TRAVELLING HERE AND THERE

VOLUME 2, FEBRUARY, 2017

by 

‘We travel, some of us forever, to seek other states, other lives, other souls’Anais Nin, The Diary of Anais Nin, Vol. 7: 1966-1974

The flight was scheduled at 9.25pm. I knew I would reach Berlin late at night, but the delay made me anxious. I was travelling alone to an unknown city in the middle of night without anyone to receive me at the other end, without knowing anyone in the new city. I was excited as well as concerned because I was holding a piece of paper in my hand with an address of a hostel, without any booking. I am generally a planned traveller. I know where am I going to stay, how to reach there, which train to take, I google everything before reaching any new place. But who would have thought I would put myself into sheer uncertainty in a new continent among people with different language, race, ethnicity. The flight was at an odd hour because I was flying with a budget airline and I could only afford that with my tight allowance. Outside the boarding gate at the airport it was raining heavily. The inside was jam-packed with a long trail of waiting passengers whose patience was wearing off quickly. Most of them were sitting on the floor, due to lack of sitting arrangement. Some were travelling alone, they were either glued to an iPad or reading a book, an earphone permanently stuck into their ear, oblivious to the world around. Some were in groups, with family or friends, talking, laughing and somehow braving the endless waiting. I found a small corner for myself and sank onto the floor. I was exhausted from the exceedingly long walk from the security to the boarding gate. Then I was utterly surprised to find myself in a boarding area with such inadequate sitting arrangement. Sitting there, waiting for my flight I was thinking what have I put myself into. For a moment, thoughts came flooding into my mind. I could have just attended the conference in Copenhagen and went back home. But where is home? Where should I go back? May be once we start living away from our family, for studies, for jobs, we can never go back to that home. Home becomes a construct which no longer exists. For a long time, the journey has become home, a constant reminder how transient our lives are. How momentary each experience and each stay is?! Therefore, why not jump from the the pan into the fire and so on with an adventure in Europe? Why plan every move before I make it? An inner voice told me to stop romanticising the idea of adventure. I must have seen too many movies about backpacking across Europe. While I couldn’t gather the courage to make it a prolonged backpacking trip, I did manage to make it as unpredictable as possible. As the clock slowly marched towards 22nd July, I was cursing myself for this self embraced uncertainty.

EasyJet has more restrictions regarding luggage than one can possibly imagine. One has to pay extra for their hold-on luggage which is the checked in baggage. And only one hand baggage with a particular size is allowed inside as cabin baggage. Around 10.30 when finally the gate was open for boarding, airlines officials declared only half of the passengers standing in the line can carry their trolley as cabin baggage. Being a fully packed flight they can’t accommodate all trolleys in the overhead bin. So everything else have to go as checked in baggage, thankfully without paying. Those who were carrying two bags, one laptop bag/ rucksack and another sling bag were asked to make it one. A new set of commotion broke out in the line replacing the din of awaiting passengers. The clutter and clamor of trolleys and hoods, whooping of chains and buttons made the atmosphere more tensed than before. Everyone stared to arrange their belongings according to the newly set norms with much grumbling and displeasure. In the meantime, the rain had hit the terminus in full vigour. In the absence of buses which transport passengers from the gate to the airplane, everyone started running towards the plane once outside the cover of gate. Some tried to use an umbrella but that couldn’t remain still in the blowing wind, making them drenched anyway. At last when the rain soaked passengers entered the aircraft, the stewardess apologized profoundly for all the inconvenience and started distributing paper towels to give the passengers some relief. As I settled myself in the seat, with water dripping from my hair, I clutched my wet passport and thought will this be my memory of Europe?

