“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.