Himalayan Tribal Tales: Oral Tradition and Culture in the Apatani Valley (Brill's Tibetan Studies Library)

Himalayan Tribal Tales

Brill’s Tibetan Studies Library Edited by

Henk Blezer Alex McKay Charles Ramble

VOLUME 16/2

Himalayan Tribal Tales Oral Tradition and Culture in the Apatani Valley

By

Stuart Blackburn

LEIDEN • BOSTON 2008

On the cover: Hage Hiiba (with black cap) and Hage Kago building altars and chanting. Hari, 2002. Photograph by the author. This book is printed on acid-free paper. Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Blackburn, Stuart H. Himalayan tribal tales : oral tradition and culture in the Apatani Valley / by Stuart Blackburn. p. cm. — (Brill’s tibetan studies library) Includes bibliographical references and index. ISBN 978-90-04-17133-6 (hardback : alk. paper) 1. Apatani (Indic people)— Folklore. 2. Apatani (Indic people)—Social life and customs. 3. Tales—India— Arunachal Pradesh. 4. Oral tradition—India—Arunachal Pradesh. 5. Arunachal Pradesh (India)—Social life and customs. I. Title. II. Series. GR305.7.A73B53 2008 398.20954’163—dc22 2008032574

ISSN 1568-6183 ISBN 978 90 04 17133 6 Copyright 2008 by Koninklijke Brill NV, Leiden, The Netherlands. Koninklijke Brill NV incorporates the imprints Brill, Hotei Publishing, IDC Publishers, Martinus Nijhoff Publishers and VSP. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, translated, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without prior written permission from the publisher. Authorization to photocopy items for internal or personal use is granted by Koninklijke Brill NV provided that the appropriate fees are paid directly to The Copyright Clearance Center, 222 Rosewood Drive, Suite 910, Danvers, MA 01923, USA. Fees are subject to change. printed in the netherlands

CONTENTS Acknowledgements ..................................................................... Note on Orthography ................................................................. Abbreviations .............................................................................. Figures ......................................................................................... Brief Chronology ........................................................................

ix xi xiii xv xvii

Chapter One: Introduction ....................................................... Inside culture .......................................................................... Between cultures ..................................................................... From south India to the eastern Himalayas .......................... Getting started ........................................................................ Oral genres ............................................................................. Hage Gyati .............................................................................. This book ................................................................................

1 4 6 7 12 16 22 24

Chapter Two: A History of Change ......................................... Apatanis and their neighbours ............................................... Early history of change .......................................................... The halyang come to the valley ............................................... Literacy, oral culture and script ............................................. Hapoli and village .................................................................. Religious change and reaction: Donyi-Polo ........................... Religious change and reaction in the Apatani valley ............ Conclusion ..............................................................................

27 30 35 37 41 43 47 49 52

Chapter Three: Tales ................................................................. Introduction ............................................................................ Tales ........................................................................................ 1. The Two Sisters: A Snake-Husband ............................. 2. The Two Sisters: Fleeing the Ogre ............................... 3. The Trickster Cycle: Abo Tani and His Rival ............. 4. The Trickster Cycle: Abo Tani and the Spirits ............ 5. The Trickster Cycle: The Sons of Abo Tani ............... 6. The Tallest Tree (1) ....................................................... 7. The Tallest Tree (2) .......................................................

55 55 55 55 58 63 74 78 81 83

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contents 8. 9. 10. 11. 12.

The Blinding Lake: Kar Siimi .................................... The Magic Tree: Ami Dori ......................................... The Innocent Persecuted Heroine: Kokii Yamu ........ The Power of Possessive Love: Papin and Pame ....... A Stupid Wife: Tabu Yapi ...........................................

88 91 94 99 105

Chapter Four: Myths and Histories .......................................... Introduction ............................................................................ Myths and histories ................................................................. 1. Beginnings of the World ............................................. 2. Migration across Mountains ........................................ 3. Lost Writing ................................................................. 4. Settling the Valley ........................................................ 5. Origin of the Mithun .................................................. 6. Origin of Cotton, Wool, Thread and Dyes ................ 7. Origin of Social Classes: Burning a Dictionary ......... 8. First Colonial Contact, 1897 ....................................... 9. Attack on Outsiders, 1948 ........................................... 10. Hidden Treasure, Early 20th Century ........................ 11. Trading Expeditions, 1950s–1980s ............................. 12. Naive Neighbours ........................................................ 13. Sun-Moon and Death ................................................. 14. Reinvented Religion: Donyi-Polo ................................

107 107 108 108 110 116 117 119 122 125 129 133 141 144 151 153 155

Chapter Five: Ritual Texts ........................................................ Introduction ............................................................................ Ritual texts .............................................................................. 1. The Mithun Chant: Subu Heniin ............................... 2. Meat for All: Dulu Ayu ............................................... 3. Hunting the Monkey: Myoko Ayu .............................. 4. The Festival Begins: Siikki Ayu ................................... 5. Journey to the Land of the Dead ............................... 6. Stomach Cure: Diipa Meko ........................................

159 159 163 163 172 182 196 201 210

Chapter Six: Comparisons, Local Culture and Identity .......... Comparisons: Apatani stories in the wider world ................. 1. Myths ........................................................................... 2. Tales ............................................................................. 3. Stories, History and the Extended Eastern Himalayas ....................................................................

213 214 214 221 227

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Stories and local culture ......................................................... 1. Exchange and Alliance .................................................. 2. Ceremonial Friendships ................................................. 3. ‘The roots are always entangled’ .................................. Identity, change and Abo Tani ............................................... 1. Outsiders: Halyang .......................................................... 2. Tibet: Nyime .................................................................... 3. Tribal Neighbours: Misan .............................................. 4. Abo Tani ........................................................................

231 233 235 240 241 242 244 246 247

Appendices .................................................................................. Appendix 1: Transcription and Analysis of a Story ............. Appendix 2: List of Storytellers ............................................. Appendix 3: Comparative Profile of Apatani Stories ...........

251 253 259 261

Glossary ....................................................................................... Bibliography ................................................................................ Index ...........................................................................................

267 269 279

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS Many Apatanis helped me in collecting and translating the stories in this book. Among them, Hage Komo deserves special acknowledgement. He collected some of the stories himself, and he prepared preliminary translations of many of them, especially the difficult ritual texts. Among the tellers, I wish especially to thank Mudan Donyi and Mudan Pai, both of whom contributed to this book in every possible way. Among other friends who helped me in my research, I would like to thank Sumpi Khoda, Leegang Tachang and Tage Diibo. Thanks are due to Mark Post for his advice on transcription and his work in preparing Appendix 1; to Jarmila Ptackova for translating Chinese-language sources; to Gerald Schreiber for translating German-language sources; and to Sarit Chaudhuri for transcribing manuscripts. Funding for the research behind this book came from the Economic and Social Research Council (UK) and the British Academy.

NOTE ON ORTHOGRAPHY A high, central unrounded vowel is represented by ‘ii’ (instead of the ü or ɨ of the International Phonetic Alphabet). An initial nasalised ‘n’ is shown as ‘n’ (rather than ‘ã’ in IPA). A final ‘n’ is sometimes nasalised (Murung) and sometimes not (misan). ‘C’ is used for the ‘ch’ sound (camba). Wi (spirit) is pronounced like ‘we.’ More conventional spellings are used for most personal names (Piicha, not Piica; Duley, not Dule) and place-names (Michi Bamin, not Mici Bamin). ‘Gauhati’ is used for older sources and references; ‘Guwahati’ for more recent ones.

ABBREVIATIONS AT DC PI PO

Aarne-Thompson tale-type District Commissioner Political Interpreter Political Officer

FIGURES List of maps 1. Arunachal Pradesh and the Apatani valley, p. 2 2. Sketch map of the Apatani valley, p. 34 3. Extended eastern Himalayas as a Culture Area, p. 220 List of illustrations (photographs taken by author unless otherwise stated) 1. Apatani valley. 2002 (Michael Aram Tarr) 2. Hage Gyati finishing a basket. Hapoli, 2001 3. Tasso Tangu chanting and building ritual altars, with a young man. Hari, 2002 4. Hage Hiiba (right) and Hage Kago building altars and chanting. Hari, 2002 5. Hage Tado with the kobyang bracelet, altar and chicks during the Myoko festival. Hari, 2002 6. Mudan Pai with dried squirrel chanting during miida feast. Lempya, 2001 7. Entrance to Tajang village. 2001 (T.I.F.P.G. = ‘Tajang Indigenous Faith Promotion Group’) 8. On path leading to burial ground. (Pui Putu = name of the burial ground). Lempya, 2002 9. Baptist and Catholic churches on the outskirts of Hapoli. 2001 10. Poster on wall (IFCSAP = ‘Indigenous Faith and Culture Society of Arunachal Pradesh’). Old Ziro, 2001 11. Mudan Donyi with the paraphernalia of his own ‘religion.’ Mudan Tage, 2002 12. Lod Talyang’s daughter-in-law holding the damaged myamya brass plate. Kalung, 2002 13. ‘The Palaver.’ Apatani valley, 1897 (Asher Leventon) British officers negotiate with Apatanis over compensation for a murder, with Nyishis and others in attendance. The Commanding Officer, Robert Blair McCabe, sits to the left of centre (looking at

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the camera and apparently taking notes), surrounded by British and Indian officers and soldiers. [with the kind permission of the British Library] 14. Tasso Nama holding the skull of the monkey he shot. Hari, 2002 15. Structure with mithun skulls above a man’s grave. near Michi Bamin, 2001 16. Tage Doging, ‘the oldest man in the village.’ Tajang, 2002

BRIEF CHRONOLOGY c. 1200 to c. 1800 1820s 1839 1873 1874 1897 1914 1935 1940s 1947 1948 1954 1962 1963 1972 1970s 1987 1988 1990s 2003 2004 2007

Assam valley ruled by Ahoms (Tai-speakers from Shan states in Burma) British colonial rule begins in the Assam valley first armed conflict between Arunachal tribes and colonial government Inner Line Regulation demarcates British rule from tribal authority in the hills. Arunachal hills incorporated into the Province of Assam as ‘unadministered tracts’ first official colonial contact in the Apatani valley McMahon line drawn between India and Tibet/China Act of India makes Arunachal hills an ‘excluded area’ semi-permanent government presence in Apatani valley Indian Independence Apatanis attack a government outpost near the valley NEFA (North-East Frontier Agency) established to govern the Arunachal hills Chinese invade NEFA; Indian army arrives and stays part of NEFA given to the new state of Nagaland NEFA ends; Arunachal Pradesh becomes a Union Territory Donyi-Polo (revitilisation) movement gains support Arunachal Pradesh becomes a state Hindu temple built in Hapoli Christian churches built in Hapoli Christian churches built close to Apatani villages Donyi-Polo hall built in an Apatani village Donyi-Polo halls built in three more villages

CHAPTER ONE

INTRODUCTION The stories in this book come from a high valley in the Indian state of Arunachal Pradesh. Located at five thousand feet in the eastern Himalayas, the Apatani valley is about four miles long and two across, although thin fingers of land stretch a little further on the eastern perimeter. Paddy fields cover every available square foot, with islands of gardens, bamboo groves and millet patches on higher ground. Hundreds of brown wooden granaries, propped up on thick posts, squat like square boxes in the fields. The mountains crowd in on all sides, their dark green slopes rising two or three thousand feet above the valley floor. To the north, the snow peaks of the high Himalayas are visible only from outside the valley and only on a clear day. To the south, beyond the bustling administrative centre hacked out of the jungle in the 1970s, tall ridges stand between the fertile valley and the flood plain of Assam. Thirty thousand Apatanis live here in seven compact villages, wedged between fields and mountains. Narrow houses crowd together in straight lines, their tall bamboo posts criss-crossing with TV antennae. The enclosed valley fosters social activity, and people are constantly on the move. On winter mornings, before the fog has lifted, Apatanis are out in the paddy fields, tilling the soil and building bunds; later, when the sun has burned off the cold, they repair railings, gather firewood, weave shawls and crochet hats. Almost too busy to bother with storytelling, I thought. Yet, on a sunny porch, by a hearth or on a ritual platform in the centre of a village, Apatanis do tell stories. Not those told elsewhere in India, however. Softly spoken or chanted, these stories describe a tree too tall to be seen, a lake that blinds those who see it, a dangerous journey to the land of the dead and, above all, a trickster-ancestor whose pig sacrifice achieves harmony with the spirit world. Tucked away in a corner between India, Bhutan, China/Tibet and Burma, until recently this part of the eastern Himalayas lay beyond the control of surrounding states and left few traces in the historical record. The southern border of Arunachal Pradesh was established in the nineteenth century when the colonial government drew a line

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separating tribal territory in the hills from British territory in Assam; outsiders, European and Indian, were prohibited from crossing the line without official permission, and from owning land or any business in tribal territory. With minor adjustments, this remains the boundary between Arunachal Pradesh and Assam, with the restrictions still in place. While this did not prevent trade between Assam and the hills, it did discourage European scholarship. Even colonialism’s paper empire made little headway in this north-eastern pocket of the Raj. The odd plant hunter and occasional military expedition ventured into the deep river valleys and high hills, but effective government was not established in the interior until the1950s and in remote places not until the 1980s. The northern border with Tibet/China, the McMahon Line of the early twentieth century, remained a disputed but open boundary in the snow until shortly after Indian Independence. The Chinese take-over of Tibet in 1959 together with the Sino-Indian war in 1962 led to a militarisation of the border, preventing cross-border trade and cutting off local populations straddling the divide. The British colonial government had been anxious about Tibetan/Chinese influence in the northeast, and the Indian government that followed echoed this concern and transformed the region into a high security zone. Throughout the second half of the twentieth century, Arunachal Pradesh remained closed to foreign researchers, and limited tourism began only in the mid-1990s. Although field research in Arunachal Pradesh is still restricted, I was fortunate to gain access for periods of long-term research beginning in 2000. This book has two or three general aims. As a study of Apatani oral tradition, I would like to think that it will add to our understanding of oral traditions around the world.1 Some pleasure, too, I hope will be gained from reading the stories themselves. At the same time, I want to give readers an idea of the people who tell these stories and why. In other words, this book explores the relationship between oral stories and culture in the Apatani valley. Parallel stories in adjacent regions are also discussed because in order to know what is local about a story we must consider its tellings elsewhere. This is what guided me when I began to write—a belief that oral

1 Studies of oral traditions among Tibeto-Burman speakers in the eastern Himalayas include Allen 1976, 1980; Höfer 1981, 1994; Gaenszle 2000, 2002. For upland Southeast Asia, see Dessaint and Ngwâma 1994.

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stories can lead us inside a culture as well as identify links between cultures. At the end, I found that Apatani oral tradition does this in several ways. Its system of genres reveals local attitudes towards types of speaking and speakers; Apatani oral stories are dominated by two related ideas, which are also enacted in social practice; the stories express Apatani ideas about identity in relation to others; and these ‘local’ stories, told in the high, narrow valley, have significant parallels not only in central Arunachal Pradesh but also in upland Southeast Asia and southwest China. Inside culture Like cosmology, oral stories contain local concepts; like kinship, they organise social relations; and like rituals, they reinforce cultural values. This much is widely accepted and we can think of well-known examples: Tsmishian myths that harbour a contradiction between rules for descent and residence; Ilongot legends that encode perceptions of the past; Italian tales that speak with a ‘quiver of love.’2 However—and this is the important contrast with other cultural forms—oral stories are also narratives.3 In them, men and women eat and work, argue and sleep, marry and die, and sometimes travel beyond fields and forests into other realms. Additionally, more than most other types of expressive culture, oral stories present these approximations of our lived experiences through the human voice. They may be fictive, but they are an insider’s fiction. Franz Boas recognised this almost a hundred years ago when he described oral stories as a form of native ethnography because ‘the points that seem important to him [the north American Indian] are emphasized.’4 Even on this level of content, however, oral stories do not simply represent a ‘slice of life’; the actions and attitudes they describe are not raw data nor necessarily a record of social facts. Instead, oral stories are a culture’s reflection on itself, a commentary that has been abstracted from everyday life, passed down over time and shaped according to local narrative and linguistic conventions, social rules and cultural con-

2 3 4

Lévi-Strauss 1967; Rosaldo 1980; Calvino 1982. ‘Oral stories’ include sung narratives. Boas 1909: 309. See also Stocking 1974: 86; Fischer 1963.

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cepts. Combining this idea of collective composition with Boas’ point about an insider’s perspective, we can think of oral stories as a kind of culture-wide autobiography.5 This reflexive dimension of narrative, imported from literary theory into anthropology and folklore studies in the 1970s, was memorably captured by Clifford Geertz when he defined culture as the stories we tell ourselves about ourselves.6 Although he was describing a Balinese cockfight, he turned to the metaphor of narrative because of its inherently meta-cultural quality: stories describe our lives as well as shape them. Although now something of a cliché, this insight has explanatory power, as I think this book will demonstrate. Oral stories take us inside local culture not only as tale but also as telling.7 Here folklorists have returned Geertz’s favour, of turning a cockfight into a narrative, by thinking of stories as events. As with their content, the telling of oral stories is not just any occasion, but one that has been locally identified and shaped as a display of skill and knowledge. A local population selects not only specific episodes but also certain kinds of speaking and speakers for the telling of its stories. These performance events represent local attitudes toward speech, age and gender, as well as genre. Each culture seems to favour one or two narrative genres; and not all forms of storytelling are even recognised as genres, as we will see later. These levels of reciprocity between stories and culture—a cultural construction of narrative that is difficult to separate from a narrative construction of culture—is precisely what complicates their interpretation. Stories are neither exclusively a mirror of society nor a blueprint for it; and for this reason we cannot easily read social history or practice from them. Cinderella, for instance, did not originate from China’s fetish for bound feet or from an abundance of stepmothers caused by a high death-rate during childbirth in pre-modern Europe.8 Likewise, the frequent abandonment of babies in Zuni myths is a poor indicator of Zuni social practices.9

Boas (1916: 396) suggested that oral stories ‘are an autobiography of the tribe.’ Geertz 1973: 452. On the relationship between narrative and culture, see Mitchell 1980; Ricouer 1984; Bruner 1991. On this interaction in the western Himalayas, see Narayan 1997. 7 Oral performance is an interaction between ‘text, narrated event and narrative event’ (Bauman 1986: 2). 8 Warner 1994: 128, 213. 9 Benedict 1935, vol. 1: viii. Benedict later modified Boas’ reflection model and emphasised the compensatory function of stories. 5 6

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Other forms of expressive culture (dance, music, ritual) also reflect local culture in both content and performance. Narratives, however, do something else, as well: they set up a parallel world, with all the visual and social details of our lives, and then tell us through the human voice what happens within it.10 In these various ways—as content reflecting local lives, as events revealing culturally approved speech and speakers, and as reflexive commentary on all this—the stories in this book take readers some way inside a Himalayan tribal culture. Taking our lead from Boas and Geertz, we can approach Apatani oral tradition as a mixture of documentation and imagination, as a story a culture tells about itself. That story is changing. We know that oral tradition is never static, that performance and improvisation generate variation. It is dynamic in another sense, too: transmitted over time, oral tradition is inherently temporal.11 Oral stories are not necessarily historically accurate, but history does influence their content. In writing this book, I came to realise that events of the past two hundred years have left their mark on Apatani stories, especially in their articulation of local identity. Between cultures Oral stories can also lead us outward to other cultures in surrounding regions. Tracing the paths by which stories travel and settle down among peoples of the world was central to debates about culture and history in the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. ‘How can we explain the fact of a story in a lonely mountain village in Hesse resembling one in India, Greece, or Servia?’ asked Wilhelm Grimm in 1856.12 Seeking an answer in the world’s libraries, the comparative study of folktales and myths generated grand theories of origin and migration, diffusion and borrowing, assimilation and inheritance. This kind of armchair theorising about textual patterns across the globe has rightly been replaced by field-based studies of local uses and interpretations. The fictional Rev. Casaubon never found his ‘Key to All Mythologies,’ while Frazer and Lévi-Strauss thought they had; but

10 11 12

Theatre approaches oral stories in the approximation of lived experience. See Glassie 1995. Thompson 1977 [1946]: 369.

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now we know better. While we still have no answer to Grimm’s question, we realise that understanding the stories in even one culture is more than most of us can hope to achieve. The comparative study of oral stories remains tainted not only by its ambitious scope but also by the assumptions of some of its early advocates. Explaining survivals in myth as evidence of cultural evolution, or claiming that oral tradition is transmitted vertically over generations, has for some time been thought to sail too close to the winds of racialist ethnology. Surely, however, if oral stories carry meanings, their comparative analysis can contribute to current debates on hybridity, identity, borders and globalisation. Even without claiming to explain these larger issues, comparative research of oral traditions may provide evidence for historical, linguistic and cultural connections between peoples in adjacent regions. Whatever its popularity, the cross-cultural study of oral stories continues to fascinate many of us, which is why I discuss parallels between Apatani oral stories and those told elsewhere in the eastern Himalayas in the final chapter. Beyond any personal interest, however, comparative research is essential to the interpretation of the local meanings of an oral story. Little did I know that I would find a version of Hansel and Gretel in the Apatani valley, or that the egg-shell necklace given to one of the characters makes it a local story. From south India to the eastern Himalayas Comparative research is a goal for most folklorists, but like many I only managed to collect stories in one area and relied on published material for comparison. In the late 1990s, after twenty-five years of research and writing about Tamil oral traditions, I felt the need to study stories elsewhere, preferably somewhere very different to south India. After a brief trip to Assam and then a workshop there with folklorists from northeast India, I was drawn to the Apatani valley in nearby Arunachal Pradesh. The cultural contrast between the eastern Himalayas and Tamil south India could hardly be greater. Tamil has two thousand years of recorded literary history, inscriptions from at least 400 AD and printed books since the eighteenth century. This (largely Hindu) civilisation has produced monumental temple architecture, intricate iconography and complex theologies; today 65 million Tamils are busy interpreting their ancient poems and medieval epics, as well as programming

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computers. In the narrow Apatani valley, about 30,000 people have lived (until very recently) with no permanent religious structures or religious imagery, without a script, written literature or historical records. While Apatanis have been noted for their sophisticated methods of irrigation, wet-rice agriculture and forest management, I found a complex oral tradition.13 I soon realised that the stories I was hearing—histories, myths, ritual chants, trickster tales—were unlike anything I knew in south India. Even the oral genres were unfamiliar. There are no ‘folktales’ and no Ramayana in the Apatani valley (or central Arunachal Pradesh).14 But these differences only quickened my curiosity and sharpened my questions. Five periods of fieldwork in the Apatani valley (between 2000–2006), plus a few brief trips, gave me the material I was hoping for and laid the basis for this book. It draws inspiration from both the first anthropologist and the first folklorist to work in what is now Arunachal Pradesh; and it seeks to extend their pioneering studies. Verrier Elwin (1902–1964) provided little context for the stories he collected, while Christoph von FürerHaimendorf (1909–1995) barely mentioned oral tradition in his books on Apatani society. Elwin published two books of oral stories, which he recorded during his tenure as Honorary Adviser on Tribal Affairs in the region from 1954 until his death ten years later. Although his comparative notes are valuable, most of his texts are fragments published without description of teller, telling or setting.15 Fürer-Haimendorf wrote the first ethnographic study of any tribe in the region, based on his eight-month stay in the 1940s as a government officer and on several later, brief visits.16 His writings are informative on Apatani political and economic systems, but he had little to say about oral tradition and ritual practices. Combining Elwin’s comparative folklore with FürerHaimendorf ’s focus on a single tribe, this book is a study of Apatani

13 The Apatani ‘clever and intricate system of irrigation’ was praised as early as 1912 (Lewis 1914: 81). 14 The Tibetan story-cycle of Gesar Ling is similarly not found in central Arunachal Pradesh. 15 Elwin 1958; Elwin 1970. 16 Fürer-Haimendorf 1962; Fürer-Haimendorf 1980. Roy 1997 [1960] and Shukla 1959 are the only other detailed ethnographies of tribes in central Arunachal Pradesh, although books and articles with valuable data are published every year. See also Aisher 2006.

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oral tradition.17 The emphasis is not on individual stories but on the tradition as a whole; stories are important but so are genres, language, themes, contexts and tellers, as well as attitudes toward all of these. Throughout this book I use ‘tribe’ and ‘tribal’ to describe Apatanis and other people in central Arunachal Pradesh, knowing that the term is imprecise but also that the alternatives (‘ethnic group,’ ‘community,’ ‘population’) are equally vague.18 On the one hand, and like most groups in the region, Apatanis match the standard profile for a tribe in that they have a lineage-based, segmentary social system and (did) invest authority in an informal village council.19 There were and are no ‘chiefs’ among Apatanis, nor among most of their neighbours.20 On the other hand, in contrast to others in the region, Apatanis are sedentary agriculturalists, who do not practice slash and burn agriculture and only rarely hunt. I agree with André Béteille that in the Indian context a tribe is best understood not by these discrete criteria but rather by the position of a population vis-á-vis dominant ideologies and cultural patterns.21 Apatanis are a small population in a mountainous terrain, speaking an unwritten Tibeto-Burman language, with (until recently) limited access to modern technologies and communications, and not least with eating, drinking and ritual practices considered low status by mainstream Indian populations. Politically marginalised, set apart by geography, culture, religion, language and literacy—none of the Tibeto-Burman languages in the region is recognised as an ‘official language’ by the Indian government and none has its own script—this is what ‘tribe’ means in the context of this book. I also use ‘tribe’ because, although it attracts controversy in some parts of the world, including India, in Arunachal Pradesh most people use the English word with pride. It is a cruel irony that, if the wellintentioned arguments against the term as a colonial construct and stigma of backwardness are successful, its removal will only contribute

17 With the exception of Tale 4 and the second version of Myth and History 13, all stories were collected orally from Apatanis during my field research. I also used a published source for Myth and History 1. 18 See Xaxa 2002 for a review of the debate on ‘tribe’ in India. 19 This council (bulyang) ceased to wield authority in 1970s; the office of councilman was not hereditary. 20 Exceptions are the Akas to the west, who appear to have had hereditary leaders (‘rajas’ in colonial sources), and the Wanchos and Noctes in the southeast. 21 Beteille 1991 [1986].

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to the already considerable erasure of tribal populations from the histories of India. No matter how the story is told—driven into the hills, assimilated as low castes or absorbed into the new political order of classical Hinduism—tribes are viewed as obstacles to be removed in order to get on with unfolding the grand narrative of Indian history. To be sure, some scholars have emphasised interactions, especially economic and ritual, between tribal and caste populations that have contributed to the mosaic of Indian civilisation.22 And it is also true that tribes are prominent in development studies and (often thin) ethnographies, usually from local publishers. However, major international studies of India as a nation tend to leave out tribes almost completely. Sunil Khilnani’s ‘idea’ of India, for example, found space for only a passing reference to the trope of ‘tribes and castes.’ Nor are tribes among the several ‘fragments’ of the nation described by Partha Chatterjee in his influential book.23 If not ‘tribes,’ what are they? Low-caste Hindu is not an identity welcomed by many in central Arunachal Pradesh; even Christian is better than that, which is saying something. To be a tribal is not without its humiliations, especially when one travels to Guwahati or Delhi, where Arunachalis are regularly mistaken for being Japanese or Chinese. An Apatani man, who now works in a medical research institute in Delhi, told me that during his training in south India he was known as the ‘Chinese doctor.’ Within the state, however, it means that you belong, that you are not an outsider. No Apatani, for example, not even a Christian convert, wishes to be thought of as halyang, as an ‘outsider,’ from the plains or further away. As we shall see, this line of demarcation separating Apatanis from others appears again and again in the stories. Another descriptive minefield trod on in this book is ‘religion.’ Apatani ideas of death and the soul, their myths and chants, rituals and ritual specialists are different to those among groups on the borders of central Arunachal Pradesh (who practice forms of Buddhism, Hinduism and the more recently arrived Christianity, which is now found within the region as well). At the same time, Apatani beliefs and practices are similar, often identical, to those of their neighbours in central Arunachal Pradesh. What should we call this religious system? Animism? Tribal religion? Shamanism? Local religion? Indigenous cosmology?

22 23

See, for example, Sontheimer 1986; Eschmann et al. 1986; Guha 1999. Khilnani 1997; Chatterjee 1993.

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I will use the contentious term ‘animism,’ but only with qualifications and reluctance. As the default category for ‘other religions,’ animism has long been recognised as imprecise, and yet it has been redefined rather than replaced. Recent attempts to reconceptualise animism have moved away from the conventional definition (a belief that inanimate things have an anima or soul) and instead emphasise the social relations between humans and non-humans.24 Pederson, for instance, describes North Asian animism as a system in which ‘the realm of the social does not end with human beings.’25 This, however, would describe several different religious systems, from Hinduism to Christianity, in which interaction between humans and non-humans extends into the social realm. To my mind, Apatani religion differs from most religious systems not in terms of relations between humans and non-humans, but rather in the concept of the spirits themselves. To begin with, animism is usually understood as the animation of natural phenomena: sky-spirits, waterspirits and so on. Apatani spirits (wi ), however, are rarely personifications of nature. Exceptions exist (Sun-Moon, for example), and a few spirits are loosely associated with locations (a field, a mountain); but the great majority are linked to conditions (disease, infertility), events (fire, lost animal), desired outcomes (protection, mental strength) or a combination of these. Similarly, Apatanis do not attribute many anthropomorphic qualities to spirits; instead, they are impersonal.26 Some have a dominant trait—protective, wise, harmful—but nothing like the assemblage of human characteristics of gods and goddesses in local Hinduism or other folk forms of world religions. The only figure who approaches anthropomorphism is Abo Tani, the ancestor, about whom we will hear a great deal in this book. Unlike Apatani spirits, he has a complete life-story, which means that he has wives and sons, and enemies, plus a personality and emotions. However, Abo Tani is not a spirit (wi ), and he is not invoked to bring prosperity or avert misfortune. A second feature that characterises Apatani religion (and others like it) is the sheer number of spirits, 150 or more. Only about two dozen are regularly addressed in ritual or mentioned in conversation,

24 See Bird-David 1999; Descola 1996, 2006; Ingold 2006; Viveiros de Castro 1998; Pederson 2001. On ‘animism’ in relation to a tribe in India, see Triosi 2000. 25 Pederson 2001: 415. 26 On this point, see also Guthrie 2001.

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but many more are known and listed in chants. A final point is that although animism is often thought to make the spiritual visible, what distinguishes Apatani spirits from humans is their invisibility. Similarly, Apatani religion includes unseen places (Neli, land of the dead) and intangible conditions (kolyung-kolo, ‘formlessness’). Broadly speaking, then, we can think of Apatani religion as a form of animism that has a large number of impersonal, invisible spirits, plus a few abstract ideas. The lack of consensus about the use of ‘tribe’ and ‘animism’ arises, I believe, from insufficient and inaccurate descriptions of social and religions systems that have no easy parallels in the experiences of those of us who write about them. The plain truth is that we do not know what to call these systems because we do not know enough about them. My experiences are also limited, but I hope that this book will reveal something about one tribal and animist culture through its oral tradition. Getting started I knew next to nothing about that tradition when I began my first extended stay in the Apatani valley in December 2000. Indeed, during the first few weeks, I learned precious little about the stories I had so eagerly planned to record and study. On a brief reconnaissance trip during the previous year, I had met two or three people but had little rapport with them, and I needed to find someone to ease me into local life. During the first three weeks, I had three different ‘guides,’ all of whom were helpful but also too busy to help and none of whom, in any case, understood what I wanted to do. When I approached people, they were not unfriendly but neither did they encourage me; mostly they were disinterested or just keep their distance. Everyone was busy, and I was frustrated. Then there was the language barrier. Apatani is not a particularly difficult language to learn: it has no articles or gender, verbs are not inflected for person or number; case markers are straightforward; and sentences are subject-object-verb. So far so good. Verbs, however, are formed by adding syllables that modify meaning, and these particles can pile up at an alarming rate during conversation. Apatani also has noun classifiers, an annoying detail in most Tibeto-Burman languages: numbers change according to the noun they modify so that ‘two’ mugs of rice-beer, for example, is different from ‘two’ mithuns. Apatani has

introduction

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tones, too, but fortunately only two weak ones. I decided to think of these potentially troublesome tones as stress and not worry too much about them. This strategy seemed to work. Finally, one feature of the local language that all outsiders notice is a phrase heard about every five seconds during normal speech. ‘Kerah? ’ is the equivalent of ‘OK? You follow me?’ to which one responds, ‘Ker’ (‘Yes, fine.’). This phatic function of language, which keeps open lines of communication between speaker and listener, punctuates local conversation so much that other tribes jokingly refer to Apatanis as the ‘ker-ah-speakers.’ It was a boon to me, since when all else failed, I threw in ‘ker-ah’ just to keep things going. Some Apatanis speak English, but (as is so often the case) the most fluent English-speakers are also the least interested in traditional culture. In any case, because I wanted to avoid relying on English, or any outside language, I began to learn Apatani on my own. I had a small grammar that was helpful but also (I later discovered) contained many mistakes. The lack of a script at first seemed an advantage—one less thing to learn—but soon became an obstacle when I realised that my language learning relied heavily on visual cues. I kept trying to fix the sounds into letters. Browsing shops in the bazaar, I found a few faded pamphlets printed in romanised Apatani. The romanisation, however, followed no regular rules, so I was still unable to visually memorise words. In mounting desperation, I started to write my own mini-grammar and compile long vocabulary lists in lined notebooks. Writing down and reading my own romanised Apatani gave me a self-created confidence that I would eventually be able to talk with someone. I started by trying out a few phrases on anyone who would spare me a moment from their incessant activity—going back and forth between Hapoli (the district headquarters) and village, carrying firewood, working in gardens and fields, preparing ritual altars. Before long, I found a captive audience. At the bottom of the road that led to the rest house where my wife and I stayed was a small shop, selling matches, soap, candles, oil and other dry goods. It was a junction, near the (then) only petrol bunk in the valley, where the man road forked and people stopped to pass the time. This was my first classroom, where I pretended to buy candles and matches, two or even three times a day, just to have another language lesson on the sly. After several days, the woman who ran the shop and the others, mostly men, who gathered to gossip began to accept me as a regular. Within two weeks, from my broken sentences they were able to piece together who I was, where we were from and

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that I was interested in stories. Aside from a lot of teasing, however, I got no ‘material’ from them, only a belief, like a child taking its first shaky steps, that I could carry on a limited conversation. Another classroom was the bus. As I said, Apatanis are always on the move, and many cram themselves into the busses that trundle up and down the single road that runs the length of the valley. This bumpy ride was convenient for people bringing goods to market or returning from the bazaar with something bulky. My strategy was simple: my wife and I would get on a bus in Hapoli and wait for it to fill up. Those who got on after us would avoid sitting near us, but after some time this was no longer possible and someone would have to sit next to me. After a few minutes, I would ask the most common question among Apatanis: ‘Where’re you going?’ No matter where you are, or who you are, few Apatanis pass each other without this gesture of recognition. My wife’s presence also encouraged conversations with women, although they were forthright with me anyway. Once the sound barrier had been broken, all sorts of questions were sent my way. Although I could field only a few of them, I eventually began to fake my way through an exchange of comments, relying on a few stock phrases, which steadily increased until I could carry on a reasonable conversation. Some of these language lessons led to friendships, and occasionally to little discoveries. In the middle of one ride, for example, I asked a well-turned out woman what was in her bamboo basket; she lifted the cloth and showed me a tangle of metal bells and bead necklaces, which was my introduction to these valuable objects. They were not her valuables, she insisted. She was only the broker, allowing the owners to remain anonymous since selling these family treasures is frowned upon. Curiously, during dozens of bus rides over several years, no one ever volunteered to talk about a story, let alone tell one. Looking back, I realise that this was the first sign that storytelling is not a pastime in the Apatani valley. Two other places where I learned to speak the local language, and did eventually record stories, were porches and hearths. Apatani houses are small (about 13–15 by 40–50 feet), but they have two porches, front and back, in order to enjoy maximum sunshine and working space. Built with bamboo floors and railings, and nearly as large as the house interior, porches are where people work and relax while at home during daytime. I spent many hours on those porches in the pale sun, watching men make baskets and ritual altars out of bamboo and cane. The talk wandered from topic to topic and sometimes, at my request, resulted in a story or an explanation of one. [see photographs 3 and 4]

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On cold or rainy days, we moved inside. Apatani houses have two hearths, one in front, mostly for women, and another at the back, primarily for men and rituals. The front hearth is usually kept smouldering all day, with a large pot of something (fodder for the pig, water for cooking and washing) heating on a raised trivet over two or three thick logs angled so that their ends touch. The early dark on even a sunny winter day sends people inside where they sit around the hearth, squatting on low wooden blocks and plastic stools. By nightfall, people are ringed around the fire, often saying little, staring straight ahead and making comments in a low voice. After a mug of rice-beer, and then another, the phrases might thicken into a conversation. I would ask about a story or ritual and, if I was lucky, reach for my tape recorder. That first story did not come for almost a month. I kept asking about ‘stories’ (using kahāni, the Assamese/Hindi word). A few men, sitting on the porches and around hearths, gave me summaries, but no one appeared willing to actually tell a story. During those weeks, however, I did see a lot, especially the Murung festivals held in January. Everything changed after I took part in a procession, a less than solemn walk that winds through every village in the valley and stops frequently to receive meat and rice-beer from people along the route. Although I understood this only later, that day-long walk broke a lot of ice. Having walked (and sung bawdy songs) through every village, I was now known, at least by face, to almost everyone in the valley. I was no longer just an ‘outsider.’ I was still a halyang, of course, but one who had taken a few steps inside the protective circle that encloses Apatani villages. Still, it was not possible for me to simply walk into a house and hope that someone might be telling a story or be willing to tell one. For one thing, Apatanis do not often tell stories as part of casual conversation; and, in any case, my entry would have put a stop to any conversation. Houses are ‘open’ in the valley, and women are not shy with men, as in plains India. In fact, it took me some time to adjust to the new norms and relax while sitting by the hearth alone with a young woman who served me rice-beer as we chatted. Rather, until people realised that I could speak their language, at least a little, and was interested in their stories, they did not know what to do with me. When the breakthrough did come (see Tale 1), it was modest enough, yet after that day more and more people were willing to speak into my microphone. Over the next few years, I was able to record more than sixty versions of fortyfour different stories—origin myths, migration legends, local histories, trickster tales, even a version of ‘Cinderella.’ But this is not how Apatanis understood them.

16

chapter one Oral genres

Before a brief visit in 1999, I knew that people in central Arunachal Pradesh were different to most people outside northeast India. I had read that these hill people ate pig, used bamboo and cane, drank ricebeer, sacrificed large animals, practiced a form of animism, had no caste system and spoke Tibeto-Burman languages.27 These differences are what led me to Arunachal Pradesh in the first place, but I knew almost nothing about their oral traditions. Did these people tell stories similar to those I knew in south India? Or elsewhere in India? What kind of performances did they have? And who were the tellers? But the first question in my mind was genre. Oral genres are to the folklorist what kinship is to the anthropologist: an indigenous system that reveals ideas and regulates behaviour. Rules about who marries whom are not dissimilar to conventions concerning who says what to whom, when and in what manner. Narrating a story, of course, is less consequential than getting married, but a genre category (such as ritual texts [miji ] among Apatanis) is a socially-embedded institution that affects many people. Since the 1970s, excellent studies have described the extra-textual features of local speech varieties, such as the social organisation of gossip, the political use of proverbs and the gendered nature of folktales. More revealing than individual genres, however, are the distinctions between them. For example, the holy trinity of European oral narrative genres (myth, folktale and legend) can only be understood by their differences (as well as a European preference for tripartite divisions). Myths and legends are believed to be true; tales are not. Myths describe the creation and setting up of the world; legends occur later in time. Within European culture, these contrasts are markers of meaning, distinctions that assign values to specific kinds of speech. Recalling the point made at the beginning of this chapter, a system of genres is one of the most influential ways in which an oral tradition interacts with local culture. Recently, however, some folklorists have begun to downplay genre as categories. In an extension of the emphasis on performance, they suggest

27 Animal sacrifice is common in India, even among Hindus, but the large-scale sacrifice of mithuns, their dismemberment and distribution of meat in central Arunachal Pradesh is of a different order.

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that we approach oral genres as ‘a resource for interpretation’ or ‘a strategy for reproduction’ and not as a ‘system of classificatory categories.’28 This turn toward process, and away from product, is a welcome correction of the earlier view of genres as static boxes in which to place stories. As a result, we now see genres less as abstract categories and more as social occasions, combining content, speech, speakers and listeners. On the other hand, a focus on performance should not minimise the role that classificatory categories play in an oral tradition. While they may be events, genres are also local definitions of what counts as tradition and storytelling. I have tried to combine both approaches in this book. Oral genres are viewed both individually as performance events and collectively as a conceptual system that informs all aspects of oral tradition—content and intent, telling and reception. An example, explained below, is that Apatanis do not recognise every form of local storytelling as a genre and they emphasise one form in particular. Among the surprisingly few studies of an oral genre system, the most elegant is surely Gary Gossen’s analysis of Chamula Mayan.29 Gossen described a taxonomy organised by performer, content, truth value and linguistic features, but primarily by time and the metaphor of ‘heat.’ Among Chamulas, speech genres associated with earlier ages are spoken with ‘heated hearts,’ which gives them higher status and authority. A very different study, and the only one to look closely at an oral genre system in South Asia, is Joyce Flueckiger’s book on folklore in central India.30 She found that oral genres in Chattisgarh were defined not by the usual criteria of performer or musical instrument or context but by social organisation, that is, by the people who participate in performance.31 For instance, verbal duelling and a festival song have different formal names but are often considered one category because both are performed by unmarried girls. Apatani oral genres, as we would expect, differ from both these casestudies; they are neither organised by a central metaphor nor defined primarily by social group. Still, as in the Chattisgarh and Chamula examples, the Apatani system of oral genres is essential to understanding the local meanings of stories, the social role of storytelling and the 28 29 30 31

See Briggs and Bauman 1992; Hanks 1996; Siikala and Siikala 2005: 87–91. Gossen 1972. Flueckiger 1996. See also Skaria 1999; Gaenszle 2002 Flueckiger 1996: 20–21, passim.

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social status of tellers. While Apatani stories take many forms, the key to their genres is the term miji-migung. Miji-migung is best translated as ‘oral tradition’ or ‘traditional knowledge.’ But it also refers to the stories that transmit that knowledge, as well as to the men who possess that knowledge and know those stories. Mijimigung is a paired noun, the defining feature of Apatani ritual speech, and is typically used as a single unit in conversation. Only after some time, did I realise that the two words are also used separately. Walking at night with an old man, I heard him grumble, ‘If only I had studied miji as a young man, I might have been a great priest (nyibu).’ At other times, people explained that a certain man was ‘good in migung but not in miji, and that’s why he never became a priest.’ Still, no clear distinction emerged when I repeatedly asked about the difference between miji and migung. One educated man said, in English, ‘Miji is religion, migung is history.’ That was helpful but missed the crucial point that their difference is not based on content. Eventually, I realised that migung is distinguished from miji in three respects. The first is texture: stories told in ordinary speech are migung; but when those same stories are chanted in ritual speech, usually as episodes within longer ritual texts, they are miji (cf. the Abo Tani stories in chapters 3 and 5). The second criterion is context and intent: miji are chanted during rituals in order to contact spirits, whereas migung are told outside these occasions and without any desire to influence spirits. The third difference is teller: migung may be told by any senior man, but miji are chanted almost exclusively by priests. In short, most stories are told either as miji (in ritual speech, in a ritual context, by priests, to invoke spirits) or as migung (in ordinary prose, anytime, by anyone, not addressed to spirits). One major qualification of this contrast is that a few stories are told only as migung and a few only as miji. Local and recent histories, personal anecdotes and one particular folktale are told only in prose, whereas some origin myths, as well as some episodes, are told only within the labyrinth of ritual texts. Other exceptions are noted below in the summary description of three kinds of ritual texts. Nevertheless, the distinction between miji and migung is all-important. And ritual speech, the first criterion, is what most distinguishes them. As explained in more detail in chapter 5, this is the language through which humans communicate with the spirits. This association of miji with the spirit world and ritual speech is central to understanding Apatani oral tradition. Chanting ritual texts, as miji, is the dominant

introduction

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form of storytelling: it is heard more frequently, more publicly and has higher status than migung. For most stories, a telling in conversational prose is considered a secondary use of its fundamental form as a ritual chant. Most stories are told most often as miji. Apatanis recognise three different types of miji, or ritual texts, differentiated chiefly by their intent and the spirits they invoke.32 1. Wi barnii (‘chanting to spirits’) invoke a large number of benevolent (tiigo) spirits in order to ensure prosperity and health, typically during a ritual or festival. From among the dozen such texts, this book includes an extract from a long chant at a festival (Ritual Text 1) and the funeral chant that guides the soul to the afterworld (Ritual Text 5). This funeral chant is also the only ritual text that is regularly performed by a woman. 2. Wi benii (‘chanting to a [specific] spirit’) are healing chants that address either a benevolent (tiigo) spirit to guard against illness (accident or other misfortune) or a malevolent (cicing) spirit to placate or drive it away (Ritual Text 6).33 These chants number about 40, although only about half are commonly used. They are based on the stories of Abo Tani, the trickster-ancestor whose stories are also often told in prose (Tales 3 & 4). 3. Ayu (‘chant’) are a group of about two dozen texts, most of which are chanted by priests to contact benevolent spirits during ritual occasions. However, whereas the first two categories of ritual texts are chanted at the time of an animal sacrifice (mithun, cow, chicken or pig), ayus are performed at other times during ceremonies. Some ayus (Ritual Texts 2, 3 & 4) are also chanted by groups of older men (not always priests) as entertainment, though this form of verbal duelling is rarely heard now. I have mentioned that Apatani stories include myths, legends and folktales, but do these terms approximate local genres? Do Apatanis recognise a distinction between stories that happened once upon a time (folktales) and those that are believed to be true by those who tell and hear them (myths and legends)? This contrast between fictive and Compare these three genres of ritual speech among Apatanis with the 19 described for Weyewa in Indonesia (Kuipers 1990: 59). 33 Rituals are also roughly divided into the same two categories (tiigo and cicing) depending on the spirits they address. 32

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true narrative has been subjected to much justified criticism—that it is European in origin and does not describe oral stories in many other parts of the world. Native north American cultures, for instance, make little if any distinction between myth and folktale;34 similarly, myth and legend are not easily disentangled in many South Asian oral traditions. Still, the fictive/true contrast does apply remarkably well not only in the Indo-European world, but also in south India and much of sub-saharan Africa, where people recognise some difference between stories that actually happened and those that did not. In most of these cultures, when people tell fictive stories, they begin with an opening formula that places the action in a world set apart from that in which it is told. Although definitions of factual and fictive vary, a recognition of their difference is widespread. No such contrast divides Apatani stories, all of which are believed to have happened. Both miji and migung include elements locally recognised as fantasy, from extraordinary animals to mysterious mountains, yet both categories are thought to describe true events. Another kind of distinction, however, a temporal and spatial one, appears to separate the two genres. As will be explained later (see Myth and History 2), Apatanis imagine a cosmological and genealogical development leading from the ‘beginning’ to the present. Events that happened close to the time and place of origination are considered part of ritual texts. Back then, when men had not yet fully separated from spirits, they spoke a ritual language through which they could communicate directly with spirits, which is the purpose of ritual texts today. On the other hand, events that occurred closer to the present time and settlement in the Apatani valley, especially local histories and personal anecdotes, are told as prose stories. In the midst of the migration story, at the point where the ancestors approach the Apatani valley, one teller stopped and said, ‘That’s when they crossed from miji into migung.’ Not a crossing from myth into history, but from a time and place in the past to one closer to the present. Not only are there no fictive narratives, there is also no generic term for folktales. Informal prose storytelling, as already mentioned, is known as migung and is less prestigious than the ritual chanting of miji. Apatanis do tell ‘folktales,’ including a few international ones; but when these tales are told, mostly by women, they are not called migung.

