The Hindu Business Line : The hills go on forever

Mizoram is not a place to go with a set agenda of visiting this park and that museum. Rather, it is more than rewarding to just unwind in the midst of the cool greenery, and soak up the feel of the region.

A panoramic view of Aizawl.

The idea of visiting Mizoram had been with us for quite a while. After hearing and reading so much about this quaint little hill State, one of India's easternmost frontiers, we were now ready to go for it.

To enter some of the north-eastern States, (like Mizoram, Arunachal Pradesh or Tripura), one has to obtain a travel document called the `Inner Line Permit' issued by the Government of the respective States. In the case of Mizoram, you can get this from the Mizoram House at New Delhi, Kolkata or Guwahati. Once that was put in place, we immediately left for Shillong, the capital of Meghalaya.

Our plan was to have a brief tour of Shillong and then catch a night bus to Aizawl, the capital of Mizoram. As we found out, there is no railway in this sector, and it's an 18-hour drive to Aizawl, but that is no reason to be put off.

En route, we came across some of the most exotic landscapes in the country. Not just that, it's a continuously changing culture-scape from the Khasi hills to Jaintia hills and so on. The Khasi, Jaintia and Caro are the three hill districts of Meghalaya and the tribal people inhabiting these districts are known by the same names. It was nearly nightfall by the time we reached Jaintia hills in east Meghalaya, and the full moon cast its silvery spell on the landscape for the rest of our ride. In the wee hours of the morning, we re-entered Assam at Silchar. The Assam-Mizoram border at Vairange is a couple of hours from here. After our Inner Line Permits were checked, we continued our journey into the Mizo territory.

It was six in the morning and the air was crisp and cool. The lush green hills, covered with bamboo forests, and the orchids in many shades of white, yellow and pink in full bloom, added a dash of colour to the otherwise evenly green landscape, and make for a wonderful sight. The drive through these winding roads and the uninhabited territory was exhilarating, and apart from the occasional vehicle that passed by, the silence was broken by nothing else but the rustle of the wind, the insects or the distant mountain stream.

We stopped at a little hamlet for tea and breakfast. Local people in this hamlet ran small restaurants, which stood on stilts. The sun is up much sooner in these parts, and so the people here were already well into their day. The food that was available here — rice, dal and a side dish of dried fish and vegetables — made for a sumptuous early lunch. Little shops dot the road and when one looked around for a moisturiser, it was rather surprising to find a host of Thai brands than the popular brands from mainland India in this far off corner, which otherwise appears difficult to access!

Most Mizos belong to the Lushai tribe (the region was earlier called `Lushai hills', a southern branch of the Himalayas), though there are other tribes as well. They belong to the Sino-Siamese stock and are believed to have migrated to the present habitat between the 17th and 18th centuries from upper Burma. When we got within a few kilometres of Aizawl, little houses on stilts began to appear. One could not help marvelling at the way these little houses stood their ground. With the road on the front side, the back portion was supported only by bamboo stilts that were stuck deep into the ground, into the steep slope of the hills. Its delicate balance could make you sit up and glance back at it till your neck hurt. But the women working inside the houses carried on with their chores, oblivious to what any visitor would naturally find worrying. It was their home, after all.

A Mizo shopkeeper

The town of Aizawl is, literally, perched on the hill. For visitors like us, who knew nothing of the bus routes, you either walked or took a taxi. The taxi drivers are polite and smart in their shorts and Mizo hats — but no bargaining, please. The tourist lodge, where we checked in, was a clean and neat place, located at a quiet spot, and served Indian and Chinese on the menu.

We decided not to make this a `conducted-tour' kind of trip, so we made no agenda for the next day. Instead, it seemed a good idea to simply stroll down the streets, look through shops, taste local specialties at the restaurant, talk to people, hover around music shops and get a feel of the place.

Life here goes on at an easy pace. Nobody seemed to be in too much of a hurry. Young girls with their straight, silky hair thrown over their shoulders walked down the slopes gracefully, looking just as smart in their traditional outfits (the `pwan' which is worn like a lungi, comes in rich colours with intricately embroidered floral motifs; and is warn with a blouse) as in western wear. The people were polite and helpful and one could easily get by with English, at least in Aizawl.

Shop windows displayed the rich and colourful textiles of Mizoram. One could see local fabric being used to create a variety of apparel, a move to popularise the traditional handloom. Along both sides of the narrow alleys, shops sold all kinds of wares — cosmetics, bags, footwear, umbrellas, mosquito nets of lace, and what not — a good deal of them made in Thailand. The long line of traffic on the main road waited patiently for the signal, but not a single horn blared. There was certainly a lot of activity happening on the main street, but all tempered with some sort of order and discipline rather than noise and disorder. A walk through the residential areas was just as pleasing; nearly every house had a pretty garden with colourful Easter lilies in full bloom. Country churches, big and small, dot the landscape of Aizawl.

Most of Mizoram embraced Christianity after the Baptist missionaries worked here for several decades. Music is the life and soul of the Mizos. You can see young people walking around with their trademark guitars in the evening, going off for practice somewhere, or just sitting around, strumming and singing along with their friends. Mizo choirs are famous all over the country. They practise round the year, but really come to life during Christmas and Easter.

By evening, boys and girls were gathering for the evening's choir practice at the church near our guesthouse. We made our way into the church and spent a quiet time listening to the voices in harmony. The sun setting behind the hills, visible through the windows of the church, formed a perfect backdrop. The sunset itself is permanently etched in our memories. It could have made a person reflective or melancholic or just wonder at nature's glory. You can clearly see life slowly coming to a halt at the end of the day. People making their way back home, and silence descending.

Sandwiched, as we were, between Myanmar on the east and Bangladesh and the Chittagong hill tracts of Bangladesh in the south and west, it was refreshingly different to be in this corner of our country. There is no concept of nightlife here and, once again, it was the rustle of the leaves and the sound of rain. The next time around, we promised ourselves, we would visit the other two districts of Mizoram — Lunglai and Champai, which was still deeper into the hills.

This is not a place to go with a set agenda of visiting this park and that museum. Rather, it is more than rewarding to just unwind in the midst of the cool greenery, spend some time talking to these polite and friendly people, and feel the pulse of this gentle place. It simply puts you at peace with yourself and the world.

At the newly constructed Lengpuii airport, we couldn't see much of a runway in sight beyond the square black tarmac. In this land of never ending rolling hills and thick bamboo forests, how could you find a level patch for a runway? But the flight took off with no trouble, whatsoever.

Now we could see the expanse of green rolling hills from above, the clouds casting a velvety effect of light and shade. The view was getting more and more distant. In just 20 minutes, we would land at Imphal, Manipur — and that would be another story.

Picture by the author

Article E-Mail :: Comment :: Syndication

Stories in this Section
Touch wood

Not just aesthetics

The sky is the limit

Testing times in the air

Health awareness at a click

The cosmopolitan manager

Oh, for that hearty laugh!

The hills go on forever

A walk in the clouds

The music of life