meanwhile, they are not easily admitted by German civilians and former soldiers at the individual level. In Japan, contrary to the dismissive position of the Japanese state, many soldiers have admitted to the violence and use of comfort women in their memoirs and private war tales since the 1980s. Their tales also became a part of the popular culture in Japan and were published in major newspapers since the 1980s. Japanese students and scholars also started questioning the war narratives. In the 1960s, organisations like Nihon Senbotsu Gakusei Kinenkai (Japan Mem­ orial Society for the Students killed in the war) also questioned these narratives (Fukuma 2021: 216). The narratives of victimhood and victim-mentality were soon replaced by anti-war ideology, which was articulated in form of remorse, shame, hatred, and anger (Fukuma 2021: 216–217). The dead bodies of soldiers were deromanticised and were instead invoked in the anti-war ideology and movements in Japan. Their worshipping and honouring in memorials and shrines such as the Yasukuni shrine were also opposed. Many anti-war organi­ sations argue that the popular narratives which saw the Japanese soldiers as victims, undermine the violence perpetrated by the soldiers on people across Asia, and helped the Japanese state in avoiding accountability for the war and subsequent questions of war crimes and reparation to the victim societies. This persistent victim-mentality in Japan may also be due to the horrible experience of the twin atomic bombings at Hiroshima and Nagasaki in 1945 (Hogan 1996). Despite many anti-war and pacifist movements in Japan since the 1960s, the narratives of the war continue to privilege the role of the soldiers, either as victims or perpetrators of violence during the war. The voices and narratives of societies devastated by Japanese military actions are mostly absent in these debates (Piper 2001: 131–148). Such a dominant meta-narrative of war can create a climate of amnesia and sustained ignorance among people who were affected by the war, victims as well as soldiers. This can also influence how the victim societies remember their dead and the circumstances and outcome of the war. The local dead in societies devastated by the war are rarely remembered or commemorated, not just in Japan and the UK, but even by the societies of the victims. The meta-narrative of the war also tends to trivialise the war crimes, atrocities, violence, and destruction committed by the Japanese and the Allied forces during the war (Hicks 1997). Such a meta-narrative is sustained even today by the history writing, autobiographies, biographies, and travel writings of war veterans to the battle sites across Asia-Pacific and Southeast Asia (Ryota 2020: 146–175). The emerging war tourism industry in the region, after the repeal of the 60­ year-old Protected Area Permit regime which restricted the entry of foreigners into the region in 2010, led to the increasing visits by Japanese, British and American tourists, and it also contributed to the reiteration of imperial meta­ narratives. All these developments contributed to the collective amnesia/

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forgetting among the war-affected societies, such as in Manipur and Nagaland today. The war memorial for the Japanese soldiers in Irengbam (Bishnupur district, Manipur), erected by the local people, in a village that was devastated by the war between 20 and 23 May 1944 is a good example of such collective amnesia. The villagers of Irengbam chose to erect a memorial funded by war veterans and dedicated to the Japanese troops who were responsible for bring­ ing the disastrous war to the region, rather than a memorial to commemorate the local deaths and their war experience.9 Such amnesia has to do with the absence and uncommonness of marked graves and monuments for local victims and narratives of victimhood, deaths and destructions in the affected societies in the post-war period. War compensation and reparation emerged as significant issues for discussing any effort to bring reconciliation between the affected societies and the perpe­ trator nations in the process of confronting war violence in the post-war period. However, the payment of monetary reparations was resisted by nations who were held responsible for the unprecedented violence of the war. Even post-war Germany, which was more willing to pay reparations in comparison to Japan, also resisted the payment of monetary reparations (Pross 1988). Nicola Piper argues that the ‘Germans have accomplished more than the Japanese in facing up to their war legacy, despite very similar experiences in other respects’ (Piper 2001: 135). According to Hiroshi Sato, Japan made efforts between 1954 and 1959 to pay countries affected by their violence such as Burma, the Philippines and Vietnam and the San Francisco Peace Treaty of 1951 also made provisions for the payment of compensation and war reparation (Sato 2005: 1–20). How­ ever, he argued that many countries, including India, through a bilateral peace treaty with Japan decided to waive off the responsibility for paying compensa­ tion and hence Japan was not burdened with the payment of compensation to the victims, including individuals from these countries. This is despite the inclusion of a sum of Rs. 7,160,726 representing Manipur state’s claim in the Government of India’s initial reparation claim against Japan.10 The Deputy Secretary to the Government of India, Ministry of States also wrote to the Advisor to the Government of Assam for excluded areas and stated that the question of reparation from Japan is still under consideration in the Far Eastern Commission in Washington. The Japanese government also assumed that the issues of reparations and compensations were settled in the peace treaties and international agreements, but it was not accepted by countries like the Phi­ lippines and Indonesia who disagreed with the reparation clauses, and countries like China and Korea who were not even invited to these treaties. The IndoJapan Peace treaty, signed in 1952, however, relieved Japan from paying reparation to people affected in territories administered by the Indian state, 9

Information for this memorial at Irengbam was provided to the author by Arambam Angamba Singh on 4November 2021. 10 Letter no F.22‒1 d/48 dated 1 October 1948, Claim Office, Manipur State Archives, Imphal.

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meanwhile, Nehru’s government had earlier maintained and instructed its bureaucracy that war compensation in the Naga Hills and the hill districts of Manipur would be given only when war reparation was received from Japan.11 International treaties and the Nehru government’s myopic policies led to Japan’s absolution from paying war reparations in Northeastern India. How­ ever, the popular post-war narratives of victimhood in Japan also helped in undermining the role of Japan as the perpetrator of violence against other Asian nations. It helped in ignoring the questions of war reparations that Japan was expected to pay to the victim societies. By locating the dead bodies of Japanese soldiers as the site of the metanarrative of victimhood, the deaths of non-Japa­ nese victims, such as those in Northeastern India were erased from the war memories and commemorations. Hence, the questions of war compensations and reparations from the region remained unsettled and forgotten. Japanese war commemorations in Northeastern India also largely centred on the dead bodies of Japanese soldiers and the re-enactment of funeral and mourning rites by visiting the battle sites and offering prayers and flowers for the dead Japa­ nese soldiers. The Japanese government started sending ‘bone collecting’ mis­ sions throughout Southeast Asia and the Pacific to search for the remains of Japanese soldiers killed during the war (Trefalt 2017: 145–159). On the 70th anniversary of the war, the Japanese government revealed plans to repatriate the remains of over one million soldiers. The Japanese Association for Recov­ ery and Repatriation of War casualties built the war memorial dedicated to the dead soldiers in 1994 at Maibam Lotpa Ching (Red Hill), a battle site outside Imphal to commemorate the fifty years of the twin battles. Subsequently, they also started searching for the remains of Japanese soldiers in the region. In Manipur, due to the widespread prevalence of venerating ancestors, a tradition shared by cultures across Southeast and East Asia, many dead bodies of Japanese soldiers were buried or cremated by the local villagers at various sites. Such sites were memorialised and could be still identified by many villa­ gers. With the assistance of local historians and oral accounts, Japanese, as well as British families, were able to trace the graves and sites where the soldiers died during the war. Bodies of Japanese soldiers were exhumed from different parts of the region and cremated at the peace memorial in the presence of their family members. The issue of reconciliation was also taken up by the Japanese government through cultural exchanges and the building of hospitals and museums in the region. The Indian government has also encouraged the Japa­ nese presence in the region for geopolitical concerns to counter any Chinese influence in this border region. Similarly, the Burma Campaign Society was founded by Akiko Macdonald in 1983 to facilitate Anglo-Japanese reconcilia­ tion, especially among the surviving war veterans and their families. While she is concerned with the violent implications of the war on the local societies and 11 Correspondences regarding the compensation in the Naga Hills, Letter no 683-D8/50 dated 14 February, 1950, Ministry of Defence, R-21-S-B/72, Manipur State Archives, Imphal.

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reconciliation between Japan and the societies torn apart by the war, her orga­ nisation mainly strived to bring reconciliation to the Japanese families who lost their family members on these battle sites and whose bodies were never found or returned. Most of the early Japanese engagement in the region had been driven by the post-war notion of mourning and commemorating the dead sol­ diers, rather than for reconciliation between Japan and the societies affected by its imperial war. Collective amnesia can be prevalent in both the perpetrator and the victim society. For any reconciliation between them, it is important to remember and recognise uncomfortable moments such as the violence during the war. Such memories of violence and loss tend to exist at the personal level and are usually transmitted orally within the family. However, it is important to forge a col­ lective public memory to develop a collective identity as a victim. Through such collective memory and identity, it will be possible for their experience of vio­ lence, deaths, and extensive destruction of their properties during the war to become historical. Once it becomes historical, there can be a constructive dis­ cussion on issues such as reparation, compensation, and reconciliation. The emergence of such a collective identity of being victims of the war did not emerge in the region for various reasons. First, the end of WW II in the region did not end war and violence in the region and instead spiralled into decadeslong endless civil war due to the resistance against the entry of the Indian state into the region (Misra 2000; Franke 2011; Horam 1988; Luithui and Haksar 1984). The widespread violence as a result of this conflict in the region in the 1950s and 1960s is more memorable to the locals in the region, and this collec­ tive memory easily superseded the memories and experience of the violence during WWII. The local nationalist historiography and narratives also privi­ leged the history of resistance against the violent entry of the Indian state into the region and reduced the local history of the Second World War to a few lines in their footnotes. Second, once the commemoration of the war began in the 1960s and 1970s, local war experiences and dead were absent from the various commemorations, museums, shrines, graves, and monuments. Japanese, Allied and INA soldiers were instead commemorated at these sites. Collective memories and identities are constantly reproduced and reinforced in society through various ways—history writing, monuments, museums, and other public commemorative events. Holocaust memories and narratives (where an identity of being a victim is dominant) are also sustained among the Jewish societies across the world through such processes (Wieviorka 1999: 125–141). Even the comfort women (Tanaka 1996) who led the movement for decades to expose the violence committed by the Japanese military during the war were only able to forge a collective victim identity in the 1980s and 1990s, after dec­ ades of persistent mobilisations. Before it emerged as a controversial legacy of the Japanese war in Asia, the issue of comfort women and their institutiona­ lised sex slavery was forgotten by the post-war public in Korea and Japan, which resulted in collective amnesia about this systematic sexual slavery (Yang 1997: 123–140). Historians and activists, with the availability of documentation

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of the practice, in the 1980s and 1990s started demanding justice and compen­ sation for the former comfort women (Piper 2001: 141). This led to the end of this collective amnesia about the comfort women in Japan and Korea and their (dead and surviving women who served as comfort women) becoming part of the collective memory of the war. The installation of memorials dedicated to them across the world also played an instrumental role in historicising their war experiences.

Conclusion: New Peace Museum and New Perspectives Older landscapes of memory, mourning and commemoration in the region are slowly fading away, gradually replaced by new ones constructed by emerging geopolitics and market forces. The Japanese government increased its presence in the region through various hospitality and tourism-related investments including announcing a new memorial museum in Imphal in 2017. This museum is supposed to represent a paradigm shift from the earlier com­ memorations, representations, and narratives of the twin battles. This is con­ sistent with the recent research works and studies on the twin battles, which look beyond military, imperial, and national histories, and attempt to recover and represent the complex local experiences of war. These works look at many liminal issues and subjects like war compensation, relief and rehabili­ tation, comfort women and ‘imperial soldiers’ recruited outside Japan during the war and intimate encounters between the locals and the foreign soldiers (Utsumi 2001: 199–217; Utsumi 2006: 1–5, Naorem 2020a: 96–121; Wang 2020: 1–71; Min 2003: 938–957). Makiko Kimura also made significant progress in studying the local experience of the war, including the social and economic ramifications of the war in the region (Kimura 2022: 126–130). Local scholars have also started documenting oral testimonies of living war survivors (Kangjam 2019). The Imphal Peace Museum was finally inaugurated in 2019, located at a short distance from the old Japanese war memorial, funded by the Nippon Founda­ tion and the Sasakawa Peace Foundation. The museum was conceptualised to include local sensibility, culture, history, and local experience of the war. The museum, for the first time in the region, attempted to memorialize the local war experience and represent the war from the local perspective by installing wooden plaques embedded in the walls of the museum with the names of locals who joined the INA and the names of 228 local civilian deaths as a result of the war. This is the first instance of including local deaths, especially civilians in any form of WW II commemorations in a non-vernacular memorial site. Peace and reconciliation between Japan and the locals who were devastated by the war and memorialising the local deaths and perspectives of the war are pro­ jected as the main objective of the museum. A large calligraphy encased in glass, with the Japanese characters for heiwa or peace, written by the former Japanese Prime Minister Shinzo Abe, is displayed in the main hall of the museum, setting the tone for the museum.

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The inclusion of local deaths and local perspectives of the war in the new museum represents the revised narratives of the war in the recent period due to the efforts of historians, activists and organisations who worked on several overlooked aspects of the war. However, there are incessant concerns with the new museum. First, the museum is funded by organisations founded by Sasa­ kawa Ryoichi, a suspected war criminal with far-right political ideology, who allegedly supported the Japanese imperial war and benefitted financially from the war. Second, the museum continues to undermine the violence and devas­ tation experienced by the locals by pushing the narrative that locals ‘harboured no bitterness against any of the warring sides and extended humanitarian help to the needy soldiers (read Japanese soldiers).’ Such narratives are contradicted by the testimonies of locals across the region in their petitions seeking war compensations. Finally, the museum depicts war violence, as necessary and contributed to ushering modernity in the region, and compared the adversities experienced by the locals during the war with that of the industrial revolution in England. The exhibits and how they are curated in the museum do not reflect regret or even acknowledgement of the devastations and death that Japanese imperial ambitions brought to the region, and instead weave a new narrative of how the war brought modernity and connectivity in the region in the form of new roads and airstrips and exposed this ‘hinterland’ to culture and civilisation. Hence the inclusion of the names of local war dead in the new museum does not mean that they are allowed to narrate their war experience on their term. Such representation is not sufficient to create a decolonial memorial site and it is important to give them a voice which can be comprehended by the visitors. Unlike the recent Japanese efforts to address these new issues raised by historians and activists, Allied war commemorations however continue to celebrate exclusively imperial memories through the war dead buried in the war cemeteries in the region and exclude the local war dead and war experiences. Inoguchi and Jackson argue that war memorial sites should be able to host all types of memories and narratives without erasing each other. And finally, we should be able to look into the possi­ bility of transforming these WWII memorial sites and monuments into post­ imperial and what Lisa Yoneyama calls ‘postnationalist’ public spaces where everyone can visit and mourn (Yoneyama 2001: 323–346).

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Nishino, Ryota 2020. ‘Pacific War Battle Sites through the Eyes of Japanese Travel Writers: Vicarious Consumer Travel and Emotional Performance in Travelogues.’ History and Memory 32 (2): 146–175. Min, Pyong Gap 2003. ‘Korean ‘Comfort Women’: The Intersection of Colonial Power, Gender, and Class.’ Gender & Society 7 (6): 938–957. Misra, Udayon 2000. The Periphery Strikes Back: challenges to the Nation-state in Assam and Nagaland. Shimla: Indian Institute of Advanced Study. Piper, Nicola 2001. ‘War and Memory: Victim Identity and the Struggle for Compensa­ tion in Japan.’ War & Society 19 (1): 131–148. Pross, Christian 1998. Paying for the Past: The Struggle over Reparations for Surviving Victims of the Nazi Terror. London: The Johns Hopkins University Press. Pum, Khan Pau 2014. ‘Situating Local Events in Geo-Political Struggles between the British and Japanese Empires: The Politics of Zo Participation during the Second World War.’ The Journal of Imperial and Commonwealth History 42 (4): 667–692. Pum, Khan Pau 2019. ‘Behind the Enemy Line: British-led Guerrilla Operations in the Indo-Burma Frontier during the Second World War.’ Small Wars & Insurgencies 30 (2): 307–334. Sato, Hiroshi 2005. ‘India Japan Peace Treaty in Japan’s Post-war Asian Diplomacy.’ Journal of the Japanese Association for South Asian Studies 17: 1–20. Slim, William 1956. Defeat into Victory: Battling Japan in Burma and India, 1942–1945. London: Cassell and Company. Soh, Sarah C. 2020. The Comfort Women: Sexual Violence and Postcolonial Memory in Korea and Japan. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Sturken, Marita 2022. Terrorism in American Memory: Memorials, Museums, and Architecture in the Post-9/11 Era. New York: NYU Press. Summers, Julie 2010. British and Commonwealth War cemeteries. London: Shire Library. Tanaka, Yuki 1996. Hidden Horrors: Japanese War Crimes in World War II. Oxford: Westview Press. Tinker, Hugh 1975. ‘A Forgotten Long March: The Indian Exodus from Burma, 1942.’ Journal of Southeast Asian Studies 6 (1): 1–15. Thompson, Erin L. 2022. Smashing Statues: The Rise and Fall of America’s Public Monuments. New York: Norton. Tradii, Laura 2020. ‘Their Dear Remains Belong to us Alone.’ Soldiers’ Bodies, Com­ memoration, and Cultural Responses to Exhumations after the Great War.’ First World War Studies 10 (2–3):245–261. Trefalt, Beatrice 2017. ‘Collecting Bones: Japanese Mission for Repatriation of War Remains and Unfinished Business of Asia-Pacific War.’ Australian Humanities Review 61: 145–159. Tyson, Geoffrey 1945. Forgotten Frontier. London: W H Targett & Co. Utsumi, Aiko 2001. ‘Korean “Imperial Soldiers”: Remembering Colonialism and Crimes against Allies POWs.’ In T. Fujitani, Geoffrey M. White and Lis Yoneyama (eds). Perilous Memories: The Asia-Pacific War(s). Durham: Duke University Press. 199– 217. Utsumi, Aiko 2006. ‘Yasukuni Shrine Imposes Silence on Bereaved Families.’ The AsiaPacific Journal/Japan Focus 4 (9): 1–5. Verdery, Katherine 2000. The Political Lives of Dead Bodies: Reburial and Postsocialist Change. New York: Columbia University Press.

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Wang, Edward (ed.) 2020. ‘The Study of “Comfort Women”: Revealing a Hidden Past.’ Chinese Studies in History 53 (1): 1–71. Watanabe, Kiyoshi 1981. Watashi no Tennokan. Henkyosha. Watanabe, Kiyoshi 2004. Kudakreta Kami. Iwanamishoten. Wieviorka, Annette 1999. ‘From Survivor to Witness: Voices from the Shoah.’ In Jay Winter and Emmanuel Sivan (eds). War and Remembrance in the Twentieth Century. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. 125–141. Yang, Hyunah. 1997. ‘Re-membering the Korean Military Comfort Women: National­ ism, Sexuality and Silencing.’ In Elaine H. Kim and Chungmoo Choi (eds) Dangerous Women: Gender & Korean Nationalism. London: Routledge. 123–140. Yasuda, Takeshi. 1963. Senso Taiken. Miraisha. Yasuda, Takeshi. 1969. Ningen no Saiken. Chikumashobo. Yoneyama, Lisa. 2001. ‘For Transformative Knowledge and Postnationalist Public Spheres: The Smithsonian Enola Gay Controversy.’ In T. Fujitani, Geoffrey M. White and Lisa Yoneyama (eds) Perilous Memories: The Asia-Pacific Wars. London: Duke University Press. 323–346.

8

Navigating Death in Diaspora Easterine Kire’s Nagaland Pritha Banerjee

Kenneth L. Untiedt in Death Lore emphasises the importance of oratures sur­ rounding death, as other rituals and ceremonies maybe lost over time, but death rituals were most likely to be continued across generations, owing to the utter unknowability of death and afterlife. According to Untiedt, people harbour so many beliefs, superstitions, customs and rituals about dying because, ‘we fear death more than anything else,’ and also out of respect ‘for the dead, and for what happens after we die’ (Undiedt 2008: 4). Indigenous folklore becomes a way of accessing alternative means of approaching death and also for under­ standing the origin of rituals and cultures relating to death around the world. Many ceremonies and rituals also emanate from a ‘fear of whatever inhabited the deceased and not the corpse itself,’ (Undiedt 2008: 4) a phenomenon that Effie Bendann calls the ‘dread of the spirit.’ (Undiedt 2008: 4, Bendann 1930: 57) This is particularly seen in Easterine Kire’s retellings of Naga folklore, where the living constantly try to demarcate a boundary between themselves and death. Great care is taken to distance ‘apotia’ or unnatural deaths from the realm of the living in Naga culture, as seen in the stories told by Kire. This chapter examines different customs, rituals and traditions of the Angami Nagas1 vis-à-vis revering the dead as well as ‘protecting’ the living from the dead through a close reading of selected fiction and non-fiction of Kire. A poet, short story writer and novelist, Kire was born in Kohima in Naga­ land, India and is currently settled in Norway. Kire has been recognised for her contribution towards preserving the oral literature of her homeland through dynamic forms of storytelling, and has also become in many ways ‘the keeper of her people’s memory, their griot,’ (Pimomo 2011) particularly for the Naga diaspora and youth increasingly disconnected from the land. William Safran defines the diaspora as ‘expatriate minority communities,’ maintaining a ‘memory, vision or myth about their original homeland’ (Clifford 1994: 304). 1

The Angami Nagas belong to a larger group called Tenyimia, from the word ‘tuo­ nyumia’ which means ‘swift walker’ (Kire 2019: 13). According to Naga folklore Sema and Lotha named their brother ‘Angami’ as he always walked ahead, and each of the three brothers were the origin of different tribes, named after them (Kire 2019: 13).

DOI: 10.4324/9781003406693-9

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The ancestral home remains a ‘place of eventual return when the time is right’ (Clifford 1994: 304). This longing for return and a certain solidarity based on a ‘continuing relationship with the homeland’ (Safran 1991: 83–84) creates a sense of community and identity as diaspora. In Clifford’s explanation, diaspora is different from travel, as it is not temporary, and ‘involves dwelling, maintaining communities, having collective homes away from home’ (Clifford 1994: 308). Kire’s fiction and non-fiction enables the maintenance of this link with the homeland. Even if return is not physically possible or economically viable, it is possible to return through these stories told by Kire that reconnect readers with Naga folklore, forests and village life. Defining the self as different from the national time/space becomes crucial for diaspora discourse. As time and space take on unique formulations for every character in Kire’s novels, a world of mystique and limitless possibilities emerge through her tales. The edges between the human and the non-human, the living and the dead are blurred to the extent that the transitions between them are almost imperceptible and magical, evok­ ing thrill and fear all at the same time. Particularly in view of the onslaught of modernity and hyper-rationality that would negate the importance of the intuitive and the mystical for approaching the unknowable, Kire’s tales have become a precious trove of indigenous forms of knowing. In their studies on ‘death, indigeneity and urbanity’ (2018: 50) Anderson and Woticky reflect on how western education and colonisation has informed and dominated the way death, rituals and practices surrounding death are per­ formed and perceived, ‘including the framing of death and dying as a medical event’ (Anderson and Woticky 2018: 50). While indigenous traditions provide ways of reconciling with death and afterlife and provide perceptive faculties for co-existing with the dead and with spirits and recognising the connection between the natural world and such transitional spaces of existence, colonial worldviews in the 19th and 20th centuries as well as present day science posits death as a medical event. As a surgeon, Anderson notes his dissatisfaction with such an approach which is ‘discordant’ with his personal values as an indigen­ ous person’ (Anderson and Woticky 2018: 50). While Anderson may belong to a different cultural matrix, being an indigenous person in America, his words hold true for different indigenous communities in the global diaspora that are very heterogenous and diverse. The crucial difference between the colonial and western manner of framing death ‘through a linear, biomedical and physical lens,’ which encourages humans to see themselves as a physical body alone and the indigenous approach to death, lies in the latter helping people see ‘them­ selves as a spirit having a human experience’ (Anderson and Woticky 2018: 51). Hence birth and death become mystical events when the spirit transitions through this world, rather than medical events recorded at the hospital. Death here also becomes a natural part of the journey of the spirit, rather than being seen as a ‘failure’ by the medical system. Anderson reflects on how modern-day hospitals are engineered to ‘hide death,’ and project ‘life’ as valuable. The way the hospital takes over the body, cocooning it in body bags, creates a barrier for indigenous traditions that wish to respect the body by touching, bathing and

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revering death, also supporting the process of grieving. In the last leg of life, the indigenous ceremonies, both communal and spiritual, assist transition into afterlife for the dying and acceptance of the same for the grieving. Such ‘healing of the spirit,’ becomes difficult given hyper rational, modern epistemologies of death that frown upon the intuitive and the mystical. In this respect, Easterine Kire’s magic realist writing of Naga indigenous folklore offers an apt frame­ work for approaching dimensions that cannot be contained by the logical and rational discourse of modern medical science.

At the Borderline of Death In all of Kire’s narratives, the forest is described as a space of spells, where mysterious disappearances occur. Humans walking into the woods hear ‘sweet’ and ‘strange’ voices calling their names, are drawn to the spirits calling them and are found dead after a few months or forever altered in some way. In the short story The Man Who Became a Bear (Kire 2021: 59–64), the painful con­ fusion of a transformation is recorded, as a man transforms physically into a bear and grapples with his new reality as his mind remains human. He desires to return to his wife and children but is afraid lest they do not recognise him and refuse to accept his metamorphosed form. Kire’s retelling of this folktale alerts us to the close link between human and non-human existence, as a trip to the forest can bring about a transmigration of soul from one body to another. While the man-bear is troubled and confused if he should growl or crawl or walk, ‘Was he to act like a man or a bear?’ (Kire 2021: 63) the other bears in the forest accept him as one of their own, seeing him as a fellow bear. In con­ trast, humans are afraid of him and shoot him down when they find him eating corn from their fields. Even as he shouts out to them to recognise that he’s a man, they can only hear strange ‘bear noises,’ emanating from his throat. This folktale maps human-animal conflict as the basis of death, the origin being the malevolent spell cast on the man to transform him into a non-human animal form. It is only when the man-bear dies that the hunters suddenly wonder if this was the man who had wandered into the forest and gone missing, and on checking, they find the scar on the bear’s shoulder that was an identifying fea­ ture of the man they had been looking for (Kire 2021: 64). Therefore even in transformation, certain markers of the human body are retained just like the mind, with its human nature remains unchanged, therefore causing great suf­ fering. This tale also therefore becomes a warning for others to enter the forest with the precautionary bitter wormwood behind one’s ears, or to move in groups rather than alone, again strengthening the idea of community as a resistance to the spirit world and death that lies across the border of such meetings. According to Kaufmann, cited by Kire herself, Naga love poetry is steeped in a ‘vein of deep melancholy,’ underlying their ‘spontaneous geniality’ (Kire 2019: 40). Kaufmannn analyses that ‘the thought of death is never far from that, and the fear of it is a potent factor in their lives’ (Kire 2019: 40). ‘Brevity of life’ and

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the ‘dread finality of death,’ remain themes that continually return to haunt the love songs and poems that Kire and Kaufmann refer to. These also form a constant recurrent theme in Kire’s short stories and novels, where we see char­ acters on the cusp of life and death, as the presence of spirits have a major impact on the destinies of the living in these tales. The short story, River and Earth (Kire 2021: 25–34) describes the ‘mammy-wota’ or river spirits who are incredibly beautiful, granting great riches, causing men to fall in love with them, withdraw from social interactions and ultimately waste away. These spirits are seen as particularly dangerous as they extract life force and kill. Kire also compares these ‘mammy-wota’ spirits with similar ones across the world, in Laos and Nigeria, showing how spirits change lives of those they inhabit/ surround, either in the flesh or consciousness. The artwork accompanying the story shows entangled beings, indistinguishable from each other—birds, forests, humans—the spirits looming as inarticulate, malevolent and mischievous pre­ sence. The book Rain Maiden and Bear Man (2021) creates a different ambience through the artwork between pages of writing, where the colours too are reso­ nant with blurred meanings, the forms merging into each other, symbolising perhaps the difficulty of demarcating the boundaries between the living and the dead as well as between the image and the written word. Between colours and shapes, there always seems to be something or someone watching—awakening within us an apprehension as well as curiosity vis-à-vis the unknown. In Kire’s narratives, we also see how songs form an important part within the everyday lives of the characters she creates as well as in the transitional space between life and death. The songs sung by spirits lure the living deep into the forests and leave them transformed forever. In the short story Forest Song (Kire 2021: 7–18), the forest is seen as the repository of mystery and spirits that invite death. The song sung by the spirits called ‘forest song’ attracts humans and then causes them to fall into a ‘deep slumber,’ that they cannot wake from on their own. Kire’s story highlights the irresistible nature of the song, as well as the inexplicable realm between life and death that hearers of the song seem to reach. In Walking the Roadless Road, Kire notes that ‘song taboos’ exist and often songs of the forest were forbidden in the village and vice-versa (Kire 2019: 40). This attempt to delineate a border between the dead and the living is a tense one, as there are crossings over, by those in distress or those who are in many ways different from others by virtue of ambition or ‘largeness of spirit’. In some ways it is similar to the attraction felt by Thesuohie in The Silver Dzuli (Kire 2021: 73–82) for the powers of spirit existence, which lead to his eventual death and transformation into spirit. However, the spirit world is not all mal­ evolent, as ugly realities of the living world jostle next to the world of spirits in these folktales. For Zeno, the little girl who wanders into the forest, in Forest Song, the spirits are safer than the humans, like Bise’s father who had molested her in the past. Running away from him, Zeno meets an old woman gathering firewood in the forest, who shelters her from the man. A gap is left in the nar­ rative between Zeno’s meeting with the old woman with whom she feels ‘safe’ and her parents taking her for dead after searching for her for twelve days. It is

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assumed that the spirits have taken her for their own, when she does not return. Zeno is protected from the molester but is also therefore touched and absorbed by death and presumably taken over to the other side. In Angami folklore showcased by Kire, death is ever present and ever loom­ ing over life, always at the edge of each story, through the meetings between humans and spirits. In the short story, The Silver Dzuli, young Thesuohie is seen preferring his spirit father’s thrilling company, waiting for him on winter evenings. Recognising his father’s spirit allows him to experience a certain oneness with the sky and nature and transcend the limitations of being human, feeling ‘his whole body dissolving into nothingness, becoming part of the exhi­ larating experience of oneness with the illimitable sky and the immortal warrior spirit’ (Kire 2021: 75). Therefore at these junctures, the spirit world is seen giving access to powers and experiences not ordinarily available to the living. Death seems to only exist as a brief moment between life and eternal spirit, both co-existing closely within Naga folklore. Kire’s narratives also showcase the power dynamics between the living and the dead as mirroring the hierarchy between culture and nature, as well as that between man and nature, where the logical, rational and the patriarchal would dominate and control all that is fluid, intuitive, feminine and natural (Plum­ wood 1993: 42). In Kire’s short story, ‘The Man Who Lost His Spirit,’ (2021: 35–43) Pesuohie is seen adopting various techniques to ensnare his spirit, like singing and reminding it of all the good times they have spent together (Kire 2021: 42). He also recollects a time when his spirit had actually chosen life over death, when injured by a bullet. By singing, Pesuohie tries to emotionally involve his spirit and bring him back to the body. It is interesting to note that according to Naga folklore retold by Kire, the spirit body can only really be locked in to the man’s body when he is able to bring it within the boundaries of the house and close the gates of the house compound. In a way, the gates of a house also demarcate the framework or boundaries established by culture that attempt to restrict or delimit the spirit world, or the world of nature which is the space where demarcations and boundaries blur. The spirit’s dire attempt to flee the body, also therefore becomes a metaphor for the struggle of the natural and intuitive spirit to be free from the restrictions and definitions imposed by a patriarchal world of the living. In Forest Song, Zenos’s disappearance into the forest, fleeing from sexual abuse, adds another layer to such a power hierarchy, as the natural and spirit world seems to offer shelter to all those oppressed by socio-cultural codes of the human world.

Listening to Death Lore Reading Kire’s works of non-fiction where she delves into the ethnographic history of the different tribes in Nagaland, Walking the Roadless Road, makes us realise that, ‘Listening is important’ (Kire 2019: ix) as she relates the impor­ tance of the Kerunyuki, or the Listening House, set up by Nikita Iralu and his wife in Nagaland, where different parties to a conflict can listen to each other

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and learn alternative ways to live in peace. In parallel, we also realise the importance of listening to Kire’s retelling of the folktales carefully, as they hold the deepest secrets of life and death and teach ways to co-exist with the mys­ terious dimensions of spirit encounters common to all tribes of Nagaland. In Walking the Roadless Road, Kire highlights the community-based nature of the Naga villages, ‘set up on highly democratic principles’ Kire 2019: 7). She also mourns the passing of such a way of life as ‘rampant urbanisation in these places is slowly destroying the sense of community’ (Kire 2019: 7). In this respect, Kire’s retelling of Naga folktales becomes a way of retaining a link with a way of life or a philosophy natural to the Naga that may be seen to help youngsters better negotiate the realms of life and death and respond appro­ priately to spirits and the spirit world. This spirit world is closely interwoven with the natural world of forests and lakes and rivers in Naga myth and experience. Kire, in an effort to collate together different oratures and ethno­ graphic records, explains that ‘Naga origin stories’ include both the mytholo­ gical, which ‘describes the supernatural origin of mankind from a stone or … a pumpkin or a giant bird’ (Kire 2019: 10) as well as the historical. Different tribes have different origin stories, which she studies in this text. The oral his­ tories also describe the movement of different tribes in the Naga hills, therefore narrating a mythical geography, the land embedded with stories that give meaning to personal and indigenous identity and a sense of uniqueness and difference from those residing in the mainland. While Kire traces the history and the myths of all the different prominent tribes of Nagaland—the Angami, Ao, Chakhesang, Chang, Dimasa Kachari, Khiamniungan, Konyak, Kuki, Lotha, Pochury, Pham, Rengma, Sangtan, Sumi, Yimchungen and the Zeliang— her folktales primarily centre around the Angami, Konyak and Zeliang tribes. The inexplicable is always attributed to the supernatural and the mystical within Naga folklore. The folktales also function as a way of educating young people on the ways the natural world is entangled with human wellbeing and responds to human actions. In Walking the Roadless Road, Kire presents an overview of the centrality of folktales to the different tribes. The origin tale of Man, Spirit and Tiger, as sons of the same Mother, is seen as common to multiple tribes. Kire also highlights Ao folktales and their explanation of the workings of the sun, moon and stars (Kire 2019: 32). She relates how the his­ torical and the mythical are intermingled in the legend of Yingnyiushang, the ancestral mountain of the Phom tribe, which was the meeting place for the tiger men of Phom, Konyak and Chang Naga (Kire 2019: 54). It was also seen as the transition point between the living and the dead, when the departed person, ‘would touch the forgetting leaf,’ in a bid to forget the details of their early lives and particularly, the longing for loved ones (Kire 2019: 54). The Naga also believed that the soul of the dead child forgets the longing for its mother, after bathing in the ‘mother forgetting stream,’ or the Nyiube Yong on the mountain (Kire 2019: 54). This sacred mountain is also one of the richest in biodiversity in Nagaland. The tribe’s cultural interpretation of the place therefore also aids in creating a sacred geography that helps preserve the ecosystem of a place.

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This is also seen in the short stories related by Kire, where seeing the forest as the space of spirits also protects the forest from human exploitation. Thus the folktales related in the Morung2 ensure a continuity of perception and a sense of identity built around such an idea of boundaries between the living and the dead as well as the human and the non-human. Through Kire’s study in Walking the Roadless Road, we see that the Lothas and the Rengmas have an elaborate death mythology which informs their tra­ ditions and practices. They believe in re- incarnation and in seven worlds, ‘layered one below the other’ (Kire 2019: 163) with man being born seven times, inhabiting each of these layered worlds. The Angamis believed in life after death and buried the deceased with agricultural tools and implements. Their pre-Christian practices taught the Angamis that ‘the souls of the dead travelled to a place called Runyugei and from there to the dark river of death Kezeiru, guarded by Meceimo—the ugly spirit’ (Kire 2019: 64). The final destination of the souls, as per Angami folklore, was the Terhuora, where the spirit would stay for eternity. While other tribes have certain similarities of approach to death, particularly the Chakhesang and the Aos, Kire’s narratives mostly reflect Angami beliefs and practices and some of the former, where they overlap. Chakhesang folklore also sees the woods, rocks, springs and mountains, rivers and lakes as the abode of spirits and also visualises a river lying between the land of the living and the dead. The Aos narrate the story of the Lungritsu, the stream that transports any man touching it to the world of the dead. The river here acts as a final frontier, as once a man crosses it, he can never return to the land of the living. Also the journey to the land of the dead is fraught with challenges as he meets his enemies and those he has killed on the way. Finally, in Ao understanding, all dead souls pass through the house of the God of Death, Meyutsungra. Different spirits are also given different names by the Angamis. Kire’s list of spirits in Walking the Roadless Road, also gives us an idea regarding how deaths are perceived to have been caused by certain specific malevolent spirits having different means of sucking life out of their human victims. A Rhuotshe, or an ‘ill-tempered spirit,’ causes victims to bleed from the mouth and the nose before dying (Kire 2019: 64). On the other hand, when victims are found to 2

The Morung/Kichuki/Baan was the main social and educational institution in the majority of Naga villages, before the advent of Christianity. It was the main com­ munal building dominating Naga villages and functioned as a dormitory for young unmarried men, who were trained in ways of the tribe as they transitioned from childhood to youth and became adults. Through folk songs, dances and folktales, Naga oral traditions were kept alive and disseminated to the young men. In the absence of the physical Morung, and in the presence of a modern way of life, Kire’s narrative becomes a kind of virtual Morung, providing a sense of community and support to the young boys as well as extending the experience to women who would typically be excluded from the Morung. In this, Kire’s stories take on a new sig­ nificance in breaking down gender stereotypes and also showing the importance of keeping alive the traditional. They also adapt such traditions and stories to suit the present-day requirements—to ensure continuity in a different form.