34

For scholarship on this point, see Dundes 1963: 25–31.

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When I pressed people to describe these stories, many retreated into Hindi/Assamese terms (kahāni, kathā) and some into English (‘folktale,’ ‘story’). The point, which I was slow to grasp, is that Apatani ritual texts dominate local oral tradition to such an extent that folktales are not recognised as a genre and their telling has little status. No wonder no one bothered to tell me any tales during all those bus rides. Information on oral genres elsewhere in central Arunachal Pradesh, although scarce, suggests that the miji-migung contrast is not restricted to Apatanis.35 In the 1970s, Tumpak Ete began studying oral texts among his tribe, the Galo, who are linguistically and culturally related to Apatanis. He published not only transcriptions and English translations of these oral narratives but also brief analyses and comments on genres. Galos, according to Ete, recognise two types of texts: agom, or ‘sacred’ texts, and mem-men, or ‘secular’ texts, although the latter includes accounts (ni-tom or do-yi ) that draw on material in the ‘sacred’ texts. Ete explains: The distinction between sacred and secular . . . is very vague if not unknown to the people . . . the ‘non-sacred’ character lies not so much in the contents but in the use. The theme may be ‘religious’, [but] the purpose or occasion of recital should not be ‘religious’ for a piece to be a mem-men [emphasis added ].36

This division of Galo oral genres into agom and mem-men matches mijimigung in Apatani. In both cases, either genre may tell the same story with the same content since the distinction lies in the ‘purpose or occasion’: one genre is performed as part of a ritual and the other is told outside such situations. Only future fieldwork will tell us whether this system of genres is more widespread in the region. Finally, although this book describes only miji-migung (since it dominates Apatani oral tradition), other genres do exist. First, there is biisi or ‘song,’ including ballads reportedly sung by women working in the paddy fields but rarely heard today. During the summer Dree festival, women sing other songs (daminda), which celebrate love and praise the fertility of fields; some of these lines also occur in the ayus performed during festivals. A third song genre is the lullaby (iingya myadu), though women sing it only infrequently. Today, Apatanis also compose

35 Even descriptions of oral narrative forms are scarce. For Adi genres, see Roy 1960 [1997]: 166–69; Nyori 1993: 250–53. 36 Ete 1974: vi.

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‘modern’ songs, mostly love lyrics, and one talented couple have produced a series of popular cassettes and videos. While none of these song genres is recognised as part of the miji-migung tradition, riddles (kansii nii ) and proverbial sayings (nitin horming) are;37 both are used primarily in ritual texts but also in everyday conversation. Proverbial sayings are especially popular with older men because they allude to the myths and rituals that they must know in order to perform as priests. Hage Gyati One of these older men is Hage Gyati. [see photograph 2] He was present when I recorded my first story, and I later visited him many times, but he never told me any stories I could use. He was too old for that. Although he had been a renowned priest, at approximately 90 years he no longer had the strength to perform rituals requiring more than a half hour of chanting. Once I saw him standing erect, holding the bow and arrow of a Myoko festival priest, while younger men went about the demanding business of chanting and sacrificing dozens of pigs at the clan altar. He did not chant or move, but his presence lent authority to the proceedings. I often wandered over to see Gyati in Hapoli, but the first time I was unlucky. Having met him the night before during that first recording session, I was eager to follow up and found that he lived with his daughter-in-law. As a government employee, she had been allocated ‘quarters,’ that is, a wooden house. Gyati had added a bamboo back porch and, in the small backyard, had built a traditional bamboo house where he and his wife lived when not in their village. Approaching that first morning, I came to a freshly-cut bamboo fence in front of the modern house. I was about to pass through, when a neighbour stopped me and explained that Gyati was unable to meet anyone, that he was in ‘quarantine’ because of the ritual he had performed the day before. When I came again a few days later, I found him as I would on my subsequent visits—sitting on the back porch weaving baskets while a brood of chicks scrabbled away in the dirt below. The little porch was squeezed between the modern and traditional houses, but the morning sun warmed us as we sat and talked. There

37 Nitin horming might also be called ‘precedent’ (or exempla), in which a myth is adduced to illustrate a point.

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was no story, history, myth or ritual that he declined to comment on. Whenever I asked about something, he would brighten up, uncross and recross his legs, and settle down as if for a long recording session. But after five or ten minutes, his voice trailed off into confused sentences, broken verses and eventually silence. Smaller details, however, such as a particular necklace, he could explain with clarity and depth. He took pride in his knowledge, and he especially liked to tell me about the many times he had climbed up on the ritual platform and chanted the long text during the Murung festival (Ritual Text 1). He was also playful. On one occasion, as we were talking about the raids and feuds that preoccupied many Apatanis until the 1960s, he suddenly stood up, went briskly inside and came out wearing his war gear—shoulder armour, helmet, spear, bow and arrow—all made of bamboo, cane or palm fibre. Laughing, he drew back the bow string and sent an arrow flying through the air. Another time, I arrived early in the morning when he was finishing his daily routine on the back porch of his traditional house. Squatting, he used a fine-toothed bamboo comb to rake his long black hair down the front of his face, so that it touched the floor of the porch. He then wound it tightly into a single braid that he twisted into a knot and fixed on the front of his head with a brass skewer. This skewered hair knot, which boys began to wear from about the age of 10, is an Apatani marker of masculinity; although men of the neighbouring tribes twist their hair in a similar arrangement, one can easily spot the difference. Today, however, this hair knot is rarely worn by men under 40, and some resort to a ready-made, detachable ball of hair or wool, which they slap on to look ‘traditional.’ Hage Gyati, unlike many men his age, always wore sandals, trousers and a shirt from the bazaar; around his shoulders was a shawl, handwoven at home but with synthetic and cotton fibres. In his ears hung small cane rings, put there at a young age in order to make the holes in which he would later wear both the small copper and large brass rings of a priest—he said he always knew he would be a priest. From his lower lip to his chin ran three vertical lines, the tattoo worn by all older Apatani men. At age five or six, the lines are made by pricking the skin with thorns and then rubbing in a mixture of coal black and cooking oil. Because he was at home, a machete (ilyo) did not hang from his shoulder, as is the case when most older men go out. Another male accoutrement, a small knife (nyatu) in a cane sheath dangled from a cane cord around his neck. This knife was in constant use as he sat on the porch stripping pieces of bamboo and cane, cutting them to

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required lengths, forcing the stiff cane into place and winding it around the bamboo frame of a basket. Although Gyati was unusually knowledgeable and gregarious, in other respects he typifies an entire generation of Apatani men who are largely responsible for the miji-migung tradition. I collected many stories from these men, mostly priests, recording on their porches, beside their hearths and also inside my room in the local guesthouse. At first, I was reluctant to work so exclusively with priests because I wanted to collect stories from a broad range of people; slowly, however, it became clear that Apatani oral tradition was concentrated in the miji-migung repertoire of these older men. I did record stories from a variety of people, mostly men it must be said, including a shopkeeper while he was having his hair dyed by his daughter; an autodidact with an alarming imagination; a priest who had just completed a ritual in the house of the descendants of the man who murdered his relative; a woman whose mother was ‘married’ to a spirit; and a timber merchant who had been a traditional priest but now wore a foot-long crucifix around his neck. This book Their stories, and those of others, are the centrepiece of this book. While the focus is on Apatani oral tradition as a whole, only the stories will illustrate that tradition. Stories told mostly in prose (migung) are presented in chapter 3 (Tales) and chapter 4 (Myths and Histories). Those chanted in ritual speech (miji ) are found in chapter 5 (Ritual Texts). The introduction to each chapter gives an overview of the stories, while headnotes provide comments on individual stories and settings. Many stories required more explanation than I would have liked (especially the ritual texts in chapter 5), and I have tried to keep those comments to a minimum. I want readers to enjoy the stories, but I cannot pretend that they are always a good read. Some sections of the ritual texts, in particular, are a recitation of place-names, spirits and ancestors that have little meaning for anyone but Apatanis. I have omitted many of these lists, but not all because they do convey the texture of the oral text. It is not just unfamiliar content and names that might deflect readers, however; the broader sensibility of a people in the eastern Himalayas is also a

introduction

25

potential barrier. But that is precisely the challenge of this book—to take readers, at least some way, inside a tribal and animist culture. The theoretical framework of this exploration of the relation between oral stories and culture is set out in this Introduction. A description of that interaction in the Apatani valley begins in the next chapter and is developed into conclusions in the final chapter. That concluding chapter opens with a comparative analysis of Apatani stories, which will show that Apatani oral tradition belongs to a regional tradition in central Arunachal Pradesh, and that this regional tradition is linked to others in adjacent regions. These parallels, I will argue, suggest a culture area stretching east from central Arunachal Pradesh into upland Southeast Asia and southwest China. Turning inside culture, to the local significance of Apatani oral stories, I will show that the miji-migung tradition favours one kind of speaking and speaker, and that it has two primary, linked themes. The final section of the book examines the shifting boundaries of Apatani cultural identity, as expressed in oral stories and defined through the genealogy of the ancestor, Abo Tani. Those shifts, I believe, are in part the result of historical change, which is the topic of the next chapter.

CHAPTER TWO

A HISTORY OF CHANGE You see, even the people who have come here to this valley from far away have their church, their [Hindu] temple, their [Assamese] namghar and their [Sikh] gurudwara. All this right here, in our own land. [Hage Nanya, a 40-year old Apatani woman, 2003]

An introduction to Arunachal Pradesh should mention that its population of just over one million people contains about 35 tribes and that all of them (with one exception) speak Tibeto-Burman languages.1 Readers would also want to know that Arunachal Pradesh became a state in 1987, with Itanagar as its capital. One might also broadly sketch the three geo-cultural zones in the state: Tibetan and tibetanised Buddhist groups in the west and north; animist groups in the centre; Theravada Buddhists, Burmese- and Naga-related groups in the east/southeast. Other demographic facts could be added to build up a profile consistent with the widespread perception of Arunachal Pradesh as a tribal state. Missing from such a description, however, is a history of change. It is easy, of course, to overstate the effects of change. We know that cultures are dynamic, yet it is tempting to believe that significant change began only the day after we arrived at our fieldwork site. This sense of culture loss is a well-known ethnographic trope, and cultures have been ‘vanishing’ ever since anthropologists began to do research in Asia and Africa. In the 1880s, for example, A. C. Haddon feared that tradition was disappearing in the Torres Straits; and J. H. Hutton felt the same about the Naga Hills in the 1920s. Nevertheless, sometimes the pace and depth of change force us to take note, and that is true of Arunachal Pradesh during the past three or four decades. Census figures for population and religion, although probably not entirely accurate, make the point. In 1971, 21% of the people in the state were non-tribal; in 2001, that figure was 37%. Between 1971 and 1991, fully half of the population increase of 400,000 was non-tribal.2 1 2

Khamptis in the Lohit River area speak a Tai language. Nandy 1997: 24–25.

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Much of this steep rise in the number of non-tribals in Arunachal Pradesh is accounted for by three events: the presence of the Indian army after 1962, the attainment of Union Territory status in 1972 and statehood in 1987. Most of the people in the military bases, government offices, public works projects and private businesses that followed in the wake of these events come from outside the state. A related development is the rapid spread of non-tribal religions. Christian conversion in Arunachal Pradesh is moving too fast for statistics to grasp, and it varies between tribes and villages. Some parts of central Arunachal Pradesh are 90% Christian, while others have virtually no converts. A few tribes are close to 40% converted, but Buddhist groups have experienced minimal conversion. Still, the state-wide census figures are revealing: Table 1. Christians in Arunachal Pradesh 1971 1981 1991 2001

less than 1% 4% 10% 19% [26% of the tribal population]3

At this rate of doubling every decade, by 2011 the Christian figure will approach or exceed 40% for the entire state and 50% for the tribal population. The breakdown for all religions in the latest census is equally striking: Table 2. Religions in Arunachal Pradesh, 2001 35% 31% 19% 13% .5%

Hindu ‘Other’ [tribal] Christian Buddhist Sikh, Muslim and Jain

The high figure for Hindus is partially explained by the large number of Indians, who are concentrated in the state capital and district headquarters, where they work as government employees, businessmen, shopkeepers and labourers. Another reason is that some people

3

By contrast, Christians are about 2% of the population in Assam.

a history of change

29

in tribes with historical Hindu influence, especially Idu Mishmis and Noctes, return themselves as ‘Hindu’ in the census. Even if we adjust the figures by subtracting 10% from ‘Hindu’ (for those who return themselves as ‘Hindu’ yet do not practice ‘Hinduism’) and adding that amount to ‘Other,’ the numbers remain startling.4 In a state that is often claimed to be the ‘last bastion’ of tribal traditions in India, less than half the population practices a religion historically associated with those traditions.5 Controversy about the extent of outsider influence in Arunachal Pradesh is nothing new. In 1873, the Government of India drew an ‘Inner Line’ along the base of the Arunachal hills, dividing British India (the plains of Assam) from upland tribal territory. This legislation required non-tribals, British and Indian, to obtain a permit before crossing the line into tribal territory; it also prohibited any non-tribal from owning land or business beyond this border. With minor adjustments, this ‘Inner Line’ was retained (amid acrimonious public debate) by Nehru after Independence and is today the border between Arunachal Pradesh and Assam. At the time, critics argued that this neo-colonial policy would turn the region into a ‘tribal zoo’ and deprive its citizens of the benefits of the economic and political system of the new nation. This debate over the Inner Line continues, and it is still the case that non-tribals cannot own land or businesses, vote or hold elected public office in the state.6 In practice, however, Indians lease land and businesses from tribal owners, who are happy to profit from the arrangement. Tribal owners also sometimes employ Indians to manage their business. Indians (not resident in Arunachal Pradesh) must still obtain a chit before entering the state, but again this formality is not always observed.7 One morning, as I was sitting in the District Commissioner’s office in Hapoli, an Assamese mendicant (sadhu) was shown in because he had been caught without his pass. When the DC questioned him, the man claimed that he had been ‘bewitched’ by an Apatani priest and would 4 13% of tribals reportedly returned themselves as ‘Hindu’ in 2001 (Census of India 2001, Arunachal Pradesh. Data Highlights: the Scheduled Tribes, page 5). 5 While census categories can not reflect syncretism, the figures reveal relative strengths of religious identities. 6 One seat in the State Legislative Assembly is open to non-tribal candidates, but to date no non-tribal has stood for election in it. 7 Non-tribal employees of the government are given an identity card that exempts them from this requirement.

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soon die. He was told to go first to a hospital and then back to Assam. Not all outsiders, however, are so powerless. The Legislative Assembly in the state capital is comprised of elected tribal representatives (de facto the Apatani valley is allotted one seat). However, about 90% of the state’s income is doled out from New Delhi; the only effective roads are built and maintained by the Border Roads Organisation, a central government enterprise. Development is in the hands of a cabinet-level Department of North East Development, the only such regional body to be based in New Delhi. Big money comes into the state via the hydro-electric projects controlled by the central government. Finally, the state governor and district commissioners, who reign like little rajas, holding both executive and judicial powers, are appointed from New Delhi. Since the first District Commissioner was posted to the Apatani valley in the 1960s, only two have been tribal and only one an Apatani. Despite legislation limiting the presence and power of non-tribals, the economic and political realities, plus the statistics on religion and population, show us that Arunachal Pradesh is not controlled by its tribal population. To Apatanis, these non-tribal outsiders are halyang, a term that refers principally to the Assamese and once the British, but also all Indians and foreigners.8 In oral stories and in social practice, as we will see, Apatanis draw a firm boundary (a conceptual ‘Inner Line’) between themselves and the halyang. Apatanis also define themselves (tanii ) in opposition to their tribal neighbours (misan). Less powerful than the halyang, they are nevertheless historical rivals who pose a more intimate threat; and Apatanis maintain a territorial and social distance from them, too. Nevertheless, these regional tribes are close cultural, linguistic and genealogical kin. Apatanis and their neighbours Apatanis are one of several tribes living in central Arunachal Pradesh. Their immediate neighbours are the populous Nyishis (approx. 180,000) and the smaller Hill Miris (approx. 12,000); the term misan refers primarily to these two groups. Other tribes in the central region, with whom

8 Most tribes in central Arunachal Pradesh use ‘nipak’ (or a cognate) to refer to a ‘non-tribal.’ Only Apatanis use ‘halyang.’

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Apatanis have little or no direct contact, range from the influential cluster of Adis (approx. 170,000) in the Siang valley to the tiny Na and Mra (about 350 each) in the upper Subansiri valley, who are probably better considered as clans.9 The approximately 35,000 Apatanis (30,000 in the valley) are segmented into exogamous, patrilocal and patrilineal clans.10 Today, a total of 78 clans exist, some in more than one village.11 Individually or jointly, clans own large forest tracts (with bamboo, pine and hardwood trees), plus burial grounds and ritual structures (lapang and nago) in each village. Families live as nuclear groups, and couples set up a new house soon after marriage. A man owns, and transfers to his sons, mithuns and various pieces of land—house plot, paddy fi elds, gardens, bamboo and pine groves and (sometimes) forest areas. A married woman owns, and gives her daughters, valuable objects such as necklaces, metal plates and bells, although now these have largely sentimental value. Rank is weak among Apatanis. The only recognised roles are the nyibu (ritual specialist, ‘priest’) and bulyang (village councilman). The authority of the latter began to erode after the 1940s and is now almost vanished. Nyibus, who are clan-based, receive ritual honours but enjoy no formal privileges. A series of ceremonial friendships and affinal obligations knit Apatanis into a complex network of exchange and alliance relations. Undermining this social cohesion is an unequal distribution of land— 10–15% of Apatani families are landless—and wealth.12 In addition, a fissure between high status ( gyutii ) and low status ( gyuci ) clans runs down the centre of local society. Broadly speaking, the more numerous gyutii clans (about 75% of the population) also possess more land, wealth and political power than do gyuci clans. Although this correlation between

9 Approximate population figures for the other groups are Bangni 20,000, Tagin 30,000, Galo 30,000, Sulung 5,000. On the western border of the region are the Miji (5,000) and Aka (5,000); on the eastern border are the Idu Mishmi (10,000), Digaru Mishmi (5,000) and Miju Mishmi (5,000). In some cases, these ethnic terms are administrative categories, not used by local populations, that mask shifting populations and identities. 10 The Census of India 2001 (Series 13, Provisional Population Tables) gives a figure of nearly 25,000. My estimate is based on the distribution of meat at the Murung festival (see Ritual Text 2). 11 Sometimes a clan becomes too small and joins with another, or becomes so large that it splits into two groups (thus increasing the number of potential marriage partners). 12 Singh 1996: 113; Das 1989: 34.

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material possession and social status is changing, gyutii clans still avoid marriage alliances with gyuci clans. Today only about 5% of marriages cross this status divide. One reason is that, in the Myoko festival, the gyuci wife of a gyutii man is not allowed to eat the meal that confirms her membership in her husband’s family and clan. Gyuci priests are also not allowed to perform the pig sacrifice that provides the blood for that ritual meal.13 Recently, however, gyuci clans have gained enough wealth and influence to reorganise another major festival (Dree) and are campaigning to reform Myoko as well. In 2001, tension between the two groups exploded into a bonfire of book burning because the definitions of gyutii and gyuci in a locally produced Apatani dictionary were unacceptable to gyuci.14 In many respects, Apatanis are atypical of the tribes in central Arunachal Pradesh, especially their nearest neighbours. Until recently, most Nyishis and Hill Miris lived in multi-family longhouses clustered on hill tops, practiced swidden agriculture, relied on hunting and periodically shifted settlements. By contrast, Apatanis live in small houses, in nuclear families, in settled villages, in a narrow valley where they practice wet-rice agriculture and seldom hunt. Adapting to the fertile yet limited space of the valley, Apatanis are the most sedentary, densely populated and geographically compact group in the region. The fertility of the Apatani valley impressed its first official visitor, Robert Blair McCabe, who led a British punitive expedition there in 1897: The sight is one I shall never forget, as we suddenly emerged on a magnificent plateau. . . . Our hearts warmed at the sight of primroses,violets, wild currants, strawberries and raspberries, and I felt disposed to almost believe some of the wonderful stories we had heard of the fabulous wealth of this country.15

Even allowing for the imaginary strawberries and violets, the Apatani valley does lift the spirits of many travellers who, having climbed up from the plains, crest yet another steep ridge and then look down into the green fields spreading out below. Apatani villages, squeezed between field and forest, are dense settlements with several thousand people. Their nearly identical, oblong houses line up cheek to jowl on both

13 14 15

See Ritual Text 3. See Myth and History 7. McCabe 1897: 5. See also Elwin 1959: 191.

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sides of the ‘street’ with little open space except for the lapangs (ritual platforms) and nagos (ritual huts). The ‘neatly constructed houses . . . and villages systematically laid out’ were noted by a British visitor in 1912, and the population density of the Apatani valley has only increased during the past hundred years.16 Despite these differences—due to environmental adaptation—in population, food-gathering, family, house and settlement patterns, Apatanis are otherwise culturally similar to the other tribes in central Arunachal Pradesh. Patterns, and sometimes the detail, of their clan and kinship systems, marriage rituals, mythology and cosmology resemble those of their neighbours. Languages are also close, if not always mutually intelligible. For me, the most interesting similarity is oral tradition, and I will describe the regional tradition of central Arunachal Pradesh in the final chapter. Recognising these resemblances, local and foreign scholars now refer to the central tribes collectively as the ‘Tani group.’ ‘Tani’ is also increasingly used by linguists for the languages in central Arunachal Pradesh, and there is broad agreement between academic and local definitions of this branch of the Tibeto-Burman family.17 The term ‘Tani’ derives from the fact that these populations trace their descent from a mythic ancestor called Abo (‘Father/Grandfather) Tani. His trickster tales are told for entertainment throughout the region, and his myths are the foundation story for many tribes.18 While Abo Tani is the ancestor of all the Tani tribes, he has special significance for Apatanis. His stories, which include episodes of deprivation, are the basis for all Apatani healing chants; and his myths describe the establishment of key social practices and rituals. More than that, ‘Abo Tani’ and ‘Apa-Tani’ not only sound alike but are semantically close, too. Abo and apa are cognate forms of ‘father’ (‘grandfather, senior male’); and tanii (as the word is locally pronounced in both terms) is the Apatani autonym.19 Today, although the anglicised ‘Apatani’ (earlier ‘Apa Tani’) is sometimes used, in most conversions Apatanis continue Lewis 1914: 81. Linguists’ definitions of the Tani languages often exclude three tribes (Aka, Sulung and Miji) included in Apatani definitions; and they usually include the Mising in Assam, the largest Tani-speaking group, whom Apatanis do not mention. 18 Abo Tani stories are reported also on the Tibetan side of the international border among the Bangni/Bengru (Xian and Shang 1987: 300–309). They are almost identical to the episodes in Tale 3. 19 In many regional languages, tanii means ‘human,’ ‘mankind,’ ‘person.’ 16 17

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To Daporijo

Lempya Reru Tajang

Old Ziro Air Field

Kalung

Hija Hari

Dutta Mudan Tage

Biirii

Kele River

Michi Bamin

Hong

Footpath Road Village/ Town Stream

0

To Assam

½

Hapoli

Map 2. Sketch map of the Apatani valley. (approximate scale only)

1 mile

a history of change

35

to call themselves tanii or tanii myu (‘tanii people’). No wonder that Abo Tani’s genealogy is the idiom in which Apatani cultural identity is expressed. As the symbol of a shared past perceived to be under threat from outside forces, Abo Tani has become a rallying point for cultural revitilisation in the valley. The history behind that perception is sketched below, with a focus on literacy, civil administration, Christianity and Hinduism. To Apatanis, all four are halyang institutions. Early history of change The Hindu kings of Assam were late starters and not as powerful as the rulers of Tibet during the second half of the first millennium. From the thirteenth to the eighteenth century, however, the (hinduised) Ahom dynasty in Assam exerted an influence in central Arunachal Pradesh equal to that of the Tibetan state. Later, after the middle of the eighteenth century, the decline of Tibetan state control in the eastern Himalayas mirrored the rise of the British colonial state in Assam. A century later, these new rulers of Assam had revamped regional trade networks, developed an international market economy in tea, timber and rubber, and built railways and schools, all of which drew hill tribes south toward the Brahmaputra valley. Sometime in the middle of the nineteenth century, the salt-line also shifted south so that Apatanis began to get this essential commodity from Assam and not Tibet. Before long, the new rulers in the south began to exercise more control over central Arunachal Pradesh than did the rulers in the north. Lhasa collected taxes right up to the 1940s on the borders of central Arunachal Pradesh; and Tibetan (or tibetanised) groups were involved in small-scale armed conflicts with tribes to the east and along the northern border. However, Lhasa mounted no military expeditions into the central region.20 By contrast, the British colonial state sustained a low-level yet persistent armed conflict with many of the central tribes and sent numerous punitive expeditions into the hills. In short, after 1800, outside influences in the region came mainly from Assam. Living at 5,000 feet in the mid-Himalayas, Apatanis were comparatively isolated from state power both north and south. Despite trading 20 Reid 1942: 260–63; British Library, Mss Eur F 157/173. See also Singh 1988: 110–17; Mills 1950; Huber 1999; Lazcano 2005.

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in all directions, Apatanis rarely travelled to or even near Tibet and few visited Assam until the late nineteenth century.21 Sanskrit inscriptions, introduced to the Brahmaputra valley about 400 AD, make no mention of any of the hill tribes; and Tibetan sources from the twelfth century onward refer briefly to tribes on the northern border but not to the Apatanis further south.22 Perso-Arabic documents from the short-lived Mughal rule in Assam in the seventeenth century are similarly silent on Apatanis or any hill tribe.23 On the other hand, numerous references to hill tribes are found in the chronicles (buranji ) compiled in Assam from the seventeenth to the early nineteenth centuries.24 These texts record the history and genealogy of the Ahoms, a Shan people, who controlled most of Assam from about 1200 to 1800. The chronicles, written in northern Shan and Assamese scripts, tell us that the Ahoms regulated trade between the mountains and the valley through a series of trade fairs, which they established at various duars (‘doors’) at the base of the hills. They also set up the posa system, which was an annual payment of cloth and other goods to hill tribes in order to prevent raids on border villages. In addition, the Ahoms recruited central tribes into their army and occasionally fought against them. Apatanis, however, were not directly involved in these relations with the Ahoms and are not mentioned in their chronicles. Apatanis appear in written records only after the British took control of Assam in the early nineteenth century.25 It would be almost a century before a British official reached the valley, but in the meantime the new halyang religion gained influence in the plains. It appears that the first Christian convert from the northeast was a Khasi man, taught by William Carey, an English Baptist missionary, at the Serampore

21 ‘Apa Tanung Abor . . . seldom or never visit the plains, and from the facts of their trading in rock-salt and swords, such as are made by the Thibetans, are evidently in communication with Thibet’ (Michell 1883: 284). 22 Tibetan sources (from Toni Huber) are listed in Blackburn 2003/2004 note 18. An eighteenth-century Tibetan text mentions the ‘independence’ of tribes in Arunachal Pradesh; gidu in the text is said to refer to Akas and Mijis (Aris 2003: 772). 23 Raferty 1881. 24 Barua 1930; Bhuyan 1933; Bhuyan 1947; Saikia 2004: 120–25. The only lithographic source is a pillar erected during the early sixteenth century, with an inscription in Ahom/Tai script that records an agreement between Ahoms and Mishmis (Dikshit 1927). 25 In early British sources, Apatanis were called Onka Miri, Anka, Tenai Miri, Auka, Auka Meri, Apa Tanung Abor and Apa Tanang. ‘Apa Tani’ (now ‘Apatani’) appeared in the 1940s. The Apatani autonym is tanii.

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mission near Calcutta in 1800.26 The Anglicans soon established a mission at Gauhati, but when the government in Calcutta asked them to extend their work to upper Assam, they dithered and the Baptists took the field. The enterprising Americans started a school at Sadiya, an isolated government outpost of a few buildings far away in upper Assam. Although that outpost was abandoned following a raid by tribes in 1839, the missionaries managed to build schools elsewhere in Assam and in Shillong, the hill-station where the colonial government retreated in summer. While this early missionary work had no known impact on Apatanis, and probably very little on other groups in central Arunachal Pradesh, it set in motion forces that did eventually reach the valley. Baptist schools were built south of the Brahmaputra and primarily served Nagas, Khasis and Garos. To advance tribal literacy, these schools taught in English and also initiated the study of tribal languages in the northeast. Having ferried a printing press all the way up the Brahmaputra, the Baptists produced several books on local tribal languages from the 1830s onward;27 these included spelling and vocabulary lists in romanised Khampti, Singpho and Adi. Again, however, the focus was on languages south of the Brahmaputra. By the end of the century, Baptist missionaries had published translations of the Bible in romanised Khasi, Garo and various Naga languages. Even a partial translation of the Bible in any central Arunachal language, however, did not appear until the 1930s, when two gospels were printed in romanised Adi. Although we do not know when Apatanis first began to attend these schools in Assam, the valley lay only four or five days’ walk from North Lakhimpur, where a Catholic school was built in the 1890s. The

HALYANG

come to the valley

On Christmas Eve 1889, after a nine-day trek from his tea plantation near North Lakhimpur, a European entered the Apatani valley for the first time. Although he stayed only one night, Mr. Crowe observed enough to report that Apatanis were ‘peacefully inclined’ and lived

Barpujari 1986: xii. See Gillespie 1997 for a bibliography of early books printed by the Baptists in Assam. 26 27

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in ‘small houses’ and that the women were ‘industrious.’28 A colonial official arrived a decade later, when McCabe imagined his strawberries and violets amid protracted negotiations over compensation for murder (Myth and History 8). Though brief, the impact of these initial visits was greater than one might think. Before the turn of the century, Apatanis rarely visited Assam, but soon small groups began to make an annual trek down to the plains to trade in the bazaar or work for a few weeks on tea plantations or in paddy fields. Contact with the plains was sufficient to bring the worldwide influenza epidemic to Apatani villages in 1919–1920.29 Movement from the plains to the valley was less regular. During the first four decades of the twentieth century, when the colonial administration pushed farther and farther into the interior, officials made only four visits to the Apatani valley. A topographical survey (Miri Mission) spent three days there in 1912, and three Political Officers, based in North Lakhimpur, each visited for two or three days in the 1920s and 1930s.30 Nor were these visits always successful. The unfortunate Mr. Bor, who climbed up to arrest men suspected of stealing iron railings from a tea estate in Assam, was forced to stay in his tent on a barren knoll at the edge of the valley. He left after two days, without making any arrests. This colonialism by remote control and periodic punitive expedition changed abruptly in the 1940s. By the end of that decade, after a world war and then Indian Independence, external civil and military authority had gained a temporary foothold in the valley. The colonial government had always been anxious about Tibetan and Chinese influence in the Arunachal hills, but it considered the area too peripheral to warrant protection. After Japanese attacks in Burma and Chinese advances in the eastern Himalayas in 1943, however, New Delhi scrambled to extend its control up to the international borders. The person chosen to lead this mission in the interior of central Arunachal Pradesh was a young Austrian anthropologist. Christoph Crowe 1890. British Library, V/10/119 Annual Reports on the Frontier Tribes of Assam 1919–1920. 30 For the Miri Mission, see Lewis 1914. Officers who later visited the valley were Capt. George Augustus Nevill in 1926–1927; Dr. N. L. Bor in 1933–34; Capt. G. S. Lightfoot in 1935–36 (British Library, V/10/119 Annual Reports on the Frontier Tribes of Assam 1911–1941). 28

29

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39

von Fürer-Haimendorf had completed fieldwork in the Naga Hills, but during the war he was interned as an alien in south India (which did not prevent him from completing extensive fieldwork on tribes in the area). In spring 1944 he was sent to the Apatani valley, stayed for two months and returned that autumn for another six months until spring 1945. On his first trip, he brought no soldiers and was given a rousing reception, largely because Apatanis thought he had come to resolve an ongoing feud with Nyishis. That dispute was temporarily halted, but only with the help of the Assam Rifles, who escorted Fürer-Haimendorf on his second trip.31 A few bamboo buildings housed him, his wife and his staff (doctor, cook, interpreters, guides and servants); a trading depot was also built where porters could exchange their rupee wages for rice and salt. Yet even this government camp, like the unfortunate Dr. Bor’s tent, was located outside a village, beyond Apatani cultural life. When a second colonial officer arrived in autumn 1946, he brought another platoon of Assam Rifles and established a military base on a nearby hilltop.32 Again, the soldiers put a temporary end to conflicts between Apatanis and their neighbours; but this time the soldiers did not return to Assam. In 1948, when Apatani resentment against external authority turned to resistance, these soldiers shot dead five Apatanis, wounded many more and burned two villages and their granaries (Myth and History 9). That same year the first school was built in the valley, but it was burned down in the protest against the outsiders.33 Despite what these events might suggest, government presence in the valley remained thin on the ground until the 1950s. The hilltop base was soon abandoned for lack of an air-drop and because porterage proved too costly, both financially and politically. After the attack in 1948, the camp in the valley was closed, its staff and equipment evacuated. Continuing their pre-war habits, officials based in Assam visited once or twice year and only for a few days. Still, the foothold gained in the 1940s was not lost, and over the next decade the valley emerged as an important administrative and military centre. By the time the North-East Frontier Agency took over administration of the Arunachal hills in 1954, the headquarters of the Political Officer

31 75 soldiers (1.5 platoons) came, but only ‘two sections’ were deployed in the valley, while the rest were left at staging posts en route (Fürer-Haimendorf 1945: 43). 32 Col. F. N. Betts and his wife, the anthropologist, Ursula Graham Bower. 33 Dutta Choudhury 1981: 293.

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of the Subansiri region had finally shifted to the Apatani valley. Once again, however, the two buildings housing this official, his clerk and a small contingent of Assam Rifles were isolated on a small hill at the northern edge of the valley. A bazaar, called Ziro (now Old Ziro), grew up at the base of the hill and remains an important settlement today. The problem of supplies, which had necessitated the forced porterage that so angered Apatanis, was solved in the 1950s when an airstrip was built in the valley. In that decade, headmen ( gaunboras) were appointed by the District Commissioner to sit on the traditional village councils; and government schools appeared in each of the seven Apatani villages. One event in the next decade swiftly brought the region into closer contact with the outside world. In 1962, the Chinese army crossed the Himalayas, advanced south and nearly reached Assam. With the vulnerability of its northeast flank so dangerously exposed, New Delhi responded by positioning a massive military presence in the NEFA hills. Now, and for the first time, the culture of the Indian plains was a visible and audible presence in the Apatani valley: not just soldiers, but Hindu (and Sikh) shrines in their camps, plus the Hindi (and other languages) spoken by the soldiers. Some Apatanis told me that they learned to speak and write Hindi from the soldiers based in the valley in the 1960s. At the close of that decade the outsiders were moved to the southern end of the valley, where a new town was hacked out of the jungle. This is Hapoli, today the headquarters of the Lower Subansiri District. Within a few years, Hapoli was linked to Assam by a motorable road and bus service, while the full array of administrative offices, courthouse, post office, police station, bank and bazaar was completed by the early 1970s. The transfer of power from Apatani villages to an outsider government was now complete. When Fürer-Haimendorf arrived in the 1940s, Apatani social life was regulated by village councilmen (bulyang), who resolved disputes, issued fines and ordered punishments. Within 30 years, the authority of this council had been replaced by the new civil administration, backed by Assam Rifles. The headmen, placed on village councils in the 1950s, soon became known only for their bright scarlet jackets and shiny badges. Other experiments in elected local government introduced in the 1970s have been overshadowed by the state-wide, party political system operating since statehood in 1987. Locally, real power lies with the DC, checked only by the Apatani member of the state legislative assembly.

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Literacy, oral culture and script Education proved a success among a population living in populous villages, each with a school and none farther than an hour’s walk from Hapoli. A higher secondary school and then a high school appeared in Hapoli during the first few years of the fast-developing administrative centre. In 1977, there were eleven government schools in the valley, and one Indian/Hindu school.34 By 1978, 30 Apatanis had received a university education, and the first Apatani PhD (from Dibrugarh University in Assam) was achieved in 1996.35 Today, the number of government schools has increased by only three, but they compete with (at last count) twenty-one Christian, Hindu and assorted independent institutions. In 2004, a Christian college opened, with funding from south India, but it has so far attracted only a handful of students. Many more Apatanis attend the state university and various technical institutes in Itanagar, or Gauhati University in Assam, Christian colleges in Shillong and colleges and universities in Delhi. One major consequence of this educational success has been the spread of literacy in a primarily oral culture. While Apatani is not a pure oral culture (very few exist), it is one in which knowledge, memory, storytelling and healing remain predominately oral. Until the second half of the twentieth century, few Apatanis would have been exposed to writing. As recently as the 1970s, nearly all important information—debts, genealogies, land ownership, raids and captives—was stored in oral memory. When these facts were disputed and negotiations held, men used small lengths of bamboo (kottir) to indicate ‘one mithun given’ or ‘one man kidnapped’.36 These bamboo pieces have now been replaced by the paperwork empire that accompanied the slow but steady advance of civil administration into the Apatani valley. The ability to read and write has become more necessary more often for more people; and the large number of schools provide the means to acquire this new skill. Today, almost all Apatanis under 30 are literate; most are proficient in Hindi and many in English.37 Fürer-Haimendorf 1980: 200. Fürer-Haimendorf 1980: 202–03. 36 On these bamboo markers, see Myth and History 8. 37 Literacy figures in the 2001 Census were 71% for Apatanis; 54% for Arunachal Pradesh; 65% for India; 88% for Mizoram; in the high 60s% for Meghalaya, Nagaland and Manipur. Since literacy is self-reported and not tested, these figures are likely to be exaggerated. 34 35

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Despite a relatively high rate of literacy, most Apatanis, especially those aged 40 or older, spend much of their day in agricultural work and have little need for writing or interest in reading. Even for the educated, the uses of literacy are confined primarily to office work. A glossy brochure, in both English and romanised Apatani, is produced for the annual summer festival. Some people read English-language newspapers, a few send emails (one writes a blog). A handful of Englishlanguage books have been written by Apatanis, including a disputed dictionary (Myth and History 7). A two-page English-language weekly recently appeared, disappeared and has been replaced by a new venture. Nevertheless, the standard means of communication in the valley remains spoken Apatani. Not many can read and write Apatani, however. During the NEFA years (1954–1972), Assamese was the medium of instruction at all levels, with English introduced in secondary school. Since 1972, the official policy has been that English (less controversial than Hindi or Assamese) should be used at all levels; in practice, however, Hindi dominates and local languages are used whenever necessary. NEFA also encouraged the learning of tribal languages and printed school books in almost all of them.38 Unfortunately, these textbooks were not widely used and are hardly seen today. As part of cultural revitalisation, local people have created scripts for languages in central Arunachal Pradesh, including a ‘Tani script’; but, again, none of these experiments has proved successful in the long run.39 The result is that Apatanis are literate but ‘unscripted.’ Most can read and write Hindi and/or English but not their own language. Apatani, like hundreds of other unscripted languages in India, is not an official language of the country.40 As one Apatani story explains (Myth and History 3), writing belongs to the halyang. This situation—unscripted in a nation of scripts—is one dimension of tribal identity in central Arunachal Pradesh and the Apatani valley.41

Johri 1962: 128. On the failure of an Adi script, see Mibang 1998. On the early promise of a Galo script, see Post 2007: 852–54. 40 Of the hundreds of tribal languages, only Bodo and Santali have achieved national status in the Sixth Schedule of the Indian Constitution. Of the approximately 6,500 languages in the world, only about two-thirds have a script, most of which were invented in the past two hundred years. 41 On a similar situation in upland Southeast Asia, see Lehman 1963: 2; for the Hmong/Miao, see Tapp 2001: 15. 38 39

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The spread of literacy in a (primarily) oral culture always precipitates change. But it does not necessarily lead to a polarisation between orality in a local language and literacy in outsider languages, as it has among Apatanis. Nor does it necessarily produce an opposition that is territorial, as in the valley. Reading and writing (in Hindi and English) is required in Hapoli, in banks, government offices, courts, post office, police station and schools. Oral culture in Apatani, especially ritual chanting, is mostly performed in the village, where the lapangs and nagos are found. Is this opposition between Hapoli/writing and village/oral culture another restatement of the tired dichotomy between modernity and tradition? The territorial divide is certainly far from absolute since some people do read in villages, and some elements of oral tradition exist within Hapoli. Another blurring of categories is that romanised Apatani is now used in rituals to write the names of sacrificial animals on wooden stakes and paper, and to record the names of people who donate rice. There is also irony in the fact that signs prohibiting or limiting outside cultural influences are written in English. Nonetheless, there remains an unmistakable distinction. Literacy in outside languages operates in the district headquarters, while the oral tradition of mijimigung is performed in the village. More important, this contrast between literacy and orality slots into the indigenous dichotomy that separates Apatani culture in the village from the halyang in Hapoli. Since the late nineteenth century, when Mr. Crowe arrived on Christmas Eve, Apatanis have attempted to control the influence of non-tribal outsiders by keeping them on the periphery of local culture—in a tent on barren ground, in a few buildings outside a village and then on a low hill. The current arrangement, locating Hapoli at one end of the valley, has worked more or less satisfactorily in maintaining a sense of separation between Apatani culture and outside influences. Until about 2000, when the boundary began to dissolve. Hapoli and village Hapoli has a population of about 10–12,000, half of whom are Apatanis. This is where Apatanis come to transact business, government or private, to make special purchases, to go to the higher secondary school or to travel somewhere else, usually the state capital, Itanagar, by bus or four-wheel drive vehicle. In the long, single-street bazaar, Apatanis, along with other tribals and Indians, buy Chinese-made coats and plastic

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buckets, a CD or bar of soap from Assam, as well as local vegetables and chickens. Medical shops and tea shops are everywhere, especially near the colony of government offices that sits on a hillock at the head of the bazaar. A short walk from the bazaar, an army camp, with a Hindu shrine, occupies a large compound; a Siva temple stands on a small hill a little farther away.42 A Baptist church and a Roman Catholic church line up side by side on the outskirts of town. [see photograph 9] Four smaller Baptist churches (including one for Nepalis and another for tribals other than Apatanis) are dotted around the periphery of Hapoli (and one in Old Ziro). Leaving Hapoli, the road runs north, rises and sweeps down to the paddy fields dotted with small gardens and islands of higher ground for growing millet; the flat fields stretch out, reaching the mountains with the villages at their base. The distance between villages and Hapoli is small. The farthest village is only 4 miles away, an hour’s walk or 15 minutes on the bus, which bumps down the road running through the valley. The cultural gulf, however, is deep. Hapoli is a minor melting pot, where Apatanis mix with Nyishis, Assamese and Adis, even the occasional foreign tourist. But no outsider lives in a village.43 In a localisation of the state-wide prohibition, none owns a house or land in a village either. The protective circle around villages excludes the religions of the halyang, too. Churches and temples are permitted in Hapoli but not (until recently) inside a village. Only seven of the dozen or so Apatani settlements are recognised as ‘villages’ (lemba).44 These seven are the original settlements, whose ancestors and names are mentioned in the migration story. Since the 1950s, population pressure and social disputes have produced new settlements, but they are considered extensions of one of the original seven and are not themselves ‘villages.’45 The seven ancestral villages are an important element of a person’s identity. While Apatanis belong first to a clan, which determines marriage partners, supplies first names and governs participation in some rituals, the village comes a close second. Although only a short walk apart, each village has its own set of ancestors, recognises different spirits, celebrates rituals differently and

42 In 2006, the Assam Rifles were withdrawn from Hapoli only to be replaced by the ITBF (Indo-Tibetan Border Force). 43 A single exception is mentioned in note 69, chapter 6. 44 Some clan quarters within these seven are also referred to as lemba. 45 Lempya, for example, was established (by one party to a dispute) as an extension of Tajang in 1972. Biirii, on the other hand, is linked to Mudan Tage in ritual texts.

