The Kohima we grew up in — where nobody grieved alone

Before the cars wake up and turn you into a stranger.

This was a thought that came to me at pre-dawn when I looked out of my window and saw the very peaceful sight of my hometown in the morning fog. It was early enough and the only sound on the streets was a camper hurtling past on empty streets. After that, it was quiet again. The neighbourhood rooster had not woken yet. I blessed my sleeping town and kept watch at the window.

I grew up in Kohima in the Sixties and Seventies. It was very different from the Kohima of today. There were far fewer cars, for one. My brother and I memorised the registration numbers of all the cars in town, and we knew all their owners. That should give you a clue. Even in the Sixties, Kohima was still recovering from the war that had been fought here, catapulting our little town into a place in history that would refer to the Battle of Kohima as “The forgotten war”.

But the town itself grew rapidly as though it was determined not to be forgotten. The resilient nature of the inhabitants was visible in the way they rebuilt their bombed town and ushered in normal life as quickly as possible. After the dead were buried, the solitary school was reopened, shops and their businesses were restored and farmers planted the grain seed that the government had supplied to them. The following years saw additional schools established and the student community quickly became a visible part of town. Every weekday morning, youngsters in their uniforms of navy blue skirts or pants teamed with a white shirt and blue tie would climb up the Mission Road to one of the first schools that had come to supplant the American Mission School. Office workers walked to work. It was rare to see an officer driving to work, one reason being that very few senior officers were entitled to government vehicles. A few families owned cars. These they brought out on Sunday afternoons to go for drives in the country. It was a very safe town where my siblings and I could walk to our grandfather’s house, two kilometres away, without a grown up escorting us.

The Kohima we grew up in was a happening place. There was music — good music — and young people dressed fashionably. In the Seventies, girls could be seen wearing dresses with brightly patterned flower prints and beads and sandals as accessories. Boys sported bell bottoms with very wide bottoms redefining the idea of bell. Young people quickly caught on to what was trending in the big cities, and were soon displaying it themselves. The social life of the town gravitated around a place called the Ruby Cinema Hall which showed English movies and some Hindi movies. It doubled as a venue for flower shows, baby shows, inter-school variety evenings, and rock concerts for the budding music bands in town. The bands played Beatles songs, the Beach Boys, the Hollies, Herman’s Hermits as well as the Monkees, and songs of the Australian band, the Seekers. (No Dylan, though. I guess he was too aberrant for young ears). If there were no events happening at the Ruby Hall, people could always catch an exciting football match at the ground nearby. Football games and wrestling matches were the other activities that people were passionate about. Football attracted all ages. My grandfather, who had been a good player in his youth, attended every match until he no longer could. Wrestling was a spring event, taking place in the new year and attracting a primarily male audience. It was a time when many spectators from neighbouring villages descended on the town to cheer their village wrestlers.

I always remember Kohima as a town with an abiding sense of community. People came together to celebrate weddings and Christmases and New Years. They also gathered at funerals to help bereaved families mourn their losses. No one was allowed to grieve alone. No one could escape celebrating a significant event of life by themselves. That is the real Kohima for me – the Kohima that lives in my head and attempts to manifest itself in the pre-dawn hours before any life stirs. It is then that I hear the night insects retreat. It is then that the nocturnal dew clinging to roofs and windows slowly evaporates and leaves wet glass behind. It is then that the real Kohima stands up and lingers for delicious minutes as though waiting to reassure souls like mine that it is still around, if we would take the trouble to wake early enough.

If we should meet on some random afternoon, in some random city and I say to you, do come to Kohima, remember it is an invitation to the Kohima in my head, and when you do make it, don’t look around you, don’t complain about the traffic. None of that really exists. Instead, take back with you the memory of the real Kohima as I have painted it today.

Kire is a Naga poet and author based in Norway