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have wandered away for long periods of time and then found in a state of paralysis, it is considered the work of Telepfu—female spirits who lure away humans, but do not kill them. By contrast, spirits like Rhuolo are seen as heartless, affecting all who encounter them with sudden illness. Rapu is another spirit form visualised by the Naga, as controlling nightmares. While no parti­ cular function is granted to Meceimo, the grim-faced spirit mentioned earlier (Kire 2019: 64), the ugliness of the spirit makes the crossing over daunting as well as introduces the fear of death within listeners of lore. Then again, there are benevolent and guardian spirits as well like Miawenuo, the goddess of wealth, or Chukhieo, the guardian spirit of wildlife. Another spirit, Dzurau, guards women’s crops. However, as per Naga tradition, even if the spirits are benevolent, they are not worshipped like Ukenuopfu, the Creator Deity. The spirits are only appeased by offerings at the most. Within Angami understanding, the natural and spiritual worlds coalesce, and the ‘spiritual world is peopled with malevolent spirits’ (Kire 2019: 63), which harm humans, damage crops, deceive humans if they get a chance or if irked by human beha­ viour. The Angamis therefore follow ‘genna days, or non-working days called “PENE”’ to appease these malevolent spirits (Kire 2019: 68–69). However, it is to be noted that the spirits are not worshipped, only propitiated. The only deity that is worshipped is Ukepenuopfu. In the novel When the River Sleeps, we see Vilie calling upon the power of Ukepenuopfu, to win the subtle battles against malevolent spirits in his journey to find the heart stone as well as while guard­ ing the spiritual treasures of the stone on the way back. Ukepenuopfu is seen as the Creator Deity who has fashioned the earth and the sky and blessed the world with abundance. This is in contrast with the spirit world, which is seen as mostly creating havoc in the world of the living. Kire explains that besides spirits with names, the Angami Nagas ‘acknowledge spirits of stones, spirits of trees, spirits of lakes, spirits of the earth and shade-spirits of the dead’ (Kire 2019: 65). To protect themselves from the influence of these spirits and others, the Naga place the leaf of the Indian wormwood behind their ears, believed to stave off malevolent spirits of death and illness. When someone in the family dies of illness, it is considered the work of malevolent spirits by the Naga. Among the Aos, Angamis and Konyaks, preChristian and precolonial belief in the environment being full of harmful spirits or Kahshih, also inculcated the belief that all misfortunes and death was caused by the Kahshih (Kire 2019: 121). Therefore, all rituals and practices are centred on warding off these spirits and avoiding them. While most tribes would not worship the spirits, the Konyaks would offer food and meat to them at the foot of their house-beams (Kire 2019: 121). In fact, in Angami folklore, ‘all sickness is spirit induced’ (Kire 2019: 64). Therefore, an Angami tries to avoid all forms of ‘apotia death,’ which results in being denied proper funeral rights (Kire 2019: 64). Apotia deaths are further explained by Kire in Walking the Roadless Road—an Assamese word used to describe ‘deaths that are aberrations,’ such as death by accidents like drowning, fire, falling off a cliff, being attacked by a wild animal, as well as dying in childbirth. Kire notes that ‘victims of apotia

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deaths cannot be brought within the village territory, and are buried beyond the gate’ (Kire 2019: 64). This is seen in her folktale retellings as well where the weretigermen and victims of spirit induced deaths are buried outside the village and not granted funeral rites.

Weretigermen, Death and the Natural World of Spirits Kire’s forays into the world of spirit tigers or the tekhumevi explores the points of contact between the human and non-human, material and spirit worlds. The weretigermen, particularly inhabit this in-between space and therefore evoke both fear and awe. The stories about the weretigermen refer to ‘the practice of some men becoming dual souled with the tiger’ (Kire 2019: 46) their lives becoming interconnected. The death of one leads to the death of the other as seen in numerous stories recounted by Kire. In her ethnography she notes mul­ tiple real-life incidents of such practices that become the basis of her folklore. In the novella, Don’t Run, My Love (2017), a mother and a daughter’s ordinary lives are thrown into disarray when a weretigerman falls in love with the daughter, Atunuo and seeks to possess her love as well. It is a startling love story marked by vivid descriptions as well as intensity of emotion and peopled by the world of the unknown—the creatures at the edges of human existence and fraught with the fears of humans like Atunuo and others fighting the spirits of their own nightmares. Atunuo and her mother Azuo decide to seek assistance from the Village of Seers, a supernatural village that remains unfathomable to ordinary eyes. In the short story, ‘The Weretigerman’ in the collection The Rain Maiden and the Bear Man we see that ‘the nexus between tiger and man was still attended by the mystery and awe that shrouds the supernatural’ (Kire 2021: 69). In this story, nature and the non-human world are seen as active partici­ pants in helping the tiger spirit kill the men who insult his corresponding human form. The fallen trees create an illusion, raising their branches to block the exit, the roots simply pushing the men back and cornering them—‘the blackening spirits of dead trees that deceived him into thinking that there were trees where none stood’ (69). Kire therefore adds another layer to the interface of human and nonhuman death, suggesting how the non-human world partici­ pates in and forms an active presence in the spirit world as well. As explained in multiple stories in The Rain Maiden and Bear Man, the spirit tiger grows with the man through his life, progressing from ‘lower forms of life,’ till it attains the ‘final stature of the tiger’ (Kire 2021: 70). Thus, Tsar­ icho in ‘The Weretigerman,’ sees cat spirits mirroring him when he is a child. Later, as he becomes an adult, his tiger spirit is also ‘praised and feared, a great cat almost as big as his great-grandfather’s’ (Kire 2021: 70). Angami folklore therefore naturalises the human and non-human interface, such that life and death depend on the understanding and access to such an ‘interbeing’ of spe­ cies—human, animal and forest. While shrouded in awe and mystery befitting the supernatural, the spirit world and afterlife are also accepted and revered as part of everyday life by the villagers and forest dwellers in Kire’s retellings of

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these tales. At the same time, her stories also indicate conflicting views regard­ ing spirits, as seen in Don’t Run, My Love, where inability to understand the other side leads to fear and death of the weretigerman, as he is seen as a threat to the girl he falls in love with. On the other hand, other stories show a deeper understanding of what weretigermen go through internally, living and honour­ ing this connection with the non-human and spirit world. Kire helps us reflect on what it means for them to always live in the space between life and death, and what it costs them as well. It is to be noted also that the weretigermen are buried in unhallowed ground on dying, without a cross over them and are feared by all in the night. Kire’s short stories also make us question the tradi­ tion of seeing weretigermen as fit for unhallowed ground, or ‘unblest’ graves, as Tscricho’s grandfather was such a compassionate man and tiger-spirit. The mystical connection remains difficult for other humans to understand fully, who fear and revere this door of access to spirit, death and the unknown, but would keep such powerful and alternative entities at a distance from themselves. Kire traces the many traditions and cultural practices and taboos surrounding death in Naga culture. She notes how in the Angami tradition, it was a lin­ guistic taboo, to refer to death directly. Instead, an euphemism would be used as the recently deceased ‘would be referred to as having “gone to fetch salt”’ (Kire 2019: 6). As noted by Kire, this euphemism might have originated from the perception of the journey to Assam to buy salt being hazardous and more often than not leading to death. In a similar vein, the ‘tiger’ in the forest is not referred to as a ‘tiger’ to prevent it from coming too close for comfort. Instead, the tiger is called ‘elder brother’ as seen in Son of the Thundercloud (2016). Thus, invoking the spirit is seen as a way of calling its power into play. The Naga belief in the connection between human actions and the fertility of the soil, abundance or the lack of it in the natural world, is also seen in Son of the Thundercloud, where the villagers’ maltreatment of the ‘tiger-widow’ Mesanuo leads to the famine. The novel begins as a story being told to a child, thereby inscribing itself as a bedtime story with the possibility of including events outside the scope of everyday rational thought, allowing space for the mythical and mystical, situating the tale between wakefulness and sleep. The novel is strung together by the experiences of Pelevotso who is forced to travel to survive starvation caused by the famine, finally reaching the village of Wea­ vers, where he is witness to the transformative event of Mesanuo giving birth to the ‘Son of the Thundercloud’ with the earth at once responding to the mystical advent by sprouting trees, stones and rocks, ‘just as a mother births her off­ spring’ (Kire 2016: 46). Mesanuo explains to the Headman of her village, ‘The trees and rocks are the sons of the earth. Take care of them and they will take care of you and your children’ (Kire 2016: 46). This becomes more compre­ hensible only after the miraculous birth of the child who brings rain and reju­ venation—it is also seen that one miracle brings faith in all other miracles. The natural famine is linked to a famine at a spiritual level, as narrated by Mesa­ nuo. She tells Pelevotso that the ‘other famine’ killed many more than the famine of the earth, which was just a reflection of the impoverishment of the

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human spirit—‘I am talking about the famine of stories and songs. They killed all the storytellers who tried to tell them about the Son of the Thundercloud. They killed hope’ (Kire 2016: 48). With the return of hope, and the fulfilment of the ‘story’ told by the storytellers, the river running through the village also revives. The people hurry to plant their seed grains, as the rain plummets down—getting ready to begin life again. The son born from a raindrop that impregnated Mesanuo, is called Rhalietuo, or ‘The Redeemer’ by his mother. Kire’s narrative makes us aware of the parallel between the way the villagers treat Mesanuo and the way they treat the natural world. Their disregard for the woman, also brings about the famine in the material world as well as in their internal experience of life. In many ways, Mesanuo is seen as an extension of the earth, turning barren and unproductive when not respected by the men. With the advent of Rhalietuo, the villagers’ response to Mesanuo also changes to that of respect, while all these years it had been one of neglect and disdain since the death of her husband and sons at the hands of the spirit tiger in the forest. She was called the ‘tiger widow,’ and ostracised by all the villagers. With Rhalietuo’s birth, Mesanuo is seen overcoming the darkness of the deaths which had taken a toll on her life. The metaphor of storytelling used by this folktale, therefore indicates the importance of this present retelling by Kire, that keeps hope alive in our hearts as well. Mesanuo recalls a time when food was abundant and story­ tellers traversed the land with their stories of ‘joy and hope,’ (Kire 2016: 63) before ‘the darkness’ killed all the storytellers as they ‘did not want them to transform people’s minds with their stories’ (Kire 2016: 63). Kire therefore highlights the power of stories that can change minds and destinies and sug­ gests the importance of her storytelling that seeks to preserve memories and identity of a community, by telling and retelling its folklore, usually trans­ mitted through the Morung, to young adults on the threshold of childhood and youth. These stories are a storehouse of knowledge, hope and experience and provide means of negotiating life, love, longing, death and afterlife. Mesanuo’s words also suggest the power of both hope and despair insisting that ‘people control their own destinies’ (Kire 2016: 64). Mesanuo’s wisdom helps her to understand that ‘the drought came as a result of people rejecting the joyful stories and accepting the dark stories’ (Kire 2016: 64). This helps Pelevotso as well as the readers fathom the importance of their internal choi­ ces as insensitivity to the processes of nature, in addition to ignorance and greed can lead to people bringing another spiritual and physical drought upon themselves. The folktale therefore gestures towards the importance of internal spiritual abundance. Death is a close companion of life as seen in Son of the Thundercloud, as Rhalie is killed mercilessly by his peers, as they cannot fathom his goodness of heart and valour as he is able to kill the spirit tiger that had killed Mesanuo’s husband and sons years earlier, through the purity of his heart. The abandoned village where Rhalie’s aunts resided and died, is renamed ‘Nouzie’ or compas­ sion by Pelevotso, as the predominant quality he imbibed from Mesanuo,

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Rhalie and his aunts, who provide abundance and redemption to the people of the earth at great personal cost.

Healing through Storytelling Colonial rhetoric emphasised the benefits of Christian conversion of the indi­ genous population in Nagaland. One of the early missionaries in Nagaland, Narola Riverburg, records how the numbers in her church have grown, where 75 young boys were ‘training to be useful citizens’ (Kire 2019: 205). Thus the British influenced the local populace regarding ideas of ‘usefulness’ and ‘citi­ zenship’ that were alien to Naga tribes and also taught them English to help read the scriptures brought by them from the West. While American missionary interventions led to schooling and education of the Naga in the Western model and opened up the job market for them, it also led to the erosion of indigenous knowledge traditions and community living. On one hand, as observed by Kire herself, it led to the cessation of headhunting3 and other brutal practices, as villages adopted ‘the peaceful new religion,’ on the other hand, it also empha­ sised the ideals of ‘western science and culture’ (Kire 2019: 212). This enterprise of wiping out of the importance of indigenous Naga cultural and traditional forms is subverted and reversed by Kire who uses the British language to record and preserve the oral traditions and wealth of indigenous Naga knowledge enshrined within folklore. Using storytelling as a primary medium, she is able to capture the readers’ imaginative attention and perform the crucial function of helping present day Naga youth, scattered across the world, retain a distinct sense of self and identity that will not be framed by the colonial rhetoric of derision. Kire’s magic realist narrative style enables her to unapologetically hold together different layers of experience, beyond the scope of rational thought, so that animals, humans, spirits can comingle and time can exist in vast frames, without limitations of thought. Kire’s writing also voices the concerns of the Naga diaspora, drawing from real-life examples of youngsters, leading successful professional lives outside the 3

‘Headhunting’ has been seen as one of the most prominent features of Naga culture in the villages, particularly in the way the British showcased the Naga on coming in contact with them (Kire 2019: 6–7). Kire in her socio-historical study explains pos­ sible reasons for this apparently barbaric act, including the need of young men to show off their valour and courage for attracting brides, to the more mystical, where warriors take heads to access the soul substance in them,’ for promoting ‘the fertility of the soil and that of animals and humans’ (Kire 2019: 41). However, there is much to Naga culture and mystique beyond headhunting practised by certain tribes. Kire’s folktales therefore become the most potent vehicle for bringing alive a different Nagaland, than one consumed by violence, killing and present-day political strife. Her short stories and novels, describe a land of great beauty and people with great wisdom. Fiction provides space for including the non- rational and liminal forms of knowing and experience characterising Naga folklore. Life, death, love and longing all form a backdrop for engaging with the close connection between human and non-human life, the world of spirits and afterlife.

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state in different parts of India and the world. Her books become vehicles conveying the essence of a disappearing culture to non-Naga and endearing them to the same. The question, ‘What does it mean to be a Naga?’ (Kire 2019: 288) asked by many youngsters grappling with lack of coherence and contours in framing an identity with a land and culture that is distant in experience, forms the basis of Walking the Roadless Road, as well as Kire’s fiction, as she attempts to perform the critical function of both setting apart the Naga self from the rest of the subcontinent, as well as constructing a means of relaying the richness of Naga indigenous wisdom to the rest of the world. According to Neithonuo Tungoe, the Naga are defined by their spirit of community and warmth (Kire 2019: 288). More specifically, Henshet Phori an academic, explains that Naga culture is ‘rooted in the village,’ and emphasises that a Naga will lose his ‘Naganess’ once he loses touch with his people in the villages’ (Kire 2019: 288). However, this sense of identity is difficult to hold on to as Naga youth travel to distant states and countries in search of economic independence. In this respect, I see Kire’s stories functioning as a link between the Naga living in the cities, disconnected from village life and cultural tradi­ tions, as her narratives bring alive traditional village life and rituals. Hence reading and dwelling on Kire’s fiction becomes a way of remaining connected to the land and community so central to the framing of a Naga identity. According to photographer Zhazo Miachieo, ‘to be a Naga means building or creating one’s own history’ (Kire 2019: 288), and Kire’s stories and novels become the bedrock of recreating these foundations of history and tradition. Elizabeth Vizovono explains her experience of an identity crisis as she sees that ‘Naga’ people around her feeling affiliated to a specific tribe or village, rather than to any universal sense of ‘Naganess’ (Kire 2019: 289). Thus, the ‘Naga’ is more of a ‘social and political construct,’ according to Vizovono (Kire 2019: 289). Among the cacophony of voices recorded by Kire in her ethno­ graphy, Vizovono’s is particularly important as she counters any romantic conception of a Naga identity and complicates the same. This is very different from Tungoe’s perception or that of Diethono Nakhro, who feels great pride in ‘our rich and spiritual heritage, the core values that our forefathers lived by, our deep connection to home, family, the land and each other, the gracious qualities of hospitality, humbleness and generosity that embody our people’ (Kire 2019: 289). Kire’s storytelling is steeped in a similar understanding of the Naga self and its deep spiritual connection to the land and its people, effort­ lessly navigating the space between magic and reality that folktales open up as a means of comprehending life and death and the transition from one to the other. Given the experience of political violence and conflict in Nagaland since independence, present day Naga youth feel the need to find an alternative identity rather than be seen either as a ‘headhunter’ or those wishing to sepa­ rate from the Union and espousing mob culture and violence (Kire 2019: 289– 290). At the same time, there is a need to preserve the uniqueness of Naga cul­ ture. Many progressive members of the community have thus realised that

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‘education is the only weapon that can bring change and awareness’ (Kire 2019: 290). As noted by Anuo Mepfuo, a teacher in Kire’s ethnographic study, ‘Being a Naga in the twenty-first century is about breaking stereotypes and challenges’ (Kire 2019: 291). It also involves acquiring the wisdom to choose to not be defined by ‘violence, hatred, bitterness’ (Kire 2019: 291). Kire’s fiction and non­ fiction therefore become the crucial bridge between a fading past and an emer­ ging present, both holding onto indigenous knowledge traditions and a rich trove of spiritual culture, yet recreating Naga consciousness and identity, by highlighting the beauty of the land and its mystique, rather than only the poli­ tical conflict that has scarred the land and its people over the last few decades. Without demolishing the importance of the conflict and its struggle for the Naga people, Kire is able to provide different markers of the Naga self for a larger audience of readers across the world, by engaging in both fiction and non-fiction as a platform for healing, restoration and rest. I see her stories and novels as a metaphorical counterpart of ‘The Healing Garden in Medziphena’, a little way off from Dimapur. The mission of the ‘Healing Garden’, ‘is to transform Nagaland into a society that protects, respects and connects with the natural world and its cultural heritage, so that every Naga is able to live a ful­ filling life’ (Kire 2019: 291). The idea behind the ‘Healing Garden’ created by Uiser Sanyoj, has been to create ‘a sustainable community garden for healing the wounds of walls, particularly for the villagers,’ and also to promote ‘a cul­ ture of equality, dignity and justice in Nagaland’ (Kire 2019: 291). Also, Kire’s narratives, by their constant engagement with death, spirits, afterlife and ideas of re-incarnation held sacred by different Naga tribes, create a space for healing from grief and loss of loved ones for the Naga. As Kire asserts repeatedly in Walking the Roadless Road, the only way of healing is through listening (Kire 2019: 292). Kire, by bringing together folklore from different Naga tribes creates another space for ‘listening’ to each other and preserving a shared identity, for in telling these tales, Kire is also listening, then relaying and also encouraging us to listen and learn. The stories are proof of the existence of ‘periods of calm,’ in Naga history, when ‘people found the time to listen to and pass on the stories of the tribe’ (Kire 2019: 293). Hence it helps highlight an alternative image of a race usually identified with its warrior culture. Kire’s fictional and nonfictional works become an important platform for Naga voices and history—oral, mythical and factual, as she traverses the domain between the material and the metaphysical, redrawing concepts of history and ethnography.

References Anderson, Michael and Gemma Woticky 2018. ‘The End of Life is an Auspicious Opportunity for Healing: Decolonizing Death and Dying for Urban Indigenous People.’ International Journal of Indigenous Health, 13 (2): 48–60. Bendann, Effie 1930. Death Customs: An Analytical Study of Burial Rites. New York: Alfred A. Knopf. Clifford, James 1994. ‘Diasporas.’ Cultural Anthropology, 9 (3): 302–338.

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Duggleby, Wendy et al. 2015. ‘Indigenous People’s Experiences at the End of Life.’ Pal­ liative & Supportive Care, 13 (6): 1721–1733. doi:10.1017/S147895151500070X Gaard, Greta 2017. Critical Ecofeminism. United States: Lexington Books. Kire, Easterine 2014. When the River Sleeps. New Delhi: Zubaan. Kire, Easterine 2016. Son of the Thundercloud. New Delhi: Speaking Tiger. Kire, Easterine 2017. Don’t Run, My Love. New Delhi: Speaking Tiger. Kire, Easterine 2019. Walking the Roadless Road: Exploring the Tribes of Nagaland. New Delhi: Aleph Book Company. Kire, Easterine 2021. The Rain Maiden and the Bear-Man. New Delhi: Seagull Books. Leach, Maria 1949. ‘Burial Customs.’ In Maria Leach (ed.). Funk & Wagnalls Standard Dictionary of Folklore, Mythology, and Legend, Volume 1. New York: Funk & Wagnalls Company. Pimomo, Paul 2011. Rev. of Bitter Wormwood, by Easterine Kire. New Delhi: Zubaan. Plumwood, Val 1993. Feminism and the Mastery of Nature. London: Routledge. Safran, William 1991. ‘Diasporas in Modern Societies: Myths of Homeland and Return.’ Diaspora 1 (1): 83–99. Undiedt, Kenneth L. 2008. ‘Introduction.’ In Kenneth L. Undiedt (ed.). Death Lore: Texas Rituals, Superstitions, and Legends of the Hereafter, 1–14. Denton, Texas: University of North Texas Press.

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Death Rituals An Insight into the Naga Ancestral Religion Vishü Rita Krocha

The people of Zhavame village in Phek District, Nagaland, bordering Manipur, made the transition from animism to Christianity across the time period that will be covered in this chapter. The conflict between these two religions is investigated, one of which is of Judeo-Christian origin, and the other formerly an animist faith that got its ontological legitimacy from traditional indigenous experiences and knowledge systems. This dispute gets foregrounded through my attempt at writing a critical biography of my maternal grandfather and his experiences with the spirit world of Naga animism. The children of a small number of animist practitioners who lived in Zhavame village eventually became Christian, both as a result of the rapid spread of Chris­ tianity throughout Nagaland, as well as owing to pressure from the substantial population of Christians who constitute more than 90 percent of the state’s popula­ tion. Because of this, by the beginning of the 1980s, practitioners of animism could be found in only a handful of villages, and they were all in their mid-50s at the time. This chapter is an ethnographic study of the lives of these people and how they have con­ tinued to resist the lure of Christianity, which they view as a non-indigenous religion with no epistemological link to their traditional ways of life. The chapter also recounts the biography of my maternal grandfather, who was the great-grandson of a seer, as a case study, to understand the discursive change from animism to Chris­ tianity. This chapter also sheds light on the procedures involved in communicating with spirts of the deceased and interrogates the role played by the seer.

Proselytisation and the Ao Nagas The Ao people were the first to convert to Christianity among the Naga, and they were also the first to receive western education (Ao, B 1998; Zelsuvi, 2014). The term ‘Naga’ is used here to refer to the indigenous population that lives in the Naga Hills, located in the northeastern part of India and the northwestern part of Burma. These communities, which number well over 30, each with its own distinctive cul­ tural traits and languages, also have a number of elements in common. The term ‘Naga’ originated as a convenient phrase for the people who lived in the Naga Hills and was later adopted as a term of reference by the British for administrative pur­ poses. Later on, through education and the emergence of a political consciousness, DOI: 10.4324/9781003406693-10

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Figure 9.1 Monoliths in Chiludu that were erected by some of those who have per­ formed the ‘Feast of Merit’ in Zhavame Village, Phek District (Photograph by the author)

the Naga began the process of self-appropriating a separate political and cultural identity, sometime around the late 1920s. This process gained momentum through the decades, which led to secessionist demands and a violent confrontation between the people and the nation-state of India. On December 1, 1963, Nagaland eventually became the 16th state of India. There are a number of other Naga tribes that may be found in the regions of Manipur, Assam, and Arunachal Pradesh in the Northeast, as well as in some areas of Myanmar (Elwin 1961; Singh, 1994; Chandrika 2008; Rizvi and Roy 2010).

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In the year 1881, the contact with colonial forces, as well as the wave of education and proselytisation that accompanied it, expanded to the Angami area. Subsequently, it spread to other areas across the state, which is home to 16 indigenous tribes. The introduction of Christianity to Nagaland in 1872 heralded a transformation in virtually every facet of daily life in the region. In 2022, a celebration will take place to mark the 125th anniversary of the arrival of Christianity in the state of Nagaland (Ao, KL 1972; Ao, TN 1995; Ao, B 2002; Ao, A 2010; Ao, LR 2013). Christianity was introduced to the Ao Nagas initially, and then it spread gradually to other areas of the state. The Ao are one of the various indigenous Naga groups of the state. After becoming exposed to Christianity during the second part of the 19th century, most of the Naga eventually adopted Christianity during the first half of the 20th century (Ao, KL 1972; Ao, TN 1995; Ao, B 2002; Ao, A 2010; Ao, LR 2013). The adoption of Christianity along with existence of traditional Naga rites has resulted in the formation of indigenous Christian traditions and ceremonies. Myths, stories, and songs were the primary vehicles via which the core beliefs and doctrines of the Ao tradition were transmitted from one generation to the next (Horam 1977; Jamir and Lanunungsang 2005; Kumar 1993; 2005). The Ao Christians were responsible for the recovery, codification, and retelling of many of these beliefs and concepts. Naga scholars like Panger Imchen, O. Alem, C. Walu Walling, Tajen Ao, Wati A. Longchar, and Takatemjen have examined how the Naga people have struggled to come to terms with their history and how they relate it to the present day (Tzudir 2019). It is interesting to note that the Ao Naga did not have a specific name or word for the traditional belief systems which they practised. Paganism was the label given to the traditional activities of the Ao Naga people by the white missionaries, colonial administrators, and ethnographers (Clark 1907; Smith 1925). The Ao believed in a number of gods, the most prominent of whom were Lichaba, the god of earth, Longitsungba, the god of the underworld, and Kodaktsungba, the god of space. The Ao also believed in a number of smaller gods and spirits, including the sun god, moon god, sky god, and stone deity. The cosmology of what we now refer to as Ao religion was not something that was merely practised in their ritual life; rather, it was the basic foundation of their lived culture (Clark, 1907; Shimmi 1988; Changkiri 2015; Shikhu 2016). O. Alem (1997) writes, ‘The Ao Nagas do not have a proper word for religion…. To them, religion means living in spontaneous awareness of, an encounter with, acknowledgement of, and obedience to the active reality of the presence of God, “the wholly other.”’ The term Yimsu is used to refer to the overarching idea that underpins the Ao worldview. Yim can be translated as ‘village and its residents,’ while su is the word for ‘shawl.’ Therefore, the meaning of yimsu is ‘village shawl.’ The phrase ‘religion’ may not be the correct term to, therefore, refer to the tradi­ tional Ao systems of belief and practice. ‘Religion’ comes loaded with a specific Eurocentric understanding of the term and does not begin to address the earlier set of practices prevalent among the Ao community.

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Zhavame’s Christian community The village of Zhavame located in the southern region of Nagaland, close to the state line with Manipur, is nestled at the base of the mountain known as Kapamodzü. Until 1945, the locals of the area known as Eastern Angami referred to the village as ‘Raziemia.’ It was originally documented as ‘Zhamai’ while it was under the admin­ istration of the British, but it has since been changed to ‘Zhavame,’ which translates to ‘people of the magical lake.’ According to the census completed in 1951, Zhavame was the most populous of all the villages located within the Chakhesang area. In spite of this, a significant number of lives were lost due to an epidemic in 1957. To this day, however, the village maintains its status as an important community in the Phek dis­ trict. The Zhavame village functions on the principle of patriarchal descent of prop­ erty and also on the basis of customary law, clan customary customs, the ownership and transfer of land (Krocha and Dukru 2014). Following the news that was initially preached in this village by Rev. Kevizelie during the 1930s, Christianity made its way to the Chakhesang area of the Phek district, as early as 1895, at Chozubami village. On the other hand, it was not until 1947 that the persons who lived in the village of Zhavame converted to Chris­ tianity. On October 18, 1964, a group of merchants, including Mr. Akha, Mr. Tho-o, Mr. Theba, and Mr. Thesii, were travelling to Imphal when they encoun­ tered Mr. Panii of Liyai village from the Mao Parish. This meeting the inaugural point for the beginning of the Catholic faith within the Zhavame village commu­ nity. They converted to Catholicism and approached Fr. Bemick SDB, who was serving as the parish priest of Kohima at the time. In 1965, Bemick dispatched a group of young devout individuals, led by Mr. Sousahie Philip, to instruct the vil­ lagers on the doctrine of the Catholic Church (The Journey). The construction of a church began the next year, and on 20 March of that year, Bemick dedicated the church to St. Francis Xavier. Baptisms for the first 11 members of the group took place at this time as well (MBC 1997; NBCC 1997; Rhi 2010). The establishment of the Catholic Church in Zhavame was not without its share of difficulties. Anti-Catholic activities surfaced, which contributed to increased tension and unease. As a direct consequence of this, Mr. Akha was taken into custody by the Naga Army on 18 December 1966 as he was in the process of preparing a feast for a Catholic family. Near the village of Khomi, which served as one of the company headquarters for the Naga Army, he was placed in a prison that was six feet in breadth, eight feet in length, and four feet in depth. On the evening of Christmas Eve in 1966, he returned to his family in exchange for his religion, his life, and the lives of his family members. However, this was only the beginning of things to come. Mr. Sasii Dukru, Mr. Mekho Nukhu, Mr. Nasu Dukru, Mr. Thekhru Dukru, and Mr. Tho-o Domeh were all taken into custody by the Naga Army on 17 July, 1967. They were locked up in a dungeon and given only one meal per day to eat for the next 89 days, with the exception of one break after 58 days (MBC 1997; NBCC 1997; Rhi 2010). Regardless of the aforementioned set of incidents, Mr. Thekhru Dukru was bereft at the loss of his cherished wife, Paone, and Mr. Sasii and Mr. Limo Dukru were

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also deprived of the opportunity to say their final goodbyes to their father, Rhipri Dukru. After hearing reports of the persecution of these newly baptised people, Hubert Rosario, the bishop of Dibrugarh at the time, and Bemick travelled to the village. The sacrament of confirmation was bestowed upon them, and he informed them that on 29 November, 1967, he would construct a church as well as a school in remembrance of their faith. The new church was inaugurated in 1970, and Mr. and Mrs. Zao Nukhu were the ones who paid for the inaugural celebration. They were given their confirmation on 29 November, 1967, and on the same day, Mr. Khanyi Dukru and Mr. Limo Dukru joined them, bringing the total number of members up to seven. They were meant to report to the army camp on the same day, an interesting coincidence. Upon their arrival in the camp at approximately 6 o’clock in the evening, they were met with severe punishments. They emerged from this experience more resolute in their commitment to their faith. They were judged on 7 January, 1968, by General Pokrove Nakro of the Federal Government of Nagaland, who was presiding over the proceedings from Pholami village (The Journey). In order to maintain control over the Catholic Faith, he ordered them to renounce their reli­ gion for a period of at least three years (for fear of more proselytisation). After that, Dr. Aram and the other members of his peace mission encountered Mr. Zasheyi, the president of the Federal Government of Nagaland. Mr. Zasheyi fiercely denied that his government was involved in the incident. In an effort to avoid further embarrass­ ment, the perpetrators of the persecution started a rumour that the individual had been arrested and imprisoned in mid-1950s for stealing cows from the state of Manipur. However, the truth eventually emerged, and on 25 January, 1968, they were finally freed (the violence had been carried out under the command and leadership of Lt. Nuhei and Mr. Yevecho of Khomi Village, the then captains, and Razoupeyou, of the Naga army, respectively). The Catholic roots became more robust as a result of all of these events, and eventually spread to the neighbouring villages of Zelome, Tsupfume, and Chizami Thenyizumi (MBC 1997; NBCC 1997; Rhi 2010). Up until 1947, every resident of the village clung to the faith of their ancestors and performed all of the customary rites that had been passed down to them by their ancestors. The second half of the 20th century saw a fierce contestation between earlier forms of yimsu and the more organised (and powerful) Catholic church. In Zhavame village, the majority of the population has converted to Christianity over the course of the years—yet the indigenous religion is still prac­ tised by a small number of residents. There are currently 11 members who have not been proselytised and who continue to observe the rituals of their ancestral religion devoutly. This information was communicated by the more senior mem­ bers of the community. This older group of believers is the last of its kind, and despite the fact that all of their children have become Christians, they continue to adhere to their ancient beliefs (Krocha and Dukru 2014). Besides viewing yimsu rituals as an essential component of their faith, they believe that certain activities, including giving birth, dying, treating illness, and farming, all entail the performance of certain rituals. Despite the fact that the practice of carrying out such ceremonies is now considered archaic by the majority Christians and has disappeared from the most Naga communities, a

Death Rituals 137 tiny minority of believers still keeps track of the vital days according to their traditional months (Tzudir 2019 in Bhattacharya & Pachuau (eds): 265–293). Laoni, also referred to as Naoni, is one of the festivals that the Zhavame community, irrespective of religious affiliation, views as being among the most important. In July 2016, 30 people got together to observe Laoni/Naoni. Today, the event has only 11 participants. The introduction of Christianity resulted in the elimination of a great deal of the festival’s accompanying ceremonies. The celebration of the event in the modern day is limited to the participants’ indi­ vidual house, with the exception of children who set up camps in their local khels in order to honour the occasion. A khel is a unique Naga institution comprising multiple clans that reside within a village. The village of Zhavame is home to a total of seven khels, which go by the names of Krocha, Dukru, Movi, Pame, R. Domeh, Z. Domeh, and Pohena, respectively. The Laoni festival, for those who still adhere to the old beliefs, involves the observance/ performance of several rituals. On the first day of the fast, they abstain from eating rice and drink only locally brewed beverages with a pinch of salt added to each glass. It is considered that the faithfulness of the couple who leads the rituals each year is essential to the well-being of the whole com­ munity, and the rites are conducted in a rotatonal fashion. The second day, the most important day of the festival, begins with the allotted pair presenting ‘the divine person’ with the best of local beer, which has been wrapped in banana leaves. The next step, known as Mila, involves the lighting of a traditional fire. This is another important act—the sooner a fire is started by the fasting couple, the sooner the fast can be broken! They are also not allowed to cook in the fireplace that is used on a daily basis, but a new traditional hearth is constructed specifically for the ceremony with three stones shaped in a way that allows them to support an entire earthen pot. After the fire has been started, each participant borrows part of the flame from the communal area and brings it back to their own dwelling to use for the day’s cooking. During the rites performed for the year, a cow is slaugh­ tered at the home of the couple, and its meat is then split down the middle between them. On the fifth day, which also calls for additional ceremonies, they consume rice for the first time. This day also marks the conclusion of the festival, after which they feast exclusively on beef and local brew for the following three days. The event known as Naoni, which literally translates to ‘totally fatigued after labouring in the fields for so long,’ is a time for people to unwind after their agricultural endeavours. In days gone by, the event was celebrated with zeal and merriment, with a variety of khels participating in activities such as singing, drinking, feasting, and donning new clothes. In spite of the fact that their community is quite tiny, they have been suc­ cessful, up to this day, in observing these ancestral rituals. However, as their population decreases due to old age and as there are no new members willing to join the dying tradition, they are also worried about the dearth of people to perform their last rites in the customary ancestral fashion.