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speaks a slightly different dialect. Most clans are associated with a single village, but village identity is primarily rooted in another fact: although women may move with marriage, no Apatani man changes his village. As a government employee, he may be posted to a new town in the state, but he never moves from his natal village to another in the valley. He may build a house in Hapoli (or Itanagar), but he also has a house in the village to which he belongs. For example, it is to this house, and not to one in Hapoli, that meat is distributed during the Murung festival (see Ritual Text 2). Apatani ritual structures (lapang and nago) are also found only in the seven villages (and their extensions), never in Hapoli or Old Ziro. In the few open spaces in each village stands a large wooden platform raised above the ground on thick pillars. This is the lapang, owned by a clan (or set of clans) and used during major festivals and rituals, especially Murung. Each village also contains one or two smaller structures (nago), which resembles a hut, where other rituals, especially during the Myoko festival, are performed. Village residence determines the rotation of hosts for this annual festival.46 Also, the important office of bulyang (‘councilman’) was village-based. These men, who used to resolve disputes, still retain a residue of influence in village affairs and receive preference in some rituals. The village is further distanced from Hapoli because it is the centre of agriculture and forestry. Close to his village lie a man’s paddy fields and gardens, his pine and bamboo groves, as well as his clan’s and village’s forest tracts on the higher slopes. The individually-owned fields produce three varieties of rice and two types of millet; in small gardens, families grow ginger, spinach, maize, beans, tomatoes, onions, cucumbers, pumpkins and fruit trees. The paddy fields, which blaze bright green in late summer, are seldom idle, even in the cold winter. They are irrigated by a complex system of channels, dams and terraces that requires constant supervision. Fields are tilled and sown, seedlings weeded, uprooted and transplanted, the crop harvested, threshed and husked using only hands, hoes, sickles and pestles. No wells, animals, machines or ploughs are used. Apatanis also catch small fish from a stream that courses through the valley and from those running down from the hills.

46 Three villages or groups of villages alternate as hosts of the festival: Hiici (Mudan Tage, Michi Bamin, Dutta and Hija), Hiitii (Bula and Hari) and Hong.

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Carefully tended bamboo and pine groves lie on the edge of villages and on the low slopes of the mountains encircling the fields. Hardwood trees grow on the higher slopes, which reach three thousand feet above the valley floor. The forests no longer have animals for hunting (aside from small rodents and cats), but they still provide essentials for everyday and ceremonial use. The large, ox-like mithuns, which are sacrificed during ceremonies, roam for several miles in the forests. Here also nine species of bamboo are grown or collected wild to build houses and fences, to make baskets, tools and domestic objects, as well as to eat. Five types of cane are used mostly as bindings for the various bamboo structures, but also to tether mithuns. Pine and hardwood groves are managed in order to provide wood for irrigation sluices, house doors, granaries and pig stys. Bamboo, pine and hardwood also keep the fires going in the hearth, not just for cooking and boiling water, but also to ward off the cold.47 Every day, especially in the evening, men and women carry firewood back to the villages, bending under the heavy loads as they shuffle forward with quick steps. This gliding motion is characteristic of Apatanis, who always appear on the move, especially the women, going to the fields, mixing in new soil, repairing bunds, weeding, standing knee-deep in nursery beds, transplanting and harvesting. At home, in addition to kitchen work, most women spend hours at backstrap looms, weaving shawls, shirts and skirts, although many now prefer cross-stitch frames to make hats, socks, sweaters and ties. Most men work at repairing houses, building fences, tending bamboo and pine groves and cutting wood, although others work in private businesses and government offices. Some young men, who have been educated out of forest and field, stand around idly, playing caroms or cards. Wet-rice agriculture and the urban plan of Apatani villages have changed little over the past hundred years. In other respects, however, the Apatani valley is unrecognisable from what it was half a century ago. Photographs taken in the 1940s, for example, show a different landscape, with no road, no airstrip and no Hapoli. Even the villages are barely visible under the thick cover of pine and bamboo forests at the edge of the paddy fields. The population of the valley has doubled in the last thirty years, requiring out migration but also new settlements,

47 In winter months in the late 1980s, the average person consumed 7 kilograms of firewood per day (Kumar and Ramakrishnan 1990: 333).

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each linked to one of the seven original villages.48 With no space to spare, villages press hard upon the hills behind them. While people are loath to reduce either field or forest, both are retreating as hillsides and paddy fields are turned into land for houses. In recent years, both the spatial and cultural distance between Hapoli and the villages have shrunk. The administrative centre has expanded so that its new settlements stand like stepping stones to the closest village. Cars and mobile phones have also narrowed the gap. Just as visibly, the cultural barrier between village and outsiders was breached after 2000 when small prayer halls and then proper churches were built outside Hapoli, near villages. This development and the efforts to check it within the Apatani valley are part of a wider regional history. Religious change and reaction: Donyi-Polo Hindu influence among the tribes of central Arunachal Pradesh is centuries old; it is an extension of the hinduisation of Assam in which many ethnic groups and the ruling Ahoms were assimilated. Christian influence is more recent, and its direct impact can probably be traced to the early decades of the twentieth century when children from central Arunachal Pradesh started to attend schools in North Lakhimpur and Tezpur in Assam. When a reaction against these outside religions began is more difficult to say. However, we know that disquiet existed as early as 1948 when Adis (in the Siang region) complained that students came back from schools in Assam with names like ‘James’ and ‘Arjun.’49 Ironically, and predictably, some of those same students became leaders in the cultural preservation movement that began in the late 1960s. The Donyi-Polo (Sun-Moon) movement was established in 1968 by a few tribal leaders, but it soon gained high-level political support. In 1979, the State Legislative Assembly passed the Freedom of Indigenous Faith Act. This law, an effort to reinstate the anti-missionary policy of the NEFA years, outlawed any attempt to convert ‘by use of force or inducement or fraudulent means.’50 Although this legislation proved ineffective, it reflected widespread alarm and anger at Christian The 1961 Census reported a population of 10,745. In 1980, it was estimated at 15,000 (Fürer-Haimendorf 1982: 298). Today it is about 30,000. 49 Dawar 2003: 106. 50 Dawar 2003: 67–75. 48

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conversions throughout Arunachal Pradesh. In the 1970s many newlybuilt churches were destroyed in the central region. District Commissioners in the region ordered the makeshift prayer halls to be demolished, and if officials were slow to act, local people knocked them down themselves. According to one Christian organisation, 47 churches, 277 houses and 194 granaries belonging to Christians were destroyed in that decade alone.51 In order to counter the spread of outside religions, the principal strategy of the Donyi-Polo movement has been to promote a new religion of its own. Although it lacks a charismatic leader, Donyi-Polo is similar to other revitilisation movements in that it combines reinvented tradition with elements borrowed from the forces it opposes. Donyi-Polo (‘Sun-Moon’) is an important figure in the mythology and rituals of the Tani tribes. Centred on this traditional symbol, the movement has been developed into a formal ‘religion’ called ‘Donyi-Polo-ism.’ Oral myths have been smoothed into a coherent cosmology, with DonyiPolo reigning like a creator-god. Permanent worship halls have been built, where congregations pray to Sun-Moon, whose image is painted on the wall. Brass lamps and sprinkled water are used, while printed pamphlets (in romanised local languages) of prayers and moral precepts guide the faithful during weekly meetings. All these elements are borrowed from Christianity or Hinduism and are without precedent in local tribal belief and practice.52 Some local Donyi-Polo groups are influenced by Hindu organisations, such as the Vivekananda Kendra Vidyalaya, Vishva Hindu Parishad and Ramakrishna Mission. For example, in addition to running schools in the region, the VKV inducts priests into their organisation and issues membership cards, producing card-carrying priests. A common strategy used by these Hindu groups in their non-coercive form of conversion is to convince tribals that their religion is a local form of Hinduism. ‘After all,’ they say, ‘worship of the Sun is found in the ancient Vedas. Your prayers to Donyi are a form of our Gayatri mantra (a Hindu prayer to the Sun).’ A visible example of this pseudo-fusion in Hapoli is a shrine, attached to the Siva temple, with the words ‘Gayatri-DonyiPolo’ (in both Hindi and English) flanked by images of Donyi-Polo and the swastika.

Fernandes 1981. An exception to the aniconic tradition in central Arunachal Pradesh are images on some Nyishi altars (Stonor 1957, Plate 1). 51 52

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The movement, which began in the Siang region, east of the Apatani valley, has steadily gained support across the central region. Local groups formed in all the district headquarters, and a Donyi-Polo study group published an English-language magazine in the capital in the 1990s. The new religion also received some recognition beyond the state when spokesmen were invited to conferences in New Delhi and Germany. Another milestone was passed when the state government declared December 31 a state holiday and named it ‘Donyi-Polo Day.’ No accurate figures are available, although it appears that in the 1990s Donyi-Polo worship halls numbered fewer than 50, possibly only 30. Today, the more than 200 in the central region are the most visible consequence of the spread of Christianity and Hinduism. Religious change and reaction in the Apatani valley Like colonialism, these outside religions and Donyi-Polo arrived comparatively late in the Apatani valley. In fact, the recent rise of DonyiPolo is concurrent with the spread of Christianity and Hinduism in the valley. In 1978, an anthropologist reported that ‘only a few [Apatanis] have become Christians’ and there was ‘no sign of any spread of Christian—or indeed Buddhist or Hindu—ideas in the valley.’53 In passing he also noted that ‘some educated men are supporting the new [Donyi-Polo] movement.’54 The situation changed swiftly. In the 1980s a missionary arrived in the form of an evangelical Baptist from Nagaland, and a small bamboo worship hall was soon built on the outskirts of Hapoli. A similar structure was built in the same spot for those who gathered to hear an Assamese Roman Catholic priest who came now and then from North Lakhimpur. By 1997, these bamboo huts had been replaced by large, solid churches; a third church followed in Old Ziro. Christianity now had a new and permanent presence, although still on the margins of Apatani cultural life. Emboldened, local Baptists twice built small bamboo prayer halls near villages, only to see them quickly knocked down by their angry neighbours, who then put up signs prohibiting such incursions. Similar

53 54

Fürer-Haimendorf 1980: 176–77. Fürer-Haimendorf 1980: 214.

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signs announced that burial grounds of villages were off-limits to anyone except followers of local animist religion. [see photographs 7 & 8] However, these signs, which were put up in 2000, have themselves now gone, and Christianity has advanced closer to villages. In 2003, two small, wooden churches (one Baptist, one Roman Catholic) were built on the edge of villages; and in 2004, a Christian college was constructed near a village. As of early 2008, nine churches, and even more Christian schools, stand in the valley. Animistic religious systems, as numerous studies have shown, are rarely eliminated by conversion.55 Accommodation is the more frequent result, and some form of synthesis may emerge in the Apatani valley. For example, several Apatani Christian families (mostly Roman Catholics) still participate in major rituals and public festivals; and most Christians, of all denominations, continue to call on the nyibu for funerals and for healing. On the other hand, an increasing number of Apatani converts opt out of major festivals, and some have broken with the gift-giving obligations of ceremonial friendships. This rupture with tradition has created discord and anger, which has divided more than a few families.56 While controversy has not yet spilled over into conflict, tempers run high. In 2004, glossy Christian tracts (in romanised Apatani), which disparaged traditional ‘idolatry’ and ‘black arts,’ were distributed throughout the valley. Many were burned. The next year, a local group wrote a letter to the DC requesting a ban on carols within 300 feet of a lapang or nago. One of my friends, a married man of about 35, who has never expressed strong opinions about anything, now complains about the Christian singing in his neighbour’s house. This perception of culture loss is at least as important as its actual extent, which is difficult to measure in any case. By their own estimates (elicited during interviews), churches in the Apatani valley serve about 800 Catholics and 4,000 Baptists. Of this total number of Christians in the valley, approximately 4,000 are Apatanis. Christians are thus about 15% of the total population of 30,000 Apatanis in the valley. However, I frequently heard local people say that the number of Christians was 40% or 50%. Another friend, again not given to emotion, was alarmed

55 On the transformations produced by Christian conversion, especially in tribal societies, see Robbins 2004: 2–9. 56 See, for example, the story of a Christian nyibu in chapter 5.

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by a recent procession of converts who walked through the valley singing carols on Christmas day. ‘It was frightening,’ he said. ‘The size of it. I thought every Apatani had converted!’ No one speaks of Hinduism in these terms. It is more familiar and its influence less visible. If Christian conversion is a ‘raging wildfire,’ as one man put it, hinduisation is a slow-burn. Still, its pace has accelerated in the last two decades. Small shrines (and one Sikh gurudwara) appeared in Hapoli after the army arrived in 1962, but they were kept within army compounds. The first ‘public’ Hindu temple was built, amid controversy, in 1988; and two shrines have been added to it. Two other, smaller temples were then constructed in 2001. Hindu schools have also appeared and enjoy a high reputation among Apatanis. A few years later, a tall stone shaped like a Siva lingam was discovered in the jungle about two miles from Hapoli; it has now become a popular pilgrimage destination for Hindus, some from Assam, as well as for some Apatanis. Other Apatanis have responded to the growing presence of halyang religions by embracing the Donyi Polo movement. As a 40-year old woman in Hari village explained (Myth and History 14): The problem is that we tanii people [Apatanis] are losing our culture. If we don’t save some of it while a few of our old people are still alive, then we will lose it altogether. We won’t know which way to turn in the future. You see, even the people who have come here to this valley from far away have their church, their [Hindu] temple, their [Assamese] namghar and their [Sikh] gurudwara. All this right here, in our own land! Should we wash only with plain water?57 No. We want something more.

In 2001 she and her women friends made plans for a Donyi-Polo hall in her village, and in 2004 it became the first in the Apatani valley. Donyi-Polo worship in that hall is a mixture of traditional, Hindu and Christian elements. We leave our shoes at the entrance and sit on mats, looking at a brightly painted wall showing the sun (Donyi) rising over green mountains; from a low ledge hang a few mithun skulls. On the ledge sits a lighted brass lamp, and brass plates hang from the ceiling. The songs are carefully composed to imitate Apatani ritual speech, but the congregational singing is more militant than devotional. ‘Page 16!’ the leader shouts, and we quickly turn the pages of the pamphlet given to us when we arrived. Some of the approximately thirty women and

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In other words, ‘We deserve better.’

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handful of men have memorised the lines, but others read the romanised Apatani. ‘Donyi-Polo, bless us! Ato Pulo, bless us! Abo Tani, bless us!’ shouts the leader, and we scream each line after her. Water from a ritual gourd is sprinkled on our heads, and a black thread tied on the wrists of newcomers. Prayers are said on the behalf of specific persons (for examinations, illness, etc). In little over an hour, it is over. Donyi-Polo is gaining popularity among Apatanis. By the end of 2007, three more villages had built halls and two others had laid plans. Recently, the local TV/video channel broadcast an event at which the local MLA, several priests and a few prominent Hindus announced that land had been acquired for the construction of a large Donyi-Polo hall in Hapoli. Nevertheless, the new religion has yet to win over the majority. Each week the hall in Hari village draws less than 50 adults from a population of nearly 4,000. Young people show little interest. For some Apatanis concerned about cultural preservation, the DonyiPolo movement provides a ready-made solution. This no-fee, participatory, brief and scheduled communication with the spirit world has its appeal. However, other, mostly highly educated, Apatanis are skeptical, even critical, citing the outsider elements, especially the Trojan Horse of Hindu influence. The sanitised version of religion served up at the newly-built worship hall is not to everyone’s liking, and some scoff at a ritual with no nyibu and no animal sacrifice. I doubt that this reinvented religion will overtake the more ritually elaborate and socially embedded forms of contacting the spirit world. Still, although few participate directly in Donyi-Polo worship, many Apatanis take heart from it, and some have formed organisations with similar aims. In the end, however, if oral tradition tells us anything about culture, Apatani efforts at preservation will take inspiration not from Donyi-Polo but from Abo Tani. Conclusion This is the context in which the stories in this book were told. Although roughly equidistant from the high Himalayas and the Brahmaputra River, since about 1800 the Apatani valley has been influenced far more by changes emanating from Assam than by those from Tibet. As a result of events set in motion by British colonialism, an unscripted Apatani oral tradition is now surrounded by literacy in Hindi and English. Traditional village councils have been replaced by an external civil

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administration in Hapoli. Christianity and Hinduism have expanded into villages, beyond the boundaries that had separated Apatanis from the halyang since first contact in the late nineteenth century. These changes, and perceptions of culture loss, have prompted efforts toward cultural preservation. This history of change forms an explanatory background to Apatani oral tradition and to the shifts in local identity described in the final chapter. Before that, in the next three chapters, we will see that this history has also left its mark on individual stories. Again and again we will hear of the halyang, occasionally of the misan, and Abo Tani is likely to appear anytime. Many of these same stories, especially those in the next chapter, are also concerned with status and rivals, generosity and alliance, desire and prosperity.

CHAPTER THREE

TALES Introduction As mentioned in the Introduction, Apatani oral tradition has no term for ‘folktale’ and does not distinguish fictive from non-fictive genres. There is no equivalent of ‘once upon a time.’ Apatanis speak of two types of stories, miji and migung, which are distinguished by several factors but not by content or truth value. Migung, or stories told in prose without ritual intent, may be separated into those that resemble folktales and those that resemble myths and histories. If the ‘myths and histories’ in the next chapter explain origins and describe specific events, the ‘tales’ in this chapter speak of animal-husbands, man-eating monsters, magic trees and mistreated heroines. Also, like many international folktales, the stories in this chapter tend to focus on the family drama, the tensions between sisters, brothers, brother and sister, husband and wife. Although Apatani stories do not belong to an Indian, Indo-European or Tibetan tradition of storytelling, more than one is a version of an international folktale. An example is the first story I heard, about two girls and a snake. Tales 1. The Two Sisters: A Snake-Husband During the first, four frustrating weeks of my initial long stay in the Apatani valley, I was unable to record a single story. The ‘breakthrough,’ when it did come, was unexpected. I was in Hapoli, at the house of a friend who was instrumental in my early collection of oral narratives. Leegang Tachang is a young man whose grandfather hunted wild bears—a photograph shows him with a deep scar on one cheek, for which he was known as ‘Leegang-Bear.’ In two short generations, his grandson, my friend, had become the director of an English-medium

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school in Hapoli, computer-literate and even a minor celebrity among Apatanis because he was the first to appear in Assamese-language films. He and his wife have also produced several cassettes of ‘modern’ Apatani songs that sell well in the bazaar in Hapoli. We had spoken once or twice about how I might collect stories, but he was one of those friends too busy to arrange anything. One day I went to his house to ask again if he might be able to set up something. When I arrived, he said that his mother had come from the village that morning to sponsor a ritual. My heart sank because this meant, ‘No time to help you, sorry.’ Yet another day gone, with nothing recorded. Still, I thought, maybe the priest who was there to conduct the ritual would tell me a tale. Leegang’s mother’s mother had been thought to have special powers because she was possessed by a powerful spirit called Kirun and thereby able to diagnose illness. Her daughter, Leegang’s mother, sponsored a ritual every year to draw strength from her ‘marriage’ to Kirun in order to alleviate her own physical and mental problems. This annual ritual involved erecting a leaf and bamboo altar, sacrificing chicks, sprinkling blood, reading livers and chanting. We went to see what was happening that morning and saw that the altar had been built; from it hung tiny bamboo replicas of everything Kirun might want: a bow and arrow, a backpack and a tiny container for catching the souls of his enemies. Hage Gyati, the priest described at the end of the previous chapter, then slit open the belly of a small pig and examined the three sections of its liver for omens—would the family, the clan and the priest himself fare well during the coming year? They would. When the ritual was over and Hage Gyati had eaten a meal, my friend asked him to tell us a story. He agreed and I hurriedly set up my tape-recorder, pinned the microphone to his handwoven jacket and sat back expectantly. Gyati, an old man of about 90 years, gave us a brief and confused account of a story that broke off in midstream. But at least it was something. Then I looked at my friend’s mother, Leegang Yakhu, who was about 55 years old, and asked if she would tell me something. She said ‘no’ and turned away. But later, encouraged by her son, she agreed and told the following tale of ‘The Two Sisters,’ an Apatani version of a folktale told around the world. One day a snake crawled out of a cave, shed its skin and became a young man—a very handsome young man. Then Biinyi and

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Biine, the two sisters, began to eat the fruit of the takun tree which belonged to the snake-man.1 The fruit tasted good, but when the snake saw them, he shouted, ‘If you eat my fruit, I’ll take both of you as my wives!’ Now, of the two sisters, Biinyi was the good one and Biine was the bad one. Their parents gave Biinyi a large and expensive rite necklace; but to Biine they gave a necklace of egg shells.2 Biinyi wore her necklace every day and felt very happy. But when the parents put the egg shells on Biine, she slipped and fell into the muddy nursery field. Biinyi, the good sister, soon became the snake’s wife and had a baby, a son. Every night her husband became a snake, and every day he again became a handsome young man. Unable to bear this, Biinyi said to herself, ‘I won’t have a reptile for a husband any more!’ Meanwhile her snake-son grew up, and one day she asked him to pick up her husband’s skin that was haning on a rack inside the house. Then she took it and burned it in the fire, saying quietly to herself, ‘Now my husband will be a man at night, too.’ The husband came home and went to crawl into its skin to go to sleep, but the skin was gone. ‘Biinyi!’ he screamed. ‘What happened to my skin that was hanging here?’ ‘I was husking paddy,’ she said. ‘Then our son came into the house and I heard a crackling sound. I ran quickly to put out the fire, but your skin was totally destroyed.’ The snake-man saw only a small charred piece; that’s all that was left of his skin. ‘I just couldn’t beat him!’ explained his wife. ‘How could I? He’s my son. You better talk to him because I can’t.’ But her husband thought, ‘What can I say to him?’ He was no longer a snake and couldn’t enter his skin, which had became dark and ugly. He had become a man. That’s why we women don’t eat snake meat, and why we don’t marry snakes either.3

The takun tree, and its pink flowers, is a symbol of female sexuality. Rite are small, dark blue, expensive beads; a necklace can cost 100,000 rupees (approx. £1,250). 3 Snakes are eaten by Apatani men. 1 2

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chapter three 2. The Two Sisters: Fleeing the Ogre

Within a week of hearing the story of the snake-husband, I was able to record several more adventures of the two sisters. In fact, there is a cluster of narratives about a clever girl and a stupid girl, who are often sisters. The above story, with the fruit tree, snake-husband and jealous sisters, is the tale most commonly told, but there are others, such as the one below. The man who told this story is a talented storyteller and unforgettable personality. Imaginative and long-winded, Mudan Donyi loved to speak into my microphone, and he often did so for hours at a stretch. Despite his verbal skills, Donyi is not a nyibu, or priest, because, I was told, ‘he didn’t learn the ritual texts (miji ).’ But this did not prevent him from performing rituals for a few Christian families in his village. He is also a self-appointed priest of his own religion, a mixture of traditional elements, Hinduism and Christianity. In a corner of his bamboo house, he has set up a small altar with clay figures modelled on Hindu iconography. [see photograph 11] His most ambitious project, however, has been the invention of an Apatani script. Donyi showed me his script when I met him during a brief visit in 1999. Huddled deep inside a large, blackened overcoat, he joined a small group of us sitting on a porch, sipping rice-beer on a sunny morning in late December. Opening his notebook, he pointed to three neatly written columns of letters and explained them while a friend translated. He had devised not just one script but three separate sets of letters, one for each stage of a linguistic evolution from ‘ancient’ to ‘middle’ (which he also called nyibu agung, the ritual speech chanted by priests) to ‘modern.’ The ancient script looked like a confection of Tibetan and Chinese with diacritical marks; the middle appeared more like Assamese; and the modern was the roman script used to write Apatani today. Donyi was 38 then and literate in Assamese and Hindi; having left school after the 8th class, he knew only a handful of English words. Over the next few years, I spent a lot of time with Donyi and learned that he viewed the development of language as part of a larger historical process that began with the migration of the ancestors. This concept of an historical unfolding of culture is fundamental to Apatani thinking, as the myths and histories in the next chapter show. Among the more remarkable things he told me about the migration of the ancestors was

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that it started in Mongolia, which he located on a detailed (and more or less accurate) map that he sketched on a piece of paper. No wonder people said to me, ‘Donyi? He has the gift of god.’ When I asked, he told me that all his knowledge—stories, scripts and iconography—came to him visually, in dreams. Donyi is also a popular entertainer. He used to perform acrobatics on a rope stretched between tall poles during the Myoko festival; he still climbs up those poles to release the cane rope used to erect them. During the Murung festival procession, he attracts crowds with his original dance steps; and at the popular fashion shows, he wears the most outrageous outfits. Above all, however, he was a superb tale-teller, who also understood the recording of stories as a documentation of culture. Over the years we became good friends, and collaborators, and I will not easily forget the energy and ambition of his storytelling, without which this book would not have been possible. He told the story below in his village, as we sat in the house of an old and ailing man, who had managed to tell me a few fragments from the many adventures of ‘The Two Sisters.’ Donyi listened carefully and said, ‘There is more to this story.’ He then told this tale, an Apatani version of Hansel and Gretel. Long ago there were two sisters called Biinyi and Biine. When they reached sixteen years old, there was a mikhii, a man-eating ogre who can change his colour and shape. This ogre ate one person after another in the village. Then the people got together, caught the ogre and locked him up. It happened that Biinyi and Biine lived near where this strange ogre was kept. One day the ogre said to them, ‘Open the door just a little and I’ll give you a bag full of ginger.’4 They replied, ‘Grandfather, we can’t open the door; we must go feed the chickens.’ But the ogre continued to plead with them: ‘Please, open it just a little; I have some chillies for you.’ Again Biinyi and Biine said, ‘Grandfather, we can’t open it. We must feed the pigs.’ Biinyi was the clever sister and the good girl, and she knew that the ogre was lying. That’s why she wouldn’t open the door. But

4 Ginger is highly valued for its ritual uses among Apatanis and other tribes in central Arunachal Pradesh.

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chapter three Biine, the stupid one, who had no idea that the ogre would eat them, said, ‘Grandfather, I’ll open the door.’ When she rushed forward and opened it, the ogre came out, grabbed a big bamboo basket and said to the sisters, ‘Get inside this, fast!’ They were unable to run away and were forced into the basket. The ogre took them away, and as they went he changed into all kinds of things. He became a tiger, a jungle cat and then a human being. And he ate them all, too, all the animals and the man. Biinyi began to think, ‘If he takes us home, he’ll eat us too!’ She was frightened. But stupid Biine thought, ‘If we go to grandfather’s house, he’ll give us lots of gifts.’ She was anxious to get there as soon as possible. ‘Where is your house, grandfather?’ Biinyi asked. ‘Over there, where that brown cow is standing,’ he said. But when they reached the spot and found no house, she asked again, ‘Where is your house?’ ‘See that black cow over there,’ he answered. When they reached that place and again saw no house, he said, ‘Over there, where that white chicken is.’ At last they came to his house. Inside, he lit a fire in the hearth, placed a big pot on the trivet and filled it with water. Then he said to the sisters, ‘Get in the pot.’ They were afraid that if they didn’t get in, he would grab them by the neck and eat them then and there. Not knowing what to do, they were scared and climbed inside the pot. Then the ogre covered it with a big lid. ‘If the fire gets hot, we’re going to die,’ said clever Biinyi to her sister. ‘But if we can fool him into thinking we’re cooked, he’ll take the pot off the fire. Then, when he and his wife are doing something else, we can run away.’ So Biinyi made gurgling sounds, as if the water was boiling. But the naïve Biine blurted out, ‘We’re not cooked yet, grandfather; we’re just making sounds.’ The ogre lifted the lid, grabbed them and cracked their fingers to see if they were ready to eat. ‘Still not cooked,’ he grunted and replaced the lid. He and his wife spoke to each other. ‘You go to the granary, while I wait here,’ said one of them. ‘No! You go and I’ll wait,’ said the other. ‘If I go, you’ll gobble up these two while I’m gone! I’ll get nothing to eat.’ They argued back and forth, until finally, they both went to the granary. As soon as they were gone, Biinyi and Biine lifted the lid and climbed out of the pot. Then they put the ogre’s son into the pot. But they didn’t run away because they wanted to see what the

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ogre and his wife would do. So they hid in the yard and watched. When the couple came back from the granary, they lifted the lid and peered inside the pot. Biinyi kept quiet, but Biine shouted, ‘Oh! They’re going to eat their own son!’ Hearing this, the ogre and his wife rushed toward the sisters, who fled. They ran and ran, pursued by the ogre and his wife, until they came to a road where they saw a praying mantis digging up the ground. ‘Long ago our parents formed a pinyang relationship with you.5 Don’t you recognise us? Please cover us with the dirt you’ve dug up.’ The insect covered them with dirt, but the ogre turned into a dog and began to sniff the mound of dirt. ‘Who is that smelling my faeces covered with dirt? Go away!’ ordered the insect. ‘All right,’ said the ogre, ‘but ‘I’ll stand here for a while and watch.’ ‘I can’t protect you anymore,’ said the praying mantis to the two sisters. The sisters left and the ogre ran after them; they ran and ran, and he followed them for a long time. They couldn’t escape by running, so they climbed a tree. There was a long vine hanging down and they used that to climb up. The ogre and his wife reached the tree and asked, ‘How did you get up there?’ ‘We used the tip of our mother’s bamboo hair-clip,’ answered clever Biinyi. ‘That’s how we climbed up.’ So the ogre grabbed Biine’s hair-clip and tried to climb, but the sharp bamboo stabbed him and he cried out in pain. ‘How did you climb up there?’ he asked again. ‘We used the tip of our father’s spear; that’s how,’ said Biinyi. Then the ogre tried to climb using his spear, but he stabbed himself and screamed in pain. Once more he asked them how they managed to climb the tree. Wondering what lie Biinyi would tell this time, Biine pointed to the vine and said, ‘Grandfather, this is what we used.’ He saw the vine, grabbed it and began to scramble up the tree. Then Biinyi looked up, and high in the tree she saw a white chicken. Addressing it, she said, ‘Long ago our parents formed a pinyang friendship; so you must help us.’ The chicken threw down a small, sharp sickle, which stuck in a fork in the tree. Grabbing the sickle, Biinyi cut the vine and the ogre fell to the ground, broke in two and died. When she saw this, his wife felt no sorrow. She cut off his penis and testicles, which she wanted to give to her son.

5

Pinyang is a ceremonial friendship.

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chapter three Biine said, ‘Look! She’s taken her husband’s cock and balls!’ When she heard that, the ogre’s wife said to her, ‘Your time will come! Just wait!’ Going home, the wife brought a big axe and cut down the tree. She also cut off the vine, so Biinyi and Biine couldn’t climb down. When she had cut through the tree, the ogre’s wife shouted to it, ‘Fall downward, fall down the slope!’ And Biinyi shouted, ‘Fall upward, toward the top of the mountain!’6 But Biine said, ‘Fall downward!’ just like the ogre’s wife—that’s how stupid she was. You see, Biinyi was thinking that if the tree fell high up on the slope, they could run away over the summit and down the other side of the mountain. When the tree did fall high up on the slope, the sisters sped away, with the revived ogre and his wife following behind. They ran and ran until they saw a river and a man repairing a bridge. His name was Popi Sa.7 Biinyi and Biine said to him, ‘Long ago your parents and our parents were pinyang friends. If you don’t help us escape from the ogre, we will surely die.’ Popi Sa said he would help and told them to cross the bridge. They crossed and when the ogre followed, Popi Sa broke one of the support posts so that he fell into the river. ‘I’ll get you, Popi Sa! You’ll see!’ shouted the ogre as he was swept downstream by the rushing water. Today this ogre’s soul is called giirii wi, which is a dangerous and powerful spirit. Whenever there’s a fire or flood, war or some accident or someone dies, we perform a ritual to that spirit. Biinyi and Biine finally got home, and as soon as they arrived, their father asked, ‘Where have you been? Some animal, a wild cat probably, killed one of our white chickens. Go collect the feathers and bring them here.’ But when they brought him the feathers, he put them on his fingers, one by one, and flew away with a big ‘whoosh’! Then their mother came and said, ‘Biinyi and Biine, a wild cat has killed one of our red chickens near the granary. Bring me the feathers.’ ‘No, we won’t go. When we brought feathers to father, he put them on and flew away. Are you going to fly away,

6 The ‘upside’ and ‘downside’ of a slope ( yorko and yordin) are important distinctions when cutting trees or climbing hills. 7 Popi Sa (Sarmin) is the ancestor of wisdom and judgement.

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too?’ ‘Your father may have flown away,’ she said. ‘But why would I do that? I’m your mother, aren’t I? I’m not going to leave you. Now get those feathers.’ They collected the feathers, but when they gave them to their mother, she also put them on and flew away. Then their older brother asked them to do the same, and he too flew away. When their older sister followed him, Biinyi and Biine were left all alone. Because they couldn’t manage on their own they said to each other, ‘Let’s go search for mother and father, brother and sister.’ They walked a long way, until they saw some people working in the fields. ‘Have you seen our parents, or brother and sister?’ they asked. ‘No, we haven’t seen anything. There’s a group of old women over there. Ask them.’ But when they asked those women, they said, ‘No, but there’s some young women nearby. Ask them.’ But they, too, said they knew nothing and told the sisters to ask a group of young men. Those men had seen no one, so they asked some children, who pointed to a boy. They looked at him and saw that he had a dirty face, but they asked anyway, ‘Have you seen our parents, and brother and sister?’ ‘Wash the mucous from my eyes and nose; clean my face and then I’ll tell you,’ he said. So they cleaned him up, and then he led them away. He took them to a fence and said, ‘If you cut a piece of that bamboo and look through it, you’ll see your mother. If you cut another, you’ll be able to see your father, and your sister and brother, too.’ They cut a piece of bamboo, looked through it and saw their mother. Through another piece they saw their father and through others their sister and brother. When they had seen everyone, they began to jump for joy. But Biine stepped on the chicken droppings and slipped under the house where the chickens are fed. She was eaten by mihin kaco, a spirit who eats droppings, and in the end only Biinyi remained. 3. The Trickster Cycle: Abo Tani and His Rival At the centre of Apatani oral tradition stands Abo Tani, a trickster who is also the first human and culture hero. He appears in every kind of story—trickster tales, migration legends, healing chants, ritual texts and especially origin myths since virtually everything of importance, from

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rice to major festivals, is traced back to him. Within this repertoire, the most commonly told stories describe the deceptions he practices upon his brawny, credulous rival. This dupe, who is usually the leader of the spirit world but sometimes only a fellow tribesman, is known by many names. In the episodes below he is called Baro Piicha. These six episodes of deceit were told by a handsome man in his late forties. Tilling Tak has a house in a village, where he owns the land that supplies his family with rice and vegetables. He also has a modern, wooden house on a hill overlooking the bazaar in Hapoli, where he owns two medical shops. Leasing them to Indians, he gains the cash necessary to send his children to good schools. Two daughters were at a Christian boarding school in Assam, another at a local Christian boarding school, while his only son, Gombo, was studying at Gauhati University in Assam. One morning, as arranged with Gombo, I brought my tape recorder to their house on the hill. It was a warm, sunny day in early February and we sat outside in the front yard, with a small fish pond and fruit trees. Tilling Tak, whom I had not yet met, was sitting in his shorts, a towel around his shoulders, having his hair dyed to hide the premature white. ‘I’ve got him,’ I thought. Gombo had told me that his father knew stories, and I had been trying to set up a session with him for several weeks. But he was always busy, supervising his shops, back in his village or on business somewhere. Now, sitting motionless as one of his daughters applied black shoe polish to his sideburns, he was trapped. When I asked if he would tell me a story, he beamed a big smile and agreed to begin when the dying was finished. All these Abo Tani stories, he said, came from his mother, but he had also heard them when ayus were chanted. What astonished me was that none of his children, who were listening as he told these six episodes, had ever heard him tell them before. Were these stories rarely told now? Were they never frequently told? Certainly they fascinated the listeners gathered on the hill that day, even the university student. Perhaps one reason the father had never told them is that some of the phrases and many of the allusions would have been unfamiliar to his children, especially those attending schools outside the valley. I often encountered this linguistic generation gap in storytelling: a girl of 15 did not follow her 35-year-old father; and a man of 35 could not understand a story told by his 60-year old uncle.

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His hair glistening black, looking years younger, Tilling Tak began to tell me these six linked tales, which he reeled off without pausing for a moment, as if he were a practised storyteller. The only interruptions were the sharp stabs of laughter with which he entertained himself. Pig meat and bitter plants These stories are what our ancestors told long ago. Abo Tani and Baro Piicha were brothers, and the point of the stories is that they were always trying to deceive each other. They told lies and cheated—all the time! Here are a few stories about these sly, doublecrossing brothers. One day, Abo Tani went into the forest, where he set traps and caught a lot of rats to eat. Baro Piicha did the same but got absolutely nothing. So Baro Piicha said, ‘Abo Tani, how come your trap caught so many and mine got none?’ Abo Tani said, ‘Baro Piicha, I took my best pig and cut him into slices to use as bait. Then I boiled the pieces, stuck them on sticks and placed the sticks on both sides of the trap. That’s how I caught so many delicious rats.’ When Baro Piicha heard that, he thought: ‘If you can do it, I can, too.’ So he took his best pig, held it down and killed it, while it squealed loudly. He cut the meat into strips and boiled them. All the time, Abo Tani hid and watched. He was sneaky and wanted, somehow or other, to eat Baro Piicha’s pig meat. In the forest, Baro Piicha set his traps, one by one, carefully placing the cooked meat on both sides. But at each trap, Abo Tani followed behind, calmly picked up the pork pieces and ate them. At the last trap, he turned himself into a small bird and lay down inside the trap, bent and dead. Baro Piicha checked his traps, one by one, but they held nothing! When he saw the little bird, bent up and lying dead inside the last trap, he said, ‘So that’s it. You ate all my pork meat and then turned into this little, dead bird!’ Picking up the trap, he headed home. On the way, Baro Piicha sharpened a stick and tried to thrust it through the little bird, so that he could roast it over a fire. He pushed hard but only managed to cut his own hand. ‘You rascal!’ he screamed in anger. ‘First you eat my meat and now you wound my hand!’ He hurled the bird into the air, but Abo Tani flapped his wings and flew off.

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chapter three He flew inside Baro Piicha’s house and perched on a wooden rack hanging above the hearth.8 Baro Piicha was furious and tried to chop the rack with his machete, but he missed and cut right through the rack instead!9 Abo Tani then flew up to the next rack, and again Baro Piicha swung and missed and destroyed that rack, too. Abo Tani flew away and rested on top of the door, which Baro Piicha swung at and chopped into pieces. Abo Tani flew out the front door and settled on the porch railing, which Baro Piicha struck and chopped down. Finally, he flew away from the house, but Baro Piicha vowed to get revenge. Later Baro Piicha said to Abo Tani, ‘When are you going to set out your traps?’ ‘In a day or two, my friend,’ came the answer. When he went to the forest, Baro Piicha followed him, planning to grab his meat, which Abo Tani had said he would put out as bait. But it was a lie. You see, Abo Tani said to himself, ‘He thinks he’s going to get my meat, but he won’t.’ Abo Tani took stalks of a bitter plant and cut them into strips that looked like pieces of pork. Then he set out his traps and put these stalks of the bitter plant on both sides of the traps. When he’d finished, Abo Tani hid and watched as Baro Piicha ate those plants. They were terrible and he tried hard to scrape the taste from his tongue. But he kept on eating, and when he came to the last trap, Baro Piicha turned into a little bird, bent and dead. Abo Tani put him in his ciiba bag10 and said, ‘You can just lie there. I won’t do to you what you did to me and thrust a stick through you. No, I’ll just throw you and this bag into the fire.’ ‘No! Don’t burn me!’ screamed the bird and changed into Baro Piicha again. ‘You fool!’ sneered Abo Tani. ‘Why were you lying there like a dead bird?’ Hot stones and pigs Some time later, Abo Tani spent two days clearing the forest; then he planted cucumber, maize and others vegetables, which all grew well. But when Baro Piicha cleared some forest and planted, nothing

8 One of three racks hanging above hearths in an Apatani house, the dareke is used to dry paddy. 9 ‘Machete’ translates ilyo, a tool with a broad, metal blade (about 20–24 inches long) that Apatani men carry for daily use. 10 A cane bag for carrying rice.

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grew. So he asked, ‘Abo Tani, how did you do it? Mine’s a failure.’ ‘I’ll tell you how,’ said Abo Tani. ‘On the day you plan to slash and burn, take your best pig, light a fire on the top of the mountain and roast it. Then slash and burn the lower slope. When that’s done, roll the roasted pig down the hillside. That’s what I did.’ Believing all he heard, Baro Piicha followed these instructions. He cleared some land, slaughtered his best pig and roasted it on the upper slope. He cleared the lower slope by burning fires and rolled the roasted pig down the hillside. Standing at the bottom, Abo Tani simply collected the pig and took it away to eat. Later Baro Piicha asked his friend, ‘When are you going to clear and plant your land again?’ ‘It’s sunny, so I’ll do it now,’ said Abo Tani. But while he was burning and clearing, Abo Tani thought: ‘I’ll trick him again. I’ll heat up this white stone in a fire and make it really hot.’ When he rolled that red-hot stone down the hill, Baro Piicha grabbed it and got burned all over. He wanted to eat that ‘pig,’ but it ended up burning him. Monkeys and grasshoppers Another time Abo Tani caught a lot of monkeys and Baro Piicha asked, ‘How did you get so many?’ ‘Me? I went into the forest, covered myself with my own blood and lay down in the middle of the path where the monkeys come. Soon a troop of them came bounding along and thought I was dead, so they carried me high up into a tree. They were about to hurl me back down when I screamed, “Don’t do it! Don’t throw me down!” They were shocked speechless and suddenly fell down themselves. Then I burned off their hair and took them home.’ That’s what Abo Tani said and Baro Piicha believed him. But what really happened, how he actually got those monkeys, was different. What he did was create a fight between the monkeys and grasshoppers. He turned them against each other, so that the monkeys knocked each other dead. Then he simply picked them up and took them away. First Abo Tani said to the grasshoppers: ‘Those monkeys are always insulting you, saying you’re no better than woodlice.11 To which the grasshoppers said in anger, ‘Well, if they call us that,

11

‘Woodlice’ translates tuke tabyo, a small insect eaten during famines.

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chapter three they’re just “bent-overs”.’12 Next Abo Tani went to the monkeys and said, ‘Those grasshoppers are insulting you, calling you “bentovers”.’ ‘What!’ cried the monkeys. ‘Those lice call us that?!’ Abo Tani created this mischief between the monkeys and the grasshoppers, both of whom were furious but did nothing. The next day Abo Tani said to the monkeys, ‘Those grasshoppers are planning to fight you now,’ while to the grasshoppers he announced, ‘Those monkeys are going to attack, but don’t worry. You can escape death by tricking them. Just hop onto their noses. Then they’ll be the ones to die.’ Again he spoke to the monkeys: ‘Go catch those little things and gobble them up! Now’s the time! But listen: they’re going to hop onto your noses; so you should each get a stick and smash them when they do that.’ Abo Tani quickly cut some pieces of bamboo and gave them to the monkeys. In a flash, the battle began. The grasshoppers landed on the monkeys’ noses and the monkeys began to strike them with their sticks! The monkeys were friends, but they only managed to kill each other. They wiped themselves out, one by one, until only one survived and only because there wasn’t another monkey to hit him! When that monkey saw that all the grasshoppers were still alive, he ran off. Then Abo Tani said to the grasshoppers, ‘The last monkey has fled, and no one is going to eat you now. So get together in a group and sit in one of those big leaves.’ When they did that, Abo Tani simply folded the big leaf and tied it with a vine. He hid it away and showed the dead monkeys to Baro Piicha. That’s when he lied to Baro Piicha about how he had got them—that he had shouted and they had fallen from the tree. It was all lies, but Baro Piicha believed it and went into the forest to get his own monkeys. He lay down in the middle of the path and covered himself with blood, as if he were dead. Soon a large troop of monkeys came along and cried, ‘Look! Baro Piicha’s dead!’ They carried him up a tree, higher and higher, and said to each other, ‘OK, throw him down, now.’ Wham! He hit the ground and died.

12 An insult, which compares a person to an animal (mithun, cow or chicken) that bends down to eat.

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Dead wives and dangerous pestles One day, Baro Piicha said to himself, ‘This Abo Tani is always cheating me, always tricking me. Somehow I’ve got to get revenge—but how?’ The next day he said to Abo Tani, ‘Let’s kill our wives and children.’ Abo Tani thought for a moment and then accepted the challenge: ‘OK, let’s do it. We’ll kill them all.’ Baro Piicha took his machete and chopped up his wife and children, who screamed bloody murder. As for Abo Tani, he rolled his family up in a large mat used for drying paddy and hid them in a corner of the house. Then he told them to shriek loudly: ‘Don’t! Don’t do it!’ After that, he killed a dog and sprinkled its blood all around the house, with his children still crying out as if they were being murdered. That was his trick. Next Baro Piicha said, ‘Now let’s boil and eat them.’ When Abo Tani agreed, they boiled their meat separately and ate. ‘Mine’s really tough!’ said Baro Piicha. ‘Let me try some of yours.’ When he ate Abo Tani’s meat, he said, ‘This is really tasty, but mine’s terrible.’ You see, Baro Piicha had been eating human flesh, while Abo Tani had cooked dog meat, so it was really good.13 ‘Yours tastes good. How did you cook your wife and kids?’ asked Baro Piicha. ‘Oh,’ smiled Abo Tani, ‘I killed a nice, fat pig and mixed it with their flesh. That’s why it’s good.’ So Baro Piicha tried that, too, mixing in some pork, but it still tasted horrible. Later, Baro Piicha was pounding his paddy with a pestle. ‘Suk-suk, tuk-tuk’ sounded the pestle as he pounded away. But Abo Tani’s pounding sounded like this: ‘tota-tota-tota, dun-dun-dun.’ There were three sounds each time. So Baro Piicha asked him, ‘How does your pestle make those three sounds?’ Abo Tani said, ‘It’s simple. I use three pestles, holding them between my fingers. When I raise them up and bring them down, you hear three sounds. That way you can pound paddy much more quickly.’ Duped again, Baro Piicha put the pestles between his fingers, but when he brought them down he broke all his fingers! Cracked and smashed them! The next day, Baro Piicha decided he would spy on Abo Tani when he was pounding. ‘I’m going to watch you, without you knowing,’ he said to himself. He changed into a cock and went toward the house, crowing loudly as he came close to Abo Tani’s house. He

13

Apatanis eat dog meat, though not regularly.

