Who the Cap Fits

By Robert Garnett Lyngdoh

Who the Cap Fits follows the trials and tribulations of Khrawbor, a young man lured into the life of a militant. Set in the Khasi Hills of Meghalaya in the North-Eastern region of India, the story follows the pattern familiar to many who live in militancy infected areas. His ideology is symptomatic of the frustrations experienced by many youth, living in similar circumstances, who do not see a future for themselves within the existing system. This story is told from the eyes of the father, who however, stays anonymous throughout the story.
The book captures in a capsule, the ethos that prevailed during the short, but volatile, period in the history of the Khasi people of Meghalaya

• Language: English
• Publisher: Partridge Publishing India
• Release date: Apr 7, 2016
• ISBN: 9781482872903

Robert Garnett Lyngdoh

Robert Garnett Lyngdoh, also popularly known as Bob or R. G., is a well-known personality in the northeast of India. Qualified as an MBA from the prestigious XLRI, Jamshedpur, he has traversed a colourful career path. Founder member of the once popular R&B band Mojo, he is known for his straight talk which is apparent from the lyrics he wrote for the band. During his foray in politics, he was appointed Home Minister of Meghalaya at a time when militancy was at its peak in the Khasi Hills Region of Meghalaya. He is known, and remembered, for the tough stand he took to resolve the problems of militancy bring the militants to the mainstream. He is also loved and respected for the steps he took to popularise and promote tourism and tourism-related activities, especially in the rural sector, of Meghalaya. As Chairman of the Meghalaya Tourism Development Forum, and as CEO of the Meghalaya Livelihood Improvement Finance Company of Meghalaya, he has worked diligently to help boost the sagging rural economy in the state. Presently, he is the vice-chancellor of the Martin Luther Christian University. He has previously published a book of his poems and photographs titled, A Point of View.

Book preview

PROLOGUE

T he rain slashed and drummed a persistent pattern on the tin walls of the cottage. Inside, the elderly couple sat huddled before the wood-fire trying to keep warm. The howling winds made all attempts at conversation futile. ‘God’, he thought, ‘this dampness gets to everything!’ He took another sip of the ‘ ¹kyiad’ from the tin mug in front of him as he turned a log in the fire. ‘The quality of Konghep’s liquor is getting worse, I must talk to her about it,’ he thought again.

She got up from her seat and went to the bed in one corner of the room. The smoke burnt her eyes and she wished she could open a window, but, the rain and the wind made sure that was impossible. She rummaged through the neatly folded clothes at the foot of the bed and pulled out a long-sleeved sweater. Going through the bag hanging next to the window she took out the sewing kit and returned to her place by the fire and set about darning the torn elbows of the sweater.

It had been an exceptionally severe monsoon and the rains had not let up for a single moment in the last five days. This happened quite frequently on the plateau overlooking the plains of Bangladesh. Then the dampness permeated into the clothes, the shoes, the structure of the shed, leaving a thin white film of mildew on everything.

Suddenly, a loud banging on the door broke the peace and the startled couple looked quizzically at each other. They had had no visitors since the rain started, except for Mercy who had gone to her room in the bungalow after dinner, and, since they did not have any bookings for the bungalow, they were not expecting anybody.

Open the door, an authoritative voice commanded, Open the door at once.

The couple looked at each other with sadness in their eyes. Thank God all this will be stopping soon, mumbled the old man as he stood up and shuffled towards the door. I am coming, he said aloud, I am coming. He felt the tiredness sit heavily in between his shoulder blades and his mind went briefly to the time Khrawbor was born. It was a happy time then. ‘Gosh,’ he thought to himself, ‘twenty-five years seems a lifetime ago!’

It had been a day rather like today…..

CHAPTER 1

T he wind howled endlessly and the rain lashed mercilessly at the bamboo walls of the rather fine hut, as it drummed a steady staccato on the tin roof.

The thunder rumbled endlessly, underlining the sharp flashes of lightning that froze-framed the rather dark, cloudy, depressing June day. They had come to the plantation since the end of May to plant the ²kwai saplings that had previously been grown in the nursery. Although some had advised against it, he still wanted his child to be born here in the plantation and his wife had agreed. He turned back from the window and surveyed the dimly lit room.

The flame of the kerosene lantern, hanging in the middle of the room, flickered as the lantern swung precariously, from the rope tied to the rafter, blown by the strong wind. His mother-in-law, father-in-law, mother and elder sister sat huddled around the tin ³chullah, glowing in the aura emitting from the red-hot pieces of charcoal within, as their shadows danced, to the swinging lantern, on the walls behind them.