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Zhavame Ancestral Religion and Notions of the Afterlife This section involves an ethnographic study of Zhavame ancestral funeral tra­ ditions through an examination of the oral accounts of Salunyi Shupao, who as a small boy would take part in the supper that was cooked by the Kharhao. The village of Zhavame had not seen a Movu for some time, and Mekho, Shupao’s maternal uncle, was the last one. At some point in the early 1960s, Salunyi Shupao converted to Christianity. In the Zhavame dialect used in that area, the title of village head is referred to as Movu. When a person passes away, the news of their passing is commu­ nicated to the Movu. After this, the Movu makes an announcement about it and declares the day to be a day of mourning. On this day, the villagers will not work in the fields. The deceased person’s body is washed as a symbolic act, with the hope that any negative influence will be removed from the family lineage as a whole. The next step is to butcher a cow, and this procedure starts with the Kharhao removing some of the cow’s faeces and throwing it away. After being chosen from among the most impoverished members of the local community, the Kharhao is then called to the home of the deceased person in order to carry out a series of ceremonies that are seen as dishonourable. This is due to the fact that those who are impoverished are stereotyped as dirty and are consequently required to rid themselves of items that are unclean. Earlier, when a village could not locate a Kharhao, they would travel to the villages located nearby in the hope of finding one there. After that, the Kharhao is given Prasu, a piece of meat from the slain cow wrapped in a banana leaf. He brings it inside to prepare a supper for two using the meat. In order to properly cook the meat, a second fireplace is constructed in close proximity of the first. As soon as the meal is ready, a young boy joins him there to eat. The act of breaking bread together in this manner is referred to as khokhoi. This is done as a sign of declaration that the bereaved family is also welcome to partake in the meal. The members of the bereaved family are then permitted to eat not long after khokhoi has been performed. They are able to dine at the same time, but never in the same location, and they never eat the same meal as the Kharhao and the little boy. Prasu is provided to the grieving family in exchange for their use of the family’s old fireplace for preparation of the food, which they cook sepa­ rately. Zaohu is a ritual that is performed before the act of eating. Shaking the local beverage, also known as rice beer, contained in a cup made of banana leaves is known as Zaohu. After causing a few drips to spill to the dirt floor, they are allowed to drink the locally brewed beverage and then proceed to eat. The relatives of the deceased do not have a specific dining area that has been set apart for them, but they are welcome to consume their meals in the front yard, the backyard, or anywhere else, as long as it is not with the Kharhao. A young chicken is also utilised in the ritual of the deceased person’s passing, and it is hung from the entrance until the time comes to move on to the burial location. After they have finished eating, the Kharhao will use the same fire­ place to light a section of an ancient bamboo-woven basket and then deposit

Death Rituals 139 the ashes on top of the grave that has been dug. It is a common superstition that if they do not place some sort of light source inside the grave, the afterlife journey of the deceased will be shrouded in gloom. In the past, the location of the burial site was determined by chopping up a native plant called alu and then tossing it to see where it fell. If it fell to the ground at an angle, the ground was deemed unsuitable as a burial site. On the other hand, if it fell in a straight line, that particular location would be regar­ ded as the best possible spot for the burial. Alu is believed to have medicinal properties, and its leaves are boiled and the water consumed as treatment for hypertension and blood pressure. After this, the remnants of the prepared food, which consists of rice and prasu, are brought outdoors and preserved close to the burial spot. This is done because it is considered extremely impolite for the relatives of the deceased to consume the food if it has been kept inside the house prior to burial. The family of the deceased is not permitted to consume the leftovers prepared by the Kharhao; as a result, any leftovers are thrown away after the ceremony. After these rites have been carried out, the body of the deceased is trans­ ported outside to be buried. After performing this final rite, the Kharhao places a newborn chick on the grave and covers it with a basket. The following day, the Kharhao comes and removes the basket, and hangs the chicken somewhere else as an additional way of purging negative energies. After sunset, he collects the cow-dung and disposes of it as a further sign of purification. The family of the deceased can only eat after the Mushime (a title given to those who have performed the ‘feast of merit,’ i.e., hosting a feast for the entire village). They bring fire from other houses and eventually let an elderly person light their fireplace. The people think that when they die, they go to a particular location that cannot be precisely described, but it is essential for them to carry out all of these rites before being laid to rest. When a couple goes through the tragedy of losing a child, they stay inside for three days in order to mourn their loss and refrain from working in the fields. If a child’s parents are Mushime and they pass away, the youngster is expected to observe a five-day period of inactivity as a form of respect for the parents. In the event that a wealthy resident of the village passes away, at least 4 cows are sacrificed so that those who were close to them and who wished them well can be fed. During the burial of the deceased, the family members would also place tra­ ditional clothing and spears in the graves so that the deceased may carry them into the next life. Reincarnation and the idea of the afterlife were key aspects of the yimsu tradition, where death was posited as a form of continuity between two lives or between two registers of beings—living beings and spirit beings.

The Connection between the Living World and the Afterlife This section is an ethnographic study of my maternal grandfather, a seer, and is based on the stories that were told to me by both my mother, Lucy Krocha, and

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my maternal uncle, Deo Nukhu. In the village of Zhavame, my maternal grandfather, Rhipi Raphael Nukhu, spent his childhood years with his greatgrandparents. My grandfather would often narrate to us tales of his youth and these childhood recollections were packed with accounts of ‘unusual’ occur­ rences. He reasoned that this was due to the fact that his great-grandmother was a seer . When I was a child, the people in my village, Zhavame, followed the faith of our ancestors devoutly. Christianity had not yet made its way there. As a young lad, his experiences included objects that he wanted to take from the table vanishing, and disembodied voices whispering in and around the ancestral house that no one else could hear. He inherited a property that his grandfather had owned, one that needed to be reached through a steep trail. My grandfather recalled that he was spared the necessity of climbing up this wind­ ing road. It seemed that every time he took that path, it miraculously became level, and he was able to walk across it. He would go to sleep, to discover that on waking up his bed had flipped over on its side. There were days when his great-grandmother would not return home as she would be out tending to the sick, administering medicinal herbs to them, something that displeased her husband. My grandfather was told that the spirits were annoyed by this attitude of his great-grandfather and deprived him of his ability to eat or sleep. My grandfather’s great-grandfather is said to have plea­ ded with his wife to ask her spirit friends to restore his appetite and allow him to sleep. The families of the deceased would come searching for my grandfather’s great-grandmother a year after the passing of their loved ones and ask her to initiate a Themupfü, which literally translates as a ‘chat with the dead.’ The great-grandmother is said to have had the ability to act as a seer mediating between the living and the dead; through mediumship, she was not only able to communicate with the dead, but also talk to the living in the voice of the dead. The visitors would provide the great grandmother with chicken soup, meat, and the finest traditional local brew made of fermented rice. This was done to provide her strength for the séance process. On the designated day, she was placed on the bed, her toes tied together in a knot. She then entered a trance-like state and invoked the spirits, speaking in their exact voices. As per local folklore of the village, the spirit of a young man was invoked and he proclaimed, ‘I came back to enjoy the nourishment of the living.’ The deceased members of the family had given the great-grandmother the best local beer to drink, to which she is said to have replied, ‘the food of the living tastes excellent. Traolore (Thank you). I am leaving!’ There was yet another occasion of a mother passing away while giving birth to her child. She was only allowed to consume salted and traditionally cooked meat, and was prohibited from drinking any water. This was done in the hope that it would nourish her and assist in speeding up her recovery. However, the mother succumbed to dehydration and passed away. She refused to take the local beer that her family had brought for her to drink during the séance, saying

Death Rituals 141 that she wished she could have taken a drink when she was still alive and that she wished they had given it to her. His great-grandmother would enter a trance-like state for several hours at a time, during which she could facilitate communication with the dead. It is said that when she was later compelled to stop being a seer out of concern for her declining health, she had thrown up green leaves and red mud. After the death of his grandparents and following his marriage, my grandfather inherited his grandmother’s house. By that time, the old lady had died. In this house, he is said to have been visited by the spirits of the deceased. One evening, he noticed four or five people (who, at first, he believed were his neighbours since they were wearing steel square hats) followed by children marching into the kitchen. Then, a robust guy entered the room, chastised the youngsters, and ordered them to leave. The children dashed outside and concealed themselves in a space between the rice barns. In the kitchen, he observed the spirit-elders starting a fire and cooking mush­ rooms. The vision had been so overwhelming that grandfather even thought of attacking these spirit-elders with a dao (machete) if they came too close. However, the spirit-elders are said to have finished cooking, and even served food to my grandfather. My grandfather was afraid that he would turn out just like his own great grandmother. Consequently, he converted to Christianity in 1953 and went on to serve in the local St. Xavier’s church as the Catechist for three separate terms, from 1972 to 1974, from 1978 to 1981, and from 1990 to 1993. Till his death on 7 December, 2016, at the age of 94, he held the title of being the oldest male resident of the Zhavame village. If a person converts to Christianity but still wishes to carry out the ‘Feast of Merit,’ traditionally regarded as the highest social honour, the Christian couple host a feast on Christmas day for the entire community. The ‘Feast of Merit’ is referred to as Zhosou in the Zhavame native dialect, and it is interpreted as an act of expressing gratitude for wealth and success received in life. In older times, the Zhosou was traditionally held during Thuni, the most important festival of Poumai Chakhesang, located in the Razeba area and fall­ ing under the jurisdiction of the Phek district. This region consists only of four villages—Zhavame, Tsüpfüme, Zelome, and Razeba—that make up the min­ ority and speak the same language as the greater Poumai people in Manipur. The word thu means ‘new’ and the word ni refers to the celebration. Thuni celebrates the arrival of new things, whether they come in the shape of fruits, vegetables, or grains. It also marks the beginning of a new year. Those indivi­ duals who have announced their participation in the Zhosou prior to the beginning of the festival are the ones responsible for its execution throughout the weeklong celebration that takes place in the early part of January, between the 5th and the 10th of each year. Pigs are slaughtered and their meat distributed throughout the village. Those individuals who have finished hosting the Zhosou are given ‘Zaochisu’ (pork lard) as part of one of the rites carried out during the celebration. In

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addition, participants will pull and lay down monoliths as part of the event to demonstrate that they have accomplished this social honour (see Figure 9.1). During the time of my grandfather, there were very few Christians. When he offered the Zhosou a notice had reportedly been passed around the community that nobody should partake in the feast because it was now affiliated with Christianity. Those who disobeyed the proclamation were threatened with death. Nonetheless, my grandfather carried out the Zhosou and asked Christian villagers from the surrounding communities to attend. Over time, the introduction of Christianity has resulted in a significant reduction in the number of rituals associated with the Zhosou and it is now held around Christmas time, having become conflated with the birth of Christ instead of remaining a harvest festival. Now, people who have hosted the Zhosou are presented with the traditional shawls of honour known as ‘Hapidasa’ and ‘Saparadu’ (see Figures 9.2 and 9.3) and earn the ‘right’ to wear these on social occasions. In addition, those that have offered the Zhosou receive communitarian sanction to install the Kike and Hapiteh. Ki means ‘home,’ and ke means ‘horn.’ The word Hapiteh refers to a wood sculpture of the head of a buffalo that is hung on the wall. Those that have offered Zhosou are ‘permitted’ to install these at home (see Figure 9.4). Those who have provided the ‘Feast of Merit’ to two or more villages at the same time, receive sanction to install not one but two horns at the highest point of their traditional homes, one at the front and one at the back. Even though the introduction of Christianity has irrevocably altered the ways of life in Zhavame, a high social status is still associated with having successfully completed the ‘Feast of Merit’. This is premised upon clan entitlement and, hence, is more directly related to the idea of ethnic identity. As a practice it has thus sur­ vived, although the earlier animist connotations of the Zhosou itself have been

Figure 9.2 Couples from Zhavame Village wearing the Hapidasa shawl. Only those who have performed the ‘Feast of Merit’ are entitled to wear the shawl (Photograph by the author)

Death Rituals 143

Figure 9.3 Women from Zhavame Village wearing the Saparadu shawl (Photograph by the author)

Figure 9.4 Kike (top) and Hapiteh (on the wall) in a traditional house in Zhavame (Photograph by the author)

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lost. Hapidasa and Saparadu are also used to cover the dead bodies of individuals who have participated in the Zhosou, before these are cremated or buried.

Conclusion Today, when one goes to a Zhavame funeral, there is hardly any ceremony that provides a glimpse into the earlier ancestral funerary traditions. The percentage of non-Christians who make up the minority population decreases with each passing year (Morung Express 2016). Over time, these ancestral traditions have become objects of intellectual enquiry rather than being a living, practising set of belief systems.

References Ao, Akangnungba 2010. Supongmeren: The Pathfinder for Godhula and E.W. Clark. Nagaland: Akangnungba Ao. Ao, Bendangyabang 1998. History of Christianity in Nagaland: A Source Material. Nagaland: Shalom Ministry Publication. Ao, Bendangyabang 2002. History of Christianity in Nagaland: The Ao Naga Tribal Christian Mission Enterprise 1872–1972. Nagaland: Shalom Ministry Publication. Ao, Kijung L. 1972. Nokinketer Mungchen. Nagaland: Ao Baptist Arogo Mungdang. Ao, Lisen R. 2013. Clark’s old Records and Documents. Nagaland: R. Lisen Ao Molungyimsen. Ao, Toshi N. 1995. Mission to The Nagas A Tryst with the Aos. Nagaland: N. Toshi Ao. Alem, O. 1997. From Darkness to Light. Kohima: NBCC. Changkiri, Atola L. 2015. Socio-Cultural and Political History of the Nagas (Collected Papers). Dimapur: Heritage Publishing House. Clark, Mary Mead 1907. A Corner in India. Philadelphia: American Baptist Publication Society. Elwin, Verrier 1961. Nagaland. Guwahati: Spectrum Publications. Horam, M. 1977. Social and Cultural life of Nagas. Delhi: Low Price Publications. Jamir, Talitemjen N. and A. Lanunungsang 2005. Naga Society And Culture: A Case Study of the Ao Naga Society and Culture. Nagaland: Nagaland University. Krocha, Vishü Rita and Rekha Rose Dukru 2014. The Chakhesangs, A Window To Phek District. Nagaland: Chakhesang Students’ Union. 26 Kumar, B. B. 1993. Modernisation in Naga Society. New Delhi: Omsons Publications. Kumar, B. B. 2005. Naga Identity. New Delhi: Concept Publishing Company. Morung Express 2016, 12 August. ‘Last of the Ancestors: Holding on to a Dying Faith.’ https://morungexpress.com/last-ancestors-holding-dying-faith August 10 2022. Molungkimong Baptist Church (MBC) 1997. 125 Years of Molungkimong Baptist Church.

The First Church In Nagaland 1872–1997. Nagaland: Molungkimong Baptist Church.

Nagaland Baptist Church Council (NBCC) 1997. Nagaland Celebrates Quasqui Cen­ tennial (125 Years of Christianity). Kohima: Nagaland Baptist Church Council.

Rhi, Vikuo 2010. Christianity And Education, souvenir magazine. Zhavame: Zhavame

Students’ Union. 37. Rizvi, S. H. M. and Shibani Roy 2010. Naga Tribes of North East India. New Delhi: B. R. Publishing Corporation.

Death Rituals 145 Shimmi, Y. L. 1988. Comparative History of The Nagas: From Ancient Period Till 1826. New Delhi: Inter-India Publications. Shikhu, Inato Yekheto 2016. A Rediscovery And Rebuilding Of Naga Cultural Values. New Delhi: Regency. Singh, Chandrika 2008. The Naga Society. New Delhi: Manas Publications. Singh, K. S. 1994. People of India: Nagaland, vol. 34. Calcutta: Seagull Books. Smith, W. C. 1925. The Ao Naga Tribe of Assam. London: Macmillan and Co. The Journey, souvenir magazine. Zhavame: St. Xavier’s Catholic Church. 49. Tzudir, L. 2019. ‘Appropriating the Ao Past in the Christian Present.’ In N. Bhattacharya & J. Pachuau (eds). Landscape, Culture, and Belonging: Writing the History of Northeast India Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. 265–293. Zelsuvi, K. S. 2014. The Angami Nagas Under Colonial Rule. Dimapur: Heritage Publishing House.

Personal Interviews 1. A community practising Zhavame Ancestral Religion, Personal Interview. Zhavame: 10 August 2016. 2. Salunyi Shupao, Personal Interview. Zhavame: 7 May 2022. 3. Lucy Krocha (daughter of Rhipi Raphael Nukhu) Personal Interview. Zhavame: 12 March 2022. 4. Deo Nukhu (son of Rhipi Raphael Nukhu), Personal Interview. Zhavame: 16 July 2022.

10 No Rest for our Ancestors in Museums Unpacking the Preliminary Impressions from the Repatriation Process of Naga Ancestral Remains Talilula ‘Were you aware that our Naga ancestral remains were taken by colonial anthropologists and administrators, and these remains have been part of museum exhibitions abroad?’ ‘How does that make you feel?’ ‘Would you want the remains of our ancestors to be brought back home?’1

These were some of the key questions that steered the dialogues and consulta­ tions with different members of the Naga community during the first and second phases of the exploratory process towards repatriating Naga ancestral remains from colonial museums and collecting institutions abroad. The more we kept circling back to these questions, the more bizarre this entire colonial enterprise of trafficking indigenous human remains became. Those who came from academia had a certain prior awareness, but for many of the interviewees, this was the first time that they were confronted with the knowledge that during the 19th and 20th centuries, besides sacred objects and cultural artefacts, the colonial British had also taken parts and pieces of their deceased ancestors back to England, where they were profaned, researched on, and preserved as ‘curious exhibits’ in museums across the globe. Presently, Naga artefacts and objects of cultural patrimony are housed in museums and collecting institutions like the Pitt Rivers Museum and Ashmolean Museum of Art and Archaeology in Oxford, Weltmuseum Wien in Vienna, Museum Der Kulturel in Basel, the Humbolt Forum in Berlin, the Anatomical Museum in Edinburgh, and there may be many more collecting institutions and private collectors that have not been identified as of yet. Different forms of disbelief, anger, grief, apprehension, and even nonchalance were some of the responses that emerged from the preliminary conversations about these Naga ancestral remains. Then, there were those that opined that we should be grateful to the museums for taking and preserving the artefacts and 1

These three questions formed the basis of the interviews and consultations during RRaD’s first phase. In the second phase, these questions were incorporated into the Public Participatory Interactive Questionnaire which was circulated to the attendees during lectures, meetings, focus group meetings and other events.

DOI: 10.4324/9781003406693-11

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remains of our ancestors. This chapter examines the collective Naga response that framed the re-acquisition of these remains from the colonial museums. As the story began unfolding, these responses also underwent certain changes. As a researcher from the community, this has been a reflexive journey of encounter­ ing, engaging and processing so many varied emotions of my own, as well as community members that I have interacted and shared conversations with. While there were points of convergences and divergences in these discussions and articulations, what they underscored was the impact of colonisation among the Nagas in varying forms across an intergenerational demographic. This is a process where subjectivity is a given and requires us to look at research and our resource persons from an indigenous, relational framework.

The RRaD (Recover, Restore, and Decolonise) Community The exploration of a Naga pathway for repatriating ancestral remains began during the early Covid-19 pandemic in 2020, when Naga anthropologist Dolly Kikon came across an article about Pitt Rivers Museum in Oxford, UK, removing the display of sacred objects and 120 human remains of indigenous people, including the tsantsa (shrunken heads) from South America and Naga ancestral human remains from their collections. During the pandemic, around July 2020, the museum undertook some major reforms, which they stated was a ‘response to an ethical review of the collections and displays, both in terms of the objects on display, and also terms and references on labels that were pro­ blematic’ (Film Oxford Production 2022). Recognising the significance of this overhaul, Naga researchers Dolly Kikon and Arkotong Longkumer, along with the FNR (Forum for Naga Reconciliation), initiated dialogues with Pitt Rivers Museum to collaborate on the possible repatriation of Naga ancestral remains from the museum. These consultations led to the formation of a Naga research team in 2021 which is now known as RRaD (Recover, Restore, and Decolo­ nise),2 comprising of members the FNR (Forum for Naga Reconciliation)3 and researchers from Naga ancestral homelands, who would work in partnership with Pitt Rivers Museum to research and network with indigenous experts on the repatriation of these sacred remains. Currently, the museum houses one of the most extensive collection of Naga human remains, artefacts, recordings and 2

3

The name RRaD (Recover, Restore and Decolonise) was coined by Aküm Long­ chari, and finalised at a team meeting held on May 22, 2022 in Dimapur. Longchari is the publisher of The Morung Express, a newspaper based in Nagaland, and also a member of the FNR (Forum for Naga Reconciliation). Established in 2008, FNR (Forum for Naga Reconciliation) is a forum comprising of 34 members that has been engaging in reconciliation processes to end inter-factional violence between Naga National groups, which has been the consequence of the protracted Naga struggle with India and Myanmar for restoring their political and historical rights. FNR’s initiatives are a grassroots response to reduce internal vio­ lence within Naga society, and also to create spaces for participation and interaction among all Nagas, including Naga nationalist groups, Indian civil society, and their neighbours to reconcile and heal from historical and political traumas.

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photographs, amounting to approximately 6,466 exhibits in total. As per the latest record received from their database, there are around 213 Naga ancestral human remains which have been identified from the museum’s collection, although these numbers might change if the database is revised with new updates. The catalogue consists of human remains such as crania, calvaria, frontal bones, and other body parts as well as weapons, ornaments and artefacts that are embedded with human remains such as skin and hair. The RRaD’s objectives are to address the complex issues that emerge from a specifically Naga context, generate public awareness, create inclusive spaces to initiate and facilitate dialogues with Naga people, and work towards making a viable claim to Pitt Rivers Museum in Oxford for the unconditional return of the ancestral remains. At the core of this is the vision that these dialogues and conversations will lead to a recognition and deeper understanding of the violent realities of Nagas under colonial rule and, consequently reframe Naga histories and prevailing epistemologies within a localised, decolonised framework. RRaD’s aspirations are that these processes will in turn create restorative spaces and opportunities for Nagas to address issues related to collective trau­ mas of the past, and move towards a more equitable, reflexive, and empowered future/s. With FNR (Forum for Naga Reconciliation) as the facilitator, RRaD’s efforts and approaches towards creating such spaces will be informed and guided by the Forum’s decade long experiences and grassroots engagements in conflict resolution and peace processes among Naga National groups from different Naga inhabited areas.

The RRaD Process: Phase 1 and Phase 2 With strict lockdown measures in place due to the pandemic, RRaD’s activities were quite limited during the first phase which was initiated in 2021. The interactions of Phase 1 were confined to discussions within small circles, and one-on-one personal interviews with selected representatives/members of tribal bodies and individuals from diverse career paths ranging from academia, healthcare professionals to visual art specialists. Prior to this, the Naga public’s awareness about Naga ancestral remains and the history behind their relocation to colonial museums and collecting institutions have been insubstantial. Taking into account the sensitivity of the subject matter, RRaD’s approach in Phase 1 was to mindfully broach the issue of Naga ancestral remains with people who we felt would contribute meaningfully to the discourse, and help identify con­ textual issues that were pertinent to the subject of these remains. In the ongoing Phase 2, which commenced in July 2022, RRaD has broadened its scope of outreach with public engagements that will amplify awareness through lectures, publications of news reports and op-eds, and involve communities, chur­ ches, civil societies, tribal bodies, media personnel, students, faculty and adminis­ tration of educational institutes and universities. To augment these engagements, RRaD will also produce relevant digital content, mobilise online platforms and social media, as well as circulate interactive public survey questionnaires for greater

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impact and reach. These are intended to create within the community, a much more nuanced awareness of the history of violence and trauma surrounding the colonial acquisition of these remains. These undertakings are also meant to provide a plat­ form for the Naga public to critically reflect and engage with these processes, and collectively determine the future of the ancestral remains and their care keeping. Phase 2 was launched with an essay co-authored by Arkotong Longkumer and Dolly Kikon in The Morung Express on July 1, 2022 that have been subsequently published in other online media outlets. Some of the public events and inter­ active engagements that have taken place so far include public lectures by Dolly Kikon along with focus group meetings in Dimapur and Kohima on 27 July and 26 August 2022 respectively, a media orientation workshop on 27 August 2022 in Dimapur to sensitize media personnel on the role and responsibility of Naga journalists in their coverage of these ancestral remains, an interactive session with students and faculty from Tetso college in Dimapur on 9 September 2022, and the launch of RRaD media with social media accounts on Instagram (@rrad_org) and Facebook (RRaD- Recover, Restore and Decolonise), a YouTube Channel (RRaD) as well as a website (https://rradnagaland.org/#) which will document all activities and engagements undertaken by RRaD. Along with coverage by the local media in Nagaland, follow-up editorials and think pieces on the subject of Naga ancestral remains have been subsequently published in The Morung Express. More questions, than answers have emerged from these preliminary engagements. Who are those ancestors behind the crania? How did their remains travel across international borders, and land up in the museums and archives abroad? Who will claim them in the event of their homecoming, and what kind of funerary rituals and practices will they be accorded? Reduced to accession numbers with obscure provenance coupled with a time lapse of more than 150 years, it would take a lot of resources and meticu­ lous research to unearth the turbulent journey that removed these ancestors from their homelands. In one of the interviews during Phase 1, Dr. Tiatoshi Jamir,4 an archaeology professor from Nagaland University recalled that during the early nineties, a colleague had shared with him a particular photograph of a Naga skull taken from an exhibition in a museum in Europe. This was the first time that Jamir was confronted with graphic evidence that artefacts and human remains of Naga ancestors were housed in colonial museums abroad and displayed for public consumption. The photograph was an eye-opener and what really struck him was ‘the display of Naga skulls with arrows poked through the orbits.’ He says that it was rather horrifying to see our own ancestral remains being displayed in such a manner, and really disturbing for me, and I started developing this

4

Tiatoshi Jamir, Personal Interview.

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Talilula thought that there is something going on which is not very appropriate about the manner in which these human remains were being displayed. (Jamir, 2021)

In RRaD’s second public lecture held in Kohima, Dolly Kikon addressed this idea of a historical objectification of Nagas—‘our ancestors are done enter­ taining the world for more than a century, they are done being exotic show pieces and decorations on museum walls; they are done being misrepresented as primitives and savages’ (The Morung Lecture XV, 2022). The misrepresentation of the ancestral remains as British colonial exhibits has had a most dehuma­ nising effect upon members of the community. There are other interviewees who have shared Jamir’s viewpoint and found the information itself quite unsettling, even without being shown any images. Pitt Rivers Museum may have taken down its display of Naga ancestral remains since the onset of the pandemic, but reproductions of images from previous exhibitions and projects, as well as from other sources can still be found online in various archival, media and e-commerce sites. In many cases, reproductions of such images are decontextualised, and continues to perpetuate the ‘exotic, savage’ stereotype, reducing the value of Naga people to a mere anthropological exhibit within digital spaces. The identity of a Naga is deeply connected with their clan, village, tribe and the land. The community is at the core of traditional Naga ethos, which is why the success, dishonour, or burden of an individual inevitably is shared by with the affiliated clan, village or tribe. Therefore, when you are introduced to someone new, it is customary for Nagas to exchange the name of the clan/vil­ lage or tribe as well. This is a normative social transaction, especially prevalent among the older generation, and similar questions pertaining to identity and ownership were reiterated in the discussions. Are the Naga ancestral remains in Pitt Rivers Museum identified by their name, clan, village, or tribal affiliation? Who will claim ownership in the event of their return? Will it be the direct descendants or members of the clan/village/tribe who will take responsibility for care-keeping and exercise the authority to decide on how they will be laid to rest? According to a Naga researcher, Dr. Vizovono Elizabeth, ‘if individuals and communities were to each have it their way, it would make things more complicated.’ Instead, she suggests that a possible way forward is to have a common place where all the Naga ancestral human remains are laid to rest in a way that is acceptable and honourable to all, and this physical site can be built as a memorial site to our ancestors. Perhaps this would be a most appropriate way of uniting to honour them. It will be a place where anyone can come and pay homage to them. It would also become a site of historical importance. Further it would serve to be a tangible heritage site that reminds us of our history lest we forget. (The Morung Lecture XV, 2022)

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The premise behind Elizabeth’s proposition does resonate with RRaD’s vision that this process will serve as a catalyst for Nagas to work together towards a common goal and unite on the basis of a shared history. It is also a practical suggestion, given that the geographical boundaries and socio-political landscape of the Nagas have altered so much since the 19th and the 20th century when these remains were taken. The arbitrary mapping of Naga territory by British cartographers have resulted in the current complex geo-political situation wherein Nagas inhabits not just the modern Indian state of Nagaland, but also parts of neighbouring Northeastern states such as Assam, Manipur, Arunachal Pradesh in India as well as parts of the Republic of Myanmar. It would require a lot of time, as well as financial and human resources to be able to accurately unravel the intricacies involved in their provenance. An apprehension that has been raised in meetings and discussions is the possibility of the remains resurrecting internal feuds and conflicts of old among the Nagas in the event of their return. The ancestral remains are from an era when every Naga village existed as a sovereign republic, and head-hunting was a practice deeply embedded within the culture and belief system. Would the information unearthed during provenance reignite old wounds and create more conflict? Would it then be counterproductive if the process of repatriation gen­ erate more fractures and divisions among Nagas instead of uniting and restor­ ing? Within the current socio-political landscape of contemporary Naga society, it is crucial to keep in mind that the process of repatriation is also likely to become politicised and misconstrued. While provenance is an essential part of the process of repatriation, especially within the context of colonial pilferage and the long imperial history of annihilating indigenous voices and perspectives, with Naga society currently in a critical juncture, decisions related to prove­ nance will require sensitivity and nuance as the team moves forward. A recurring question in both Phase 1 and Phase 2 pertains to the rituals and customs of homecoming for the dead. What kind of funerary traditions and rituals will the returning ancestors be accorded? Will it be primarily indigenous or Christian in nature? Some are of the opinion that since these ancestors come from a pre-Christian context, they should be laid to rest in the indigenous custom of that era. Others are of the opinion that since Nagas have converted to Christianity, it would be more appropriate to bury them in Christian tradi­ tions in accordance with the contemporary religious landscape of Naga society. These suggestions may give the impression that there is a clear-cut dichotomy between indigenous and Christian beliefs/practices among Nagas, which is simply inaccurate. While the conversion of Nagas to Christianity may have substituted the traditional practice of laying the dead to rest in open platforms to closed-casket burials, there are many elements and rituals of traditional funerary practices that have been retained or have evolved. Assimilation is a complex process, and culture and tradition are not static, but dynamic pro­ cesses that continue to evolve and adapt to new social and cultural contexts, as evidenced during the pandemic when strict lockdown measures and protocols forced the entire global community to re-negotiate their funerary customs and

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rituals of mourning. Similarly, the repatriation of Naga ancestral remains from Pitt Rivers Museum is historically unprecedented, and it is likely that such a momentous occasion will present an opportunity for the Nagas to innovate and create new traditions to honour the dead, while taking into account the context of those who are returning to rest, and those that are receiving them. Although the process of repatriation has only just begun, and it will probably take many years before the Naga peoples can file an official claim to the Pitt Rivers artefacts, it is a subject that has evoked a great deal of curiosity and apprehension on how they would impact contemporary Naga society. One of the presumptions that was evident, especially during Phase 1, was regarding the duration of this process. Many people were under the impression that repa­ triation was a simple process that just required an agreement between the museum and the community for the Naga ancestral remains to be returned back to Nagaland. In fact, some people assumed it would be as easy as travelling to the UK, simply walking into the museum to collect our ancestral remains, and then bringing them back to Nagaland. This projection may come across as naïve but it is exactly how the colonial British acquired them the first place. However, the process of getting them back is not a straight-forward matter at all. For those that attended the lectures and meetings in Phase 2, this mis­ conception has largely been clarified and there is more awareness that repa­ triation is an extremely intricate and lengthy process that involves not just indigenous communities and collecting institutions, but also engages with bureaucracy, national and international laws and requires a lot of research and funding. Phase 2 has also seen a growing interest in the ancestral remains from different sections of Naga society. For members of RRaD as well, the last two years has been a learning process of realising how complex and challenging it is to work on repatriation. With this endeavour involving so many moving parts, some of the challenges for RRaD pertain to research and funding, networking and co-ordinating activities, navigating a complex web of national/international bureaucratic and legal frameworks, and developing an indigenous Naga research methodology without sacrificing nuance. These are just a few of the questions and concerns that have emerged from the preliminary conversations of Phase 1 and 2, and the responses already reflect the complex nature of such attempts at repatriation.

Locating the Idea of Repatriation within a Naga Context The term ‘repatriation’ has been largely understood as ‘the return of physical Ancestral Remains. It also applies to the return of the authority for all decisions regarding the future disposition of the Ancestral Remains to the custodians entitled to care for them by tradition and/or customary law and/or Western law’ (Pickering 2020: 11). The International Repatriation Guide by AAIA (Association on American Indian Affairs) expands the term to include not just ancestral human remains but also ‘funerary objects, sacred objects and objects of cultural Patrimony’ (Keeler 2015: 6). Currently, the term ‘digital repatriation’

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has also found its way into the discourse which constitutes handing over digital copies of image and documents to the custodians and communities of origin. However, this remains a contested category and repatriation practitioners argue that ‘digital restitution is a more apt description of this activity’ and hence the ‘use of the term repatriation only applies to the return of ownership of the original item, such as ancestral remains’ (Pickering 2020: 10). The concept of repatriating the mortal remains of the dead is not new to the Nagas. In fact, this is a practice that is deeply entrenched within Naga forms of lived culture. As part of cultural protocol, the deceased have always been laid to rest in their ancestral village/homeland and accorded appropriate funerary rituals unless there are extenuating circumstances; the pandemic being one of those times which disrupted normative rituals of loss and mourning. One of our resource persons, Lepden Jamir, a sculptor from Mopungchuket village in Nagaland, highlights the importance of the idea of homecoming for the dead:5 We Nagas are people who will search for the bones of their people. It is in our tradition and blood. We do not bury our remains in foreign places. We will search for them if they are lost; our children and grandchildren will spend their lives looking for them, and bury the bones in our ancestral place or village. Only then can our souls travel to the land of the dead in peace. That is one thing. After burial, it is customary to mourn the dead, in the case of men- six days and women- five days. On the third day, we hold the ceremony of the departure of the soul of the dead. Our ancestors believed that there is a river that separates the land of the living from the dead. If you cross this water body, you reach the land of the dead. On the third day, we bathe and bid farewell to the dead and this is still in practice today. Until the sixth day, we practise anembong,6 we don’t go anywhere 5 6

Lepden Jamir, Personal Interview. Anembong is the Ao Naga ritual practise of seclusion or social distancing. The Ao’s practiced anembong which can be partial/total seclusion from social interaction and communal activities on occasions of sickness, birth, death, pre-hunting, war and festivals. During this period, no one from the practising household/village is allowed to go out, nor are outsiders allowed in. Anembong is believed to purify the people and the environment of any malevolent/impure spirits and energies. A period of physical and spiritual cleansing, the time period of anembong may vary, and there have been instances in the past when the timeline extended to several years. The Naga collections in Pitt Rivers Museum were donated or sold to the museum by a host of different colonial collectors which include Col R. G. Woodthorpe, E. T. Wilson, Edward Maurice, Berkeley Ingram, Charles Ridley Pawsey, T. J. Knolles, Ellen Margaret Fitzadam, Eric Thomas Drummond Lambert, Samuel Edward Peal, James Thomas Hooper, Robert Niel Read, Ursula Graham Bower, Henry Balfour and John Comyn Higgins. While Naga artefacts came with the founding collection in 1884, the museum’s Naga collection has grown exponentially over the last cen­ tury, with acquisitions as recent as 2006. Return, Reconcile, Renew (RRR) is a project that commenced in 2014 with its base in Canberra. Its overall aim is to raise awareness and understanding about repatriation and assist repatriation practitioners and researchers in their efforts to

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Talilula or engage in any work. Those days were for remembering the person who has passed away. We did not do any work on those days. Our ancestors believed that if we bore an injury for any work/chore done during those days, those scars never disappeared. The rules of this mourning period extend from immediate family members to close relatives. It is said that only on the third day, after the water ritual that the dead soul realises that he/she has died in the physical realm, and transition to the land of the dead by crossing the river. We have so many traditions, and among them, the rituals of the dead are one of the most important and significant. We still practise them to this day. (Jamir 2021)

Jamir is here referring specifically to Ao Naga funerary traditions, where water rituals play a significant role even in current Christianised contexts. The river that been mentioned here is known as Longritzü (bitter waters/water of bitter­ ness), a liminal space that serves as both a gateway and a barrier between the living and the dead. Before reaching the stream, the soul of a man does not know whether he is dead or alive. But when the soul crosses the river and washes his face, leg, hands and see the terrible peeling off the skins having holes through the palms, only then the soul comes to know that he is dead and begins to cry bitterly, by remembering his relatives and friends. Then the soul looks around and sees only those who died long ago and not of those who are alive. (Longchar 2002: 268) For those in the living world, bathing on the third day is a cleansing ritual that acknowledges the dead and their transition from the living world. It signifies that they occupy different realities, demarcated by the water. The transitional period between Longritzü to the land of the dead is sacred and should not disrupted, because the overlapping of these two worlds is believed to have adverse repercussions for both. During the transitional period which is believed to last from three to nine years in human time, the dead may attempt to take some living members to the land of dead, thus it is important that those in the living world try to move on, and maintain their physical and mental health. Rituals such as keeping vessels filled with water by the bedside are believed to create a barrier and deter the dead from communicating and visiting those in the living world. These are funerary beliefs and practices that still holds currency among the Ao community in contemporary contexts. bring Old People (another term for ancestral remains used by indigenous commu­ nities) home. RRR has an international team and benefits from expertise in First Nations organisations, universities, research institutions, government and museums.