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chapter three crawled underneath the house, where the chickens eat, so that he could spy on Abo Tani above him. That’s when he saw Abo Tani’s wife and children pounding the paddy, each with only one pestle! So, he had not killed his family and there was only one pestle! ‘Abo Tani didn’t kill them at all!’ he muttered to himself. ‘But I did. Mine are dead, and his wife and children are still alive.’ He was furious but kept quiet. Suddenly Abo Tani said, ‘Who is that crowing like a cock but spying on me?’ and shooed it away. Baro Piicha was forced to run away, smarting inside: ‘He’s done it again. He just keeps on tricking me!’ The wooden trough and animal helpers Baro Piicha was fed up: ‘I’ve had enough of this Abo Tani and his lies! He’s tricked me too many times, and now I am going to fool him. I’ll trick him and this time he won’t escape.’ The next morning when Abo Tani went to fetch water, he saw Baro Piicha making a large wooden trough for feeding pigs. ‘I’m making this for you,’ said Baro Piicha. When he heard that, Abo Tani replied, ‘That’s great. I don’t have a pig trough and I need one.’ Baro Piicha asked him to lie inside the trough to see if it was the right size. Abo Tani lay in it and said, ‘No, it’s not right. Cut away a little more.’ Abo Tani went to get his water and when he returned, Baro Piicha again asked him to test the trough. ‘Still not right. Chip away a bit more.’ He took the water home, returned for the third time and found that the trough was perfect. ‘Just right,’ he said. But as he spoke, wham! The lid closed over him! Quickly Baro Piicha tied a cane rope around the trough and pushed it down a steep slope. You see, he wanted to kill him. ‘He’s cheated and lied to me my whole life, but now I’ve got him! He’ll never survive this.’ The wooden trough hurtled down the slope, smashing everything on its way toward the river at the bottom. Trapped inside the trough as it was crashing down the hillside, Abo Tani realised what was happening. ‘He’s throwing me down the hill to kill me.’ Then he cried out for help, ‘Little tahi plant and little tako plant! Tall pine and bamboo! Please block the path and stop this trough!’ He called out to trees and plants, which slowed the sliding trough, just enough to prevent it from falling into the river. Still inside the trough, resting on the river bank, Abo Tani again called for help, ‘Tagyang fish! Hipyo fish! Please rescue me! Baro Pii-

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cha is trying to kill me.’ The fish swam to the bank and raised up their fins so that they propped up the trough and blocked it from falling into the river. Then Abo Tani called out, ‘Hawk, my dear friend! Baro Piicha’s trying to kill me. Please peck a small hole in the side of this trough, just a little hole so that I can see out.’ The hawk pecked away—tok, tok, tok! Just two or three times until it was able to see inside: ‘Oh, it’s you, Abo Tani! You used to drive me away when I wanted to rest on a stone, didn’t you? And you’ll harass me again if I rescue you.’ With those words of refusal, the hawk dropped shit all over Abo Tani and flew away. Then a crow flew by and Abo Tani cried, ‘Brother crow, Baro Piicha wants to kill me. Please peck a small hole for me to see out.’ Tok-tok-tok! The crow pecked a few times, but when it saw Abo Tani inside it said, ‘No. You tried to shoot me with a bow and arrow.’ The crow also dropped shit on Abo Tani and flew off. Finally, a badger came by and Abo Tani called out, ‘Brother badger, you must help me.14 Please gnaw through this wooden trough and make a hole so I can see out.’ Tora, tora, tora! The badger scratched and clawed but wasn’t able to make a hole. ‘Abo Tani,’ it said, ‘I can’t make a hole, but I’ll go to Danyi, the Sun, and ask her for help.’ The badger said to the Sun, ‘Baro Piicha threw Abo Tani down the hill to kill him. I tried but to make a hole but couldn’t, so I’ve come to you for help.’ The Sun said, ‘Tell him to wait three days. On the third day I’ll shine so fiercely that the wood will crack and the trough will open.’ The badger went back and told Abo Tani to wait for three days. One day passed, a second day and on the third Abo Tani cried: ‘Shine your rays from the east, from the west, from above, from everywhere.’ Soon the sun’s rays grew intense, the trough became red hot and its slides split open. Serving the Sun and homecoming The badger said to Abo Tani, ‘In return for her help, the Sun wants you to take care of her children.’ Abo Tani agreed and went up to the Sun to look after her children. One day, before the Sun went to work in the fields, she spoke to Abo Tani: ‘Don’t go looking around while I’m gone.’ When Abo

14

‘Badger’ translates hardo lako, said to be semi-aquatic and to have sharp teeth.

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chapter three Tani asked why, she said, ‘Just don’t look in the latrine and don’t look under the house. Don’t look where the chickens live, and don’t look where the eggs are laid. And don’t look at the paddy drying mat, either. I’m going to the fields now, but I don’t want you to look in any of these places.’ But when she was gone, Abo Tani began to ask myself: ‘Why did the Sun tell me not to look in all these places? Is there anything I’m not supposed to see? Let’s just take a little peek, shall we? She’ll never know.’ He looked in the latrine and saw it was full of tigers; he looked under the house and saw bears. The drying mat was full of snakes, and the chicken coop had scorpions. Snakes, scorpions, tigers and bears—it was enough to frighten anyone. ‘So that’s why she told me not to look. No normal person would stay here, and I’m no fool!’ said Abo Tani to himself. He was scared. When the Sun returned home, Abo Tani announced that he was leaving. The Sun asked why and he said, ‘I just can’t stay here any longer, that’s all.’ ‘All right. If you want to leave, take this piece of yellow thread and climb back down to earth.’ Finally the Sun said, ‘In the future, for as long as the earth and sky exist, you must remember what Baro Piicha did and that I saved you by cracking open the trough. In memory of what I did, for as long as humans exist, you should give me a gift, a special piece of pork meat.’15 Abo Tani agreed to show his gratitude to the Sun and to give her that piece of pork. Today we build altars to the Sun. We still do it.16 The Sun hung the yellow thread from the corner of her house, and Abo Tani climbed down to earth. When he reached his house, he saw his son sitting on the front porch and his wife weaving on the back porch. Abo Tani tossed a little piece of bamboo, a clip for his shawl, onto the front porch. His son picked it up and ran to the back porch, shouting, ‘Mother! Look! It’s father’s akhii.’ But his mother, knowing that her husband had been thrown down the ravine by Baro Piicha, shouted at her son, ‘Don’t make things up! He died long ago. Don’t make things worse by telling lies.’ She hit him with a stick, and the boy returned to the front porch in tears.

15 The special piece (lyiyo, upper thigh) is given to a man’s parents-in-law during the Murung festival. 16 During the Myoko festival, Apatanis put up a ‘Sun altar,’ a tall stalk of bamboo from which hangs the yellow thread that Abo Tani used to climb down to earth.

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Then Abo Tani dropped the string of brass beads worn around his forehead. His son picked it up and cried, ‘Mother! It looks like father’s denko!’ But she again scolded and beat him, saying that Abo Tani was dead. ‘Don’t tell lies. Don’t bring back sad memories.’ The third time, Abo Tani threw his red cane belt and again the boy ran to his mother. ‘It’s father’s huring.’ But again she got angry and said, ‘Don’t make me sad; don’t rake up the past’. This time, when the boy returned to the front porch, Abo Tani appeared in person and said, ‘Son, tell your mother to put up the ladder to the ceiling.’ Then Abo Tani climbed down into the house. When he stood there, his wife asked him how he escaped death. ‘The Sun split open the trough, and I stayed and looked after her children for a while. But now I’ve come back. How about you? How did you manage when I was gone?’ ‘Oh,’ she said slowly, ‘we became Baro Piicha’s family. He said he’d killed you and would take care of us. So we became his wife and his son.’ ‘What! You are his wife! My son is his son?’ ‘Well, yes,’ she mumbled. ‘I’ll . . . where is he now?’ asked Abo Tani. ‘He’s gone out to collect firewood; he’ll be back soon,’ said his wife. ‘Whenever he enters the house, he makes strange sounds: “Nii-nii! Ko-ko! Icing-icing!” [Wife! Son! Rice-beer!]17 If I don’t give him anything to drink, he starts to strip flesh from my hand and eat it!’ ‘I see,’ said Abo Tani. ‘Now, listen. When he comes in, I want you to say: “Get the beer from the rack above the hearth.” Just tell him that.’ This was how Abo Tani planned to kill Baro Piicha. He sharpened his machete on a stone, climbed up into the rack above the hearth and waited. Baro Piicha brought home a heavy load of wood, put it down with a loud crash and entered the house. Then he spoke in his Nyishi tongue: ‘Wife! Son! Rice-beer!’ And she replied, imitating his rough speech, ‘Go, the rack, get.’ He rushed forward to get his drink, but just as quickly Abo Tani swung his machete. He missed and Baro Piicha ran for cover. He tried to hide behind this door and that door, and all the time Abo Tani swung his machete at him but failed to hit him. Baro Piicha ran out to the porch, where the swinging machete missed again. Finally, he fled the house shouting, ‘Open up! Earth, open up!’ A large hole appeared, swallowed Baro Piicha and closed up again. That’s how Baro Piicha died. 17

Here the storyteller parodies Nyishi speech, considered rustic by Apatanis.

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chapter three 4. The Trickster Cycle: Abo Tani and the Spirits

In addition to these tales of triumph, the cycle of Abo Tani stories includes others in which he suffers. In them, Abo Tani pursues and marries a series of animal, human and spirit wives but loses them and his children; later, he struggles against the spirits, loses his special powers to them and wanders in despair. In the end, however, Abo Tani, the first human and ancestor, is the culture hero who establishes the social order by making an alliance with the troublesome spirits.18 One dimension of that alliance—demarcating boundaries between humans and spirits—is the central theme of the following story. In it, we find Abo Tani locked in a deadly struggle with Doji, the leader of the spirits, who is also his brother-in-law. Although this version was told by a Nyishi man, it is a story known and told by Apatanis, too.19 I include it here not only because it is the most detailed oral version available to me, but also because it reveals how Abo Tani’s stories are modified. While enmity between Abo Tani and the spirits underlies most of his stories, in this Nyishi telling their conflict is given an extra twist by turning the rivals into brothers-inlaw who live in the same longhouse.20 Apatanis, who live as nuclear families in small houses, must find other means to dramatise Abo Tani’s struggle with the spirits. Abo Tani had a lot of wives, and one was Piisii Timii. She was the sister of Doji, who was leader of the spirits. During this marriage, he lived with Doji in the same longhouse; Abo Tani and his wife lived at one hearth, and Doji lived at another hearth, at the back. Whenever Abo Tani killed an animal in the forest, Doji was unhappy because he was the spirit of the forest. But if Doji was unhappy, Abo Tani was happy. They were total opposites. Abo Tani hunted all sorts of animals—deer, boars, rats, birds and monkeys. They were wild to Abo Tani, but to Doji they were domestic, almost like his relatives. At the same time, Doji hunted

18 Abo Tani’s alliance with the spirits is the origin of several major festivals in central Arunachal Pradesh; see also Ritual Texts 3 & 4. 19 This story was collected in 2003 by Akom Dugli Don, a young Tagin/Nyishi man. 20 In another Nyishi version, the territorial boundary between Abo Tani and the spirits is established as part of a marriage settlement (Aisher 2006: 310–11).

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dogs, cows and mithuns, which were domestic to Abo Tani.21 The conflict between them was deep, but they lived in the same house. Doji was also angry at Abo Tani because he was the only person not under his control. So he and his fellow spirits planned to kill him. Abo Tani’s wife, who was also Doji’s sister, overheard this plan and knew her brother’s character all too well—she knew what he was capable of. Knowing Doji’s every move in advance, she tried to save Abo Tani. The first incident occurred when Doji said to Abo Tani, ‘Let’s go to that pond of the rich man.’ They dammed the water with stones and trapped fish in a small pool. Then Doji said, ‘Brotherin-law, please get those fish for us. We can’t swim, so you go into the water.’ Abo Tani did, but when he started to climb out again, he saw Doji and the spirits standing on the bank with sticks and stones, ready to kill him! Abo Tani stayed in the water and remained there, out of sight. When it got dark and the spirits went back home, Abo Tani’s wife asked about her husband and they answered, ‘We called to him to get out of the water, but he refused and just kept on swimming.’ From their words she knew what had happened. She ran to the pond and shouted to Abo Tani, ‘Come out! You’ll die in there.’ She wound her hair into a rope, which Abo Tani grabbed and climbed out. Another incident happened when Abo Tani and the spirits went to collect firewood. Before they left, Abo Tani’s wife warned him: ‘Take this hawk feather and this piece of cloth. My people will make a fire under a tall tree and try to kill you. You must hide in the big hole in that tree and block the hole with this cloth. If the smoke gets in, use the feather to fan it away and protect yourself.’ She put these things in his cane bag, and Abo Tani went to the forest with her brothers. Once inside the forest, the spirits pointed to a hill and said, ‘We’ll go up there to cut wood; you stay down here and catch the logs because you’re such an expert at that.’ The spirits sent down heavy logs and poisonous snakes, but Abo Tani survived. Then the spirits said, ‘You’re the expert climber, not us. Climb up this tree and cut the branches.’ But when he climbed up, they set fire to the tree. Abo Tani followed his wife’s advice and got into the hole. The fire spread

21

Here and throughout I use the colloquial ‘cows’ for ‘cows and bulls.’

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chapter three fast and turned everything to ashes, but Abo Tani used the cloth to block the hole and the feather to keep the smoke out. When the tree had burned down, the spirits began raking through the ashes, searching for Abo Tani’s body parts. Who will get his heart? Who’ll get his hands? They searched and searched, until Abo Tani came out of his hole and said, ‘I didn’t die because I’m too clever.’ He laughed at them. That was the second time they tried to kill him. The third time was when they cut cane for making ropes. Before they want to the forest, Abo Tani’s wife gave him more advice: ‘Take a hawk feather again, a really good one, and some rope and some cotton.’ In the forest, the spirits told Abo Tani to cut all the cane: ‘You are so good at this that you can do it all yourself.’ They kept giving him more and more cane to cut, and soon he cut his hand. When they saw his blood, the spirits took cotton from their bags and began to soak it up. But Abo Tani was alert and tore himself away. He ran blindly, toward the west and hid in a hole. They followed and found the hole but thought he might have a bow and arrow, so they decided to kill him with smoke. They stacked up wood and lit a fire, directing the smoke into the hole. After a while, they thought Abo Tani must be dead, but they decided to make sure. They said to themselves, ‘If he is dead, he’ll cry “ku-ku” like a wild dog.’ Hearing them, Abo Tani cried ‘ku-ku’ and the spirits were convinced he was dead. They decided to drag out his dead body for a meal. First they had to catch hold of it in that hole, but they couldn’t grab it. Doji tried and failed, and so did the other spirits. Checking among themselves, they chose the spirit with the longest hands, for dragging out the corpse. It was Koblak. ‘You’ve got the longest hands, Koblak. So you drag him out. We’ve killed him, but you can have his hands if you get him out.’22 Koblak got excited and thrust his arm into the hole. Abo Tani played along and let him touch his fingers, but when Koblak grasped his hand, Abo Tani squeezed back! Koblak told the others that Abo Tani was still alive, so they decided to negotiate with him. But Koblak, whose hand was still held firmly by Abo Tani, said that he was going to die, that the spirits weren’t in any position to

22

An enemy’s hands are often cut off and brought back as a trophy.

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have peace talks and that Abo Tani wouldn’t listen anyway. Koblak advised them to invite Kojak, a spirit with a long nose. But when Kojak said the whole region belonged to him, Abo Tani began to pull harder and harder on Koblak’s hand. ‘Don’t talk like that,’ said Koblak. ‘I’m going to die if you don’t do something. Get a wild dog to talk to Abo Tani.’ A wild dog came and claimed all the wild banana groves, so Abo Tani pulled harder on Koblak’s hand. Koblak said, ‘If you talk like that, I’ll die.’ Many other animals and spirits came and spoke to Abo Tani, but he only pulled harder and harder on the hand. Finally, they sent someone to find Sii Abo, the spirit who owns all the land, mountains and waters. Sii Abo said, ‘Why are you trying to kill Abo Tani?’ When he heard that, Abo Tani released the hand a little. Peace talks began, and eventually the territories for Abo Tani and for the spirits were decided. ‘When you two live together, there is fighting,’ said Sii Abo. ‘Better to separate and live in separate places.’ Then Abo Tani loosened his grip on the hand, and Sii Abo told him to come out. ‘I am here, so you don’t have to worry. I’ve made my decision and anyone who doesn’t follow it will drown or fall down a mountain.’ When Abo Tani came out, Sii Abo named their separate places: ‘Doji, yours is far away, the place of caves and thorny trees. Abo Tani, yours is the flat and fertile land. If there is any dispute, you can read chicken livers and decide. This is my decision. Now, the birds Chegu and Pudume must go and find places for Doji.’ Those birds went and found caves, thorny bushes, rocks and deep forest. Sii Abo said to Abo Tani, ‘If you see anything unusual, any unnatural thing, don’t disturb the spirits. It’s a sign from the spirits, and if you disturb them it will cause discord.’ Today, if we see something strange at the side of a field or in a jungle, some unusual tree, for example, we won’t cut it down. To the spirits, he said, ‘If Abo Tani is ever in trouble, from famine or something, he might have to collect insects in your territory, so you should control your poisonous snakes. If Abo Tani needs food, you must help him. But, Abo Tani, when you go to far away places, don’t disturb anything unfamiliar in the deep forest.’ Now both Abo Tani and Doji had their own places, where they were in complete power but separated. One day, Abo Tani was in real trouble because of a drought. He went into the jungle to collect insects and a snake bit him. He was furious and said to Doji, ‘You

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chapter three haven’t obeyed Sii Abo, and your snake has bitten me.’ He was so angry that he lit a fire that burned the whole area and turned everything to ashes. The fire spread everywhere and burned Doji, too. Doji complained to Sii Abo, who said, ‘I won’t listen to this. I’ve already given my decision, but you’ve both ignored it. That’s why this conflict has begun all over again.’ Abo Tani and Doji both admitted that they had done wrong. This was how Abo Tani and the spirits were finally separated. We humans, we Nyishis and nipaks [non-tribals] are the descendants of Abo Tani. Doji has his own place—in damp and hollow areas, like dark areas of streams, and on rocky hills. Today we live according to Sii Abo’s decision: if we go to the forest for food or clear the forest for planting, we must first make a sacrifice to Doji. Likewise, the spirits stay in their areas, and Doji keeps out of our villages. That’s how we Nyishis keep things separate, mainly through rituals. 5. The Trickster Cycle: The Sons of Abo Tani

Although resolution of the conflict with the spirits is the final episode in the Abo Tani cycle, his long period of deprivation is emphasised in earlier episodes. The story given here finds him at his lowest point— without wives, without his special power of sight, without food and, worst of all, abandoned by his sons. This story was told on an unusual occasion. One night I was taken by a friend to his village in the hope that his father might tell me stories. The father was a nyibu, and although my friend was an educated school teacher and a Catholic, he had a keen interest in oral tradition and had collected stories himself. We arrived in the evening, but in early February the darkness was total. I had difficulty following my friend down the narrow lanes, going from house to house, looking for his father. We found him in the last stages of chanting in front of a bamboo and leaf altar attached to a wall. He snapped off the head of a chick, sprinkled the blood on the altar and poured a bit of rice-beer on it. Then he extracted a thin black thread from his cane bag and sliced open a boiled egg to see if the spirits had accepted this modest offering. Later my friend explain the background to his father’s ritual. We are gyuci [lower status], but my mother’s grandfather was a rich man, who managed to get a lot of land and mithuns. Because he was so rich he was killed by a gyutii [ higher status], who then stole all his property. Later

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the murderer’s family asked my family to perform a ritual to prevent the soul of the dead man from coming back and harming them.23 My father does that ritual on the same day every month, and that’s how I was able to find him. When I remembered what day it was, I knew he would be in the house of the people who had killed my mother’s grandfather.

After his father finished the ritual, to appease the soul of the murdered man, he led us back to his own house. On the way, we met his wife trudging along with a group of women returning from a day of repairing bunds in the paddy fields. She was barely visible in the darkness, and in any case all the women looked alike—small hoe over one shoulder, muddied skirt, plastic slipper-shoes and no socks. Many wore woollen hats pulled down over their heads, with only a hole for the face, to keep off the cold. At home, she warmed up some rice-beer and gave us each a mug. The old man, Liagi Niting, drank quickly and then lit his pipe. A priest about 65 years old, he is a miji specialist and does not like to tell prose narratives. After he chanted an ayu for us and his son asked him to explain, he said, ‘I can’t. Don’t know how to say it in ordinary language.’ But eventually, after his son asked again, he told two prose tales, the one below about Abo Tani and his sons, and the one that follows about a tall tree. Long ago, Chanii Chanka gave birth to Chantung, the earth. One of Chantung’s children was Abo Tani. That’s why we say, ‘Abo Tani was born of the earth.’ After he was born, Abo Tani said, ‘I will go down to the plains, but I will not be affected by famine or drought because I will marry a woman down there.’ He married in the plains but returned and prospered, knowing neither famine nor drought. His wife gave birth to two sons, Punu Tarin and Siiro Tati. One day an Apatani woman named Tini Rungya said to Abo Tani, ‘Whatever work your wife does in a morning I can do in an hour! Get rid of that useless woman from the plains! Give me five baskets of weeding sticks, and I’ll do in a morning what that woman does in a day!’ Abo Tani started to think: ‘With my wife from the plains, I don’t face famine or drought; but this other one is more efficient, so I’ll get richer.’ He divorced his wife from the plains and gave five baskets of weeding sticks to his new wife, Tini Rungya. 23 The pilya ritual gives strength while hunting and during misfortunes, such as a visit from the dead.

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chapter three She took those sticks, but she didn’t use a single one. She just sat on a rock and didn’t do any work. When she sat idly and brought back nothing from the fields, Abo Tani began to go hungry and thirsty. Soon she gave birth to a son, a wild boar, but she ordered Tarin and Tati, Abo Tani’s sons, to look after it. One sunny day, after the rains, the boar-son began to root around in the garden and dig up the plants. Tarin and Tati said, ‘When the wind blows from the north, we smell boar meat. When the wind blows from the south, we want to eat it.’ Abo Tani heard this and got angry: ‘You want to eat your own brother?’ Grabbing the bamboo tongs from the hearth, he beat his sons, and they said, ‘If you beat us like this, we’ll run away.’ And they did—they ran away into the deep forest. One day, Tini Rungya told Abo Tani that she didn’t want to see her parents. But Abo Tani thought, ‘I’m a rich man, with ten houses and ten granaries! Why shouldn’t I get to know her parents?’ So Abo Tani gave marriage gifts to his father-in-law and mother-in-law. Soon Abo Tani’s mother-in-law came to his house, where she started to eat his rice, and before long all ten granaries were empty! ‘You’ve eaten all I have! Now what am I going to eat?’ shouted Abo Tani. ‘Shoot an arrow at the tabe sanii plant and eat that!’24 answered his mother-in-law. Abo Tani ate it, but still he had no rice and no rice-beer. So he got rid of Tini Rungya and took up one wife after another. Still he had nothing. ‘I’ve lost my sons, who were good to me,’ thought Abo Tani. He went to search for Tarin and Tati, but they had gone north, into the Piiyu Ditii forest where they lived in a cave. When Abo Tani entered that forest, a bird was collecting water. ‘Who are you getting that water for?’ asked Abo Tani, and the bird said that it was for Tarin and Tati. ‘Where are they?’ asked Abo Tani. ‘In the Piiyu Ditii forest, where they live by hunting deer and birds,’ said the bird. Abo Tani climbed a tree, turned into a bird and began to call, ‘Chur-lu, chur-lu.’ Then—whoosh! An arrow sailed by and he shouted, ‘Who is shooting at me?’ ‘Who are you to complain? You called like a bird, so we shot at you,’ said his sons. ‘I am Abo Tani, father of Tarin and Tati.’ ‘If you are really Abo Tani, you could eat all ten deer heads we have here. Show us who you are by eating them all. If you can’t, you’re not our father.’

24

This plant is eaten by poor people or during famine.

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‘I’ve been searching for you, and now I’ll eat those heads. Watch.’ He ate them all, including ten bamboo containers full of blood. Tarin and Tati were overjoyed and said, ‘You stay here and rest while we go hunt. There is one animal that has escaped us so far, and we must kill it.’ Before leaving, the brothers said, ‘Father, we’ll make a bow and leave it here with you. If you hear its string break, then look at the river: you’ll see the water on one side flowing red with animal blood and the other side flowing white with human blood. But if you don’t hear the string break, you’ll know that we will return safely.’ The only animal they hadn’t killed was an elephant, but now they saw one and killed it. They tried to carry the animal’s head and tusks, but they hadn’t brought a cane basket with them so they had to make one. The problem was that they could only find soft cane. On the way back, the basket broke and one of the tusks cut deep into Tarin’s leg. Abo Tani heard the bow string snap and thought: ‘My sons have died.’ He looked at the river and saw the water flowing red on one side and white on the other. Tarin died from the leg wound. Tati cried for his brother, and when he wiped his tears, the sharp piece of bamboo in his hand cut his face so badly that he too bled to death. Having lost his sons, Abo Tani tried to get another wife but failed, and so he lived alone, without a wife and without his sons There’s a saying: ‘The clever sometimes die early and the stupid live forever.’ 6. The Tallest Tree (1) This story was told by the same man, Liagi Niting, and on the same occasion as the previous story. Long ago there was Khaku Sanii, a tree so tall that no one could see the top. On the very top lived a bird, called Arii Midii, but no one had ever seen it. No one then or since has been able to catch a glimpse of Arii Midii because it lives above the clouds. It was a large bird, a huge bird, larger than an eagle. Even by divination, by studying chicken livers, one could not see this strange bird. Living up so high, on top of the tree, Arii Midii swooped down and picked up wild animals—tigers, boars, monkeys, deer, even humans—and ate them. It flew everywhere, but who could see it? No one. Well, there was one person who could see it. He was

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chapter three Miro Tago, who had wide eyes. No matter how many large things you might show him, his eyes never blinked—they were that big. That’s how he was able to see Arii Midii, the bird on top of the tall Khaku Sanii tree. While this gigantic bird was living in the tree, it gave birth to two chicks. To feed them, Arii Midii brought back animal and human meat. Soon the people couldn’t stand this marauding any more, and they decided to cut down Khaku Sanii. They chopped for five days and they chopped for ten days, but they only managed to chip off a tiny piece of bark. They just couldn’t chop it down. Then an outsider, a halyang named Palo Talo, came and the people asked him to kill the mother bird. They told him he could be their king if he killed it. ‘But,’ they added, ‘do not kill the baby birds.’ Palo Talo made iron steps and was able to climb to the top of the tree. Up there, at the top, he shot the mother bird with a gun. He had planned to kill the baby birds, too, but while he was at the top, the people realised this and removed the steps so he had no way to get back down. ‘See what you can do now!’ they shouted mockingly at him. Trapped on top of the tree, Palo Talo fed human flesh to the baby birds—the mother had stored a lot of meat and bones up there. Palo Talo himself ate animal meat, mostly deer and boar. This way he raised the baby birds. One day this halyang said to them, ‘I want you to fly down. But first let’s see if you can carry this big stone on your back.’ To himself Palo Talo was thinking, ‘Let’s see if the birds are now big enough to get me down. If I don’t escape somehow, I’m going to die up here on this tree.’ The birds flew off, carrying that heavy stone on their backs, but only one survived. When it returned to the tree top, Palo Talo said, ‘Now carry me on your back to the river bed; if you can’t make it that far, then just dive into the river. But put me down on the river bank if you can.’ The bird carried him safely down to the river bank. A crowd of people gathered and said, ‘He’s killed the mother, and soon both babies will also be dead.’ As they spoke, Palo Talo beat the second chick and killed it. Now all the birds were dead. One wing feather of the mother bird became the small eagle, another feather became the hawk, and Arii Midii’s heart became the large eagle.

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The people made Palo Talo king and gave him the title of ‘Master.’ But after a while, Palo Talo returned to his own country, to halyang territory in the plains. He sat high up in another tree there and heard a song. It was sung by Duley Yasung, daughter of Duley Radha, and he decided to marry her. When he did, he became king of the whole world. After the marriage, the bride’s maternal uncle, Miido Kojing, gave special gifts to Palo Talo—rabbits, goats, cows and even crocodiles, all the animals from the plains. Finally, Palo Talo took his bride to his house. She brought many gifts with her, and Palo Talo became a rich man. He had all the things that the halyang like. 7. The Tallest Tree (2) This second version of ‘The Tallest Tree’ illustrates how a gifted storyteller elaborates a basic plot. Not the plot of just an Apatani tale but of ‘one of the most popular [tales] in the world,’ the story of a man-eating ogre known as ‘The Dragon-Slayer.’25 Mudan Donyi told this version, and it bears his trademarks. He began with a mythological frame (abbreviated here but which he sometimes elaborated in such detail that he never got to the main narrative), which places the events within a larger story, creating both familiarity and coherence. He also provided a running commentary on what others said about details in the story. As an autodidact, Donyi was slightly contrary and liked to point out the ‘errors’ and inconsistencies in other versions. And to be fair, Donyi’s stories display a coherence not found in most stories. After explaining his imaginative method for measuring the tallest tree, he pointed out that the fallen tree might still be a source of danger. So, in the end, it was chopped up and transformed into the ritual structures (lapangs) that are linked to the spirit world with which the story began. Kolyung Pinii made everything. First he made the good earth, then the good sun, the good moon, the sky and planets, and all the spirits. One of those spirits was Giirii, who was obedient but also dangerously powerful. Soon Giirii began to challenge Kolyung Pinii and to disobey him. Kolyung Pinii said, ‘I knew you would turn against me; 25 Thompson 1977 [1946]: 33. ‘The Dragon Slayer’ is a cluster of tale-types, of which the Apatani story is a version of AT 301, ‘The Three Stolen Princesses.’

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chapter three that’s why I gave you every power except one.’ He expelled Giirii, who came to earth where he made another, parallel world, in which he would was king. First he made the bad earth, then the bad sun, the bad moon and finally a primeval force called arii. Arii had many forms, including Mother Arii who could transform herself into anything. For example, her two eyes became the bad sun and bad moon, and her throat became the eastern horizon. Her heart became a bird called Arii Midii, and her brain became a man called Miro Tago. He’s important because he had unusual eyesight. Khaku Sanii, the enormous tree, was born from the shin bone of Mother Arii. Some people say it came from a seed, that it was a tree, but this can’t be true because Khaku Sanii could not be cut down and nails could not be driven into it by a normal man. It was more like a stone, or perhaps it was made of iron—we just don’t know. What we know is that Khaku Sanii was enormous, so huge that no one could see the top. Not even an arrow could reach the top. In circumference, Khaku Sanii was wider than this Apatani valley. Only two things could see the top: one was Miro Tago, ‘the wideeyed,’ who could see the whole world in one glance. The other thing was Arii Midii, which actually lived on the top of Khaku Sanii. Again, it is difficult to say exactly what this Arii Midii was. It seems to have been some kind of bird because it could fly. Maybe it was what the halyang call a ‘dinosaur’ because it swooped down and picked up huge animals, even elephants. In any case, although everyone could see the lower part of Khaku Sanii, only these two could see its tall top. Because this large Arii Midii bird fed on wild animals, both humans and spirits were afraid. They wanted to kill this thing because if it continued to eat everything, they couldn’t survive; they needed the meat which Arii Midii was eating. But the problem was how to kill it. They knew that no simple bow and arrow would be enough—an arrow wouldn’t reach the top of Khaku Sanii. Nor would an arrow penetrate the bird even if it did happen to reach it. They couldn’t kill it with weapons, so they decided to chop down Khaku Sanii. But who could do it? The humans and spirits summoned three ancestors, who tried to kill the Arii Midii bird by chanting, but they failed. In fact, the bird knew what they were doing and simply snatched away their powers. So the humans and spirits searched for a special person. They looked north, then south and finally came to the Palo country, where they

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found Palo Talo. People say he was a halyang, but all we know for sure is that he lived in the south. Anyway, Palo Talo ruled a prosperous country in the south and he was very powerful; his special weapon went wherever he commanded it. I asked some older people about this weapon, but they only said it was something like a gun. But we know the gun was invented recently, so that can’t be right. The spirits asked Palo Talo to kill the Arii Midii bird and he agreed. But he said he needed to know exactly where it was before he finally accepted their request. The spirits told him the whole story, but Palo Talo still wanted to know how he could possibly kill it if he couldn’t see it. He wanted someone to show it to him and that man was Miro Tago. Like I said, Miro Tago was born from the brain of Mother Arii. That’s why he had a better understanding of things than the Arii Midii bird, which came from the heart of Mother Arii. Miro Tago agreed to show the bird to Palo Talo. He knew where it was because they were both born of the same mother. He also knew the bird was dangerous. Remember that Miro Tago had enormous eyes, eyes so large that one of them could survey the whole earth, in one glance. Of course, the bird knew all about Miro Tago’s plans, and it tried to prevent him from seeing by throwing rocks and boulders in his eyes. But it had no effect. Old people told me that even if you put all the mountains and forests inside Miro Tago’s eyes, they would only be a tiny dot. The two men approached Khaku Sanii, and Palo Talo waited until Miro Tago could show him where the bird was. He needed to know its exact location so he could shoot in the right direction. Finally, Miro Tago pointed and Palo Talo shot an arrow that struck the enormous bird, which fell to the ground and burst into flames. The people then said to Palo Talo, ‘You’ve killed the big bird, but it gave birth to a chick on top. It’s also dangerous and can survive up there for a long time because the mother stored water and meat. You’ve got to go up there and kill it, too.’ Palo Talo agreed, but how could he climb the tallest tree? They tried to drive nails into Khaku Sanii, like steps, but this failed. They tried to wrap a rope around Khaku Sanii so that Palo Talo could climb up, but that wasn’t possible because the tree, or tree-like thing, was too wide. In the end, Palo Talo himself made steps with nails and climbed all the way to the top. When he got there, the people became worried again: ‘If he can do what we can’t, he will dominate us.’ They planned to kill him and tried to

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chapter three climb up the steps, but they couldn’t. So they removed the steps, thinking, ‘He’ll starve to death up there; but he’s got to kill that young bird first.’ Palo Talo knew they had removed the steps, so he didn’t kill the young bird. Instead he reared it, feeding it on the human flesh and bones stored on top, while he himself lived off the stored animal meat. They lived like this for a while, Palo Talo and the young bird, on top of the tallest tree. The chick began to think of Palo Talo as its parent. When it had grown up, Palo Talo said, ‘Can you carry me away from here?’ The bird said it could, but Palo Talo said, ‘I am heavy and my power is great. No ordinary bird can carry me.’ But again the young bird said it could. Palo Talo then said, ‘There are two huge stones down there, on the river bank. Let’s see if you can fly down and bring them back up here.’ Off flew the child and returned with the stones, one by one, without any trouble. Then Palo Talo began to chant and instructed the child to take the stones back. He said, ‘Take them back to the river bank, but if you can’t do that, just drop them in the river.’ When the child took the stones and put them on the river bank, Palo Talo was satisfied that it could carry him, too. After the bird took him safely down to the river bank, Palo Talo went straight to those who had planned to kill him. ‘I know you were planning my death,’ he said. ‘For that I’m going to destroy you.’ So the people decided that the only way to survive was to become subordinates of Palo Talo. ‘If we send our army against him,’ they thought, ‘he’ll use his special weapon and destroy us.’ They submitted and he pardoned them. Before he left the top of Khaku Sanii, Palo Talo had looked all around. He could see everywhere from that high perch. He saw the woman he wanted to marry—she was Duley Yasung, the beautiful daughter of Miido Kojing. Palo Talo went to him and negotiated a marriage. The daughter thought him handsome and agreed. The father gave them gifts of cows, goats, pigeons, buffaloes, horses and elephants—he gave everything that the halyang have. After the marriage, Palo Talo and his wife were carried in a palanquin by servants. Meanwhile, that young bird had survived, hadn’t it? And it grew larger and larger, and started to eat bigger and bigger animals, and

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then humans. Everyone got worried that the old problem with the bird was beginning all over again. Not only did the young bird live, but Khaku Sanii also still stood. So they went to Palo Talo and asked him to kill the child. He was in a dilemma. On the one hand, he was grateful to the young bird for helping him; on the other hand, he wanted to help the people. In the end, he took his weapon and killed the young bird. He had killed both the mother bird and its child, but still the tallest tree stood. Everyone was afraid to let Khaku Sanii stand because another giant bird might start to live on its top. It must be cut down, so they picked up their tools and began to cut away. They swung again and again, but they couldn’t even scratch its surface. While they were trying hard to chop it down, a little insect crawled by and said, ‘Cutting down that tree, are you?’ Having said this, it crawled slowly past them and away into the forest. The people continued to chop; they chopped for ten years and finally managed to chip away a tiny piece. In frustration, they went again to Miro Tago and asked for help. Since both he and Khaku Sanii were born of Mother Arii, he knew that only another person or thing born from the same source could possibly chop down that tree. He chose camba tacang, a termite born from the bone marrow of Mother Arii and endowed with great power. The termite set to work and gnawed away for a year, for two years, three years and finally, in the fifth year, Khaku Sanii fell. Its top landed on that little insect, not the termite but the other one that had crawled past the tree fifteen years ago. You understand? Khaku Sanii was as tall as the distance covered by that insect in fifteen years. It did crawl slowly, but still it was fifteen years! When the insect was struck by the tree, a priest was summoned to conduct a ritual to revive the insect. On his way, however, that nyibu was himself struck by one of Mother Arii’s pubic hairs and died. He never did the ritual, and the insect didn’t survive. Khaku Sanii had been chopped down, but it still existed, didn’t it? It lay on the ground—how to get rid of it? Well, that termite began to chew it up, and from those planks people built lapangs dedicated to all the spirits. That’s what happened to the tallest tree: it was made into our lapangs, one for each of our spirits in Neli, the afterworld.

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chapter three 8. The Blinding Lake: Kar Siimi

This enigmatic story takes its name from a lake on the upper reaches of the Subansiri River, near the Tibetan border.26 Apatanis probably heard about this lake from people who live in the upper Subansiri and trade along the routes connecting Tibet to the lower Subansiri region and the Apatani valley.27 No one could tell me where Kar Siimi is actually located, only that it was ‘up north, where many tall birds, like cranes, feed,’ or ‘toward Tibet’ or ‘on the migration path of the ancestors.’28 The migration legend itself (Myth and History 2) places the lake in Nyime (Tibet). The lake, and its equally ominous stone, are also mentioned in a ritual text about the formation of the world from an ancestor’s body: Her eyes became Kar Siimi, the white lake in the mountains which turns viewers blind. Her heart became dori yalang the stone near the lake which swallows those who sit on it.29

For Apatanis, Kar Siimi has the familiarity of the imagined and the risk of the unseen. The popularity of the story seems to lie in its expression of danger and loss. The white lake lies at the end of a forbidden journey to unknown parts, during which a young girl heedlessly ignores advice and loses her sight. Her loss recalls Abo Tani’s. During his struggle with the spirits, his enemies stole his special powers of seeing, and ever since no one (except priests) has been able to see into the invisible world of the spirits. Curiously, the lake appears only in Apatani versions; elsewhere in central Arunachal Pradesh, it is the stone, or a tree, that blinds or swallows the girl. This is the other loss in the story—the vanished girl or sister. Most versions carry the moral lesson that her failure to obey her parents (or brother) caused her suffering. In all the Apatani versions I heard, how26 The Apatani name for the lake and the story (Kar Siimi, ‘Kar Lake’) is probably adapted from the Tibetan name for a lake in the same area (Tso Karpo, ‘White Lake’). 27 On these trading contacts, see Huber 1999. 28 The only person who claimed to know was the prolific storyteller Mudan Donyi, who said the lake was in Mongolia, a fact which he supported with an imaginative etymology of ‘Alma Ata.’ 29 An extract from the Subu Heniin (Ritual Text 1).

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ever, the tellers emphasised the love and loss that join brother and sister. When the sister is caught in the stone, the brother is also trapped. He knows that his sister is dead, yet whenever he turns to leave, she sings and arrests his steps. Like her, he is blind. He cannot see her—only a bright light, like that of the lake, is visible when he looks toward the stone from where she sings to him. She is lost and he loses her, and neither is able to see. Their feelings are expressed in the lines that the sister sings to her brother as she struggles to escape from the binding stone. As in oral stories across the world, tension is compressed into these song lines because the modulations of the singing voice convey more emotion than the conversational voice. In the songs of Kar Siimi, the sister not only asks for help but also reminds her brother of tender moments, when he made her a walking stick and a clip for her shawl. The power of these songs struck me on two particular occasions.30 Once, sitting on an old man’s porch, I recorded his telling of Kar Siimi. He was ill and could only manage a fragmented version; when he stopped speaking, a younger man, took over and started to tell a more detailed version. When the young man repeated the song lines, the old man began to weep, and when the tale was finished, he was still in tears. The second occasion was the recording of the version given below, told by Tilling Tak at the same time that he told his stories of Abo Tani (Tale 3). He sat in the morning sun, in his front yard, with his hair newly dyed and his children listening. They did not shed tears when he sang, but his own eyes were not completely dry. Long ago, a brother and his sister went to collect firewood. They entered the forest and went a long way into the mountains. High up there was a stone called dori yalang, which should not be seen by anyone. There was also a lake called Kar Siimi, which should not be seen. Anyone who looked at the lake became blind; anyone who sat on the stone remained there forever. When the brother and sister entered the forest, he said to her, ‘I’m going to chop wood. You stay here, OK?’ She agreed, and he said, ‘Take care not to look at that stone. It is beautiful, but you must not look at it. All right?’ Again she agreed and again he warned her, ‘It looks nice to sit on, but don’t do it.’ She said she would not.

30

This is singular since Apatanis seldom sing.

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chapter three The brother went into the forest, collected the firewood and came back. But when he looked for his sister, she had disappeared. He called her name, ‘Ania! Ania!’ He called again and again, but she didn’t appear. He shouted, ‘Ania! Where are you?’ Again no one was there, so he began to mutter to himself: ‘I told her this stone would turn her blind. I told her it was beautiful but she shouldn’t look at it. I warned her not to sit on it, but look what has happened—she sat on it and she’s gone.’ Again he called her name, Ania! Ania! He heard no response and began to cry. His sister was nowhere to be seen, and he started to turn his steps toward home. Suddenly, he heard his sister sing: Dear brother, Kar Siimi has turned me blind! My brother, dori yalang has swallowed me whole! Turn around, dear brother, and come back to me; Turn around, my brother and sit close by me; Sit here with me in this clearing in the forest.31 Cut me a walking stick, brother, like you used to do; Give me a little pin, my brother, a little one for my shawl.

He heard her sing, turned around and looked back at that rock. There she was! Standing at a distance, he could see her shining necklace. He could see her from a distance, but whenever he approached, she was gone. Crying softly, he decided there was nothing to do but go back home without her. Yet, as he turned around to leave, she sang to him again: Dear brother, Kar Siimi has blinded me; My brother, dori yalang has turned me to stone.

‘Clearing in the forest’ translates nyatu, a place to rest when carrying heavy loads. 31

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He looked and there it was—her necklace shining brightly from a distance. Her whole figure glowed with light, but when he went close, he couldn’t see her. He couldn’t leave but he didn’t want to stay. ‘Somehow, I must see her again, close up,’ he thought and approached the stone. ‘How could my sister just disappear? I try to leave and she sings to me to return. But I can only see her necklace.’ Confused and crying, he started to leave again, and she sang to him once more: Cut me a walking stick, my brother, like you used to do.