Around midnight when I reached Berlin, the only thing that I was craving for was a bed. I started asking people which way was the train station from airport, often forgetting not many understood English and not many are from Berlin. So from the next moment the usual starting phrase was, ‘Do you speak English’? Luckily help was abundant in airport from how to use a ticket vending machine to which platform to go to, finding my way wasn’t hard. I got down at Storkower Strasse which was the hostel’s address. But standing in a completely deserted station I was in dire need of direction, which way to turn - left or right? My smart phone wasn’t smart anymore without an internet connection. It was lying at some corner of my bag like a discarded toy. I was trying to imagine myself in a railway station at Delhi or Kolkata, alone at 1.30 in the morning. What would have happened to me? Would I ever put myself in such ‘danger’ in India? Suddenly, I remembered the Mumbai trip I took this year in January. How my friends and I went to catch the last local at 1.40 am from Victoria terminus and found there is nothing called ‘Ek challish ka last local’. We had to book a cab to reach our guest house at last. But that reminded me how this journey was drastically different. In Mumbai, I already knew my destination, I was accompanied with people who were familiar with the city. Moreover, it was way past midnight, but Victoria Terminus was throbbing with people. From railway staff, to vendors to half-awake passengers to taxi drivers we had people all around us. Here, standing alone at the heart of European civilization, I found myself completely lost. Accompanied only with a name, name of a place where I was supposed to reach, without knowing the path, without having a single soul in the vicinity to show me the path. Wasn’t this life my dream? Throughout my life I disliked crowds. Growing up in a metropolitan city which is famous for its population density, this aversion towards people came naturally to me. As people around me made sure that I become more ‘social’, I found the process more alienating. Once I started to live on my own, I gradually moved towards a setting where reclusion grew into me like a dead plant and solitude became an addiction. I have always found that emancipatory. Europe was an inspiration. It is what we want to become; as a nation, as an individual. The emulations are unabashed. We often do not acknowledge it but our colonized minds made it sure that we see the west as the citadel of progressive thoughts and epitome of history and modernity. I remember a colleague I met in Copenhagen, a PhD scholar in anthropology who was living on her own. We quickly became fond of each other, shared interests. For her the loneliness came as a social condition, something which was thrust upon her. Not something she would want to become. She told me how summers are happy season for them, because you get to see people on the road. Winters are dreadful. It is cold and bitter, it is when one feels extremely depressed and lonely. Someone I met in Germany later told me a similar story. How she had to flee to Tunisia, a northernmost country in Africa to evade the cold winters in Berlin. She stayed there for couple of years before moving back to Berlin, but this time she came back with someone she loves. Sitting on a roadside bench on a mellow night, with a beer in hand, her exact words were, ‘Emotional ties are not as ephemeral as we would like to think. It sometimes saves you from yourself. You need people around you. How long will you escape life?’

My thoughts were interrupted as I saw someone approaching towards me, offering help. Clearly my lost bewildered face had told him I needed help. He googled the hostel name and asked me to take the next train from the same platform and get down at the immediate next station. Further he told me to ask someone in the next station which way is the hostel. While thanking him profoundly, I thought if I find any living soul in the next station of course I will ask. The night seemed long and never ending. I was dragging my luggage from one country to another for the past seven hours and still couldn’t reach the hostel. What can possibly happen if I can’t find my hostel? There is no ticket counter at any station. Therefore, I couldn’t go ask there. Everything is completely mechanized. No police or guards at the gate, where should I spend the rest of the night? Do I have to spend it sitting on a bench at a railway station? At this moment, when the taste of adventure was gradually wearing off, I got down at the next station. The train left the station and I looked around to find some person. But instead saw a huge tall building at my right side with a bright blue light on top, saying ‘The Generator’; the hostel which I wanted to find so dearly. I gathered my withering strength and started walking again.