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The custom of returning the dead back to the ancestral land continues to be upheld by all Naga tribes. A recent example is the case of the return of Angami Zhapo Phizo (1904–1990). One of the most well-known figures of Naga nationalism, Phizo died on April 30, 1990 in London, where he had been living in exile since 1960 after having fled from Indian military forces sent to sub­ jugate Naga nationalist activities, and having been consequently condemned to death in absentia by the Indian government. As per Naga custom, arrangements were made for his mortal remains to be flown back to Nagaland, where he was laid to rest in his hometown, Kohima. Through death, Phizo was emancipated from the 30-year exile imposed upon him by the Indian government, and his remains and spirit were finally reunited with the land that he called home. More recently, on April 28, 2022, the mortal remains of Thepushu Venuh, former vice president of NNC (Naga National Council) and an ally of Phizo, was repatriated back to his ancestral village of Thepazurni in Phek District, Nagaland, 43 years after he was reportedly assassinated by one of his fellow comrades on November 29, 1979. According to news reports, the remains of Thepushu Venuh were retrieved by a team of eight members from the Hemi region of Naga inhab­ ited Myanmar through ‘divine intervention’ (Ambrocia 2022). This homecoming event saw thousands of people gathering at the Thipuzumi local ground in Phek district to pay homage to a revered Naga leader who was finally returning to rest in his homeland after 43 years. Although Phizo and Venuh’s returns are situated in different contexts, they both strengthen RRaD’s case to make a claim on behalf of the Naga collective for repatriating Naga ancestral remains from the Pitt Rivers Museum to the Naga homelands. These two returns underscore the assertions of the cultural and spiritual rights of the Naga people while simultaneously locating the continuity in belief and practice of indigenous Naga customs within contemporary contexts.

Not Even a Finger was Spared: Reviewing Colonial Historiographies It is important to locate the Naga ancestral remains within the specific histor­ ical contexts in which they were acquired. The 19th and 20th centuries were marked by acute power imbalances between colonizer and colonised. During this time, the study of phrenology and race collections had gained popularity in Europe, and indigenous human remains, mostly acquired through violent and unethical means, were measured and quantified according to arbitrary stan­ dards created by the colonisers. ‘Race’ collections increased in size throughout the nineteenth century and were acquired, for example, by anatomy departments in universities, as well as by local, regional, and national museums, hospitals, private collec­ tors, and professional organisations (such as anthropology and natural history societies). They were measured and studied to describe and quantify the different ‘races.’ After the introduction of Darwinian theory in the second half of the nineteenth century, the rate of growth in collection size

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Talilula increased as people sought to identify features that were evidence of evo­ lutionary development. All of this research was conducted within the now abandoned race paradigm, an insidious model of human diversity that upheld, and was a product of, perceptions of other peoples as biologically and culturally inferior to Europeans. (Fforde, et al. 2020: 3)

Most of the collection of Naga artefacts and ancestral remains were also acquired during this period by collectors like James Hutton, James Phillip Mills, R.G. Woodthorpe, Henry Balfour and Christoph Von Fürer-Haimendorf who were colonial administrators, officers and ethnographers whose military and ethnographic expeditions among the Nagas are well documented in their writings. The gargantuan scale of the colonial project is evinced by their extensive body of work ranging from monographs, articles, photographs, illus­ trations, recordings, to artefacts and human remains that have definitively shaped the representation of Nagas as ‘savage, uncivilised and inferior’ to the outside world. Colonial monographs and writings such as The Ao Nagas (1926), The Lhota Nagas (1922) and The Rengma Nagas (1937) by J.P Mills, Verrier Elwin’s The Nagas in the Nineteenth Century (1969), The Angami Nagas (1921) and The Sema Nagas (1921) by Hutton continue to enjoy their canonical position as the primary sources of historical and anthropological research on the Nagas. In the absence of indigenous Naga voices and records, Nagas have relied on colonial records and writings to understand their place in a historical era that is fraught with prejudice and power imbalance. Naga ancestral remains have been part of Pitt Rivers Museum since it was founded in 1884 when General Augustus Pitt Rivers donated his collections of about 27,000 objects to the University of Oxford. Naga objects and artefacts were a part of the founding collection and there are three spears acquired by Augustus Pitt Rivers in 1874 that are listed in the human remains catalogue of Pitt Rivers, although it is unspecified whether they were included because they contain elements of human remains such as skin or hair. In the excel sheet that catalogues the remains and artefacts, Naga people have been reduced to cranium, calvarias and fragments of skin, bones and hair with vague descriptions—‘head hunting trophy (a complete human skull with lower jaw of a young person, mounted with Mithan horns and a suspending hook.’ A few are identified by name and village but the majority are labelled as ‘Naga,’ and in some the provenance is simply unknown. The majority of the artefacts and ancestral remains of the Naga collection in Pitt Rivers Museum were originally sourced by two prominent colonial admin­ istrators and anthropologists- Mills and Hutton, which then found its way to the collections of Pitt Rivers through 21 different collectors. Mills and Hutton are listed as the source collectors of 35 Naga skulls and bones, out of which three were jointly acquired by them during a trans-frontier expedition in Namsang area (currently in the state of Arunachal Pradesh) in April 1923, while eight of them are recorded to be from Yacham village (now known as Yachem,

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currently in Longleng district, Nagaland) which was rased by the British gov­ ernment under Hutton’s command in 1922. Hutton is also listed as the con­ tributor of a ‘part of a human finger’ that he acquired from a dispute case when he was a Deputy Commissioner in Naga Hills. According to the catalogue entry, the ‘fingertip’ was chopped off by a Sema man who was a witness in a court case that was arbitrated by Hutton on 10 March 1926, in Ghukiye, a Sema village in Zunheboto district. The case was related to adultery and the man in question claimed to have witnessed this act of adultery, the credibility of which was questioned by the village Panchayat. To prove his credibility, the man cut off the tip of his finger of which Hutton wrote, ‘I must admit I should have been inclined to question the story myself—but for the fingertip!’ Hutton took the man’s fingertip into his possession, most probably without the owner’s informed consent and donated it to Pitt Rivers Museum the following year in 1927. The enterprise of collecting and trading indigenous human remains was truly a thriving industry in the 19th and the 20th century as these remains and objects changed hands and ownership, traversing through different countries and institutions as objects of research and curious interest, to be poked, dis­ sected and quantified according to western standards. These parts and frag­ ments of our ancestors present a larger story of the scale of violence and dehumanisation inflicted upon the Nagas to further imperialist propaganda. Deepak Naorem contradicts the projection of British colonisers as benevolent beings within the Naga context, highlighting the prevalence of punitive expedi­ tions, burning of villages and looting of cultural artefacts during their rule. He writes that ‘it is imperative to question the discourse associated with the col­ lection of these objects and recognise the role of colonial violence and power in their transfer outside the region, for any future discussion about decolonising accessibility to these objects’ (Naorem 2021). Christianity’s stronghold over contemporary Naga society, and how well colonial culture has been assimilated by the present-day communities, explains why colonial rule is seen in a such a benevolent light for a majority of Nagas. Subsequently, plenty of events have transpired to shift the attention from the brutalities of British colonial rule, and perhaps remember that era with nostalgia. The history of Nagas on one side speaks of oppression and violence, and on the other, of resistance and resilience. Throughout history, more than four generations of Nagas have been part of a vicious cycle of protests and resistance against external control and subjugation. The Naga people’s aspiration has been one of self-determination, and the assertion to be recognised as sovereign people capable of deciding their own future was what kept them locked in conflict with British administrators. Following their departure, the Nagas have continued and refined their struggle for self-determination with the Indian gov­ ernment, and this conflict has also resulted in decades of horrific violence and genocide, of which there has been considerably more documentation than that of the British administration. Under the purview of draconian acts like AFPSA (Armed Forces Special Forces Act) implemented in 1958, which gives impunity to the Indian armed forces to arrest, or shoot on sight, on the basis of mere

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suspicion, both insurgent and civilian Nagas have been subjected to all kinds of human rights violations from torture, forced groupings in concentration camps, rape, and genocide. Promulgated in the states of Northeast India and Jammu and Kashmir, this act is renewed every six months by declaring Nagaland as ‘disturbed and dangerous’ despite decades of protests to repeal this inhuman act by state governments, civil societies, and human rights activists. Manipuri acti­ vist Irom Sharmila’s 16-year hunger strike from November 2000 to August 2016, against AFSPA is one the longest protracted acts of protest that has emerged from Northeast India against this heavy-handed display of power. Ironically, AFSPA has its origins in colonial rule, when the British government promulgated this act (then known as Armed Forces Special Powers Ordinance) in 1942 to suppress the Indian independence movement. On 4 December, 2021, Nagas were once again confronted with the horrors of AFSPA, when 14 innocent coal miners from Oting village of Mon district in Nagaland were murdered in cold blood by the 21st Para Special Forces. The Oting massacre triggered memories of past atrocities, and many Nagas opened up about their previous experiences with AFSPA in public platforms and private networks. The aftermath of the Oting massacre saw outpourings of solidarity and expressions of collective grief through song and verse all across Nagaland, adding to the discourse of protest. The articulations of collective rage and grief, and rekindling of past memories are traumatic, but it is also an act of resis­ tance, and a process through which the Naga collective will find healing. In the wake of widespread protest against the Oting massacre, the Indian government announced the partial withdrawal of the controversial act from states of Northeast India. In Nagaland, AFSPA was withdrawn from three dis­ tricts (Tuensang, Shamator and Tseminyu), and partially revoked from four others (Kohima, Wokha, Mokokchung and Longleng) in a move that the Indian government attributed to ‘improved security situation’ in the Northeast (‘Nagaland among NE States where AFSPA Extent has been Reduced,’ 2022). However, eight months after the Oting massacre and a chargesheet levelled against 21 Para SF by the SIT (Special Investigation Team) appointed by the government of Nagaland, the Supreme Court stayed further proceedings against the 30 army personnel in question, delaying the course of justice. As of now, the perpetrators of the Oting massacre are yet to be held accountable for their actions, an outcome that is too painfully familiar to the Naga people.

Returning Dignity to our Ancestors History often repeats itself in the absence of accountability and justice. The Oting massacre, the decades of violence and conflict inflicted on us, those that are self-inflicted, and the fate of our ancestors at Pitt Rivers are all intertwined. These are all part of the same cycle of systemic violence and oppression that Nagas have suffered for centuries. ‘To remember our Naga past is often con­ sidered a burden’ (Kikon 2021) but nevertheless it is a legacy that the younger generation will inherit, and they need to be prepared to carry its heft.

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The Naga pathway of repatriating our ancestors is about revisiting the source of all these, unpacking everything we have internalised along the way, re-edu­ cating, re-centring, and restoring each other in the process. Will this process lead to meaningful experiences for Naga people? RRaD mentors Arkotong Longkumer and Dolly Kikon underscore in their launch piece that like many of these instances demanding restitution, the Naga people’s case requires that we understand the immense violence and trauma that they continue to experience. Reconciliation and healing of the land are not simply tropes that need discussion. They need to be embedded in a process where the community takes ownership and custodianship, and through that, hopefully, there is a more humane approach towards decolonisation and justice. (Longkumer and Kikon 2022) Within the Naga repatriation context, the process of Naga people coming together to reflect and engage with the issues surrounding the remains is equally important as the actual physical return of the ancestral remains. Considering its complexity and sensitivity, this is a process that should not be rushed, but

Figure 10.1 A view of the Chungli Leper (Chungli Graveyard), the resting place for the dead in Chungli Khel of Molungkimong village in Mokokchung district, Nagaland (Photograph by Imti Longchar)

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guided by introspection so that it prioritises the well-being of the Naga people while circumventing the entanglements of partisan agendas. What will actually transpire as the process unfolds remains to be seen, but there is comfort and strength in knowing that other indigenous communities and non-indigenous allies like RRR (Return, Reconcile, Renew) have already paved the way by creating roadmaps and networks to assist one another. In 2021, at ANU’s (Australian National University) workshop ‘Introduction to Repatriation: Principles, Policies and Practice,’ organised from September 13–17, ‘Hawaiian activist and repatriation practitioner Edward Halealoha Ayao spoke about how repatriating their Kupuna (ancestors) has resulted in the spiritual and cultural renewal of their communities. When you return dignity to your ancestors, living or dead, they in turn invoke their blessings on the people and on the land. I think of our ancestors boxed up in dark storehouses in foreign lands for hundreds of years, and I can’t help but wonder if their spirits can sense that arrangements are being made so they can return home with the dignity that was previously denied to them.

References Ambrocia, Medolenuo 2022. ‘Mortal Remains of Slain Naga National Worker Laid to Rest after 43 Years.’ East Mojo, April 29. www.eastmojo.com/nagaland/2022/04/29/mortal­ remains-of-slain-naga- national-worker-laid-to-rest-after-43-years/ 20 August 2022. ‘Angami Phizo, 83; Fought for Secession in North India State.’ 2022. Obituaries, The New York Times, July 1. www.nytimes.com/1990/05/04/obituaries/angami-phizo-83­ fought-for-secession-in-north-india-state.html 20 August 2022. Batty, David 2020. ‘Off with the Heads: Pitt Rivers Museum removes Human Remains from Display.’ The Guardian, September 13. www.theguardian.com/culture/2020/sep/13/off­ with-the-heads-pitt-rivers-museum-removes-human-remains-from-display 26 August 2022. Fforde, C., C. T. McKeown and H. Keeler (eds) 2020. The Routledge Companion to Indi­ genous Repatriation: Return, Reconcile, Renew. London and New York: Routledge.

Film Oxford Production 2022. Working Towards Return with the Pitt Rivers Museum.

(Video). www.youtube.com/watch?v=UepOxifS3EI 23 September 2022. Keeler, Honor 2015. A Guide to International Repatriation: Starting an Initiative in Your Community. AAIA (Association of American Indian Affairs). Kikon, Dolly 2021. ‘Who Killed the Naga Coal Miners? The Culture of AFSPA in Nagaland.’ Raiot, December 6. https://raiot.in/how-the-culture-of-afspa-murdered-the­ naga-coal-miners/ Accessed 20 August 2022. Kikon, Dolly 2022. ‘Naga Ancestral Remains, Repatriation and Healing of the Land.’ The Morung Lecture XIV, Dimapur, July 27. https://morungexpress.com/relea rning-the-past-through-our-own-lens 24 September 2022. Kikon, Dolly 2022. ‘Journey from the Heart: Naga Repatriation and Healing of the Land.’ The Morung Lecture XV, Kohima, August 26. https://morungexpress.com/som ething-sacred-spiritual-about-homecomings 24 September 2022. Longchar, Purtongzuk 2002. Historical Development of the Ao Nagas in Nagaland. Dimapur: Print Home. Longkumer, Arkotong and Dolly Kikon 2022. ‘The Unfinished Business of Colonialism: Naga Ancestral Remains and the Healing of the Land.’ The Morung Express,

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Dimapur, July 1. https://morungexpress.com/the-unfinished-business-of-colonialism-na ga-ancestral-remains-and-the-healing-of-the-land 26 August 2022. ‘Media in Nagaland Sensitised on Issues of Repatriation.’ 2022. The Morung Express, Dimapur, August 28. https://morungexpress.com/media-in-nagaland-sensitised-on-issue s-of-repatriation 24 September 2022. ‘Nagaland among NE States where AFSPA Extent has been Reduced.’ 2022. The Morung Express, Dimapur, April 1. https://morungexpress.com/nagaland-among-ne-states­ where-afspa-extent-has-been-reduced 20 August 2022. Naorem, Deepak 2021. ‘Returning Spoils of Colonial Conquest.’ Himal SouthAsian. www.himalmag.com/returning-spoils-of-colonial-conquest-2021/ on 20th August 2022. ‘Oting Killings: SC stays proceedings against Army Personnel named in FIR by Nagaland Police.’ 2022. The Morung Express, Dimapur, July 21. https://morungexpress.com/ oting-killings-sc-stays-proceedings-against-army-personnel-named-in-fir-by-nagaland-p olice 26 August 2022. Pickering, M. 2020. A Repatriation Handbook, National Museum of Australia: A Guide to Repatriating Australian Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander Ancestral Remains. Canberra: National Museum of Australia Press. Po, Z. K. and Pahrü Po 2022. ‘Various Voices on Reduced Areas of Northeast.’ The Morung Express, Dimapur, May 5. https://morungexpress.com/various-voices-on-re duced-areas-of-afspa 25 September 2022. ‘Thousands Pay Final Respect to Late Thepushe Venuh.’ 2022. The Morung Express, Dimapur, April 28. https://morungexpress.com/thousands-pay-final-respect-to-late­ thepushu-venuh 24 September 2022.

Personal Interviews 1. Tiatoshi Jamir (professor), Personal Interview. Zoom: 8 June 2021. 2. Lepden Jamir, Personal Interview. Kohima: 24 July 2021.

11 Dialogue with the Shindré1 Death Rituals Among the Lhopo of Sikkim2 Kikee Doma Bhutia

Introduction There is a house in XX village where the mother of the house had recently died. The daughter framed photos of her late mother and placed them in her father’s bedroom to honour her memory. Seeing this, the father started to cry, and the villagers began to gossip, saying that the daughter was insensitive. One of my informants told me that it was an insensitive act placing the photo in the bed­ room. ‘It must have been devastating for the father to see it every day!’3 Lhopo society is one in which institutional beliefs consist of multiple rites and customs dedicated to the deceased. As part of this belief system, Lhopo villagers consciously attempt to forget the dead as soon and as quickly as pos­ sible. Geoffrey Gorer, who gave the earliest known anthropological account of Sikkim in his book Himalayan Village: An Account of the Lepchas of Sikkim (1938[2005]), writes on death among the Lepcha community4: Death is too terrible to envisage clearly or discuss often; death and, to a lesser extent, the dead who have suffered death are hated, feared, and not talked about [among the villagers]. Once a person is dead, there are two things to do: the danger of the devil that has caused his death finding another victim in the community must be averted, and the dead man must be removed as wholly and thoroughly as possible. People who have left this world never return to it benevolently; if they have any contact with the living, it is a malevolent supernatural, like devils. (Gorer 1938: 345).

1 2 3 4

All the vernacular terminology follows the phonetic transliteration instead of Tibe­ tan Wylie to authenticate the local term. All the names of informants as well the name of the locations/villages (apart from direction such as north Sikkim) is kept anonymous except for some who agreed for their names to be used, especially Agya Karma Tempo, upon their request. Ani Bhutia, Personal Communication. The Lepcha community is often considered the original inhabitants of Sikkim. They are mainly known as nature worshipper and converted to Buddhism with the later introduction of the Buddhist kingdom. Today, many Lepchas are Christian converts.

DOI: 10.4324/9781003406693-12

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The above ethnographic instance of continued remembrance through a photo­ graphic representation of the deceased serves as a counter to the established norm of ‘forgetting’ among the Lhopo. Also, there are narratives of the dead (especially of those who die of accidents, suicide, and when young) becoming shindré (spirits of the dead), who then come back among the living to haunt them, causing illness, and sometimes taking vengeance. Because of this, if a person dies a ‘bad death’5 the villagers seldom discuss their life, or they remove the dead person’s clothes and belongings and clear away photos and other things that cause grief to the living. When I scrolled through my photo album, my mother accidentally saw a photo of her deceased brother (my uncle). He had died eight years ago at the age of 44 due to stomach cancer. Startled by an unsettling image from when he was alive, my mother scolded me and then started to cry. It was the first time she had seen his photo since his demise. In Lhopo society, death and dying are integral aspects of community life. The deceased is entreated to depart the realm of the living as part of the grieving process; yet, at times, may forcefully continue to linger as a ‘functioning’ member of the family or community. Within Himalayan Buddhist tradition, death and dying have been subjects of sustained academic interest. Very few Tibetan texts and commentaries on death and dying have been translated into English or other Western languages. Of these, The Great Liberation Through Hearing the Bardo—published in 1927 and referred to as the Bardo thodol chenmo (bar-do’i-this-sgrol-Chen-mo), misnamed by the American scholar W. Y. Evans-Wentz as The Tibetan Book of the Dead (drawing upon the Egyptian Book of the Dead)—is the first English language translation from Tibetan Buddhist literature on death and dying. This chapter is not an attempt to investigate the field of death and dying as institu­ tionalised practices fraught with rituals. Instead, it seeks to provide a folkloristic approach through narratives collected from the villages on why the recently dead seem to return to the community. This chapter is divided into three sections— the first examines ethnographic accounts of death and dying among the Lhopo of Sikkim; the second attempts to understand the rituals and funerary enactments revolving around death from a specifically folklorist perspective; and the third discusses two case studies of recent deaths in which a mediator/ritual specialist invokes the shindré (spirit of the dead). The emphasis on death and the afterlife and the invocation of ‘dead’ family members in this article gestures toward the nature of religious belief and simultaneously reflects the complex amalgamation of soteriological and the 5

‘[S]uicide, dying in pain, and dying alone and/or in the company of strangers are considered bad ways of dying by most societies, and dying in an accident or from an overdose are also usually regarded as bad deaths’ (Kearl, 1989: 121, 134–135; Seale 2004: 968). On the other hand, ‘death following a long and fulfilled life, during which children have been raised and provided for, and grandchildren born, and dying at home surrounded by family and community, are valued highly by almost every culture’ (Seale, 2004: 967–968).

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sociological practices of the Lhopo of Sikkim. This approach, unlike that of the assumption that death simply takes place because of nature, suggests that death is deeply entwined within social relations and interpretations (White 2002: 20), requiring an analysis of the cultural context (Lupton 2010: 12) of the deceased. It seeks to provide folkloristic perspectives that challenge the traditional understanding of death within Buddhism, where ideas vis-à-vis authority and economic status play a vital role in the interaction that occurs between the living and the dead. My chapter thus tries to understand death in Lhopo society as a mirror reflecting life’s meanings, values, and folkways.

Ethnographic Accounts Most of the data has been collected by me through participant observation, field trips, and interviews based on the events in XX village from 2016 to 2019. My research position within the community is that of a ‘partially native researcher’ (Bhutia 2022: 45). I have used reflexivity, as defined by Davies (1999: 4), to foreground myself critically within this process of conducting an ethnography of death: The relationship between ethnographers and informants in the field, which form the basis of subsequent theorising and conclusions, is expressed through social interaction in which the ethnographer participates; thus, ethnographers help to construct the observations that become their data… In its most transparent guise, reflexivity expresses the researcher’s aware­ ness of their necessary connection to the research situation and its effects upon it. (Ibid: 5–7). Additional material for this research was collected by me between 2020 and 2022 through the emerging methodology of ‘netnography’ (Kozinets 2015). Just as physical ethnography is used to obtain cultural insight into physical locations (in this case my field trips in the northern part of Sikkim), netnography as a method is used to generate insights into virtual spaces using digital archives and contextualised participant observation. Such a form of netnography becomes a process of related data collection and creation, analysis, interpretative, ethnical and representational research practices, where a significant amount of the data collected and participant observational research conducted originated in and manifested through the data shared freely on the internet, including mobile applications. (Kozinets 2015: 79) In the post-pandemic world, netnography has been a crucial tool for this chap­ ter and has helped in bringing together the stories, experiences and nuances of

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everyday living, loss, and grief. For instance, on 7 October 2021, I came across a situation on social media in which a family member had uploaded a series of photographs of a deceased relative. Upon seeing the picture, I contacted the photographer and asked, ‘This is the first time I see a proper funeral photo­ graph showing respect to the deceased. What do you think of the taboo vis-à­ vis taking photographs of the deceased among the Sikkimese communities?’ To this, he replied: For me, documenting this funeral was a personal journey as I felt that it was the only way I could pay respect to my late Bari (maternal aunt). It is a delicate subject, and not all families would want someone disturbing them, especially when mourning. I did everything respectfully and silently using a small camera with a silent shutter. Being a family member, I had close access, but again, I made sure not to take photographs that could be construed as repulsive or which could hurt the sentiments of others, thus taking no picture of the people present. I wanted to bring out the silence rather than the utter chaos usually seen at a funeral. I had also seen a few funeral pictures on social media and often felt bad when people (my cousin included) made an absolute mockery. Hence, I wanted to show them how it can be done subtly as an art form without hurting any sentiments.6 My informant also shared with me the sensitivities required and examples set for others to follow.7 This chapter further reveals the constantly-in-flux nature of social relation­ ships, through these ethnographic memoirs. It also interrogates ritual perfor­ mances centred around mourning and loss, and embodied or sensual spheres of religious praxis. By highlighting these personal narratives, the article diverges from more conventional studies of death and dying within Himalayan societies that focus more on the structures of Buddhist organisations and or Tibetan Buddhist theology. Instead, it focuses on the lesser explored phenomenological approach to death in order to gain a better understanding of the everyday lives of the Buddhist Lhopo of Sikkim.

Customary Rites and Vernacular Enactment According to the Tibetan Buddhist view of death and dying, death should be prepared for, long in advance, throughout one’s life. This view of life and death is intimately related to karma, meaning ‘action’—physical, verbal and/ or mental—and connoting a sense of cause and effect (Ghose 2007: 259). Though this view is prevalent among the Lhopo, there are various other 6 7

Agya Tempo, Online Communication. In this chapter, pseudonyms have often been used to maintain anonymity as many of the informants did not agree to be openly acknowledged for the stories they shared.

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minor facets relating to handling death and dying that involve not only the Buddhist viewpoint but also pre-Buddhist practices. The historical relation­ ship between Buddhism and pre-Buddhist practices is of immense interest in Himalayan studies (Balikci 2008; Ortner 1995b). The argument that Bud­ dhism had ‘defeated’ pre-Buddhist practices and established superiority over it has been debated upon by writers like Ortner, who writes, ‘They ‘don’t mix’ or ‘don’t get along,’ but they do live together in one community’ (Ortner 1995b: 360). Ortner uses various belief narratives to illustrate the decline of shamanism after the religious establishment of Tibetan Buddhism and how the internal relationships and hierarchies of the latter are perceived as ‘spiritually superior.’ In North Sikkim, however, among the Lhopo, beliefs and practices surrounding death exemplify how Buddhism and the pre-Buddhist beliefs of the region merge and complement each other. Some scholars have argued vis-à-vis Tibetan Buddhist practices that both non-lit­ erary and ritual practices, as well as scholarly and textual approaches, may often exist in a symbiotic relationship (Lopez 1989; Ortner 1995b). They highlight the notion that religious and academic methods pervade the con­ temporary socio-religious worlds of Tibetans in complex and often com­ plementary ways. Ortner (1995b) acknowledges that the construction of binary oppositions, as was presented in her earlier work, had failed to con­ sider Tibetan social contexts; therefore, in her more recent study she inverts her previously held religious position on lamaist and shamanistic practices to direct the focus more towards the presence of ‘lamaist’ elements among other practitioners (Ortner 1995b: 380–381). During the funerary and cus­ tomary rites, the interaction between Buddhist and pre-Buddhist practices are prevalent and perceptible. The focal point of the funeral as a rite of passage is not directly connected with the moment of death, but rather with intermediary rites that function to separate the dead person from the living, transforming him or her into a member of the community of the dead and a new entity (e.g., a holy ancestor) who influences the life of people in a cer­ tain manner (Van Gennep 1909). As soon as a person dies, the first step is to invite the nearest available lama, the head lama of the village, who will then perform the rituals of phowa and chi. The lama notes the position and hour of death and cor­ relates birth and death timings with other astrological factors to determine the precise moment to dispose of the body. This astrological reading is called chi. Along with phowa, the chi is significant as it enumerates all the post-death rituals, the length of time for which they should be performed and who should perform them. During this ritual, the lama makes offer­ ings of barley and butter and places them on the head of the corpse; he then instructs the deceased on how to break free of attachments and peacefully and wilfully leave the world. The funeral is usually conducted within a day (at the shortest) and a week (at the longest) after the person’s demise, and almost immediately afterwards the chi generates a date for the cremation.

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Ani’s husband says: Chi is everything. It tells us whether the person will have a good rebirth or not. They see what things might cause trouble in the path to renewal and what kind of rituals shall be performed to pacify them. Imagine if I die and if I care for my daughter a lot, the chi shows that my soul is attached to my daughter, and so, to protect my daughter, a certain kind of ritual should be performed.8 A non-celibate village lama, aged 65, mentions that when a person dies, the most important thing to do is phowa. It means to ‘tie the soul,’ which will prevent the spirit from roaming, and at the right time, they shall be sent to dewachen ghi shingkham with proper rituals. The ritual of phowa provides all the necessary awareness required to enter the bardo and enables the deceased to have an easy rebirth. The lama continues: It is believed that without proper phowa, the dead person’s soul will find it challenging to be reincarnated, or in some cases, even their re-birth will be jeopardised. When a person dies, the soul9 doesn’t leave the body right away. The warmth in the body remains, and during that exact period, if he receives the ritual of phowa, it will mean that his soul will be saved and directed onto the right path.10 Both rituals aim to separate the deceased’s physical presence from the living community. This provides solace to relatives and friends, allowing them to say their farewell to the dead and then send off the deceased’s soul in the direction of bardo with the help of a lama. Family and friends may practise phowa, or the transference of consciousness meditation ritual, on any day out of the 49 days after death, but do so primarily on the same day of the week that the person has died (Rinpoche 1992). While the phowa ritual encourages the deceased’s consciousness to break the connection with the body, the survivors engage in practices that show them that the deceased’s physical body is no longer an object in any relationship with the surviving family, including various rituals to protect and remove themselves from any kind of attachment.

8 9

Aku Bhutia, Personal Communication. Many times, my informant use the concept of soul in their explanation, therefore the term is verbatim used in the text, while understanding the Judeo-Christian implica­ tion of this terminology. 10 Lama, Personal Communication.

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On the day of the funeral, the entire village community observes tsham, which means that no villagers enter their garden, field, or farm to avoid mis­ fortune. The funeral pyre is prepared and visualised as the mandala of Vajra­ sattva. Often, the lama performs the ritual of cutting (gcod), a meditational dismemberment of the body (Edou 1996; Gyatso 1985; Mumford 1989; Samuel 1993; Tucci 1980), placing the corpse in a box. As the corpse burns, relatives and friends are encouraged to envision the body being devoured by the Hun­ dred Peaceful and Wrathful Deities, with the dead person’s consciousness transformed into their wise nature. Other village elders, along with the lamas, chant the six-syllable mantra of Vajrasattva (Rinpoche 1992). Three days later, rifya is conducted wherein the ashes, bones, and remains of the dead are col­ lected; the ashes are collected and submerged in sacred water bodies such as the rivers Teesta and Rangit in Sikkim. It is also on this day that tsham is observed. Apart from phowa, chi, rifya, and tsham there is another important ritual, that of ghewa (ghou), an essential post-death ritual that includes continued offerings by the deceased’s family. All relatives undertake ghewa at different monasteries, supervised by the highest of the Rinpoches.11 While discussing the ghewa ritual, Agya X, a 40-year-old Police Officer in the Sikkim Police, tells me: I have only witnessed the ritual sacrifice of an entire ox during a Sikkimese Buddhist ghewa. Tons of Chang (locally brewed rice alcohol) are offered to the people who come to offer their condolences. Aren’t these an additional burden to the family that has lost a member? My grandmother died in Mirik, West Bengal. There, my relatives said that killing an animal would add to the burden of the dead. You see, meat and alcohol offering are not only burdensome to the people who are alive but also obstacles within the process of rebirth of the deceased. Our Sikkimese society is slowly chan­ ging. People are using less meat and alcohol, although these have not been entirely wiped out.12 A high-ranking lama from a monastery in West Sikkim, Lamala (67 years old), says that he clearly doesn’t remember when the offering of meat and alcohol was abolished in Sikkim as it was not a ‘legal decision’ but rather a ‘moral one.’ He says, ‘When my father died two decades ago, we still had meat and alcohol offerings, but in 2012 when my brother died, we didn’t have meat and alcohol. I made sure of it.’13 In the example above, the customs related to the funeral meal, which consists of meat and alcohol, has faced backlash and has increasingly become nonacceptable in Sikkim. There is a growing stigma associated with the ghewa that 11 The literal translation of Rinpoche is ‘precious one.’ It is an honorific title used for a Buddhist spiritual teacher or a reincarnated lama. 12 Agya X, Online Communication. 13 Lamala, Personal Communication.

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is due to the controversy surrounding the use of meat and alcoholic beverages. If the ghewa is not performed correctly, then the deceased’s spirit turns into a shindré or a ‘non-human being’ (sdé log14 and ro-long15), who then returns to the world of the living to haunt, hurt, and seek vengeance. In Tibetan Rituals of Death (2010), Margaret Gouin offers a comprehensive survey of the available literature on funerary practices in Tibetan societies. Gouin enlists the sequence of a funeral and the rituals performed immediately after death (preparation of the body, the ‘death horoscope,’ funeral processions, and practices for protection and purification); the disposal of the body (with summaries of burial, immersion in water, cremation, exposure, and the treat­ ment of remains); and ‘post-disposal rituals of benefit and protection’ (Gouin 2010: 15). The mourning process encompasses an extended period, exceeding the bardo period of 49 days. For these 49 days, family and friends assist the deceased through bardo16 to a propitious rebirth within a new body. In the bardo guidebook, the deceased undergo different experiences and visions. These rites and enactments encompass caring for the deceased and the living. These make sure that the dead receive guidance and help in the journey through bardo while simultaneously assisting the surviving family members to overcome their loss and grief. Lamas or family members wash the corpse while reciting pray­ ers. Loved ones or relatives often set up a small shrine with pictures of Bud­ dhas, teachers, bodhisattvas, or empowering deities. The body is rolled onto its right side, the posture of the sleeping lion in which the Buddha died (Rinpoche 1991; Rinpoche 1992). In Ritual and Social Change (1973), Geertz writes about the controversy surrounding a funeral performance in central Java where worldviews and lifestyles, religion, and politics clashed and created a system seen as a synthesis of Hinduism’s local customs and Islam. Geertz understands the micropolitics of death rituals as affected by historical and socio-economic changes (which I discuss below). In most Sikkimese households, death is dis­ cussed as an integral part of life and the world of the living, emphasising social obligation and collective grieving. Most funerary rites are performed peacefully among the Lhopo; rituals are offered, the spirits are dispersed, and (usually) a year of mourning is observed. The remembering of the dead could also extend up to a year as doh dhi (death anniversary) and lom che (invoking the memory).

14 Sdé log—the return of the dead. See Françiose Pommaret’s account of delog in Bhutan in References (1995; 1997) 15 Ro long, living dead (like a vampire or revenant). See Turrell Wylie’s work on RoLongs: The Tibetan Zombies (1964). 16 Bardo means ‘in-between.’ It envisages that the consciousness of the deceased jour­ neys through three liminal stages: (a) the moment of dying (‘chi-kha’i-bardo), (b) the bardo of reality or the interim between death and rebirth (chaos-nyid-Kyi-bardo), and (c) the process of/search for rebirth (srid-pa’i- bar-do). At each stage, the con­ sciousness of the dying or dead person is encouraged to perceive all appearances as a projection of the mind and merge with the luminous mind. Bardo teachings are relevant to each liminal stage but are more pertinent to dying and death (Turner 1969).

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Case Studies of a Sociological Approach towards Death among the Lhopo In this section, I present two case studies, the first focusing on the shindré of a teenage boy coming back to the community to reveal that his attempted suicide was murder. This suicide generated considerable controversy attracting local news outlets such as The Sikkim Chronicle to cover the story and received state-level attention. The second case is of an older man who died peacefully. Through both these examples, I aim to reflect on aspects of death as viewed through an economic and sociological lens, where as a deceased person remains a ‘functioning’ member of the Lhopo community even after death. Case Study 1 On 5 December 2019, T. Bhutia, a 20-year-old man, working as a guard in the nearby police station, didn’t come home from work. When the family members went looking for him, they found his body below a bridge. Initially, the verdict was that he had committed suicide. But, dissatisfied with the death of a young man, the enraged villagers crowded the police station, questioning his colleague about the situation. They claimed that the man was murdered. Soon, media outlets flocked to the premises and started interviewing the villagers. It was revealed that the boy had disagreements with the colleagues he had worked with that week. Dissatisfied with the results of the investigation, the family, supported by the entire village, invited a ritual specialist to perform an over­ night ritual called tchinta17 in which the spirit of the dead was invoked, and questions about his death were asked. I paraphrase here what the ritual specialist said while in a state of possession: I have been murdered. Three men killed me, one man who wore a uniform, another who had a tattoo-covered arm, and the third ran towards the north.18 A court case was filed, but due to the parent’s financial inability to pursue the case, it did not reach legal closure. Case Study 2 On 23 May 2021, in a small village in the northern part of Sikkim, a Nepali man named Raju died after a short span of illness, at 74 years of age. This village is dominated by the Lhopo community, with a few Nepalese groups 17 Tchinta: an overnight ritual performed by a ritual specialist to heal illnesses possibly caused by local deities or spirits. Usually, during such rituals, the spirit of the dead person, and sometimes deities, possess the ritual specialist and demand sacrifices, offering, in return, to heal patients. 18 Ani, Personal Communication.