Don’t worry, said his mother-in-law, she is in good hands. Meirit is a veteran at this.

That’s right, agreed his sister, I am sure she can deliver the baby with her eyes closed!

Here, have another small one, offered his father-in-law pushing the bottle of local brew towards him, it will keep your body warm and your mind relaxed.

He held out his glass and his father-in-law refilled it. His father-in-law held out the plate and he took a sliver of the dark well-smoked beef. As he bit into the smoked beef, he was startled by a cackling laugh that suddenly erupted from the adjoining bedroom. This was closely followed by the shrill wail that only newborn babies could make. The room burst into life as his mother-in-law, his mother and his sister jumped up in unison from the ⁴murras, they were sitting on, and rushed towards the bedroom.

Hee..hee..hee…! cackled Meirit gleefully from inside the bedroom, he is a big strong lad, now, isn’t he?

She pushed past the rushing women, who both turned around to follow her, and entered the sitting room, a small bundle in her hands. She made her way straight towards where he and his father-in-law were sitting and they quickly arose.

You don’t go anywhere, Daddy, she said grinning widely at him, your Meirit has earned herself a glass of that, now, hasn’t she?

Her single tooth, standing proud and erect, alone in the middle of her otherwise barren gums, seemed to take on a life of it’s own as she continued her hysterical cackling.

You pour me a glass, she ordered as she unwrapped the baby and held up his writhing naked body for all to behold.

Look at how well he is hung, she cackled slyly as her sharp dark eyes twinkled underneath the wrinkles, he will keep the ladies happy when he grows up!

Waaah…! protested the writhing baby.

MEIRIT! chorused the ladies.

He is a strong healthy lad indeed, agreed his mother. And how is Kongbih? asked his mother-in-law, is she alright?

She is a healthy woman capable of bearing many more, replied Meirit, don’t worry about her.

He took the baby from Meirit and he felt a soft warmth flow through his body. My son, he proudly proclaimed, my flesh and blood, my immortality. He looked into the baby’s pale blue eyes and he kissed him on the forehead. Gently he re-wrapped his son in the thick cotton ⁵nep-sop and handed the baby to his mother-in-law.

I’ll go and check on Kongbih, he said. As he turned towards the bedroom, everybody else followed him and he felt a little irritated at not getting any privacy with his wife.

They all trooped into the bedroom, as the maid picked up the dirty linen and exited the room holding the basin of dirty water in the other hand. I have just put some more charcoal in the chullah, she said, somebody please fan the fire.

He went up to his wife, sat beside her at the head of the bed and bent down and gently pushed the errant strands of matted hair from her sweating forehead. He then picked up the face towel lying on the bedside table and began to gently wipe her head and shoulders.

He’s a wonderful boy you’ve given me, he whispered into her ears as he discreetly reached inside her nightie and wiped her back. She looked up at him and gave him a warm, though tired, thank you smile.

What do we call him? asked his elder sister as she fanned the chullah with an old magazine.

Let Meirit suggest a name for him, he said.

Okay, give the baby to me, said Meirit. She took the baby from his mother-in-law, picked up her empty glass and ordered him for a refill….the word please, or any form of request for that matter, did not exist in her dictionary. She sat down on a murra and placed the baby in the little hammock her skirt and ⁶jain-kyrshah formed in between her outstretched knees. She held the glass of kyiad delicately between her forefinger and thumb, laid her head back and knocked down the local brew in a single gulp. A raspy cackle emitted from the back of her throat as she plonked the glass on the wooden floor beside her. Heeheeheehee, she went as she placed her open palm flatly on the baby’s forehead, much as if taking his temperature. Then all at once she fell silent as she closed her eyes and went into a trancelike state. He will shake this land of ours, she rasped, people will remember his name. ⁷Khrawbor. Powerful is his name. Powerful will be his impact. Khrawbor. A flash of lightning lit up the room, and the peal of thunder that followed seemed to echo the name. Khrawbor.

He felt a sudden rush to his head and he got up from his seat, walked across the sitting room, opened the door and stepped out into the verandah. The cold wind slapped him across his face as he shut the door behind him. The drops stung his cheeks, as he closed his eyes and opened his mouth to the slanting rain.

K-H-R-A-W-B-O-R, the wind seemed to howl.

‘The Gods have chosen,’ he thought, ‘that will be his name.’

CHAPTER 2

T he boy grew up fast. He was the lord of all he surveyed. His grandparents, his parents, his uncles, his aunts, the entire workforce at the plantation, they all worshipped the very ground he walked on. He could do no wrong and they all spoilt him rotten. His father, however, was the biggest offender of them all.

