The story a shawl tells

What’s in an outfit?

Skirts, shirts, tops, trousers’, coats, scarves and many more; every article of clothing has a name, or multiple names, different countries may call the same article of clothing by different names. Then there’s the eternal debate of British vs. American English, sweater vs. jumper.

Coming from a mixed tribe family, Namely Angami and Chakhesang, the sweater vs. jumper debate has often made its way into my vocabulary. Some may argue, that both tribes coming from the same Tenyimia conundrum; share many cultural and linguistic similarities. And they are absolutely right, both the chakhesangs and Angamis do originate from the same branch, in fact the Chakhesangs were once known as the Eastern Angamis. 

The split came and that itself is a long long story. As a result of the split a new tribe, the chakhesang's came into being. The tribe itself was unique as it was a collaboration of three linguistic groups- chokri, Khezha and sangtam, hence the name chakhesang; cha for chokri. Khe for Khezha and sang for sangtam. It was also one of the first and only collaboration known to the state Nagaland.  The collaboration split again ,with the sangtam choosing to stand as an independent entity. But Even with the split the name chakhesang stuck, and no changes have been made till date.

So where does the sweater vs. jumper debate come into this truckload of information?  Many places surprisingly. Especially if you compare angami to the chokri of the chakhesang, the language sounds similar and to someone like me, who speaks both its almost identical save for a few words. Though friends who speak only angami claim that chokri sounds ineligible and vice versa. To put it simply angami is the British English to the American chokri, at least in my household. This is not to claim one is more superior to the other, both have very similar structure but vary in tone and articulation. The reason why I call angami British English is because of the formal education institution in India, which is largely based of British English and my own education at home, where we siblings primarily spoke angami among ourselves because our mother was angami.  Chokri on the other hand was like American English, always around, but we only used it casually to address our friends, and more formally to converse with our father.

So it became natural to mix the two in my household, sometimes I would start a sentence in angami and end it with chokri. Other times the exchange was more subtle and most times such instances went unnoticed. Our mistakes would usually come to light when we spoke with a pure angami or chokri speaker, or if the bi lingual person had an awareness of the difference between the two. But most times these two languages blended in pretty well, despite some differences.

I remember an incident about an aunt who spoke a little angami, and made up the rest with chokri. They say she was shopping at kohima bazaar,

                                           KOHIMA BAZAAR

 and she approached an angami vegetable vendor and spoke in perfect angami

“Chüvino ga hau kediki ga?”

“How much do these chüvino ga cost”

And before I proceed, forgive me because I don’t know the scientific name of the vegetable .and despite looking through multiple flora and fauna journals on Nagaland ,I never found the English name of the green, slippery and slightly bitter tasting vegetable. But going back to the incident I had to mention, because it was and is still the perfect example of things being lost in translation.

She asked for chüvino ga,

Chüvino literally translates to tasty leaves, if taken into context it means something like tender or soft.

Ga- means vegetable

Hau- this

Kediki ga- how much is it, or what does it cost.

So no problems there, the sentence following the name of the vegetable is also formal and very correct, and in chokri the vegetable is called tiveno ga- meaning tender leaves. But the correct way of saying the sentence in angami would be.

“Lievino ga hau kediki ga”

The words chüvino is replaced by lievino, which also means tender or soft leaves but from a different context, hence it cannot be called chüvino ga because that would mean something else.

As confusing as it sounds, this is me during a family meeting being corrected by elders and cousins.

Other times I throw words around for years, never knowing it’s not supposed to be spoken that way. Most end in a discreet rebuke by an aunt, in the corner of the kitchen .sometimes I’m not so lucky and it ends in public embarrassment. Who knows at this very moment someone might be narrating the story of the cousin who got the context of “cough “wrong creating a hilarious misunderstanding. The positive thing is my uncle always remembers me whenever someone says “cough” in angami.

So it’s pretty much the American vs. British English debacle in my perspective. and it doesn’t stop with language; sure the Americans and the British also have their own cultural politics going on, but I will stick to my own context, that is the naga chakhesang- chokri- angami context, and the context in which i was born and raised.

Unlike the garment sweater or jumper, which can mean something you pull over your head, something without buttons, or something whose meaning changes with context ; but at the end both words means a  garment . That is not exactly the case for the Naga traditional attire, each item carries a name and the designs vary according to tribe, and sometimes according to village. The angami and chakhesangs have similar color schemes because they come from the same Tenyimia range, but no two are exactly alike. Aside from the multiple garments, men and women have very different jewelry, and each carries meaning, there’s also a time and place to wear such jewelry

A simple line can become a marker of your tribe and your village. And it’s no joke to say a single line and color matters, because everything carriers meaning and a simple line may just carve out your place in society.