He grabbed his axe and struck the rock, again and again. When he had finished, he looked and found only her fingernail. 9. The Magic Tree: Ami Dori Extraordinary trees are a popular motif in oral stories throughout the world, not least in India, including the northeast. A bead- or necklacebearing tree, however, is rare. It appears almost exclusively in stories from central Arunachal Pradesh, and even here it is uncommon. Stories about the origins and powers of beads, on the other hand, are popular in the region since beads display status and identity. Combining this regional emphasis on beads with the international motif of the extraordinary tree, this Apatani tale speaks with a magical yet moral voice. The story was recorded with the help of a friend. Stephen said that he would invite one or two older men to his house so that we could record a few ayu chants. I arrived, as arranged, in late afternoon when the sun had almost set, and we needed fires inside to keep off the cold. Entering the house, however, I saw no older men, only Donyi, the imaginative teller of so many stories in this book. Nor did it seem that anyone was expected because he and Stephen were so engrossed in their conversation that they hardly noticed me. They were preparing a script for the local All-India Radio station at Hapoli, which broadcasts a few hours of Apatani programmes each week. Donyi was dictating a modern romance of his own invention, and Stephen was writing it down. When, more than an hour later, they had finished, I asked Donyi if he would tell a traditional story. He asked what story I wanted to hear and I said ‘Ami Dori.’ I had heard about this story in which a girl comes

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to a bad end, but no one seemed willing to tell it to me. I later learned that it is an episode in an ayu chanted during the Murung festival and seldom told as a separate tale outside that context. Donyi, ever willing and capable, agreed immediately and told it this way. There was a young girl called Ami Dori. She was an extremely good person, who spoke kindly and never ever had a bad word for anyone. She also had incomparable beauty, like the rising sun and shining moon. A girl of good speech, thought and action. Because she was so perfect she was sometimes thought to be the sister of the ancestral spirit we call iipyo wi. But her brother’s wife became jealous of her virtue and began to slander her. ‘Everyone thinks that your sister, Ami Dori, is good,’ said the sister-in-law to her husband. ‘But she’s not. She’s evil. Do you know what she’s done? She had sex with Biilyi Tado and Bume Taha—that’s what they say.’ When he heard this about his sister, he believed his wife, and soon he, too, began to speak ill of Ami Dori. When their parents heard what the brother had to say, they also started to call her names. Hearing what the parents said, others outside the family began to gossip about Ami Dori. When she heard all this talk, Ami Dori felt terrible and said to herself: ‘People used to praise me, but now they say I’m bad. I am the sister of iipyo wi and never had a bad thought in my heart, never done a bad thing. Not in the past and not in childhood, not in the present and not in the future would I ever do anything wrong. I never had and never will have bad thoughts. But now all of them—my mother, father, brother—have ruined my life.’ Ami Dori left her parents’ house and went to a grove where she accepted the takun tree as her mother and the sangko tree as her father.32 Why did she do that? Well, her sister-in-law had slandered her; her brother had slandered her; her mother and father had slandered her; the whole village had slandered her. She was devastated and thought: ‘If my mother doesn’t act like a mother, what can I do? If my father can’t think of me as his daughter, if my brother can’t think of me as his sister, if my sister-in-law can’t treat me as a sister, if everyone calls me an evil person, I don’t know how I can live on this earth.’

32

On the takun tree, see note 1 above.

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She spoke to the spirit Kolyung Pinii: ‘Since my birth, right up until this very day, I have done nothing wrong. I did nothing with Biilyi Tado and Bume Taha. I did not have sex with them.’ ‘Kolyung Pinii, you know me, what I’ve done and what I’ve said and who I am. I also know, and because I know I can no longer live on this earth. They say that I had sex with those two men, and I am disgraced.’ With these words, she tied a rope of cane to a branch of the takun tree, tightened it around her neck and hung herself. Right there, she took her own life. After her death, one of her maternal uncles said, ‘Ami Dori was always a good person. How could you all speak about her in such a terrible way? Because of your talk she felt disgraced and killed herself.’33 Ami Dori’s parents replied, ‘We all believed what others said, that she was bad. We believed what her sister-in-law said and what her own brother said.’ Asking more questions, the uncle found out that her brother and his wife had first said that she was bad. He also learned that the men they said she had sex with were actually snakes, who became humans and turned back into snakes. Ami Dori played with those snakes but did nothing more. When he had heard all this, the uncle spoke directly to [the dead] Ami Dori, ‘They said that you were bad, but in our hearts we do not believe them. All those people accused you of doing evil, but you have said that you did nothing wrong with those snake-men, that you are blameless. Normally, we would take revenge against your father and his family; but instead we will bury you. Then you must show us that you are innocent. Give us a sign that you led a good life.’ Early next morning, her family went to the grave and saw a small shoot, no larger than a snake’s fang. On the second morning, it had grown to the size of a lizard’s leg. On the third day, a full-grown tree stood over her grave—a thick tree with many branches. From her grave, through the power of iipyo wi, she showed that she had done nothing wrong. From the branches of that tree blossomed red, white, green and blue flowers.34

33 A maternal uncle (aku) was expected to take revenge, if necessary, after a suspicious death. 34 These coloured flowers were named in ritual speech.

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chapter three We call that tree the ‘Dori’ tree or the ‘necklace tree’ because so many differently coloured necklaces hung from its branches. The domin, doku, rite, tado, sampyo, santre, ahing paming and lebu —all these necklaces grew on the tree. One watches, while another makes the hole [in the bead], One rolls the thread, while another slides it through the hole, One plucks the bead from the tree.35

Everyone now knew that Ami Dori was a good woman, that she had done nothing wrong and that people had slandered her. The necklace-tree grew and proved Ami Dori’s goodness, while her brother, sister-in-law and parents stood accused. 10. The Innocent Persecuted Heroine: Kokii Yamu Below is another story about a girl who endures injustice, although it differs sharply from the previous tale. This type of heroine is usually maltreated by a family member, typically her stepmother. However, as Verrier Elwin noted, that much-maligned character is a conspicuous absence in stories from Arunachal Pradesh.36 Instead, most heroines (and heroes) in the region suffer cruelty at the hands of other family members, and such stories often end in death or separation. Ami Dori’s suicide in the last story is a case in point. The story of Kokii Yamu, on the other hand, belongs to a group of tales about the ‘innocent, persecuted heroine’ that end happily, usually in marriage. The best known example is ‘Cinderella,’ and this Apatani story has a more than passing resemblance to the international folktale. Some time ago, a young girl named Kokii Yamu lived here, I mean here in our valley. Her parents died when she was young—only nine years old. She also had an older brother, named Tupii Talyang, whose wife was Tupii Yager. The two of them did nothing to help Kokii Yamu and only kept her as a servant to work in their fields. Her own brother didn’t look after her at all. She lived in a little hut in a field called kokii, where she worked all day and was very sad. You see, this is a true story. That kokii field is still there, between Biirii and Hong. I’ll show it to you tomorrow.

35 36

This verse alluding to stringing beads was also chanted in ritual speech. Elwin 1970: 23.

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Her real name was Tupii Yamu, but she was known by the kokii field where she was confined all day. She never went anywhere, just stayed in the field or the hut. That’s how she grew up. Her brother and sister-in-law never once gave a thought to her welfare. She tried to make them happy and often collected insects to give to them. But they just kept on ill-treating her. That’s why today, when we want to describe ingratitude, we tell this story. All through the winter and all through the summer, Kokii Yamu lived in that field. Her health was bad, but they didn’t even give her a skirt or a blouse. By carding cotton for others and removing the seeds, she was able to get enough cotton to weave her own skirt and blouse. But that’s all. This was her life, until she became a young woman. One day, while she was in her hut shooing away birds, a young man from Hong village passed on his way to Bula village and saw her. Even from a distance, he saw that she was beautiful. She, too, kept glancing at him. Neha Tayu—that was his name—approached the hut and asked, ‘Are you watching for birds?’ ‘Yes, that’s right,’ said Kokii Yamu. Just those few words and he was infatuated. Unable to hide his feelings, he asked her to marry him. She answered, ‘Tell me the truth. If you want me for a wife, I’ll agree. But if only for a lover, the answer is no.’ Tayu said he wanted her for his wife and that he wanted to marry her that same day. Kokii Yamu agreed, because of his beauty and because she trusted him. ‘Let’s tell your parents,’ said Neha Tayu. ‘My parents are no more; they died when I was a little girl,’ said Kokii Yamu. ‘I have had an unhappy life growing up in this field. I’m not allowed to go anywhere, not even to the village. That’s why they built this hut for me, to keep me here. I have an older brother, but he and his wife don’t care about me. I just work in the field, like a servant. Even these rags I’m wearing I had to weave myself. If you talk to my brother and his wife, they won’t let me become your wife. It’s no use talking to them.’ Neha Tayu said, ‘In that case, let’s go straight to my village.’ So they went Hong village and lived together. She even changed her name to Neha Yamu.37 They loved each other and were happy. 37

Married Apatani women usually retain their clan name, which is their first name.

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chapter three Although Neha Tayu was nice-looking, he owned nothing. He didn’t even have fields and his house was very small. But they worked hard and lived off their wages as daily labourers. Earning money this way, they were able to raise three children. One day Neha Tayu went to the forest. That was the day that Kokii Yamu’s brother was sponsoring a Murung feast, so she went to visit him in his village. On the way, she thought: ‘They are selfish, but on this feast day they’ll surely give me something.’ When she arrived, she saw eight mithuns tied up at the lapang. He was that rich.’38 As soon as Kokii Yamu entered the house, her sister-in-law thought, ‘This is a bit of luck.’ She called to her, ‘Come and pick the lice from my hair.’ But Kokii Yamu said, ‘You’re celebrating Murung today. How can you ask me to delice you?’ ‘You’re just lazy! That’s why you refuse to help me. I ask for a little help and you refuse,’ scolded her sister-in-law. Kokii Yamu relented and searched for lice; she looked at every hair and removed a lot of lice. Afterward, the sister-in-law dressed in her best clothes and went out to the festival; but as she left, she checked her hair to make sure there were no lice. When she found one insect, she got angry and thought: ‘She refused at first because she really didn’t want to do it. In the end, she didn’t look carefully.’ After she smeared the rice powder on the mithuns, she came back and shouted at Kokii Yamu. She even snatched back the handful of rice she had given her. Kokii Yamu was upset and said, ‘It’s not true that I didn’t want to do it. But when you’re performing Murung, you aren’t supposed to look for lice. That’s why I asked if it was right. I did look carefully. Why are you so angry when I missed one little insect?’ Kokii Yamu left empty-handed and went to her cousin’s house, where she explained how her sister-in-law had been such a miser. She practically had to beg from her cousin, but at least she gave her a meal. As she was about to eat, however, she remembered that she had promised her children to bring home some meat. That’s how she had stopped them from crying and got them to play before

38 The brother was sponsoring a rontii Murung, the most elaborate form of the festival.

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she had left the house that morning. But there was no meat on her plate, so she took two handfuls of rice, put them in a little bamboo container and left for home. Walking along the road, she was sad and began to mumble to herself: ‘Why do I live in such poverty? I have no happiness. My brother is a rich man who can perform expensive festivals, yet his wife gives me nothing. Why should I lead this useless life?’ She kept on mumbling like this as she walked home. Approaching Biirii, she suddenly saw a snake. She killed it with a stick, cut off its head and buried it. Then she took the body home, where she knew her children had nothing to eat. It would at least be something to give them. As soon as she entered the house, her children asked, ‘What have you brought back from uncle’s house?’ She took out the little bamboo container of rice, but the children wanted to know where the meat was. She told them that a bad man had run off with it and she had none. Then she took the snake out of the container and said, ‘Look! I’ll boil this snake to eat.’ That kept them from crying, and while they were playing happily, she lit the fire. She put on a pot, poured in water and dropped in the snake. Then she went to the front porch to weave. While she was weaving, an old woman went into the house, saying she wanted to borrow some firewood. But when she went in more than once, Kokii Yamu grew suspicious; she put aside her weaving and went inside. By the hearth she saw a large heap of lebu beads! Those milky, red beads were everywhere; they had spilled out and covered the area around the hearth. ‘So that’s what the old woman was after,’ she said to herself. ‘She kept coming back to get these beads. But where did they all come from?’ She looked in the pot but it was empty. Then she realised that the snake had turned into the beads and flowed out of the pot. Overjoyed but anxious, she scooped up all the beads and put them in a large basket, which she hid away. Later Neha Tayu returned from the forest with a wild boar. ‘Amii!’ he called—that’s the nickname he used for her—‘Amii, look! A wild boar.’ Kokii Yamu was pleased, and she called him by his nickname, ‘Ayu! I’ve got something, too. A snake! I buried the head and brought back the body for the children. I boiled it in a pot and . . . it turned into lebu. I don’t know if it’s good luck or bad luck.’

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chapter three Her husband listened patiently and said, ‘Don’t worry. The spirits were moved by your misfortune and sent the snake, which they turned into these beads. Whether it’s good or bad, we’ll wait and see.’ After making sure the beads were safely stored away, they cut up the boar, hung up the pieces to dry and went to sleep.39 A few days later, they heard that there was a big mithun on the hill behind the village. No one knew who its owner was. All the rich men in the valley came and began to call to the mithun. They were dressed up in their expensive clothes, wearing richly decorated shawls like priests; on expensive brass plates, they offered rice powder and salt to the animal. They called to it, with animal sounds, trying to coax it toward them. But the mithun paid no attention to them. Then Neha Tayu appeared. He was shabbily dressed and had to borrow a cracked bamboo container of rice powder for the mithun. But as soon as he held out the powder, the mithun turned and came toward him. The rich men cried, ‘Look! The mithun’s going to Tayu!’ They brandished their brass plates again and called even more loudly, but the mithun ignored them. They tried to block its path, but the animal swept around them and reached Tayu, who led it back to his house. Watching that big mithun walk slowly away, the rich men were shocked and angry. Everyone had tried to catch the mithun, but it had gone to the poor man, wearing nothing but rags. It was a gift from the spirits, you see, just as the snake was a gift to Kokii Yamu. Next day, the rich men got more angry: ‘How did that bastard get it! What right has he got to have it?’ Hearing this, Neha Tayu began to fear what these rich men might do to a poor person like him. Would they kill him? In order to placate them, he gave a little basket of lebu beads to the richest man in each clan. Then everyone began to praise Neha Tayu: ‘Well, he’s really a good chap after all.’ And so he was allowed to keep the mithun. It was a special animal—a wi subu, a spirit mithun—which we don’t see anymore now. After Neha Tayu got it, his brothers began to ask him what he planned to do with it. He didn’t know. One night, Kokii Yamu asked him the same thing and they talked about

39 In another version, the couple go back to where the wife has buried the snake’s head, dig it up and find that it has become a valuable ‘Tibetan’ bell.

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it. She said, ‘You said the spirits sent the mithun because of my suffering, so why don’t you give the mithun back to the spirits.’ They consulted liver omens, performed a sacrifice and gave the mithun back to the spirits. After that they were happy and became wealthy. Whatever they planned, whatever they wanted, whatever they did—everything was successful. 11. The Power of Possessive Love: Papin and Pame The storyteller began with these comments: This is the story of the first romance. It can be told in prose, like this, or sung as a field song or chanted as an ayu. But it is never performed as part of a healing chant. This story of Papin and Pame is also often cited as nitin horming [an exempla or precedent]. For instance, if someone today goes mad or has a terrible illness, it is thought that a spirit has possessed him or her. It’s a case of love and possession. Such love cases—when a spirit-man possesses a woman, or a spirit-woman possesses a man—are not good. They are dangerous because they’re ‘crossover’ love affairs. Even today, when conducting a healing ritual, nyibus refer to this story. They’ll address the attacking spirit and say, ‘Now, look! Long ago, in the story of Papin and Pame, they exchanged gifts and solved the problem. You [spirit] may love this human, but you must leave him or her because love between a spirit and a human is dangerous.’ Another thing. Some priests say that in the story, Papin and Pame [spirit-women] really gave two mithuns to Loder and Bai [their human husbands]. But the truth is that they gave nothing. Absolutely nothing! And this is a true story; it really happened in Miido Poro, a place we Apatanis stayed while migrating to Ziro. It happened before humans fully separated from spirits.

These comments do not exaggerate the local significance of this story of love between humans and spirits. To begin with, spirit possession/love is a common explanation of illness among Apatanis. In addition, the resolution of this love conflict between humans and spirits in the story through the gift of a mithun illustrates the importance of exchange, which is one of the two major themes in Apatani oral tradition and culture. The story also explains the origin of a weaving motif (‘eyemouth’) that is considered a marker of Apatani identity. Finally, it gives us information about a ritual for recovering lost mithuns and about two major cultural institutions: the village council (bulyang) and the Murung festival. Not surprisingly, the story of Papin and Pame is widely known among Apatanis and is told in different forms—prose

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tale, field song and ayu chant. An ambitious man has even adapted it as a film-script. Still, the appeal of the story lies not in its ethnographic detail but in its description of the disorienting power of possessive love. When the heroes, Loder and Bai, fall in love with the spirit-girls in the forest, they are plunged into another time and place. Their loss of what they thought was reality is all the more dramatic because they had struggled to find proper partners in the human world. Having found them, they had been content with their human wives, who wove them shawls suitable to their status as members of the council. When they set out to attend the council at the festival, they are proud and happy. All this disappears at the crossroads in the forest, however, where they step into the spirit world. They are finally awakened from this dream-world by their sons, the only people who can lead them back to the human world because only they have not left it behind. Leaving their spirit wives, however, is far from easy. When Loder and Bai do leave, they lose their way just as they did when first entering the spirit world. They are confused because the mithuns they are given turn out be illusions, made of fog and mist. This ambiguity paradoxically maintains the distinction between human and spirit worlds: if the spiritmithuns could easily be led back, the boundary would be too porous. Contact with spirits can lead to misfortune, disease and death. As one Abo Tani story (Tale 4) concludes, humans and spirits must inhabit different realms and avoid straying into the other’s domain. Love between humans and spirits dissolves these protective boundaries, completely and intimately, which is dangerous, disorientating and possibly fatal. Yet crossing boundaries, leaving convention behind and entering into new experiences has its appeal. Loder and Bai were possessed by love, lost and gained everything. In the end, they return to normality, confused but unharmed, perhaps because they themselves were born in a transitional time, before humans fully separated from spirits. The storyteller was Mudan Donyi, who, as usual, set the story in a mythic frame and then rushed headlong into the action. One of our ancestors, Lyimbin Tillying, married a woman named Nyime Yayin—they were both spirits—and they had two sons, Loder and Bai. There were also two girls, named Dumi and Yami. All this happened in ancient times, when spirits and humans were not yet separated. Lyimbin Tillying was born in Iipyo Supung in the Tsangpo Valley, in Nyime [ Tibet].

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The two sons, Loder and Bai, grew up to be handsome young men. They played with girls; the boys urinated in the dirt and the girls made little mud effigies. Because of their parents, Loder and Bai were exceptionally good-looking and also romantic. Soon they married. Loder married Dillyi Gechi, but she didn’t wear her skirt properly, so he left her. Bai married Diimo Geno, but her blouse was wrong, so he left her. They both married again. Loder’s second wife was Lenda Taro, and Bai’s was Siibo Roro. But they only kept these wives to clean house and feed them. Before long, they left them, too. Then they married a dragonfly, who wove beautiful shawls. Loder and Bai took one of her shawls, the pyamu pulye worn by men, and held it up against the light of the rising sun to see how well it was woven. They were able to see the light through the cloth, so they left her and threw away her shawl. Next Loder married Salin Murpin, and Bai married Halin Murne. These wives were sisters, who were also known as ‘Life’ and ‘Trust.’ They gave birth to two sons, Chada and Chama; the first was Loder’s son and the other was Bai’s son. The boys were a source of happiness for the wives, who now felt secure. When Chada and Chama were still young, two men, named Miido Tayo and Miido Piilo, decided to sponsor a Murung festival. They were rich and pretentious, and even today we have a saying in ritual language that refers to them. We use it whenever we want to say that someone is showing off. When they heard about the Murung, Loder and Bai talked about attending as members of the village council. Many people would be there as council members. For instance, there was Gomyu Tallo, who was known as ‘Ugly-Lips.’ He was greedy and ate everything in sight, without thinking of others. As gifts for the festival sponsors, he brought a single piece of meat cut from the lower leg of a tiny, thin bird; and that tiny piece was itself further divided into ten more pieces! He was about to join the council, but the others refused him, and so the lips of Gomyu Tallo became even uglier. In his place, Loder and Bai were invited to attend. The problem was that Loder and Bai did not have the proper shawl for the occasion, nothing with the right designs and borders. So they asked their wives to weave special shawls for them. Their wives agreed, but they really had no idea what these designs and borders were. Still, they set up their looms, tied the strap from the north and moved

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the shuttle from the south. They worked for ten days to weave the first section, and they worked for five more days on the border, but it was no use! Then Loder and Bai took ten men and five dogs and went hunting; but whatever they caught escaped. In the end, they managed to bring home a peacock feather as a model for the shawl. They invited skilled weavers to teach their wives how to weave. All these experts came and taught the sisters. The experts dyed the threads—yellow, black, orange, blue and white. When the dying was done, four spirit-weavers taught the sisters how to weave the special ‘eye-mouth’ motif. Soon the shawls were finished, and they were beautiful, reaching down to just a few inches above the ground. Seeing this, Loder and Bai began to admire their wives. Loder and Bai were now eager to go to the Murung because they could attend as members of the council. Wrapped in their shawls, they set off and came to a place with branching forks. In the middle stood two girls. Not knowing which way to go, Loder and Bai said, ‘We’re going to the festival, but which path is for humans and which is for spirits?’ The two girls lied, saying that the path for spirits was the one for humans. Loder and Bai walked on that spirit path, got confused and lost their way. But then they saw Papin and Pame. Their faces were as beautiful as fresh flowers, as clear as the full moon. The brothers embraced them, and forgot all about their homes and their families. Staying in Papin and Pame’s village, Loder and Bai went to the Mipu forest and caught a wild boar; they went to Hape forest and brought back rare plants. They gave these gifts to the girls’ mother to make her happy; then they worked for the father. Ten days passed, twenty days passed, and then more days, and soon they lost all sense of time or seasons of the year. One day they went into the forest and, looking into the distance, saw two young boys. Going closer, they challenged them: ‘Who are you to lay traps on our hunting tracks?’ To this the boys answered, ‘Who are you to use our fathers’ hunting paths?’ The older men and the younger boys both thought the tracks belonged to them. Confused, the men asked the boys, ‘Just whose sons are you?’ ‘I am Chada.’ said the first. ‘Son of Loder, grandson of Lyimbin Tillying, great grandson of Aba Tillying.’ The other said, ‘I am

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Chama, son of Bai, grandson of Lyimbin Tillying, great grandson of Aba Tillying. These hunting paths belong to our fathers. Why did you interfere with our traps?’ When they heard all this, Loder and Bai felt terrible: they had been ready to strike their own sons with their machetes. They had nearly killed them! They fell silent and let their anger cool. Then they said to the boys, ‘If you really are Chada and Chama, then we are your fathers, Loder and Bai. Look at how tall you’ve grown. You’re now young men!’ ‘No!’ said the boys. ‘You’re not our fathers. When did you ever treat us as your sons? We won’t accept men like you who run after women! We are not ready to call you “father”.’ Hearing this, Loder and Bai felt ashamed and useless, like seedless fruit. Chada and Chama said, ‘If you really accept us as your sons, in your heart and in your mind, you must leave your lovers and return home with us. Only then will you become our true fathers. That’s all there is to say.’ Loder and Bai had thought of Papin and Pame as beautiful, soft flowers, radiant as the bright moon and rising sun. But now they considered them no better than the droppings of dogs and chickens. They scowled at the girls as though they were rough creepers and sharp thorns; their feelings for them had sunk that low, like a stone plummeting down a steep ravine! And they had regained respect and sympathy for their wives. They said to Papin and Pame, ‘You go your way and we’ll go ours. Our real wives are treated like widows and our sons like orphans. Our sons no longer think of us as their fathers. The time has come for us to part. Let this be the end of our love.’ But when they left, Papin and Pame ran after them, crying and begging them to stop. Loder and Bai argued and said, ‘We must go back to our wives and children. We can’t stay here any longer.’ They stood there, the brothers and the girls, quarrelling and shouting, until the girls’ parents arrived. They gave this advice: ‘We didn’t read the chicken livers, so you aren’t really our sons-in-law. That means you can leave, freely, and we won’t block your path. Since you feel this way about your other family, you may leave.’ When their parents spoke with such generosity, Papin and Pame began to soften. Realising this, Loder and Bai allowed themselves to feel affection for them and said, ‘Earlier, we could not leave because we loved you, but now, thinking of our family, we can not stay.

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Things have changed and we must go. Still, because we spent so many years here working for you, without saving anything, we can not leave without some gift. We hunted in the Mido Lenkur forest and the Mipu Lempii forest, and we brought you lots of meat. We set traps in the Hape Lempii forest and the Mido Poro forest and brought you many animals. We can not leave without taking back something, as a sign of our separation.’ Loder and Bai wanted to receive the gifts that day so that they could start immediately. They went on and on like this, insisting and demanding. Papin and Pame didn’t want to see them go, and Loder and Bai didn’t want to go empty-handed. Finally, the parents, who were fed up with the quarrelling, said they would give Loder and Bai gifts in return for their labour. The parents gave them two mithuns, named Papin Miri and Pame Mita, and now they were free of any obligation. Loder and Bai said to Papin and Pame, ‘We’d like something from you, too.’ So the girls gave them silver and gold ornaments as a sign of their separation. ‘Let this be the end of our quarrel. Now we can go our separate ways,’ said the girls. But when Loder and Bai started to leave, the girls were again in tears. ‘This isn’t right!’ they cried. ‘Together we travelled a long way on life’s path. We were so happy, but now you want to leave us! Why are you doing this?’ As the brothers left, the girls cursed them: ‘Let the fog cover them in the forest!’ And when they reached the forest, the fog rolled in and covered them. It was so thick that they lost the two mithuns given to them. They went back to Papin and Pame’s village, but they couldn’t find the mithuns there either. To the girls they said, ‘Have you tricked us? Did you really give us those mithuns?’ The four of them argued until the parents came and, again, were generous. They ordered two men to find the mithuns and lead them back with Loder and Bai. Even today when a mithun goes missing, we summon two priests, who do a ritual to find the animals. You see, Papin and Pame had not actually given them mithuns; they were only shapes made of fog. But now they gave them real mithuns, or so it seemed. Still, although Loder and Bai accepted that the parents had been generous, they wanted something from Papin and Pame. When they demanded gifts, the girls offered a cane hat and tobacco, but the brothers refused them. Then they said, ‘What we want is what we had on the first night of our love. Give us just

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a small corner of your heart.’ Finally, Papin and Pame squeezed their breast milk into the hands of their lovers. Once again Loder and Bai left and headed toward the Murung festival, which had been their original destination. When they reached the spot, they saw that the wooden altars built for the sacrifices were faded; in fact, they saw more than one set of altars. The men of this village had sponsored many Murungs—the brothers had been gone that long! When Loder and Bai arrived with their mithuns, they offered them to Miido Tayo.40 But because they had been given as part of a divorce settlement, no one would accept them. ‘I don’t want them,’ said Tayo. ‘Your mithuns would be bad for our domestic animals. Take them away and sacrifice them to a bad spirit.’41 So they took the mithuns to the other rich man, to Miido Piilo. But he said the same thing. They went from house to house, trying to find someone to accept the mithuns. Finally, they found two poor men who took the unwanted mithuns. But after a while, these two men said to Loder and Bai, ‘Your mithuns have disappeared.’ ‘That’s not possible,’ protested the brothers. But what the brothers did not realise is that this second pair of mithuns, like the first pair, were just fog and mist made to look like animals. The mithuns vanished. The spirits did it. 12. A Stupid Wife: Tabu Yapi Many Apatani stories, especially those resembling folktales, play a role in everyday conversation. While they are not often told as narratives, their main characters are frequently cited as shorthand for a human trait. In the previous story, for instance, ‘Ugly Lips’ is a ready reference for a miser, and the sponsors of the festival are personifications of pretension. From the story before that, the sister-in-law who took back her gift of a handful of rice is the epitome of ingratitude. Another story frequently mentioned during conversation is the one that follows. If a child is lazy or stupid, a parent might scold it by saying, ‘Don’t be like Tabu Yapi.’

40 Miido Tayo (and Miido Piilo, below) were the sponsors of the original Murung festival to which Loder and Bai were invited. 41 A mithun given as part of a marital separation is ‘a shameful mithun’ (hiiyang subu).

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Of the many episodes about Tabu Yapi, the ones below were told one evening by Hage Bhatt, a man of about 70 years, while sitting around his hearth. Tabu Yapi and Talo Doylang met in the paddy fields where they were working. They were building a bund and soon became lovers. Doylang was very poor, but Yapi was ready to marry him. Still, Doylang wasn’t sure, and one day he hid behind a boulder near where she was working. In a disguised voice, he called out to her, ‘Why do you want to marry that poor man?’ Yapi replied, ‘I’m ready to do anything for him, in the fields, in the house, in the forest. Whatever he asks, I’ll be a good wife.’ So they got married. But, when Doylang brought back a wild boar he had killed in the forest, Yapi went around to all her neighbours and asked, ‘Is your pig missing by any chance? My husband seems to have killed one.’ The next day, he brought back a jungle fowl, and Yapi boasted to everyone: ‘Look! My brave husband has killed this dangerous beast!’ Another time he said, ‘Yapi, I’m going into the forest for a while. You go and collect some anise plants for the children to eat.’ That’s exactly what Yapi did—she extracted the anus from a few chickens and fed them to her children.42 Finally, one day, her husband said to Yapi, ‘I’m going to buy some cotton so you can weave clothes for us.’ As soon as her husband had left the house, Yapi burnt her skirt and sat inside a basket to hide her nakedness. A neighbour came in, saw her naked in the basket and asked, ‘What in the world are you doing in there?’ ‘Nothing. You see, my husband’s bringing back some cotton so I don’t need my skirt anymore.’

42 The near-pun here is that paku huye (a wild plant) is easily confused with pacu koyu (‘chicken anus’). Wild anise does grow in the Apatani valley.

CHAPTER FOUR

MYTHS AND HISTORIES Introduction These ‘myths and histories’ belong to the same indigenous category as the ‘tales’ in the previous chapter. They are all migung, narrated in conversational prose without ritual intent and usually by older men. Still, the differences between the stories in this chapter and those in the previous one should be evident. The stories below are heterogeneous but arranged in rough chronological order. The sequence starts with the beginnings of the world, ancestral migration and settlement of the Apatani valley, followed by origin myths of weaving, the mithun and social classes. The next set of stories narrate more recent historical events, from colonial contacts to trading adventures. The final two texts are a myth of Sun-Moon and an account of its role in the reinvention of tradition. Although these myths and histories have no fixed or typical performance context, they are usually recited in two places where men tend to gather—on the porch and around the hearth. By mid-morning on an ordinary day, most Apatani houses are empty and the narrow lanes between them silent; everyone has gone out, to the fields, to the forest, to the gardens or to Hapoli. Sometimes, however, a group of mostly older men gather on a porch, busily preparing altars for a healing ritual or major festival. Working side by side, in groups or singly, they complete the small tasks that culminate in the finished altars. Some men cut bamboo into sections, which they then split and flatten, while others strip long lengths of cane. Still others bend or weave the bamboo and cane pieces into parts of the altars. Stacked against railings or lined up on the floor are long lengths of bamboo, dense cane hatchings, bamboo pockets (to hold eggs for divination), curling bamboo shavings, pieces of pinewood with simple geometric designs in charcoal, plus miniature bows, arrows, backpacks and earrings for the spirits. When it rains and after nightfall, the assembling of altars moves indoors. Inside or outside, with five or six men working, and drinking,

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for several hours, gossip turns into anecdote and sometimes to exchanging lines from ayus. These ready-made audiences seem to encourage a display of traditional knowledge, and I was usually able to persuade at least one man to perform an ayu, or tell a story or explain what he had said earlier. Men also congregate around the hearth on ordinary nights, when no altar is built. Here, too, between mugs of rice-beer, a plate of rice and pieces of meat, someone might begin to talk about the past. Myths and histories 1. Beginnings of the World Apatanis do not have a creation myth in the sense of a single, accepted text about how the world began. Rather the beginnings of the world are described in the course of various stories, mostly about migration and Abo Tani, as well as in the Subu Heniin chant (Ritual Text 1). Apatani mythology is not a formal system, and accounts are diverse, inconsistent and often vague. Nevertheless, certain events, figures and themes recur. Apatanis do not speak of a creator god or a figure who fashioned the world ex-nihilo. Instead, and like other tribes in the Tani group, Apatanis refer to a procreative ‘formlessness’ from which the world emerged. This inchoate state is known as kolyung-kolo (also kami-kamo). Kolyung-kolo is the source and the reference point for explanations of origins. Above all, it represents an ambiguity before the cosmos emerged, before spirits and humans appeared, and before they separated. Distant shapes then develop through a protean power of uncertain gender (called Pinii, Kolyung Pinii or Pinii Siyo). Often, however, this stage is passed over and the materialisation of the world is attributed to a female spirit, usually identified as ‘mother’ (Anii ).1 Now the earth, also female, emerges and from her body come the various parts of the natural world; later she gives birth to Abo Tani and humans. While names, details and sequence vary, the common theme is that the world arises from a procreative, female body or earth.

1 This proceative female is variously known as Nguntii, Niikun, Hintii, Niinii and Chantung.

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The brief account below, let me emphasise, is not ‘the Apatani myth of creation,’ since no such text exists. Rather, it is an edited composite (of four oral prose accounts that I recorded, plus one written source) that contains the recurring features of Apatani cosmogony.2 At first there was nothing, only kolyung-kolo, or formlessness. This was the time of kami-kamo, or darkness. A power called Pinii Siyo brought forth a procreative female power called Nguntii Anii, and she gave birth to Earth-Sky, to a formless earth and to a formless sky. Many spirits emerged. Some of these were arii, or dangerous, and they turned against Earth-Sky. Since the earth and sky were not yet fully formed, they were vulnerable to these bad spirits, who gave them diseases. Hirii obstructed the birth and growth of SkyEarth. Giirii and Gyopu made them weak and lonely. Wi gave them stomach ulcers. Yachu made them suffer mental problems. Milya and Dopung gave them headaches. And Taisime infected them with venereal disease. This child, which we call Earth-Sky, was imperfect, born without proper form. Then Ami Dinchi Banyi was born as a sister to Earth-Sky. She tried to cure the Earth-Sky, but she was infected with venereal disease by Taisime. She married Kotu Butang-Korda Horming, the source of rats and squirrels, but her husband was also infected with disease through the feet. Next a priest named Kolyung Bumya Nyikang was born to mediate between Earth-Sky and the bad spirits. Popi was also born as an advisor, and he directed the priest to do a sacrifice to bad spirits, in order to cure the Earth-Sky. A pig was sacrificed to Hirii; a dog to Giirii; a chicken to Yachu; a bamboo piece to Milya and Dopung; a thread to Wi; a bamboo shaving to Gyopu; a bitter leaf to Taisime. The sacrifices were successful, and Earth-Sky was free from disease. Now Earth-Sky was able to separate and assume two proper shapes. But there were no pillars to support them, and so the pillars were formed. The earth was formed from Niikun. Her hair became the nests for birds, and her buttocks became the bottom of the sea. Her eyes became clear lakes and her shoulders the broad horizon. Her chest

2 Oral accounts are from Hage Hiiba, Hage Tapa, Padi Tasan and Mudan Donyi; the written source is Takhe Kani 1996/1997.

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became the roof of the world, and her heart became rocks and mountains. Her breastbone turned into forests, and her stomach turned into weeds and grasses. From another spirit, Kolyung Pinii, emerged the Sun, the Moon and the stars. Still another spirit, Chaha, brought forth the plants and vegetables on earth, and Doha did this for the sky. Finally, from the Earth-Sky was born Chantung, a female force, who protects human beings and their souls.3 From her came the tanii people, or humans. She had many children, and the last, Neha Tani, was the first human being. He is also called Abo Tani, and we are his children, his descendants. 2. Migration across Mountains This migration story reveals several features of Apatani oral tradition and culture, discussed more fully in the final chapter. First, like most migration legends and irrespective of historical accuracy, it is a statement of cultural identity. It claims a Tibetan origin for Apatanis, who are said to descend directly from a Tibetan king and to have assimilated to Tibetan culture. Notice also that the assimilation is achieved by wearing necklaces, which are prominent markers of status and identity in central Arunachal Pradesh. This migration legend defines identity in the other direction, too, distinguishing Apatanis from the halyang, the non-tribal outsiders to the south, who block the path of the ancestors and then deceive them. Another concept illustrated by this migration story is the ‘path’ (lenda). Apatanis view the past as a path, laid out along a sequence of imaginary places leading from the homeland to the present settlement in the Apatani valley. Migration is plotted along this path and through these places, where the ancestors stopped and lived for some time. The route proceeds from Wi (‘Spirit’) Supung to Iipyo (‘Ancient’) Supung, to Nyime (‘Tibet’) Supung, to Hiising Supung (near the source of the Tsangpo River), to Shango Supung and Mudo Supung (both in the Tsangpo valley). From there the ancestors crossed the mountains, forded rivers and came to Silo (Ziro) Supung, the valley where Apatanis live today.

3 Chantung is a protective spirit, whose altar is found in nearly every Apatani house (see Ritual Text 5).

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Lenda (‘path’) also refers to variations in storytelling. When I asked why ayus differed from teller to teller, I was told, ‘He can take it down that path; another down another path.’ Other paths form networks linking spirits, ritual platforms and mythical locations in ritual texts. And everyone must eventually negotiate the dangerous path leading to and from the land of the dead (Ritual Text 5). The ancestors’ journey along the migration path is particularly important because it reveals the two fundamental themes in Apatani oral tradition and culture. The first theme is differentiation. As we saw in the previous story, the world emerges from an inchoate state: out of formlessness come the earth and sky, sun and moon, spirits and humans, social practices and institutions. The vague ancestors similarly evolve into figures (including Abo Tani) who are half-spirit and half-human, and who later inhabit discrete human and spirit domains. Differentiation unfolds genealogically as well since the original stock of ancestors splits into the various tribes of the Tani group living in central Arunachal Pradesh; then emerge the specific Apatani ancestors for each clan and village. Separation along the migration route give rises to the second theme: the resolution of potential conflict by alliance and exchange. During migration, obstacles are encountered—heavy fog, enormous boulders, dangerous animals—but they are overcome one by one. When the path is obscured, divination guides the ancestors forward. Disputes, thefts, accidents, broken taboos and sexual misconduct likewise threaten the progress of the ancestors. Their cohesion is further disrupted when they break into smaller units. All these ruptures, however, are repaired by exchange, animal sacrifice and/or ceremonial alliances. This gift-giving and ritual friendship among the ancestors are seen as the proto-types of present practices. The following account was told by Hage Tapa, a man of about 65 years, who called it ‘Rego [bridge/crossing] Ayu,’ although he narrated it in prose. It was recorded at night in his house, as part of a discussion about the ancestors. Our Apatani people came from a distant place, across the high mountains. Some say we came from Mongolia, but we don’t really know. In the beginning, our ancestors lived in the time of KolyungKolo. That was before humans, and we don’t know what place it was, but we think that is where all our culture and life come from. It was the time and place of Nguntii Anii.

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From there our people migrated to a place called Wi Supung and then to Iipyo Supung, where Ato Tajung lived. He was the oldest man and was joined by many other ancestors. Disputes and confusion developed in Iipyo Supung, so the ancestors conducted a divination ritual (turi tunii ), in order to determine which route to take. That became the path of migration. From Iipyo Supung, the people set out, but the path was blocked. A man, Lancho Sibo, and a woman, Landu Manu, blew horns and the ancestors travelled beyond these obstacles.4 Next they walked along the paths of Iipyo Chiilyang and Iipyo Kiipu.5 But again they ran into an obstacle—a tall mountain blanketed in heavy fog, like thick, black smoke. They couldn’t see a thing. Iipyo Chiilyang was controlled by Chiilyang Tagyang, and Iipyo Kiipu was ruled by Kiipu Tapin. These men sacrificed mithuns and performed a dapo ritual, which opened up the path. The ancestors feasted and crossed the mountain peak. The path led next to Nyime Supung. On the way to Nyime, our people met another high mountain, which blocked the way, but they managed to cross it. Later they reached a place called Kar Lemba, where many people were trapped and died.6 But again they moved on, until they came to another obstacle. They were blocked but later managed to circle around it and continue on the path to Nyime. They reached Nyime, where many of the ancestors assimilated to local life. In Nyime, women wore ornaments and beads made from river grass, and our people learned to wear those beads. In Nyime there were two groups: the original people were Nikun Nyime; the other were Necho Nyime, who married separately. The Nikun people came from Tupe, and the Necho people were from Hikun. Payan Rade Nyime, the local king, married Pukun Puri of Hintii and they had six daughters. One daughter, Yaya, married Iipyo Jeng; another daughter, also called Yaya, married Miido Talying; a third daughter called Yaya married Supung Talying. But we Apatanis came from the children of the other three daughters. People in the Hao villages come from marriage of Ane Haya and Aba Tayu.7

This reference to ‘horns’ remains unexplained. Chiilyang and Kiipu paths are generic rather than specific places. 6 ‘Kar Lemba’ (‘Kar place/village’) is Kar Siimi, the lake in Tale 8. 7 ‘Hao’ is a collective term for the villages of Bula and Hari. Bula is itself comprised of three original villages: Tajang, Reru and Kalung. 4 5

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People from the Diibo villages are descendants of Ane Bendi and Tasso Darbo.8 And the people from Hong village come from Loli Yari and Pabin Hiipa. After crossing the Chiilyang mountain, our ancestors came to Mudo mountain, near Mudo Supung. Then, further along and closer to Mudo Supung, they came to Doding Lemba, where a monkey and an eagle blocked their way. Many ancestors died here, until a woman killed the monkey and the eagle by putting poisoned breast milk in the water. This was the first conflict between animals and humans, but it opened the path for our people to move ahead. The ancestors finally came to Mudo Supung, which is located somewhere in the Tsangpo Valley. We don’t know where it is, but many important things happened at Mudo Supung. Once an old man entered the forest, while two women went to the paddy fields to collect the tasin insect. Collecting that insect was prohibited because it was the time of the Dree festival. But they did it anyway, and the standing crops were destroyed by a hailstorm. Then Ato Diyu celebrated the Dree festival a second time, in his own house. Ato Nibo acted as priest and came to Ato Diyu’s house wearing the priest’s zilang shawl.9 Our major festivals were celebrated for the first time at Mudo Supung. The first Myoko was performed by Ato Diyu;10 the first Murung by Ato Hape; the first Subu by Ato Mipu; and the first Emo Huniin by Ato Piisan.11 The life of our ancestors flourished at Mudo Supung for many generations. But some people decided to migrate elsewhere to start a new life. So they again conducted the turi tunii divination ritual on a lapang in order to decide which direction to take. The ritual, performed by an old woman and an old man, advised them to take the Landu and the Lacho Leyu paths, and then the Chiilyang and Kiipu Pingo paths.

8 ‘Diibo’ is a collective term for the villages of Dutta, Mudan Tage and Michi Bamin. 9 This shawl was worn also by bulyang (councilmen); see Tale 11. 10 Ato Diyu is often identified with Abo Tani, who initiated the Myoko festival (see Ritual Texts 3 & 4). 11 Myoko (March–April), Murung (December–January) and Subu (a version of Murung in November–February and during Myoko) are festivals sponsored by individual families, clans or villages. Emo Huniin ( July–August) is a smaller ritual performed to protect the paddy crop from insects, hail or drought.

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At this point, the ancestors split into smaller groups and followed separate routes. Abo Tani divided things among his descendants. The people of Nyime [Tibet] got bitter leaves and wild animals; the Sulung got the sago plant; the misan [Nyishis and Hill Miris] got millet and wild bamboo. The halyang [Indians, non-tribal outsiders] got betel nut, salt, brass plates and special cloth.12 We Apatanis got rice, the pine tree and domesticated bamboo. When the halyang left the forest and went down the mountains toward the plains, they cut down a tree to block the path of the misan and the Tani people. That’s why we stayed in the hills. Before our ancestors separated into smaller groups, however, they held a big feast. First, they shot arrows at a tree to ensure the wellbeing of everyone, and then they sacrificed mithuns. During the sacrifice, the Nyishis were badly cut, and the Apatanis also cut their finger. A rich man killed more mithuns and gave gifts; one kind of gift was known as dingia and another kind was gyotii.13 Everyone sat down and ate a meal together. It was early morning and the sun’s rays were spreading over the whole earth. In the same way, the gifts were given to everyone. This is when our ritual exchanges began. Then people followed separate paths, going from Mudo Supung toward Mudo Dokan, the most famous lapang. Along the way many arguments broke out between Apatanis and Nyishis, especially about sex and valuable objects. For instance, a man stole a brass plate, and a priest decided that he must pay compensation. That was the first theft in our history. There was also a competition at Mudo Dokan. Tabya Tage brought firewood; Hao brought a strange animal, a kind of bear; Hong brought a tiger; Michi Bamin, Mudan Tage, Dutta and Hija brought birds and a boar. The Dusu and Tanyang clans, from Hari and Hija, brought a hunted human head.14 While at Mudo Dokan, the ancestors came into conflict with people at Biitu and Tanyo. But Aba Pibo used mithun skulls to frighten these enemies and drive them away. Later the first case of a stolen mithun arose. When Biirii Donyi’s mithun disappeared, it turned out that Lali Donyi and Sili Donyi had actually stolen it. 12 This association of brass plates with the halyang is not consistent with local belief that they are Tibetan. However, many of these plates are manufactured in Assam, and their high value is naturally linked with the ‘wealthy’ halyang. 13 On dingia (or buniin) and gyotii gifts, see chapter 6. 14 No one I asked could explain this reference.

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In the end, alliances between men were strengthened at Mudo Dokan. The gifts that people used to give were replaced by better ones, such as pig skins, hornbills, squirrels, rats and other wild animals. As a result the bonds of friendship grew stronger and stronger.15 Then a divination ritual was held in Mudo Supung to determine which path to take next. The indicated route led the ancestors to the Kuru-Kime river whose deep currents make a loud sound like gurgling water.16 It was full of harmful insects, and the current was so powerful that people couldn’t cross. They settled on the bank, where they lived for the next 20 generations. Finally, a small boy, named Nibo Ruchi, who was a skilled swimmer, used a boat and helped everyone to cross. When all the ancestors had crossed, they walked on and again they met high, fog-covered mountains. They circled them, descended and found they had to cross the Kuru-Kime river a second time. This time they sacrificed mithuns and were able to cross easily. When everyone had crossed, the halyang went ahead and came to the Panior River. But, as they went downstream, they made cuts on the sanji miiri tree, which quickly turns dark after it is cut. This way, the halyang left no marks. When the Apatanis came along the path and saw no marks, they thought the halyang had passed there long ago and were far ahead. So they turned back and reached Ziro. They had gone down the Panior River as far as Neepco, to a place called Hage Boro.17 Here our ancestors again split into smaller groups and followed the different paths that eventually took them to their villages in the Apatani valley. Our people of Hao took the Silo path that led up from the river bank to the high mountain; later they continued on the Pyutu route. The people of Hong chose the lower route, the Siike path, which followed course of the river and led to another route known as Sipyu Gyayu. The people of Diibo crossed the river and followed the Chiilyang route. A few of these people, the sons of Aba Pigu, lost their way but eventually found the Chiilyang route. The

15 The teller explained that when the ancestors depart Mudo Supung, the story leaves miji and enters migung because now events take place in a time and place closer to the present. 16 In Apatani ritual speech, ‘Kuru-Kime’ refers to the Kamla River, which is formed by the confluence of the Kuru and Kime rivers. 17 NEEPCO (Northeast Electricity Production Company) built a dam across the Panior River in 2003.

