A Pinch of Salt

Imtiyala Jamir

God has been kind this year. The mountains seem alive with the constant chirping of exotic birds, the gentle strides of fauna that abounds this lush mountain and the steady thumping of the gushing streams. Beautiful bright pink rhododendrons run parallel within the perimeter of Longkhum village and it almost seems like the flowers are cradling and nurturing them with their dazzling exuberance. They seem to be echoing the elation of the people by exuding their towering magnificence. The people of Longkhum village have been blessed generously with a good harvest this time around and this will be enough to sustain them till the next reaping season. The grueling hard work which had been invested in clearing the fields, burning the jungles and sowing the seeds for paddy has not gone unnoticed. It is almost time for Tsüngrem Mong, the harvest festival of the Ao Nagas and the natives of this Ao village are gearing up to celebrate their bounty. But before the celebrations can begin, the men of the village have to travel all the way down to the plains where they have to collect salt for their families, which is indispensable for the festival feast and their livelihood. A week before the festival commences, they gear up and make their journey to the land of the tzümars.

 

A young lad has just turned 10. As a gift, he has been allowed to accompany his father and make this strenuous journey alongside him. He has been anticipating this day for a very long time as he believes it will be his passage into manhood; he is excited and determined to prove his father that he has what it takes to take on the bigger responsibilities of the village. Tsüngrem Mong is not only a festival to celebrate God’s providence but it also enables the younger generations to demonstrate their intellectual capabilities and physical strength. This adventure would be the perfect chance for this lad to show that he is no longer a child with whimsical fancies but is ready to become a mature adult. The journey down to the plains would take two days on foot and three days back uphill; they would have to carry the heavy load on their backs and the absence of well paved roads would not permit an easy walk either; the terrain was rough and uneven, it had slippery slopes, sharp cliffs and sleeping in the cold, damp wilderness among unnamed creatures was inevitable. Any ten year old would cringe at such a thought today but this daunting task did not deter the young lad as he was resolved to impress his father and he made a promise to himself that no matter how difficult and tiring the journey would be, he would not utter a word of complaint about the arduous trek.

 

Each slab of salt weighed around 10 kilograms. The men of the village would usually carry three to four slabs each for their families and this would last them an entire year and sometimes more. The young sons of these men were only expected to carry one slab each.  However, this young lad despite his father’s warnings made up his mind to carry two slabs of the salt, which was almost equal to his own weight and would be extremely difficult for any ten year old boy to carry for three days. He was adamant to such a degree that there was absolutely no way to coax him out of his resolution and so they made their journey downhill. The women of the village had packed sufficient food for them to last three days and the necessary materials which they would require to built temporary make-shift tents to sleep at night. They had also set aside a separate bag in which there were grains and other farm produce which were to be exchanged for the salt. As was customary, all men also carried a traditonal dao, a sort of a flat asymmetric rectangular axe, in order to cut their way through bushy shrubs and tall grasses but also to protect themselves from unexpected dangerous creatures.

 

Trekking downward to their destination passed by quite effortlessly and was not that difficult. The young lad however, stumbled and fell for the most part as he was not accustomed to walking in such bumpy ground and had not yet learned to walk with strong firm strides like his father which was essential to survive in the jungle. It was quite natural for him to face these obstacles as he had very little experience in this area. He would learn it soon enough nevertheless, accompanying his father in his various hunting expeditions. But for now, he had to struggle to keep up with the group, lest he be left behind which would be humiliating for him.

 

It was strange place for him. The people of the plains spoke in a language he could not understand. His father and the other men of his village spoke with hand gestures with these tzümars and their communication seemed limited to pointing at their goods and displaying a certain number of fingers on their hands which was an indicator of the number of the slabs of salt they wanted. He watched in silent wonder at the barter that was happening right before his eyes and he tired to remember every detail of the exchange as he knew that one day it would be him in his father’s place.
As for the this new foreign land, he did not like it much. He was already missing the cool winds of the hills and the smell of fresh air which rejuvenated even the weariest soul.  He was drenched in sweat from the hot humid weather and flies buzzed all around reminding him of the staleness of the air. He was desperate to go back home.

After the exchange was completed, they began their journey back home. Heaving their respective stacks the young lad seemed the only one out of place with his twenty kilograms strapped behind his back. The first day of the trek uphill went by rather quickly as he climbed with confident steps and his heart filled with immense pride and he knew that this would impress his father a great deal. The strength of his resolution however, could not possibly overcome the physical strength of a ten year old boy and slowly like a clock being watched, the weight on his shoulders started draining the energy out of his feeble body and his footsteps became harsher and his calves strained with the load on his back. As the sun scorched every inch of his body and sweat dripped down his face, he grew weary and his spirit weakened; he contemplated giving up justifying his thoughts with the fact that his father probably never expected him to complete his task anyway. But that was exactly what he wanted to prove wrong; he was not a quitter and he was absolutely capable of finishing this mission. He had come this far; he could not possibly throw in the towel now with only a day left even if it meant swallowing the excruciating pain he was subjecting his body to bear .

 

It was now the third and the last day of the trip and it was a marvel that he had come so far without a word of complaint. The father deliberated whether to carry his son’s slab seeing him tired and worn out but decided against it and allowed him to continue his journey alone as he feared it would hurt his pride. He saw a great deal of himself in his son and he remembered how just like him, he too once wished to make his own father proud. To break his spirit now by acknowledging his weakness would cause an irreparable blow to his self- respect and dignity as a man. It would be best if he didn’t say anything and proceed forward. Meanwhile, this stubborn young lad looked at his father and reflected on how much he loved and respected him; the last thing he would want to do was disappoint him by giving up. It would be a shame for him and his family if he returned back home without fulfilling his task and this would invariably affect the mood of the entire festivity as well. The desire to uphold the family name further spurred him on and gave him enough juice to complete the last leg of his journey. For a young lad of his age, the caliber and maturity that he displayed on those three days surpassed even the most able men of his village.

 

He grew up to become an admirable and sought after leader of his village, respected and applauded especially for his moral fiber. This young lad was my great grandfather. Even today, a common sight in the kitchen of my grandparent’s home is the stack of neatly piled salt packets adorning the mantle of the fireplace. One would think this to be quite ridiculous as salt is easily available in the market and rather cheap as well. But my grandmother is bent on following the tradition in remembrance of the difficult lengths my great grandfather and the generations before him had to undergo just in order to obtain salt. Courtesy of my absent-mindedness one evening, I had forgotten to add salt to a dish during my initial amateur attempts at cooking. Consequently, my family was subjected to some rather tasteless chicken which they were gracious enough to gulp down so as to not upset my sentiments.  It was then that my grandfather shared this anecdote about his father and it was only after he had finished his story that I realized the missing ingredient from my chicken and how it was in dire need of some salt. Had it not been for this incident, my grandfather in all probability would have never shared this story with us and it would have eventually been erased from history, forgotten and unacknowledged.