They had cordoned off the road to my hotel in Imphal because it was flooded but the soldiers let us through when my escort, a young Meitei computer engineer, interceded. “It’s all right if you are an outsider,” he said simply, with no trace of rancour, “but if you are a local, you get a thappar!”
No wonder they have pejorative words for outsiders like the Khasi dkhar or Garo bangal. Sometimes — as in Meghalaya — outsiders return the compliment. A senior central bureaucrat is unconsciously insulting — or plays the rebel game! — as he speaks of Nagas and Indians.
The faux pas and the distance it implies between “us” and “them” can be blamed on Verrier Elwin, the distinguished British anthropologist and missionary who was Jawaharlal Nehru’s trusted adviser on all tribal matters. His proposal for maintaining the sanctity of the old North-East Frontier Agency, or NEFA, by keeping out others fitted in well with the concept of unity in diversity that was Nehru’s catch phrase. It became official policy, and, in theory at least, applies to the Seven Sisters and Sikkim, together accounting for about 39 million people who send 26 MPs to New Delhi.
The time has come to take a new look at a formula that has lost its meaning and now serves only vested interests. It paves the way for greater encroachment and exploitation. Nothing can be more exciting and inspiring than a vigorous tribal identity in the full flower of cultural blossoming. But little of the pride of Rousseau’s Noble Savage is left after Mumbai films, television and small-time Marwari traders have taken their toll. Electioneering exposes the loss of innocence. Nor does Elwin’s philosophy prevent insidious immigration, especially from Bangladesh.
Officially, entry into Nagaland is still controlled by the Inner Line Permit, dating back to the Eastern Bengal Frontier Regulation of 1873. Only Shillong’s four or five so-called European wards where customary law is not applicable allow outsiders to own houses or business establishments.
The British also withdrew small pockets of the Khasi Hills from the jurisdiction of the traditional authorities. Outsiders who wish to trade in the Garo Hills must pay a fee and obtain a licence.
In one way or another, Mizoram, Arunachal Pradesh, Tripura and Sikkim are supposed to be closed to outsiders.
Protection encouraged clandestine links with Burmese guerrillas and China’s Peoples Liberation Army.
The region is also the stamping ground of unscrupulous migrants from all over the subcontinent. The influences they have brought are far removed from Elwin’s idyll. Slums crawl haphazard up the hillside. Boys and girls sit hunched for hours in dingy cyber cafes playing computer games. Jeans and tops are more popular than tribal robes.
As you drive from Guwahati to Shillong, one liquor shop follows another for mile after mile in Meghalaya’s Ri Bhoi district on the right before the clumps of pineapple start climbing vertically.
Many shops sport fancy names, Meadow Green and Valley Wines, but they are all made of matting or corrugated tin and all look seedy. Meghalaya has lower excise. “It’s the only tax they pay willingly” is a New Delhi-based official’s comment.
Only one sign of campaigning during that three-hour drive. A jeep flying the Congress flag speeds past, a laughing chattering family bursting over its sides. I suspect the election is only an excuse for an outing in someone else’s vehicle.
Exclusion worked in British times. The tribes preferred British paternalism to the impersonal administration of later Indian officials.
“First came the British and we were loyal to them,” I once heard a Naga headman say when welcoming a high official. “Then came the Indians, and they did not treat us fairly.” If he was a loyal headman, I wondered, what would the disloyal ones say.
The tribes were content then to maintain their traditional rhythms in the tranquillity of the hills. They had not learnt to wave the flag of secession to extract advantages. Plainsmen were not so pushed for space or hungry for economic opportunity. Bangladeshis did not spill across an artificial border. My Imphal driver is a Muslim. From Bangladesh? “That’s what Grandad says,” he grins, “but I’m Manipuri.”
Above all, the insidiously corrupting electoral mechanism with its promise of fortunes to be made had not reached out like a giant octopus into the most remote corners of the land.
To be concluded