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living as tenants, on the outskirts of the village, on Lhopo land. Raju’s posi­ tion, in this case, is not that of a Nepali tenant but of a herder. He would occasionally change houses within the village, depending on whose house needed more hands to manage their cattle and other farming chores. None of the villagers knew his background. When I enquired from some of the villa­ gers, Aju Saila (65 years old), the former village head and a non-celibate lama told me: Raju is originally from Nepal, and he was abused at home, but he lived a free and good life in our village. Although he was an alcoholic for many years, he died a very peaceful death. He never harmed anyone, did all the jobs deemed unmanageable by the villagers, and minded his own business. He was fortunate that during his last moments, when his body was still warm, he received a proper phowa. He will be reborn without any obsta­ cles, this I know for sure.19 Overall, the villagers claimed that Raju had a perfect death as he spent his entire life helping the Lhopo of the village doing manual jobs (such as weeding gardens, taking care of the cattle, and performing daily labour when the Lhopo themselves were unable to go in for the MGNREGA20). Aju Saila added that, even though Raju was from the Nepali community, his good actions, and deeds during his lifetime (helping families in the village) resulted in him receiving phowa from one of the elderly villages lamas. Therefore, it increased the like­ lihood of him being reincarnated in the human realm. Many villagers claimed that even many good Buddhist practitioners were not as lucky as Raju had been, to receive such rituals at the correct time. Malinowski (1929; 1948) sees the function of mortality rites as the dialectic resolution of disruptive tendencies that operate during times of social crisis. He argues that death ceremonies tie the survivors to the body and fix them to the place of death. This is underscored by a belief in the existence of spirits and beneficent or malevolent influences upon these spirits that can be expunged through commemorative or sacrificial ceremonies. Therefore, religion is posited as a counter to the forces of fear, dismay, and demoralisation. It is shown to provide the most potent means of reintegrating the group’s shaken solidarity and re-establishing its morale (Malinowski 1948: 52). In both the cases pre­ sented above, there are some inferences to be made. In the first case, the spirit of the teenage boy, due to the predicament of his suicide/murder, becomes a shindré, to remain forever entangled in the afterlife with no redemption. As one

19 Aju Saila, Personal Communication. 20 The Mahatma Gandhi National Rural Employment Guarantee Scheme (MGNREGA), which came into existence on August 25, 2005, provides a legal guarantee of one hundred days of employment, every financial year, to adult mem­ bers of any rural household willing to do public work at a statutory minimum wage.

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of my informants, Lama Bhutia, a 37-year-old monk at a reputed monastery, explains: There are two ways a person can be reborn as a shindré. First, when a person kills animals mercilessly and gets very angry all the time. Usually, a short-tempered person and a person who doesn’t perform compassionate deeds is reborn as a shindré. Second, when a person dies a traumatic death, either by murder, suicide, or accident and because of a prolonged sickness that paralyses them in bed, unable to excrete correctly, they become a shindré, turning them forever into a ghost devoid of the possibility of a ‘good’ reincarnation or nirvana.21 During my fieldwork, most of my informants suggested that shindré are neither vetaal22 nor ghosts or spirits; instead, they refer to the rebirth of a human being into the realm of the spirits. These spirits are trapped in limbo due to a ‘bad’ death or as punishment for the bad deeds performed during life. In Tingchim village, according to Anna Balikci in her book Lamas, Shamans, and Ancestors (2008), shindré are usually thought to be the spirits of those whose conscious­ ness was kidnapped after death by a local nöpa.23 They are seen as products of an improper funeral, or as people who suffer from excessive attachment and thus linger in those physical spaces attached to their life on earth; they create trouble for the living and interact with relatives through the medium of the piano until they can be liberated through the performance of a specific ritual (Balikci 2008: 384). Another informant, Palden Bhutia (38 years old), who works as a lecturer at the Government College, gives me an account of what he understands as shindré: Shindré is a local spirit specific to Sikkim. There are two forms of this spirit in Sikkim. One is considered the Yeshe ki lha,24 who were transformed into guardian deities, after getting directly subdued by Guru Rinpoche, and others that are worldly vengeful deities that cause harm to the living.25 He adds that after one’s death, there are four grounds on which one might become a shindré: i if the person hasn’t accumulated enough merit within her/ his lifetime; ii when a person has unfulfilled wishes and usually finds it hard to leave the material world; iii if the person was very angry, gluttonous, envious, or killed animals merci­ lessly; and iv if the person has died a destructive or violent death. 21 22 23 24 25

Lama Bhutia, Online Communication.

Rising dead. Equivalent to the concept of demonic ro-langs (Wylie 1964: 79)

Malevolent non-human entities often cause illness and harm to people.

Yeshey ki lha (ye shes gyi lha): enlightened gods/deities.

Palden Bhutia, Online Communication.

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In many instances, where I interviewed the villagers, the definition of a shindré, and who becomes one, seemed to vary. In some cases, a shindré came back, haunted the family, and requested their unfulfilled desires to be satiated. On one such occasion, a man named Royal (a Lhopo ritual specialist) became pos­ sessed by the shindré of his brother Bhai who had died a year previously. His shindré was an angry one. Bhai died due to prolonged tuberculosis at the age of 46. When his shindré possessed the younger brother, one of the villagers said, The shindré of Bhai came back to express his disappointment with his family. He said, ‘I died because you guys didn’t try to save me. You should have sold my land for my treatment. Because you didn’t do it, I have become a shindré. I wish suffering upon you, and I will be here to witness it.’ I have attempted to deconstruct the commonly held perception that a shindré is only the product of truncated funerary rituals, and instead, explored how myriad other factors such as a brutal death, evil deeds, a life full of bad karma, and deficient family can also lead to one transforming into a shindré within Sikkimese Lhopo folk belief. The concept of shindré also conceives of the dead as powerfully sentient beings capable of emotions, purpose, and historical cog­ nisance. In the case of Raju, even though he was a non-Buddhist and nonLhopo, his death becomes construed as a ‘good death’ because of the services rendered by him to the Lhopo community. In my analysis, I have considered the factors influencing funerary rites at the socio-economic level. There seem to be many variables at play, depending on whether the deceased is a high-ranking lama, an ordinary lama, a person of robust social stature, a wealthy or poor person, an average villager, or even an outsider. The rituals are performed keeping in mind the financial and social status of the deceased and their family. Khetuk Bhutia, 55 years old, an ordinary villager, once a devout Buddhist practitioner who recently converted to Christianity, said: I converted to Christianity because the funerals are cheap. I believe poor people like me will not find peace within the Buddhist tradition as the rituals are primarily performed according to how much a person can pay. I remember once when my uncle died. Can you imagine that only three monks showed up at our house, only three, and that the divination also said he should be cremated within a day? In contrast, the wealthy people performed a five-day ritual with multiple offerings in the more prominent monasteries. Of course, our family is poor, and we cannot afford to pay handsome offerings, but it is unfair. That’s when I realised what it means to be deficient in a system where money matters.26

26 Khetuk Bhutia, Personal Communication.

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Radcliffe-Brown (1964) emphasises how a person’s death constitutes ‘a partial destruction of the social cohesion’ until a new equilibrium is established. In his study of Andaman Islanders, Radcliffe-Brown demonstrates how weeping affirms the social bond between people. Ultimately, he concludes that the ritual determines the presence and intensity of expressed feelings. ‘Without the ceremonial,’ Rad­ cliffe-Brown argues, ‘these sentiments would not exist, and without them, the social organisation in its actual form could not exist’ (1964: 324). In Khetuk’s case, the length of the ritual ceremony is defined by the deceased person’s social status. A more extended procession is indicative of the wealth of an individual. As a result, one of the social functions of ceremonial customs is to teach, maintain, and transmit the appropriate emotional dispositions from one generation to the next.

Conclusion Contemporary Lhopo death rituals and beliefs are the complex amalgamations of pre-Buddhist beliefs as well as Buddhist customs. This chapter elaborates on how Lhopo villagers navigate grief and the loss of a loved one with the help of both these belief systems. It foregrounds two points—first, it explores the social nuances of funeral rites and the significance of death-related beliefs and rituals within a Bud­ dhist village community in North Sikkim; second, it revolves around the ambiva­ lence surrounding the shindré and post-death belief narratives involving the broader ramifications of modernisation, the intermingling of different practices and most importantly, how death rituals often do not have fixed epistemologies. Belief in shindré not only exemplifies the differing approaches but also the changing eco­ nomic, ethnic, and political scenarios. The death rituals among the Lhopo are aimed at not only delivering the spirit of the dead a peaceful crossover into a better rein­ carnation, but also help the living cope with the loss of a loved one.

References Balikci, Anna 2008. Lamas, Shamans, and Ancestors: Village Religion of Sikkim. Leiden: Brill. Bhutia, Kikee Doma 2022. Mythic History, Belief Narratives and Vernacular Buddhism among the Lhopos of Sikkim. Dissertationes Folkloristicae Universitatis Tartuensis (32). The University of Tartu. Davies, Charlotte Aull 1999. Reflexive Ethnography: A Guide to Researching Selves and Others. London and New York: Routledge. Edou, Jérôme 1996. Macbig Labdron and the Foundations of Chod. New York: Snow Lion. Evans-Wentz, Walter 1957. The Tibetan Book of the Dead. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Geertz, Clifford 1973. ‘Rituals and Social Change: A Javanese Example.’ In Clifford Geertz (ed.). The Interpretation of Cultures: Selected Essays. New York: Basic. 142–169. Ghose, Lynken 2007. ‘Karma and the Possibility of Purification: An Ethical and Psycho­ logical Analysis of the Doctrine of Karma in Buddhism.’ The Journal of Religious Ethics, 35 (2): 259–289.

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Gorer, Geoffrey 1938 (2005). Himalayan Village: An Account of the Lepchas of Sikkim. Varanasi: Pilgrim Book House. Gouin, Margaret 2010. Tibetan Rituals of Death: Buddhist Funerary Practices. London and New York: Routledge. Gyatso, Janet 1985. Drawn from the Tibetan Treasury: The gTer ma Literature. In Tibetan Literature: Studies in Genre. Jackson and Cabezón. 147–169. Kearl, Michael C. 1989. Endings: A Sociology of Death and Dying. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Kozinets, Robert V. 2015. Netnography: Redefined. London: SAGE. Malinowski, Bronislaw 1929. The Sexual Life of Savages in North-Western Melanesia. New York and London: Harcourt, Brace & Jovanovich. Malinowski, Bronislaw 1948. Magic Science and Religion. London: Faber & West. Lopez, Donald 1989. Prisoners of Shangri-la: Tibetan Buddhism and the West. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Lupton, Deborah 2010. Medicine as Culture: Illness, Disease, and the Body in Western Societies. London: Sage. Mumford, Stan Royal 1989. Himalayan Dialogue: Tibetan lamas and Gurung Shamans in Nepal. Wisconsin: The University of Wisconsin Press. Ortner, Sherry 1995a. ‘God’s Bodies, God’s Food: A Symbolic Analysis of a Sherpa Ritual.’ In Roy Willis (ed.). The Interpretation of Symbolism. New York: John Wiley and Sons. 133–169. Ortner, Sherry 1995b. ‘The Case of the Disappearing Shaman, or No Individualism, No Relationalism.’ Ethos, 23 (3): 355–390. Pommaret, Françiose 1995. The Biography of a 20th Century delog Dawa Drolma, Dialog: Journey to Realm Beyond Death. Junction City: Padma Publishing. Pommaret, Françiose 1997. ‘Returning from Hell.’ In Donald L. Lopez (ed.). Religions of Tibet in Practice. New Jersey: Princeton University Press. 499–510. Radcliffe-Brown, A. R. 1964. The Andaman Islanders. New York: Free Press. Rinpoche, Chökyi Nyima 1991. The Bardo Guidebook. (Tr. Erik Pema Kunsang). Kathmandu: Rangjung Yeshe Publications. Rinpoche, Sogyal 1992. The Tibetan Book of Living and Dying. San Francisco: Harper Collins. Samuel, Geoffrey 1993. Civilized Shamans: Buddhism in Tibetan Societies. Washington DC: Smithsonian Institute Press. Seale, Clive 2004. ‘Media Constructions of Dying Alone: A Form of Bad Death.’ Social Science and Medicine, 58 (5): 967–974. Sikkim Chronicle (News): https://youtu.be/DaPS0nOQExY Accessed 30 June 2022. Stoller, Paul 1989. The Taste of Ethnographic Things: The Senses in Anthropology. Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press. Tucci, Giuseppe 1980. The Religions of Tibet. London and New York: Routledge. Turner, Victor 1969. The Ritual Process. Chicago: Aldine. Van Gennep, Arnold 1909. Les rites de passage. Paris: Noury White, Kevin 2002. An Introduction to the Sociology of Health and Illness. London: Sage. Wylie, Turrell 1964. ‘Ro-Langs: The Tibetan Zombie.’ History of Religions, 4 (1): 66–80.

Personal Communications 1. Ani Bhutia (North Sikkim), 49 years old, Personal Communication: 10 January 2022.

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2. Agya Tempo, 48 years old, Online Communication: June 2021. 3. Aku Bhutia (North Sikkim), 52 years old, Personal Communication: 10 January 2022. 4. Monk (North Sikkim), 65 years old, Personal Communication: 3 June 2022. 5. Agya X, 40 years old, Online Communication: 29 January 2022. 6. Lamala, 67 years old, Personal Communication: June 2018. 7. Ani, 50 years old, Personal Communication: 10 December 2019. 8. Aju Saila, 65 years old, Personal Communication: 2 May 2021. 9. Lama Bhutia, 37 years old, Online Communication: June 2021. 10. Palden Bhutia, 38 years old, Online Communication: 17 December 2021. 11. Khetuk Bhutia, 55 years old, Personal Communication: 16 June 2018.

12 The Body in Myth and Practice Symbols of Death in Yumaism Vishakha Syangden

Introduction Symbols are used to organize and communicate religious belief structures and practices. These symbols are metaphors for the divine, supernatural, and human interactions with the transcendental world. Death, as the cessation of bodily, material existence, is a transient end, heralding the start of an afterlife whose nature is structured around the fabric of reality that the religious system constructs. This chapter attempts to comprehend how Yumaism-related death myths and rituals among the Limbus in Sikkim construct meaning by using the body as a symbol. The Limbus are considered to be ‘one of the Native Himalayans of the Eastern Himalayan region spread across Nepal, Bhutan and West Bengal, Sikkim, Assam and other North-Eastern states of India’ (Subba 2012a: iii). The primary source for the study’s analysis is interview transcripts collected during fieldwork in the West Sikkim villages of Lingchom, Darap, Simpheng, and Timbrong in 2017 for my MPhil research on Limbu oral narratives. The chapter attempts to explore questions pertaining to the following: the symbol of the body in the context of the transcendent/temporal divide, which is a foundational binary within religious systems, and the symbol of death in the Mundhums which are the oral myths that narrate the mythological history of the Limbus as well as the body symbolism within the performative body of a Limbushaman when conducting death rituals. The chapter’s primary aim is to understand the visibility of the body when interpreted as a symbol in the reli­ gious narratives and practices of death in Yumaism. Death is interpreted religiously through symbols and metaphors. Clifford Geertz’s interpretive paradigm of culture conceptualises symbols as metaphors that construct meaning. Geertz claims culture is ‘essentially semiotic’ (Geertz 1973: 5). In his essay ‘Religion as a Cultural System,’ Geertz defines culture as a system of symbols that help people communicate, perpetuate, and develop their knowledge and attitudes toward life (Geertz 1973: 89). Thus, contextual meaning gives a conceptual symbol relevance. Narratives and their enactment in mythology and ritual are symbolic retellings of narrative structures that underpin a religious system. Understanding or acknowledging DOI: 10.4324/9781003406693-13

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these symbols helps explain religious systems. Symbols are symbols because they ‘serve as a vehicle for a conception’ and ‘the conception is the symbol’s meaning’ (Geertz 1973: 91). Symbols are signs without meaning: ‘In this sense, a dark cloud is a sign of rain, but it is not a symbol of rain, except in somebody’s poem’ (Geertz and Micheelsen 2002: 8). Thus, symbols are poetic and literary. Symbols are metaphors that reveal something grand and beyond human existence.

Religious System of Yumaism and Sacred Symbols The set of religious practices pertinent to the Limbus in Sikkim is Yumaism. While the term Yumaism was coined much later, the practices and beliefs of religious nature centred on animistic, shamanistic and ancestral traditions have a much longer history. Yumaism derives from the term Yuma, which refers to the primary goddess in Yumaism, TageraNingwaphuma. It is called Yumaism because, now, let’s say for us Limbus, it is Tager­ aNingwaphuma who is omnipotent. And we call her Yuma. The literal meaning of Yuma is boju, but boju here means very old in the beginning.1 The literal meaning of the term Yuma, however, is boju, which translates to grandmother. Understanding Yuma’s metaphorical meaning, it becomes a symbol of a long-standing mythology centred on Ningwaphuma. Mundhums are the oral myths pertaining to the religious, mythological account of the Limbus (Subba 2016: 166). Mundhums are poetry, but they have deep religious meaning: we also have separate written poetry which does not match with Mund­ hums. It is called sammila. And Mundhum is different. ‘Mun’ means moving, and ‘thum’ means energy, power, shakti. It is a state of being alive.2 Believed to be sacred poetry describing mythological history, the Mundhums are unique and different. These may be read as a form of the religious history of the Limbus: Mundhum is baidikitihas, an ancient history that gives the entire picture of the Limbus. There are many areas of the Mundhums: how creation began and the rituals to be done. It is a sort of history. But it is not the kind of history that talks about kings and their sons…the base of the account is dharmic.3 1 2 3

B.B. Muringla, Personal Interview. H.B. Khamdak, Personal Interview. B.B. Muringla, Personal Interview.

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Beginning with creation, the Mundhums describe mythological events, and there is deep meaning within these mythical narratives and the symbols that compose these narratives. As mythical symbols, the components of narratives are sacred. For instance, the symbol of Murumsitlang, the central pillar of the Limbu household where the deity Okwanama is said to reside, the Murumsitlang is considered sacred and indeed the ‘centre of the world/universe’ (Subba 2013: 282). Crucial during the conduction of rituals, the pillar is a symbol that connects the temporal, profane realm with the ethereal, sacred one. Furthermore, as a holy symbol, it is powerful, and Okwanama is said to protect the household if appeased and well looked after. And there is deep religious faith in that: The central pillar is called Murumsitlang, and we offer food on the Mur­ umsitlang to Okwanama… and when we make offerings, we say, ‘even during earthquakes and landslides, please protect the house…’ and we believe that even during a landslide when a stone comes tumbling down, it will not hit the pillar.4 As a religious symbol, it is sacred and finds mythological meaning in the Mundhums, the practice of which materialises in the erection and worship of the pillar. The sacred symbols like Murumsitlang accentuate further the two vastly different modes of being—the temporal and the transcendental. The sacred and transcendental attribute of Murumsitlang is further dramatised by the presence of profane spaces (ordinary pillars and ordinary spaces of the household which are devoid of religious meaning, for instance), and the co­ existence of the two is necessary, in fact, for ‘man becomes aware of the sacred because it manifests itself, shows itself, as something wholly different from the profane’ (Eliade 1959: 11). Such binaries and oppositions in ideas are narrativised throughout the Mundhums. The Mundhums describe elements of the transcendental realm in creating several deities. Ningwaphuma, the primary goddess, is the first to appear amid absolute darkness, followed by other creators called mangs, with their individual purpose. PorokmiYambhamiMang, for instance, is solely responsible for creation, particularly the creation of mythological humans. Along with the creation of different deities, the Mundhums also describe the birth of what are identified as evil spirits termed tapsammang, who are capable of inflicting pain and misery: what happens is that if we suddenly come across them, we tend to fall ill: vomiting, diarrhoea, and sometimes we even lose our mental stability, we get senseless. That is all due to tap sammangs. [Interviewer: ‘so are they evil?] Absolutely, they even carry the souls of dead people. So we need to appease them.5 4 5

Yeba, Personal Interview. S.P. Mangyung, Personal Interview.

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The myths therefore become sacred components within the process of narrativising fundamental religious questions concerning the birth of good and evil and foundational beliefs concerning the creation of all beings. They probe into fundamental existential questions and provide deep meaning through the symbols that construct these myths.

Symbols concerning Ancestral Relevance and Shamanism in Yumaism A crucial element of the sacred nature of Mundhums is the centrality of ancestral relevance: ‘I think Mundhum is the collection of experiences of our ancestors.’6 The Mundhums describe the creation of the first humans, Mujingna and Lepmohang, the former being female and the latter her male counterpart. There is a significant point in the Mundhums wherein the two separate: When Lepmohang and Mujingna get old, the two go separate ways. Mujingna is then given the responsibility of taking care of her kin on earth, and Lepmo­ hang leaves the earth saying, ‘You stay here and take care of them. I will go from here, and when our family members die, I will take care of them.’7 After that, deities reside in Mujingna, transforming her from the first cre­ ated mythological human to a deity who teaches ways of tradition to her kin. The deification of Mujingna is a monumental narrative event, for it marks the transformation of Mujingna into a symbol of Limbu tradition, the source of knowledge and ways of Limbu life. Lepmohang, in his decision to leave the mythical earthly realm and become a caretaker of the deceased’s souls, is transformed into an ancestral deity symbolised by the term Thoba Pa Sam. The great mythical grandfather is a symbol of ancestral centrality in Yumaism. Ancestor worship is the custom of worshipping or venerating deceased ancestors who are considered still [sic] a part of the family, clan or society and whose spirits are believed to have the power to intervene in the affairs of the living and thus worshipped as Gods and Goddesses (Subba 2013: 3). Through these symbols, the Mundhums construct a meaningful worldview of Limbu culture. Mundhums can be conceptualised as ‘the foundation of cultural history as well as religious faith and practices of Limbus’ (Subba 1995: 291). In their entirety, Mundhums are the very symbol of Limbu culture. ‘Mundhum is a source of language, a source of culture and tradition. Mundhum itself is our

6 7

B.B. Muringla, Personal Interview. R.L. Limbu, Personal Interview.

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religious text in oral form. It has customs, traditions, cosmogony, religious practices, literature, songs, dances, faith belief, healing.’8 This relationship between the mythical narration and its pragmatic relevance is witnessed in the context of rituals. Integral to the religious system of Yumaism is the practice of shamanism. The primary practitioners of Yumaism include a hierarchy of shamans called Phedangmas, Sambas and Yebas. They find their myth of origin in the Mundhums as well: The number of deaths kept increasing, so a Phedangma was sent. As more deaths occurred, a Phedangma was not well equipped with the Mundhums required. So then, a Samba was sent. However, the samba was ineffective in unnatural deaths that occurred when people drowned or died by accident as they went hunting or were murdered. The cases of mothers or infants dying during birth also came under unnatural deaths. In such cases, a Yeba was sentYebas being the most powerful. Sambas know detailed Mundhums right from the narration of creation. Phedangmas do not have detailed Mundhums as Sambas do. If suppose a Yeba is available, but there is no Samba or Phedangma available, a Yeba can do both rituals. But a Phedangma cannot.9 Therefore, a hierarchy exists, with a specific type of shaman being associated with certain kinds of rituals. However, one fundamental commonality between the dif­ ferent types of shamans—the involuntary possession of the individual by a sam­ sire—is the one necessary condition for transforming an ordinary individual into a shaman. Samsires are considered to be ‘the souls of the departed persons’ who are ‘the sources of power for the shaman priests’ (Subba 2012b: 52). The samsire, the guiding spirit of the shaman, is also said to be of ancestral origin: Some individuals are possessed by the soul of their ancestor, and then their bodies go through different experiences. [Some] shiver, some display madness. When this happens, senior Phedangmas and Yebas hurriedly guide them.10 After that, what is called the guru puja is conducted, which marks the accep­ tance of samsire by the individual and is a monumental ritual, for it symbolises the transformation of the individual into a shaman. After attaining shamanhood, the person can call on the samsire and the master spirit. ‘The shaman controls his ‘spirits,’ in the sense that he, a human being, can communicate with the dead, ‘demons,’ and ‘nature spirits,’ without thereby becoming their ‘instrument’ in possession (Eliade 1959: 28). Shamans perform rituals by invoking samsire. Invoking the samsire is necessary for Mangenna, Nahangma, and death rituals, but not for regular puja.During such rituals:

8 A.B. Subba, Personal Interview. 9 S.P. Mangyung, Personal Interview. 10 S.P. Mangyung, Personal Interview.

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V. Syangden When a Phedangma recites Mundhums, he has to be possessed. Firstly, he has to bind his body, and this is done through Mundhums. Before begin­ ning, he must acknowledge his guru [samsire].11

This brings up an essential aspect of the recitation of Mundhums. While Mundhums are recited by ordinary people who know the Mundhums, the recitation of Mundhums under active possession by a shaman is different from it: Normal people can recite Mundhums but they are not given the responsi­ bility of ritual. Now suppose if they really know the Mundhums well and are well learned, they are considered to be tumyanghangs.12 The performance of Mundhums through vocal and physical means is believed to be involuntary, and the recitation of Mundhums concerning the ritual being performed is essential. At the time of the performance Mangenna, the myth of the creation of humans and their death, was recited. Recitation of Mundhums is an integral part of conducting rituals. Symbolically,the performance of these myths at the time of rituals ‘invoke[s] the mythical beginning’ (Eliade 1959: 83); it invites the sacred, transcendent time to the present time as a means of re­ living the mythic past. This can also be interpreted as the union of what Geertz terms ‘word view’ and ‘ethos’—the belief structure and pragmatic dimension— through the symbols that construct the religious system.

Conception of the Body in Yumaism Yumaism’s religious discourse denies the body’s divine connection. The body is distinct from the eternal, divine realm of ancestors and deities. The sacred is ethereal and the profane is temporal. Man’s ‘inconstant body’ symbolises tem­ porality (Vernant 1989: 24).The body is associated with existing in the physical world, the materiality of which is bound to eventual decay and whose function is to ensure, in some ways, the longevity of the soul: ‘Soul is for continuity of life and body is for purification of soul or real life of human beings; and that purification is possible only through the practice of Suyoorkarma on earth realm of existence’ [sic] (Subba 2013: 7). Embodiment of deities is entirely denied, as they are conceptualised as formless, transcendental energy. In this regard, the following statement is significant: mangs do not have a form…but the ones who have a form are not acknowledged as the ones who are formless.13

11 S.P. Mangyung, Personal Interview. 12 B.B. Muringla, Personal Interview. 13 B.B. Muringla, Personal Interview.

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The primary goddess, Ningwaphuma, is conceptualised as pure energy, one who is ‘Omnipresent, Omniscient, Omnipotent, Infinite and Eternal’ (Subba 2017: 179). Ningwaphuma’s fantastical design is incomprehensible to humans. Formlessness and denial of embodiment reinforce the goddess’s immortality. A goddess far from man’s temporal, profane reality and other vital deities’ form­ lessness creates a world of the divine, eternal, and transcendental. Yumaism practises this vehement denial of bodily existence without idol worship. Ido­ latry is blasphemy. The body represents profane temporality, not eternal transcendence like deities. The soul, divine, and transcendental eclipse the body. The body is temporary because it is organic and will die. ‘Man and his body bear the mark of infirmity, like a stigma, the seal of impermanent and fleeting’ (Vernant 1989: 20). Thus, impermanent flesh and transcendental formlessness are mediated. While there is a complete denial of an embodied deity, fragments of embo­ diment do exist throughout the Mundhums. When conceptualised as a symbol that is a sign which provides meaningful conception, manifested aspects are crucial metaphors in the narratives of Mundhums. Take, for instance, an inci­ dent from the creation myth when deities are being formed, and there is little space for goddess Ningwaphuma to stand on: Then on the top, there is very little space for Ningwaphuma to stand on.… Then she looks around and feels disheartened. Teardrops fall, and from there, ponds are formed.… The stone where Ningwaphuma stands gets a little eroded, and the dirt from her body gives rise to soil.14 The formless goddess Ningwaphuma stands, sheds tears and sheds dirt from her body. What is even more significant is the fundamental role embodiment (incomplete though it may be) plays in the events that follow or rather that lead to creation: Our Mundhums say that many mangs were created to make the earth, and they did so by collecting soil. So when asked, ‘Where did the soil come from?’ people cannot tell. The ground is created in little amounts when Ningwaphuma stands on the stone.15 Incomplete embodiment plays a fundamental role in characterising the mythical universe constructed in the Mundhums. The deities themselves are not descri­ bed in terms of the form they embody (since they are believed to have no form). There is a presence that incorporates aspects of tears or dirt from the body in the Mundhums. Moreover, these fractured instances of embodiment play a crucial role in the context of the mythical plot, as is evident in the Mundhums concerning death. 14 R.L. Limbu, Personal Interview. 15 R.L. Limbu, Personal Interview.

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Narratives of Death and the Symbol of the Body Death narratives can be found throughout the Mundhums. Death appears in these narratives as a symbol of demise, of revitalisation, and of beginning. The presence of fractured or incomplete embodiment, in which parts of bodily attributes continue to find relevance as symbolic tropes of meaning, is instru­ mental in symbolically mediating these stories. The myth of Chyabrung exem­ plifies this point. Chyabrung is a percussive instrument popular in Limbu rituals. The musical instrument is an important Limbu cultural symbol, used in both religious and social contexts (Subba 2013: 271). The myth tells the story of two brothers, Kesami and Namsami, one of whom is a tiger and the other a human. The story tells how the mother of the two drinks what she thinks is water collected in two separate hollow stones, but turns out to be her husband’s urine and a tiger’s urine. She then bears two children, one in the form of a tiger and the other in the form of a human. It is important to note here how urine is conceptualised as a mythical symbol of procreation and is central to the story’s progression. As the two grow older, there is a lot of conflict and threats to Namsami’s life, and the conflict even­ tually ends with Namsami shooting an arrow down Kesami’s throat. Kesami’s skin is brought home, dried, and then used to make Chyabrung. The story explores themes of regret, the agony of loss, and the acceptance of death as a necessary step toward peace. It finds practical relevance in the importance of Chyabrung in religious and secular rituals as a symbol of mythological conflict and death.The instrument is used only for good deeds such as weddings, dances, Okwanama puja and so on. The myth of Chyabrung centralises conflict and the necessity of demise through the narration of death. However, the myth of man’s death suggests the need for revival. The myth of man’s death is integral to the creation myth. It is said that PorokmiYambhamiMang who was given the responsibility to create humans, does so in three attempts. In the first two attempts, metal was used to create humans (silver and gold being used in the first attempt and bronze being used in the second attempt). After two failed attempts, the mang asks Ning­ waphuma for help, and it is through her dreams that Ningwaphuma narrates the solution to her: Come sleep near my feet and dream. Whatever it is that you see in your dreams, do that.16 It is therefore revealed that humans could be created from the ash formed during the mythical fire, bird droppings and naturally collected water.17 Thus, human creation is successful: ‘and with ash, man is made, and when given breath, the human could talk.’18 16 R.L. Limbu, Personal Interview. 17 R.L. Limbu, Personal Interview. 18 R.L. Limbu, Personal Interview.

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It is precisely because of this inability to talk that the previous two attempts were deemed as failures. So then, a female and a male are successfully cre­ ated with absolutely ordinary and organic materials. Having realised this, PorokmiYambhamimang is deeply angered: Seeing the results of the creation, PorokmiYambhami spits on their faces [saying] ‘We wanted to create you in a better form, so we used silver and gold [but] now you have been created from mere ash and bird droppings.’ When they spit, the human forms die.’19 The formless deity spits and the human forms die. The deity who is denied any physical form spits out of anger, and the mythical spit of the mang is capable of killing the mythological humans. The spit, an embodied attribute of a formless deity, symbolises the anger and disgust she feels at the results of her creation. Moreover, the spit is instrumental in the context of a mythological plot as it is through the mythological saliva that the mythological humans die, and the necessity of revival is felt. What follows is the necessity to revive the humans who are not breathing anymore, and Ningwaphuma is again instrumental in providing the solution. PorokmiYambhami dreams of the solution and realises that ‘since I spat on them, they are unable to lift their heads. So I have to conduct Mangenna to lift their heads.’20 The ritual of Mangenna is an important Limbu ritual. Much like the myth of Chyabrung, the mythological death of man finds its relevance in religious practice as well. As a ritual of revitalisation, Mangenna symbolises nourishment through ritualistic purification and is also done to ‘protect oneself from accidents, obnoxious acts, disputes, fighting, wars, envy and jealousy’ (Subba 2012b: 143). Thus, Mangenna is performed to raise the head of the head household even today metaphorically. The ritual finds mythological significance in the myth of the creation and death of man. In general, the fragmented bodily aspect in the context of death and mortality is not confined only to the spit of a mang. Blood, for instance, plays a sig­ nificant role in the myth concerning man’s mortality. The following account describes the mythological cause of the mortality of man. The context is a game that is being played between deities and humans: Our Mundhum says that Ningwaphuma sends a bird to see who will win the game. So the bird comes as a judge. Now when the bird comes as a judge, on the top, man’s blood is to be kept on the right side and the deities’ blood on the left. But the judge makes a mistake by replacing the direction in which it is held. So the man goes towards the left, thinking it is man’s blood, and the deities go towards the right, thinking it is the deities’ blood. So when that happens, man gets the blood that denotes death and 19 R.L. Limbu, Personal Interview. 20 R.L. Limbu, Personal Interview.

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V. Syangden procreation, and deities get the blood that does not indicate death and procreation. So deities do not die while humans do, and humans can procreate while deities cannot.21

The fundamental characteristics of being are described in the myth above. For one, it deals with a more direct interaction between humans and deities in mythological space and time. Besides that, the notions of mortality, procreation and eternity form the crux of the thematic elements in the myth. Looking into the very symbol of mortality, it is the blood that denotes it within mythological space and time. It is also blood that indicates its ontological opposite— immortality. Embodied fragment (in this case, blood) symbolises mortality and immortality. Blood as a symbol in the context of death also occurs in the myth of the death of the suns. The following are two accounts of the same. The latter begins with a problem—the mang being unable to create a sun: The sun kept shining for nine years, ten years continuously. There was no night, only sun for years. And then what happened is that vegetation suf­ fered and stones melted. It is also said that there were two suns: once the elder brother would set, the younger brother would rise again, so the sun had to be killed. To kill the sun, many attempts were made.… In the end, a wild rat shoots one sun, and when it gets wounded, blood spurts out and from there, it is said that deities came to exist.22 So the mang tries nine times to make the sun but cannot. The mang goes to Ningwaphuma, and she says, ‘you forgot one something and failed to create the sun.’ And Ningwaphuma reminds the mang of it. Then, nine suns are created at once. And there is way too much heat. So everything is destroyed. So mangs start discussing, and as a solution, many deities are created [to kill the suns]. Finally, a wild rat is able to kill the suns.… The blood of the dead suns spurts out in different directions. Here, tap sammangs are born from the blood of the dead suns.23 There is a slight variation in the two versions of the same myth, which signifies a fundamental characteristic of oral narratives—their varied, incomplete, par­ tial and multiple nature. However, the fundamental thematic structures remain the same—the death of the sun(s) and the blood of the dead sun(s) being the site of the birth of evil. Tap sammangs are evil spirits meant to be appeased to ensure no harm is done to humans. ‘When blood comes out of the dead sun, the world is filled with paap, and evil spirits are born.’24 The death of a god(s) causes the god(s) to bleed, and the blood of the dead sun(s) becomes the site of 21 22 23 24

R.L. Limbu, Personal Interview. R.L. Limbu, Personal Interview. R.L. Limbu, Personal Interview. H.B. Khamdak, Personal Interview.

