The Last Free Naga: An excerpt

Editor’s note: What does freedom really mean? In The Last Free Naga, a poignant collection of 12 short stories, author Jim Wungramyao Kasom takes us through life in Manipur during the conflict-ridden years of the ’90s and beyond. We see tradition and modernity locking horns. We witness the harm caused by militarization and extremism—but also the boundless beauty of the relationship between a land and its people.

In this excerpt from the story ‘What Is Heaven Baking Today’, Kasom paints a heartbreaking portrait of an elderly woman who has lost her son to the conflict, and the impact he’s left behind on all those around him. The Last Free Naga has been excerpted with permission from Speaking Tiger Books. 

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And people in the room could hear her mind. She couldn’t fathom why God made her outlive her son. In her eyes, he was still a child. She scolded her son for leaving without her permission. Then she narrated my uncle Hormi’s dream to herself and left other mourners wanting more details. ‘Do you remember that dream you told me? I should have listened more closely,’ she mourned.

After a couple of days, we received a week-old newspaper from a relative in Ukhrul. A small article marked with an orange sketch pen was on the first page. Assam Rifles raided NSCN-IM camp in Tamenglong District, killing two, read the headline. To our relief, no black-and-white photos of mangled bodies appeared in the report. Insurgency news was front page material. In Ukhrul town, people gossiped at tea stalls over every small crumb of news regarding the Naga national movement. There were talks of a cease-fire between NSCN-IM and the Indian government, but that had not come to fruition.

Grandmother wanted to know who the other person was. For days, she enquired about the other man who died with Uncle Hormi. Have the family got the news? Was he married? Did they try to save each other and end up dead? The other person became her obsession and in a sense that kept her from drowning in sorrow.

Uncle Hormi remained alive in the stories passed among families, friends, and acquaintances in Dimapur, Kohima, Imphal, and Ukhrul. One host in Dimapur, where he often sojourned, told my grandmother that Hormi seemed to know his end was coming. He often spent time in prayers. One relative in Kohima, who saw him for the last time, remembered him in fine spirits. My grandmother pieced all of these stories and adored them just as fondly as if they were her own. 

One day, an acquaintance travelled from Imphal and returned with a VIP briefcase that belonged to Uncle Hormi—packed with photo albums, a couple of clothes, and a leather-bound New King James Version Bible—unlocking memories and secrets from the past. My grandmother saw the photo of her son’s girlfriend for the first time. In the picture, they stood side by side as though they were too shy to hold hands or stand closer. Her hair was long, and she had high bangs. She looked beautiful and young in a floral dress. The son looked happy that deceived even his straight face. She had given her blessing for their marriage even though she had not seen the girl’s face then. She regretted not knowing her well enough to grieve together.

On days when all the able-bodied adults had gone to the paddy field and the little ones sent to school, she often watched the kitchen door and imagined her son casually walking in. All this fuss could be a case of mistaken identity. She was willing to let her imagination take on whimsical wings for as long as she could make it last. Of course, we couldn’t bring the body home immediately.

I heard that my grandmother cried a river on the day the Indian government and NSCN-IM signed the ceasefire agreement in 1997. I heard it over the radio on the 6 p.m. AIR Tangkhul news at my aunt’s place in Ukhrul. When I returned home during the winter break, I could still see the regret on her face because of what could have been. If he had been alive, he wouldn’t have to come home through the backdoor at night and leave again to spend the night on a tree in the forest. He wouldn’t have to worry about staying invisible at all times.

My grandmother regaled us with stories of the last time he spent his days at home as a free man. My uncle had apprised the family and kin about his decision to join the Naga national movement, and the family had prayed for him. Grandmother had cried for him then—not for his youth or life—but the freedom he was trading for his ideals. He didn’t make a big fuss about it, even though he knew things were never going to be the same after what seemed to be just another summer break.

She then recalled the last time she heard her son’s voice. With no phone in the village, meeting in person was their only form of communication. He was then stationed in Dimapur, and had come for a short visit. On the last day of his stay, he told her about a girl he was seeing. She insisted her other sons marry within their tribe, but she understood his situation. He lived a wandering life, and to put up with that was a sacrifice too big to ask of anyone. She was happy that he wasn’t alone anymore.

Initially, my grandmother kept my uncle’s belongings in her bamboo basket. Later, she distributed the clothes to her sons and kept the photo album for herself. She would often unwrap the photo album and go over each page, alone or with anyone willing to partake. It was as if she was trying to keep her son’s memory alive.

In 2003, she was in her early eighties and beginning to show signs of dementia. At first, she misplaced things, and later struggled to remember names. Even then, she remembered Uncle Hormi clear as daylight. We were not sure if the pain of the loss had anything to do with her dementia, but we knew that bringing Uncle Hormi home would give some closure and ease her mind.

In the winter of 2003, my father, his two brothers, an elder from the clan, and a driver, accompanied by someone familiar with the topography of the place, made the journey to retrieve Uncle Hormi’s body. On paper, the ceasefire agreement between NSCN IM and the Indian government was still in place, but shootouts and encounters were common occurrences. It was always a dangerous proposition when the business involved NSCN-IM, dead or alive. The decade-long Naga-Kuki feud was beginning to cool down.

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Read The Last Free Naga, excerpted here with permission from Speaking Tiger Books.