The story goes that my father, a newly married young man attended a church meeting at a small village. Throughout the service he felt the gaze of a middle aged woman on him, and when the service ended the lady approached him asking if he was someone from Khonoma. Turns out my father was wearing the shawl my aunt, his sister-in- law had gifted him; a shawl which marked its origins because of one single line on the border. And the eagle eyed lady later explained that only those from Khonoma or with relatives (wife is from Khonoma) from Khonoma would wear the shawl.

Incidents like these are not rare and every once in a while people would use shawls to start conversations, maybe discover you’re related or make lifelong friends. It is a marker of identity, that’s why the aunt in kohima knew the vendor was angami, because of the mekhala she wore or perhaps it was the orange beaded necklace ;or it might also be because kohima is predominately angami.

Today’s generation are sadly not so eagle eyed, even so mothers make sure daughters and sons stick to age appropriate wear. This point is very important, because it explained your stance in the society, your age and your achievements. If the wrong person wore the wrong shawl, it would be like me wearing Mary kom’s multiple gold medals around my neck, claiming them to be my achievement.

Seriousness aside, with the coming of Christianity and the end of head hunting, hosting a feast of merit to gain the honour of wearing a particular shawl no longer applies. Nowadays, honor and achievement is measure in different degrees and presenting of shawls also follows these new guidelines. The rules are more lax now and people tend to mix and match, there are even websites which sells the shawls of honour for the right price.

But things have not changed too much in the village; in my chakhesang village we still adhere to the right place and time to wear a shawl or jewelry. Sure one can break the rules and wear one the NSUD night in Delhi, and no one will say anything. Rumors may float but it tends to die down when people find new things to talk about.

But does it feel ethically wrong? Yes I does.

 Of course no one knows what the vague guidelines for achievements even mean, villages may interpret it differently, but one line sticks

“You have to earn the honour”

This sounds like moral policing and to a point it is, but if you are someone from the village like me, people are going to gossip when you step out with a thupikhü; especially if you are deemed unworthy or have not done enough to warrant the honor. and personally i would like the be formally presented a shawl by the elders, just because it saves the cost of buying your own shawl. 

Unlike the other traditional items the thüpikhü is one of its kind, though designs may vary it is considered the highest grade of honor in most chakhesang villages. Other tribes like the angami, sumi, lotha, Ao, etc. have their own shawls of honor but the thüpikhü is unique to the chakhesang.

 The story goes that a sister came up with this elaborate design in honor of her brother, when he first hosted a feast of merit. There is also a legend that the all embroidery must be done before sundown.

The shawl which symbolizes, prosperity and generosity was presented to a couple who had performed a feast of merit, though it was primarily designed for men; the female design came much later. And the shawl is very colorful, with each pattern standing for something.

The series of pictures will elaborate how much embroidery it requires.

                                            PATTERNS ON THE THUPIKHU

While elephants, mithuns and animal heads were used for men, the female motif included. Cowry shells, bathsü, Baskets and more.

 It is also as expensive as it is beautiful, especially because it is painfully hand woven and embroidered. Today cotton yarn is not hard to find but about sixty years back, most people had to pick cotton by hand and spin it into yarn and then dye it. This process took days and even months, the ceremonies attached to it didn’t make it easy either. There is a story to illustrate the value of cotton, something an aunt once told me in the passing.

The story is very similar to Romeo and Juliet, or jina and etiben.

 They say, a man of lower standing fell in love with the daughter of a rich warrior with many sons. The lovers wanted to marry but couldn’t because of their different financial standing. The man decided to earn and expand his cattle, so he may be worthy enough to ask for her hand in marriage. But it was taking time and taking a toll on his poor body; the girl wanted to help so when they went to collect vegetables in the forest, she slipped her armlets into his basket. When her brothers asked she said she lost it.

Many months later the man invited the girl and her brothers, to collect cotton in his forest garden. When they arrived he filled his loves basket to the brim, they say it was so heavy she found it hard to walk.

                                         BASKET( MEKHO)

 In the evening when she rolled out the content of her basket on the straw mat her armlets rolled out.