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evil. The symbolic meaning as enunciated by the myth is significant—for it accounts for the birth of evil in the mythical world. And the symbolic birth­ place of evil is in the bodily fluid, blood. Body fluids can be interpreted in the context of symbolising order and chaos. Blood flowing out from the dead sun(s) into the external world causes chaos, as suggested by the symbol of evil. Bodily fluids symbolise chaos ‘because external fluids challenge our sense of complete­ ness, order and orderliness’ (Turner 2012: 5). In the context of the death of mythical humans from the spit of a mang, the bodily fluid kills and brings forth the necessity of an imaginary solution which is revitalisation, in the myth of mortality of man, blood symbolises both mortality and immortality and in the case of the tale of the death of sun(s), the bodily fluid becomes the site of the birth of evil, bringing forth chaos into the mythical universe. In all cases, bodily fluids bring about chaos or disorder of some kind. But these are necessary aspects of turmoil—for they narrate fundamental existential truths concerning the necessity of revitalisation, the ultimate truth of mortality and the existence of evil.

Conception of Death and Afterlife in Yumaism Yumaism’s conception of death and subsequent rituals are based on ancestral tradition and shamanistic practises. The ultimate purpose of existence for a Limbu is thought to be union with the ancestors, a goal achieved through sha­ manistic rules that follow a Limbu’s death. The existence of a religious expert who, in a state of trance (real or stimulated), mediates between the world of humans and the world of supernatural powers; the trance has the form of an ecstatic [sic] journey [and] chief among other characteristics is the existence of helping spirits (Kvaerne 2009: 22). This aspect of shamans mediating between two realms for ceremonial purposes is essential in death rituals. He can conduct soul journeys to the realm of the supernatural by invoking the samsire or the guiding spirit of the Phedangma, Samba, or Yeba. This act of mediation repre­ sents the interaction of the material and spiritual realms. The following state­ ment has been recorded in the context of invoking the guiding spirit, samsire and transformation of the shaman: And even when we do rituals, we respect and remember all the dead gurus. … Then [our bodies] start shivering, and we begin dancing.… We call the deceased’s soul to our bodies, the soul that talks.25 The shaman, as a medium, metaphorically carries the soul of the dead, and after that, the soul journey is conducted to reach the ancestral place of origin of the deceased. Here, too, the performance of Mundhums (in a state of trance) emerges as a crucial practice:

25 S.B. Limbu, Personal Interview.

188

V. Syangden The Samba, Yeba or Phedangma take us up to our ancestral place through Mundhums. Sangrampedang den is heaven, and it means our grandparents’ place. So when they reach the ancestral home, the shaman calls the decea­ sed’s ancestors, and the deceased’s soul is given to the ancestors through Mundhum.26

Furthermore, following the handing over of the soul to the place where it is believed to belong, the shaman returns from the ancestral site. This implies the shaman’s journey from the ethereal realm to the material realm. Here again, Mundhums are essential: And then the Phedangma slowly comes down. Now that we think back, it is an unfortunate thing. The house remains empty, and when the Phedangma recites Mundhums during these rituals, the words are heart-breaking; it arouses sadness.27 In this context, language plays a fundamental role in setting the atmosphere for the death rituals. Language, in its usage, becomes a symbol of the mourning, loss and pain that is to be felt: the ones who understand the language feel the sadness, it almost brings tears to their eyes.28 Perhaps this cathartic experience of pain is required to understand the meaning of death. However, the pain is accompanied by the hope that the deceased’s soul will be reunited with the ancestors. Death has meaning in this context because it represents the fulfilment of the ideal purpose—union with the ancestors. The ideal afterlife, according to Limbu tradition, entails union with the ancestors. Ancestry is a fundamental component of Limbu culture, and this is especially evident in understanding what happens after a Limbu dies. When asked if there is at all a concept of heaven, the following response has been recorded: Yes, there is. But when Limbus pictures heaven, they do not imagine it up there, I think. And Mundhum also takes it oobho[and] is called phogido… [It is] also called Thoba Yuma Phoktung, which means an ancestral home where our grandparents live.29 A union with the ancestors is the Limbu’s ideal. Subba notes, ‘Yuma religion believes that the purpose of coming to this world is to gain experience, earn positive karma through the practise of generosity and 26 27 28 29

S.B. Limbu, Personal Interview. H.B. Khamdak, Personal Interview. Aitmaan Subba, Personal Interview. B.B. Muringla, Personal Interview.

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compassion…and finally return to the place of origin, SangramPedang Den to join our forefathers’ (Subba 2009: 183). It is believed (and practised) that karma and the type of death determine the deceased’s soul’s resting place, so not everyone achieves the ideal, bigger pur­ pose. Yumaism distinguishes natural and unnatural deaths. Accidents, suicides, and violence cause unnatural deaths, while sickness and old age cause natural deaths. The type of shaman, soul journey, and death rituals for natural and unnatural deaths are completely different. Concerning the soul journey, for instance, the following difference is observed: For good and bad deaths, half of the path remains the same. There is a specific place up until which both souls follow the same path, using the same Mundhum. There are springs and clean ponds; there, the Phedangma or Yeba will bathe the soul through Mundhum…, and then, the paapiis told that the path is not upwards from here, the path of a good death and bad death differs. [For unnatural deaths, the soul is taken] towards the left, which is the bad path. After being taken there, there is a sword, and on the sword, the soul is offered, and the final place is shown: ‘This is your place, and this is where you should be till the time comes. At some point, you will face Mukti from your paap, and then you can leave.’30 A Yeba shares the following: The ones who die normally are easy to show the way to. But for those who have died unnaturally and untimely, it is difficult to show them the way. And if the soul does not follow the path of unnatural deaths and disagrees, we use Mundhums so they won’t be troublesome. But especially for those who die from poison, with no thought or love, it is very difficult. We take the soul towards the mountains and lead them towards the west.31 These statements reflect the role of social values surrounding death in their classification of deaths into ‘good’ and ‘bad.’ The type of shaman and the type of rituals are determined by this moral classification. Phedangmas and Sambas are qualified to perform ordinary death rituals. Only Yebas, however, are cap­ able of leading the path of the post-death soul journey in the case of unnatural deaths. There is also an interesting discourse on good and evil in the context of the division of rituals for different classes of shamans: Even among the Limbus, there is the question of who is to perform the good deeds and who is to banish evil. From where can we achieve 30 S.P. Mangyung, Personal Interview. 31 Yeba, Personal Interview.

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V. Syangden salvation? In both cases, there is a common end goal of virtue, how can we be good? If there is a bad thing, how can we convert it to good? This is why Yebas engage with evil spirits. He needs to appease evil spirits.32

The Yebas are in charge of not only performing rituals for unnatural deaths, but also of appeasing or banishing evil spirits. The Yeba bears the responsibility of bringing good into the religious Limbu universe by confronting elements of what has been conceptualised as evil or bad. The practise of rituals concerning good and evil provides meaning to the shaman hierarchy, with the Yebas being the most powerful. Phedangmas are shamans who are primarily associated with mundane rituals such as SappokChomen, or womb worship during pregnancy, YangdangPhongma, or child naming ceremony, and appeasing household deities such as Okwanama (Subba 2012b: 14). Phedangmas can also perform rituals for natural deaths. Sambas are shamans who have ‘huge erudition in Mundum and rituals’ (Subba 2012b: 14). They, like Phedangmas, perform death rituals for natural deaths. The Yebas, on the other hand, are shamans who deal with evil spirits and generally do not perform household deity rituals (Subba 2012b: 16).The following statement makes the demarcation clearer: Sambas narrates [the myths of] creation of man, creation of insects and animals, creation of fire, water and so on. Such a narration takes a long time, even extending to days. That is what a samba mainly does, narrate creation myths. Phedangmas mostly do household puja and deal with good deeds. And the Yebas are the ones who deal with animal sacrifices, evil spirits, monsters and ghosts. That is the kind of division that exists.33 While Phedangmas are concerned with good deeds, Yebas are primarily asso­ ciated with evil ones. Yebas are given the responsibility to confront Nahen (envy or jealousy instigated by an evil spirit), bad deaths such as sasik (when a child dies before the naming ceremony is held), sogha (death by suicide), sugut (death by violence) (Subba 2012a: 166). Sagant also makes a similar distinction as he argues that Phedangmas are associated with ‘ordinary rituals’ of birth, natural death and so on. At the same time, Yebas are concerned with the ‘extraordinary’, such as death by suicide (nahen) and so on (Sagant 1988: 5–6). There is a clear distinction between shamans and the roles they are qualified to perform within a ceremonial context in Yumaism, which is further accen­ tuated by notions of good and evil. The existence of this distinction is mediated in different ways, such as paraphernalia, Mundhums and so on. In light of mediating this distinction, as it emerges in the conduction of death rituals, the symbolic body of the shaman plays a fundamental role.

32 S.P. Mangyung, Personal Interview. 33 S.B. Limbu, Personal Interview.

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Discourse of the Body in Death: Shamans in Ritualistic Context In the context of death rituals, the deceased’s body emerges as an afterthought, for the rituals of shamanistic dimensions gain more relevance. Engagements with metaphorical reality gain more significance than the material reality that has ceased. When asked what is done to the body as rituals are conducted, the following response has been recorded: the body will already be buried, the body is buried, and then the rituals begin.34 When conceptualised as a symbol, however, the body emerges as a discourse which finds meaning in the religious philosophy of Yumaism. Considering, for instance, the case of natural deaths, the deceased’s body is brought inside the household before the burial ritual commences. But in the case of unnatural deaths: The body is not even brought inside the house, and they are buried face down. In unnatural death (lit., akalmrityu), the person is not willing to live by the norms of the world, they have not accepted the world, so they have to be buried face down. If kept normally that is facing towards the sky, bad things will happen, and people will get sick.35 This makes ‘corporeality’ a ‘receptor of social forces and cultural meanings’ (Shilling 2012: 75). Physical corporeality symbolises cultural and social mean­ ings. Yumaism considers unnatural deaths bad and deserving of deferral from ancestor union. As a bad omen, it is believed to bring more evil to humanity. The body is used to judge evil, based on Yumaism’s religious morality. The body kept face down and not allowed into the household becomes a symbol of cultural and social values. The shaman’s decorated body symbolises cultural and religious ideas: The Sambas wear white turbans like Phedangmas. The Yebas and Yemas [female Yeba] wear knee-length gowns. The Yebas wear round turbans on their heads with the feathers of jungle fowls or partridges and porcupine shafts in crossed and upright positions sewn all around its rim. The Sambas wear turbans made of porcupine shafts, feathers of parrot or par­ tridge inserted in diagonal (instead of crossed position in its rim). Ritual is usually sacred observance, and the costumes and paraphernalia are also sacred and not used randomly (or even seen in some places) at non-ritual times. (Limbu 2010: 34). 34 S.P. Mangyung, Personal Interview. 35 Yeba, Personal Interview.

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Two crucial aspects are brought to light through these above arguments: one concerns the complexity and variation in the paraphernalia of different types of shamans, and the second is the symbol of the paraphernalia as a sacred mani­ festation, one that is only supposed to emerge exclusively in ceremonial con­ texts. According to Eliade, the body of the shaman itself is a hierophany or manifestation of the sacred: ‘the shaman’s costume itself constitutes a religious hierophany and cosmography; it discloses not only a sacred presence, but it also reveals the system of shamanism as clearly as do the shamanic myths and techni­ ques’ (Eliade 1972: 145). The symbolic body of the shaman is a sacred body dif­ ferent from that of the ordinary layman. The shaman’s power is believed to be tremendous and is symbolically mediated by the body. These rituals require the shaman to be possessed by their samsire to be able to conduct the necessary practices. When owned by the samsire, they are believed to become different. Tremendous physical strength is one of the markers of possession: when the shaman is shivering, you cannot control the body of the person. … His strength is different at the time.36 The body itself is believed to change—with the invocation of the divine guiding spirit of samsire, the ordinary corporeality of the shaman is replaced by some­ thing extraordinary, differentiating the shaman further from the layman. The following statement has been recorded when conversing with a samba: right now, we are sitting together, and we are all the same. But if I have to recite the Mundhums and I wear my costume, we become different. We are closest to god.37 The duality of sacred and profane is reflected upon in this instance. In distin­ guishing the concepts of sacred and profane, Durkheim argues that ‘their principal characteristic is that there is a break in continuity between them and the profane beings’ (Durkheim 1972: 232–233, Syangden 70). The shaman’s symbolic body adorned with paraphernalia essentially functions to establish a ‘break in con­ tinuity’ between them and ordinary laymen. In other words, ‘the shaman’s own body is the locus of symbol production’ (Porterfield 1987: 726). Paraphernalia also functions as a boundary between different types of shamans. In the context of death rituals concerning natural death, the paraphernalia worn by a Phedangma or a Samba is simpler. In the case of unnatural deaths, however, the symbolic currency of the shaman’s body itself changes in its apparent complexity: The ornaments worn, such as kaudi kalpak, yezzep,and feather, are all worn by Yebas. Now simple Phedangmas wear ordinary clothes. They wear a rudrakshmaala or ritthakomaala. [Interviewer: ‘So they do not wear 36 S.B. Limbu, Personal Interview. 37 S.B. Limbu, Personal Interview.

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feathers?’]. No, only when conducting more extensive rituals.But not as many as Yebas do.Yebas also have to wear a white dress, and Phedangmas can wear ordinary clothes with a maala.38 It must be noted here that Phedangmas and sambas wear more complex para­ phernalia when conducting ordinary death rituals here. The paraphernalia is believed to increase the power of the shaman as well the capacity of the shaman to protect himself when required. However, the complexity of Yebas’ para­ phernalia far surpasses that of the Phedangmas and sambas: Yebas are powerful, and the costumes further increase their power. Sambas cannot wear all the elaborate costumes as Yebas do. Why is it so? When he guides the soul of a person who has died a natural death in such an elabo­ rate costume with so many feathers, the soul might get scared. Phedangmas also cannot wear elaborate costumes because the household deities might get angry if he wears all of them. Costumes are modelled based on the shaman’s place.39 Each element of the paraphernalia has a purpose. As illustrated in the myth of the origin of the Yeba when the necessity of a Yeba was felt during the incident of mythological fire: Landongla’s younger son goes to tell the news [about the fire] to his ancestor. So then, Lepmohang [the ancestor] says that he will send a Yeba who will help with the fire and asks them to respect and revere him. So then, a Yeba is sent. Lepmohang tells the Yeba, ‘when you are doing your job, and you get scared, these bells will take care of you. When the fire gets too much, use this dress to lessen its flames. When the fire deity comes in front of you [the one who caused the fire], use this feather to kill him.40 Yeba extinguishes the chaotic mythical fire. Yebas’ complex rituals for evil deeds and unnatural deaths recreate this fictional event. Paraphernalia enhances the shaman’s body and symbolises their ability to fight evil. Shamans have great religious respon­ sibility and profound philosophical truth in preparing to face evil. Shamans perform rituals for unnatural deaths and evil spirits. They bridge transcendental and temporal realms. The shaman is beyond humans, and the body symbolises this belief.

Conclusion Yumaism’s characterisation of the divine contains a denial of embodiment. This adoption of the divine’s formlessness emphasises the duality of the transcendental 38 S.P. Mangyung, Personal Interview. 39 B.B. Muringla, Personal Interview. 40 R.L. Limbu, Personal Interview.

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and the temporal. However, when viewed as symbols with meaningful implica­ tions, aspects of embodiment play an important role in Yumaism’s myths and practises. The discourse of the body emerges as multiple and varied within Yumaism’s religious myth and practise when understood as a symbol. Porokmi spits and curses the mythological humans, drinking urine causes pregnancy, and the dying sun bleeds and bears evil. The shaman’s body becomes a network of symbolic meanings, and the deceased’s body becomes a symbolic site for meaningfully portraying cultural and religious attitudes. As a result, the body is multifaceted and does not simply correspond to physical corporeality. The body emerges as a present discourse in religious philosophy, fractured, multiple, varied, and metaphorical, when understood as a symbol that mediates spiritual and cultural meanings. The metaphorical implications of multiple bodies meaningfully portray religious and social norms and value structures in the contexts of myths and rituals of death. Understanding and interpreting such symbols paves the way for what Geertz refers to as the ‘enlargement of the universe of human discourse’ (Geertz 1973: 15). To quote Plummer: In the end, literally, there are only a few questions: how to live and how to die? What is the meaning of all this? And the breakdown of our bodies harbours the potential to help us to think more about this, articulate it more, maybe tell stories about it, perhaps foster others listening to our stories, maybe enhancing a deeper respect and understanding for our common humanities (Plummer 2012: 90).

References Durkheim, Emile 1972. ‘Religion and Ritual.’ In Anthony Giddens (ed.). Emile Durkheim: Selected Writings. London: Cambridge University Press. 219–238. Eliade, Mircea 1959. The Sacred and the Profane. (Tr. William R. Trask). New York: Harcourt Publishing Company. Eliade, Mircea 1972. Shamanism: Archaic Techniques of Ecstasy. (Tr. William R. Trask). Princeton: Princeton University Press. Geertz, Clifford 1973. ‘Thick Description: Toward an Interpretive Theory of Culture.’ In The Interpretation of Cultures: Selected Essays by Clifford Geertz. New York: Basic Books. 3–32. Geertz, Clifford 1973. ‘Religion as a Cultural System.’ In The Interpretation of Cultures: Selected Essays by Clifford Geertz. New York: Basic Books. 87–125. Geertz, Clifford and Arun Micheelsen 2002. ‘“I don’t do systems:” An Interview with Clifford Geertz.’ Method and Theory in the Study of Religion 14 (1): 2–20. http:// www.jstor.org/stable/23549990 Kvaerne, Per 2009. ‘Bon and Shamanism.’ East and West 59 (1/4): 19–24. http://www. jstor.org/stable/29757798 Limbu, R. K. 2010. ‘Performance in LimbuMundhum: A Study of Cultural Representa­ tion.’ Unpublished M.Phil.dissertation, Tribhuvan University.

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Plummer, Ken 2012. ‘My Multiple Sick Bodies: Symbolic Interactionism, Autoethnography and Embodiment.’ In Brian S. Turner (ed.). Routledge Handbook of Body Studies. New York: Routledge. 75–93. Porterfield, Amanda 1987. ‘Shamanism: A Psychosocial Definition.’ Journal of the American Academy of Religion 55 (4): 731–739. http://www.jstor.org/stable/1464682 Sagant, Phillipe 1988. ‘The Shaman’s Cure and the Layman’s Interpretation.’ Kailash: Journal of Himalayan Studies 14 (1–2): 5–40. http://www.dpsac.cam.ac.uk/handle/ 1810/227380 Shilling, Chris 2012. The Body and Social Theory. London: SAGE Publications. Subba, A. B. 2009. ‘The Limboo Mundhums in Oral Literature.’ In History, Growth and Development of Limboo Language. Darjeeling: Gamma Publication. 165–176. Subba, J. R. 2012a. Ethno-Religious Views of the Limboo Mundhums [Myths]: An Analysis of Traditional Theories. Siliguri: Shivakoti Printing Press. Subba, J. R. 2012b. Yumaism, the Limboo Way of Life: A Philosophical Analysis. Siliguri: Shivakoti Printing Press. Subba, J. R. 2013. Origin and Development of Religion: 100 Questions Answered in Yumaism. Siliguri: Shivakoti Printing Press. Subba, J. R. 2017. Mythology of the People of Sikkim. New Delhi: Gyan Publishing House. Turner, Brian S. 2012. ‘Introduction: The Turn of the Body.’ In Brian S. Turner (ed.). Routledge Handbook of Body Studies. New York: Routledge. 1–17. Vernant, Jean-Pierre. 1989. ‘Dim Body, Dazzling Body.’ In Michel Feher, Ramona Naddoff and Nadia Tazi (eds). Fragments for a History of a Human Body. New York: Zone Books. 19–32.

Personal Interviews 1. 2. 3. 4. 5. 6. 7. 8. 9.

A. B. Subba, Personal Interview. Gangtok, East Sikkim. 15 October 2017. Aitmaan Subba, Personal Interview. Darap, West Sikkim. 10 October 2017. B. B. Muringla, Personal Interview. Linchom, West Sikkim. 24 June 2017. B. B. Subba, Personal Interview. Linchom, West Sikkim. 6 & 7 October 2017. H. B. Khamdak, Personal Interview. Darap, West Sikkim. 10 & 11 October 2017. R. L. Limbu, Personal Interview. Timbrong, West Sikkim. 11 & 12 October 2017. S. B. Limbu, Personal Interview. Simpheng, West Sikkim. 11 October 2017. S. P. Mangyung, Personal Interview. Lingchom, West Sikkim. 8 & 9 October 2017. Yeba, Personal Interview. Assam Lingjay, East Sikkim. 14 October 2017.

13 Corporeal Traces and Sacred Lives Examining the Mummified Relic of Kalu Rinpoche in Sonada, Darjeeling Parjanya Sen

This chapter examines the mummified relic or rigsel (Tibetan: ring bsrel) of Kalu Rinpoche or Karma Rangjung Kunkhyab (1905–1989), housed in the Samdrub Dargye Choling Monastery established in 1966 in Sonada in the Darjeeling dis­ trict of Northern West Bengal. Kalu Rinpoche was a 20th century master of the Shangpa Kagyu,1 an esoteric sect of the Kagyu cholugs (Tibetan: chos lug) of Tibetan Buddhism, founded in Tibet in the 11th century by Khyungpo Neljor (c. 1050–1140). The chapter studies the material relic object as part of a set of eschatological practices within Tibetan Buddhism and maps the shifts through which the corporeal remains of a great master are transformed into a mardung (Tibetan: dmar dung) or a sacralised body. The chapter also reads the mummy relic as an extension of the biography of the deceased practitioner. The first section of the chapter historises this particular mode of post-mor­ tuary commemoration within Tibetan Buddhism. It then goes on to locate the mummy relic at the Sonada monastery within the larger discourse of mummi­ fication in Tibetan Buddhism. The second section looks at existing accounts and hagiographies of Kalu Rinpoche’s life, how he is fashioned as trulku (sprul ku) or a high incarnate lama and how we can then begin to read both bio­ graphy and relic as important modes of commemoration playing off each other. In thus reading the mummy relic, I use John S. Strong’s idea of Buddhist relics ‘not as the embodiments of a transcendent or imminent or otherwise absent Buddha, nor just as functionally equivalent to the departed Master, but as expressions and extensions of the Buddha’s biographical process’ (Strong 2007: 5). Strong thus proposes that relics within Buddhism function not simply as 1

The Kagyu (Kagyü or Kagyud) lineage of Tibetan or Himalayan Buddhism, pri­ marily comprising orally transmitted set of knowledge and practices, is a cholug dating back to the 11th century triad of Indian mahasiddhas—Naropa, and Niguma. Tilopa’s disciple, Marpa Lotsawa, is said to have introduced these practices to Tibet in the 11th century. The Tibetan Kagyu tradition later branched out into a number of sub-lineages, such as the Karma Kagyu (the largest and most prominent, headed by the Karmapa), Drikung Kagyu (continues to be popular in Ladakh and Uttarak­ hand) and the Dukpa Kagyu (popular in Bhutan) and minor sects such as the Tak­ lung Kagyu and the Shangpa Kagyu. For more information on the Kagyu lineage and its different branches, see John Powers, Introduction to Tibetan Buddhism (1994).

DOI: 10.4324/9781003406693-14

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material embodiments of a deceased master, but rather as mnemonic devices that embody the master’s teachings and practices (Strong 2007: 2). Elaborating upon this idea, I suggest that a critical engagement with the practitioner’s bio­ graphy and activities needs to be foregrounded within and as part of the dis­ course of apotheosis through mummification. The shift from living person to material relic, far from being a semantic shift, seems to continue the idea of the sacred biography of the practitioner. This act of apotheosis not only imbues the mummified relic with the status of a ‘living’ object but invests it with a kind of sacrality, whereby it is able to bestow merit upon the devotee/disciple and is also able to convert the site of consecration of the mardung into a sacred pil­ grimage centre.

Whole-Body Relics and Buddhist Lived Cultures Relics2 have been conceived of as living entities within Theravada Buddhism since at least the 1st century CE. Gregory Schopen reads the 1st century CE inscription of Senavarma as an early example of the relics of the Sakyamuni Buddha being infused with a sense of corporeality. Citing this inscription, Schopen refers to the ‘physical relics of Sakyamuni’ as being ‘endowed with more than just’ ‘life’ or ‘breath.’ They were ‘informed,’ ‘parfumée,’ ‘saturated,’ ‘pervaded,’ ‘imbued with just those characteristics that defined the living Buddha’ (Schopen 2010: 126). Relics were always already invested with not just a sense of corporeality and sacrality, but also a certain legality, wherein the ‘stupa’ or the ‘reliquary’ ‘had the right to, and did in fact, possess personal real property’ and ‘the ideas surrounding this (legal) right were both old and tenacious’ (Schopen 2010: 130–131). Within Buddhism, although the practice of mummification does not have any sustained doctrinal legitimacy per se, it is a tradition that remains firmly implicated within the practices of relic making and relic veneration, which, unlike mummification, remain central to Buddhist eschatology. As Douglas Gildow and Marcus Bingenheimer write in their case study of two Buddhist mummified relics in Taiwan, ‘there has never been any debate on the hows and whys of Buddhist mummification in canonical Buddhist literature’ and ‘mum­ mification and mummy worship make religious sense only in the larger context of relic worship’ (Gildow and Bingenheimer 2002: 88). It may be noted that Gildow and Bingenheimer prefer the emic term ‘whole-body relic’ over ‘mum­ mies’ when referring to these Buddhist corporeal remains. Another way of approaching this ritual of mummification within Buddhism would be from the perspective of local lived cultures, as explored by Robert H. Sharf’s work on the mummification of Ch’an masters in medieval China. Based on archival records, Sharf traces some of the earliest instances of ‘natural 2

In this context, it may be mentioned that the ‘value’ of the ‘relic’ apropos Buddhism is itself forged in the 19th century through early-colonial antiquarian practices. In ancient Indian Buddhism, ‘relics’ had a completely different set of epistemological connotations, as explored by Strong in Relics of the Buddha (2007).

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mummification’ of spiritual masters during the Chin dynasty (266–316 CE) in China. Sharf writes that during this period in China, it was not uncommon to draw connections between Buddhist meditation and Taoist supernaturalism as ways of explaining such ‘natural mummification’ ‘although the explicitly Taoist interpretation of the phenomenon is soon dropped in favour of a more ‘ortho­ dox’ Buddhist exegesis’ (Sharf 1992: 8). Sharf also examines the ways through which the abbots belonging to the Ch’an monastic institutions that were pop­ ular in medieval China during the Song dynasty (960–1270 CE) fashioned for themselves a role akin to that of a bodhisattva which then began to be asso­ ciated with ideas vis-à-vis the ‘incorruptibility of the(ir) corpse’ (Sharf 1992: 7). Mummification as a specific form of Buddhist cultural practice, probably entered Tibet from China, although as Margaret Gouin writes, ‘exactly when this adoption may have occurred is not known at this point, and it is notable that whereas the Chinese procedure typically uses layers of lacquer as a pre­ servation agent, the Tibetan process involves salt’ (Gouin 2010: 82). The Italian Jesuit missionary Ippolito Desideri, who was one of the earliest Europeans to undertake a mission to Tibet (largely inaccessible to the West through the 18th and 19th centuries) in 1716–1717, mentions the lamas being interred into tombs or chortens (mchod rten). Dessideri differentiates between this entombment of the lamas and the funerary rites of lay Tibetans who followed the practice of sky-burial (bya gtor) (Dessideri 2010: 293), where the corpse was dissected into pieces and the flesh fed to vultures. Sarat Chandra Das, in his travelogue on Tibet compiled from his 1881–1882 expedition to Lhasa, where he was sent as colonial agent, surveyor and spy, writes: The remains of saintly personages, such as pretend to have emanated from Bodhisattvas and Buddhas, are preserved like the Egyptian mummies, being embalmed or salted and placed within gold, silver, or copper chorten, where they are seated in a meditative posture, like the conventional image of Buddha. (Das 1902: 256) Das’s description suggests the idea that mummification was practised only in the case of trulkus or reincarnate lamas, said to have attained a high level of spiritual practice. This also suggests a cultural continuity with China, where, as Sharf explores in his essay, the material body that would not decay seemed to convey an idea of accumulated merit. In this sense, the practice of mummifica­ tion gestures towards a far more heterodox notion of religion as a set of material cultural practices rather than a doctrinally sanctioned set of norms. Gouin notes that within Tibetan Buddhism it is difficult to see mummifica­ tion as ‘disposal’ per se as in this case, ‘the object is to make the corpse as permanent as possible’ (Gouin 2010: 80). Regarding the impetus behind such a practice in the case of the trulkus, Gouin argues that: the underlying reason for the preservation of the bodies of high lamas is compassionately to provide an object of reverence which will allow people

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to earn merit by making offerings to it. They may also meditate on the enlightened qualities of the mummified teacher, which will develop good qualities in them and so also earn them merit. In addition, the existence of the embalmed body by itself testifies to the sanctity of the person so preserved. (Gouin 2010: 81–82) There seem to be two soteriological underpinnings of mummification in Tibe­ tan Buddhist discourse—firstly, the preserved whole-body relic of the trulku becomes a karmic signifier taking on the attributes of the master. In thus sacralising the mummified remains, the practice locates itself within the Bud­ dhist eschatological discourse of relic veneration. Although mummification, as Gildow and Bingenheimer point out, lacks a fully fleshed canonical expostula­ tion, it nonetheless, derives its legitimacy from a set of cultural practices, as explored in the above section. Secondly, although the master may be reincar­ nated, the corporeal whole-body relic seems to continue the idea of a sacred biography of the trulku. It is this idea that we shall explore in the subsequent sections of this chapter with our case study of the whole-body relic of Kalu Rinpoche housed in the monastery in Sonada.

Locating the Sonada Relic As per Tibetan Buddhist eschatology, the terms kudung and mardung have particular imports apropos relics or rigsels. The Tibetan term kudung (sku dung) can be etymologically broken down to sku—meaning body, and dung— meaning a shell or a container. Often the term dung rui is used to refer to ves­ sels containing relic bones. Kudung not only refers to corporeal remains after cremation, such as hard bones, hair, teeth and ashes but also often incorporates accoutrement items such as rings, robes, sandals, bowls and other items used by the trulku. The term kudung may also refer to exceptional remains, or wholebody relics. The Tibetan term mardung is derived from the words dmar mean­ ing red and dung meaning shell. It refers, more specifically, to a holy relic-body as well the reliquary, (stupa/chorten) housing it. Often, the terms are used interchangeably, and semantically spill over to include a host of relic objects. In Charles Bell’s account3, he refers to his encounter with the thousand-year-old mummified remains of an Indian master by the name of Tampa Sangye in Lang Tang monastery located in the Pempo valley, 20 miles north of Lhasa. Bell describes a ‘wooden frame’ covering the lower part of the body with the ‘mummy­ like wrapping protruding from it.’ (Bell 1968: 296). Bell writes, ‘The tombs in which embalmed bodies rest are known as “Red Tombs” (mar-tung). Those con­ taining the ashes are known as “Body Tombs” (ku-tung)’ (Bell 1968: 296). The distinction between the ‘ku-tung’ and ‘mar-tung’ or kudung and mardung seems to 3

Bell was British Political Officer for Bhutan, Sikkim and Tibet and was sent on an imperial mission as special ambassador to Lhasa in 1920.

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have been more pronounced in Tibet, going by Bell’s account. Whereas kudungs could refer to any stupa/chorten with relics, mardungs seem to refer to ‘special’ red-coloured kudungs—or reliquaries housing ‘embalmed’ whole-body relics. Both need to be read as mnemonic devices invested with a sacrality associated with the practitioner. Although the line between relic objects and specifically ‘embalmed’ mummified remains seems to be blurred, from the perspective of material culture, the idea of mardungs remains premised upon the practice of relic veneration. Mark Owen makes a distinction between two broad categories of mardung— those that were made ‘artificially’ using complex post-mortuary techniques and those that were seen as preserved ‘spontaneously’ owing to what was seen as the tog (rtog) or an advanced stage of spiritual attainment or conceptual con­ sciousness of the practitioner. However, as Owen writes, ‘a convenient division of “artificial” preservation is very rarely seen to preclude the spiritual adeptness or level of attainments of the individual’ (Owen 2012: 325). One such instance of ‘spontaneous’ or ‘natural’ mummification can be seen in the case of the mummified remains of the 15th century Tibetan lama, Sangha Tenzin, in the tiny Himalayan hamlet of Gue, located only nine kilometres from the Indo-Tibet border, in the Spiti Valley in Himachal Pradesh, India. The tomb of Tenzin was revealed accidentally during an earthquake in 1975; how­ ever, it was only in 2004 that the partly exposed tomb was excavated and the mummified remains removed and consecrated. According to local folklore, Tenzin is believed to have sacrificed himself for the survival of his village fol­ lowing a scorpion infestation. It is said that Tenzin fasted himself unto death while meditating, in an attempt to save the village, and, following his death, a rainbow appeared in the sky and the village was freed from the infestation (Pal 2018). The mummified remains show darkened intact skin, remnants of teeth and some hair on the head. A gomtag is visible around the neck and waist, possibly to keep the body in an upright position. In the case of Sangha Tenzin, his tog that was accrued through his self-sacrifice is seen as the catalyst for the near-perfect state of preservation of his body. Here, natural mummification that likely owes itself to the extremely cold and dry climate and rocky terrain prevalent at such a high altitude, is attributed to karmic consequence, commemorated through local folk­ lore. The mummified relic of Sangha Tenzin now remains on display in a glass case within a small mud and concrete structure, even as a newer monastery is being constructed at the site (see Figure 13.1). Whereas kudungs or reliquaries (chortens) containing the remains of the deceased master can be found in almost every Tibetan Buddhist monastery, mardungs or sacralised whole-body relics seem to be somewhat less common. Gouin refers to mummification being in continued used within the Tibetan diaspora (Gouin 2010: 82). The mardung of Kyabje Ling Rinpoche (d. 25 December, 1983), tutor to the Fourteenth Dalai Lama, remains housed in a small room in His Holiness’s private temple (Owen 2010: 215). Similarly, the mardung of Dudjom Rinpoche or Dudjom Jikdral Yeshe Dorje (1904–1987) remains housed in the Kudung Gompa or the Urgyen Dongak Choling mon­ astery, near Boudhanath in Nepal. The Rinpoche had passed away in Dordogne

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Figure 13.1 ‘Naturally’ preserved mummy of Lama Sangha Tenzin in the village of Gue in Spiti Valley, Himachal Pradesh (Photograph by the author)

in France on January 17, 1987, and his body is said to have been in a state of deep meditation/contemplation or thugdam (Tibetan: thugs dam). The body is said to have remained in this meditative state for a considerable period of time, before having shrunk in size, after which it was embalmed, fashioned into a

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mardung, put in a reliquary casket and flown by his family and disciples to the Dongak Choling monastery in Nepal to be housed inside a chorten (Thaye and Lhadren). Departing from Gouin, it may be said that this practice of mummi­ fication is not confined only to the Tibetan diaspora, but has continued to remain in use within Tibetan Buddhist indigenous communities of the highland Himalayas. The mardung of Kalu Rinpoche housed at the monastery in Sonada, Darjeeling needs to be read as part of this larger set of Tibetan Buddhist cultural practices prevalent through the Himalayas of India, Nepal, Bhutan and Tibet. Not only the mardung, but the stupas and monasteries founded by the deceased master, are rendered as mnemonic representations of his sacred biography and karmic accomplishments. Besides, these also serve to locate the Darjeeling hills and the Tibetan Buddhist population living there as part of a larger network of living Buddhism in the highland Himalayas. In the subsequent section, we shall engage critically with the biography of Kalu Rinpoche and examine the process of his post-death transformation into a mardung.