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people of Hari, travelling on the Pyutu route, faced resistance from the people of Tabyang-Talyang, but our ancestors defeated them. Now the paths became easier and people moved quickly. When they crossed a mountain, Talyang Tagyang sacrificed a mithun and eventually they reached Silo Supung [Ziro] and Sipyu Supung [near Old Ziro]. Here our Tani people flourished.18 In the middle of Silo Supung was the settlement at Biirii, whose leader was Ato Diyu. He performed the very first Myoko ceremony there, at Biirii. He conducted it along with Biyu Tadu, Bima Tama and Bihi Tai. Biba Tamya was another famous man, who dug the first irrigation channel. He was very wealthy and reared many pigs, but he had no sons, only ten daughters. He married six daughters to the leaders of Hiici and four to men of Hiitii.19 In this way, the descendants of Ato Diyu spread throughout our valley. 3. Lost Writing One major event during the long and difficult migration to the Apatani valley was the loss of writing. Although this event is sometimes included within the migration story, it is also told separately. In fact, it stands somewhat apart from the supung to supung movement that structures the migration story. It is also unusual in that it occurs in a known geographical place—the Kamla River, about a day’s walk from the valley. All this, plus the fact that Apatani contact with writing had been minimal before 1850, suggests that this explanation for illiteracy is a relatively recent addition to the migration legend. This story was told by the 70-year old Hage Hiiba in a friend’s house in Hari village in 2002. Hage Komo (my research assistant) and I began by asking him about the first colonial contact in 1897 (Myth and History 8), and he responded by talking about the migration. In the middle of the recording, he suddenly stopped, looked at us and said, “There’s another story here, when the ancestors got to the KuruKime River. Shall I tell that?” What happened is that when our people came from Iipyo Supung and Nyime Supung, they had to cross a river. It was the KuruKime [ Kamla] River, not far from here. They had to cross it more Omitted here is a long list of clan ancestors. ‘Hiici’ refers to the villages on the west side of the valley and ‘Hiitii’ to those on the east. 18 19

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than once, and it was so wide that they needed a big boat to carry everyone across. They waited on the bank until a tall tree grew. 92 children were born before the tree was tall enough to be made into a boat—that’s how long it took. Everyone crossed in the same boat—halyang, misan and Apatanis. And all of them had papers with them. But the Apatanis held their papers in their armpits, while the halyang kept them in their mouths. When the boat rocked back and forth, everyone held fast to the sides, and so the Apatanis lost their papers! The halyang held their papers between their teeth, and that’s why they have writing today and we Apatanis do not.20 4. Settling the Valley The migration story ends in Silo (Ziro) Supung, the present-day Apatani valley. Once the ancestors reached the valley, they must have felt it was the end of their wanderings. But one last obstacle remained: the bura, a mythic animal living in a swamp in the valley. When it was killed, the swamp was drained and the seven original villages were settled.21 As foundation myths go, this Apatani story is thin in narrative and lacks a culture hero. Nevertheless, the story excited the curiosity of Europeans. Ralph Izzard, a journalist in Delhi for the London-based Daily Mail, accompanied C. R. Stonor, a naturalist, on a trip to the valley in 1945 and returned again in 1946. Izzard’s book, The Hunt for the Buru, presents the results of this pseudo-scientific expedition as a boy’s own tale of adventure and mystery. Luckily, it includes several versions of the bura (buru) story, one of which is a parallel of the story given here. Izzard explained that three of the four brass plates that (in his version) killed the bura ‘have been lost or destroyed, but a small piece of one is preserved in Hang village, though no stranger is ever allowed to see it.’22 Fifty years later, I was shown another brass plate, in another village, said to have killed the bura. As the story below explains, the plate was damaged (‘lost one of its eyes’) when fleeing from a man whose son it had killed. 20 The teller added, ‘Those documents were given to us by Nyantii Pota [Mother of Paper]’. Pota (‘paper’) is an Assamese loan. ‘Nyantii Pota’ was not recognised by anyone whom I asked. 21 Animals appear in foundation myths of many Himalayan societies; but they are usually helpers and not, as here, enemies of the ancestors (Allen 1997). Stories about a mythic aquatic animal (buro, bura, bru) are told by Adis and Galos, but none is a foundation myth. 22 Izzard 1951: 25.

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Some versions of the Apatani migration story claim that the ancestors defeated tribes living in the valley before they arrived, but those conflicts have not remained in social memory.23 It was not the prowess of a warrior-hero, or even the guile of Abo Tani, that settled the valley and established Apatani culture there. Rather, clearing a swamp and destroying a fierce creature living in it led to the fertile paddy fields that sustain Apatani life today. That foundational event is embodied in the brass plate.24 This story was told to me, in a mixture of English and Apatani, by Kalung Lento, in his house in Kalung village in 2001. The photograph was taken a year later in the house of Lod Talyang, the oldest man in the village. After a little persuasion, the brass plate (named myamya) was brought out for me by Talyang’s daughter-in-law, who brushed away the dust that had gathered on it and proudly held it aloft. [see photograph 12] Long ago this valley was a swamp, and in the water lived a strange animal called the bura. We don’t know what it was exactly, probably like a crocodile. Anyway, there were no rivers or fields, only this swamp with the bura. One day the bura tried to dig a deep hole in the middle of the swamp, so that it could hide under water. When the villagers saw this, they ran in fear. They thought the bura would attack them. Then two myamya (one female and one male brass plate) left the house to fight this bura. In the battle, the female myamya died, but the male myamya chopped off the bura’s head and killed it. When the male brass plate returned, the man of the house was out, but it was so full of aggression after attacking the bura that it chopped off the head of the man’s son, too. When the man returned and saw his dead son, he picked up a pestle and charged after the brass plate, which fled and hid in a bamboo grove. There it ran into a sharp bamboo stump and damaged one of its eyes. Even today the brass plate still has that damaged eye. Sometimes this myamya plate is used to cure skin diseases; we rub rice powder on it and a priest does a small ritual.

23 See, for example, the previous story. Takhe Kani (1993: 38) mentions three tribes (Ziro, Dusu and Tabyu) whom the ancestors defeated. 24 Brass plates, like bead necklaces and metal bells, are invested with high value and passed down from mother to daughter as heirlooms.

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5. Origin of the Mithun Origins are perhaps the most common subject of oral histories and myths. Beginnings of the world, migration from homelands and descent from ancestors are among the Apatani origin stories included in this book. The origin of material possessions is a less grand but equally popular topic, and Apatanis locate the source of most valuable things within the Abo Tani cycle of stories. Rice, for example, is given to Apatanis by him in the migration story (Myth and History 2), while in another story (not included in this book) his son is credited with the manufacture of metal bells and plates. One valuable possession not linked to Abo Tani is the mithun, the semi-domesticated, ox-like animal that provides meat and prestige. Mithuns are killed at major festivals, and their meat is distributed according to local practices of exchange, after which their skulls are displayed as trophies. Tribes in central Arunachal Pradesh explain the origin of the mithun in various ways, including born of brother-sister incest; from a spirit; from a girl who dresses herself with gourds for ears, bamboo tubes for arms and legs and a bamboo strainer for a tail.25 Stories told in the Subansiri region are different and belong to a cluster of tales, popular in the eastern Himalayas, about competition between brothers.26 In the Apatani story, the challenge is to ferment good rice-beer; the loser is cursed to become the mithun, which will be sacrificed for the benefit of mankind. In the account given here, edited from a long chant at the Murung festival (Ritual Text 1), the competitors are sisters, called Nikun and Sukun. On this early morning, I tell the story of Nikun and Sukun, The story of the ancestors who became man and mithun. An elephant was born in the arii group of animals, but it was not fit to become Nikun. An elephant was born in the amyo group of animals, but it was unsuited for Sukun. Elwin 1958: 436–44; Mibang and Abraham 2002: 19–21; Bhattacharya 1965: 30. These stories typically explain why one group of people lives in the plains and another in the hills, and/or why one has writing and the other is illiterate. 25

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chapter four A deer born in the arii group was not fit to become Nikun; An antelope born in the amyo group was unfit to be Sukun. A tasa insect was born in the arii group and a monkey in the amyo group, But neither was suited to become our ancestors, Nikun and Sukun.27 When Nikun Anii fell down, Jigi Pu tried to make her into an animal, but Nikun Anii disappeared; Sukun Jima Pu also tried, but again Nikun Anii vanished. When Lungi Anii fell down, Rupu Soso Karbo mated with her and Nikun was conceived; When Lungi Anii fell down, Ayen Bobo Karbo mated with her and Sukun was conceived. Still, Nikun and Sukun struggled inside their mother’s womb; They fought with each other and were unable to come out. Nikun’s birth was assisted by a stone, which created her eyes and tail. Sikun’s birth was helped by firewood, which created her eyes and tail. Finally, Lungi Anii gave birth to Nikun and Sukun. Nikun, the older, was born in the house; Sukun, the younger, was born in the forest. Nikun’s placenta was cut and tied with thread, and Sukun’s with river reeds. Nikun began to eat rice, and Sukun chose wild grass.

27

Several more verses describing unsuitable animals are omitted.

myths and histories Then Nikun, the elder, said to Sukun, the younger, ‘Let us compete, and see who is best In clearing the forest and managing the paddy fields. The winner will become a man, and eat rice and millet; The loser will become a mithun, and eat only wild grass.’ The sisters set to work, but Sukun did nothing; She was lazy and had no desire to eat rice; Nikun was intelligent and worked hard in the fields. Sukun asked only that the yopo basket become her wide mouth, And that the flat winnowing basket become the smooth front of her head. Sukun asked that the pestle become her short horns, And that the spindle become her large eyes. She asked that the hurta board28 become her long tongue, And that mounds of rice become her large stomach. Then Popi Sarmin, the wise ancestor spoke: ‘You, Sukun, the younger sister, and you, Nikun, the older sister, You must compete again, in another contest. This time we will see who can make the best rice-beer. 28

A flat, wooden board used for draining rice.

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chapter four Whoever makes beer taste good will drink it during feasts; And the one who does not will be killed in feasts.’ Popi Sarmin set this challenge, and the sisters accepted. Each began to prepare rice-beer, to make it as tasty as possible. Nikun used rice and millet, but Sukun used only wild grass. ‘Nikun,’ said Popi Sarmin, your beer tastes good. Sukun, yours did not ferment and it tastes bad.’ Nikun became man, and Sukun became mithun. They were united, like chicken and grain; Man and mithun were connected, like necklaces and bracelets. Popi Sarmin spoke again, and said to them: ‘Nikun and Sukun, you must look after each other. You are man and mithun; you are joined together.’ 6. Origin of Cotton, Wool, Thread and Dyes

While the prestigious mithun belongs to the world of meat and men, Apatanis are no less interested in the world of rice and women. Accounts of the origin of rice appear in a variety of ritual texts and Abo Tani stories. More interesting, I think, are stories about the origins of weaving, designs, cotton, wool and dyes, which are numerous and told primarily by women. Presiding over women’s material culture is the ancestor-spirit Hintii Anii, who is a key figure also in the story about the beginnings of the world (Myth and History 1). As in that myth, in

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the stories below her body is the source of the natural world. In one story, her hair becomes threads, while her hips and skull are used in the preparation of dyes. In other versions (not included here), she cultivates cotton seeds on her chin; her urine and earwax are used to make dyes; and various weaving implements originate from her limbs. In the third story below, we also learn that a special weaving design arose from a close observation of the peacock’s feathers. ‘Eye-mouth’ (ami-agung) is the distinctive motif of Apatani weaving; its pattern of small diamonds and dots, in red, black and dark orange, differentiates it from the weaving of other tribes, especially the bright and large geometric designs of Adi textiles. When I looked at textiles, friends would often point out the ‘eye-mouth’ and say proudly, ‘That’s our design.’ Few Apatanis, however, appear to mind that ‘traditional’ weaving materials have been replaced by commercial products. What matters is that the new cotton and wool synthetic blends are superior in quality. These new products are brought to the valley by Indian merchants who buy it wholesale in India and sell it to storeowners in Hapoli. As the 90year-old Hage Gyati told me, when I asked about the old woollen shawls he once wore as a priest, ‘Oh, those weren’t any good. I was always cold in them. But these new ones are very warm, really good!’ These three stories were narrated by Hage Yabyung, a woman of about 60 years. Story 1 Once a woman named Murtu went into the Siiko forest and set a trap. A kaci bird was about to take the bait inside the bamboo trap, but it escaped unhurt. A second time the same bird was caught, this time under a stone trap. But it got away again because a pair of old people let it out. Finally, however, the bird was caught and killed. Its jaw was placed on a wooden plank and slit open with a knife. Inside were seeds. People took the seeds to Tado Dolyang, to Nyomping Landin, to Duley Hanyang and finally to Hachang Lanko. But no one could identify them. Some said they were a kind of wild tomato and some that they were a smaller fruit. Finally they were identified as cotton seeds. You see, that bird had eaten seeds from a cotton plant. The seeds were sown at Iiji Myolyi, but they were eaten by small rats. They were sown at Murta Mobyang, but they were all eaten by pigeons. Finally, Iiji Chambu forest was cleared—the trees felled and

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the brush burned. A man named Turu used a small piece of bamboo to turn the soil, and the cotton seeds were sown in that cleared land. The people also put up a fence of sama wood on all four sides. Soon the seeds germinated, and after a few days little sprouts appeared, but no one really knew what kind of plant would grow. When it reached the height of the tagin taje grass [2 or 3 feet], everyone knew it was cotton. Then those little white balls flowered. They named the seeds murtu mepin and said that they were the gift of Hintii Anii. They were later cultivated in small gardens. Story 2 At first people tried to weave cloth in different ways. They plucked hairs from a monkey, but that didn’t work. Then they tried to use the fur of a flying squirrel, but it was too brittle and didn’t work either. The hairs of a cantu rat were also tried and failed. Same with the feathers of the dika bird. Finally, they began to use sheep’s wool. But the threads were not fine enough, so Hintii Anii created fine ones from her own hair. She made black hairs, blue hairs and white hairs. Women collected those hairs and used them to weave. With Hintii Anii’s hairs, women wove fine shawls. Hintii Anii’s own skull was used as a pot in which to make dye from the mobyu leaf found near the Kuru River. Her hip was used as a plate in which to pound the paye leaves, which came from a tree found near the Kime River and were made into dye. That’s how the dyes were made for our shawls. Story 3 Of course, we Apatanis [tanii ] didn’t actually grow cotton; Nyishis did that. We got our cotton from those Nyishis. We gave them edible insects and rice, and we got cotton and pigs from them. Once we got the cotton, we spent the whole night rolling it out with a wooden rod. Then we spun it on a wooden frame and wound it into balls on a bamboo skeiner. Next we would carefully unravel the balls and put all the threads into a pot of water, along with some rice grains. We put the pot on a fire and boiled the water until the rice was half-cooked. We took the pot off the fire, took the threads out and let them cool. These ‘cooked’ threads were left to dry in the sun, and after that they were ready to be used in weaving. Back then, in order to make an orange colour, we went into the forest and looked for a sanke tree. We would strip off its bark and

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cut it into small pieces. Then we put the pieces into a pot, with the threads and rice, and cooked it overnight. That way we got the orange threads used in the ‘eye-mouth’ design. In order to make red, we collected a climbing vine from the forest and boiled it the same way, overnight. We got a kind of black colour by submerging the threads under the water in the nursery fields, for a whole month. Blue was made by Nyishis, by the Taru and Laji clans. Our mothers went to their longhouses and brought the blue threads home for us. Sheep’s wool came from far away, beyond the Nyishi country, where sheep were found. We used that wool to make shawls; it came as blankets and we unravelled it and then wove it ourselves into our own shawls. For shirts and skirts we used cotton from Nyishis. Skirts needed fine threads, but for shirts we used coarse threads. When we wanted to weave black skirts, we first soaked the cotton threads either in the nursery fields or in polished rice water. Then we rubbed black smudges from the bottom of a pot onto the threads. Sometimes we stretched out the threads so they would absorb the colour better. We wove different kinds of shawls—zilang [for priests and councilmen], pyamin [orange], misan [Nyishi & Hill Miri] and lyapu [ordinary]—plus shirts, skirts and even trousers. Most of the threads were the same for all of these; we only made small adjustments. Nowadays, the cotton and wool we get from the halyang are very consistent. The cotton we got before had a lot of knots and was coarse. But the halyang threads are fine and even. Our weaving tools haven’t changed much, but we do produce new designs because of our skilled handiwork. 7. Origins of Social Classes: Burning a Dictionary The following two brief stories concern a deep rupture in Apatani society. Gyuci and gyutii, whose origins the stories describe, are the two classes or social divisions among Apatanis: gyuci have a lower status; the more numerous gyutii have a higher status. Each exogamous clan is either gyuci or gyutii.29 Although little is known about the history of these groups, it is likely that some gyuci, who are about

Some clan groups, which own a nago and/or lapang, include both gyuci and gyutii clans. 29

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one quarter of the population, entered Apatani society as bondsmen and women, captured in raids on Nyishis and held for ransom (often exchanged for Apatanis similarly held by Nyishis) or as security for unpaid debts. Other gyuci were probably bought as servants, or acquired in the settlement of a dispute or voluntarily came to the valley to work as servants. These variously acquired dependents were brought up in Apatani households and often assimilated into local culture;30 some became ‘free Apatanis’ with their own houses and paddy fields. A few even gained wealth and power, and one or two have become priests. Gyuci can not, however, become gyutii, and the reverse is also true. Inter-marriage, once unheard of, is still rare in the early twenty-first century.31 Men and women who marry ‘beneath’ them, like those who marry partners from other tribes, are prohibited from taking part in the clan-based Myoko pig sacrifice. Some gyuci clans stand in a client-patron relation to a gyutii clan and, although dependence and deference are disappearing, the inequality between them is still a fault line running down the centre of Apatani society. For example, since the first elections to the State Legislative Assembly in 1978, the member elected from the Apatani valley has always been a gyutii, although some gyuci have held power at the local panchayat level. This old conflict found a new expression in 2001. I needed a good dictionary and eventually got my hands on a serviceable Apatani-English-Hindi dictionary, compiled by an Indian scholar. Then I heard that an Apatani-English dictionary was being put together, with the aid of a computer, by the Apatani Culture and Literary Society. When would it be published? Soon, I was told. That was March 2001. When I returned a year later, the dictionary was still unavailable. Then friends confided that the dictionary had, in fact, been published in July 2001 and distributed to schools and a few individuals. Within weeks of its release, however, most copies had been seized and burned at a burial ground near Hapoli. The dispute centred on two definitions in the dictionary: gyuci was given as ‘people of lower caste;’ and gyutii as ‘people of upper caste.’ The editors and compiler of the dictionary were gyutii; those who Today some young girls from Assam (and Nepal) working as servants in Apatani homes also assimilate and marry Apatani men. 31 Fürer-Haimendorf (1980: 98) reported ten or twelve marriages between gyutii and gyuci. Today, they are about 5% of Apatani marriages. 30

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objected and burned it were gyuci. There were other objections to this first dictionary written by Apatanis; for instance, it excluded many ritual words and variations in village dialects. However, it was the equation of gyuci with low Hindu castes that enraged gyuci, who demanded that the dictionary be reissued with an apology and new definitions.32 Many gyuci wanted themselves to be defined as ‘the group descended from Kojing’ and gyutii to be defined as ‘the group descended from Pusang.’ These are the definitions based on the stories given below. The gyutii man who had compiled the dictionary responded to these demands with the threat of a law suit for destruction of property. Later, demands for a public apology were accepted by some gyutii but rejected by others. Another suggestion—that a mithun be given to the offended party—was also rejected. The dispute simmered on, factions emerged, associations formed and resolutions passed, until the summer of 2004, just before the state-wide elections. Gyuci groups called a supung dapo, or valley-wide reconciliation meeting, and gyutii groups countered with a call for their own meeting. The next day the District Commissioner published a formal announcement prohibiting the ‘movement of any persons/vehicle whether single or in groups, whether Apatani or nonApatani out of their houses/residences/hotels/places of shelter/villages in the open spaces/markets/fields/jungles and on the roads . . . from 5 am onward.’33 A week later the DC organised a reconciliation meeting in Hapoli, followed by another in the Chief Minister’s office in Itanagar. An agreement was reached, including a public apology and a promise to revise the definitions in any second printing and not to sell the original dictionary. When a second dictionary was published that summer of 2004, by a second group of gyutii, it contained definitions even more offensive than the first. In it, gyutii are defined as ‘patrician class . . . aristocrats;’ and gyuci are said to form three sub-groups: ‘original,’ ‘slave’ and ‘immigrant slave.’ The political fall-out was immediate. In the elections a few weeks later, the gyutii Member of the State Legislative Assembly (and a Minister) was unable to distance himself from the conservative

32 Fürer-Haimendorf likened Apatani social classes to Hindu castes, but he noted that the tribal hierarchy lacked notions of purity/impurity and was more inclusive (FürerHaimendorf 1980: 90; see also Davy 1945: 5, 61, passim; Takhe Kani 1993: 54–63). 33 Order U/S 144 Cr. P. C. issued on 20.08.04 from the Office of the Deputy Commissioner, Lower Subansiri District.

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gyutii who had published the second dictionary. His opponent in the election was also a gyutii, but he publicly agreed with those who wanted reconciliation. As a result, he also gained most of the gyuci vote and won the election. This disputed dictionary illustrates the power of print in a primarily oral culture. Before the dictionary appeared, two different explanations of gyutii and gyuci circulated, but they were both oral.34 Many Apatanis (mostly gyutii ) said that the social divide was the continuation of an historical difference in status. The oral stories below, however, explain the current inferior status as the reversal of an original moral superiority. In the first story, Kojing, the older brother, lost status and became gyuci because he showed affection for his younger brother. In the second story, Pusang, the younger brother, comes out on top because he cheats his honest, older brother. Before the dictionary appeared, both explanations circulated in oral tradition. Now only one—that the current situation is a continuation of historical differences—has the authority of print. As an arbiter of language, a dictionary has more authority than most printed books. While all dictionaries search for equivalences, a bilingual one, such as this controversial Apatani-English one, must find them in another language. This double translation widens the gap between speech and print, removing the printed definitions even further from the compensatory flexibility of oral tradition. In our case, the compilers chose a Portuguese-derived English word (caste), used by colonial writers to describe Indian society, to stand in for social divisions among TibetoBurman speakers in the eastern Himalayas. In the end, the disputed dictionary reveals once again the separation that Apatanis wish to maintain between themselves and the halyang in the plains. To be considered a low-caste Indian is unpleasant to any Apatani. To have your social group defined as such in the ‘official’ book (for that is what this dictionary will become) is deeply offensive.35 34 Not entirely oral, however. Fürer-Haimendorf first used the terms mura and mite (miira and mitii ), which he translated as ‘plebian’ and ‘patrician’ (Fürer-Haimendorf 1962: 70). Apatanis (mostly gyutii ) pointed out that the Apatani terms mean ‘slave’ and ‘slave-owner,’ whereas the social divisions are not confined to these roles. By then slave-holding was illegal and punishable by fines. Fürer-Haimendorf later used ‘gyuci’ and ‘gyutii.’ 35 In early 2008, the Apatani Literary and Culture Society announced plans to publish a third edition, with definitions based on the story of Kojing and Pusang.

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These two stories were told to me in 2002 by Tage Diibo, an intelligent man in his 40s. He is active in the Indigenous Faith and Culture Society of Arunachal Pradesh, which attempts to stem the tide of outside religions by promoting local religious practices and beliefs. Although he (a gyuci ) criticised the definitions published in the first dictionary, he did not support its burning and has argued for a resolution to the dispute. Story 1 There were two brothers. Kojing was the older, and Pusang was the younger. One day they went to the forest. When Pusang was injured by a sharp piece of bamboo, Kojing carried him on his back. Pusang said, ‘Since you are carrying me, you are my servant.’ Kojing accepted this, even though he was the older brother. This is how Kojing became the ancestor of the gyuci and Pusang the ancestor of the gyutii. Story 2 Two plants grew wild in the jungle, one was the kempu [white banana] and the other was the kelang [red banana]. It’s said that Kojing was honest and sincere, and that Pusang was not. In any case, while in the forest one day, Kojing picked the kempu plant and Pusang picked the kelang plant. Pusang quickly realised the kempu was more valuable, so he tricked his older brother by saying, ‘Kojing, those leaves you have are no good. You’d better throw them away.’ Kojing believed him and threw them away. Then Pusang picked them up and gave Kojing the worthless kelang leaves. From then on, the person with the kempu plant has been the dominant one. 8. First Colonial Contact, 1897 A photograph taken in 1897, during a punitive military expedition to the Apatani valley, shows British and Indian officers and soldiers standing around a group of Apatanis, Nyishis (and possibly Hill Miris) and the commanding British officer. They are negotiating compensation for a murder. [see photograph 13] In 2002, I took a badly-reproduced copy of this photograph to the Apatani valley. While I had little hope that anyone would remember this event more than a hundred years later, I thought the photograph

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might prompt memories of other historical events. Remarkably, however, the first men who saw the photograph remembered this first official colonial contact well enough to tell the story given here.36 It is not the same story told in the colonial records; but neither is it contradictory.37 Rather the oral history, remembered 105 years later, supplies the background that contains the motivations for the actions described in the colonial sources. In late 1896, a murder was reported to the British authorities in North Lakhimpur, who passed the information on to their superiors in Shillong. A party of Apatanis, it was reported, came down from the hills and raided the house of Podu (a Hill Miri man who worked as a labour contractor for a tea plantation close to the Inner Line). Two Hill Miris were killed in the attack, and four were taken back to the Apatani valley, one of whom died en route. In February 1897, a force of 300 Assam Rifles and their officers, supported by 400 porters and servants, began to climb into the hills. Groups of soldiers were left at various staging posts, so that when the expedition entered the Apatani valley it consisted of 120 soldiers. These armed outsiders were met at the edge of Hong village by a group of Apatani men who held long spears and shouted angrily, ‘Do not enter our village. We’ll call our leaders and you can talk.’ But when the commanding officer, R. B. McCabe, marched ahead, the Apatani men gave way. Negotiations began the next morning, and ‘the palaver’ (the name given to this photograph) lasted for two full days. McCabe, who had spent 20 years in the northeast, admitted that he had never had to show more patience and restraint. The chief Apatani spokesman admitted to having led the raid but then subjected his opposite number to several hours of uninterrupted oratory, during which he used the local method of making his points. To enumerate Apatani grievances against Hill Miris, he placed small bamboo pieces (kottir), one by one, on a longer stick which lay on the ground. Each small piece represented a claim: a mithun stolen, a debt unpaid, a woman captured. Many Apatanis, the spokesman alleged, had been contracted by Podu (the murdered man) to work in the tea plantations, and many had been cheated or

This discussion is revised from Blackburn 2003/2004. The ‘official’ account is found in McCabe 1897 and summarised in Reid 1942: 274–76. 36 37

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died there. In the end, the Apatanis turned over the three captives, as well as a gun that they had stolen from Podu’s house. Whatever its irritations, this speech and the return of the captives apparently persuaded McCabe to mitigate punishment. He demanded only the return of 10 further captives and a gun taken in a another raid. The Apatanis agreed to free six of the 10 but then presented McCabe with three mithuns and a valuable Tibetan bell, after which they fed the entire party, including the soldiers. Realising that the mithuns would only end up in the hands of the Nyishi porters, who had cheated him throughout the expedition, McCabe, in a final gesture of reciprocity, gave the mithuns back to the Apatanis. These events are narrated in McCabe’s report as a successful police case: accusation received, suspects apprehended, punishment given and justice served. Apatanis had committed murders, albeit in retaliation for crimes against them, and they had been brought to justice. For Apatanis, however, this first colonial contact was not a court case but one event in a tangled web of relations with their neighbours. For them, the story began not with the raid and the killings in the plains but with another murder, committed several months before in a nearby Nyishi village.38 An Apatani man had harboured the Nyishi murderer and then sent him to safety in a village near the plains. By this act of friendship, however, the Apatani man had exposed himself to danger. When the hiding place was revealed and the Nyishi murderer was killed by his victim’s family, the Apatani man thought that the dead man’s soul might (wrongly) conclude that he was to blame and seek revenge. In retaliation, the Apatani man raided the village that had revealed the Nyishi man’s hiding place and thus placed himself in danger. Two men were killed in that raid, which brought the soldiers for the first time to the valley. The story below was told by Hage Hiiba and Hage Tapa, men aged about 70 and 65 respectively. When I showed them the photograph and mentioned that it was taken when the British first came to the valley, a sign of recognition flashed in their eyes. ‘This happened in our grandfathers’ time,’ they said. ‘We didn’t see it, but we know what happened.’

38

Linia, a village north of the Apatani Valley.

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I heard from my grandfather that before this time [1897] a few Apatanis had gone to the plains to trade, mainly for salt; some also worked in tea plantations. Many died there, for various reasons. Anyway, several months before the soldiers came to the valley, there had been a murder in the [ Nyishi] village of Linia, and the murderer, a Nyishi man, had sought and been given shelter by an Apatani friend here in Hari village.39 The Apatani friend then secretly sent the murderer to another village, close to the plains, to keep him safe. Someone in that second village, however, betrayed his whereabouts to the village where the murder had taken place; soon a party of the dead man’s clansmen captured the murderer and took him back to Linia. On the way, they passed through the Apatani valley and stopped at the house of the man in Hari who had given him shelter. But the captive accused his Apatani friend of having betrayed him. He called him ‘maternal uncle’ but cursed him to die if he himself died. Next day, the Nyishi captive was taken to his village and probably killed there. When he heard this news, the Apatani man set out to attack the village near the plains that had betrayed the hiding place of the murderer. I think he did this because he knew that if the murderer was himself killed believing, as he did, that the Apatani man had betrayed him, then the murderer’s soul would take revenge against him. Angry at those who had revealed the hiding place of the murderer, which put himself in danger, the Apatani man gathered a small party and carried out the raid. I don’t know exactly what happened in that raid, but I think some people were killed. That’s why those misan [Hill Miris] in the plains asked the British for help in claiming compensation from us. When the British came with soldiers, they held a meeting on a little hill, called Biirii, between Hari and Hong village. A Nyishi, named Kupe Taku, who lived in Hong, tried to arbitrate between the misan, halyang and us. But when the meeting was convened, very few Apatanis came. They didn’t come because the halyang were stealing chickens and eggs, pigs from the village.

39 This is an example of manyang, a ceremonial friendship between Apatanis and Nyishis (and Hill Miris).

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The Apatanis were represented by Hage Dolyang, Tasso Gyayu, Hage Epo and Tasso Kano. But the main speaker was Tasso Murchi, who wore a special priest’s shawl and brass bracelets. Tasso Murchi used the bamboo sticks (kottir) as counters to indicate each Apatani who had been killed or cheated by Nyishis and Hill Miris. At the end, there were more sticks for dead Apatanis than for the men killed in the raid, so the case against the Apatanis was dismissed. Hari village was fined one mithun, which was given to the British, who then gave it back. They didn’t know what to do with it. They couldn’t take it back down to the plains and they didn’t want to give it to the Nyishi porters because they didn’t get on with them. So they returned it to us. 9. Attack on Outsiders, 1948 During the half-century following the first colonial expedition to the Apatani valley in 1897, contacts between Apatanis and the authorities in Assam were not extensive. But when they did thicken in the 1940s, they culminated in an explosive event. In Spring 1948, several hundred Apatani men, armed with spears, bows and arrows, attacked the government outpost at Kure, a few hours walk from the valley. They were driven back by guns and three Apatanis died. In retaliation for the failed attack, the government burned two villages and their granaries, killing two more men in the process. About 4,000 people were forced to take refuge in the forest and later in other villages. In total, five Apatanis were killed, several wounded and many sent to jail, some of whom never returned. Known locally as Kure Chambyo (‘Attack on Kure’), this is the defining event of twentieth century history for Apatanis. According to colonial records, however, it never happened. 1948 was the breaking point in relations with the outsiders from the plains.40 Until the 1940s, British officials had visited the Apatani valley on only a few occasions, and only for a few days. All this changed when a small government presence, backed by the Assam Rifles, was set up in the valley in 1944. A few years later, a military outpost was established at Kure in the hills above the valley. The new authorities reduced the cycle of feud-raid-kidnapping-ransom that had drained local resources. However, as the oral histories below explain, the halyang

40

See details in chapter 2.

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were also responsible for the humiliation of forced porterage and the erosion of local authority. In May 1948, Kure was attacked, the first and only armed resistance by Apatanis against the halyang. This event has left a deep mark on local memory. Nearly every person aged over 60 with whom I spoke told me something about the attack and its aftermath, if only to list the names of the dead: Tasso Pilyang, Duyu Kolyang, Tasso Kojing, Hage Doley and Hage Khoda. Many older men and women also recounted their personal experiences, especially the deprivation caused by the burning of the granaries, with a mixture of sadness and anger. In official, written histories, however, Kure Chambyo never happened. Fortnightly reports submitted by the local government official in 1948 (the Political Officer based in the plains) do not mention an attack; they report only that an attack had been planned and that it had been prevented and the ‘ringleader arrested.’41 The oral stories presented below may not be entirely accurate, and they are certainly not complete, but at least they help ensure that this event is not erased from the historical record. The two stories below were told by different men at different times. The first is from Hage Bhatt, who at the time of the conflict was a boy of about 10 years. The second story was told by Mudan Donyi, a much younger man, whose father and uncle took part in the attack. Story 1 After Laling and Yalu [local names for Fürer-Haimendorf and his wife, Betty] came to the valley, disputes were generally solved by the halyang. As one example, the Bulo clan in Hong village got angry because they lost a case. After that, Hong village didn’t want the halyang to interfere in their affairs anymore. (SB)42 When did the halyang first come up to the valley? I was only about this high [ holds hand below his waist] when Haimendorf first came. I saw them when I went to Papii via Piige, on the road that connects Hija with the main road. (SB) Where did Haimendorf live? Was it Kure?

Public Records Office, Commonwealth Relations Office, London, DO 142/461. See also Bhattacharjee 1992: 21–23. 42 SB = Stuart Blackburn; HK = Hage Komo, my research assistant and son of Hage Bhatt, teller of the first account. 41

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No, it was in Hija, in Lying Piisa, then at Papii. When they set up in Papii, they made us carry loads as porters. They even brought a case against two people who refused to carry loads. That was Tasso Taser and Hage Tating. People used to carry loads from Kimin [in the plains] to Ziro, via Jorum and Laji Mai. First, we were made to carry loads, and then the halyang began to settle our disputes for us. Before they came, we settled them ourselves. Soon people started to say, ‘We shouldn’t allow these halyang to come up here. It’s not good. We should drive out these outsiders.’ The people who began to talk like this were, first of all, Tapi Kojing of Hong, Nako Gyati and Subu Khoda of Kalung, and Tasso Talu of Hari. Before long, the whole valley was saying, ‘They shouldn’t come here. We won’t discuss our disputes with them any more. We’ll settle them ourselves. We’ll attack them.’ The halyang had built a sort of shed, to store supplies, at Papii. After the people attacked Kure, they burned that shed, too. During the attack [at Kure], Hazarika Saab [Assamese official] and the sepoys fired their guns and three Apatanis were shot. (HK) Who was shot? First, it was Tasso Pilyang, Duyu Kolyang and Tasso Kojing. Those three. (HK) Just three? Yes, only those three were killed at Kure. After that, we couldn’t do anything. Only Dusu Riku was able to stab Hazarika Saab, like this [mimics thrusting spear through neck]. But when those three were shot dead, everyone ran and came back to our villages. Four days after the attack on Kure, Menji Baruah came to Hari with a party of eight sepoys.43 They fired their guns in the air. Bang! Bang! Then they called out to the PIs [Political Interpreters; Apatanis appointed by government] to come out. At that time the PIs in Hari were Dusu Tayu and Hage Doley. Dusu Tayu was immediately arrested and taken away. Hage Doley was shot and killed, near his granary.44 (HK) So he was the fourth one killed?

43 The identity of ‘Menji Baruah’ is uncertain; it may be a combination of S. C. Baruah (Assamese official at Kure) and R. G. Menzies (Anglo-Indian PO for Subansiri 1948–1955). 44 Another man who participated in the attack said that Hage Doley was handcuffed but ran off and was shot dead.

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Yes, he was the fourth. By then Menji Baruah was at Old Ziro [the government camp in the valley]. He ordered that Hari be burned—completely destroyed! During the burning, Hage Jarbo was shot in the back and his guts came out the front [but he didn’t die]. Then Landi Haley was shot and wounded in his bamboo grove, behind the village. Finally, Hage Khoda was shot and killed. After that, we gave in and did whatever work the government asked us to do—carrying loads, and other things. At Kure, there was Menji Baruah, Rai Saab, Genda Saab and a few Nyishi PIs—Kup Tania, Nik Kope and Taba Tatu.45 The Saabs [officials] began to appoint Apatanis as gaunboras, like Hage Dolyang, Gyati Tadu, Mudan Taker, Padi Lalyang and Take Tagu.46 These men agreed to cooperate with the government. They even asked to be forgiven for the attack on Kure. They agreed to all this because they didn’t want more of our people to be attacked and maybe killed. They even gave a valuable metal bell, a brass plate, a few mithuns and cows to the government with the pledge, ‘We’ll work for you.’ Soon a new government building was constructed on the hill near Old Ziro. We all helped to build it. We also did porter work, but when we worked, the soldiers insulted us: ‘Useless people! Can’t do any work.’ We carried their loads—so many loads! If we didn’t, we’d go to jail. We carried the loads up and down the mountains, to and from Kimin, to Daporijo, via Parsing, and Khemio near Tamen. We had to agree to do it; if not, they’d send us to jail. About 10 or 20 were sent to jail.47 (HK) Did you read any chicken or egg omens before attacking Kure? Yes. The older men gathered on the dokan lapang [oldest one in Hari] and read chicken livers. They did the same in Hong and Bula, too. Separately, we decided that we could attack. Reading the livers, we thought it was a good time to attack. Everyone went on the attack, except old men and women and children. All the men went. (HK) Why was Hari burned? Why not Hong? Because people told the halyang that Hari was the most powerful village and that Tasso Talu was involved. You see, we also had two Kup Tania (‘Kop Temi’) served under Fürer-Haimendorf and Betts, as well as Indian officials during the NEFA years (see note 61 below). 46 Gaunboras are government-appointed village headmen. 47 Some wealthy Apatanis paid others to replace them as porters. 45

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PIs in Hari—Dusu Tayu and Hage Doley—who did nothing to prevent the attack. They punished us for that, too, by burning the village. (HK) Weren’t there any PIs in Bula? No, they had only gaunboras, like Padi Lalyang, but Hong had PIs, like Tinyo Bida. But in Hong only Tapi Kojing’s house was burned. In Kalung the PIs were Nako Gyati and Subu Khoda, so Kalung was also burned and for the same reason: that they didn’t prevent the attack on Kure. They burned Hari first and then Kalung. (SB) What led to the attack on Kure? Before the halyang arrived, we used to settle disputes among ourselves. After Haimendorf arrived, we started to go to the Saabs—to him, to Menji Baruah and to Hazarika Saab. We wanted them to settle cases, but they used force and sometimes sent us to jail. We wanted to stop that; we wanted to handle our own affairs. We didn’t to want to follow their rules. (HK) Were any bulyang[councilmen] sent to jail? Of course, the bulyang wanted to settle the cases themselves and to avoid going to jail. They felt that the halyang were outsiders and shouldn’t solve our cases. We wanted to continue with the old ways, putting someone in the wooden block instead of sending them to jail. This is what our fathers and grandfathers told us—that we have bulyang and we can handle these cases. But the halyang interfered, in the case of the mithun and the case of a young girl. Story 2 Those two cases led to the attack on Kure. The first was the case of the girl in Hong. She wanted to leave her husband, but her husband’s father, Tapi Kojing, tried to persuade her to stay. ‘Once you go to a man’s house, you should stay there,’ he said. But she left anyway and began living with another man. They couldn’t stop her, but they got angry and complained to the halyang. That’s when the dispute started. The girl was a good speaker, and when she and her family went to Kure to see Menji Baruah, she convinced him that her first marriage had been ‘forced.’ Today we call it ‘child marriage.’ Menji Baruah decided the case by saying that forceful marriage was wrong. So Tapi Kojing lost the case, and the girl stayed with her lover, Punyo Kojing. The second case was in Hari. Taku Kime borrowed a mithun from Tasso Talu, and when Tasso Talu asked for it back, Taku Kime denied that he had it. Tasso Talu complained to Menji Baruah but

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lost the case. Apparently there was an eye-witness to the borrowing, I think it was Nako Gyati, but he was related to Tasso Talu. Then Tasso Talu began shouting, ‘These halyang have only just come up here, but already they are destroying our way of life!’ He was very angry. At this time, Menji Baruah used to spend a few months at Papii [in the valley] and at Kure [in the surrounding hills]. At Kure, his PIs were able to talk with him in Assamese, since that was his language. He could also talk with Tinyo Bida, Padi Lalyang and Myabo Tadu, as well as Dusu Tayu and Hage Doley. No one else could speak to him directly, they had to go through these men. Myabo Tadu was even in Kure at the time of the attack—he was that close to the government. Three men planned the attack: Tapi Kojing, Tasso Talu and Nako Gyati. They went around and convinced the other villages. Hari said, ‘We’re ready.’ Hong and Bula said, ‘We’re ready.’ But two villages, Mudan Tage and Michi Bamin, said that they had to talk it over first. In Mudan Tage, men gathered on the miipyan lapang and talked. The first to speak was Mudan Dandin Ribya, who asked, ‘Can we really defeat them?’ Dandin Hanya said, ‘Yes, we can. Let’s attack now. If we continue to report cases to the halyang, like the mithun and the girl cases, we’ll lose our authority; the bulyang will have no work. We shouldn’t obey the outsiders. It’s better to fight them. They just keep on coming up here. First it’s Haimendorf, then Sopi-Yuper, then Baruah.48 Little by little they’re coming up, and soon they’ll steal all our land. They’re easy to defeat. They’re soft. Even my little sister could knock three or four down with a single blow. They’re lazy and don’t even carry a machete. Don’t wear warrior clothes. They’re naked and soft, like worms!’ Mudan Abu said, ‘Yes, we can defeat them. If the whole valley joins together, we can do it.’ Mudan Taker—my uncle—said, ‘But they have guns, which spit out fire. It’s dangerous.’ Mudan Abu said, ‘If they use fire-power, we’ll put water on our bodies.’ [teller laughs] 48 ‘Sopi-Yuper’ is the Apatani name for Major F. N. Betts and his wife Ursula (neé Graham Bower); Betts succeeded Fürer-Haimendorf as government representative in the valley in late 1946.

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Tage Dolyang Tana said, ‘Yes, they even have soft, droopy necks, like mithuns. We can kill them through the neck.’ Buru Tayu said, ‘Even if we close our eyes, we can cut them down, by swinging our machetes, pok! pok! Like slicing through soft bamboo.’ In the end, it was decided to join the attack on Kure. The last speaker, who summarised the discussion, was Tage Uja, who said, ‘These halyang are naked and soft! You women and children! Get ready to strip off their belongings after we kill them.’ Now most of the villages were ready, including Mudan Tage and Bamin Michi. But they still had to consider whether they should inform Hija village. Mudan Dimpyo said, ‘Hija brought the halyang up here in the first place. Two Hija men, Pura Tagyang and Nada Tara, invited them here. Hija also reported a case to the halyang. So we shouldn’t tell them about the attack. After we attack Kure, we should burn Hija.’ In the old days, when Nyishis harassed women and children in the fields and forests, we drove them away. Now these men wanted to do the same to the halyang. To stop the bullets from coming out of the halyang guns, Apatanis sacrificed mithuns and did rituals to spirits, especially to Giirii Tamu and to Kacang Kali. When the priests and old men discussed how to stop those bullets, they said, ‘Our spirits are powerful; we can defeat the halyang.’ Then they told everyone to perform rituals and ask the spirits to help. Before the march to Kure, while the men from Mudan Tage were discussing whether to join the others, my father, Mudan Dandin Tagyang, had a dream. In it, he saw two frogs with various coloured stripes—brown, red, green. Then a third frog appeared, a fourth and finally a fifth. He tied them all to a bush by their legs to keep them from getting away. He thought that the frogs represented the souls of the halyang. Now that he had trapped them, he felt sure that the Apatanis would defeat the halyang. My father then spoke to his brother-in-law, who agreed with his interpretation of the dream. A large party moved out to attack Kure. Two men in the group, Liagi Tamin and Liagi Ruja, spoke among themselves: ‘Let’s go to the front of the line, past these people from Hari; they’re clever and might steal all the credit for the victory. If we get there first and kill a few halyang, we’ll be the famous ones!’ They ran ahead, full of expectation. Everyone had machetes and spears; they all wore the pidin and thought that the halyang were naked and defenceless.

