By Dr. Dipon Sharmah
Before I visited Kongthong, a quaint village in Meghalaya, I had heard about its unique tradition, where people are not known by their names, but by their melodies. The mother composes this melody immediately after the birth of her child. And that melody stays with the child for the rest of his or her life. If someone wants to call the child, they do so by singing the child’s unique tune. And with the death of the person, the tune naturally dies with them. It is never composed again for anyone else.
This summer, during my visit to Assam, when my brother suggested a family trip to Kongthong, I immediately agreed. One fine morning in mid-June, we embarked on our most anticipated two-day trip. We were a lively group of eleven: me, my brother and a friend, along with our better halves and our Instagram-crazy kids.
We left Guwahati early in the morning. The road to Shillong was very familiar. The climb was gradual, the air began to thin, serpentine roads appeared, drizzle accompanied us and the changing quality of light through the avenue trees set us into a new realm.
One thing that was very striking was that once we crossed Shillong and turned towards Kongthong, nature became even more mesmerizing. The valley began to deepen, and then, all of a sudden, we encountered fog that seemed to come out of nowhere.
It was an unusual time to experience fog at midday, in the middle of June. But there it was, drifting slowly between the pine trees and settling into the valley below us.
The temperature dropped and the road narrowed to a single lane. It began to wind sharply. Along the entire twenty-six kilometre stretch from Mawjrong to the village, we saw only two vehicles coming from the opposite direction. Google Maps was of little help here, so we stopped occasionally to ask locals if we were heading the right way. They smiled and nodded, and their reassurance was more than enough.
That drive, I think, was one of the best parts of the whole journey. Not because anything happened. But because it was just the mountains, the valleys, the clouds, the fog, and our two cars going deeper and deeper into the hills. My brother and I looked at each other without saying anything. We knew Kongthong was a place where we would relive our childhood days in Arunachal Pradesh.
We reached Kongthong at about half past one in the afternoon. We had booked two huts at a community-run homestay called The Traveller’s Nest. We wanted to experience the rustic rhythm of village life. After a hot meal and some rest, we set out to explore the village.
Our guides were two young tourism interns, Alva and Lucky, along with a homestay staff member named Barecy. Alva and Lucky were tourism students from Shillong, doing their internships in the village. They spoke English. The villagers spoke only Khasi, so they were the bridge between us and the village folks.
That afternoon, we visited two homes. In one of them, we met a mother of seven children. Through our guides, we asked if she would sing for us. She immediately agreed. And thereafter, what followed was something I will not be able to forget easily.
She sang the short tune for her eldest child first, then the longer version. Then she sang the short and long tunes for the second child, then the third and so on. She sang all the tunes in sequence – fourteen melodies in all, and each one was different. She had composed each of these tunes when that particular child was born.
It was a small room, where we sat in a circle. The light outside was slowly turning grey and soft. She sang without any ceremony, like a child happily reciting rhymes. And we all listened in silence.
The students sincerely explained what we were seeing. The tradition is called Jingrwai Lawbei – a melody sung in honour of the clan’s first mother, the ancestress from whom they are all descended. The melody is not inherited, nor is it chosen from any existing repertoire. It is composed afresh by the mother.
I learnt that every individual carries two versions of this melody throughout their life: a short tune which is used indoors, say, to call someone for a meal; and a long tune, which is used in the open fields and deep forest when someone is far from home.
There is also a spiritual reason for using the melodies in the forest. According to our guides, villagers believe that these melodies protect them from spirits that dwell in the forest.
While we grown-ups were learning and enjoying this unique tradition, our children played football with the village boys of their age.. What struck us most was how well they played. Their passing was quick and precise. Football and music are intrinsically woven into the lives of the people of the hills.
We roamed the village. The evening was approaching, and the young and old villagers gathered outdoors in groups. They played games, they talked, and laughed. No one was in a hurry. I went to a small shop and asked for a cup of black tea. The girl nodded, and then called her elder sister with a melodic tune. It was the first time I witnessed the tradition being used in everyday life.
Every child we passed, on our way into the village and on our way back, waved at us. They waved not for the camera, and not because someone had told them to do so. It was something very genuine, very pure. These little things, like the little hands bidding us adieu, stay in our memories for a long time.
As a nature enthusiast, I had been keenly observing the forest since we arrived. The mosses, the ferns, the cloud-loving plants of the Khasi Hills. But one plant that caught the attention of everyone was the insect-eating pitcher plant, Nepenthes khasiana, a species endemic to this region. It traps and digests insects inside its liquid-filled pitchers. The children had read about insectivorous plants in their science textbooks. So, they were very excited to see one in the wild. Many times, the best lessons are learnt outside the classroom.
The whole night, it rained incessantly. The next day, we couldn’t go trekking to the viewpoint and the natural swimming pool. Before leaving, we thanked everyone at the homestay, especially Barecy, Alva and Lucky, who had been genuinely helpful throughout.
On our drive back home, the fog still hung in the valleys. The children and the rest of us clicked pictures to share later in our WhatsApp group, ‘Kongthong – Hills That Sing’. As we slowly drove down through the mist, it felt as if the entire valley was softly humming the names of its children.
(The author is Assistant Professor and Head of the PG Department of Botany at Jawaharlal Nehru Rajkeeya Mahavidyalaya, Andaman & Nicobar Islands)
