Khasi culture faces imminent threat of being overrun by gross modernism, but a valiant attempt by a few committed persons to create an annual Indigenous Festival is noteworthy
Cherrapunjee: the name is enough to conjure up images of constant rain. Constant. And this has become a cliché, with anyone hardly mentioning that Sohra (its original name) is also the land of the corollary of rains: the rainbows. Fantastic, huge rainbows straddle across the East Khasi Hills and the spectacular floodplains of Bangladesh. That is a part of Cherrapunjee too.
This December as always, it rained in Sohra, but it also rained culture in a tiny hamlet called Laimusiang, 52 kilometres from capital Shillong. And how. On a massive, ultra-modern stage, six boys and six girls glided in, the boys with fishing angles and the girls with nets. They were the ordinary village folk, who usually go out fishing in autumn when there is little rain and the harvest is ripening.
The boys went through the motions, and in the background the Phawar is ‘sung’, or narrated, giving out the story of fishing. At a point in the dance, the girls offer tambul and khwai (betel leaves and areca nuts). This combination has a deep significance in Khasi folklore and is the first offering made to guests as a symbol of love. In the background sang some boys and girls.
To the urbane me, there at first seemed too little movement: the boys and girls were practically standing at their positions, lifting their right and left feet alternatively, just so, above the ground and taking tiny rounds. The first round seemed boring, but then the ethereal beauty of this quiet dance emerged as one watched and became a sensation in the mind, a feeling of something, well let me use the cliché, so cute that I knew the image wouldn’t be forgotten in a hurry.
This was the ‘small fishes’ dance. Of course, I understood nothing of the words, but that is the beauty of simplicity: you need not understand when the musicians and dancers can well create that sensation without it. It almost felt like being under a rainbow! Then came the drum beats, followed by the gambler’s dance (!) and a majestic 15 minute improvised dance across the vast flat ground surrounded by mound shaped hills so typical of East Khasi Hills in Meghalaya.
This was at the first Cherrapunjee Indigenous Festival.
The programme started with Sen Khasi Sohra delivering a welcome song which, typically, was “a million thanks” to Sen Khasi, the God of Khasis who, though they have aeons ago converted to Christianity, have remained faithful to their original religion.
The Si’yem, or the ‘king’ of principalities still has command over social issues, and the Si’yem of Sohra was the guest of honour at the festival. The Si’yemship, like Sen Khasi, is an enduring social system that lends much colour to the Khasis’ culture. And in his presence, dances like the Shad Tynrai, Shad Kyntei Khalaimiaw Shad Suk Mynsiem, Shad Kynjoh Khaskain and other Shads, or dances rolled out one after another. The most lilting was the Shad Tynrai or the small fish dance, and the gamblers’ dance and Phawar was by far the most dramatic and somewhat volatile.
The beating of the drums came on, with a quaint old lady using a bamboo pole to work up a rhythm, followed on a small drum and local clarinet by two musicians. Then came the Bum, or the big drum. The old man played with such vigour that he seemed possessed. In fact, no one had ever seen so much of Khasi dance and music in one place at one time. And the sweeping dance performed by hundreds of girls of St Johns Sohra against the backdrop of mound-headed hills and the ashen sky, juggling old Khasi songs on the pride of Khasi’ism (if we may coin the term), took our breath away.
It was a magical dance, unbelievable in its simplicity of movements but also startling in the complexity of the choreography. One has seen such massive canvasses in Bollywood films, but the dancers at Cherrapunjee Indigenous Festival did not have the luxury of a ‘cut’ and ‘take two’, ‘take three’ and so forth. It was live and there was no scope for mistakes, for the dancers were so numerous in the comparatively small space that one mistake would have found them tumbling over each other.
“We have tried to mix a bit of modernity in this dance,” said Dr PW Khongjee, the MLA of Sohra, “but the original theme is the same.” The Cherrapunjee Indigenous Festival is the creation of Dr Khongjee. Locals told me that he had that sheer passion for preserving Khasi culture, and so he and his ‘three-star general’ EM Blah, worked their days and nights for the past six months to set this festival up. Of course, the on-ground efforts were echoed by suitable government aid. But even then, creating a world event in a hamlet that had never seen more than a few cars on its dirt-track roads is nothing short of a miracle.
Khongjee, surprisingly modest about his achievement, reminds, “Khasi culture has its roots here, and the mild-mannered Sohra people’s hospitable nature is famous. But we are fast losing out to pop culture. If something is not done, then our culture will become a victim of gross modernism,” Khongjee said.
As one travelled back on the last night of the four-day gala, driving through a scarily fogged-out mountain road, one felt compelled to make plans for another trip back here, and more importantly, do something to spread the word around.
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Cherrapunjee: the name is enough to conjure up images of constant rain. Constant. And this has become a cliché, with anyone hardly mentioning that Sohra (its original name) is also the land of the corollary of rains: the rainbows. Fantastic, huge rainbows straddle across the East Khasi Hills and the spectacular floodplains of Bangladesh. That is a part of Cherrapunjee too.