My aunt never told me how the story ended ,or if  the lovers even end up together. she had more important things to do;like interpreting the actions of the man. according to her, that the man wanted to ask for her hand in honesty; with no help from her family’s wealth.

 I looked more at the heavy basket, today if a couple worked in the same orchard or field, the man would ensure her basket was the lightest or even help her carry it. Well I’m referring to the more stereotypical romance situation, but that aside, should we call what the man did cruel?

“They say it was so heavy she found it hard to walk”.

Not really, his action, as my aunt puts it was very romantic. It was an act of love; because cotton was very difficult to harvest at the time. To collect enough cotton for one shawl was a mammoth task, so the man wanted to make sure she had more than enough. 

Though I never found out what happened in the end, I got to watch what happened to the cotton. 

During my trip to the village I was lucky enough to watch my aunt prepare a shawl. Though I didn’t get to witness the first stages of its production, I was lucky enough to witness her neighbor roll out the wool and arrange patterns, allowing my aunt to take on the last steps of weaving and embroidery.

CHAKHESANG WOMAN WEAVING 

( ps. not my aunt, had a video of her weaving but could upload it due to the size and format)

The whole process is back breaking and my aunt saved time by using ready-made wool, but in the chakhesang region where my father is from, people still dye their wool by hand and they use a very unique ingredient, the nettle.( both plant and tree is used)

The process is long and laborious and requires certain ceremonies.

It starts with the nettle harvesting; the nettle is boiled to separate it from the thin layer of bark. The raw material is cooked for no less than a day.

In the next step the yarn is removed from the pot and beaten with a wooden block to soften the yarn. The yarn is then rinsed thoroughly and soaked in hot water for another three to four hours. It is further rinsed with clean rice flour broth in a betükhu (wooden basin). The rice flower also acts as a dyeing agent, turning the yarn whitish. Sorting is done following the rinsing of the yarn and the flour bits that fall from it are eaten by young girls.  After this step the yarn is coiled into a ball and is ready for meandering, which is used with the shuttle for weaving.

Because it was considered taboo for the thebvo to be bitten by tooth, so it was separated from the drinking water at home and even eating before its preparation, was a ceremony in itself.  It was also considered taboo for young boys to consume the bake cakes from the rice flour which had been used for dyeing the yarn. And it was customary to offer rice beer after the boiling of the thebvo (nettle). 

With all the taboos and tradition in place it was mostly customary for the yarn to be prepared in the forest under flowing water.Because of this practice I always missed the preparation part, and yes times have changed but most times people stick to the forest because of the abundance of freshwater.

So throughout the text I mentioned being from the village, so as a person from the village did I ever learn how to weave? The answer is yes and no, yes because I had a weaving stint and no because I never managed to complete a shawl. All I have to show for is the weaving materials and the pinkish muffler, collaboration between a neighbor and me, an item I see in pictures but can never seem to find.

Today if someone in the big towns wanted a shawl they could got the nearest handloom store and buy a ready-made, machine made shawl this was cheaper and faster, but in villages it’s a little more personal. If my family wanted a shawl we would go to the store buy the shade of cotton yarn we wanted, meet the artisan, make mild length adjustments if needed but we mostly stick to the standard size. After that its communication, my mother usually visits the artisan twice a month to check the progress and this exchange goes on till the shawl is done and the payments is complete.

That is not to say people in big towns only buy machine made goods, most people in big town place order through relatives or when they visit the village. But making friends with a good artisan definitely pays off, regularly checking and communicating makes it more personal. At the end if one says that the shawls looks the same, you can say ‘yes they do’; but there is a story behind my shawl.

 And that is the story I hope to tell when I earn the rights to wear a thüpikhü, a shawl which has long captured my imagination ever since witnessing the colorful ensemble cover my grandfather’s body nineteen years back. The shawl is not yet a part of my possession and perhaps it never will be, but if does fall on my shoulders I’m sure the shawl will be a maker of my achievements, the shawl of stories, the history of my life. On the day I die the shawl will be buried with me, just like it did with my grandfather and many others, the thüpikhü’s journey will end with one generation, till the next earns the right to wear it. Until then I’ll stick to the lovely shawls my mother approves for me.

Road to Avankhu

The first story I wrote, was about a twenty year old man entering Nagaland from Burma, through the Avankhu international border in phek district.

 I had heard stories about the road from neighbors and relative. Some said the dry season was the best time to travel, as there were less chances of the road getting blocked due to landslides.  My uncle suggested I visit after the first rainfall, he said the barren mountains would be covered in a blanket of greenery.

