The trail of my macabre memory floats with the heavy, steady flight of the oldest living eagle in our village. It stays hidden in the heart of the hollock grove beneath our village hills. The tattoos etched on my body are the cartography of my killings. The miniature brass heads adorned in my necklace are the totems of a prized warrior. A headhunter. I have decapitated living, breathing humans with throbbing hearts and desperate eyes. I have heard the shrieking throaty cries of men with gaunt faces dreaming of death and dark places. I am a man moulded out of vengeance, legs carved out of rugged hills, arms shaped by the need for survival and a membranous heart hollowed out by smoky evenings of indescribable longings. I am part of a disappearing history, so they made me into an archaeological specimen. A living artefact. A believable past. I have given my life, my morality and even my exhausted humanity to my village.
They ask me a question: “Why did you become a headhunter?” The question mocks me, mocks the spilled blood of my dead enemies, mocks the meaning of my entire existence. I look back at the interviewers, at their gloating eyes, at their tender neckline, at their pulsating jugular veins as they record me in their flimsy cameras. They are lucky I am senile now, or their heads could be one of those skulls decorated outside our village gates. If I think of my head-hunting days, my times embedded in the dirge, if I go looking for answers, I will go insane in my attempt. They have not lived my life and seen what I have seen. Back then, we warriors didn’t have much to think about, for our thoughts were exhausted by the time the sun ran down on us. We lived each day like a wild beast, racing against the tumultuous winds of change at the mercy of the wild, wild world.
But I was not always like that. Not until I came across a pest. A sly, insolent pest pricking incessantly with its sticky limbs upon my consciousness until it managed to crawl inside to infest my personhood. The pest arrived during the harvest season. The time when rice panicles in our village swelled golden under the autumn sun. I still remember the sound of inciting drumbeats of the harvest festival emanating from the morung. The loud, celebratory vibrations called out bare-assed children to flood the village pathways to steal a glimpse of our Nocte tribesmen, who looked like mythical creatures, decorated in headgears made of twisted wild boar teeth and jumpy hornbill feathers. The ground shook under their calloused feet stamping and running; the beating of drums – dong, dong, dong! – the hollering – ho, ho, ho! – the holding up of polished machetes. Dust rose from the ground, intermingling with their slick, serious faces and robust, bare bodies. Women stood laced in their precious beads to look at their men. The revered procession headed by my elder brother, Tangcha Lowang, ended outside the morung after the priest made a hollow throaty call. A loud gunshot was fired into the sky that scattered the wild birds into thundering flight.
The old chief of our hill village, Wangro Lowang, stood on the rostrum decorated with bamboo frills. “Our village had a peaceful year and a good harvest for which I thank Jauban, the god of sky, the energy that fertilises the womb of the earth to nourish all living things.” His frail eyes looked at the hazy afternoon sky. All the villagers bowed to pray as golden rays bathed our village settled atop a crest of thick lush-green hill. “Progress must move forward and with my time coming to a closure, on this auspicious occasion, under the witnessing presence of Jauban, I declare my son” – my heart skipped a beat when he said “my son” because I was his son too – “my firstborn, Tangcha Lowang, as the new chief. He will be the protector, the supreme commander in times of ill-fated wars and the final authority for providing justice to any actions offensive or defensive,” father said and spat fiercely to ward off evil eyes. The spit seemed to be directed at me.
My brother, Tangcha Lowang, walked out from the flock of gallant and decorated tribesmen. His eyes were dark like the night. Women scanned him lustily, at his tall, bare, muscular body, and the fine piece of loincloth resting on his hips as he walked up the rostrum holding his spear decorated with red frills. He stood on the rostrum in his headgear with the finest hornbill feathers, towering over our old father. My mother patted the back of my brother, drawing a long, satisfying breath; her eyes said she was glad to have given birth to a perfectly superior son. The whole village acknowledged my brother as the new chief and bowed their heads as a sign of respect. I had to bow down too.
“Your son will rule and protect these mountains,” the priest prophesied as he poured rice beer over our friable soil. I saw my father and my mother dwell in gratification, their endearing gaze fixated on my brother. I wished that son was me.
“One more announcement,” my father said. “Since Tangcha has finally come of age, we can have his engagement commemorated into marriage. Tomorrow we will have a bigger feast and burn the biggest bonfire!”
All the folks roared with delight. In that noise, no one seemed to remember me, not even my own family. I was standing below the rostrum, among the commoners. I was the second-born son of the chief, and, unlike my brother, I was just a forgotten figure. I sneaked out, scurrying away like a mole. “He is unmatchable to his brother’s gallantry,” young girls my age, clad in beads over their maturing bosoms, whispered, looking at my squeamish face and lean, juvenile body.
As dusk settled atop the hills like the wings of an eagle, a big, towering bonfire was lit that brought out fiery glazes in the eyes of the village folks. The thin mountain air was infused with a tasteful aroma of roasted meat and the warmth of jovial human spirits. Rice beer was sipped from bamboo jugs. Folks delightfully opened the leaf-wrapped packets of steamed rice and pork cooked in fermented bamboo shoots and wild herbs. After the feast, everyone danced around the bonfire to drums and the gogona, singing. Blooming flowers have fallen, fruits have mellowed, loku season has ended. Go away, loku, and please do come in the next year with a new spirit and with a blessing that we will reap a good harvest. The long log drum resounded throughout the night, hauling up the fiery flames for the entertainment of gods and men.
Excerpted with permission from ‘Macabre Memories of a Headhunter’ in Tales from the Dawn-Lit Mountains: Stories from Arunachal Pradesh, Subi Taba, Penguin India.