This December as always, it rained in Sohra, but it also rained culture in a tiny hamlet called Laimusiang, 52 kilometres from capital Shillong. And how. On a massive, ultra-modern stage, six boys and six girls glided in, the boys with fishing angles and the girls with nets. They were the ordinary village folk, who usually go out fishing in autumn when there is little rain and the harvest is ripening.
The boys went through the motions, and in the background the Phawar is ‘sung’, or narrated, giving out the story of fishing. At a point in the dance, the girls offer tambul and khwai (betel leaves and areca nuts). This combination has a deep significance in Khasi folklore and is the first offering made to guests as a symbol of love. In the background sang some boys and girls.
To the urbane me, there at first seemed too little movement: the boys and girls were practically standing at their positions, lifting their right and left feet alternatively, just so, above the ground and taking tiny rounds. The first round seemed boring, but then the ethereal beauty of this quiet dance emerged as one watched and became a sensation in the mind, a feeling of something, well let me use the cliché, so cute that I knew the image wouldn’t be forgotten in a hurry.
This was the ‘small fishes’ dance. Of course, I understood nothing of the words, but that is the beauty of simplicity: you need not understand when the musicians and dancers can well create that sensation without it. It almost felt like being under a rainbow! Then came the drum beats, followed by the gambler’s dance (!) and a majestic 15 minute improvised dance across the vast flat ground surrounded by mound shaped hills so typical of East Khasi Hills in Meghalaya.
This was at the first Cherrapunjee Indigenous Festival.
The programme started with Sen Khasi Sohra delivering a welcome song which, typically, was “a million thanks” to Sen Khasi, the God of Khasis who, though they have aeons ago converted to Christianity, have remained faithful to their original religion.
The Si’yem, or the ‘king’ of principalities still has command over social issues, and the Si’yem of Sohra was the guest of honour at the festival. The Si’yemship, like Sen Khasi, is an enduring social system that lends much colour to the Khasis’ culture. And in his presence, dances like the Shad Tynrai, Shad Kyntei Khalaimiaw Shad Suk Mynsiem, Shad Kynjoh Khaskain and other Shads, or dances rolled out one after another. The most lilting was the Shad Tynrai or the small fish dance, and the gamblers’ dance and Phawar was by far the most dramatic and somewhat volatile.
The beating of the drums came on, with a quaint old lady using a bamboo pole to work up a rhythm, followed on a small drum and local clarinet by two musicians. Then came the Bum, or the big drum. The old man played with such vigour that he seemed possessed. In fact, no one had ever seen so much of Khasi dance and music in one place at one time. And the sweeping dance performed by hundreds of girls of St Johns Sohra against the backdrop of mound-headed hills and the ashen sky, juggling old Khasi songs on the pride of Khasi’ism (if we may coin the term), took our breath away.
It was a magical dance, unbelievable in its simplicity of movements but also startling in the complexity of the choreography. One has seen such massive canvasses in Bollywood films, but the dancers at Cherrapunjee Indigenous Festival did not have the luxury of a ‘cut’ and ‘take two’, ‘take three’ and so forth. It was live and there was no scope for mistakes, for the dancers were so numerous in the comparatively small space that one mistake would have found them tumbling over each other.
“We have tried to mix a bit of modernity in this dance,” said Dr PW Khongjee, the MLA of Sohra, “but the original theme is the same.” The Cherrapunjee Indigenous Festival is the creation of Dr Khongjee. Locals told me that he had that sheer passion for preserving Khasi culture, and so he and his ‘three-star general’ EM Blah, worked their days and nights for the past six months to set this festival up. Of course, the on-ground efforts were echoed by suitable government aid. But even then, creating a world event in a hamlet that had never seen more than a few cars on its dirt-track roads is nothing short of a miracle.
Khongjee, surprisingly modest about his achievement, reminds, “Khasi culture has its roots here, and the mild-mannered Sohra people’s hospitable nature is famous. But we are fast losing out to pop culture. If something is not done, then our culture will become a victim of gross modernism,” Khongjee said.
As one travelled back on the last night of the four-day gala, driving through a scarily fogged-out mountain road, one felt compelled to make plans for another trip back here, and more importantly, do something to spread the word around.
For More IIPM Info, Visit below mentioned IIPM articles.
IIPM ranks No 1 in International Exposure in the 'Third Mail Today B-School Survey'
Management Guru Arindam Chaudhuri Dean Business School IIPM
IIPM Excom Prof Rajita Chaudhuri
Kapil Sibal’s voters want Jan Lokpal, not Government-proposed Lokpal Bill
IIPM: What is E-PAT?
"Thorns to Competition" amongst the top 10 best sellers of the week.
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'Thorns to Competition' - You can order your copy online from here
IIPM Mumbai Campus