 And that was exactly what I imagined when I wrote the story of the twenty year old man entering Nagaland from Burma. I also imagined Alder trees covering the hills, along with rocky paths and misty mornings. What I didn’t take into account was the grassland, that all the trees had been cut down for lumber

NAGALAND- BURMA MAP

                                                             ALDER TREE

and all that was left was the grasslands. But uncle told me it was a sight to behold, and I imagined the grassland to be the same as the one in the story of origin; maybe if my character crossed a grassland instead of an Alder forest, he would encounter his elder brother the tekho (tiger). If he did he could ask for safe passage; but if the tekho was still miffed about the tricks the old men played on him, my character would be in a lot of trouble.

 Another person, Bertil Litner, a journalist travelled through Nagaland and entered Burma through phek district in the 1960’s.

                                                               PHEK DISTRICT

 he wrote a book recounting his experiences. Upon reading the synopsis I realized that he did exactly the opposite. While my character traveled from Burma to Nagaland, he undertook a real life journey from Nagaland to Burma or what is today known as Myanmar. In his book he mentioned many forest, and swamps that leeches lived in those swamps and that banana trees sprouted everywhere the closer you got to Burma. But he mostly talked about the people, their loyalty, their superstition and his meeting with rebel leaders.

I never considered the possibility of tying my character to rebels (underground); I imagined that he had friends and those friends had ties to the underground. Where else was he going to get fake ID’s and how would he have known which path to take, to avoid the Indian army. Even with his mongoloid face, he would be ousted because he could not speak the language the fifteen tribes spoke. The district he was infiltrating had five languages to being with and he was proficient in none. He would need friends, but to find friends you would need to look in the right place and who would be mad enough to take such risk.

But relatives told me the story of an uncle who got shot down while protecting two American journalists. They said that his body was brought back to phek hospital, the district hospital. And that very night his best friend and brother came to collect the body, least the army got hold of it.

travelling was hard those days, and no one told me how the body was brought to the hospital or what vehicle they used. They did not have proper telephone lines and it was hard to make calls without being monitored, but people were loyal and secrets were well guarded, so the brother and friend were able to collect the body on time. Or at least that what my mother told me, because she was on duty at the hospital the night the body arrived.

First-hand experience like my mother’s was what I turned to if i wanted information, or a historical account. Like our oral tradition, people did not keep records. The former was because we did not have scripts but the latter was so documents could be used as proof of the holders conspiring against the state. If found guilty whole villages were burnt down and many executed. So I found it unrealistic for people and villages to risk so much to help foreign journalist, or my character who was not a journalist; he was simply someone looking for his homeland. So why take the risk.

But Reading bertil linters account and the stories told my parents, made me think otherwise. Back then people united under one common enemy, of course there were tribal rivalries but the rivalry allowed tribes to form stronger bonds within their own tribes, and most tribes functioned as one unit. Like bertil litners case, where it was the chakhesang tribe who hid him and his wife for almost one year, till the responsibility for their protection was transferred to their kachin brothers in Burma.

Reading this I also realized there were many ways to enters Burma, Litner did it by infiltrating phek district and then Manipur; but there were shorter routes like the one at Avankhu. Infarct some old grandfathers went all the way to china on foot and returned safe; a friend even told me that her grandfather travelled to japan with the Japanese army, and that they got along well because of the cultural similarities.

                                                      KOHIMA WAR CEMETERY

                                                     

I would not have believed these stories, if the war cemetery at kohima did not have the inscription carved in Kanji. I simply could not picture people travelling so far; at a time period without proper transportation and communication. But the Japanese soldiers lying with the Naga, Nepali and Indian soldiers, is proof that people connected long back before the term globalization could take shape. And it was not just crossing borders, people traveled long distances crossing mountains and thick forest, just to get to the next village.

                                                       JHUM CULTIVATION

My grandparents were one of those people, or so I’ve heard. The stories say they had a jhum field near Shilloi Lake; and grandfather possessing a strong spiritual presence caught the eye of a thero (a being from the other world). They said the thero attached a long rope from Shilloi Lake to my grandfather’s hut, they also said he would ride a stranger vehicle on the rope ,and many a time the naughty thero would empty their wine pots, or scare my grandmother but levitating her in the air.