From that night till I left, Germany was beautiful. It was indulging myself with the multiplicity of life with indispensable fantasies. From the next day, my endless strolling along the streets, in the parks, by the cafes started residing in me like Benjamin’s flanerie, only I was not in Paris. The essence of liberation made every movement in the city passionate, not only in the sense of freedom but more poignantly in its ability to embrace dreams. For few days I was a wanderer, a dreamer, a poet, an artist, everything that I can and cannot be because perhaps for the first time my movements were not regimented. I walked unknown roads, shared stories, explored food, discovered myself without having the feeling of being watched as a woman, as an Asian. I sat hours on the grass, looked at the world, listened to street music, without anyone telling me where I should be and at what hour. The feeling was so empowering that I fell in love with my solo sojourns as well as myself. I was away from people yet I was among them - people who were ordinary yet not so ordinary, people from all over the world I never thought I would meet. In few days I was immersed within the city, from making friends over sunny breakfasts to taking long trips with complete strangers, it was a journey of surprises and epiphanies. I witnessed how refugees were struggling to make a living, eating left over food in restaurants, collecting plastic bottles and cans from shopping malls, from trains something I never imagined about Europe. Yet in my mind it remains as a place which has dominated world history intellectually. It will remain a place where museums and galleys speak, where beer is cheaper than water, where nights are enchanting, where streets are smeared with art and graffiti. There is a common saying in Berlin that "Berlin ist arm, aber sexy". (Berlin is poor but sexy). And in every way it became that lover who bewitched you into surreal world and left you with nothing but a canvas of brushstrokes. These feelings overwhelmed the miniscule setbacks that a journey offers. At the end of the day, the idea of Europe prevails. It is a triumph of romance. Romancing with an idea which exposes one for suffering. But as Nietzsche said we don’t want the truth as we don’t want the illusion to be destroyed. We need these impressions, images and fantasies to pour our souls, to keep on living, to let us fly. 

 Author's Bio-Note: 

A BHADRALOK IN LONDON

Volume 2, Febrauary, 2017

 by Debraj Bhattacharya

It was the year during which Princess Diana died, the debut novel of a certain Arundhati Roy won the Booker prize, Titanic broke box office records, Mother Teresa passed away and Mamata Banerjee broke away from Congress to form Trinamool Congress. It was a time when Skype and smart phones were yet to invented, cousins in different continents did not discuss recipe for dinner for hours on the tab, Facebook wasn't invented, digital camera was yet to become irritatingly ubiquitous and the word 'selfie ' was yet to be introduced. Email had just about begun to replace letters but there were still plenty of people who preferred pen and paper. An ancient world in some ways. It was a time when going abroad was still somewhat special in middle class India. Distance between places still had some meaning. Middle class Indians were yet to live in two different worlds - real and virtual - simultaneously. The year was 1997. Not too far back and yet in some ways the world was very different.

In the month of September of that year one more middle class Bengali bhadralok youth went to England to do a PhD. I was riding my luck after quite unexpectedly receiving a letter saying that I have been selected for a scholarship to go study at the School of Oriental and African Studies, in London. It was a moment of joy although there was nothing terribly special about a student of Presidency College, Calcutta going abroad to study. Nothing exceptional but something that happened at a point in time when I was trying to escape from a broken relationship and a bizzare problem with some of my former teachers which I would not like to discuss. That’s not the point of this essay anyway.

It was of course the first time I was going to England. However there was an England in my mind from childhood which was largely fictional. Having grown up in a bilingual tradition, English literature was always an important part of our consciousness. From Enid Blyton to Charles Dickens to Arthur Conan Doyle to PG Wodehouse to more recent authors like Martin Amiss and television serials like the Sherlock Holmes of Jeremy Brett and Yes Minister – there was always a hyperreal England. There was also the historical narrative of colonialism which portrayed the British as the villain because of whom India became poor and third worldish. Thus landing in London could never really be a simple experience of visiting another country. It was inevitably a complex negotiation between the imagined England of the discursive domain and the physical experience of observing the place in front of my eyes.