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My father told me that he thought they would easily overcome the halyang. ‘As soon as we kill one or two,’ he thought, ‘the rest will run away’. When they got close, they began to shout war chants; holding their machetes high, they rushed forward shouting, ‘Ho! Ho! Kill them! Kill them!’ An Apatani named Myoba Tadu, who was there at Kure, heard the shouts and told Menji Baruah, who screamed: ‘What? Why are they attacking us?’ Then he asked what weapons they had. When he heard that they had machetes, spears, bows and arrows, Baruah felt relieved and said, ‘Let them attack. We’re not prepared, but let them come.’ The Apatanis ran forward, shouting their war cries. When the guards cocked their guns, the Apatanis thought that the sound meant the guns weren’t working! [teller laughs] The rituals had worked! They rushed forward. One man, Bulyi Tage Kago, had brought a dog’s head from a sacrifice he had done and threw it at the guard-house. But, instead of going inside, it just hit the wall and fell down, useless. Menji Baruah told his men to hold their fire. One soldier stuck his head out the window to get a better look, and then Dusu Riku, who was crouching beneath the window, speared him through the throat! The soldiers opened fire and killed two people—Tasso Pilyang and Tasso Kojing. When the Apatanis fled, guess who were the first to run? Right, those two guys, Liagi Tamin and Liagi Ruja, who had boasted of killing the halyang and run to the front. Everyone fled, jumping down ravines, in all directions, to get away. Two died immediately, and another man, Duyu Kolyang, was wounded in the leg and couldn’t run. He tried to crawl away, but the sepoys found him. They wanted to carry him back to Kure, but they weren’t able to, so they left him. He crawled away, fell down a ravine and died. My father, unlike others, had not performed any rituals. So he said that when he ran he couldn’t see properly—maybe he had been too close to the gunfire. He had what we call ropuha, that is, he lost his eyesight and fell down unconscious. He lay there for about an hour before his brother-in-law found him and carried him on his shoulders; soon they reached a stream and he regained consciousness. My father told me that the soldiers didn’t chase them; they just stood still and fired—that’s all. If they had chased them, he said, they would have killed many more Apatanis.

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The first one to arrive back in the valley was a man from Mudan Tage. ‘Listen everyone!’ he shouted as he entered the village. ‘Slaughter your pigs and chickens and eat a big feast because the halyang have killed many at Kure and they’re coming here!’49 Then he went to an old man’s house and asked, ‘What are you going to cook for your siimi, your last meal?’ Everyone was frightened and fled into the bamboo groves. After they got back to their villages, the Apatanis did not burn Hija, as planned. But in a few days, Hari and Kalung were burned by the halyang. Later, my father told me, ‘This was the capture of our land by the halyang.’ 10. Hidden Treasure, Early 20th Century This is a story about one of the feuds that preoccupied tribes in the lower Subansiri region in the years before the imposition of external government authority. The feud described here, however, is not between Apatanis and Nyishis, but between two Nyishi clans, Laji and Taru, which is why it is known as Laji-Taru Chambyo (‘Laji–Taru Conflict’). Notwithstanding the fact that this story is told by Apatanis about their mistrusted neighbours, it does not cast Nyishis in an unfavourable light; in fact, stories about Apatanis contain a similar violence. Instead, the story here has the detachment of reportage, perhaps because the teller felt that he had to explain various cultural details to me. A treasure lies hidden in a cave. Unlike the treasure trove in many folktales, however, it is not in a secret location; and it is not recovered by a clever hero or by luck. In our story, everyone knows that the necklaces, metal bells and plates lie deep down in a crevice. As the teller explains, when the wind blows, we can hear the sound of the brass plates rattling. The mystery is not the location but its inaccessibility. The hidden objects hidden are considered Tibetan in origin and therefore valuable. Despite the coming of a cash economy and the virtual end of barter, these objects continue to be heirlooms and are infrequently sold. Apatanis keep them carefully hidden inside the house, usually under old shawls and inside torn baskets to disguise their true

49

In other words, prepare your final meal before death.

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value. The cave hiding the valuables in the story can be seen a few miles south of Hapoli. The events described in the story probably took place in the early twentieth century, when the Taru clan was dominant. The teller was Mudan Donyi. Taru was a Nyishi who was very rich, so rich that people lined up with empty baskets to cart off his possessions when he died. But before that there was a feud between his Taru clan and the Laji clan. It took place near Talo, in the hills behind our valley, in a place called Same Sante. The trouble was that because Taru was so rich, many people were planning to kill him. These enemies were always making alliances with other families, plotting to get rid of Taru and get his money. Taru himself knew nothing of this. He was such a confident and satisfied person that he thought no one could harm him. What happened was that there was a miida ceremony, when people gathered together and had a feast.50 In the old days, Nyishis used to gather for at least a week or even more to celebrate; they lived far apart, on scattered hilltops, and they had to travel a long distance. That’s why they stayed so long at the feast. Well, there was a miida feast at Taru’s house and everyone came. Among the visitors was Laji Tak and his family, including a newborn son. During the celebration, there was a sort of circle dance and song; Laji Tak’s newborn son was passed around in the circle, from person to person. But at the end of the dance he was dead! Someone—no one knew who—had stuck a piece of wood in the top of the baby’s head, in the soft spot on the crown, and it died. No one saw this except Laji Tak’s family, but they said nothing, and they did nothing. They couldn’t retaliate right there at the miida because they were outnumbered by the Taru clan. Later Laji Tak’s family got their revenge—they killed Taru Richo’s daughter by cutting her throat. Taru struck back by killing Laji Tak’s daughter, Koyamu. They caught her, stripped her and tied her hands and legs to tall bamboos, which had been bent down toward the ground and tied to stakes. When the bamboos were cut free, they sprang up with such force that the girl was split in two! And she was an unmarried girl. 50

On the miida, see chapter 6.

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Laji Tak knew he had to strike again, but he also knew that he couldn’t attack openly because his clan was smaller than Taru’s. Still, he must somehow kill the entire Taru family. So he planned a secret attack. One of Taru’s sons had a dream in which he saw the Laji clan attack and overheard their secret signals. He told this to Taru, but the overconfident father scoffed at it and said, ‘It’s only a dream, just a bad dream.’ But that very night the Laji clan did attack. They surrounded the Taru longhouse, just as the son was telling his father about the dream. The attackers tried to prevent anyone from getting out alive by surrounding the house and screaming war cries. Those who ran out were immediately hacked to death with machetes. Then they set fire to the longhouse. Not even a chicken escaped alive. Those who stayed inside were burned alive. Well, one man did escape—Taru Pai. He grabbed a small altar, with leaves and bamboo shavings, put it on a shield and ran out into the night.51 This altar protected and disguised him, too. You see, the attackers also had bamboo shavings on their arms as war decoration, so they thought he was one of them. He was lucky and got away. Taru Pai did not only escape. He also grabbed all of Taru’s wealth—his necklaces, metal bells and plates—and took it with him. Taru Pai made it as far as his uncle’s house in Yoha. But the Laji clan had warned everyone not to give shelter to any of Taru’s family and threatened to kill anyone who did. So when Taru Pai arrived with all these valuables, they shot him with a poison-tipped arrow and killed him. As he was dying, he put all that wealth into the fire, went outside, lay down and died. But the Taru clan was so rich that many other valuable objects were hidden away in a deep cavity in a stone, near Yazuli. If you listen when the wind blows, you can hear the sound of those metal plates and bells down there. Even today you can hear them clanging in the strong wind. No one can get that stuff, not even if you blew it up with dynamite!

51 He grabbed the altar of the female spirit Chantung, kept on the wall in the rear right-hand corner of an Apatani house, where it is believed to safeguard the house and the souls of the family.

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The inaccessible treasure in the previous story consists of objects not made by Apatanis (or any tribe in central Arunachal Pradesh). Rather these valuables were acquired by barter, and cash, through trade routes that brought goods both down from Tibet and up from Assam. While Apatanis traded with their close neighbours for cotton and animals, they depended on long-distance routes for salt, wool, slaves, beads, metal bells and plates.52 One man’s experiences on those trading expeditions are described below. Hage Bhatt was not a trader by choice, and he did not remain one after the nearly thirty years covered by his narrative. In the 1950s, he was forced to find some means to recoup the loss of land and cash that his family had sustained through a series of ill-judged decisions by a cousin. Trading was the fastest method to get cash, and so he became a trader. When he was about 12 or 13 (‘before I wore the pidin’), he undertook trips to nearby Nyishi and Hill Miri villages to exchange beads for metal bells and plates. Before long, he was on his way to the Tibetan border and to Nagaland, journeys that took several week to complete. By the 1970s, he was able to board busses that struggled along rugged roads to a few settlements in central Arunachal Pradesh. He also used a bus in Assam and a taxi in Nagaland, and he was once lucky to get a ride in an Indian army plane. Otherwise, he travelled on foot. After his trading expeditions ended in the 1980s, Hage Bhatt worked as contractor, especially in building the airstrip at Daporijo, east of the Apatani valley. Today, having raised his family’s financial position and regained the mortgaged paddy fields, he now manages those fields, some forest areas and a few animals. His reminiscences are full of interesting details. For example, they confirm that individual Apatanis did travel up to the Tibetan border on the upper Subansiri and upper Siang rivers (at Taksing and Gelling, respectively). We also learn about the unusual Sulung ‘houses’ and the prominence of Apatani ceremonial friendships (manyang) with Nyishis and Hill Miris. Hage Bhatt reckons that he had close to 50 such friends,

52 From the ash of a local reed, Apatanis produced salt (tapyo), which is still made today and served at ceremonies. Apatanis cultivated some cotton, at least in the 1940s, not in the damp valley but on ‘drier slopes to the south and west’ belonging to Nyishis (Stonor 1946: 15).

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without whom his long-distance trading would not have been possible. In addition, he provides details of the old barter economy; bells from the Siang area, for instance, fetched a good price in the Subansiri area. Perhaps the most memorable section, however, is the chilling description of the effects of the insurgency in Nagaland in the 1970s. His comments also shed a personal light on a topic discussed throughout this book: relations between non-tribal outsiders (and the local Apatanis they appointed) and local people. On the one hand, the coming of the halyang created conditions in which Hage Bhatt and others could safely trade in Nyishi areas. On the other, the penetration of state power and the resulting displacement of local authority structures, which began in 1897 and led to the violence in 1948 (Myths and Histories 8 & 9), continued to tear at the fabric of Apatani society well into the 1960s. From the earliest times, from way back in our history, during the cotton harvest season, we would get raw cotton [from Nyishis] and spin it into shawls and jackets and skirts for ourselves. Our Apatani blacksmiths also used to make fine machetes, which we would carry with us, along with small pigs, when we went trading.53 This was before the government came to the valley, when there was a lot of raiding and killing. Nyishis raided Apatanis, and Apatanis raided Nyishis. When the government came, they stopped these things. There was no more killing, no more taking slaves, no more stealing of mithuns and things like that. All these things were now settled by court cases. This is why we were able to go on these long trading journeys [because it was safe]. We went to North Lakhimpur [in Assam], to the shops and bought necklaces and bangles, and then took them to Nyishi areas and sold them.54 We got metal bells and sold them, too. One route took us to Bomdila. Sometimes we’d go to the plains, to North Lakhimpur, Tezpur and Rangapara, and then up the hills to Bomdila. On the way back from Bomdila, we went to Ziro Point and then east to Seppa. At Seppa we would stop and buy beads, mostly the little pyuri beads because the Aka and Miji people there like them. 53 Fürer-Haimendorf found only three Apatani blacksmiths in 1940s and none when he returned in the late 1970s (1980: 86). 54 ‘Bangles’ translates kobyang (see glossary).

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In Seppa we bought several strands of those, and also small, yellow tado beads, which we sold for cash. From Seppa, the route went to Chayantajo, to Nyapin, then to Palin and finally back to Ziro via Siike. Those were our trading routes to the Kameng area. Here, in our Subansiri district, one long route took us up to Koloriang. We left Ziro, went to Siike and then to Palin, where we halted. We continued north to Nyapin and further north to Talarin; seeing Koloriang in the distance, we crossed the Kuru river. We then moved along the right bank of the river and came to Koloriang; from there we went a little further to Sarli. We spent one night in Sarli, then went to Huri and finally to Hatii Hake. That was the last settlement before the snow peaks. Around Hatii Hake the Sulung people lived wild in the forest, in huts like pig sties. We used to see their ‘houses’ here and there as we walked through the forest. We came back by a different route. Back to Huri, to Sarli and to Koloriang, but from there we walked along the bank of the Kuru River. At Posporu Darbu we went to Biikii Balo, after which we crossed the Kuru River and arrived at Minti Latii, where we stayed at Tayo Yording’s house. Next we moved along to Linia and stayed at Dora Bagang’s house. You see, his wife was from a family with which we had a manyang ceremonial friendship. That was the last stop before getting back to Ziro. There was also another route, a long one that took us to Daporijo, to the east. We would leave our village along the Take Pudu path, over the mountains to Tamin and Dam Siiko, then to Byattir Byaro, where we would stay at the house of Byaro Tabin.55 Then we’d cross the Kamla River at Yukar, near the confluence of the Kuru and Kime rivers. From Yukar, we travelled up to Jugii, Menka Bai, Gyuci Sojan and over the Pelyi Cholo mountain. From there to Sartam, to Longar, to Gemi, then to Tali, to Pukii and finally to Hanya Hake—that was the last place, very far away, near the DadiKira mountain. From there we would sometimes go to Daporijo. We followed the Chigin Hapii route to Miitii, where we stayed at Miitii Tagia’s house. From there we went to Gebii and stayed with Murten Bida. Then on to Daporijo, where I once sold a bell for 5,000 rupees.

55 Most Nyishi and Hill Miri settlements (comprising a few longhouses) take their name from the clan living there.

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There was also the Pusa Puda route. It began like the Take Pudu route, taking us from Ziro to Tamin. But after Tamin we’d cross the Kuru river, go along the bank for a while and then cross the Kime river. After that, we came to a village called Kabak, to the house of Kabak Epo. From there we reached Gyuci Sojan, where I had a manyang friend, Gyuci Tanya Tarun. I used to spend a night in his house and then go to the same places as on the other route—to Sartam and so on—before coming back to Ziro via Tali. We sometimes went to Daporijo by a still different route. Leaving our Hari village by the Take Pudu path, as before, we went to Tamin and Dam Siiko. But then we’d go to the Hill Miri villages of Chemir and Hipu Taya, back to Tamin and cross the Kuru river at Mali Eka. We also went to Raga, to Kabak Elyu and then to Kiicho, where we stayed with Kiicho Hang. After that, we walked to Kiigan where I stayed in the house of Gondu Tapu, one of my manyang friends. Then on to Lomdak, to Gemi and to La, where I stayed in La Chudu’s house. From there we went to Muri, where we stayed at Muri Tape’s house, and then to Barja Tem’s house in Barja. Next we went to Donii and Donii Tat’s house, since he was another manyang friend. From Donii village, we could see Daporijo below us. After Daporijo, we travelled through the Sipi river valley. On the return, we would leave Daporijo and follow the Sigin river, which flows near our valley. We would go to Nyiji, then to Mintii and stay at Murten Tania’s house; from there we went to Jugli and stayed at Murten Bida’s house. I sold a bell there for two mithuns. Twice I travelled up the Kime river. The first time I went with Ganku Sa, and the second time with Radhe Miibi. We got beads, mostly white and orange ones. I went to Daporijo three times. On the second journey I went with Kure Doylang. We reached Daporijo, went up north to Limeking, to Taksing and then east toward Manigoan. From there we went to Menchuka, where soldiers stopped us and asked, ‘Where are you from?’ We told them we were from Ziro, but they didn’t believe us. They thought we were spies and they chased us. Later we asked some other soldiers where the army plane went and they told us to Dibrugarh [in Assam]. ‘How much?’ we asked and they said only 50 rupees. So we paid and flew down to Dibrugarh, from where we came to North Lakhimpur and back up to Ziro. Another time, I went to Daporijo via the Sipi River valley. On this trip, I sold a bell to Sipi Konku for 2,000 rupees and spent a

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night in his house. Then I came back to Daporijo, from where I travelled to Taliha, to Nacho and again to Limeking, near the border with China. From Limeking, I continued to Taksing, which was the very last trading place for us in the Subansiri area. While walking in Taksing area, we found human skeletons, corpses full of bullet holes. There must have been a battle there.56 In any case, that is as far north as I went on my journeys in the Subansiri area. We also wanted to go to the Siang district, so we left Daporijo, went to Paka, to Tirbin and then to Techi Donyi. We came next to Bam Gate, where we spent one night and moved on to Magra, to Hangu and to Along. From Along we went to Boleng, then to Karko—that’s where Gegong Apang [ex-Chief Minister of Arunachal Pradesh] comes from. From Karko, we walked to Pugii and finally to Tuting. On another journey to Tuting, I went with Nako Chantung. We left Ziro and went down to the plains, to North Lakhimpur, where we bought several necklaces. I paid 25 paisa for each of them, and he bought some for 50 paisa. Then we went through the checkpoint at Likabari, climbed up to Basar, to Along, Boleng, Pangin, to Yingkiong, to Pugii and finally to Tuting. On a third trip to Tuting, I went a different way. From Ziro down to North Lakhimpur, through Assam to Silapat, Jonai, Leku, Ledum, Bamen and finally to Pasighat, where we stopped. Then we crossed the Siang at Mebo, climbed up to Damro, crossed the mountains over to Yingkiong and then went along the Siang river to Tuting. We spent two days and nights at Tuting. We asked the local people what was the last trading place on the Siang River, up north. They told us it was Gelling, so we went to Gelling, where I met Gyati Angu, who’s from our village of Hari [ he was in the army based at Gelling]. Gelling is near the high mountains, just like our Tapan mountain. China was behind those mountains, on the Pipu Sala pass. Between Gelling and that pass was a river valley, about the same size as our Apatani valley. We could look straight across that valley and see smoke rising from fires on the Chinese side of the border. It was that close! After that we decided to go to the Dibang valley and the Lohit valley. I always wanted to see different people in different parts of

56 The 1962 Chinese invasion of India occurred in this area (and elsewhere on the border).

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Arunachal. So we decided to go to the Lohit valley, but it was a long, long way. As we travelled, we constantly asked people, ‘How can we get there from the Siang to the Lohit? What’s the best route?’ That’s how we went, following the route they pointed out. It was a dangerous route, with deep rivers and steep mountains. We were frightened. We also asked about the way to Anini [on the upper Dibang River]. After five days, we reached Anini. We came to a house in Anini where they had sacrificed a mithun, and we ate some meat, after paying 50 paisa. We left Anini after a few days and went to Roing, where they spoke ‘chunk-chunk’ [gibberish].57 From Roing we went to Tinsukia [in Assam], having to cross the Brahmaputra River twice. Then we went to Dibrugarh and finally back to Lakhimpur via Sonarghat. In Lakhimpur, I thought we should go to Nagaland and I began to ask about the route. We set out at about 6 am, went to Jorhat [in Assam], Golaghat and finally we reached Dimapur [in the low Naga hills]. It was about 10 in the morning, on the next day—it took us more than 24 hours to reach Nagaland. From Dimapur I wanted to go to Kohima, so the next day I got into a group taxi and after a few hours we came to some kind of check point. The guards there said [in Assamese] that I couldn’t cross the gate. I said I was from Subansiri, but they said I had no right to enter Nagaland; I’d be arrested if I did. So I just stood there, waiting beside the gate. Then they asked for money. ‘200 rupees,’ they demanded. I said that I didn’t have 200. ‘50?’ they asked. Again I said no. ‘What about 20?’ I was thinking of paying, when an old man came up and said, ‘Don’t you have a pass?’58 I showed it to him and explained that it had been given to me by the DC at Ziro. Then they let me pass through the gate and I walked on to Kohima. I saw a gun factory there. Walking around the main market, I saw only old men and old women. I asked them [in Assamese] why and they said, ‘Young people are killing each other, even when selling things in the market.’ ‘The young people have all been killed?’ I asked. ‘Yes, that’s right.’ They said that they are shot while working in the paddy fields, that their graves are dug with their own spades. A lot of Nagas were being killed then. Idu Mishmi, the language spoken in Roing, is outside the Tani group of languages. 58 The Scheduled Tribe identity card issued in the 1950s and 1960s. 57

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How did we trade? Well, during one journey to the Siang valley, my companions were Chacha Rika, Kure Doylang and Subu Aka. We went there to buy and sell the little, yellow (tado) beads that were so popular with women. We bought those necklaces for six rupees and sold them for 100 rupees. That’s how we worked. Today the tado necklaces that we sold for 100 would cost about 5,000. The expensive pyuri beads that we sold during our Kameng trips were small, about the size of a thumb. We bought a necklace of them from shops in North Lakhimpur for about 500 rupees and sold them for 3,000. We also bought and sold bangles the same way; we paid 100 for the large ones and sold them for 400 or 500, but not more. We never got anyone to pay 600. That’s what we traded—bangles, bells and necklaces. Minyong and Padam people liked the necklaces a lot, especially the santiir and pulu lyoyi beads. But Galos didn’t buy those. We would buy a necklaces for, say, 300 and then sell it for as much as 2,000 or 3,000. Once I bought a bell and exchanged it for a mithun. That’s what we could do in those days—buy a bell and get a mithun in exchange! One mature mithun, or two or three younger ones. Then we’d take that mithun and exchange it for another, a better bell. Then we’d use that bell to get a better mithun. That’s how it worked. We also used to get brass plates and metal bells in the Siang region and sell them in Kameng District, where they weren’t so common. We have a lot of them in our Subansiri area, but not in Kameng. Once, we got two bells and sold them for five mithuns—no, it was only one bell for five mithuns. Lod Tago and I got a bell on credit, that is, we promised to give the man a mithun in exchange for the bell. We repaired that bell and then sold it to Lyakha Jiley for five mithuns! We gave one mithun to the man who’d given us the bell and kept the other four mithuns. Another time we gave a mithun to Golun Tala in exchange for a brass plate, which we repaired and exchanged for a bigger mithun. Then there was the time I bought a chiri sword.59 I sold it Loder Talo [a Nyishi man who died in 1995] for 100 rupees. But that was long ago. Now it would fetch about 9,000. At first he even refused to pay me that 100; said it was too much! I got that sword in the Siang area, from a Minyong or Padam village, somewhere on the bank of the Siang River. 59

Believed to be of Tibetan origin.

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I said that we went to Taksing—that is, Lod Hamia, Kaca Rika and I went to Taksing. When we were there, we sold a necklace for cash. From that cash, I bought one of those rain shields for 10 rupees.60 But when we went to Nagaland, we came back emptyhanded. We had taken a loan from the shopkeeper in North Lakhimpur to pay for our meals and travelling expenses and had to give it all back. All this was some time ago—when there was no paid work anywhere. That was when the government started to build the road from Kimin [at the base of the hills] to Ziro. Soon a split developed between the government and the rest of us. Those officials took our chickens and pigs whenever they wanted, and we could do nothing. So our people asked Nending Doley, Pai Sa Haley and me to report these cases to Kup Tania.61 We went to see him at Kimin and told him our grievances. After I did this, the gaunboras in Ziro became angry with me and planned to put me in prison. That was one of the many difficulties I have had to face during my life, right from the early days. 12. Naive Neighbours Below are three brief stories about Nyishis, the Apatanis’ closest neighbours, vital trading partners and historical rivals. The two tribes stand in stark contrast to each other. The sedentary, agricultural Apatanis live in nuclear families packed into dense villages in a fertile valley. The more itinerant, slash and burn Nyishis live in joint families in large longhouses on hill tops surrounding the Apatani valley (and in a large area stretching from the Assam border almost to Tibet). Although many Nyishis now also live in towns, they are still perceived by Apatanis as rustic. On the other hand, Apatanis recognise a close relationship with Nyishis. Although the Apatani word misan designates all tribal people outside the valley, in common usage it is a synonym for Nyishis. Historically, too, Apatanis and Nyishis have been held in a web of economic interdependence. Apatanis traded rice to Nyishis for cotton, mithuns and pigs; some Apatani women lived in Nyishi homes for a few weeks to weave shawls for them in return for cotton to take home. Apatanis placed (and still place) their mithuns in the care of Nyishis. Barter,

60 61

Lecca, a cane rucksack, with a flap to keep off the rain. See note 45 above.

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however, engendered disagreements and debts, which led to raids, hostage-taking and sometimes death.62 Apatanis and Nyishis also entered into a ceremonial friendship (manyang), which obligates each partner to treat the other as an ally during these confrontations and the ensuing negotiations. Finally, as captives, servants and bondsmen, some Nyishis lived with Apatani families and assimilated to local culture, forming a part of its social structure.63 Intimate yet different, Nyishis are the natural object of ridicule for Apatanis. As ancestral kin, trading partners and encircling enemies, the more numerous (and now politically powerful) Nyishis threaten to overwhelm Apatanis, who protect themselves by social and territorial restrictions.64 These boundaries are then shored up by ridicule, stereotype and mockery. For example, Apatanis refer to Nyishis as misan, but they also call them ‘monkey’ (siibi ), which has a semantic range similar to that in English. Again, although Nyishis and Apatanis do not speak entirely mutually intelligible languages, about half of what one says is understood by the other, which is a situation ripe for parody and satire. Local jokes invariably include dialogue in which Apatanis mock Nyishi speech, using a low growl to utter barely audible words in simple phrases (as in the final episode in Tale 3). The three anecdotes below reveal Apatani stereotypes of their naive neighbours. Like the ‘stupid ogre’ in other oral traditions, the rustic Nyishi is easily duped. He comes down from the hills to get the money due to him but unwittingly boils a gourd and loses it. Unable to distinguish dense fog from water, or a little hill from a high mountain, Nyishis turn back from entering the Apatani valley. This is wishful thinking by Apatanis, who for many generations faced raids and counter-raids from their closest neighbours. The first anecdote was told as part of a larger historical narrative by Hage Hiiba, a man of about 70 years. The other two were told to me by a student as we walked along the road leading to the bazaar in Hapoli.

62 These often violent but rarely fatal conflicts are described in Fürer-Haimendorf 1955. 63 On the assimilation of Nyishis as gyuci, see Myth and History 7 and chapter 2. 64 See chapter 6.

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Story 1 Nyishis used to get posa payments [cloth and cash] from the halyang [Assamese] because they claimed that the water and fish in the plains came from their hills.65 The plains people, however, refused to pay. One day they gave the Nyishis a bent buffalo horn and said, ‘If you can straighten this, we’ll pay you posa.’ So the Nyishis boiled it until it became soft and they could straighten it. Then the plains people said, ‘OK, now take this gourd and bend it. Then we’ll pay you.’ The Nyishis boiled that, too, but, of course, it fell apart and the plains people didn’t have to pay them. Story 2 This is ‘treasury hill.’ We call it that because the halyang [British] used to have their bank up there on the top, where the Circuit House is. That’s where government employees went to get their salaries. A few years ago, a group of Nyishis were coming from Linia to Hapoli. They were coming for the first time and didn’t know where the bazaar was exactly. By the time they reached this hill, it was dark and they were lost. Seeing the hill, they said to themselves: ‘Oh, this mountain is too high. We can’t possibly climb that and get to the bazaar before dark.’ So they turned around and went back home hungry—all because they thought this little hill was a mountain! Story 3 Another time, when my grandfather was alive, a group of Nyishis came to attack an Apatani village—I don’t know why, probably some feud or disagreement. Anyway, they got to the top of the hills that surround the valley and looked out. The whole valley was covered in a thick fog, which made it look like a lake. ‘Can’t cross that big lake,’ they said to themselves and turned back. 13. Sun-Moon and Death The myth of the Sun-Moon is one of the distinctive stories of the regional oral tradition in central Arunachal Pradesh. Although not as 65 Posa was the payment of goods and money by Assamese villages at the base of the hills to Nyishis (and other hill tribes) in order to prevent raids.

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frequently told as stories about Abo Tani, it is known to all the major tribes in the Tani group (plus a few of their neighbours). Sun-Moon, or Donyi-Polo (Danyi-Pulo in Apatani), is a prominent mythological figure among these tribes and has become the inspiration for a reinvention of religion, as the story following this one explains. The Sun-Moon myth in Arunachal Pradesh is defined by three core elements: 1) female sun(s) and male moon(s); 2) shooting down of one (or more) to cool excessive heat; and 3) the coming of mortality as a result of the shooting. Although Apatani versions (like the one below) do not always include an explanation of death, nearly all versions have two or more suns. When one sun is shot down, often by a frog with bow and arrow, the other disappears out of sympathy with its wounded partner. Now the world is plunged into darkness, and men send animal emissaries to persuade the fugitives to return. In the end, the ‘dead’ sun returns as the cool moon, while the unharmed sun reigns as before. But the price for this normality is the mortality of men. Because the only Apatani story I recorded is abbreviated and lacks details found in most other versions, I have added a second, Adi version. Apatani version66 In the ancient time there was nothing, only emptiness, or formlessness, First came Earth-Sky but only as vague forms, without any shape. Then Hintii Anii gave birth to forms, starting with the earth and sky. After that the Sun and Moon came forth. They were the two eyes of Hintii Anii. Some people say they came from the eyes of Abo Tani, but that was later. Then the bad spirits, led by Giirii, created another world, with another sun, known as Chanter Danyi, and another moon, called Chanter Pulo. Now there were two suns and two moons, and it was very hot on earth. Everything withered and everyone began to die. So the bad sun and moon had to be destroyed. The spirit Tamu destroyed them by shooting them down. Now there was just Danyi, the sun, and Pulo, the moon.

66

From a longer myth told by Mudan Donyi in Hapoli in 2002.

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Adi version67 Once there were two suns, one female and one male, which alternated in the sky so that one sun burned during the day and the other sun during the night. The heat was intense, crops were scorched and no one could sleep. Eventually, men decided to send someone to shoot down one of the suns, and they chose a frog. With a bow and arrow, the frog shot down one of the suns, the male sun, which then cooled and died. The second, female sun was upset at the loss of its companion, so it wandered away and disappeared. Now there were no suns. Heat drained away from the earth, everything froze and men set about trying to bring back the sun. First a crow was sent and, after negotiations, it extracted a promise: the suns would return, but only in exchange for 500 dead people every day and another 500 every night. Next a chicken was sent, but it only managed to fall in love with the sun and didn’t return. Finally, the suns reappeared in the heaven. The one that had been shot was cool and became our moon, while the other became our sun. 14. Reinvented Religion: Donyi-Polo The Sun-Moon has risen in a new form in today’s central Arunachal Pradesh, and the story below describes a local episode in this development. It is a personal account but one which reveals widespread anxieties about cultural change and the desire to retain what is considered traditional. Sun-Moon (Donyi-Polo) belongs to a deep strata of local mythology, as the previous story shows, and it has now assumed new significance as the centrepiece of a revitalisation movement. Since the early 1970s, elites have transformed traditional beliefs and practices into a formal religion, with an iconography, purpose-built worship halls, regular days of congregational worship, a formal set of moral principles, prayers and printed pamphlets. Sun-Moon, previously a guardian of truthfulness and witness of correct conduct, has also been elevated into a compassionate deity, supreme power and creator god. The end product is ‘Donyi-Polo-ism,’ a religion reinvented in order to stem the increasing influence of Christianity and Hinduism.

67 Recorded from Takaiyam Tallong, an Adi (Minyong) man of about 75 years, in Jomo village near Along, in 2001.

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While we cannot yet speak of a mass movement, with conspicuous political support and growing popular acceptance, Donyi-Polo is emerging as more than a counter-movement. It is becoming the religious face of tribal modernity in central Arunachal Pradesh. Among Apatanis, however, I saw few if any signs of interest in this phenomenon. Yet things change quickly, as Hage Nanya, a woman of about 40, explains. In February 2001, we called a meeting of the women in our village, here in Hari. At the meeting, we made a list of all our clans. In fact, we met several times and after a lot of talking, we made a decision to remain as followers of Danyi-Pulo [Donyi-Polo]. Then we formed a society called ‘The Ayo Danyi Rantii Piige Society’ for this reason.68 A few months later, we participated in the dance competition organised by the Apatani Indigenous Faith and Culture Society at Hapoli. There we won the ‘brass plate’ award, and all my friends insisted that I should keep that special plate in my house. Then we sat down and talked about our problems, about how to make our society better. We decided that we should not be profit-motivated, but that we should work for the people of Danyi-Pulo here in our village. We decided that we needed to build a hall and that we needed to talk about this plan with the village leaders. I asked them to come to my house, where I still kept the brass plate. We told them what we wanted: that we tanii people were slowly losing our culture and that people didn’t know which way to go forward. We said that we needed a place, some building for our traditional people. They agreed and on 12 September 2001 they showed us a piece of land. We were really happy. It was September, and the rice fields had to be drained for harvesting in October, so we had to wait. Then we began to collect wood and stones for the hall, which was constructed during October and November. You can’t do these things single-handed, but many hands can create such wonderful things. We asked the men, including the leaders, to help us. They collected money from a lot of people,

68 ‘Ayo Danyi’ means ‘Grandmother Sun.’ ‘Rantii Piige’ is a ritual term referring to Hari village, especially its forests and fields.

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even from the government officers, and that is how we were able to construct the hall. The problem is that we tanii people are losing our culture. If we don’t save some of it while a few of our old people are still alive, we will lose it completely. We won’t know which way to turn in the future. You see, even the people who have come here to this valley from far away have their church, their [Hindu] temple, their [Assamese] namghar and their [Sikh] gurudwara. All this right here, in our own land! Should we wash only with plain water? No.69 We want something more. You see, Christians gather together in some building, and it’s said that they make themselves happy by singing. We should also be able to get together and spend a day as a group. We haven’t yet fixed a schedule for our rituals, but we’ll do that soon. That way, even after our old people die, we will be able to carry on the traditions. By forming our society and building this hall, we, the children of Abo-Tani, will be able to preserve our culture. If we don’t do something soon, we will be like ‘refugees’ in western countries. This is our land, we own it, and we want to keep our culture. When our old people are gone, we want to continue to perform our rituals, even though they may change. We think that by building this hall, we can save the knowledge passed down by our priests and wise people. We want to make sure that the children of Abo Tani, that we, the people of Danyi-Pulo, continue to exist.70

69 70

In other words, ‘We deserve better.’ The Donyi-Polo hall in Hari village was completed in 2004.

CHAPTER FIVE

RITUAL TEXTS Introduction Ritual texts are the core of Apatani oral tradition. They are distinguished from the stories in the previous two chapters (tales, myths and histories) by language, performer and intent, but not necessarily by content. The same story may be told as a prose tale (migung) or chanted as a ritual text (miji). Most ritual texts are chanted by male priests in order to ensure prosperity (Ritual Text 1), heal a specific illness or protect someone from danger (Ritual Text 6). Exceptions are the funeral chant (Ritual Text 5), which may be performed by women, and ayus (Ritual Texts 2, 3 & 4), which are performed by men who are not necessarily priests and which do not always summon spirits. All ritual texts, however, are delivered in a special speech through which Apatanis communicate with the spirit world.1 Ritual speech Apatani ritual speech (miji agung [‘miji language’] or nyibu agung [‘priest language’]) differs markedly from everyday speech. As with other varieties of oral poetry, from the Hebrew Bible to hunter-gatherer songs, it uses a special vocabulary, allusions and metaphors to build dense clusters of meaning and association. Also, like other examples across the world, its defining feature is parallelism.2 Parallelism in Apatani ritual speech, however, has a distinctive form: not the usual two-line couplets but linked nouns, or what I call ‘noun-pairs.’3 We have already come across prominent examples,

These topics are discussed in more detail in Blackburn (forthcoming). See Fox 1988. 3 Noun-pairs occur in conversational Apatani, too, but not with the same regularity as in ritual speech. They also appear in Galo ritual speech (Ete 1974: 12), Adi ritual speech (Megu 2000) and in conversational Galo (Post 2007: 274–79). See also Allen (1976) and Gaenszle (2002; 2005) on this feature in Kiranti languages in eastern Nepal. 1 2

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such as miji-migung & donyi-polo. While not all nouns are paired, many place-names, personal names (priests, spirits, sacrificial animals and ancestors) and words for ritual objects occur exclusively as noun-pairs. The two elements of a pair occur in various patterns—side-by-side, separated by a few words or by several lines—and a skilful performer must know how to arrange hundreds of these pairs within the steady flow of chanted words. That knowledge is the distinguishing mark of a nyibu. With few exceptions, other Apatanis can neither chant nor understand ritual speech. Although its verbs forms are similar to those in conversation, the predominance of noun-pairs, plus concision and allusions to events, places and characters in the spirit world, make ritual speech incomprehensible to almost anyone who is not a nyibu. Translation from this specialist speech, first into ordinary Apatani and then into English, required a great deal of time and collaboration; and even now I cannot be sure that all the lines below are accurate. Occasionally, even priests were unable to explain ritual speech in conversational Apatani, saying that the ‘words did not exist.’ In these (fortunately few) cases, the translation into English is an approximation. In other cases, the healing chant (Ritual Text 6) for example, the full text was not performed. I also suspect that lines of others texts were held back, for instance, during the section in which the soul is guided to the land of the dead (Ritual Text 5). On the other hand, obscurity is sometimes intentional, as in the verbal duelling in ayu texts (Ritual Text 2). Finally, although I have made omissions of my own by cutting out repeated lines and lists of names, I have retained some of these features to give readers a sense of the original texture. Ritual specialists Ritual specialists in Apatani culture are nyibus. They are the men who conduct rituals and chant verses that contact spirits in order to heal illness, ensure prosperity, provide strength, prevent fire accidents, recover lost animals and guide souls of the dead, as well as souls of sacrificial mithuns and cows, to the land of the dead. The only major ritual tasks not performed by nyibus are the killing of large animals—they are slain by a clansman selected by divination—and the digging of graves, which used to be done by one family in each village but today is done by Indian labourers hired for that purpose. Men other than nyibus often help in interpreting divinations, and they sometimes conduct

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minor rituals when no nyibu is available. Although there are no female nyibus, some women regularly perform the funeral chant and one or two occasionally perform minor healing rituals. Nyibus resemble ritual specialists in other Himalayan, central Asian and north Asian societies who are often called ‘shamans.’ For instance, nyibus (or their souls) leave their body and travel to the land of spirits, to whom they speak in a special language in order to negotiate with them. In other fundamental respects, however, nyibus are unlike the classical Siberian shaman. An Apatani nyibu does not, for example, have a ‘familiar’ spirit or mastery over spirits; he does not go into ‘trance’ or display other behavioural signs of ecstatic experience. He is not involuntarily (or voluntarily) ‘called’ to his craft by a ‘shamanic illness’ or vision. Nor does he cure illness by retrieving a fugitive soul. This is because Apatanis explain illness and accidental or premature death not as ‘soul loss’ but as the intrusion of harmful spirits: these cicing wi must be guarded against and driven out if they happen to penetrate the defences of the tiigo wi (protective spirits). In other words, the nyibu is not possessed by spirits; his clients are. The Apatani priest does use dreams in the diagnosis of illness but not as prominently as in ‘shamanistic’ cultures. Finally, the nyibu is the sole ritual specialist in his culture.4 He alone is able to see the invisible spirits and speak with them. While the role of priest is not hereditary among Apatanis (though sons and nephews of nyibus do become nyibus), it is a profession because they work nearly every day and often overnight. Nyibus are clan-based, and most of their work is done for members of their clan, although they do sometimes perform for families of other clans. They receive ritual honours and gifts, but the office of nyibu does not confer any fixed social privileges. Until the 1960s, a special shawl (zilang) was worn only by priests (and coucilmen), but today anyone may wear it. While nyibus are generally respected, not all are of consequence and none possesses any formal authority. If some priests are public leaders this is not because they perform rituals but because of their judgement and character. The number of nyibus is declining. Today about 90 priests serve approximately 30,000 Apatanis divided into 78 clans.5 Most clans have one or two nyibus, some have none and a few have three or four. Young

4 Most other tribes in central Arunachal Pradesh have two or three ritual specialists, one of whom resembles a ‘shaman.’ 5 My estimate of 90 is based on two lists drawn up for me in 2006, plus two other lists prepared by a local researcher in 1990 and 2005 (Hage Naku 2006: 121–24, 302).

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men who carry out the nyibu’s tasks (the performer of Ritual Text 2, for example) are called ‘assistants’ (bo), but the vacancies left when old priests die are not always filled by new recruits. This decline has several causes, many of them economic. Although most people still go to the nyibu first and the hospital second, a healing ritual is more expensive than a bottle of medicine. Still, no one gets rich by chanting ritual verses; fees range from about 500 rupees for a minor healing ritual up to about 5,000 rupees for the senior priest of a Murung festival. There is also the vague yet undeniable appeal of modernity, and among the cars and computers in modern Hapoli, a priest does not cut a very fashionable figure. Christianity, on the other hand, has the appeal of the modern, and conversion has undermined the nyibu. Many (mostly Baptist) Christian families no longer call priests or participate in major festivals. Although such influence is difficult to assess, conversion did put one active nyibu out of business. He was an influential local leader, a skilful nyibu and (atypical for a priest) wealthy. One of his wives is Christian, and their eldest daughter asked him to stop his ‘pagan practices,’ but he continued to perform as a priest. When the daughter became ill and began to scream during dreams, he conducted rituals (including mock warfare with machetes) to defeat the possessing spirit. All failed, and the Christians in his family blamed the illness on his contact with the ‘devil.’ In desperation, he agreed to call the Catholic sisters to his house; they took the girl into a room and after several hours of prayers summoned him. When he entered, she began to speak normally for the first time in many days and pleaded with her father to stop acting as a priest. He reluctantly agreed and joined in Christian prayers for his daughter. By morning, she was cured. Spirits As suggested in the Introduction, we can think of Apatani religion as a form of animism in which a large number of impersonal, invisible spirits (wi ) are contacted in order to influence conditions in the natural world and human body. Apatanis speak of three kinds of spirits. Tiigo are responsible for prosperity and health; cicing (or gyunyang) cause accidents and illness; yalu bring war and death. Rituals addressed to the first and second categories of spirits are also called tiigo and cicing, respectively. The first four ritual texts in this chapter, chanted during

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major festivals, summon spirits of prosperity; the last text, a healing chant, calls cicing spirits; and the fifth text, a funeral chant, addresses all three types of spirits. The number of spirits recognised by Apatanis is well over a hundred.6 Most are associated with a specific ailment, such as fever or infertility, or with the local landscape, such as a stream or mountain peak, or with a trait, like ferocity or wisdom. In addition to these individual spirits, many others belong to a cluster, and ritual texts often call on these groups collectively. Ritual Text 3, for instance, summons the ‘siro and pilya spirits.’ A long list of ancestors (kalo), several for each of the 78 clans, are also invited to large public ceremonies.7 Although Apatani spirits have no visual representation in ritual and little verbal description in chants, most can be identified by their altar. With bamboo, cane, pinewood and leaves, Apatanis make more than forty different altars, which are distinguished by their size, shape and attachments (cups to hold eggs, decorative bamboo shavings, miniature offerings, etc.). The protective female spirit Chantung, for example, is symbolised by a small basket, with bamboo strips and leaves hanging from the top, which is placed on the wall in the back right-hand corner of an Apatani house (see Ritual Text 5). Ritual texts 1. The Mithun Chant: Subu Heniin Many rituals are low-key: half an hour of chanting, a few eggs inspected, some chicken blood sprinkled on a small altar. On these occasions, the priest uses no special objects and wears no special clothes or ornaments; he sits with other men, dressed like them in khaki shorts, canvas shoes and tee-shirt, with a shawl over his shoulders. Only when the chanting begins, is it clear who is a nyibu and who is not. The Subu Heniin (‘Mithun Chant’) is very different. Chanted on the first day of the three-week Murung festival, it is the most public and

6 One researcher counted 138 spirits (Hage Naku 2006: 231). Another found that each village recognises different spirits and that the village average is 35–40 (Takhe Kani 1996, Appendix). 7 While the distinction between ancestors (kalo) and spirits (wi) is vauge, only the latter are said to be invisible.

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prestigious performance in local culture. The nyibu stands on the lapang in full ceremonial dress, holding a special set of bamboo sticks; tied to the lapang are the mithuns and cows ready for sacrifice. He begins to chant about two o’clock in the morning, when the temperature in January has dropped below freezing, and he continues (with generous breaks) until about four or five o’clock that afternoon, when the animals are sacrificed. The all-day performance has little theatre; in keeping with Apatani attitudes toward speech, it is restrained and measured. Now and then, the nyibu speaks to and gestures toward the animals, but in slow motion and a barely audible voice. One event, however, does catch the eye. At about noon, women married into the sponsor’s clan line up near the lapang wearing a dazzling set of necklaces and carrying gourds of rice-beer and baskets of rice powder. The powder is then smeared on the animals and the beer poured over them by the sponsor’s wife and senior men, as the nyibu (in his chant) leads the animals to the land of the dead, where they will be claimed by spirits. The Subu Heniin is also the most complex and demanding of all Apatani ritual texts. A few other texts, ayus (Ritual Text 2, for example) and several brief chants during minor rituals, are performed during the Murung festival. None, however, has the scope and length of the Subu Heniin, which describes the beginnings of the world, the migration of ancestors, the genealogy of people, the origins of objects and institutions, all in order to summon spirits to confer prosperity. The ability to perform the Subu Heniin is the mark of a skilled and respected nyibu, and most priests end their lives without having had the honour to chant these verses.8 The text of the Subu Heniin is not fixed. The words in a line, the number of lines and the order of lines within any particular section vary considerably between nyibus from different villages and clans. The sequence of 17 or 18 sections, on the other hand, is more or less uniform. The translation below comes from the first two sections of this long text. In the first section, the nyibu asks the sun to rise and spread light and heat over the world. Here, and throughout the text, he also asks the sun and other spirits to bring prosperity to the sponsors of the festival.

8

‘He climbed on the lapang’ (lapang cane) is said of only one in three priests.

