A friend asked what "The Clogged Space" is all about. He is from down south of India. Science has nursed him during his graduation days. So I told him that it is about the need for a big bang when the clash of civilization occurs. That's the easiest explanation I can manage in a sentence.

It doesn't make much sense to him, but I deliberately did that for the need of brevity. Brevity is essential. That's what I have been realising from the clogged space. Explanation is never always an answer. Sometimes I felt like an old whore. I cannot sell (explain) anymore.

Worst they won't but it anymore too. Unfortunately, the old whore did not believe in delivering anything free. That's me, I suppose. So I was not very ready to repeat the long story for my friend that might go like another uncatched raindrops. This is not about a dwell in the island or the village.

If anyone thinks it is about that, their sight can be the prodigal sons and daughters of the view from the pond. If not they must be racist. Otherwise, they thought that we are the unreasonable tribe who deserves this clogged space. But I must assert again that we are not lesser than anyone.

We are a little fortunate not to be grouped into the class of 'untouchables'. Our food culture, they say, could have granted us that membership anytime for free. With our taste buds wetted and wedded to unique smells of 'Imagi Ngari' (fermented fish), fermented pork lard (sathu in Hmar) and fermented soybeans, they just cannot imagine any civilized palatable dish out of those smells.

These are Home's signature smell for us. They are one thing that comes closest to defining Home for us. However the absence of understanding, of the need and importance of these smells, have been another big reason of our step into the clogged space. The smell is no longer about good or bad for us. It is already rooted to our historic culture.

They already flow in our blood. We are eating them not in celebration of the glorious inheritance. But just because of the simple fact that we like them too much. If they expect us to omit the smell from our food, this is a big asking. How can we live chopping our tongue?

The inheritance is from the past where we cherish the smell as the stamp of our popular food culture. They are one thing we dearly share in Manipur. Who knows, they might be the bonds that keeps us faithfully together in Manipur. Imagine Manipur without 'Imagi Ngari'.The picture of differences pops us with the people sharing just indifferences and really nothing. Maybe that is where our "unique history" begins.

I remember the first day in Delhi's kitchen where I was told by my uncle to be very careful when burning the treasured fish I brought from Home. I burnt the fish feeling like I was doing something sinful. Something sexy …you know that kind of thing. Something not acceptable.

Just because they set and said that it is not the right time and the right place anymore. But can it be like that? Should I allow it? Or should I let them win? I was hoping to feed myself with Home's food and then slumber off to dream about home. I was too sick for Home then. "Imagi Ngari" was supposed to be some sort of panacea.

But I was feeling like Judas, for the silly reason that our landlady who lives in the first floor did not allow us to burn anything with those "dirty smells". She would call us "dirty children" which we used to miraculously tolerate.

I must confess now that I succeeded in seducing her son to like the wonderful foods from Manipur with that smell for which he still dearly remember me. The poor boy has grown up. But he hasn't grown out to like what he likes. I remember giving a long lecture to his mother about the importance of what comes out than what goes in.

She was right. She said that it is not their practice. They stuffed butter and sweets inside that is converted into flab. What come out are the thorns of evil caste and narrow class that we are confronting. Unfortunately it seeps inside Manipur too. They never seem to leave them and us free.

Sir Charles J.Lyall, an Englishman and a scholar, seem to be in a very sorry state when he wrote in May 1908, that "… while Burma has accepted the mild and gentle religion of Buddha, and thus profoundly modified the original animistic cult, Manipur has been taken into the pale of Hinduism, and has imposed itself burdensome restrictions of caste and ritual from which its greater neighbor is happily free".

The clutches clogged us in every way. Not the religion. But the sub-culture that has borne out of it. And out here, the foods that we so much love have become an instrument to corner us to that exotic group. I must tell you this again.

When I joined JNU in the year 2000 for my masters programme, I was told of this beautiful and painful true story that took place in one of the hostels in JNU.The monotonous menu of the hostel was designed to suit the taste buds of the democratic population whose culture and every other thing is closely interrelated to it.

For a relief, as well as to eat what he likes, Ibungo was burning his treasured Ngari, which he managed to export with great difficulty from Sanaleibak Manipur. To his surprise, his neighbor and floor mate knocked on his door to complain about the "foul smell." I was told they had a heated argument.

But the dry fish was never save from further burning. So this man went to the warden to complaint about the fortunate smell. The warden and a good gang knock on Ibungo's door again. After another argument, Ibungo told them that he is already tired with the imposed "food imperialism".

His final question to the warden will always remain beautiful. He asked, " Sir, now tell me, what smell is allowed in the hostel and what smell is not allowed?" If I were in the authority, I would have nominated him for receiving the bravery award in the coming Republic day.

If popular culture is supposed to be hatched by the larger population who are always up to defining what not to do for the others, there should be enough space where the others could also draw their own line. The knock is a burst of the pride that apes superman and his belief that "might is right".

I make no apology for such obsession with a pride in the multiplying boom. A million or billion boom it could be. That's not blooming .If this is democracy, I am not to pretend that democracy represents the collectivity. Our presences are drawn on blank blur lines.

We actually did not deserve this. As I am writing this piece, I was told of the appalling news that was aired on the All India Radio, Aizawl. The sad news is that thousands of innocent Hmar villagers from Tipaimukh area of Churachandpur district have been displaced by the valley-based militants who are occupying their villages.

They are fleeing towards Mizoram leaving their hearths and homes. They are called refugees in another state. No Home for us anymore.

Another big chapter of the clogged space.

I only have to hope for the dawn where we may wake with no fear for any clogged space. Otherwise, it is clogged here now.

Clogged there too.

(Concluded)

Read part I | Part II | Part III