As the British Airways flight touched down at Healthrow and I took a bus towards King’s Cross, the dawn was breaking. My mind was somewhat automatically beginning to note the differences with Kolkata. The bus was luxurious by our standards and fairly empty. I was somewhat relieved to see that the roads are quite narrow and not dissimilar to that of Kolkata except they were a lot cleaner. The vehicles and the people moved in a disciplined and organized manner, following the rules of the land. The buildings looked similar to the buildings of colonial Calcutta, but less dilapidated. After a while I got down at King’s Cross, which looked to me like (or perhaps I was trying to imagine it as) Gariahat crossing of Kolkata, slightly cleaner, slightly less populated. From King’s Cross I walked up towards the Dinwiddy House hostel of SOAS, which looked impressive from outside but ultimately I found myself inside a matchbox with a toilet for which I was supposed to pay more than fifty per cent of my monthly scholarship. There was one window which opened towards a dull road and grey walls. Seven such matchboxes had a kitchen and dining facility where one could cook, eat and chat. Unlike the usual practice in India, men and women lived side by side and shared the same kitchen.  Few days later I stood in a que and got myself enrolled as a student.

From Dinwiddy House to SOAS at Russel Square, it was a longish walk I quite enjoyed taking in the morning. I came out and usually bought a packet of cigarette from a corner shop run by a Gujrati and started to walk. The upper class usually was not visible on the street, the middle class office goers usually wore black and walked at a fast pace purposefully. Women, I noticed, walked faster than men. Their body language tended to give a “no-nonsense please” vibe. The salaried middle classing walking towards the tube or rail station were invariably grim looking from Monday to Friday. The exception to this pattern were the homeless, a number of whom occupied the footpath of King’s Cross. They were usually more animated and seemed to be enjoying life in spite of their harsh living conditions. It was quite common for them to ask for a cigarette. I could never refuse although cigarette in London was expensive. Yet, how could I, being a Bengali bhadralok, refuse to give a cigarette? One day a woman who looked like the homeless variety stopped me asked for a couple of pounds. “What do you want it for?” I asked her. “I have to buy my drink.” I smiled and asked – “Why don’t you quit drinking?” She said with a smile, “But I love to drink.” It was such a candid answer that I could not help but give her a couple of pounds.

After crossing King’s Cross I used to move left towards Judd Street which led to Russel Square and finally the rather unimpressive building of SOAS. Judd Street had a small book shop called Judd Two Books which caused a significant drain of wealth from my limited reserve. The shop had an amazing collection of second hand books and was owned by a knowledgeable gentleman who could always suggest books for me. But he was a pucca salesman who was able to understand my bhadralok vulnerability for books. There were other such book stores – Skoob Books near BBC office and another one near Kings Cross which specialized in Left books. There was also (most probably) Saturday sale at University. Many of the second hand books were available for a reasonable rate although they looked as good as new. Hanging out at these shops and buying books was part of negotiating the loneliness of living alone in country where the sun could rarely be seen. Within a month of arrival I could start feeling the London grey weather. Remarkably enough, in this grey weather, the dominant colour of clothes was also grey or black, which was punctured the bright red of the buses and the telephone booths.

The telephone booths were used for two purposes, I realized. There was of course the phone and in those pre-smart phone days, it did have some utility. The other was innumerable posters of the sex industry. The messages were usually short and to the point, certain numbers given in bold which enticed the caller towards the realm of the senses. Being bhadralok middle class and a student of History, I of course stuck to reading Foucault’s History of Sexuality and condemning the bourgeois capitalist world of commercialization of the female body. There was however one incident however, a month or so after reaching London, which I could not quite understand through my bookish mind. A senior student one day came and said, “You know, there is a strip bar at King’s Cross”. He was as much a male bhadralok as I was who posed as a rebel and an intellectual. I said, “really?” I was neither too keen nor disinterested. He said, “Yes, it is sociologically quite interesting.” Sociology was of course not what he had in mind but then he was framed by his bhadralok upbringing. So a couple of days later, one evening we landed in the strip bar at King’s Cross. The entrance was that of a regular pub, where one had to buy a pint of beer and then move to the back side where the show had already started. I walked in with my pint of beer and stood towards the end the crowd. There was a stage, a small make shift one, with some lighting arrangement. Couple of young white women, were slowly taking their clothes off synchronizing with the music that was played through adjoining sound system. I was watching this for the first time and therefore it was indeed somewhat shocking. But what was sociologically truly interesting was that the front few rows of the crowd were all occupied by men who in India would be called ‘senior citizen’. They also got maximum attention from the almost naked women. It was almost as if they were the group for which the young girls were stripping while the younger ones were less significant. Once the show was over, one of girls, still comfortably naked, took an empty pint and came towards the audience. The audience poured the pound coins inside the pint. She came, stood in front me and smiled. I managed to smile back, and put couple of coins inside the pint. She said “thank you” and left.