                                                AERIAL VIEW OF SHILLOI LAKE

                                               SHILLOI LAKE AFTER THE RAINS END

 Realistically speaking it was hard to imagine a spirit, but it was harder to imagine my grandparents cultivating a field near Shilloi Lake; it was just too far. If we took a car we had to drive for eight hours, and that was if the roads were OK, if not it took much longer. Today we don’t have to fear tigers or any other wild animals, but back then they had look out for their lives even as they traveled to cultivate food. Then again they spoke of the experience as something normal, and they would not have thought of it as anything special had the thero not interfered. It would have just been another way of surviving.

                           

                  

Today if we wanted to visit a place like Shilloi Lake it would take at least two days, a lot of packing and a very bumpy journey; today we don’t need to fear tigers just tumbling rocks and bad roads. But if we managed to get to Shilloi Lake we would be closer to the village where two countries meet.

With a population of just one hundred and eighty six, Avankhu and its eight four male and 102 female population Avankhu sits at the end of the tunnel. Bertil Litner did not travel to Avankhu; he took another path because it was too heavily guarded. He might have, had it not been so well guarded, we will never know.

 In the 1960’s Avankhu might have had a larger population due to its proximity with Burma, and the trade that took place between the two countries.

With borders and territories marked out, it is no longer possible to travel to china on foot. Now we need passports, visas and many, many approvals. Avankhu’s situation is not as dire yet, but its larger sub division Pongkhungri and its people now seek medical treatment in phek as place so far away from their own, the don’t enter Burma like they did in the past, at least not as freely. And rightly so; because now roads are filled with Assam rifle Army patrol men. Check post are set up every few meters to regulate underground illegal activities.

                                    SATELLITE IMAGE OF JESSAMI AND  PHEK

Even visits to close places like jessami, which sits on the border of Manipur are regulated. But that doesn’t stop trade because everyone in my town still travel to jessami to buy morie (Burmese) products. And so does my family, because we know that is the place we find cheap blankets, jumbo boxes ( big plastic boxes) and more importantly fermented sweets and sunflower seeds. The shops in jessami are filled with all sorts of electronics, emergency lamps, snacks, footwear, all stacked till they touch the ceiling, all you need to do is ask.

And ask I did, but I learned that on my second trip. I regretted it because the shops were always up to date with the latest trends and more often than not they only introduced experimental products once. If I had asked the first time, the shopkeepers might have magically conjured the mini water boiler I wanted so much.

Getting to this shoppers haven is much more relaxing journey, if you ignore the check post along the way; because every once in a while the river banks along the road, provide much needed calm for a tea stop. And the roads are not so terrible just a little narrow and bumpy.

As my cousin would put it,

 “You won’t die from that height; there are trees below and the river’s pretty shallow.

If you want a taste of death try driving to thewati”

What brought on this comment was his trip to thewati a small area under Pongkhungri, a few hundred kilometers from Avankhu. He was on election duty as were ten other people, and thanks to digitization of voting system, two huge EVM machines added to their already heavy luggage.  As expected the vehicle carrying the election party could only go as far as the man made road went, halfway through they had to get off and wait for the villagers to arrive.

 Even though the villagers carried most of their luggage, the town bred men on election duty found it hard to keep up with the nimble villagers who were so used to climbing the rocky hills; the army personnel from the plains were worst off as they found it hard to carry even their guns, or at least that was what it seemed like from the video my cousin sent me.

Tired men were not all he captured as from the top of the hill; he got the view of old thewati and the endless mountain range. He told me about the plants that grew on the mountain, how pine forest mixed with alder trees and how wild orchids bloomed on those trees. His stories did not end there; he talked extensively about the people and how language travelled. It was shocking revelation that the older population still spoke Angami, because the primary language used in that area was pochuri. So finding a local speaking fluent Angami and even recognizing his accent to be from Khonoma was the highlight of his stories.

My own journey to Avankhu started with the story of the old woman, my cousin told me she cried when she spoke to him; that she thought she would never meet someone from Khonoma before her death. The old lady probably visited the Mao hills as a girl or perhaps she encountered some Angami underground, but her story reminded me of AZ phizo’s last day in Khonoma.

My mother said she heard the story from her mother; that on his last day he asked my great grandmother, his cousin to cook him a meal “uramia ga”.it is said that the meal consisted of vegetables from great grandmother’s garden. Another part of the story goes that for the last time he washed at the village well, and that he saved the last bit of soap for the next person. Because That night a few associates snuck him out of Nagaland to Pakistan and then London; he secretly visited Nagaland many times but at the end he breathed his last in London.

