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“Kaha se aaye ho? Kyun aaye ho yaha?” (Where are you from? Why are you here?) – a man peeked out of his car window and asked me on my way to Eyi village. I can answer the “where” part and he would get it; but the “why” part is difficult. What should I tell him? Should I tell him that it is the serenity and the stillness of the mountains and the golden paddies that pull me or should I tell him that it is the craving for a hot bowl of thukpa among strangers at a small stall over the mountains that drive me ever so closer for such a journey? Either way, chances are that he would not get it. So, I rather made it short for him by simply adding “travelling” as my purpose of being there. Of course, his tensed eyebrows showed the same kind of unsatisfied curiosity as I had been carrying throughout my hike to Eyi.
Clad in a blanket of green from all the sides, Eyi is a small remote village in the West Siang district of Arunachal Pradesh, a few kms from Aalo (earlier Along) town. It is connected to the Lagum Jini village by a small iron hanging bridge over a rivulet that flows back to the Siom River in the west. I had to hike along a narrow jungle patch to reach the hanging bridge and from there; it is an eastward hike of 3 km or so to reach Eyi. As you walk along, the mountains seem to embrace you with its vastness. The slopes are covered in thick curtains of trees and plantations where the clouds play hide and seek. And along the slopes, there lies a carpet of yellow and orange paddies which seem to be blushing in all its glory. If you are into arts, this scene will surely take you to the paddy fields of Vincent Van Gogh.
By the time I reached Eyi, thirst and hunger had got the better of me. The lone shop that I found in the village could only offer me food but no water, owing to the fact that they do not have any tourists coming and hence nobody asks for a bottle of mineral water. But the shopkeeper was very generous to offer me a glass of water and to enquire a little about my purpose of visiting their village. The very moment, a mid-aged man showed up at the shop with his little son. He was carrying a sword by his waist. He smiled at me and introduced his son as Miram. I smiled back and enquired about the intriguing sword. I came to know that this type of sword is called “Oyok” and the holder is called “Habuk” in the Galo language and they are important assets of the Galo community.
As I resumed my walk through the village, I was astonished by the simplicity of their lifestyle and the structural attributions of their houses. The villagers take pride in preserving their age-old traditions which is pretty well reflected in their architecture, customs, and the farming practices. The place is untouched by the humdrum of the urban tourists flocking in to witness the rural way of life. And that makes me glad as it has kept the village unspoiled and pure amidst the vast greenery. My visit fell during the peak harvest season. Everyone was busy at all kinds of harvesting work. One particular feature amidst the paddy fields that grabbed my attention was the resting sheds. They act as shelters during lunch time and also act as seed storage facilities.
The villagers, irrespective of their age, come out to harvest and help each other in passing the time on the field. It is almost like a scene from a story book or a painting – a group working in the field, a few enjoying a siesta while the kids run around and help their parents with water and tea. All of this culminates with the annual Mopin festival which is held on the first week of April every year. It is a festival of merrymaking after the harvest gets over, where the people wish for prosperity and wellbeing for their respective communities. They dance, prepare feast, and offer worship in their traditional Galo attire.
My stream of thought broke as I came across three mid-aged men resting over a North-facing porch. I approached them with the hope of learning more about the village. They welcomed me graciously and soon a conversation erupted. They told me that earlier, Eyi, Lagum Jini and Biru were part of the same village named Nyiko and it was situated at the hilltop. But, one day, an unfortunate fire broke up and caused havoc in the village due to which the villages got segregated. Further, they added that the new names of the villages were taken from the names of the plots of land they migrated to. This is how they prioritize the mother earth over anything else.
Our conversation then moved on to Mopin, the Galo attires like Tango for male and Galle or Besak for female and to the regular customs of the tribe. They also enquired about my whereabouts. We shared how the lives that we live are different, how they are happy amidst the nature, how the other villages fare with each other and this gradual cultural assimilation made me feel that I was no longer a stranger among them. I felt a kind of belongingness with them that made me realise why I was there.
As I bade them goodbyes and walked back down the road, the sun started to move along with me. It was going to set. There was a sense of calmness and contentment that engulfed me with each step I took. I looked over the yellowing paddies and the tired yet happy faces of the farmers who were starting to wrap up their work for the day. Soon, all that remained with me was a painting – of happier faces and a sea of yellow and green.
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