Author:
Jibon Krishna Goswami
Translator:
Manjeet Baruah (from Assamese)
Publisher:
Oxford University PressPages: 238Price: 695/-
The Book
Review, Vol. XLI, No. 3, March 2017, p. 74.
The idea of
a novel based on a no man's land, a stretch of land between two nation states,
can quickly draw the attention of the reader for it instantly hints at a
possible political conflict situation. But Remains of Spring: A Naga Village in
the No Man’s Land (2016) by Jibon Krishna Goswami is more than the story of a
village caught in a war-like situation that prevails everyday. It powerfully
portrays the hope of a people to rebuild their homes and their lives again
despite several attempts by adversaries to destroy them. Translated from its
Assamese title Aoleangar Jui (2007) to Remains of Spring by Manjeet Baruah, the
novel questions the politics of space-making or cartography at large. Most of
the action of the story is set in the village of Hoyat, the no man's land that
lie between India and Burma (Myanmar).
The plot
centers around Atanu, an Assamese “Teacher”, who was brought to the village by
Anyam, a “spirited young man full of hope”, to start a school with the hope
that someday their world would change “through the gift of education” (41). But
while Atanu was looked upon as a harbinger of change by the villagers, it was
also for him an escape from his dark past and the “burden of failure”. When
offered to become a teacher in a village nestled in the hills, he “accepted the
beckoning of life” and became “a traveller into the future” (39). The long
journey through the rough terrains became a test for him and the in the end it
was him who learned more about life, love and sacrifice from the people whom he
had hoped to educate. Even the hope of setting a school was dashed as the
Burmese army invaded the village and sets it on fire.The interesting narrative
strategy is supplemented by some forceful stories of other characters that run
parallel to the main plot. For instance, the pure love between the Laipa and
Amung is symbolic of a sacrificial relationship and not so much a romantic one.
Though they could not see the fruition of their love into marriage because of
the brutal reality that Laipa had to undergo despite his innocence and which
also eventually led his death, in their relationship the novelist projects the
enduring love of Amung and pain that the people had to endure only because they
belong in no man's land. In essence, the novel is the story of the people,
their resilient spirit to rise again like the phoenix rising from the ashes. It
was the fourth time, Anyam told Atanu, that the village had been burnt down
completely, but the people do not give up: “Rebuilding their houses and their
village was like a cycle” (93).
The Assamese title Aoleangar Jui, derived from the Konyak Naga Spring festival, is more symbolic to the hope that people look forward to, just like spring rejuvenates nature and signals another cycle of life.However, one may wonder what is in the village that the people would go back to when everything is burnt down. It sounds even irrational. But therein lies a central theme of the novel: land as a symbol of identity. And this is pertinent to every Naga imagination. The attachment to land is time and again brought to the fore by Jibon Krishna Goswami. In fact, the theme that powerfully pulls people's attachment to the village is also woven together with the story of Naga national movement, the undercurrent motif. And Naga nationalism is largely hinged on their desire to free their land from foreign control. The novel finely connects the two themes through a man named Imli Apa. Except for the information that he was a retired intelligence officer in the Naga army, everything else about him is shrouded in mystery. Perhaps, that mystery is also important in the narrative because his story is also the story of the Naga movement.
Each of the characters in the novel stood out powerfully on their own but the image of Imli Apa is an enduring one. The enigma that surrounds Imli Apa is phenomenal. He is like the backbone of the village, the one that unites the people. His farsightedness and wisdom weaves the story of the village together. Atanu could never fully understand the man that he had to conclude at the end in amazement: “when alive or even after death, Imli Apa was truly extraordinary, someone who was always capable of controlling the minds of other people” (229).When Atanu first met him, Imli Apa confronted him with a riddle: “Have you come here to be cut into two pieces?” What rattled Atanu's heart all the more was that the aged man “swung his dao cutting through the air” (77). The imagery of violence in that question was deeply disturbing to the young protagonist. While it took sometime for Atanu to realize that Imli Apa's question was rather a hint that living in no man's land was like being torn between two countries, he also understood the fact that life and death were nothing extraordinary to the people. Death has to be embraced as much as a birth is. Atanu learned this hard reality of life when he confronted those with severe illnesses and the desperation of a people who are denied modern medical facility. His close encounter with the sufferings of Tempu, the autistic brother of Laipa and with whom he also found some psychological semblance, utterly shocked him.Another interesting feature of the novel is the idea of freedom or independence. While it may seem contradictory that the people of Hoyat should go back to rebuild their homes and start their lives again from the scratch, the people see it otherwise: “If there's life, it is only in this No Man's Land. Beyond this, there's only death” (193). Such a projection is not just metaphoric but an assertion of their superiority over those who are under the rule of some undesired government. The reader, at this point, may also find the novelist Jibon Krishna Goswami an interesting personality.
