Heart and Craft

A man makes it his mission to check erosion in tribal culture

By Teresa Rehman

India’s North-east is like your attic. Not a place you visit very often nor one that gets too much attention. The region is rarely in the news and is at best left to fend for itself, often with disastrous results. Progress here has actually meant the arrival of western detritus. But Mutua Bahadur thinks he can change all that.

What Bahadur has achieved is phenomenal. In a region where cultural erosion is rapid, he has singlehandedly managed to spawn institutions to check that. Manipuri bamboo and cane works, jewellery, pottery, ancient manuscripts, paintings and textiles adorning miniature tribal dolls—there are 6,000 specimens now in his collection. He claims to possess the largest private collection of coins in the North-east with around 4,000 gold, silver and bell-metal coins. He is also the first to collect facsimiles of ancient Manipuri stone inscriptions despite shoe-string finances.

Artist, author, social worker, numismatist and anthropologist all rolled into one, Bahadur is a living encyclopaedia on Manipuri culture. It all started in the 1960s when the cultural identity crisis among tribal groups of Manipur and Nagaland triggered Bahadur’s efforts to identify and restore the traditional customs of the 29 Manipuri tribes. Within five years he produced a five-volume treatise, Tales About the Art and Culture of Manipur—a much sought-after book. This was the take-off point. For in these five years, Bahadur also began collecting cultural icons.

Bahadur’s exotic collection was initially housed in his residence till he established a museum in 1978 on the first floor of a rented building at Imphal. Urged by Kapila Vatsyayan, the then Union additional education secretary who had come to see his collection, he christened it Mutua Museum.

Since its inception, around 20 illustrative books, 20 other projects, several educational charts and slides and video documentation have been undertaken by the Mutua Museum. It has taken part in the restoration of defaced monuments and court mural paintings of Manipur. A major exercise was the setting up of a cultural complex for preservation and promotion of the material heritage of north-east India in 1993 in the village of Andro, 26 km from Imphal, where a “sacred fire” from ancient days burns perpetually. Besides, a “living museum” was established at Purul village in Senapati district to preserve the traditionally carved houses of the tribals.

Trips to the back of beyond have fossilised the antiquarian’s personal life. Bahadur recalls an incident. On his return from a field trip to Tamenglong district for a few weeks he found himself fending objects thrown by his irate wife. He found out why: his house was flooded. Flying utensils aren’t the only threats. Once a tribal chief threatened to kill him for wanting to know the meaning of a tribal work of art.

The trek to the Imphal museum has been arduous. Born in a poor family, Bahadur started by making and selling recycled-paper toys. His father, a Burmese Army soldier who loved travelling, inculcated the spirit of adventure in his son. Though Bahadur never completed his graduation, he is now an examiner for awarding PhDs in Manipuri culture at Manipur University. Recognition has also come in the form of the Special Designer Award in 1972 and the state Kala Academy Award in Folk Arts in 1974.

Bahadur plans to set up a composite complex of the culture of South-East Asia at Andro. Th. Ravikanta Singh, an anthropologist and lecturer and a close associate, echoes his sentiments: “There are many facets of north-east India like pottery and basket making that are similar to those in south-east Asian culture.” Says Bahadur: “It’s an ongoing process and I am dedicating the year 2001 to collecting musical instruments and tribal head-gear ornaments.”

Truth, enthusiasm and discipline are the driving forces that motivate Bahadur. Inaocha Mangang, his companion since 1978 and a graduate from Visvabharati, Santiniketan, sums it all up: “Bahadur himself is a rare specimen who should be preserved in the museum for posterity.”

In a world of neglect and uncertainty it’s nice to believe someone’s still in charge of the past.

‘Why I screamed, rape us, take our flesh’

This piece appeared in Tehelka magazine, in the May 31, 2008 issue.

Laishram Gyaneswari was among the twelve Manipuri mothers who stripped themselves four years ago to shame the Indian Army. TERESA REHMAN meets the iconic protestor

IT’S EARLY HOURS on Imphal’s Nagamapal Road. Fateh Chand Jain, proprietor of the Indo-Myanmar Furniture Shop, is unlocking its wooden shutters. He deflects enquiries about his wife, Ima Laishram Gyaneswari, with a self-effacing wave: “You put your questions to her. I don’t interfere in her matters.” But press him a little more and he speaks with pride of how this 56-year-old Meitei homemaker joined a dozen Manipuri imas, mothers, on July 15, 2004, to lay storm to the Assam Rifles headquarters at Kangla Fort. Stripping naked, they thronged the gates, screaming their outrage at the rape and alleged custodial murder of Thangjam Manorama, a 32-year-old suspected member of the banned People’s Liberation Army. Jain recalls how he didn’t even know what his wife had left the house for that day; it was only in the afternoon that he got to know of the imas’ unprecedented act of protest. “I had an inkling my wife might be involved. She had touched my feet before she left the house, something she usually does when she leaves for something important. But this time she didn’t tell me where she was going.”

“I’m very proud of her. Not everyone can be so brave, isn’t it?” he adds.