I came back wondering was she a victim or was she enjoying her moment of stardom? It was time however to get on with the research on my chosen topic and therefore this brief encounter faded away into the backyards of my memory. It was only years later that I understood that there was not much difference between me and her as I also needed to “sell” myself to the capitalist market.

Author's Bio-Note:

Looking Nagaland from Ting Ya & Monai Ting Naga village

        Volume 1, July, 2016

by Juri Baruah

Introduction:

In a cold morning of January you are standing in front of the Morong ghar and listening to the story of ‘Dalimi’. Dalimi fell in love with Godapani, an Ahom prince during his exile in the Naga hill. Dalimi was also known as Watlong who accompanied Godapani at the time when he returned to his kingdom. She fell sick during this journey and died in the place which is known as Naganimora, present sub-division of Mon district. The oral history of the villagers reflects that the people who came with her did not go back to their original place. They stayed in the place Cheng-phan; present day Sripur. Then they shifted to the bank of Hatigharia Bill. Finally the Gosain of Moiramora Satra converted them to Neo-Vaisnavite religion and settled them in this village. Yes, you are now in Ting Ya village dominated by the Konyak Naga tribe. The village is also known as Naga Gaon Model village which was established in 1775.

Fig.1: From the field... 

When we used to talk about a geographical location, including frontier or border, we refer to its location. So, the naming of a location also depends on the space which we occupy for interpreting that location. That space is a kind of relationship perceived as a centre from where such directional viewing takes place. This directional view not only includes the geographical positioning but also cultural and political attitudes. So, when we are talking about North East India it is not only a geographical expression. It is a frontier of a country with not so friendly neighbours along with its borders. As the frontier is fragmented from the viewpoint of the political centre there is always a force of coercion to find a different identity for the region like the metaphoric representation of ‘Seven Sisters’. From this perspective the questions like ‘are you an Assamese or an Indian?’; ‘are you a Naga or an Assamese?’ confronts the ‘cosmetic federal regional order’[1].

Frontiers are creation and recreation of new spaces of political power. In relation to the state, they are akin to layers of geographic imagination as well as diplomatic arrangement. In this case local and regional cultures are negotiating with both insiders-outsiders demarcation. There has always been a tension between the fixed, durable and inflexible requirements of national boundaries and the unstable, transient and flexible requirements of people. If the principle fiction of the nation-state is ethnic, racial, linguistic and cultural homogeneity, then borders always lie to this construct[2].

Nagaland as a historical and contemporary frontier is not simply lines drawn on maps but is a geo-political source where one political authority ends and another begins. Frontiers in this sense are institutions as well as processes established by political decisions. They are also the spaces with powerful images, symbols and traditions. In the city when we are discussing about the constant border conflict held between Assam and Nagaland; interpreting the situations only from the point of the centre without confronting the construction of new political spaces; the significant question that often arises: “is there any ‘place making strategy’[3] that contested to the ‘mainstream’ social and political forces”. Feeling Nagaland from the frontier space to national space, it is quite interesting to note down some significant metaphors negotiating the b/order in terms of Ting Ya and Monai Ting Naga villages to better understand the context of society and its counter balance to the state.