In the author's note, he mentions how the novel was partly his own experience of living in the No Man's Land in the 1990s “as a middle-ranking leader of an armed revolutionary organization of Assam that was fighting to free the state from India” (vii-viii). An interesting insight, perhaps, as an ex-revolutionary [of ULFA], though the story is not his story as “revolutionary” but of the people with whom he had some unforgettable experience.By telling the story of no man's land, the novelist an imaginary boundary line drawn by an external force can change the lives of people who have been living there for ages. The situation is even worsened by the factionalism in the Naga underground organization as the people are compelled to take sides without complete knowledge. Rather than liberating the people, they became suspects from all quarters. And I think this is where the novel strikes a universal theme; that often one becomes a victim of situation not created by the self. Towards that end, the translation by Manjeet Baruah was “to make it available in a language that is widely accessed by people interested in such themes” (xii-xiii). Of late, there also has emerged an interest on studying the Northeastern region of India as a borderland because of its topography. Hopefully this novel will contribute to the engagement of literatures that deal with narrative of space, borderland and frontier studies, as well as studies on resistance literature.
The Assamese title Aoleangar Jui, derived from the Konyak Naga Spring festival, is more symbolic to the hope that people look forward to, just like spring rejuvenates nature and signals another cycle of life.However, one may wonder what is in the village that the people would go back to when everything is burnt down. It sounds even irrational. But therein lies a central theme of the novel: land as a symbol of identity. And this is pertinent to every Naga imagination. The attachment to land is time and again brought to the fore by Jibon Krishna Goswami. In fact, the theme that powerfully pulls people's attachment to the village is also woven together with the story of Naga national movement, the undercurrent motif. And Naga nationalism is largely hinged on their desire to free their land from foreign control. The novel finely connects the two themes through a man named Imli Apa. Except for the information that he was a retired intelligence officer in the Naga army, everything else about him is shrouded in mystery. Perhaps, that mystery is also important in the narrative because his story is also the story of the Naga movement.
Each of the characters in the novel stood out powerfully on their own but the image of Imli Apa is an enduring one. The enigma that surrounds Imli Apa is phenomenal. He is like the backbone of the village, the one that unites the people. His farsightedness and wisdom weaves the story of the village together. Atanu could never fully understand the man that he had to conclude at the end in amazement: “when alive or even after death, Imli Apa was truly extraordinary, someone who was always capable of controlling the minds of other people” (229).When Atanu first met him, Imli Apa confronted him with a riddle: “Have you come here to be cut into two pieces?” What rattled Atanu's heart all the more was that the aged man “swung his dao cutting through the air” (77). The imagery of violence in that question was deeply disturbing to the young protagonist. While it took sometime for Atanu to realize that Imli Apa's question was rather a hint that living in no man's land was like being torn between two countries, he also understood the fact that life and death were nothing extraordinary to the people. Death has to be embraced as much as a birth is. Atanu learned this hard reality of life when he confronted those with severe illnesses and the desperation of a people who are denied modern medical facility. His close encounter with the sufferings of Tempu, the autistic brother of Laipa and with whom he also found some psychological semblance, utterly shocked him.Another interesting feature of the novel is the idea of freedom or independence. While it may seem contradictory that the people of Hoyat should go back to rebuild their homes and start their lives again from the scratch, the people see it otherwise: “If there's life, it is only in this No Man's Land. Beyond this, there's only death” (193). Such a projection is not just metaphoric but an assertion of their superiority over those who are under the rule of some undesired government. The reader, at this point, may also find the novelist Jibon Krishna Goswami an interesting personality.
In the author's note, he mentions how the novel was partly his own experience of living in the No Man's Land in the 1990s “as a middle-ranking leader of an armed revolutionary organization of Assam that was fighting to free the state from India” (vii-viii). An interesting insight, perhaps, as an ex-revolutionary [of ULFA], though the story is not his story as “revolutionary” but of the people with whom he had some unforgettable experience.By telling the story of no man's land, the novelist an imaginary boundary line drawn by an external force can change the lives of people who have been living there for ages. The situation is even worsened by the factionalism in the Naga underground organization as the people are compelled to take sides without complete knowledge. Rather than liberating the people, they became suspects from all quarters. And I think this is where the novel strikes a universal theme; that often one becomes a victim of situation not created by the self. Towards that end, the translation by Manjeet Baruah was “to make it available in a language that is widely accessed by people interested in such themes” (xii-xiii). Of late, there also has emerged an interest on studying the Northeastern region of India as a borderland because of its topography. Hopefully this novel will contribute to the engagement of literatures that deal with narrative of space, borderland and frontier studies, as well as studies on resistance literature.