The story goes that he died in regret because he could never see his homeland. My character was also supposed to be someone looking for his homeland, so I imagined over and over again what his reaction would be when he entered Avankhu. But there was only so much I could write from the stories I had heard and each person gave his/ her own version of the story.

So the second part of my journey began, it would not be the stories my cousin told me, or the stories passed from my grandfather. It would be the Avankhu I saw with my own eyes.

Uncertainties aside I was afraid I would be disappointed, that the place was not as I imagined. Over the years I had constructed and image of Avankhu. It was the meeting point of two countries so I imagined I could see Myanmar on the other side when I looked from Nagaland.

Or the Avankhu after the first rain, after all dust had been washed away, the mountains would be covered with green grass, like in the stories.

Then there was barren Avankhu, when all the grass would dry up and the mountains would be colored the shade of the setting sun.

                                       ELECTION PARTY EN ROUTE OLD THEWATI

The Avankhu I saw was neither, it poured the whole night before the appointed day. By morning the roads were muddy and there was fear of landslides. Extra ration of biscuits, water and blankets were prepared in case we got stranded. While my cousins prepared for the worst, I prayed that our trip not be cancelled. Luckily it wasn’t, but we moved out very late because mist had risen from the river, covering out vision in a blanket of white. If we weren’t careful the boleros engine would stall from the cold.

Once there was enough visibility we went full throttle, the first part of the journey was nothing special, just the usual pine forest mixed with the smell of the misty mountains. But once we descended into thewati the scenery changed, though we couldn’t see too much because it was so late. We spent the night at a guest house run by the village and unlike other trips we did not stop at Shilloi Lake but went straight to Waziho.

Because we knew we had a trek coming, we gave ourselves time to unwind at new thewati, that evening I tried looking for the old lady my cousin mentioned; I never found her. But I later learned that she was from old thewati and I had just missed her because we in such a hurry. Ironic because once we got close to old thewati we had slowed down, because that was where we got off the vehicle, to continue on foot.

The villagers were kind enough to help us with our things, but in the midst of panting and trying not to fall off the steep rocky path, I forgot to ask about the old lady.  If I look back, most of the time I was trying not to fall into the ravine or roll down the mountain.

In the end I never saw Avankhu; it started pouring before we could enter old thewati. To comfort me our guide pointed to one of the mountain range on the right, he said

“It’s there, just beyond those mountains, it’s not very far so you can visit next time”

i remember how cheated I felt, when he said it was just a few mountains away. All I could see thought the pouring rain, was bits of green and curly mountains.

By the time the rain stopped the whole mountain range got enveloped in a thick blanket of fog. Like the legend of that place, It was the mountain god telling me to go back. Perhaps I was not ready to face Avankhu, maybe I will this year as I have another trip planned. And if the mountain god permits, i will take the path to Avankhu, the village which sits between two countries.

Quest on the violet line

Travelling on the metro is like an MMO RPG (Massively multiplayer online role-playing games), or at least that’s what it feels like in my opinion. 

6^th September 2018, we were to meet at gate number seven and take a long three hour trip. As a regular commuter nothing seemed new, it was just a repetition of my daily routine except this time it was in a designated class trip. Were asked to do two things observe and take notes. As easy as it seems, I found out incidents are hard to come by when you travel in a big group, not that I wanted any, thought it would add more colour to my work.  That’s not to say there was nothing to write about, sure the escalator incident was interesting but I neither have the eloquence or imagination to write a 1500 piece about an escalator which stopped in the middle of its operation. But Of course the escalator incident did not go wasted. Watching people get off the escalator made me want to write about how order is restored when people get on an escalator and how this order is broken when they get off the escalator.

And here I am writing about an MMO RPG. The thought didn’t come immediately it gradually crept into my mind as I  got bored observing … now I can say for sure what we did on the 6^th of September was definitely a quest.  The basic of an MMO RPG is its multiplayer online platform where players can assume the role of a character, often in a fantasy or science fiction world. That being said the trip on the metro definitely resembled a fantasy RPG. The professor being the guild master handing out quest and giving tutorials at gate number seven, to the player registration at the security check.