Hill and Plain debate:

Leo Rose writes with reference to Bhutan, “British policy along with the whole of the Himalayas was based upon the general principles that all independent hill principalities should be deprived of whatever plain areas they controlled at the foot of the hills”.[4] As Sanjib Barua pointed that the British considered the foothills “the natural boundary between India and the hill principalities, and that all plain areas belonged by right to whoever ruled northern India”.

According to William van Schendal borderland is therefore more than a political ‘earthquake’, the sudden product of the movement of ‘political tectonic plates’ that ‘create fissures known as international borders’. Different imagination of power and space are connected with the term ‘border’. Colonial geography cleared how the metaphor of nation was formed and reformed historically distinguishing the terms ‘hill’ and ‘plain’. In this case an Inner Line treating the Naga areas as an excluded area also reflect the restriction between the Nagas and the Assamese. The pre-colonial economic and social connections with the local ideas of space, place, power and cultural difference indeed form a discourse in context of colonial borderland.

But there is a series of historical evidence of the relationship between the Nagas and the Assamese in terms of economic, social, cultural as well as political dimensions. The oral history which portray Dalimi as a symbolic representation of the historical evidence in Ting Ya village thus not only direct towards creation of ‘socially produced space’; but also defines ‘spatiality’ in the form of ‘the meaning of geography’. No doubt it is related to the epistemological approach of space introduced by Soja. He makes the point that “space is never given. It is never an ‘empty box’ to be filled, never only a stage or a mere background”. The projection of Dalimi as a third space i.e. as a lived space through the spatiality of the village is a kind of assimilation of the Naga and the Assamese culture.

Sanjib Barua interpreted the Nagas and the Assamese relationship with the medium of the ‘Nagamese’. He admitted, “Perhaps the most powerful reminder of the historical connection is the dialect called Nagamese that is alive and well. He added a positive point here by introducing that the “Nagas use it as a lingua franca among various Naga groups that speak different languages as well as in their interaction with the people from the plains”. [5] After understanding these ties, the British administrators used it for their own benefits. As the British officer Alexander Mackenzie notes that the Nagas “occupying the low hills to the south of the Seebasaugor district have been a close connection with our local officers ever since the first annexation of Assam”[6]

The new arrangement of b/order between the Nagas and the Assamese starts from the course of the ‘pacification’ of certain Naga areas in the 1840s with the introduction of Inner line, excluded areas etcetera. Introduction of the new mapping of the area is nothing but highlighting the difference of language, race or religion in a more modular way.  The border spaces play the role of plurality of ideas of space, nature and sovereignty with the character of space making. 

If we see the arrangement of India’s North East and the spaces of Naga inhabited areas inside the other states through the nationalist imagination; those spaces are representative of some hybrid nature based on difference. Partha Chatterjee implied that “the most powerful as well as the most creative results of the nationalist imagination in Asia and Africa are posited not on an identity but rather on difference with the ‘modular’ forms of the national society propagated by the modern West”. Indeed “with the evidence on anti-colonial nationalism” he said “how can we ignore this without reducing the experience of anti-colonial nationalism to a caricature of itself?”

Partha Chatterjee’s claim on anti-colonial nationalism based on “sovereignty within colonial society” linked to political negotiations. When he pointed towards the material and spiritual practices on the benchmark of social institutions; it creates the identities of ‘within’ and ‘outside’. For instance the Ting Ya village though they are converted to Vaisanavism or staying in plain houses; their rituals are confined to the Morang Ghar; they speak in their dialect and wear their traditional dress. The spiritual sphere interacts with ‘cultural identity’ and is regarded as inner domain. The material construction in this case is the dependence of the economy of Ahoms which was a superior construction of the hill-plain relationship during that period.

