A salon's portal to past

I feel good after a visit to the parlour these days. It has nothing to do with the makeover you might think I get there,  because no one notices any change. I feel good because of Lungwai.

Lungwai is from Mizoram. She is built small, always dressed in the jeans and tees that are standard dress at her workplace,  and has streaks in her hair.

When I first met her more than a year ago, she was shy, flustered and managed only a few English words. Despite a lot of patience and use of gestures from my end, even the basic job that I needed was not done satisfactorily. Although I was annoyed, it was too small an issue to fuss over, and I left it at that. A couple of months later, I went to the parlour again and was greeted by the same girl. It was only my reluctance to be rude that made me submit to her care. But soon I realised that she had changed! Gone was the hesitant manner. Her skills had improved and in halting and heavily accented English she made conversations. I gathered that she had worked in Chennai earlier and is married to the guy with multi-coloured hair working in the same parlour.

A few more visits ensured that Lungwai and I were comfortable with each other. I now look forward to listening to her lilting voice tell me her stories. “My husband’s family lives a few houses away from mine. Both of us are from the same village. My father used to be a security guard. Now he looks after our fields.”

Lungwai’s mother passed away long back and her unmarried sister and her in-laws together look after Lungwai’s little girl. This young thing has a daughter? I question in disbelief. “We don’t use much oil in our cooking and don’t drink much milk. That’s why we are thin.”

Lungwai tells me about their diet of fresh vegetables and the vegetable patch that nearly every household tends to. “The patch is fenced off using grass that can be woven together. Now we get ready-made fencing.”

I imagine tiny houses with green abundance on hills. Lungwai adds wistfully, “We also fish in the streams that flow in the village.” She tells me about the electric fishing that some village men employ. “But, the army warns us not to use electric fishing, so most men use the regular fishing gear.”

She lets me in on the intriguing way Mizo women fish. “We collect small stones, cover them with a big plastic sheet, block the path of the stream and then stomp on the leaves of walnut trees. The crushed leaves irritate the fish and they jump out of the water and we catch them.”

I am fascinated by this indigenous practice. What is it about crushed leaves of walnut? Some chemical? I mentally picture the scene — much like the Western grape-crushing. Lungwai has successfully and unintentionally transported me to her beautiful state. On my next visit I ask her, “You must be missing your home and child. How is it to work in this crowded and polluted city?”

She says, “I do miss, but with less jobs there, we had to come away. That’s why I want to ensure that my daughter studies well. I go home once a year and I speak to her on the phone often.” And she proudly declares, “She is six and very clever.”

I ask Lungwai where the child was born. “She was born at home. In our village we all go to an old woman. She is a midwife and has much experience.” She explains that a breech delivery was prevented by the regular massages the old woman gave her.

Aah, there really is no dearth of stories in Lungwai’s armour, I think. And even as the image of this very trendily dressed woman having a home delivery floods my mind, I ask her what the daughter’s name is. I forget the name as I write this piece, but this is what Lungwai said, “It means prosperity in our language. After she was born, we are really improving, Ma’am.”

I feel happy for Lungwai. I marvel at the girl whose English has progressed to include words like ‘prosperity’. I also wonder about the lives of those like her who travel from idyllic villages to harsh cities in search of a better life.