Hornbill - Nagaland through a window. And a door.

You hear three kinds of stories in Nagaland. The war stories: Bloody events of the World War II pithily documented in bullet points put up on flex boards in the war museum. Or easily conjure up your own heartbreaking ones from the evocative epitaphs in the war cemetery right in the centre of capital Kohima (‘Leslie, As long as life and memory last, I will always remember you. Dad’). There are the underground – or ‘UG’ as the locals say – stories: Stories of gentle extortion narrated with a benevolent helplessness. And there are the valiant, mythological ones which have become folklore. The last of these is usually the source of the names of villages, mountains or festivals. The Nagas not just have stories for every bend, they love sharing them too. A conversation with a local will hardly be bereft of some anecdote about the cunning Apvuho or reference to the heroic Pulie. As much as they are proud of their imaginative pedigrees, they are also revel in being perfectly hospitable to the point that a happy guest is considered nothing short of a respectable asset, which will increase your station among neighbours and friends.

A colourful turnout

In Nagaland for the Hornbill, I had decided to take my experience one step further by not making an advance hotel reservation; I wanted to stay with a native. But the tourist influx surpassed all previous years – filling up every hotel and listed homestays – it so turned out that I wouldn’t have got any place to stay. If I hadn’t lost my pen, that is. Amidst all the scurrying on the inaugural day (“Photographers, please leave the performing arena, now!”), the ducking (“Photographer with the long hair, you are blocking the VIP view.”) and the dodging (“Hoo-ha”), my pen fell out. It was an expensive Swiss Army Pen, bought just the previous day from the airlines which has the habit of making perfectly unwanted things seem eminently useful and sexy. This list also includes a ‘can cooler’ – a contraption which looks like the decapitated limb of Terminator, really. Handy if you happen to lose your way in the desert, still stagger on with a can of cola.
My profuse thanks to the kind soul who returned my pen started a conversation which ended in me checking into the one spare room in his sprawling house late that evening. It was his son’s room who had, at the last moment, announced that he wouldn’t be coming for this year’s instalment of Hornbill. I was their first ever guest. They were not in the homestay business and my expectations were to be kept to the barest minimum.
“Don’t worry uncle,” I assured him. “I just need a roof over my head.”
“And you will be like one of our own sons,” uncle said. Perfect.
“You will eat with us,” said the aunty, his wife. Couldn’t be better. “But come back not too late at night.” Well, ok.
Thus, as luck would have it, I experienced firsthand, the famed Naga hospitality and got to stay at not a hotel. There were 11 children in the family – from the youngest teenager to a mother-of-two in her late 30s – ensuring that I had no dearth of companions. Whether I wanted to go to the festival, check out the Night Bazaar, groove to the rock concerts, trek up the nearby hills, binge along the meat trail or quaff rice beer from every single morung (tribal dormitory) representative of the 16 tribes set up at the festival venue, I had an accomplished ally.

The festival is a show of unity

Ambitiously touted as the ‘festival of festivals’, Hornbill is yet to make a serious impact on the reveller map. Most of the non-Naga faces were the camera-toting, national and international media workers, militantly pursuing that perfect shot. One old English lady was laboriously coaxing a Reebok-clad, spear-wielding boy to let out a war cry when I arrived at the venue. She let out a series of high pitched shrieks subtly hinting at her dream shot to the daftly smiling youth and his clansmen. After what it seemed like they had their fill of fun, the youngster stood up and said in perfect English, “But we don’t have any more wars, madam.” Looking a bit dejected, the lady began to walk away, muttering a hurried “thanks anyway” when the lad motioned her to wait: the entire tribe stood up, clanged their feather-adorned spears, tilted back their headgears decked with boar teeth and together let out a series of bloodcurdling war cries. Not wanting to miss this great photo-op, almost every camera in the venue had surrounded the group in seconds and flashes went off more furious than a Pirelli calendar launch.
The Hornbill festival, in addition to its frenzied energy of motion, twirling colours and vibrant notes, holds several layers of relevance in the life of the modern Naga. With over half the population depending on agriculture, all the festivals are related to harvest cycles. Each of the 16 tribes has its own festivals through most part of the year, but they all come together for Hornbill. Though not easily discernible to the outside eye, each tribe member is distinguished in their own way from other tribes – could be in the coloured goat hair that ornament the spear or their daos (traditional knives), bamboo headgears plumed with wild orchids and hornbill feathers and wild animal teeth. There are serious attempts to portray the gala as a show of oneness to the outside world – a display of solidarity among clans that have a long history of being at loggerheads with each other. Generous gifts and kind words are exchanged, intertribal interactions are greatly facilitated with harmony, peace and ultimately progress as long cherished goals.

Earned all his teeth

“For many years our people referred to any place outside the north east as ‘India’,” said a young government veterinary doctor. “But this is gradually changing.” I had befriended this dashing, well-read young man at a disco which was open only for one night – the night of the opening – the authorities had ordered it shutdown the very next day itself. “We still feel isolated from mainland India in many ways,” he continued. “There are not many development projects in the North East compared to other parts of the country. So can you really blame our youngsters migrating to the metros in thousands? There is no scope for enterprise, so can you blame us for coveting low-paying government jobs?” There is something about Nagaland that make you nearly miss the incongruity of a bunch of adolescent boys putting up a ‘Men at Work’ sign on the road. Here you become used to little girls hunching over loads of firewood and still cheerfully smiling at you. You don’t know whether to be flummoxed by the dapper labels or be impressed by the casual ease with which they are flaunted. There is a heady bewilderment when that lass coyly smiles at you on the street and when you return with a longing smile she bursts out laughing.