Book Excerpt: The 'bhaiya' and the Mizo - a tale of unlikely brothers in the Northeast

By Anand Ranganathan Editor’s Note: If there’s one part of India, many Indians remain clueless about it’s the northeast. Periodic stories about the discrimination northeasterners feel in Indian metros highlight that feeling of difference. Anand Ranganathan’s novel For Love and Honour (Bloomsbury) is set in the northeast in the jungles of Mizoram with its Mizo National Front camps as well as more genteel tea estates. This excerpt follows the stories of two young men, Rahul and Daniel, who learn a hard lesson in belonging and Indianness on the tough streets of Aizawl. where airstrikes are reducing the city to rubble while gangs of young Mizo men go “bhaiya hunting” in retaliation. 5 March, 1966. ‘Daniel,’ shouts Rahul Schimer as he struggles to keep up with his friend through the narrow meandering streets of Aizawl. His legs are drawn apart to the very limit at every bounding step. The side pockets of his shorts are packed with marbles that are smashing together to create a scratchy, unpalatable sound. His eyes squeeze tight every so often, his head lolls with exhaustion. He knows he can’t go on for much longer. But he dare not slow down. Panic is taking hold. He can hear his thudding heartbeat but is unaware of his fast surrendering mind.  It is late afternoon. Sunlight sifts through the pine trees in colossal planks, given shape by the dust in the air. The closely-packed stucco houses that line the street are run down, their windows boarded up with cardboard. ‘Daniel, where are you?’ cries Rahul, dodging the rubble lying in heaps on the pavement, mostly brick debris and broken furniture. He jerks his head round to check if the gang is catching up. They are. He can see a shaven head just starting to appear at the cusp of the slope he left behind a minute earlier. He skips at full gallop the shallow and uneven steps that connect one terrace road to the next. A few more steps and he’ll be safe. The road above is visible. He is going to make it. But he misses a step and falters. He tries to break his run but comes crashing all the way down to the bottom of the steps. He rolls around in the mud throttling his right shin with both hands to numb the maddening pain. The gang, about a dozen boys, has almost reached him. ‘A bhaiya, we’ve got a bhaiya,’ they are shouting in delight. Rahul raises himself up, using as purchase the hem of the bottom-most step. He struggles to his feet, willing his brain to crush the spasm that shoots up every time he transfers his weight to the right leg. It’s hopeless. With the very first step he capsizes like a boat whose hull has been smashed. His right ankle is gone. He can see a bulge starting to form where the ankle bone protrudes. The pain is nothing like he has experienced before, not even when he’d broken his arm last August during a football match. Using only the muscles of his upper arms, he lurches forward and tries to work the stairs one step at a time. One of the boys, the oldest among them and possibly the gang leader, sneaks up on him. Rahul tries to scurry away but it’s too late. The boy seizes Rahul’s leg in the hollow of his palm and yanks it with surprising force. Rahul comes hurtling down. The boy follows at leisure, taking in the encouragement from his friends. Rahul lies cheek down on the mud. His T-shirt is torn from the side seam. There is a wet patch, spreading slowly, down below. ‘Daniel,’ he exhales softly, and every ‘Daniel’ shapes a bubble of red spit. He decides to pretend he’s blacked out. But his tormentors are young kids – some not more than twelve – his age – and sympathy and remorse are emotions they do not yet know. They form a ring around Rahul even as the shaven headed boy, having caught hold of Rahul’s leg once more, twists it like he is manoeuvring a rudder. The boys watch with wonder as Rahul’s body spins and then recoils. They close in further to make a compact circle, so that Rahul is now hidden from outside view. The game has begun. ‘Kill the Indian,’ shouts a boy. ‘No, let’s chop his leg off first,’ says another. The boys start to chant ‘Kill him, kill him’. Rahul wants to beg for mercy but he finds he can’t force open his swollen lips. His face is smothered with clotted blood and grime and his eyes are watering copiously. He tries to heave his upper half up from the ground but can’t – there’s nothing to prop himself against. ‘Enough,’ says the gang leader and casts aside Rahul’s leg. Rahul wiggles back a yard on all fours. He dares to look around the circle. He’s never seen so many menacing eyes trained on him before. Then, swiftly, the leader brings out a large knife from under his shirt and there is silence. ‘Leave him.’ The boys turn around. The circle expands then loses shape. Ten yards away stands Daniel, his chest heaving, his mouth open, spittle wobbling from his lower lip. His legs are a little apart, in a confrontational posture, and his arms are taut, awaiting a command. ‘I said, leave him.’ The boys shift their attention from Rahul to Daniel and enlarge the circle to include him in it. They tighten the circle again, leaving Daniel now standing over Rahul in the confined space. The boys take a collective step in. The practiced ease suggests the skill has been honed on small animals or strays – trapped and helpless one moment, submissive and dead the next. Daniel is unperturbed. ‘Leave him,’ he repeats gently, with conviction. ‘Why should we?’ says the leader. ‘He’s a bhaiya, this Indian bastard, and today we’ll avenge the bombing.’ He is talking of the air strike of the day before that’s reduced much of Aizawl to rubble. ‘Rahul’s got nothing to do with the air strike,’ says Daniel. He has formed fists out of his hands as he says this. The action hasn’t gone unnoticed by the gang leader. ‘So what are you going to do – fight us? Fight your brothers? Stay away, Daniel. Stay away from this.’ ‘No, I won’t stay away from this. You stay away.’ Daniel, fourteen, is confronting a boy who is sixteen, and bigger, taller. The muscles of his arms are well formed, his T-shirt a little tight on the upper arms and on the chest. ‘Stay away, man,’ warns the leader as he advances towards Rahul. Daniel pushes the leader with his open palm. He tries to reason one more time. ‘I don’t want any trouble. I just want you to leave Rahul alone, that’s all. Don’t you know who he is?’ ‘We don’t care who he is, what his name is,’ says the leader running his finger along the blade. ‘He’s an Indian and that’s what matters.’ ‘He is the only son of Dr Schimer.’ ‘So?’ ‘His father has saved countless MNF men,’ says Daniel with contempt, ‘Your father included.’ ‘Yeah?’ says the leader, ‘Well, from now on, we don’t need any Schimer to save our men. Now step aside.’ There is finality in his words as he utters them. ‘He is my brother,’ says Daniel. ‘You do anything to him, and you will have to do the same to me.’ Onlookers have begun to edge round the circle. Daniel’s pluckiness hasn’t gone unnoticed. A pregnant woman throws her arms in the air and tries to part her way through. The boys are jittery. They don’t want to be on the wrong side of the crowd. The gang leader nods his head reluctantly. ‘Just this once, Daniel, just this once,’ he says, tucking the knife under his shirt. ‘Let’s go,’ he yells at his friends. Daniel lifts Rahul up from the ground once the gang has disappeared. ‘Are you all right?’ he asks. ‘Yes,’ says Rahul. ‘Daniel, I don’t know how to–’ ‘Forget it. Let’s get away from here. There might be other gangs on the hunt for bhaiyas.’ He regrets saying the word. ‘I meant-, what I meant was…’ ‘I know, I get it,’ says Rahul kindly. ‘Let’s go.’ Daniel picks up Rahul’s slipper. He returns to where Rahul is, trying to test his right leg with his weight, and bends down to guide Rahul’s foot gently into the slipper. Rahul hops and then staggers, the knee of his injured leg buckling. ‘Can you walk?’ asks Daniel. Rahul sucks his lips in and nods, and together they start to lumber up the steps. Daniel is right – there are other gangs patrolling the streets, on the lookout for anyone with non-Mizo features. He spots someone emerging from an alleyway a hundred yards further up. ‘We must hurry,’ he says and extends his arm around Rahul’s waist while offering his shoulder as a support. ‘Remember those three-legged races in school?’ he adds brightly. Rahul swings his arm over Daniel’s shoulder. They test the arrangement initially with small and measured strides. ‘Working,’ says Rahul gingerly. ‘Two friends, three legs,’ smiles Daniel.