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The Spirit of Wakchingee Nong

by NIMAI NINGTHOUJAM
M.A. (History)
Delhi University

The vigorous thirsty rain of June overflowing the rivulets, swallowing everything inside it...

...or is it the rain who, like the mournful lady oozes out tears every time at the slightest provocation. Or like a person suffering from a serious bouts of dysentry. No! Then what? A life giving rain that brings respite from the intense cold of winter, a drizzle that wash away the dust of life, heralding the coming of the spring. This is "Wakchingee Nong", a scion of Philosophy that goes into the making of Manipur, perhaps an established relationship between nature and the 'land'.

From 10.00 am to 2.30 pm, a long interminable one, which added to my exasperation. To some extent stems from the worries of symbolism being abandoned for philosophy. Every time I went in to check out whether the show had started, I only came out cursing at their utter unpunctuality and a lack of sense of involvement. Tagore Hall is empty but for the DJ who showed indefatigable stamina right from the morning tapping to the tune of his choice of songs. I am rather sceptical whether he will ever make up his mind gain to go for a programme 'Manipuris'.

The mouse ran up the clock and the clock struct three. By then, the seats which were hitherto disowned, were occupied slowly but silently one after another, dovetailing with the gradual progression of the programme. The traditional dances of Manipur with the graceful movements symbolic of how the world was brought into being by Atiya Guru Sidaba, the eternal immutable One, preparing the ground for proliferation of activities thereafter. It brings reminiscence of younger days when I watched the dance with curiosity, with a faint idea that something important has been worked out. A model, which has been used, time and again where history draws from as well as lends credence to myth. A delirious mode of relaying 2000 years of history in 20 minutes, hats off to the artiste and the art itself.

Drumming up the mood was the traditional drum (mridanga) player whose scintillating performance invites immense clapping. I watched him in rapt attention, like a person who is attending the ritual ceremony held for the purpose of creating the earth, only to be brought back to my senses by the sudden outburst of dance by a Bharatnatyam dancer, who ran out from nowhere, strut his stuff in the tune of the would - be immortal number 'Vande Mataram' by Lata. The deliciously fashioned words made him jump without much artistic movement in sheer happiness. I was taken by surprise and was left floundering at my seat. Feverish!

In a country like India where various priorities struggle for primacy, the juxtapositioning of the two which perhaps derives from the incluctable predilections seem not an inconsequential aberration. 1949 (and after) and before, where 33 AD stood at the other end, a cleavage which I love to look into. The Brahminical ideologies (avoiding the term 'Hinduism' which I find difficult to employ) cakewalked into the local Manipuri culture and ultimately find it's fruition in the first half of the 18th century. The notion of transmigration of soul and life after death which find manifestations in songs like 'sou saal pehle mujhe tumse pyar tha, aaj bhi hai aur kal bhi rahega' also seeped in insidiously giving birth to the notion of caste order, who is a bastard. The form of history writing which traced the ancestry of Manipuris to Brabubahana (son of Arjun) is therefore, a direct corollary of this development.

Worse still is the dichotomy, which metamorphosize into thin end of the wedge, and a mistrust so deep that we here in Delhi have towards the metres fitted in the taxis, within the society which is implicitly visible in today's gathering. The differences are laboriously worked out in a hurry because legitimacy had to be established, and the similarities are swept under the carpet if not washed away in the congeal morass of hope disregarding the myths and traditions circulating till today. Therefore writing of history is left much to be desired necessitating a thorough reappraisal by counter-posing various sets of questions.

And the show goes on. The hall was packed by now as if Julia Robert were performing. But no, it was Mr. Asia Bhakta Kumar and the Rock show that followed it, they gleefully anticipated. The subject of profound interest, which influence the youths in Manipur over the last two-three decades. For some inscrutable reason, the much divided Manipuri society was united and gathered in large number in these two occasions. Perhaps, because this gives them an opportunity to break free, to free themselves from the harsh reality of the society they live in. To some extent love for freedom! If Wakchingee nong comes every year with its message of hope and oneness, I am hopeful of it bringing a new lease of life in our much-fractured society. This is what I feel today.

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