I usually make a joke when travelling with friends, saying, “See you on the other side” I do that when I swipe my card first at the gate. At first it was just a joke; but when I travelled with the sole purpose of observing, the gates seemed almost scary. Once you exit the gate you can see your friend on the other side but you are unable to exit through the same gate if you so wish to return; much like an MMO RPG where you can observe the status of a friend or someone in your guild, to see whether that person is online or not. The MMO RPG being less scary as you are allowed to exit the way you came in.

To me swiping the card at the gate is a sign that a player has logged in, what comes after the gate is the server or the World Wide Web where all players gather. Before we actually started we were given the mandatory tutorial and the main quest, the quest being “observe and write a 1500 blog piece”. Our game master/ guild master played the role of the silent guide as we embarked on this quest, only speaking when necessary. The first obstacle was getting all the guild members on the same channel, which is across the gates and on the other side. Once everyone was safely across we had the option of manually crossing to the new land by taking the stairs or teleporting by getting on the escalator, I chose the latter though I faced another problem, a bug, the elusive leaking ceiling but I was able to clear that level safety with my guild members .

The second phase was following the map, in our case the violet line. That was where our real quest would start though not before facing the first boss. 

The violet line was pretty easy to spot and everything seemed to be moving smoothly, but suddenly the escalator taking us underground halted midway almost throwing us off, that was the first boss, the first encounter and something I don’t like to remember because I don’t like heights and the escalator stopping definitely gave me a scare; after that I decided to stay away from teleporting escalators and travel manually, at least till I got to the first destination, three of my guild members probably  shared my sentiment and we climbed down manually just to be safe.

I don’t know about most people but to me getting on the metro is one of the most crucial points, I consider this the climax. The climax because the commuters have overcomed the danger of getting their leg stuck in the small gap between the platform and the metro. And I don’t know how many people observed but on our particular quest only three people including me looked down to see if they had safety crossed the gap. If you think about it the gap is more dangerous than we can imagine, it is an endless black hole where light cannot penetrate and once you get stuck you can say bye bye to your leg. But it’s not all that bad, I for one felt like I had crossed worlds by overcoming this gap, a feat I forget in my monotonous routine.

But going back to the quest, the guild members split up once we got on the silver bullet, I call it that because it’s mostly silver inside as is most of the other metros in Delhi. I was also lucky enough to find a seat, a rarity because the silver bullet is mostly pack with adventurers during rush hour. If I were to compare the metro to a place in the MMO world it would be a guild, the place where time stops once you close the doors, a place where people are constantly getting in and getting off. A place where you can gather information and meet new people. Thus the silver bullet was the perfect place for us to proceed with the quest of observing, I sat down with a guild member and started talking about my adventures while the others moved to other compartments to continue observing.

While I said the metro resembled a guild if you look at another angle it also resembles a town, a place with many gates to other worlds. My quest allowed me to view new lands through its windows, sometimes it was underground, and more than half of the time it moved above the city. Many strangely shaped buildings flashed by so did green military tents and even a small hill. But you can only stay so long in one place, once we reached the last destination, something I almost missed because of day dreaming, our game master/ guild master gave us the second part of the quest, “to go back to the place we started at by once again travelling on the violet line”. Let me tell you we were in the last leg, our energy had steadily run out and the journey back was mostly us looking for some food, too bad we couldn’t find any.

The ride back was a countdown, it started at thirty two, thirty one, thirty… with each station the light on the map turned green.  It was like clearing levels in a dungeon ,the map indicated the number of floors and the green light signalled the number of floors the players had cleared. Some of my co passengers were luckier as they got off at twenty or at least that’s what I liked to imagine. Then there was also the guy in the stripped blue shirt who rode all the way the last station, almost missing his stop because he had dozed off; luckily it was the last stop and the end of our adventure.

Getting off would signal the end of our adventure, when we first started I compared or journey to a quest an adventure in a fantasy MMO RPG, when we dispersed the similarities would end. Unlike single or multiplayer games MMO RPG allows multiple users to interact on various platforms, much like the metro which allows people living all over Delhi to come together willingly or unwillingly. Though I wouldn’t say the metro is amazing, there are still other means of transportation, but one cannot deny its connectivity, like an earthworm it burrows its way across the city connecting different people. The irony is that like an online game where players around the world come together, as a human living in a big metropolitan city what happens to the next person is something I will never know. Like the guy in the striped shirt travelling thirty two stations with me, he will just be the guy who sat across me on 6^th September and I will probably be remembered as the girl who sat across him or he may not remember at all. In the end it does not matter because once I swipe my card I can log off and so can the guy in the striped shirt.