Khrawbor, where are you? he shouted for his son, Khrawbor, come here.

The boy had just come back from school and was still in his school uniform. Class V was still a relatively easy class and the workload was not so heavy. He did not want to pressurize his son and he invariably allowed him to have his own way. ‘I should not shout at my son the way my father used to shout at me,’ he thought, ‘then I will be able to have a closer relationship with Khrawbor".

Khrawbor emerged from a corner of the house, and as he approached his father he scowled irritably. What is it now? he demanded of his father, much like any spoilt child, you always disturb me! He was a tall lanky lad, and at twelve years stood almost equal to his father in height. He carried himself with a confidence of one who was used to throwing his weight around. Brutally handsome, frighteningly clever, quick, self-assured and pushy, even at this early age he was clearly a leader more used to giving instructions than to following them.

This weekend we’ll go down to the plantation, he told his son, "the kwai is ready for plucking and the ⁸fermentation pools have to be checked and kept ready. He lovingly placed his hand on the boy’s shoulder and led him to the cane sofa at the end of the verandah. It was a cool, clear evening and a pleasant breeze gently stirred the rose-bushes outlining the perimeter of the grass lawn. Besides your studies, I want you to also be familiar with the business, my son, he continued as they sat down on the sofa, you are our only child and everything we have will be your’s one day.

They had roughly around fifty acres of arecanut plantation in the foothills bordering Bangladesh. Although the closure of the international border with Bangladesh had adversely affected the beetel nut trade, new contacts had been made, with ⁹Marwari traders in ¹⁰Shillong and ¹¹Guwahati, and business was starting to pick up. However, the emergence of chauvinistic and militant organizations in and around Shillong was creating some heartburn among the rural farmers. He looked at his son and was surprised to see a look of irritation on his face.

I do not want to go to the plantation this weekend, his son said, and the resolve in his son’s voice filled him with despair, I have made a program to watch a movie with some friends on Saturday afternoon.

His thoughts went back to the time his father had called him to his dying bed. Taking his hand in his, his father had made known his dying wish to the family and clan elders gathered there. My son, he had said, I am giving you the plantation you so love. You have nurtured it, and watched it grow, alongside me. Let the ten acres I am giving you grow and multiply and, in turn, I hope you will be able to give to your son a bigger legacy than the one I am giving you. His father had died that night but he had sent shockwaves throughout the village and the clan. In the Khasi society where personal inheritance was practically unknown, and where clan ownership was the only practice, his father had gone against tradition and custom to personally hand over ownership of the plantation to his son. Neither the clan nor the village had dared to go against the old man’s dying wish. He had personally run the plantation and his hard work had paid off. The ten acres had grown to fifty acres. Last year his annual turnover was around a crore rupees. This year, increasing his investment by borrowing from the banks, he was expecting to double the turnover.

‘But, it will all mean nothing unless Khrawbor takes an interest in it,’ he thought. He looked at his son and wondered how he could ignite that interest. He knew that forcing his son to go with him to the plantation would only make him resentful and could actually kill whatever interest he might be having in the family business. His reverie was rudely broken by the sound of loud voices in a heated argument.

Kongbih, I tell you I did not see your purse, or the money you are talking about, he heard the maid sob.

You are a liar, his wife snapped back, you are the only other person besides me who has entered this room. If you did not take it, then who did? Do you expect me to believe that ghosts took the money?

He got up from the sofa and, turning towards the house, was about to enquire what the argument was all about, when the gardener came out from behind one corner of the house. At the same time his wife emerged from the house onto the verandah.

Sir, sir, look what I found behind the rose bushes, said the gardener holding up a ladies’ purse.

Why, that’s my purse, exclaimed Kongbih. And turning to her husband, I had left it on the dressing table hardly fifteen minutes ago, she explained to him.

Bring it here, she ordered the gardener as she sat next to Khrawbor on the sofa her husband had vacated.

She took the purse from the gardener and, opening it, checked inside. Where’s the money? she demanded, there was at least fifteen hundred rupees in the purse. I know because I had just returned from the market. Where exactly did you get the purse?

It was behind the rose-bush over there, said the gardener pointing to the back of the house, and I didn’t check inside the purse so I don’t know anything about any money.

Just then the maid emerged from the house. I am not a thief, she sobbed, believe me, I don’t know anything about the money or the purse.

As they all turned their attention to comforting the maid, Khrawbor surreptitiously got up and inched his way from the verandah.

Khrawbor, he said, trying to sound stern, do you know anything about the money?

No, of course not! replied Khrawbor sullenly. Do not blame me because I don’t know what you are all talking about! So saying he brushed past his father.

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