Fig.2: Monai Ting Naga Gaon Baptist Church

Though the colonial state is not included in the ‘inner domain’ to represent the national culture, but the spiritual sphere creates some space in relation to colonial intervention. For instance, the Nagas in the Monai Ting village following Christianity is the example of another spatial intervention. They possess the cultural dynamics within the heterosexual spaces provided by the colonial powers. The locality is negotiating between the Assamese, the tea tribe and Naga community along the border of a tea estate. The names like Stephen Dutta reflects how a Christian dominated Naga community through sharing of similar spaces creates multiple identities.

Importance of Space(s)

Fig.3: Uses of Space(s)

Space consists of “socially constructed world that are simultaneously material and representational”. It is the general idea people have of where things should be in physical and cultural relations to each other. From that point of view the interpretation of a space is the conceptualisation of the imagined physical relationships which give meaning to society. Following the material and the spatial dimension of space given by Edward Soja, we can understand the imagination of the two Naga villages towards Nagaland is on the basis of b/order. Meanwhile it carries the nature of ‘spatiality’. Soja is arguing that “spatiality is a substantiated and recognizable social product”. The transformed and socially contested spatiality of the two Naga villages in this sense socializes and acquire both physical and psychological spaces of the locality.

The perceived space or the first space is here basically concrete spatial forms. Though they can be empirically mapped, for example, the settlement pattern; but at the same time they are socially produced, for instance the religious activities performed in the two villages. So, these spaces are relatively accurate but their descriptions are concrete.

On the other hand, the conceived or the second spaces holding by the two villages are constructed on the basis of ‘cognitive’ or ‘imagined form’. Language plays here an important role. Language in the form of symbols and signs dominated the power and ideology of the particular localities. In their imagination Nagaland is a different state but this difference is not because of the sentiments; the hill-plain differentiation creates here interstate debate which is political.

The lived space or Soja’s third space which consists of actual and spatial practices connects the two villages to the immediate material experience and realization. Lived space though overlays physical spaces of the two localities but it also portrays the symbolic use of its objects. Indeed by using the lived space including the experience with other communities, events like performing bhona and inter caste marriage as well as political choices like casting votes or favouring a particular party the users directly perform an insider perspective role. Here, the real and imagined spaces work simultaneously and the people are more sensitive towards their lived spaces.

Conclusion

Wallman pointed the division of boundaries in terms of space initiated in the structural or organisational form which is socially constructed. The social boundary “marks the edge of a social system, the interface between that system and one of those contiguous upon it”. On the other hand boundaries are also for the members of these systems; how it marks the members off from non-members as well as the role that they played on the basis of their identity. So, borders can be characterised by an interface line between inside and outside with the identity line between ‘us’ and ‘them’.

From the social matrix boundary, the identity of the two Naga villages and their interface can be seen as a consequence of the various possible relationships on both sides itself. The meaning of the boundary as Cohen argued is ‘the meanings that they give to it’[7].

No doubt the border conflict spread the fear towards using space in frontier areas.  Nationalism as a kind of imagination also makes these spaces as fragmented in nature. The state basically epitomizes the belief in the homology between culture, identity, territory and nation. The homology is here a structure of power. Boundary making or breaking within and between states is a political exercise in the form of support or oppose that structure. Power rests on the everyday social practices in the form of concrete relation in between the governing and the governed. From that perspective b/order is not only related to changing law but performing space. These relations are not only social but in reality they explicitly dominated the political. Third space is here a radical interpretation created by the effect of a changing culture and spaces of transition. This transition is hold by localities of the two villages over time. With the socio cultural transformation the people of the villages holding cross cultural characteristics. Locally they feel the indigenous nature of Naga in the sphere of Assamese. This is a symbol of peace and harmony for both the state. In the mean time it is also a strategy to visualize new spaces not only from the discourse of nationalism but also from the ethnic ties that creates the mosaic of culture beyond state-centrism.