Fashioning a Sacred Biography: The Life and Activities of Kalu Rinpoche Most information regarding the life and activities of Kalu Rinpoche can be obtained from hagiographic accounts penned either during his lifetime or after his passing. Kalu Rinpoche was born in 1905 near the Ridrak Monastery in the Hor district of Kham, Tibet to Lekshe Drayang and Drolkar. Lekshe Drayang was himself seen as the 13th reincarnation of a lineage of trulkus stemming from the family of Ratak, related to the first Karmapa. In Kham, he was popularly referred to as Ratak Tulku (Ratak 2018: 7) The hagiographies or namthar (Tibetan: rnam thar) detail various miraculous events revolving around Karma Rangjung’s birth. It is said that Lekshe Drayang was meditating at the retreat at the Tsadra Rinchen Drak or ‘sacred jewel cliff’ above the Palpung Monastery in Darge, Kham, when he was visited by a yidam (yid dam) or tutelary deity who instructed him to marry and further told him that the woman he would wed would be a dakini of wisdom, an avatar of Drolma Karmo or White Tara and their union would produce an extraordinary child. It was apparently on the same day that a woman named Drolkar visited the Rinchen Drak retreat and offered the meditating monk curdled milk (Ratak 2018: 8), in the manner reminiscent of Sujata offering curdled milk to the Siddharta Gottama. The site of Tsadra Rinchen Drak was founded and sacralised by Jamgon Kongtrul Lodro Thayé (1813–1899), a famous Buddhist scholar, teacher and tertön (gter ston). Jamgon Kongtrul revived the Shangpa Kagyu lineage in Tibet in the mid-19th century (Riggs 2001: 8) and consecrated the site of Rinchen Drak as the new seat of this lineage. According to Alexander Gardner, Jamgon Kongtrul fashioned himself as the reincarnation of the Khyungpo Neljor, the original foun­ der of Shangpa Kagyu, claimed the mantle of the Khyungpo lineage and distanced

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4

himself from his Bon roots (Gardner 2019: 27). Gardner further explains why Jamgon Kongtrul was drawn to Shangpa Kagyu—it was ‘rare,’ ‘underrepresented’ and in a way an ‘outlier in a religious landscape of established institutions.’ This in turn enabled Kongtrul to ‘occupy a space that was neither Nyingma nor Karma Kagyu but which accommodated all the teachings just the same’ (Gardner 2019: 165). It may be noted here that Shangpa Kagyu is distinct from all the other Kagyu traditions because it is a lineage that did not pass through Marpa Lotsawa, the disciple of Tilopa, instead going back to the yogic practices of Niguma, a female master believed to have been the sister of Naropa. Much of Kalu Rinpoche’s life and career was modelled on Jamgon Kong­ trul’s life, as the former projected himself as the bearer of the Shangpa Kagyu lineage in the 20th century. Kalu Rinpoche’s birth, although it was prophesised by the yidam to his father Lekshe Drayang, was deferred till after Jamgon Kongtrul’s passing. According to the hagiographic accounts, Kongtrul appeared in a dream to Lekshe Drayang telling him that he would visit Drayang’s place and ‘borrow’ Drayang’s house (referring to his wife’s womb). Kalu Rinpoche is said to have been conceived that very night (Ratak 2018: 7). Various miraculous events are detailed within these hagiographic accounts of Kalu Rinpoche’s birth, such as the birds singing in an unusual manner and there being a special ‘rain of flowers.’ (Ratak 2018: 11). In his lifetime, Kalu Rinpoche fashioned himself as one of the reincarnated manifestations of Jamgon Kongtrul. After Kongtrul’s passing, although five official reincarnations were announced, Khyentse Wozer (b. 1904), a son of the 15th Karmapa, was eventually selected as the ‘official’ reincarnation (Gardner 2019: 499). Kalu Rinpoche continued to be recognised by tradition as the sixth reincarnation of Kongtrul, although he was never enthroned offi­ cially. Hagiographic accounts refer to these many previous emanations of Kalu Rinpoche: There are both the stories of former lives and the story of the present life of this venerable Lama’s essence. Of the many miracle wisdom emanations of Jamgon Kongtrul Lodro Thaye, he is recognised as the Activity Incarnation to subdue beings. Jamgon Kongtrul Rinpoche was previously incarnated as the Buddha’s closest disciple, the Arhat Ananda. He was the great transla­ tor Vairocana; he was the learned and accomplished Khyungpo Naljor (Neljor); he was Sakya Pandita, Jonang Taranata, and Rigdzin Terdak Lingpa. Their mind stream was one emanation, prophesised by Lord Buddha in the Samadhiraja Sutra and the Mahaparinirvana Sutra, and prophesised by Urgyen Chenpo Padmasambhava in many treasure books. (Lungriks Tulku 2019: 40)

4

Bon or Bön refers to an earlier set of beliefs and practices that existed in pre-Bud­ dhist Tibet. Tibetan Buddhism appropriated and was itself shaped by many of these Bon practices.

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Gardner reads the idea of reincarnation as a strategy used by monastic commu­ nities in Tibet to give status to promising young men—‘By giving a child the identity of a deceased master of the tradition, the community prevented young men from being called into government service or enticed away by another monastery’ (Gardner 2019: 42–43). The hagiographies of Kalu Rinpoche’s life seem to project a monastic lineage going back to the very founder of the Shangpa Kagyu sect, Khyungpo Neljor. In a way, Kalu Rinpoche was perhaps attempting a strategic replication of Jamgon Kongtrul’s choice of Shangpa Kagyu as an underrepresented sect lying outside the more established and canonical practices of Tibetan Bud­ dhism. His eventual apotheosis as a mardung needs to also be read as part of this process of claiming representative legitimacy. At the age of 13, Kalu Rinpoche went to Palpung Monastery where he received his monastic ordination from Tai Situ Pema Wangchok Gyalpo, or the Situ Rinpoche and received the name of Karma Rangjung Kunkhyab or the ‘naturally arising’ and ‘all pervading.’ At the age of 16, Kalu Rinpoche entered the three-year and threefortnight retreat at Tsadra Rinchen Drak (Donyo 2019: 50), the site that had been sacralised by Jamgon Kongtrul as the seat of the Shangpa Kagyu sect. It is at the Tsadra Rinchen Drak retreat that Kalu Rinpoche would have the entire life of Khyungpo Neljor, founder of the Shangpa Kagyu, carved in Tibetan on wooden blocks (Riggs 2001: ix), an act that would place him as an important stakeholder in laying claim to this lineage. The namthars further abound in stories about clairvoyant visions and mira­ cles, such as Kalu Rinpoche’s vision in Kyangtsi of a white skinned boy who claimed to be Khyungpo Tsultrim Gonpo, another practitioner of the Shangpa Kagyu (Riggs 2001: 221–225). The boy claiming to be Tsultrim Gonpo appeared in a vision and expressed to Kalu Rinpoche his helplessness at being unable to benefit sentient beings or the dharma in an age of darkness. The next day, Kalu Rinpoche met a white-skinned boy, immediately recognised the apparation in his vision and initiated him into monastic life (Lungkriks Tulku 2019: 43). These narratives are not specific to Kalu’s Rinpoche’s life, but can be found throughout Tibetan Buddhist hagiographies with regard to the lives of the high incarnate lamas. In Kalu Rinpoche’s case, however, most of these miraculous visions and stories aid the process of the construction of his sacred biography as a 20th century practitioner of Shangpa Kagyu. Kalu Rinpoche himself refers to a dream of Jamgon Kongtrul amalgamating with him—‘In one dream, I went into the private chamber of the previous Jamgon Kongtrul and found Lama Jamgon sitting there. He conferred the four full empowerments on me and then dissolved into me’ (Kalu Rinpoche 2019: 89). In 1966, Kalu Rinpoche founded the Samdrub Dargye Choling Monastery in Sonada, Darjeeling as the main seat of the Shangpa Kagyu. One of Kalu Rin­ poche’s first activities at the Sonada Monastery was to establish a three-year and three-fortnight retreat centre (Donyo 2019: 58). Kalu Rinpoche was attempting a re-creation of the Tradra Rinchen Drak Retreat at Sonada, thereby replicating the actions of his karmic predecessor Jamgon Kongtrul. The choice of Sonada as both the main seat of Shangpa Kagyu in the 20th century as

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well as the site of establishment of the first retreat centre in the model of Tradra Rinchen Drak in Kham, Tibet, had two important ramifications. Firstly, it provided Kalu Rinpoche with a representative space within the larger, more established sects of Tibetan Buddhism. Here, Kalu Rinpoche seems to have been emulating the life and activities of Jamgon Kongtrul as well as his choice of bear­ ing a sect that was an outlier to the more established cholugs of Tibetan Buddhism. Secondly, the shift of the Shangpa Kagyu seat of power to a site in Eastern India, outside of Tibet, was itself, undoubtedly, dictated by the occupation of Tibet by the People’s Republic of China (PRC) in 1951. With the formation of the Tibetan Government-in-exile and the establishment of the Kashag of Tibet by the 14th Dalai Lama in Dharamshala, India on April 29, 1959, a shift of the Shangpa Kagyu seat of power to a location outside of Kham, Tibet was also necessitated. A sub­ stantial presence in Darjeeling of the Tibetan diaspora, as well as of other Tibetan Buddhist ethnic communities, such as Bhutia, Tamang, Sherpa, Yolmo and Gurung, perhaps played an important role in the determination of the location of Sonada. This also serves to highlight the continuity of the Darjeeling hills with the rest of the Himalayas in India, Bhutan and Nepal as part of a larger sacred geo­ graphy of Tibetan Buddhism. Another similar 13-day and three-fortnight retreat would be founded later in 1968 by Kalu Rinpoche at Dalhousie in Himachal Pra­ desh, India. From 1971 to 1989, Kalu Rinpoche carried out various proselytising activities in the US, Canada and parts of Europe, gathering disciples and disseminating dharmic knowledge and practices related to Shangpa Kagyu (Donyo 2019: 59). In 1988, under his direction, construction began of the one hundred and eight feet tall Tashi Gomang Stupa at Salugara, located in the foothills of the Dar­ jeeling Himalayas, on the outskirts of Siliguri town. The Siliguri stupa houses five different kinds of relics and is adorned with the four terraces of the Brahma viharas above and a lion’s throne below (Donyo 2019: 59). The Salugara mon­ astery and stupa complex, along with the Sonada Monastery, remain the most important Shangpa Kagyu locations in Northeast India. A self-fashioned image of a high incarnate Buddhist practitioner is what emerges from Kalu Rinpoche’s brief autobiography, translated from Tibetan and reproduced as part of the book Lord of the Siddhas The Life, Teachings, Parinirvana, and Legacy of Kyabje Dorje Chang Kalu Rinpoche Karma Rang­ jung Kunkhyab (2019): In summary, my wish is for my mind to merge with the minds of all my excellent lamas whose kindness is beyond comparison. In my actions I work to fulfill their vision. In my mind, I never waver from the practice of precious bodhicitta and development and completion. Hence, the prayer describes me as a holy son of the Victorious One. (Kalu Rinpoche 2019: 108). This consciously crafted image relies heavily upon existing Tibetan Bud­ dhist hagiographic traditions incorporating dream visions and fabulous

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elements.5 It also shapes itself vis-à-vis the sacred biographies of earlier practitioners. As we shall explore in the next section, the consecration of Kalu Rinpoche’s corporeal remains becomes a semantic extension of this image.

Death and Apotheosis: Preparation and Consecration of the Mardung of Kalu Rinpoche Kalu Rinpoche died on May 10, 1989 at 3 p.m. An open letter written from the Sonada Monastery on May 13, 1989, by his disciples, Kyabje Bokar Rinpoche or Karma Shedrup Yongdu Pel Zhangpo, Lama Gyaltsen, Kalu Rinpoche’s nephew and Khenpo Lodro Donyo, lama of the Sonada Monastery, describes the passing: I have been witness to a number of people passing from the world. Occa­ sionally there is a short rasping breath, occasionally a long inhalation or exaltation. With Rinpoche, there was none of these: a most extraordinary passage into profound meditation. (Zhangpo, Gyaltsen and Donyo 2019a: 223). Despite suffering from a heart attack the night before (at 2 a.m. on May 10) wherein the visiting doctor reported a 60 percent damage to the lungs, putting Kalu Rinpoche on oxygen support and intravenous injection, the letter indicates how Kalu Rinpoche refused to leave the monastery and be admitted to a hos­ pital in Siliguri. According to the set of events narrated in this letter, Kalu Rinpoche insisted that the he be assisted into a sitting position, thereafter assuming the mediation posture and entering parinirvana in a meditative trance (Zhangpo, Gyaltsen and Donyo 2019a: 222). For the next three days, till May 13, his body was allowed to remain in thugdam, a practice ascribed to Tibetan lamas said to have reached a high level of spiritual accomplishment, wherein despite clinical death, the consciousness of the deceased person lingers on within the body in a state of profound contemplation. In the case of Kalu Rinpoche, attempts by his chief disciples to posthumously read into his biography the idea of an advanced conceptual consciousness or tog manifest themselves through multiple narratives regarding the miraculous state of preservation of the deceased body during the threeday thugdam—‘As we washed Rinpoche’s body and changed his clothes, there were none of the usual traces of body waste or impurity. Also, the body remained soft and flexible, without any stiffness whatsoever’ (Zhangpo, Gyaltsen and Donyo 2019a: 223). The decision to consecrate the bodily remains in the form of a mardung was also taken by his disciples who agreed ‘not to cremate the Ku Dung, but to prepare a Mar Dung, so it will always be with us’ (Zhangpo, Gyaltsen and Donyo 2019a: 224). The impetus behind this transformation of the deceased’s physical body into a whole-body relic is further elaborated on in the letter: 5

See Young, Serenity. 1999. Dreaming in the Lotus: Buddhist Dream Narrative, Ima­ gery, and Practice. Boston: Wisdom Publications.

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In this way, the physical aspect of the Lama’s form remains as a relic, a basis for religious inspiration. The Lama’s activity continues as beings are liberated through seeing, hearing, considering, touching, or praising the relic of his Mar Dung. It is said that any connect whatsoever becomes beneficial, whether the mind of the being is positively inclined or not. In this way, the Mar Dung becomes the basis for both temporal and ultimate benefit of beings. (Zhangpo, Gyaltsen and Donyo 2019a: 224). Another open letter written by the same trio of disciples dated June 28, 1989 describes how a ‘49-day period of Gongzok (Tibetan: Gong dzok) was observed till that same day’ (Zhangpo, Gyaltsen and Donyo 2019b: 252). An anonymous open letter written from the Samdrub Dargye Choling dated October 9, 1990 mentions that Lama Gyaltsen, nephew and life-long personal attendant of Kalu Rinpoche, had commissioned ‘three Bihari carpenters (among the most skilled in the region)’ and seven metalworkers, ‘two Indian and five Nepalese,’ to prepare the stupa that would house the mardung. The letter mentions how these workers were being supervised by a certain Lama Jangpa Tsundru who had been a student of Kalu Rinpoche for many years (Anon­ ymous 2019a: 260). It may be mentioned here that in the Darjeeling Himalayan region, a lot of Bihari craftsmen have been engaged in the making of wooden and brick stupas as well as of household Buddhist shrines. The enlistment of Bihari as well as migrant Nepali workers for the construction of these structures, the learn­ ing and appropriation of the art of Tibetan Buddhist wood carving by these Bihari artisans many of whom have carpentry shops making specifically Buddhist arte­ facts in the Darjeeling district, requires a separate ethnographic study that lies outside the scope of this present chapter. In the context of this present study let it suffice to mention that the process of production of the physical stupa housing the consecrated mardung of Kalu Rinpoche involved a lot of agents of different ethnicities and religious denominations—Tibetan and non-Tibetan, Buddhist and non-Buddhist. Another anonymous open letter, also written from the Samdrub Dargye Choling monastery, and dated Spring/Summer 1991, mentions that from May 3–12, 1991, on the second anniversary of Kalu Rinpoche’s pas­ sing, the formal investiture and consecration of the stupa took place at the monastery (Anonymous 2019b: 266). This letter further states that during these two years, the mardung itself was carefully prepared and embalmed by two Tibetan Buddhist lamas—Gega Lama and Lama Jampal Sherab, the latter having personally attended to the kudung and prevented its physical decay (Anonymous 2019b: 268). As described in this letter, on the morning of May 10, 1991, the mardung, visible for the first time in two years, was carried in a formal procession to be housed in the newly-constructed stupa within the monastery—‘The Kudung is clothed in monastic robes, with the gilded face and hands visible through a window in front of the stupa’ (Anonymous 2019b: 268) (see Figure 13.2).

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Figure 13.2 Mardung of Kalu Rinpoche housed inside the Samdrub Dargye Choling Monastery, Sonada, Darjeeling (Photograph by the author)

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There are several soteriological implications of this elaborate process, span­ ning two years, of the conversion of Kalu Rinpoche’s deceased body into a mardung, its consecration as sacred relic and its eventual housing in a stupa inside the Samdrub Dargye Choling Monastery in Sonada, Darjeeling. Firstly, through this process, the whole-body relic becomes a metonymic field of the karmic attributes of the master. Secondly, the relic, once consecrated and housed within the stupa, then serves as a continuation of the sacred biography of the practitioner, beyond clinical death. Death, here, rather than a closure, opens up a play of new significations, where the apotheosised mardung becomes re-invested with the karmic ‘essence’ of the deceased master, able to bestow blessings and lib­ eration on the devotees and disciples of the lama. The mardung thus becomes imbued with a life beyond physical death and beyond its immediate material cor­ poreality. Thirdly, this mode of post-mortuary commemoration not only derives its legitimacy from the sacred biography of the practitioner but also serves to further reinforce and provide a new lease of life to that sacred biography. In the context of the mummified remains of Ch’an masters of medieval China, Sharf writes that ‘the bodies of Buddhist masters who resisted decay after death were accordingly wor­ shipped as reservoirs of meritorious karma and spiritual power.’ Any Buddhist temple that housed such a mummified ‘flesh icon’ became a ‘thriving pilgrimage centre’ (Sharf 1992: 9). In a similar manner, the Samdrub Dargye Choling mon­ astery at Sonada, following the consecration and opening to public of the mardung of Kalu Rinpoche in May, 1991, has become a centre of active pilgrimage, particu­ larly for the followers of the Kagyu cholugs of Tibetan Buddhism. Every year, during April-May, the site is thronged by hundreds of Karma Kagyu practitioners from Sikkim to commemorate Kalu Rinpoche’s passing. Kalu Rinpoche’s con­ secrated mardung continues its act of benison, imbued with a fresh lease of life. As we have seen, the consecration of the Kalu Rinpoche’s body as sacred relic was a posthumous, lengthy and artificial process as opposed to some of the more ‘natural’ mummies within Tibetan Buddhism discussed earlier. This artificiality, in no way however, precludes the post-mortuary set of new meanings ascribed to it.

Conclusion: The Afterlife of Shangpa Kagyu—Bokar Rinpoche and the New Kalu Rinpoche The lineage of the Shangpa Kagyu was transmitted to Kyabje Bokar Rinpoche (1940–2004), Kalu Rinpoche’s primary disciple, who after his master’s death, emerged as its primary lineage holder. As prophesised by the Sixteenth Kar­ mapa Rangjung Rigpe Dorje, in 1940, Bokar Rinpoche was seen as the rein­ carnation of Sherab Ozer (1890–1938) of Kham, Tibet, himself recognised by the Fifteenth Karmapa as an emanation of Chenrezig. Bokar Rinpoche escaped from Tibet at the age of 20, after which he met Kalu Rinpoche in Darjeeling and was initiated into the Shangpa Kagyu, eventually becoming the former’s main disciple. Bokar Rinpoche founded the Bokar Ngedon Chokhor Ling Monastery in Mirik town in the Darjeeling district in 1984. In 1990, a reincar­ nation of Kalu Rinpoche was born and in 1993, he was enthroned at the

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monastic seat in the Sonada monastery in a ceremony presided over by Bokar Rinpoche. When Bokar Rinpoche passed away in 2004, his corporeal remains were likewise consecrated as a kudung, following the sacred traces of his master, and housed in the Mirik monastery founded by him. This consecration was presided over by the 13-year-old reincarnated Kalu Rinpoche and the 17th Karmapa, Ogyen Trinley Dorje. In her chapter on Bokar Rinpoche in her book Death and Reincarnation in Tibetan Buddhism: In-between Bodies (2014), Tanya Zivkovic discusses these processes and afterlives through a phenomenological understanding of ideas of embodiment and subjectivity apropos the Tibetan Buddhist conception of three bodies or trikaya: the dharmakaya (that) is said to correspond to an all-pervasive essence beyond any particular form, beyond time, space and all dichotomies; the sambhogakaya (that) is the manifestation of celestial buddhas and bodhi­ sattvas; and the nirmanakaya or emanation bodies (that) are the vehicles into which spiritual exemplars consciously incarnate and reveal themselves to ordinary human beings. (Zivkovic 2014: 105) According to Zivkovic, ‘Bokar Rinpoche’s religious attainments are synonymous with having accomplished these three bodies. Representations of his life not only reflect the temporal and historical dimension of former lives as nirmanakaya, but also incorporate the other modes of dharmakaya and sambhogakaya’ (Zivkovic 2014: 106). This phenomenological approach, rather than precluding the sociological, helps us in locating these notions of death, continuity, afterlife and sacrality within a specific set of Tibetan Buddhist cultural practices. Zivkovic fore­ grounds an inter-corporeal paradigm of the process of receiving, bestowing and transmitting karmic knowledge: Just as Bokar Rinpoche became endowed with the blessings of Kalu Rinpoche as though the content of one vase was poured into another, this same process of transmission occurred between Bokar Rinpoche and Kalu Rinpoche in alternate roles, with (the reincarnated) Kalu Rinpoche as disciple and Bokar Rinpoche as instructor handing back the Buddhist teachings and enabling continuity of their lineage. (Zivkovic 2014: 110). Through his lifetime, Kalu Rinpoche recast himself in the image of Jamgon Kongtrul, his karmic predecessor and an emanation of Khyungpo Neljor, founder of the Shangpa Kagyu lineage. Kalu Rinpoche shifted the Shangpa Kagyu seat of power outside of Tibet to a Himalayan town in Northern West Bengal. I have examined how his apotheosis as mardung following his death continues his sacred biography. The lineage itself was passed on to Bokar

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Rinpoche, whose choosing, enthroning and mentoring of Kalu Rinpoche’s new reincarnation was a strategic attempt at the transmission and continuation of the same. Two configurations of afterlife can be gleaned from here—one that remains inscribed within the whole-body relic of the deceased master at the Sonada Monastery; and the other forged through a soteriological continuity of the karmic lineage in the form of a new reincarnation chosen and mentored by Kalu Rinpoche’s main disciple.

References Anonymous 1990 (2019a). ‘Fourth Open Letter.’ In Lord of the Siddhas: The Life, Teachings, Parinirvana, and Legacy of Kyabje Dorje Chang Kalu Rinpoche Karma Rangjung Kunkhyab. Bangkok: Khyung Chen Great Garuda Imprints. 258–265. Anonymous 1991 (2019b). ‘Fifth Open Letter.’ In Lord of the Siddhas: The Life, Teachings, Parinirvana, and Legacy of Kyabje Dorje Chang Kalu Rinpoche Karma Rangjung Kun­ khyab. Bangkok: Khyung Chen Great Garuda Imprints. 266–271. Bell, Charles 1928 (1968). The People of Tibet. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Das, Sarat Chandra 1902. Journey to Lhasa and Central Tibet. London: John Murray. Dessideri, Ippolito 2010. Mission to Tibet: The Extraordinary Eighteenth-Century Account of Father Ippolito Dessideri, S.J. (Tr. Michael J. Sweet). Boston: Wisdom Publications. Donyo, Khenpo Lodro 2019. ‘A Brief Spiritual Biography of Kyabje Dorje Chang Kalu Rinpoche Karma Rangjung Kunkhyab.’ In Lord of the Siddhas: The Life, Teachings, Parinirvana, and Legacy of Kyabje Dorje Chang Kalu Rinpoche Karma Rangjung Kunkhyab. Bangkok: Khyung Chen Great Garuda Imprints. 48–62. Garden, Alexander 2019. The Life of Jamgon Kongtrul the Great. Colorado: Snow Lion. Gildow, Douglas and Marcus Bingenheimer 2002. ‘Buddhist Mummification in Taiwan: Two Case Studies.’ Asia Major Third Series, 15 (2): 87–127. Gouin, Margaret 2010. Tibetan Rituals of Death: Buddhist Funerary Practices. London and New York: Routledge. Kalu Rinpoche 2019. ‘The Chariot for Travelling the Path to Freedom.’ In Lord of the Siddhas: The Life, Teachings, Parinirvana, and Legacy of Kyabje Dorje Chang Kalu Rinpoche Karma Rangjung Kunkhyab. Bangkok: Khyung Chen Great Garuda Imprints. 81–109. Lungriks Tulku, Dezhung 2019. ‘The Biography of Kyabje Dorje Chang Kalu Rinpoche.’ In Lord of the Siddhas: The Life, Teachings, Parinirvana, and Legacy of Kyabje Dorje Chang Kalu Rinpoche Karma Rangjung Kunkhyab. Bangkok: Khyung Chen Great Garuda Imprints. 40–47. Owen, Mark 2010. ‘Old Traditions, New Techniques: The Bodily Preservation of Kyabje Ling Rinpoche.’ Religions of South Asia, 2 (2): 215–237. https://doi.org/10.1558/rosa. v2i2.215 Accessed 1 July, 2022. Owen, Mark 2012. ‘The Philosophical Foundations of the Tibetan Buddhist Practice of Bodily Preservation.’ Buddhist Philosophy and Meditation Practice Academic Papers presented at the 2nd IABU Conference, Mahachulalongkornrajavidyala University, Main Campus Wang Noi, Ayutthaya, Thailand: 324–342. https://buddhispano.net/ sites/default/files/2017- 01/buddhist_philosophy_and_meditation_practice.pdf 2 July, 2022.

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Pal, Sanchari 2018. ‘Skip Egypt and Go To Gue, the Spiti Village with India’s Only Natural Mummy!’ www.thebetterindia.com/133903/sangha-tenzin-lama-mummy-gue­ spiti-india/ 29 October, 2022. Powers, John 1994. Introduction to Tibetan Buddhism. New York: Snow Lion. Ratak, Lama Gyaltsen 2018. ‘The Parents, Conception, Birth and Youth of Kyabje Kalu Rinpoche.’ In Lord of the Siddhas: The Life, Teachings, Parinirvana, and Legacy of Kyabje Dorje Chang Kalu Rinpoche Karma Rangjung Kunkhyab. Bangkok: Khyung Chen Great Garuda Imprints. 7–13. Riggs, Nicole 2001. Like an Illusion: Lives of the Shangpa Kagyu Masters. Oregon: Dharma Cloud Press. Sharf, Robert H. 1992. ‘The Idolization of Enlightenment: On the Mummification of Ch’an Masters in Medieval China.’ History of Religions, 32 (1): 1–31. Schopen, Gregory 1997 (2010). Indian Monastic Buddhism Collected Papers on Textual, Inscriptional and Archaeological Evidence. Delhi: Motilal Banarsidass. Strong, John S. 2007. Relics of the Buddha. Princeton: Princeton University Press. Thaye, Yeshe and Pema Lhadren ‘A Short Life Story of Ven. Lama Sonam Chokyi Gyaltsen (1914–1997).’ Dudjom Buddhist International. https://dudjominternational. org/?page_id=279 1 July, 2022. Zhangpo, Karma Shedrup Yongdu Pel, Lama Gyaltsen and Khenpo Lodro Donyo 1989 (2019a). ‘Open Letter to Disciples and Friends of the Lord of Refuge, Kyabje Kalu Rinpoche.’ In Lord of the Siddhas: The Life, Teachings, Parinirvana, and Legacy of Kyabje Dorje Chang Kalu Rinpoche Karma Rangjung Kunkhyab. Bangkok: Khyung Chen Great Garuda Imprints. 218–226. Zhangpo, Karma Shedrup Yongdu Pel, Lama Gyaltsen and Khenpo Lodro Donyo 1989 (2019b). ‘A Second Open Letter to Disciples and Friends of His Eminence Kalu Rin­ poche.’ In Lord of the Siddhas: The Life, Teachings, Parinirvana, and Legacy of Kyabje Dorje Chang Kalu Rinpoche Karma Rangjung Kunkhyab. Bangkok: Khyung Chen Great Garuda Imprints. 237–253. Zivkovic, Tanya 2014. Death and Reincarnation in Tibetan Buddhism: In-between Bodies. London and New York: Routledge.

Glossary of Vernacular Terms

[Bodo = Bo; Japanese= Jap.; Karbi= Kb.; Khasi= Kh.; Limbu= L.; Meitei= Mei.; Mizo= Mz.; Naga= Ng.; Nepali = Ne.; Tibetan= Tib.] Akal mrityu (Ne.) refers to unnatural deaths, particularly death by suicide and violence Aron Ban or Aron Barim (Kb.) old rule Baidikitihas (Ne.) very old history, here refers to the mythological history of Limbus Bardo (Tib.) liminal space between life and death; ‘in-between’ Bathou Asar-Khanti (Bo.) principles to rule the society Bathouism (Bo.) a Bodo ethnic religion Boju (Ne.) Nepali term for grandmother, here refers to the primary Goddess Ningwaphuma Buntha (Bo.) paddy straw Bya gtor (Tib.) sky burial, or disposal of the corpse by cutting it into pieces and feeding it to vultures Chawimawina (Mz.) honouring Chei (Mei.) stick/pole Cheiraoba (Mei.) a spring ritual marking the change of a cyclical year Cheithaba (Mei.) state chronicler Choegyal (Tib.) Tibetan word referring to the dharma-king of Sikkim Cholug or chos lug (Tib.) school or lineage of belief and practice within Tibetan Buddhism Chomarong (Kb.) the place of ancestors Chorten or mchod rten (Tib.) Tibetan term referring to a stu- pa Chupsaba (Mei.) funerary rituals for improper, undesirable death Chyabrung (L.) a percussive instrument mainly used for good deeds in reli­ gious and secular practices of Limbus Dahagarnai (Bo.) death ritual concluding the mourning period Dakini (Tib.) within Tibetan Buddhism, a manifestation of female liberating energy Dewachenghi Shingkham (Tib.) among the Lhopos, the belief that once a person dies, they are transferred to a place called Dewachenghi shingkham is DOI: 10.4324/9781003406693-15

214

Glossary of Vernacular Terms

particularly common. It means a heavenly place or paradise. One of my informants shared that it also means a place where person no longer suffers and they believe that Buddha and Guru Rinpoché, all have attained a place in the Dewachenghi Shingkham Dwi Shanti (Bo.) holy water Fathwi Lai Bisinai (Bo.) tearing the Battle leaf to mean divorce Gomtag or gom-btag (Tib.) meditation scarf. Within Tibetan Buddhist prac­ tice, there are two more types of commonly used scarves—the Mutag (Mu­ btag) or celestial scarf and the Khatag (Kha-btag) or the ceremonial scarf Gongzok or gong dzok (Tib.) within Tibetan Buddhism, the ‘mind comple­ tion’ ceremony performed after the death of a high incarnate lama, involving the chanting and dissemination of the deceased’s teachings as an attempt to fulfil the last wishes of the master Guru puja (Ne.) the initiatory ritual done after an individual is possessed by samsire and it marks the transition of an ordinary individual into a shaman Gwthwi Fobnai (Bo.) bury the dead Gwthwi Garnai (Bo.) to throw away the dead Gwthwi Saonai (Bo.) burn the dead Gwthwi Bathi (Bo.) bamboo bier/bamboo trellis Hang-Wngkharnai (Bo.) departure of the life breath Hapidasa (Ng.) traditional shawls of the Ao Naga of Zhavame Hapiteh (Ng.) a wood sculpture of the head of a buffalo that is hung on the wall Hawilo Par (Mz.) flower of no return Heiri (Mei.) fruit of rattan cane Heiwa (Jap.) peace Hemphu-Mukrang (Kb.) traditional Karbi religion’s Lord of the House. hla hriltu (Mz.) song reader Hlim Rui (Mz.) spontaneous dancing and singing Hnatlang (Mz.) community service Honghari (Kb.) lit., sanskari, ritualistic, first used by Baptist missionaries. Hring Lang Tlang (Mz.) mountain/hills visible to the spirits Huaisen (Mz.) brave Ka Phur Ka Siang (Kh.) ka is the denominative of the feminine gender; ‘dance and veneration of the dead’ Ka tyrut (Kh.) a curse or taint. Karbi (Kb.) exonym, Mikir Karjong, Chamburokso, Tirim, Pharlo, Thi-phalangno (Kb.) five types of soul. Kasaibao Tusom (Mei.) menhir with flat stones Kashag (Tib.) Tibetan governing council. Kawktu (Mz.) informers, the majority of whom served in the army rather than the MNF Khawhar hla (Mz.) songs for the dead Khawhar in (Mz.) home of the bereaved

Glossary of Vernacular Terms

215

Khawhar tleivar (Mz.) night vigils Khawhar zai (Mz.) singing the songs for the dead Khawpui (Mz.) great town or village Khie Mangsha (Kh.) corpse reanimation. Khongjom Parva (Mei.) a kind of story telling Khuang (Mz.) traditional drums Khundung Aowa (Bo.) white thread Ki Khun U Hynñiewtrep (Kh.) children of the seven huts. Kike (Ng.) horns at the highest point of their traditional homes Kodaktsungba (Ng.) the God of Space Kombirei (Mei.) bluish-purple iris flower. Kudung or sku dung (Tib.) Shell or reliquary containing corporeal relics. Kusumlei (Mei.) safflower Leiri (Mei.) symplocos Lhopo (Tib.) the Bhutia ethnic community of Sikkim. Lichaba (Ng.) the God of Earth Longitsungba (Ng.) the God of Hades Longritzü (Ng.) bitter waters/water of bitterness Lungloh Tui (Mz.) the water of forgetfulness Lyngngam bam briew (Kh.) ‘Lyngngam eat humans’/‘Lyngngam are cannibals’ Maichou (Mei.) high priests Mang (L.) a term used for Limbu deities. Mangarak kanbi (Mei.) a stretch of wilderness near the Langol ranges desig­ nated for suicide disposal Mangenna (L.) ritual of revitalisation Mardung or dmar dung (Tib.) traditionally, a red reliquary containing a ‘whole-body relic.’ Martar Thlanmual (Mz.) Martyrs’ Cemetery Meidil (Mz.) hell Mim Kut (Mz.) a festival in honour of the dead held after harvest season Misichadanasiba (Mei.) undesirable or improper death Mitthi Ar (Mz.) dead man’s fowl Mitthi Khua (Mz.) land/village of the dead Mitthi Pal (Mz.) a fence for the dead Mitthi ralna (Mz.) condolence Mujingna and Lepmohang (L.) the first mythological humans Murumsitlang (L.) the main pillar of a Limbu household where the deity Okwanama is said to reside Mushime (Ng.) a title given to those who have performed the Feast of Merit Nahen (L.) evil spirit associated with illness, envy and jealousy Namthar or rnam thar. Hagiographies Narzary (Bo.) a Bodo title based on land holding Niam Tynrai (Kh.) traditional faith of the Khasis, also called Ka Niam Tip Briew, Ka Niam Tip Blei (lit., man knowing God knowing ritual) nongkñia (Kh.) ritual performer.