Gyaneswari joins us at this point, walking in fresh from prayers at the small temple in the courtyard. A science graduate from Ghana Priya Women’s College, Imphal, she had been an ardent political activist as a student, something she set aside after her marriage when bringing up four children took priority. Yet she remained an active member of the local chapter of the Meira Paibi, the mass-based Meitei women’s human rights movement.

Of enduring anguish was the incendiary Armed Forces (Special Powers) Act, 1958 (AFSPA). “Back in 1960,” Gyaneswari recounts, “some J&K Rifles personnel raped a girl named Chanu Rose; she committed suicide afterwards. Ever since then, there have been several incidents of molestation, rape and torture by army men; even pregnant women were not spared. All these pained me deeply.” Then there were the many young people taken away by army personnel, never to be seen again. “I know of many mothers who have gone insane after their sons and daughters disappeared.”

Thangjam Manorama was one of those taken into the security forces’ custody, never to return. She was arrested on July 11, 2004. Her body was found the next day, dumped near her home, branded with marks of rape and torture. “Our Meira Paibi members saw her body being brought to the Regional Institute of Medical Science for the post-mortem, and they spread word of the incident. I was heart-broken when I heard. If this is what lies ahead for the young girls of Manipur, what will become of our community? We had to rise up to protect our girls,” says Gyaneswari.

On July 12, 2004, 32 local organisations came together in a conglomeration called Apunba Lup, to launch a movement to demand the AFSPA be repealed. But Gyaneswari and her associates felt this was not enough. Gathering for a closed-door meeting on July 13, they debated alternative ways of confronting the situation. “What emerged in our discussion was the feeling that we, the women of Manipur, were virtually naked — we were always insecure, forever at risk of molestation by the security forces. Why then should we not walk in the streets naked, what clearer protest could we make to teach a lesson not just to the security forces here but to the whole world?”

One hundred women were to congregate at Kangla Fort. Gyaneswari left home at 6 in the morning. “I touched my husband’s feet before I left,” she says. “In my mind, I

Outrage: The July 15,2004, protest outside the Assam Rifles headquarters asked him to forgive me because I was going to do something very crucial and I couldn’t possibly tell him about it.” By the time she reached the gates of Kangla Fort, 30 women had assembled there; 10 more trickled by a little later. While these were nowhere near the numbers that had been hoped for, time was getting on. “We felt that if we delayed, the security forces might get suspicious and impose a curfew,” explains Gyaneswari. Steeling themselves to make a rush on the gate, the protestors did not realise that there were finally only 12 of them. “I did not count the number of women then. I had no awareness of anything. I was in my own world, shouting slogans, screaming at the Indian Army to rape us, take our flesh. All that filled my mind was the image of Manorama’s corpse,” she recalls.

The imas met the men of the Assam Rifles unit with fire in their hearts, Gyaneswari says. “It was the culmination of the rage and agony we had harboured for years. We challenged them to come out and rape us before everyone. We demanded they tell us what they were stationed here for: to protect our people or to rape our women.”

Returning home that day, Gyaneswari says she was apprehensive of how her family would react. “I was scared,” she smiles as she cuddles her grandchild, “I had not sought my husband’s permission. But he told me that I had done the right thing as whatever I had done was for the women of Manipur.” Her mother, Laishram Gambhini, and her four children all felt stirred by her courage. Says her elder daughter Girija, “My mother has inspired us to do something for our women. My mother’s willpower is very strong. I have never seen her weak or breaking down. She can face anything alone.”

FOUR YEARS later, does Ima Gyaneswari feel any change after that day of radical protest? “I do feel the armed forces are more cautious while dealing with women now. The acts of molestation, rape and torture have come down. But the inhuman crimes committed under the AFSPA’S cover persist. Anybody can still be arrested or killed without explanation.”

She is also surprised at the apathy of both the Central and the state governments to the Manipuri mothers’ courageous protest. “The indifference of the government is really distressing. They are behaving as if they had neither seen nor heard a thing. Nobody ever came to meet us, not even to ask why 12 mothers of Manipur had to stage such a demonstration.”

But it cannot be this way forever, she feels. She speaks of Irom Sharmila Chanu, who has been on a hunger strike since November 2000, demanding that AFSPA be repealed. “Irom was awarded the Gwangju Prize for Human Rights 2007 by the Gwangju Asian Human Rights Folk School of South Korea. We have activists worldwide talking about the repeal of the Act. The government will have to listen to us sooner or later,” she says

Some preliminary steps have already been taken to phase out the Act. A review committee was formed and its recommendations have been submitted to the Centre. But will peace return once the Act is repealed? There are still 20 militant outfits active in Manipur, and bordering Myanmar is a safe haven for rebel groups.

Gyaneswari points out that the AFSPA was imposed to control the insurgency in Manipur, but it has actually inflamed the rebels. “The Act is harming the very social fabric of Manipur. Common people are suffering as this Act has led to more intense conflict between the insurgent groups and the armed forces. The Act has to go.” •