References

• Agnew J. (1999). Regions on the mind does not equal regions of the mind. Progress in Human Geography, 23, 91-96
• Anderson B. (1983).  Imagined Communities. London New York, Verso
• Anderson B. (1998) The Spectre of Comparisons: Nationalism, Southeast Asia, and the World , London, Verso
• Barua S. (2001).  India against Itself. Oxford University Press
• Barua S. (2005). Durable Disorder. Oxford University Press
• Baud M, van Schendel W. (1997). “Towards a comparative history of borderlands. Journal of World History, 8, 211-242
• Behannan. P (1967). Introduction, in P. Behannan and F. Plogs (eds). Beyond the Frontier: Social Processes and Cultural Changes. New York. The Natural History Press.
• Brenner N. (1999). Beyond state-centrism? Space, territoriality, and geographical scale in globalisation studies. Theory and Society. 28, 39-78
• Chatterjee P. (1993). The Nation and its Fragments: Colonial and Postcolonial Histories. New Jersey, Princeton University Press.
• Cohen. A P (1985). The Symbolic Construction of Community, London. Tavistock Publications.
• Gledhill. J (1994). Power and Its Disguises : Anthropological Perspecties on Politics, London. Pluto Press.
• van Schendal (1992). The Invention of the ‘Jummas’: State Formation and Ethnicity in South Eastern Bangladesh. Modern Asian Studies, 26 (1), 95-128
• van Schendal Willem. (2002). Geographies of Knowing, Geographies of Ignorance. Environment and Panning D: Society and Space, 20,  647-668
• Wallman. S (1978). The Boundaries of Race: Processes of Ethnicity in England. Man, 13(2), 200-17. 

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• [1] . Sanjib Barua, Durable Disorder, p. 37
• [2] . Horseman and Marshall, After the Nation-State
• [3] . Derived from Amy Muehlebach (2001)
• [4] . Sanjib Barua, India Against Itself, pp. 28 
• [5] . Sanjib Barua, India Against Itself, p. 32
• [6] . Mackenzie 1979, p. 91
• [7] . Cohen. A P (1985). The Symbolic Construction of Community, London Taviastock Publications

Author's Bio- Note:

Juri at present, is a Research Scholar, at Tata Institute of Social Sciences, Guwahati and she can be reached at juribaruah33@gmail.com for discussion and information.

LA HABANA

Volume 1, July, 2016

by Tapo Banerjee

Habana has a complicated relationship with its representation in popular photography.  A lot of attention is directed to classic cars, murals of Che Guevara and costumed characters with either musical instruments or cigars!

While the cars and murals are ubiquitous in Habana and the rest of the country, this series attempts to reveal urban facets of the daily lives of Habaneros.

Malecon Pelican

A pelican flies past the seawall (El Malecon) at dawn. In the distance, an oil refinery emits soot into the Habana sky.

Nacional_Polski

The historic Hotel Nacional with a Fiat 125, commonly called Polski after its country of origin, in the foreground.

San Lazaro

Early morning in Vedado, Habana

Neptuno

 Florist on Calle Neptuno, Centro Habana

News Infanta

 Newspaper stand on Calle Infanta

Colmar Cabaret

Ladies in the doorway

San Jose Market

After a quick afternoon shower, Habana Vieja (Old Havana)

Coco Stand

Cuban version of the auto-rickshaw

Colectivo

A large number of US made cars from the 1940’s and 50’s serve as share taxis (Colectivos) in Cuba. In popular parlance, they are known as maquinas or almendrones, the latter a reference to the almond like shapes of the automobiles from that period.

These taxis ply on fixed routes, and destinations are indicated by hand signals made by the drivers. They are not licensed to carry tourists.

It took some mental preparation to hail a ride in one of these, but it finally happened a day before departure.

Note: Habana is intentionally spelled as in Spanish i.e. with b instead of v

Author’s Bio- Note: 

Tapo Banerjee has been visiting Cuba since 2012. His last assignment in Habana was in Jan-Feb 2016. Originally a resident of Darjeeling (India), he now calls Chicago home.

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