216

Glossary of Vernacular Terms

Nongpok thong hangba (Mei.) opening of the eastern gates. Nöpa (Tib.) the malevolent spirit who causes illness and harm to people Oja or Douri (Bo.) Bodo priests Oobho, phogido (L.) here referring to the direction where the soul of the deceased is taken towards by the shaman Ouwa Theowal (Bo.) bamboo slit Parinirvana in Buddhism, refers to the attainment of moksha or liberation after death. Pasaltha (Mz.) warrior-heroes, brave warriors; a man of great hunting ability, courage, warfare prowess, and sexual vigour Phakri Bilai (Bo.) peepal tree leaf Phandra (Bo.) ritual after ten days from the day of death Phedangma (L.) Limbu shamans associated with ordinary rituals such as rituals concerning appeasement of household deities, natural deaths and so on Phor Sorat (Kh.) an elaborate death ceremony Phumdi (Mei.) floating grass Phura (Mei.) local commemorative tombs Pialral and Van ram (Mz.) heaven Pullei (Mei.) an edible plant of the zingeraberaceae family punshi gi lanpham (Mei.) struggle for living Puri (Kh.) a kind of water entity Raidwng (Bo.) cane rope Rigsel or ring bsrel (Tib.) Tibetan term for relic Rih Dil (Mz.) Rih lake Ritlo Pharla (Kb.) an in-between place for the spirit to be at Ro long (Tib.) living dead (like a vampire or revenant) Samsire (Tib.) master spirit or guiding spirit that appears involuntarily, whose acceptance (symbolised by the guru puja) marks the transition of the individual into a shaman Samba (L.) Limbu shamans also associated with ordinary rituals, who are believed to have tremendous knowledge of the Mundhums Sangram Pedang Den (L.) in Limbu conception of afterlife, Sangram Pedang Den is the place of ancestors and other deities Saparadu (Ng.) traditional shawl of the Ao Naga of Zhavame Sappok Chomen (L.) womb-worship conducted during pregnancy Saradu (Bo.) a mispronunciation of Sraddha, a ritual performed on the thirteenth day after death Sasik (L.) in this context, refers to a type of death when a baby dies before naming ceremony is held Sdé log (Tib.) the return of the dead Shindré (Tib.) spirit of the dead Shingkhang (Mei.) a reed-like grass Sogha (L.) refers to death by suicide Songrai (Bo.) a bamboo tray

Glossary of Vernacular Terms

217

Su (Ng.) shawl Sugut (L.) refers to death by violence Tahna Kut (Mz.) Weeping Festival Tap sammangs (L.) spirits categorised as evil Tchinta (Tib.) an overnight ritual performed by a ritual specialist to heal illnesses possibly caused by the local deities and spirits Tertön or gter ston (Tib.) someone who reveals the terma (gter ma) or ancient texts hidden by Padmasambhava in mythical secret lands called beyuls (sbas­ yul) high up in the Himalayas Themupfü (Ng.) chat with the dead Thlan lai (Mz.) grave digging Thoba Pa Sam (L.) the term refers to ancestral grandfather Thoba Yuma Phoktung (L.) refers to ancestral place of Limbus Thugdam or thugs dam (Tib.) a state of deep meditation or contemplation that the corpse of a deceased lama is said to be inhabiting Thupkhiba (Mei.) event of death Thwinai (Bo.) death Tlawmgaihna (Mz.) unconditioned service to people or community based on ‘good will’, sympathy, empathy, courage and honour Tog or Rtog (Tib.) an advanced stage of conceptual consciousness Traolore (Ng.) thank you Trulku or sprul ku (Tib.) a high incarnate lama Tumyanghang (L.) individuals who are not shamans but have tremendous knowledge of Mundhums Tyrut (Kh.) ‘Queen of Evil Spirits’ Yeba/yema (L.) male/female shaman who is primarily associated with rituals concerning evil spirits and unnatural deaths Yeshe ki lha (Tib.) the enlightened deities or the spirits of the land subdued by Guru Rinpoché himself turning them into the protector of the people who reside in the land Yezzep (L.), kaudi kalpak (L.), rudraksh ko maala (Ne.), rittha ko maala (Ne.) paraphernalia of shaman Yidam or yid dam (Tib.) A tutelary deity with whom a lama may have a secret relationship Yim (Ng.) village and its residents Yimsu (Ng.) village shawl Zaochisu (Ng.) pork lard Zhosou (Ng.) feast of merit among the Ao Naga of Zhavame Zomi, Mizo, Zo hnahthlak (Mz.) terms denoting the Zo people

Index

Note: Page numbers in italics refer to figures. Abe, S. 112

afterlife: animistic systems 2; Bodo society

78; difference, postmodern notion of 8;

Khasi people 38–39; and living world,

connection 139–144; Northeast India

8–15; spirit beings 2

agricultural endeavours 137

Ahom kingdom 3

Alem, O. 134

All-India Congress Party 88

alu 139

amenchi 56

American missionary interventions 128

amuba 68

Amwi people 35

Anatomical Museum in Edinburgh

13, 146

ancestor/ancestral: home 118; rituals 137;

worship 180

Anderson, M. 118

anembong 153–154 Angami Nagas, The (1921) 156

Angamis 122–124; folklore 121, 124–125;

Nagas 117

anger 146–147 Anglo-Manipuri War, 1891 66, 104

Anglo-Nepalese War, 1815–1816 5

anti-catholic activities 135

Ao, T. 134

Ao, tribes of Nagaland 122–123 Ao Nagas 132–134 Ao Nagas, The (1926) 156

Aos 124

apamnungshi 69

apotia death 117, 124–125 Appadurai, A. 70

apprehension 146–147

Armed Forces Special Forces Act (AFPSA) 157–158 Armed Forces Special Powers Ordinance

158

Aron Ban 47

Aron Barim 47

Arya, G. S. 95

Ashmolean Museum of Art and

Archaeology in Oxford 13, 146

Assam: Assam Regiment and Assam Rifles 107; British control of 4; pre-colonial period 3; see also Bodo society, Assam; Karbi community, Assam assimilation 151–152 Association on American Indian Affairs (AAIA) 152–153 Augustus Pitt Rivers 156–157 Australian National University (ANU) 160

awareness 134

bad deaths 163, 190

baidikitihas 178

Bakhtin, M. 66

Balfour, H. 156

Baloma 34

Bamboo famine 85

Banerjee, P. 12–13 Bangladesh declaration of Independence,

1971 93

baptisms 135

bardo 167, 169

Bardo thodol chenmo (bar-do’i-this-sgrol­ Chen-mo) 163

Bareh, H. 35

Baruni 62

Basumatary, J. 11

Basumatary, S.C. 11

Index Basumatary group 77

Bathou Asar-Khanti (principles to rule the

society) 73

Bathoubrai (deity) 11, 73

Bathouism 11, 73–74 Bell, C. 72

Bendann, E. 117

Bengal District Gazetteers, Darjeeling

(O’Malley) 6

Bhoi people 35

Bhutia, K. D. 13

binary oppositions 166

Bingenheimer, M. 197

blood and man’s mortality 185–186 Bodhchandra Maharaja 100

bodhisattvas 210

Bodo society, Assam: Bathou temple 74;

Dahagarnai 11, 79–80; death rituals

74–81; Gwtharjanai 79; Phandra 80–81;

Sijou plant 74

body-soul dichotomy 33

boju 178

Bokar Ngedon Chokhor Ling Monastery 209–210 bone-burial ceremony 39–40 Bon roots 203

Borchugrei, R. 51

Boro, A. 74

Brahma, K. 81

Brahma Dharma 74–75, 81

Brahmanism 3, 81–82 brahmi (Indian pennywort) 60

brevity of life 119–120 British colonial 150

brutal practices 128

Buarpui village 92

Buddhism 166

Buddhist Lhopo of Sikkim 165

Buddhist mummification 197

Buntha (paddy straw) 77

Burma Campaign Society 110

Butler, J. 103

Bwisagu 74

bya gtor (practice of sky-burial) 178

carnival, idea of 66

‘carnivalesque laughter’ 66

Catholic faith 135–136 Cattoi, T. 1

cemetery monuments 11, 84; local soldiers

107; megaliths 105; and memorials, war

102–103, 106; New Peace Museum

112–113; vernacular memorial site

219

104–105; see also Martyrs’ Cemetery, Mizoram Chakhesang: folklore 123; tribes of

Nagaland 122

Chakraborty, A.S. 2, 9

chamburokso 52

Chandrakirti Maharaj (1850–1886) 66–67 Chang, tribes of Nagaland 122

chawimawina (honouring) 22

chei (stick/pole) 60

Cheiraoba 59–61, 68–69 Cheithaba 60

Chin dynasty (266–316 CE) 198

Chingoi Iruppa 62

Chin-Lushai Hills 3

chi rituals 166–167, 171

Chittagong port 3

Choegyal 5–6 Chomangkan 53–55; Kacharhe, singing of

54–55; kapa’er, performance of 55;

verbal obscenity 55

chomarong (place of ancestors) 52, 55–56 Chomkan see Chomangkan chortens 198–200, 202

Christianity 3, 9, 46, 132, 134–135, 137,

140–142; Bodo 74; funerals in 174;

martyr’s death 90–91; resistance to 13;

traditions and ceremonies 134; see also

rituals, Zo Christians

Chungli Leper (Chungli Graveyard) 159

chupsaba ritual 104

Chyabrung 184

Chyrmang village 45

Cohen, M. 72–73 collective amnesia 108–109, 111–112 collective memories and identities 11, 84,

111–112

colonial/colonisation 147; historiographies

155–158; monographs and writings 156;

museums 146

colour symbolism, Meitei culture 68

Commonwealth War Graves Commission

(CWGC) 106

communication with dead 141

community-based nature 122

consciousness meditation ritual,

transference of 167

contemporary ‘-scapes’ 69–70 corporeality 191, 197

cosmology 134

Creator Deity 124

cultural patrimony 146, 152–153 culture of equality 130

Curzon, G. N. 5

220

Index

Dahagarnai 11, 79–80 dakini of wisdom 202

Dalai Lama in Dharamshala 205

Darjeeling hills 5–8 Darwinian theory 155–156 Das, S. C. 198

dead songs/songs for the dead: ‘Khawhar

hla’ 17, 22–24, 26; Khawhar zai 17, 21,

23–28; Khawpui 24; reawakening 23

death 127; and afterlife 2, 8–15;

anthropological studies 104; collective

mourning 1–2; ethnography of 164–165;

horoscope 169; human-animal conflict

as basis 119; indigenous belief epis­ temes 2–3; Karbi community 52–55;

Khasi 47–51; mortuary practices, Khasi

10; phowa and chi rituals 166–167;

rites, ethnographic research 34; rituals

13, 72; and romantic speak 67–69; and

sex, connections 55; spirit beings 2, 139;

by suicide 10, 21, 48, 52, 61, 69–70, 104,

163, 170, 172, 189–190; symbols of, in

Yumaism 177–194; and transformation

120; as transition mode 2; tyrut 48–49;

uncertainty 1, 25; virtualization and

digitalization 26; see also life; Mizo

death

Death and Reincarnation in Tibetan Bud­ dhism: In-between Bodies (2014) 210

Death Lore 117

death rituals 132–144; among Lhopo of Sikkim 164–174; Bathouism 73–74; Bodo society 73–81; burial 77–78; cus­ tomary rites and vernacular enactment 165–170; Dahagarnai 79–80; dead body disposal 75–76; ethnography of 164–165; funeral ceremony and last rights 76; funeral rites and graveyards 75; lungs, removal of 79; micropolitics 170; Phandra 80–81; sociological approach towards death 170–174; transmigration, soul 77 Dechelette, J. 33

democratic principles 122

dieng shit 38, 40

dieng shit bearer 39

Digboi War Cemetery 106

digital: repatriation 152–153;

restitution 153

dignity and justice in Nagaland 130

Dimasa Kachari, tribes of Nagaland 122

disbelief 146–147 divination 174

Don’t Run, My Love (2017) 125–126

dread finality of death 120

Durkheim, E. 69, 73, 192

Dwi Shanti 79

Eastern Angami 135

East India Company 3

education 130

Edwards, S. 106

Elizabeth, V. 150

Elwin, V. 156

‘enclaves of empires’ 106

Endle, S. 75, 78

enlightenment rationalism 1–2

ethno-consciousness 4

ethnographic expeditions 156

ethnography of death 164–165

euphemism 126

Evans-Wentz, W. Y. 163

expatriate minority communities 117–118

Fathwi Lai Bisinai 73

‘Feast of Merit’ 141–142

Five Scouts (Tasaka) 102

Flower of No Return 18–19

FNR (Forum for Naga Reconciliation) 147

folklore 14, 36, 43–44, 47; Angami 121,

123–125; Chakhesang 123; indigenous

117, 119; Kuki-Chin-Mizo 18; Meitei

10, 61–62, 66–67; and myth 12; Naga

117–119, 121–122; tale of Mainu

Pemcha 61–62, 66–67; Thlen 57

forest as space of spells 119

Forest Song (2021) 120–121

‘forest song’ 120

‘forward policy’ 5

Frazer, J. G. 33

Fuller, B. 46

funeral/funerary: meal 169; monuments

11–12; practices, Tibetan Buddhists 13;

processions 169; songs 24

Gardner, A. 202–204

Garza 73–74

Geertz, C. 169, 177, 182

Gennep, A.V. 71–72

geo-political situation 151

Geschiere, P. 68

ghewa (ghou) 168–169

Gildow, D. 197

Gimson, C. 100

Gluckman, M. 72

God, concept of 37

gomtag 200

Gongzok 207

Index ‘good death’ 173

Gorer, G. 162

Gouin, M. 198

Greater East Asia Co-Prosperity Sphere 12

Great Liberation Through Hearing the

Bardo, The 163

grief 146–147 Griffith, W. G. 36

grim-faced spirit 124

Gurdon, P. R. T. 36–38, 48

guru puja 181

Guwahati War Cemetery 106

Gwrjiyabijamadwi 76

Gwtharjanai (purification) 79

Gwthwibathi 76–77 Gwthwifobnai 75

Gwthwinwbaonai 80

Gwthwisali 75

Gwthwisaonai 75

Handbook of the Indians of California,

The (Kroeber) 34

Hang-Wngkharnai 75

hanou foliage 65

Hapidasa (traditional shawls) 142,

142, 144

Hapiteh (wood sculpture) 142

Harp of Burma (Takeyama) 102

Hastings, J. 75

Hawilo Par 18

headhunting, cessation of 128

Healing Garden 130

healing through storytelling 12

heiri (fruit of rattan cane) 61

heiwa 112

Hemphu-Mukrang 47

Hertz, R. 34, 73

Hi’i and Arnam 54

Himalayan Buddhist tradition 163

Himalayan Village: An Account of the

Lepchas of Sikkim (1938[2005]) 162

hla hriltu 22

Hlim Rui 20

Hnam Pasaltha 93

Hnatlang (community service) 19

Hodgson, B. H. 75

Holocaust memories and narratives 111

holy ancestor 166

Honghari 47

household puja 190

Hring Lang Tlang 18

Huaisen 19

human-animal conflict 119

human diversity 156

221

Humbolt Forum in Berlin 146

Huntington, R. 34

Hutton, J. 156

Hynniewtrep-Hynniewskum 36

hyper-rationality 118

Ideal Zo Christian State 19

identity crisis 129

ill-tempered spirit 123–124

Imchen, P. 134

Imperial War Graves Commission

(IWGC) 106

Imphal 66, 70, 135; allied forces 100;

Khurai Thangjam Leikai Memorial

105; Mangarak kanbi 62; memorials

106–107; phura 104, 105; Shaheed

Minar memorial 104; spatial expansion

62; twin battles 12, 100

Imphal Cremation Memorial 106–107

Imphal Indian Army War Cemetery 106

Imphal Peace Museum 112

Imphal War Cemetery 106

inaugural celebration 136

in-between space 125

‘inconstant body’ 182

Indian National Army (INA) 102

indigenous approach to death 118

indigenous knowledge traditions 130

indigenous Naga cultural and

knowledge 128

indigenous religion 136

informed consent 157

Inoguchi, T. 107

insurgent and civilian Nagas 158

intergenerational demographic 147

internal spiritual abundance 127

International Repatriation Guide 152–153

Iralu, N. 121–122

Islam 3

Jackson, L. 107

Jamir, L. 153

Jamir, T. 149–150

Japanese Association for Recovery and

Repatriation of War casualties 110

japung (bamboo mat) 38

Judeo-Christian origin 132

Jyagya-huti 74

Kachari, The (Endle) 78

Ka Iawbei 37

Ka Iawbeitynraior 40

ka iingshongbasa (temporary home) 38

ka ksing (the beating of drums) 38

222

Index

ka lengkpoh (hen’s egg) 38–39 Kalu Rinpoche: death and apotheosis

206–209; hagiographies 204; mardung

of 202, 208; sacred biography 202–206;

Shangpa Kagyu, afterlife 209–211;

Sonada relic 199–202; whole-body relics

and Buddhist lived cultures 197–199

Kangral 21

‘Ka Niam Khasi’ religion 35–37 Ka Niam Tip Blei 45

kapa’er 55

Kapamodzü 135

Ka Phur Ka Siang 50

Karbi Anglong 46–47 Karbi community, Assam: categorisation

47; Chomangkan 53–55; death and

dying, rhetoric of 52–55; human

poverty indices 46; Mikirs, The 46;

mortuary practices 10, 56; reincarnation/

rebirth 52–53; souls 52; traditional

religion 47

Karhi see Chomangkan Karjong 52

Karland Langrin 48

karma 165–166 Kasaibao Tusom 105

Kashag 205

ka tyrut 48

Kaufmann 119–120 kawktu 87

Kege-Moirang 63, 65

Kerunyuki 121–122 Khalaigarnai/Suagarnai 79–80 khamnung 62

Khamnung Yaiding 62–64, 69

Kharbani, L. L. 50

Kharhao 138

Kharpuri clan 45

Khasi, The (Gurdon) 38

Khasi Lineage Bill, 1997 36

Khasi people, Meghalaya: Amwi people 35; Bhoi people 35; Christian proselytisation 45; Christian theology 48; communities 44; customs as norms, role of 34; death rituals 47–51; definition 35–36; God, concept of 37; Himalayan ranges, the 36; ‘Ka Niam Khasi’ religion 35–37; Khar­ puri clan 45; Khynriams/Nonglum 35; Ki’namtympem, significance of 39; last journey, cremation ground 38–39; life and death connection 33; matrilineal nature of 35, 44; mawbah/bone-burial ceremony 39–40; migration pattern 36–37; mortuary rites and belief systems

38; and Munda 36; myths and legends 36;

Niam 10, 35; Niam Tynrai 45; origin

myth 44; Pnars 35; religion 45; Seng

Khasi 45–46; Shella 35; soul re-union,

ancestors 40–41; Syiem clan, the 45;

Talang clan 45; ThepMawbah 10; tribes

and sub-tribes 35

Khawbel village 87, 89, 89, 90

Khawhar hla 17, 22–24, 26

Khawhar in 17, 21–27 Khawhar lenpui 27

Khawhar tleivar 25

Khawhar zai 9, 17, 21, 23–28

Khawpui 24

Kherai 73–74 Khiamniungan, tribes of Nagaland 122

Khie Mangsha (corpse reanimation) 51

Khmers of Cambodia 36

khokhoi 138

Khongjom Parva 62

Khongphai, A. S. 36

Khristian Thalai Pawl (KTP) 19

Khuang 21

Khuman 68

Khurai Thangjam Leikai Memorial,

The 105

Khynriams/Nonglum 35

Khyungpo Neljor 202–203 Ki Hynniew Ha Tbian (the seven

below) 36

Kike 142

Ki Khun U Hynñiewtrep 44

Ki Khyndai Hajrong (the nine above) 36

Kikon, D. 147, 149, 159

‘Ki Lum Makachiang’ 36

Kimura, M. 112

Ki’namtympem 39

Kingdom in heaven 24

Kire, E. 12, 119–122, 127–128 knowledge traditions and community

living 128

Kodaktsungba 134

Kohima Cremation Memorial 106

Kohima War Cemetery 106–107 Kombirei (film) 62, 64, 67

kombirei flower 10; extinction 59, 70;

habitat 64; from land of the dead

62–63; Mainu Pemcha, tale of 61–62;

moorings, landscape 64–66; re-rooting

59, 69–70; ritual and folkloric

stature 59

Konsam, R. 10

Konyaks, tribes of Nagaland 122, 124

Kosi 34

Index Krocha, V. R. 13

Kroeber, A. L. 34

KTP see Khristian Thalai Pawl (KTP)

kudung 199–200

‘Kuhva khor’ 22

Kuki, tribes of Nagaland 122

Kuki-Chin-Mizo folklore 18

Kuki-Chin tribe 107

Ku-puna (ancestors) 160

kur (clan) 39–40

kusumlei (safflower) 61, 68

kynrongshyieng 40

Lal Isuah (Jesus Christ’) 21

lama (monk) 166–168

‘lamaist’ elements 166

Lamas, Shamans, and Ancestors

(2008) 172

Landangwigarnai 75

Land Reforms Commission for Khasi

Hills, The 35

Langol ranges 61

Laoni 137

Laqueur, T. 104

‘largeness of spirit’ 120

legend of Ngama 20

leiri (symplocos) 61, 68

leiron 62, 64

Lepcha community 162

Lepmohang 180

Lhopo community 170

Lhopo of Sikkim, death rituals among: customary rites and vernacular enact­ ment 165–170; death and dying 163; ethnography of 164–165; sociological approach towards death 170–174 Lhota Nagas, The (1922) 156

Liangmai community 105

Lichaba 134

Li Dakha 45

life: cyclical order 72; death and romantic

speak 67–69; on earth 20, 38, 172; hope

and dread 61; joy and dread 60; Mainu

Pemcha, story of 61–62, 66–67; pre­ cariousness of 103; renewal, ritual of

60–61; re-rooting Kombirei 69–70; in

society 71

Limbus 14

Limbu tradition symbol 180

living world and afterlife connection 139–144 Lloyd (Captain) 6

Logan, J.R. 36

Lokhimon Sangha 55

223

Loktakpat 64

Longchar, W. A. 134

Longitsungba 134

Long jaidna ka kynthei 40

Longkumer, A. 147, 149, 159

Longritzü (bitter waters/water of

bitterness) 154

Lotha, tribes of Nagaland 122

Lungloh Tui 18

Lungritsü 123

Lushai Hills 85

Luwang 68

Lyall, C. J. 46

Lyngdoh, D. H. 39

Lyngdoh, M. 10

lyngngam bam briew 49

Lyngngams 48–51, 56

Macdonald, A. 110

Machahary, P. 81

maichou 65

Mainu Pemcha tale 61–62 mait tyrut 48

Malinowski, B. 34, 172

‘mammy-wota’ 120

Mangang 68

Mangarak kanbi 61–62 Mangenna 185

mangs 179, 182

man’s mortality and blood 185–186 Man Who Became a Bear, The 119

mardung 199–202 maritime networks, Northeast 3

Martar Thlanmual 11

Martyrs’ Cemetery, Mizoram: construction

of 85–90; contested ground 85; female

freedom fighters 89; MNF’s struggle 85;

obelisk 11, 84, 90, 92, 97; Pasaltha 12,

18–19, 84, 92–93; as religious symbol

90–92; signboard 87, 94; women’s

representation 84, 88

Matamgi Manipur (film) 67

Mauss 73

mawbah 39–40 mawbynna 10, 40

Mawrie, H. O. 37, 48

mawshyieng 40

McKay, A. 5

megaliths 105

Meidil (life in hell) 21

Mei Talang 45

Meitei community, Manipur: Baruni 62; Cheiraoba as celebration 60; colour symbolism 68; darkness 68; kombirei

224

Index

flower 10, 59, 61–62, 69–70; literature

68; Mainu Pemcha, tale of 61–62;

mortal existence 68–69; mortuary

hymns 67–68; mortuary practices 10–11;

normal and undesirable/improper death

104; ritual of renewal 60–61; romance

67–68; Sangai deer 65; seven gods 65

memories and identity of community 127

mental stability 179

Mepfuo, A. 130

meta-narrative, war 108

Metcalf, P. 34

MGNREGA 171

Miachieo, Z. 129

Mikirs, The (Stack and Lyall) 46

Mila 137

Mills, J. P. 156

Mim Kut festival 20–21, 86

mind-body dualism 2

misichadanasiba 104

Mitthi Ar 19

Mitthi khua 18–19 mitthi lu men 21

Mitthi Pal 19

‘Mitthi ralna’ (condolence) 25

Mizo death 17, 21–28; commercialization

25; digital re-memorialisation 26;

funeral songs 23–24; ritual space,

overflow of 23; singing hymns 17, 21

Mizo National Front (MNF) movement 11; female volunteers 86; gender stereotypes 93; heroism 85, 92–94; Martyrs’ Ceme­ tery 85–92; ownership 88; Pasaltha 93; victim 94–96 Mizoram: erasure of women, commemora­ tion 11; insurgency in 85–86; Martyrs’

Cemetery 11–12, 85–92; Mizoram Accord

86, 93; Pasaltha 12; proselytization 17;

Rih Dil 18–19; statehood 86; see also

Mizo death; Mizo National Front

Mizoram Baptist Church 90

Mizoram Martyr Family Association

(MMFA) 88

modernity 118

Mons/Talaings of Pegu 36

moral burdens 60

moral classification 189

Moreman, C.M. 1

mortal existence 68–69 Morung 123

Morung Express, The 149

mourning: and loss 165; process 169

Mud and Soldiers (Tasaka) 102

Mujingna 180

mummification 200–201; and mummy worship 197; practice 197

Munda of Chota Nagpur area 36

Mundhums (in a state of trance) 178,

180–183, 187, 189

Murumsitlang 179

Museum Der Kulturel in Basel 13, 146

Mushime 139

Muzaini, H. 103

Mwnsinsin bwrai—Mwnsinsin burwi 73

mythical geography 122

mythological death of man 185

Nagas: ancestral homelands 147; ancestral

human remains 147–148; Christian

beliefs/practices among 151; commu­ nities 136–137, 146; consciousness and

identity 130; folklore 117, 119, 121–122;

history 150, 157–158; identity of 150;

indigenous folklore 119; oppression and

violence 157; origin stories 122; people

129; repatriation context 159–160;

resistance and resilience 157

Naga Hills 101–102

Naga National Council (NNC) 155

Naga National groups 148

‘Naganess’ 129

Naga of Zhavame 13

Naga-Patkai Hills 3, 12

Nagas in the Nineteenth Century, The (1969) 156

nahen 190

Naoni 137

Naorem, D. 11–12

Naorem Uttrapat village 101

Narzary 77

Narzi, B. 80

nationalism 155

natural mummification 197–198

navigating death in diaspora: borderline

119–121; healing through storytelling 128–130; listening to death lore 121–125; weretigermen, death and natural world of spirits 125–128 Nehru, J. 110

netnography 164–165

Niam 10

Niam Tynrai 45

Nihon Senbotsu Gakusei Kinenkai 108

Ningwaphuma 179, 183, 185–186

nirmanakaya (emanation bodies) 210

nirvana 172

non-dualism 2

Nongmaijing (Baruni) hills 62

Index Nongpok thong hangba 100

Nongrathaw village 51

non-human animal 119

nöpa 172

Northeast India: afterlife, belief systems 8–15; Ahom kingdom, ascendancy of 3; belief systems 3; colonised population 103; cultures, mélange of 3; foreign imperialistic administration 4; political mobilisation 4; Sikkim and the Darjeeling hills 5–8; trans-border ethnic conflict 3–4 Oja/Douri (priest) 77, 80

ontological legitimacy 132

oobho, phogido 188

Ortner, S. 166

Oting massacre 158

Ouwagubwi 76

Ouwatheowal (bamboo slit) 77

Owen, M. 200

paganism 134

Palungs 36

paraphernalia 192

parinirvana 206

pasaltha (hero) 12, 18–19, 84, 92–93 “PENE” 124

personal and indigenous identity 122

personhood 56–57 Phakri Bilai 76, 78

Pham, tribes of Nagaland 122

Phandra 80–81 pharlo 52

phedangmas 14, 181–182 phogido … 188

Phor Sorat (elaborate death ceremony) 49

phowa rituals 13, 166–167, 171

phrenology 155

phumdi 65

phura 104, 105

physical ethnography 164

Pialral (life in heaven) 17, 20–21 Piper, N. 109

Pitt Rivers Museum 13, 146–148, 150,

152, 156

Pnars 35

Pochury, tribes of Nagaland 122

political and cultural identity 133

political consciousness 133

political violence and conflict 129–130 PorokmiYambhamiMang 179, 184–185 post-death ritual 168

post-disposal rituals 169

225

post-mortuary commemoration 209

Poumai people 141

power hierarchy 121

pre-Buddhist practices in Himalayan

studies 166

pre-Christian 124, 151

Primitive Culture (Tylor) 33

‘primitive religion’ 33

proselytization 132–134, 136

protection and purification, practices

for 169

public awareness 148

pullei plant 65

punshi gi lanpham 68

puri 45

‘Queen of Evil Spirits’ 48

‘race’ collections 155–156 Radcliffe-Brown, A. R. 174

Raidwng (cane rope) 77

Rain Maiden and Bear Man (2021) 12,

120, 125

Rangoon War Cemetery 107

Rapu 124

Rashir, N. 51

Raziemia 135

rebirth: Karbi epistemology 52–53; Phandra 80–81 Recover, Restore and Decolonize

(RRaD) 13

Reeves, J. 20

reincarnate lamas 198

reincarnation 52–53, 80–81, 123, 172

relics 197

religious affiliation 137

religious praxis 165

Rengma, tribes of Nagaland 122

Rengma Nagas, The (1937) 156

repatriation: within Naga context 152–155; process 151–152 Return, Reconcile, Renew (RRR) 160

returning dignity to our ancestors 158–160 revitalisation 187

Rhalietuo 127

riewhadem (corn) 38

rigsel 196, 199

Rih Dil 18–19 Ri Khasi Printing Press 46

Rinpoche, K. 14

Rinpoches 168

rites de passages 71

ritlo pharla 52–53 Ritual and Social Change (1973) 169

226

Index

rituals, Zo Christians: collective mourning 17; collective remembrance 26–27; corporeal world’s materialities 20–23; dead songs/songs for the dead 23–24; merchandise and commercialization 25; nowness, the 19–20; songs of sadness 21; thenness, the 18–19; tlawmngaihna code 17–18, 22; transmutations and amplifications 24–25; virtualization and digitalization, death ceremonies 26; see also Mizo death rituals/ritualization 28, 71, 72; ceremony

174; meals 168–169; and religion 72;

and rites 73

Ritual Theory, Ritual Practice (Bell) 72

River and Earth 120

river spirits 120

‘road of bones’ 101

ro-long 169

romantic tragedy 61–62 Ronghangpi, K. 56

Roy, D. 35

Roy, H. 36

RRaD (Recover, Restore, and Decolonise) community 148–152 ‘Ruang thlak zan’ 21

rudrakshmaala or ritthakomaala 192–193 Runyugei 123

Ryōichi, S. 113

sacred geography 122–123 Safran, W. 117–118 Sailo, L. 88

samba 181, 187–188, 192

sambas 181, 191–193 Samdrub Dargye Choling Monastery 14,

204–205, 207, 208, 209

sammila 178

samsires 14, 181

Sanaton 70

San Francisco Peace Treaty of 1951 109

Sangai 65

Sangha Tenzin 200–201, 201

sāngkelāng 53

Sangrampedang den 188

Sangtan, tribes of Nagaland 122

Saparadu (traditional shawls) 142,

143, 144

Sappok Chomen 190

Saradu 81–82 Sasakawa Peace Foundation 112

sasik, bad deaths 190

sdé log 169

self concept 2

self-determination 157–158 Sema Nagas, The (1921) 156

Sen, P. 14

Seng Khasi 45–46 sense of community 122

sensitivities 165

Sesawng village 87

seven gods 65

Seven Huts—the Seven Nests, the 36

sexual violence 95–96 Shaheed Minar memorial 104

shaman 181, 187

shamanhood 181

shamanism 9, 166, 181

shamans 192

Shangpa Kagyu lineage 196, 203

Shangpliang, R. M. 10

sharati (flutes) 38

Sharma, G. N. 64

Sharmila, I. 158

Shella 35

Shil, E. 72

shindré (spirits of the dead) 13, 163,

169–170, 172–173

shingkhang 65

Si Bwrai—Si Burwi 73

sign of humanness 103

Sijou plant 74

Sikkim/Sikkimese 5–8; administrative terms 7; Buddhist people of 12–13; Choegyal 5–6; communities 165; house­ holds 170; imperial control 5–6 Silver Dzuli, The (2021) 120–121 Simamwntham 76

‘sins’ 60, 75–76 ‘social and political construct’ 129

social cohesion 174

social honour 141

social interactions 120

social obligation and collective

grieving 170

social transaction 150

socio-cultural codes 121

sogha (death by suicide) 190

Sohpetbneng (the navel of heaven) 36

Song dynasty (960–1270 CE) 198

songrai (bamboo tray) 77

Songs for the Re-Awakened 23–24 ‘song taboos’ 120

Son of the Thundercloud (2016) 12,

126–127

‘Son of the Thundercloud’ 126

souls 75, 182; chamburokso 52; departed

14, 77, 86; journey 189; Karjong 52;

Index pharlo 52; thi-phalangno 52; tirim 52;

transmigration 77

spirit/spiritual 2, 20, 78; ancestor 52–53;

ascent to the abode 39; awakened 17;

Bodo society 78; culture 130; -elders

141; Khasi beliefs 38–39; Kiriwina

natives 34; Kosi 34; ‘mammy-wota’

120; possessions 13; propitiation 47, 56;

river 120; in Sikkim 172–173; super­ iority 166; transitions 118; world 121;

worship 37

spontaneous geniality 119–120 Stack, E. 46

Stephenson, B. 72

storytelling 12, 127–130 Sturken, M. 103

su (shawl) 134

Subba, T. B. 4

subjectivity 147

sugut (death by violence) 190

suicide 10, 21, 48, 52, 61, 69–70, 104, 163,

170, 172, 189–190

Sumi, tribes of Nagaland 122

Summers, J. 106

superiority 166

supernatural origin of mankind 122

sustainable community garden 130

Suyoorkarma 182

Syangden, V. 14

Syiem clan 45

Syntengs 35

Tahna Kut (Weeping Festival) 20

taibang kumhei 68–69

Takatemjen 134

Takeyama, M. 102

Talang clan 45

Talilula 13

Tang Jait 36

tap sammangs 179, 186

Tasaka, T. 102

tchinta 170

Teaching Death and Dying (Moreman) 1

tekhumevi 125

Telepfu—female spirits 124

Teron, D. 53

tertön (gter ston) 202

Themupfü 140

ThepMawbah 10

Theravada Buddhism 197

Thereng Vanreng 54

thi-phalangno 52

Thi-reng Vanreng 54

‘Thlan lai’ (grave digging) 19

227

Thlan nghah ni 27

Thoba Pa Sam 180

Thoba Yuma Phoktung 188

Thompson, E. L. 102

Thongaren, Lord of Khamnung 62–63 thugdam 201–202 Thuni (festival) 141

Thupkhiba 65

Thursby, J.S. 72

Ţhuthmun zai 21

Thwinai 75

Tibetan Book of the Dead, The 163

Tibetan Buddhism 3, 7, 166, 196, 209

Tibetan Buddhists: funerary practices

13; post-death commemoration 14;

theology 165

Tibetan Rituals of Death (2010) 169

tiger-widow 126

tirim 52

tlawmngaihna code 9, 17–18; ethnona­ tionalism 22; Khawhar in 22; politics of 19–20 tog (rtog) 200, 206

traditional Naga ethos 150

trafficking indigenous human 146

transitional rites 71

transmigration of soul 119

Traolore 140

Treaty of Sugauli 5–6 Treaty of Titalya 6

tribe’s cultural interpretation 122–123 Tripuri tribes 3

Trobiand Islanders of Melanesia 34

trulku 14, 196, 198–199, 202

Tsadra Rinchen Drak 202–203 tsantsa (shrunken heads) 147

tsham 168

Tuma 34

tumyanghang 182

Tungoe, N. 129

Turner, V. 68

twin battles of Imphal and Kohima 12,

100

Tylor, E. B. 33

tyrut 48–49 ‘U Blei’ 37–38

U Blei Nongthaw 41

U‘iarkradlynti 38, 40

Ukepenuopfu 124

U masikynroh 38

‘unblest’ graves 126

U niangshyngoid 38

uniqueness 122

228

Index

unnatural deaths 117

Untiedt, K. L. 117

Upa Pawl 86

U Suitnia 37

U Thawlang 37

Vanlalthanpuii, M. 11

Van ram 17

Vanramchhuangi, P. 25

Verdery, K. 106

vernacular memorial sites 104–105

vetaal 172

violence and genocide 157–158

Vizovono, E. 129

Von Fürer-Haimendorf, C. 156

Walking the Roadless Road 120–125, 130

Wallace, A. 72

Walling, C. W. 134

‘wandering of the spirit’ 34

war: commemorating 101–103; compensa­ tion and reparation 109–110; dead

bodies 104–112; deaths and violence

107–108; grieving, lost lives 103;

Japanese soldiers 102; memorials and

monuments 102–105; meta-narrative

108; narratives 12, 102–103, 108;

repercussions 100–101; tourism 12,

108; tourism industry 108; vernacular

memorial sites 104–105

Ware, F. Sir 106

Weiner, M. 4

Weltmuseum Wien in Vienna 13, 146

weretigermen 125

western education and colonization 118

When the River Sleeps 12, 124

whole-body relics and Buddhist lived

cultures 197–199

William, L. 72

Wilson, J. A. P. 2

Woodthorpe, R. G. 156

Woticky, G. 118

Wouters, J. P. 4

Yaralpat wetlands 62, 64

Yasukuni shrine, Tokyo 107–108 yebas 181, 189–190, 193

Yeoh, B. A. A. 103

Yeshey ki lha (ye shes gyi lha) 172–173 yezzep 192–193 yidam 202–203 Yim 134

Yimchungen, tribes of Nagaland 122

yimsu (village shawl) 134, 136

Yingnyiushang 122–123 Yoneyama, L. 113

Young Mizo Association (YMA) 19, 86;

cups 25; involvement, funeral and con­ dolence arrangements 27; participation,

Zo/Mizo people 22; singing session 21, 27;

social welfare 19

Yuma 178

Yumaism 14

Yumaism-related death myths and rituals 177–194; ancestral relevance and Shamanism in 180–182; conception of body 182–183; conception of death and afterlife in 187–190; culture 177; death narratives and symbol of body 184–187; discourse of body 191–193; religious system 178–180 ‘Zaochisu’ (pork lard) 141–142 Zaohu 138

Zeliang, tribes of Nagaland 122

Zhamai 135

Zhavame 135; ancestral religion and notions of afterlife 138–139; Christian community 134–137; social status 142–143 Zhavame village 13

Zhosou 141–142, 144

Zo code of ethics 19

Zo hnahthlak (Zo/Mizo people):

Christianity 20; collective mourning 17,

20; ethnonational values 27; participation,

YMA 22; tlawmngaihna code 22;

virtualization and digitalization, death

ceremonies 26

Zo/Mizo tribes 3, 9