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In the second section, the nyibu tells the story of the birth of the sun (sun-water, iijan-hai). First, the primeval female force (Niido-Niikun) emerges to light up the darkness; she seeks a mate but fails until her ‘love is returned.’9 Then the couple build a house, she becomes pregnant and a daughter is born. Many names are suggested for the child, but the correct one is ‘sun-water.’ From the sun come humans, the tanii people, the children of Abo Tani, especially Apatanis, who prosper because they continue to perform Murung festivals. These lines were recorded in 2004, inside Mudan Pai’s house beside his warm back hearth; but we must imagine him in full ceremonial dress standing on a lapang, in the early hours of a cold January morning, asking the sun to rise.10 I. The Sun Rises 1. I stand here, on the lapang, this early morning at sunrise. I am the Nibo priest and the Doni priest of ancient times. The jilo lyayu spirits protect me. I am Lyarii Tabii and Lyantii Podo, the priests of our ancestors. 2. I ask for protection for both husband and wife, of the Tiike Rade clan. Let their family prosper and grow, with many dogs by the hearth and many chickens in the coop. Let their granaries overflow and their pigs increase; Give them many mithuns in the forests; Let their jungles be thick with cane.

9 10

She has other names, as in Myth and History 1. The complete Subu Heniin text will be published in Blackburn (forthcoming).

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3. I am the Biiger priest, I am the Biipin priest, From Iipyo and from Wi, the land of spirits and the land of men; The spirits will not oppose me, and men will support me. 4. I am favoured by the spirits of the tapin tajer bamboo;11 I am supported by spirits from east and west; I am protected by the tabyu arre spirits, and the tarsi arre spirits. They give me the ability to perform this Murung; They give me the skill to say one thing in ten ways. 5. Standing on this lapang from early morning to evening, I am the Nibo priest performing this ceremony, For the prosperity of husband and wife of the Tiike Rade clan. Let them flourish and be wealthy. 6. In this early morning, the eyes of Kolyung Anii Become the rising sun, climbing higher and higher. The heart of Kolo Anii becomes the rising sun, Spreading wider and wider, to light up our world.

11

Tapin tajer is the bamboo is held by the priest while chanting.

ritual texts 7. The light shines first in Neli, the land of ancestors, the world of spirits. It shines in the land of Myotii Pilya and Achung Abyo, Dingia Si and Tubyo Lyabo. These places in Neli are filled with glowing light. 8. The sun rises higher and brightens the human world, Shining on the Panii and Manii paths, on the Regan and Rebii routes. 9. The sun rises over the Tamin and Talo hills, the Lali and Buda mountains. It brightens the Panyu and Pare rivers, the Siro and Sango rivers. It shines on the Kuru and Kime rivers, the Sipyu and Gyayu rivers. The bright light shines through the Tanan and Siya forests; The sun lights up the Balyi and Ngiira forests, the Landin and Payin forests. 10. Across our world, from east to west, from high peaks to low valleys, You brighten our deep forests of Biirii and Kensa, Lampiir and Siike; You light up our bamboo groves of Dilan and Pengu, Pumey and Putii; You shine on our paddy fields of Taku and Siidi, Neyun and Saran, Rantii and Piige. You shine through our jungles and over our fields. 11. I am the Nibo priest, asking the rising sun to protect my jilo lyayu spirits.

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Climb up, Sun, climb into the sky, and shine for husband and wife of the Tiike Rade clan. Rise up higher and higher, and brighten this Murung feast. II. Birth of the Sun 1. I am the Nibo priest and the Doni priest, of ancient times. As we start our journey in this early morning, Let the jilo lyayu spirits guide us and clear away obstacles; Let sun and moon brighten our way along the Kami-Kamo routes; Let them light up the darkness of these paths. 2. You are Niido-Niikun, from ancient times; You are the ancestor from long ago shining with youthful beauty. You decorate your hair with soft grass, And you wear green moss as your dress. 3. You make yourself beautiful with things from the ancient world, in the time of our ancestors. You wear that green moss as your dress; You wear river reeds for earrings and forest plants as jewellery; And over your breasts you wear a cloth of tender vines. 4. You are Niido-Niikun, ancestress of the ancient world;

ritual texts Matured and grown, you are ready to mate. 5. You searched for a partner in the house of Kami; You looked for a mate in the house of Kamo. But no one was willing, and no one accepted you. 6. You courted the sparrow, but it flew to the lyori lyomo tree; You approached the swallow, but it perched on the pale sampiir tree; You wanted the house martin, but it preferred the wild creeper; You proposed to the wild boar, but it rooted in the tango sanke bush. None of them accepted you as a partner. 7. You made love to the young monkey, but it preferred sweet flowers; You wanted to mate with the squirrel, but it hid in the branches; You loved the young rodent, but it borrowed into the river bank; You made love to the sparrow, but it flew to the sembo pine tree. 8. You made love to the young pigeon and the young crow, But they flew off and perched on the garden fence; You made love to the mole, but it escaped in sampo wood; You made love to the mouse, but it hid in dry straw; You made love to egret, but it perched on the bund.

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9. You made love to the sparrow but it flew across the fields; You wanted the mynah bird, but it alighted on the road; You sought the green parakeet, but it flew to the fence; You proposed to the lyanka bird, but it escaped to the kiira tree; You made love to the tangier ngiipe fish, but they swam away. None of the birds, fish or animals returned your love. 10. But then, Niido-Niikun, you found your mate; You met Jindo Miti of Mudo Tiida, and your love was returned. 11. Niido-Niikun and Jindo Miti made love, and she became pregnant; Together they built a house, with dimbo lipa wood for posts and biipi tade wood for cross-beams, With jaya ale wood for ceiling beams and bihan dalyan wood for the roof. 12. The sturdy iron cooking ring was made from boar teeth; The floor was well-made, smooth, flat and hard. 13. When Niido-Niikun was pregnant, and ready to give birth, She was attended by Popi Sarmin, the wise ancestor; She was helped by the spirits from east and west. 14. Everyone sat together and suggested names for the child.

ritual texts ‘Hudo Koji of Tahu Tinda,’ said some who did not know; ‘Sedo Milo of Tase Tinda,’ said others who did not know. Some said ‘Judo Pulo of Pyagan Tinda, Gyado Pulo of Pyagan Tinda, ‘Supyu Munu of Supyu Tinda, and Gyayu Dimbo of Gyayu Jinda.’ 15. But those who knew named this child ‘Liingi Liyan of Iijan Hoda and Kolyi Koya of Hai Hoda.’ They named her ‘Sun Water.’ 16. When the child was born, when the Sun was formed, She grew brighter and brighter, and the people flourished; They sacrificed two great mithuns, hintii tade and murta tapu. They performed a Murung feast and they prospered. 17. The priest performed the Murung ceremony, for the new-born Sun and her descendants increased. Likewise, in this Murung today, let husband and wife prosper; Like the Sun long ago, may they know good fortune. 20. Let the Tiike Rade clan flourish and multiply; Let the families of husband and wife enjoy wealth and longevity. As with Niido-Niikun and Jindo Miti, I ask the spirits to protect them. Let these spirits look after them so that they grow,

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chapter five As broad as the sky, as wide as the earth. 2. Meat for All: Dulu Ayu

Although the Dulu Ayu, like the Subu Heniin, is chanted during the Murung festival, it is different as both text and performance. Broadly speaking, it is a form of verbal duelling performed to celebrate the generosity of the festival sponsor. Late at night, about a week after the Subu Heniin and animal sacrifice, clansmen and friends gather in the house of the sponsor. Early next morning they will distribute thousands of pieces of meat, one to every house in the Apatani valley.12 These six-inch long pieces of fresh mithun or cow meat are tied in bundles of ten or twenty and then packed in bamboo baskets, one or more baskets for each clan in each village. Personal reputations are made by this distribution; Murungs from fifty or sixty years ago are still remembered for the quality of meat, or for the added salt, sugar or pig meat. Packing baskets throughout the night, the men eat and drink and chant lines from ayus, especially the Dulu Ayu.13 In the past, the men formed two groups who chanted lines to each other in a competition of questions and answers. I never heard this verbal duelling, however, because today the Dulu Ayu is chanted only in fragments. One man quotes a few lines that pose a question, another man responds with other lines, a little laughter follows and then everyone returns to the meat-packing and gossip. The recording translated below lasted about one hour and includes only a sample of the hundreds of lines that might be chanted during the night. Nevertheless, they contain an echo of the question-answer antiphony, and we can sense something of the skill needed to respond to the obscure references in the lines chanted by the opposing party. In verses 7 and 8, for example, the ‘owner of the chicken coop’ and ‘owner of the chicken basket altar’ turn out to be sponsors of an earlier Murung (Piinsan Gyutii and Piinsan Potii). These ancestors are themselves linked with certain spirits, and these associations become

12 This meat comes not from the sacrificed animals but from mithuns and cows either donated by a friend or bought by the sponsor himself. 13 The word dulu refers to the festive atmosphere on this night.

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the topic of more question-and-answer verses. Again, in verse 15, the names of two racks on which meat is hung to dry above the hearth are the names of two mythic villages in which ancestral Murungs were celebrated. These allusions, so common in Apatani ritual speech, are the reason why Mudan Pai (who performed this text) likes to chant the Dulu Ayu. ‘Other ayus are more popular,’ he said. ‘But this one is older and more difficult. It has more hidden things, things not known to most people.’ When I pressed him about the unusual names of the mithuns in verse 13, he smiled. ‘They refer to imaginary mithuns,’ he explained. ‘They’re not real. You have to understand this point—a lot of the Dulu Ayu is imagination. That’s why it is chanted as question-and-answer. You want to confuse the other party; so you use difficult phrases and words.’ When reading this dense text, it might also be useful to keep in mind its underlying structure. The Dulu Ayu speaks of a series of Murungs sponsored by ancestors or spirits. Each festival is witnessed by someone, who then sponsors his own festival, building up a chain that brings us to the Murung of the man in whose house the men are chanting. In our text, the first Murung is sponsored by Piinsan Gyutii and Piinsan Potii. The second is by Piilang Potii (whose sister married Piinsan Potii) and Piilang Ngatii (a spirit associated with fire and the hearth). Next is the Murung by Siipii Taker and Siida Taci, whose names also refer to the vertical and horizontal patterns of flattened bamboo pieces used to make house walls. The fourth Murung by Nyomping Potii (and/or Nyomping Ngatii) has its own story. His sisters brought bad luck when they conducted a ritual prohibited for women.14 As a result, Nyomping Potii’s mithun lies dead in the forest, decaying like a mushroom, an untimely death that portends disaster. A bee smells the carcass and is given bracelets for leading others to the spot.15 Having lost his mithun, the sponsor has only a pig to feed his guests so he tries to catch a wild boar.16

Another instance of the ‘ritual error’ motif that recurs in Apatani ritual texts. This episode, in which a bee is rewarded with bracelets (kobyang) for discovering the decaying body of an animal, appears also in the next ritual text. 16 This episode alludes to a wild boar that is caught long before the festival begins; later (the day of the Dulu Ayu) it is killed and given to ritual friends and close relatives. 14 15

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Nyomping Potii and his friends hunt four different boars, each created and protected by a different spirit. He finally catches one of them, which enables him to provide a feast. This fourth Murung is followed by a fifth, then another and another, up to the present Murung. Through these precedents, the Dulu Ayu provides a commentary on the Murung festival: it was performed by the ancestors; it should follow tradition; ritual errors bring the humiliation that you cannot give meat to your guests. Murung means meat, and the best festival is one in which large amounts are given away. Performed on the eve of the distribution of meat to all the houses in the valley, the Dulu Ayu highlights the centrality of that exchange to the success of the Murung as a whole. The text below was chanted by Mudan Pai in his house in January 2003. 1. This year a Murung is celebrated by the villages in the west; This year the festival is sponsored by the villages in the east. 2. Wealthy families sponsor the Murung, and others prepare to chant. Let us not mention names of men gone to distribute meat; Do not listen to the celebrations outside; let us only chant this ayu. 3. Let us not speak of skill, or name those who do not chant well. This rich man’s house is full of people, crowded from front to back. Who will go and distribute the meat? Who will stay here and chant? 4. Potii left through the front of the house, and Ngatii went out the back. Gyutii is in front, and Gyaro is in back;

ritual texts Arki left from the front, and Aro went out the back.17 5. They chant the ayu inside this house without going to the latrine like pigs; They do not go to the coop like chickens, or to the hearth like dogs; They remain here and chant this Dulu Ayu. But tell me! Who are these fine people? Who are their families? 6. All of you in this dulu party, sitting around this hearth, You who have not left through the back door, You are dogs about to drink rice water, and hens about to peck rice grains; You are those pigs, which did not go to the latrine. 7. The owner of the chicken basket altar is wealthy, like Piinsan Gyutii and Piinsan Potii. Listen everyone! Tell me correctly, if you can: Which mithuns will he sacrifice in this Murung? Whose strong son is he? Who is the father of this fine man? 8. Who is conducting this Murung? Who is the owner of the chicken coop? Whose fine children are they? What mithuns did they sacrifice? Tell me, if you can, tell me their families and their mithuns.

17

The names in this verse refer to ancestors and spirits.

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9. At this year’s Murung, conducted by husband and wife, Who will build the meat-house? Who will make the rack inside? I’ll tell you, with no mistake: The owner of the chicken coop will build the meat house; The owner of chicken coop will build the rack inside. 10. During this year’s Murung sponsored by husband and wife, See the front porch railings, shining clean and new; Tell me, who built these railings, which gleam like bright stars? 11. Listen everyone, and tell me if you can: Who built these shining porches for this Murung festival? Here’s the answer: They were built by Pinii Loju and Siyo Lomiir. 12. Listen everyone! Tell me correctly, if you can. Who conducted that Murung long ago? Piilang Potii and Piilang Ngatii sacrificed those mithuns; They gave meat to everyone for the well-being of us all. 13. Piilang Potii sacrificed two mithuns; but what were their names? He killed the mithuns named ngadu sotii and ngaku soro; He cut them and gave their skulls to the priest, Piilang Dadu.

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14. Thick thighs of the ngadu sotii mithun were cut and placed in ten baskets; Broad shoulders of the ngaku soro mithun were sliced and filled five baskets. 15. What did they do next? The baskets were hung to dry on the rack above the hearth, And the meat was hung and on the rack above that. 16. Who saw Piilang Potii’s Murung? Who conducted the next festival? Yes, it was Siipii Taker and Siida Taci; They threw the meat on the rack and brought prosperity to us all. 17. Siipii Taker conducted a Murung at Siida Taci’s village. One cut up the sotii mithun; the other cut the soro mithun. They threw the mithun meat over their shoulders against the wall.18 18. Piilang Potii and Piilang Ngatii, two rich men, performed a Murung; But another man carefully watched it all. Listen everyone! Piinsan Potii and Piinsan Ngatii sacrificed the ngaku and ngadu mithuns For the wealth and health and prosperity of us all.

18 Mudan Pai explained that ‘throwing meat over your shoulder’ was a convention like pouring out a little rice-beer before drinking. ‘At this point,’ he said, ‘you can put a lot of difficult questions to the other party.’

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19. Piilang Potii and Piilang Ngatii saw Piinsan Potii’s Murung; They sacrificed two ancestral mithuns; They distributed the meat to the west and to the east. But tell me now, correctly if you can: Who was that priest in the house of Piinsan Potii?19 20. Piinsan Dadu, he was the priest in Piinsan Potii’s house. He married the sisters of Piilang Potii, named Yami, Yama and Biinyi. But listen, now, and listen well! 21. After Piilang Potii and Piilang Ngatii had watched that Murung, Who watched them? Yes, tell me if you can. It was Nyomping Potii who watched and learned; He conducted another festival, the same as that of Piinsan Potii. 22. For the prosperity of the people Nyomping Potii conducted his Murung; For the health of everyone Nyomping Ngatii celebrated his festival. He sacrificed the sotii and hingo mithuns for our wealth and health. That is the truth. 23. The sisters of Nyomping Potii saw their brother’s Murung;

19

Here the chant reverts to an earlier Murung in the sequence.

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The girls felt very happy and joined in the festival. They danced and sang, near the freshly cut fence; They moved softly, like wind through the bamboo fence. 24. Now, listen to me, and I will tell you more. Nyomping Potii’s mithun died before it could be killed. Simi Tagio should have received the skull, but he got only vegetables! Harcu Punu, the spirit of rice-beer, was given only water!20 25. Nyomping Potii’s mithun died and decayed in the forest. Who could find it? Tell me if you can. It was a bee called ami yansa. Yes, that little bee smelled the mithun carcass; Still, Nyomping Potii had nothing for his guests; He began his Murung without an animal to sacrifice. 26. Who created that little bee? It was Kolo Yango. Who created Kolo Yango? It was Arki Yango. Nyomping Potii said to the bee, ‘I’ll give you bracelets, ‘Bracelets to cover both your arms, if you lead me to the mithun.’ 20 Simi Tagio and Harcu Punu are forest spirits who oversee the distribution of meat and preparation of rice-beer.

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27. Nyomping Potii celebrated the festival, but he only had a special pig; He was forced to feed his guests on bitter siya vegetables! But, listen; his special pig was large. Can you tell me, anyone of you, what did it eat? 28. Tell me about that pig; what was it fed? It ate mirso caran and sarso caran, pyaping lyantu and sabo lyaro. 29. But this special pig food, where did it come from? Pyaping lyantu and sabo lyaro came from wild banana; Mirso caran and sarso caran came from wild millet. 30. Now tell me, answer me if you can. Who created the wild boar, the one named myotii rasang? It was Cha Gungu, that is who. And who created the food for the boar called myago rapu? It was Danyi Hudu. He made the wild millet and vegetables eaten by the boars. 31. Listen now, everyone! Who made Nyomping Potii’s other boars, tapo ralo, tace siile and tiilii ragio? Arii Gungu and Arii Hudu created those boars, which ate wild millet and vegetables; The boars ate that food, but the special pig did not.

ritual texts 32. One of Nyomping’s boars, doji raku, was created by Tagyu Gungu; It was hunted by Nyomping Nyari, who dug a deep hole. She covered it with banana leaves, but the boar escaped; It ate those banana leaves, but not wild millet and wild bamboo. 33. Now, this Nyomping Nyari, whose child was she? She was none other than Tagyu Gungu’s daughter. 34. Now tell me, answer me if you can; How did the doji raku boar make its sleeping place? And something else: Nyomping Potii kept a special mithun, but what happened to it? It died and decayed, like a mushroom in the forest. 35. Answer me now, tell me correctly if you can: In the house of which rich man will the monkey be sacrificed? In the house of which strong man will the deer be killed? The monkey will die in the back of the house of Nyomping Myorii; The deer will be killed in the front of the house of Nyomping Chanya. 36. Thick thighs of the ngadu sotii mithun, were cut and placed in ten baskets; Broad shoulders of the ngaku soro mithun, were sliced and filled five baskets.

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chapter five The meat is distributed in all our villages during this Murung festival.21 3. Hunting the Monkey: Myoko Ayu

This text (Myoko Ayu) and the one that follows (Siikki Ayu) form a pair performed during the Myoko festival. Longer and ritually denser than Murung, Myoko also differs in the social base of its participation. Whereas sponsoring a Murung is the voluntary decision of an individual family, hosting the annual Myoko is the obligation of the entire village (or group of villages).22 Also, instead of the few mithuns and cows sacrificed in order to bring prosperity to the individual sponsor of a Murung, the central event in Myoko is the clan-based killing of hundreds of pigs to ensure the well-being of everyone in the host villages. In addition, these two Myoko texts tell a more focused story than the Murung texts. Taken together, the Myoko Ayu and the Siikki Ayu describe how the ancestors established an alliance with the spirits through a pig sacrifice. It is a story of invitations proffered and spurned, of ritual errors, of deceit and trickery, and of a final reconciliation sealed in the acceptance of this gift. Like nearly everything else of importance in Apatani culture, this exchange is the work of Abo Tani. The life of Abo Tani, as we saw in chapter 3, is a continuous struggle with the spirit world, especially Siikki, his father-in-law.23 After the spirits steal Abo Tani’s special sight, which allows him to see into their invisible world, he suffers deprivations and loneliness. Lost and alone, Abo Tani is advised to invite his enemies to a feast. He agrees, but Siikki refuses to attend. After a series of mistakes and rejected gifts, Abo Tani finally brings his father-in-law to the feast, where he accepts a castrated pig. This is the outline of the story in the first text below, which describes key events in the festival, as well. For example, verses 11 and 12 of the Myoko Ayu refer to Siikki’s demand that a monkey be hunted, which is the first task in preparing for Myoko. The festival begins each year in the third week of March (when the takun tree blossoms), but a monkey The Dulu Ayu contains many more (especially question-answer) verses and could be extended for several hours. 22 Each group of villages sponsors Myoko once every three years. 23 Abo Tani is often called ‘Mabo Tani’ (‘Son-in-law Tani’). 21

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must be hunted much earlier, usually during the previous autumn. A village has two or three ritual huts (nagos), each belonging to a clan or group of clans with its own designated hunting area. Each of these nago groups in the host village is required to kill a monkey (usually a langur), which is brought back to the village where its skull is placed inside the nago. In late November 2001, three men of the Tasso clan, which owns one of the two nagos in Hari village, went hunting. On the fifth day, a young man, Tasso Nama, shot and killed a monkey, which he brought back to the village. It was immediately skinned and cut up, with the skull kept in Nama’s house, and the tail and paws in his father’s house. [see photograph 14] Later the paws were distributed among the five Tasso sub-clans, and the skull was put in the nago, where it remained until the opening day of the festival. A second example of the Myoko Ayu text mirroring the Myoko festival is found again in verses 11 and 12. Here Siikki demands that a sama pinii altar be built, which is the formal beginning of the festival. Each clan in the host village constructs this altar inside the house of the man who ‘owns’ that clan’s larger Myoko altar ( yugyang), at which the pigs will later be sacrificed. Carefully placing thin pieces of sampe wood, one on top of the other at 90º angles, a nyibu builds up a square structure two or three feet high, all the time chanting lines in the Myoko Ayu that describe the ritual in which this altar is built. However, as verses 44 and 45 suggest, this ritual will fail if the wrong wood is used. In fact, ritual error is a constant concern in the Myoko Ayu. The wrong monkey might be killed (verse 25), or the wrong tree might be chosen for the babo poles that dominate the skyline during Myoko (verse 26). A tall, straight tree must be found, cut to 15–20 metres, dragged from the forest and erected on each lapang in the host village. The incorrect wood can also be used to repair the lapang itself (verse 26), which is a common activity during Myoko. Again, the wrong wood is possible for the large clan altar, although the version given here does not include those verses.24 Finally, the last section of the Myoko Ayu describes the need for the correct animals to be offered to Siikki. At

24 This clan altar ( yugyang) consists of a row of hundreds of thin saplings (of the kiira tree), one for each male in the clan.

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first there are no animals, then only uncastrated ones, until eventually the right animals are offered, and Siikki accepts a castrated pig. The Siikki Ayu, the second text below, focuses on this reconciliation between Abo Tani and Siikki. In describing the gift and acceptance of a pig, the text again replicates a major event in the Myoko festival. Before that, however, Abo Tani attempts to deceive his father-in-law, always of course in the good cause of enticing him to the festival. In the first few lines, the trickster turns into a fish that poisons Siikki’s ricebeer; he then becomes a piece of ginger in a basket hanging above his hearth. Siikki, for his part, becomes a dog and licks a wound on Abo Tani’s hand, which gives him power over his son-in-law. In response, Abo Tani challenges Siikki to climb a mountain but cheats by placing slippery weeds as steps; Siikki falls down and refuses to ‘come up,’ that is, to enter the human world and attend Abo Tani’s feast. Again, various animals are offered and rejected, until finally Abo Tani offers the correct pig and Siikki accepts. Although Siikki has agreed to attend the feast, no one knows when he will arrive. But when he does, the text again describes the festival. On the third day of Myoko, a crowd gathers around the nago; inside is the monkey skull (hunted months ago) and two priests chanting the Siikki Ayu. All eyes are trained on a small leaf stuck in the monkey skull because when that leaf moves, Siikki has arrived.25 Everyone waits. Ten minutes, twenty minutes, perhaps half an hour goes by, but at some point the leaf mysteriously moves inside the airless hut. Suddenly, ‘Siikki has come!’ is shouted from inside and the crowd outside takes up the cry. Then follows one of the few public expressions of exuberance in Apatani culture. Everyone in the crowd of clansmen and their sons holds cane leaves, which they have brought in a slow procession that winds through the village to the nago hut. The crowd waits. But when the leaf inside moves, they rush forward, shouting and shaking their cane leaves, which they thrust into the bamboo roof of the hut. While the second text ends here, with Siikki’s arrival in the nago, the festival continues for three more weeks. On the next day is the allimportant pig sacrifice, the very reason why Siikki attends the festival. Each family in the host village is expected to raise a Myoko pig and Some nagos have a small, live pig (rather than a monkey skull), and others have a monkey skull without a leaf. In one nago, a small hole in the ground marks the spot where Siikki ‘comes up’ and attends the festival. Hija and Hong villages omit this event altogether. 25

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bring it to the clan altar early in the morning, where a priest chants and sprinkles rice-beer over dozens of squealing porkers. In fact, not every family sacrifices a Myoko pig: some lack money, some lack interest and some are Christian.26 Also, the only pigs killed at the clan altar are those brought there by families related to the ‘owner’ of the altar; other pigs are ‘blessed’ at the altar by a brief chant and then taken back to the house, where a nyibu chants again before the animal is killed. Once killed, the pig’s heart is taken out, placed in a small basket and given to the oldest person in the family; for pigs of families related to the man who ‘owns’ the clan altar, the heart is given to the priest presiding at the clan altar. The pig blood is saved for a special meal two weeks later, when it is mixed with rice and eaten by the family (husband and wife, their children and daughters-in-law). Until a wife eats the blood of her in-laws’ Myoko pig, she is not considered a member of her husband’s family or clan. In the past, the Myoko Ayu was chanted during this meal and during the monkey hunt. Today, both the Myoko Ayu and the Siikki Ayu are chanted almost anytime during the festival, especially when ceremonial friends visit. Each text has an obligatory performance, too. The Myoko Ayu is chanted in the house of the ‘owner’ of the clan altar on the first night of the festival, when the sama pinii altar is built. The Siikki Ayu, at least part of it, is chanted by priests inside the nago while the crowd outside waits for the leaf to move. Together these two ayus tell a story of rivalry and reconciliation through exchange at a feast. In the end, oral texts and ritual events cohere to express the idea that gift-giving creates alliances between people, as well as between people and spirits. The version of the Myoko Ayu below was chanted by Leegang Kago, an assistant priest (bo), who was about 35 years old and had just begun to perform rituals and ayus. The recording was made in 2003, at night in his house, with his wife, brother, son, daughter-in-law and a few friends present. 1. This year we are the hosts of the Myoko festival; Our villages in the west welcome guests from the east.

26 In 2002, for example, between 12 and 48 pigs were killed at various clan altars in Hari and Bula villages, representing just over half the families in each clan.

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2. In the spring time, from the forests created by Anii Niinii, We summon the siro and pilya spirits to give the hunters courage, To give them strength to hunt the monkey. 3. We summon spirits from forests in the south, where Kiiri-Kilo lives; We call them from forests in the north, where Lyari-Lyalo lives. 4. Like rodents foraging in dense forests, Like woodpeckers eating in tall trees, Happiness fills our hearts during this Myoko festival. 5. All of us, the children of Abo Tani, from the villages of east and west, Let us play happily, like little fish in the water. 6. Let us gather together, like a star-filled sky; Let our lives flourish, like the glittering stars. 7. Coming to the nago, with thick cane leaves, We decorate its roof corners; we do it for you, Siikki. 8. We build the strong lapang, standing straight like the sky; We build the rounded nago, rising up like a mountain.

ritual texts 9. This year we make the sama pinii, the altar of Abo Tani; We build the altar to invite the guests, Siikki and Tani. 10. Placing one piece on another, using only sampe wood, We build the sama pinii, the altar where Siikki and Tani Will meet face to face. 11. Siikki, you said to Tani, ‘Build the sama pinii with sampe wood; Build it and bring the monkey, or I will not accept your gift.’ 12. If Siikki does not come to the sama pinii altar, He will not meet Tani at the Myoko festival. 13. Anii Niinii, the female spirit, comes from takang in Neli; Anii Niinii wears the skirt from the kudung cave in Neli. 14. Aba Horbo is the ancestor of the kiipa stone in Neli; Aba Horbo wears the loin cloth from the kiipa stone in Neli. 15. Anii Niinii came from takang and gave us many things; Anii Niinii, the ancestress, made the hijo and yahi bamboo.

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16. Aba Horbo, our ancestor, created these dense forests, Full of tiira, sangke and lyange trees on the high dolo and mando hills. 17. Anii Niinii, you gave us arrow feathers; you gave us bamboo bows; Yes, our feathers and bows come from Anii Niinii. 18. The hunting party summoned the siro and pilya spirits, the spirits of the forest, To give them strength and courage. 19. Moving through distant forests, and across wide streams, We are looking for the Myoko monkey to make Siikki happy. 20. From the bamboo given by Anii Niinii we make our hunting bows; We slice off the top, we cut away the bottom; We prepare our poison arrows. 21. We do not want the top, where the bamboo is thick and tough; We remove the bottom, where it is soft and thin; We make our new bows from the middle section only. 22. We smooth the ribs in the middle, we sharpen points top and bottom, Just as Tubo Semyu and Lyabo Semyu, did long ago.

ritual texts Now the bow is finished, a gift from Anii Niinii. 23. We prepare our poison arrows and straighten their feathers; We call on the siro and pilya spirits, to protect our hunting party. 24. In the forest of our ancestors, high on the tall tree, I see the monkey, and everyone stands ready. 25. The ancestors Diyu and Raru, strengthened by pilya ritual, Hunted the Myoko monkey; But they only caught a grasshopper hiding in a leaf. 26. They hunted the Myoko monkey, protected by the siro and pilya spirits. But they used a reed for the babo pole, and Siikki would not accept it; They brought grass for the lapang, and the spirits rejected it. 27. Now, hunting in the forest, I have seen the Myoko monkey; all of us stand ready. We aim our sharp arrows toward its soft underarm. 28. We think it is the monkey, But, look! It is merely dark leaves, moving in the wind. 29. Again we search for the monkey deeper inside the forest;

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chapter five We see it high in the tree, and draw back our bows, Aiming our arrows high.

30. The string twangs, and the arrow leaves the bow; It strikes the soft underarm, and the monkey is hit. The monkey crashes down, breaking tree branches. 31. We have shot the monkey but can not find the body; We look everywhere, but it is lost in the jungle. 32. A bee, washing in a little pond, smells the dead monkey. ‘What happened?’ it asks; ‘We cannot find the body,’ we say. 33. ‘Find that body,’ we say. ‘Tell us where it is, show us the body, And we will give you ornaments and bracelets.’ The little bee agrees. 34. The bee leads us hunters through the forest; It takes us through dense jungle, to where the monkey lies. 35. We wrap the dead monkey in wild tari and taka leaves, But the Myoko monkey rejects those leaves.

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36. Then we wrap the body in taper cane leaves, And the monkey accepts them.27 37. Hoisting the monkey on our shoulders, we carry it through the forest, Waving the taper cane leaves and shouting loudly. 38. The spirits, led by Siikki, accept the monkey; Siikki receives this gift from Abo Tani, And Siikki is pleased. 39. The monkey’s body lies there, and the babo pole stands tall; The nago shrine rises high, and the lapang stands firm. 40. Gathering together at Myoko, we laugh and play; Like swarming shoals of fish, we are abundant. 41. We will not die soon, not before our time; We will all live long and enjoy a happy life. 42. For prosperous paddy fields, we decorate this nago; We build an altar for Tani; we build an altar for Siikki.

27 Taper cane leaves decorate the nago for the arrival of Siikki, as described in the introduction to this text.

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43. Aba Nibo, the Myoko priest, Biiser Liiber, the Myoko priest, Holds a bow and arrow carefully in his hands. 44. Diyu built the sama pinii altar28 to bring Siikki to Myoko; But he made a mistake when he used sangke wood. 45. Diyu tried to make the sama pinii using kiira wood; Then he tried to make it with mari wood; Finally he used sampe wood, and that was correct. 46. Aba Nibo, the priest, said, ‘I conduct this Myoko For the prosperity of our people, and to please the spirits.’ 47. ‘I perform this pig sacrifice to please Siikki; I do it for Piinsan and for Rulang, and for all of you.’ 48. Diyu and Raru, the ancestors, had no pigs for Siikki; They had nothing to offer to the spirits at Myoko. 49. No dogs and no bitches, no cocks and no hens; No mithuns and no cows, no goats and no pigs.

28

Diyu is another name for Abo Tani.

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50. To the land of the Sun, the land of Danyi, Mother Sun brought animals, from Neli, the afterworld, 51. To the land of the Sun, she brought mithuns and chickens; In the land of Danyi, she created goats and pigs. 52. Along the diyu and payu paths, Danyi created mithuns and eggs; Along the lyayo and miido paths she brought forth animals. 53. ‘On the diyu and payu paths,’ said Danyi, ‘I have reared dogs, and raised chickens and pigs.’ 54. But the uncastrated cocks gave off a terrible smell; And the uncastrated pigs had a bad odour. 55. The male pigs were marked at the crossing paths;29 Their bodies were marked where the paths joined. 56. The male pigs were marked by their testicles; The cocks were marked by their testicles.

29 In ordinary speech, nyatu refers to a resting place for people carrying loads, but here it refers to a part of the pig’s body.

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57. The chickens were kept in the coop beside the front door, Of the big house of the Myoko sponsor. 58. In the land of Danyi, the pigs and cocks with testicles, Were offered to Siikki, to Pilya and to Diingyang. 59. The pigs and cocks were offered without castration; And Siikki refused to accept them. 60. A woman named Iipyo Midu tied the pigs to the santi post; Then she removed their testicles at the sari post. 61. The castrated pigs were offered again, To Siikki and to Piinsan, and the spirits accepted them. 62. They castrated the pigs with sharp bamboo knives; They rubbed medicine on the wound and stitched it with a needle. 63. Siikki smelled the pigs; Pyotii smelled them, too, And the spirits were satisfied. 64. The pigs were offered at the Ayen stream, Where Siikki and Pyotii accepted them.

ritual texts 65. All the spirits chose offerings for themselves; Some claimed this animal, and some claimed that. 66. When the spirits chose animals, who chose the pigs? Yes, it was Siikki and Piinsan; they claimed the pigs. 67. When the cows were offered, Kiile Mepin claimed them; Doko Gyamu chose the dogs, and Sonyi Sora took the goats. 68. The mithuns were offered, and Dadu Pyotii took them; The hens were offered, and Lyapin Chantung chose them. 69. The eggs were claimed by Hiiyin Hiigin; The offerings were made, and each spirit claimed one. 70. When all the offerings were claimed, the priest said, ‘I will show each one of you where you will live.’ 71. ‘The mithuns will live where the raru grass grows; The cows will live where the polang grass grows.’ 72. ‘The goats will live in the land of dark charcoal; The chickens will eat the grains found on earth.’

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73. ‘The pigs will live where the luli plant grows; Siikki, this is where you will live; Myotii Pilya, this is where you will live.’ 74. These are the locations where all the spirits live. Siikki prospers in the land of pigs; Hiiyin Hiigin flourishes in the land of eggs. 75. I am Abo Nibo, the Myoko priest; I am Biiser Liiber, the Myoko priest. I saw that all the offerings were accepted; I know that all the spirits were satisfied. 76. Siikki was happy, and Pyotii Dadu, too. They claimed their offerings and everyone was content. 4. The Festival Begins: Siikki Ayu By the end of the Myoko Ayu text, preparations for the festival are complete. The correct wood has been used to construct the sama pinii altar, to erect the babo pole and repair the lapang. The monkey has been hunted and placed in the nago with the special leaf. The right animal offerings have also been made and accepted by the spirits. All that remains is for Siikki to accept Abo Tani’s offering and attend the festival, and this is what the Siikki Ayu describes. This one-hour version of the text was chanted by Mudan Pai in his house in 2003. 1. Siikki and Tani, father- and son-in-law, Turned against each other.

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One carried a leather bag, the other a cane bag; Siikki and Tani argued and fought one another. 2. The ear of the squirrel was cut off; The nose of the louse was sliced off. 3. Tani turned into a ribu fish and polluted Siikki’s rice-beer; Siikki became a piece of ginger and sat in Tani’s little basket.30 4. Siikki and Tani took revenge, but how did they trick each other? Siikki and Tani fought, but how did they fight? 5. They were son- and father-in-law, but neither trusted the other; Siikki and Tani were ready for revenge and eager to attack the other. 6. Together they went to cut cane, and together they were injured; Siikki’s hand was cut, and Tani’s foot was bloody. 7. Siikki became a dog and licked the blood of Tani’s wound; Tani remained himself and licked Siikki’s wound.

30 This basket, which hangs from a rack above the fire, is used to store matches, candles and dried meat.

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8. Siikki tasted Tani’s blood, and Tani tasted Siikki’s blood; They plotted against each other, each in his own mind. 9. They challenged each other to climb a steep mountain; Each had to climb the other’s slope, up the mountain to the top. 10. On his slope, Siikki placed silver steps, but Tani planted soft plants; Tani climbed up Siikki’s steps, but Siikki slipped on Tani’s slope. 11. Unable to hold the soft grass, Siikki fell down Tani’s slope; Stepping on the silver steps, Tani easily climbed Siikki’s slope. 12. Tani saw Siikki below and pointed to the sky. ‘I offer you this,’ he said to his enemy. Siikki was pleased and began to climb, But he was washed away in a flood of rushing water. 13. Holding an animal skin, Tani made another offer: ‘Please accept this sile luku,’31 but still Siikki refused. 14. Tani offered Siikki a dog, but Siikki would not listen. Siikki shut tight Tani’s mouth and blocked his anus, too. 31

An unidentified, mythical animal.

ritual texts 15. Back and forth they battled, on and on they struggled, Until Tani’s elders said, ‘Siikki, we offer you chickens.’ 16. Once more Siikki refused, until they offered pigs; Finally he agreed and climbed up the hill. 17. ‘For your pleasure, Siikki,’ said Aba Nibo, the priest, ‘We decorate this nago, putting cane leaves on the roof.’ 18. ‘We place your cane leaves on all four corners; We beautify the nago outside and make it soft inside.’ 19. ‘We are the tanii people, the descendants of Diyu; Our clans are as plentiful as fish, as numerous as the stars.’ 20. Holding his bow and arrow, Aba Nibo said, ‘For our well-being, and for you, Siikki, We place these cane leaves on the nago roof. We invite you, Siikki, to come inside the nago.’ 21. He wore a priest’s shawl on his shoulders and an embroidered cloth on his head; He wore cane-bands below his knees and held a machete in its sheath. 22. The Aba Nibo priest chanted and invited Siikki to the nago,

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23. Then Aba Nibo made his request: ‘Siikki, you must enter first.’ But Siikki could not; a wall blocked his way. 24. Other spirits, Kiiri and Kilo, wanted to enter first; But could they climb the steep slope and enter the nago? 25. ‘Watch everyone,’ cried the Aba Nibo priest. ‘Will Kiiri or Kilo enter first? Who will be first to enter the nago?’ 26. ‘Watch closely, all of you, for the leaf inside the nago. Will it be Kiiri or Kilo, or will it be Sinyo, Who enters before Siikki?’ 27. Holding his bamboo bow, the Aba Nibo priest spoke again: ‘To please you, Siikki, I offer you this pig.’ 28. Siikki agreed to climb up and come inside the nago. At Tani’s request, Siikki agreed and came to our Myoko. 29. Danyi protects us, the tanii people, and helps us prosper. Danyi increases our pigs and chickens, our mithuns and cows, our rice and millet.

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Let our life prosper and our people flourish. 5. Journey to the Land of the Dead 32 This funeral chant is unlike the other texts in this chapter. Neli Toniin (‘Going down to Neli,’ or Siima Kheniin, ‘Crying for the Dead’) is the only ritual text regularly performed by a woman. In each clan, one or two women acquire enough competence in ritual speech to perform the funeral chant; older men, including nyibus, also chant it, but more often it is a woman. A related difference is that this chant summons spirits not to ensure prosperity but to ask for guidance on the dangerous descent along a maze of paths to the afterworld (Neli) and back again to the world of the living. This is also why Apatanis were reluctant to perform this text for me, or even speak about it. Most people showed little interest in talking about funerals, graves or anything else related to death; the dead might return and cause harm if such topics were discussed, especially inside a house. Performing the funeral text, even for my tape recorder, also created the possibility that, if the chant were recited incorrectly, if one of the paths (lenda) were missed or a wrong turn taken, the person chanting might not return. Once there, however, the underworld is far from gloomy. The only problem is getting the dead there, and keeping them there, so that we can safely return. Apatani funerals are not elaborate. Compared to the display of wealth, long chants and animal sacrifices of the Murung and Myoko festivals, burying the dead is a simple affair. After the corpse has been washed, family and friends come to the house bringing items to be buried in the grave. Soon a small number of mourners, mostly female, gather at the side of the body, and one of them chants (in a crying voice) a version of the text given here. Then the nyibu sacrifices a chicken and chants briefly, calling on spirits to protect and strengthen the soul during its journey. If the deceased is an old and respected man, the priest may also conduct a more elaborate ritual called doko pilya.

32

These comments are a revision of Blackburn 2005.

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Wrapped in cloth and covered with a mat, the body is then carried to the clan burial ground a short distance from the village; the procession usually includes only a few family members, mostly men. A grave is dug, and items of importance to the dead person—a favourite machete, clothes, food—are buried with the corpse;33 but valuable objects, like beads, metal bells and plates, are not.34 After a few minutes of chanting, a mithun or cow is killed, a dirt mound is heaped up over the grave and a small bamboo fence built around it. For men of status, such as priests, a tall, flat wall-like structure is constructed and mithun skulls hung from it. [see photograph 15] For women from wealthy families, the structure above the grave resembles a tepee, with three poles joined at the top; for younger men, the structure is four-sided and tapers at the top. Since the 1980s, concrete memorials have been erected, mostly for Christians but also for influential men. In contrast to the funeral, the Apatani conception of the journey to the land of the dead is complex. Apatanis speak of three afterworlds. Those who die a natural and peaceful death go to Neli, whose location is described only as ‘below.’ Men who die accidentally or commit suicide go to Tali Myoko, again described only as ‘up.’ Women whose lives are similarly truncated go to Libung Myoko, again ‘up.’ Neli, the destination for all who die a normal death, is a prosperous land, a mirror-image of this world, where the dead enjoy fertile fields, mithuns and family life. The journey to the afterworld, on the other hand, is nothing to look forward to. Souls of the dead are guided downward along many linked and named paths, which contain ‘resting places’ but also wrong turns. The soul is guided through this labyrinth, but dangers and obstacles are everywhere. You must cross a river and the gigantic creature that lies within it. Then come the most dangerous paths (ten hombi and five honto) where anyone can get lost. Once these obstructions are overcome, danger is left behind and you reach a second stream, where you wash and meet your relatives already in the afterworld. When the chanter-guide has tied the mithuns at the correct posts and prepares to depart, she demands a physical barrier between the living

33 Graves used to be dug by a designated family in each village, but today they are usually dug by Indians who live in Hapoli and work as daily labourers. 34 A priest’s grave, however, may contain ceremonial clothing, especially his head cloth (abyo).

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and the dead. A mound of earth and a fence must be built ( just as they are above the grave); even the ropes, she says, do not belong in the afterworld and must be taken back. She cannot stay in Neli; she must return to her village. In another chant, the nyibu warns the soul: ‘Do not come back to our world. Do not upset our ceremonies; do not harm our land and crops. Your life is now in Neli . . . be happy there.’35 This desire to separate the dead from the living is the central theme of both funeral chant and ceremony. The chant describes a sequence of alternating movements between the danger of the dead and the safety of the living. The journey downward is perilous, but Neli itself is a place of contentment. Once the dead are left behind, the return journey to the living requires the protection of spirits. This homecoming is described as an ever-increasing proximity to the safety of interior spaces. As the chanter comes closer and closer to her village, she names the protective spirits of the nearby forests, the clans of her village and then a stream where her clan erects ritual altars. She enters her house, asking for protection and health from the spirits. Once inside, she retreats to the rear right-hand corner of the house, where the souls of her family (and valuable objects) are placed for safe-keeping. Among Apatanis, there is no deification of the dead and little ancestor worship. Ancestors are invited to feasts but only as an impersonal group, and the dead are contacted primarily in order to prevent them from returning and doing harm. The journey of the soul is long, difficult and dangerous in order to make sure the dead stay dead. The road to the land of the dead not only takes the soul to Neli; it also separates the living from the dead. The text translated below was performed by Hage Biinyi, a woman about 70 years old, in a friend’s house in 2003. 1. In the beginning long ago, the ancestors Aba Kiilyi and Aba Kiilo, Made the journey to the land of the dead, along the kempu path.36

35 36

From a recording of the doko pilya chant by Mudan Pai in 2004. The kempu path leads to the kempu lapang in Neli.

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2. Mother Nana of Sicuan, passed along the sicuan path; Father Nyibu of Midi, moved along the midi path. 3. Worms dug holes in the earth, monkeys cleared the path, and birds prepared the way. They knew the way to Neli, along the kempu path. 4. On the way to Neli, we come to Hiising, to the resting place at Sindo. Here we celebrate our achievements and praise our skills. Now we open our cane bags and eat well on the journey. 5. Further along the kempu path, down toward Neli, We come to the Chayen River, where many dangers lie. Beware the ten hombi and five honto,37 where you may lose your way! 6. Deep in the Chayen river lies the giant Chango Sotii;38 This huge animal stretches between earth and sky. 7. His upper body is dense with hair tangled like birds’ nests; His lower body beneath the surface stirs up strong currents.

Some versions include a long list of these dangerous paths. Chango Sotii is a mythical animal (likened by some to an elephant or a mithun) believed to cause earthquakes (Singh 1986/87). 37 38

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8. Come across the Chayen river; do not have fear. We walk on the chest of Chango Sotii; carefully and slowly we step. Come mithuns and cows, too;39 follow me without fear. 9. We have crossed the river, over the chest of Chango Sotii; Stepping across in the middle, we have crossed the deep waters. 10. We come to another crossing, to the Ayen stream, Where we wash our clothes and clean our body, too.40 11. In Neli, the land of our grandmothers, We tie mithuns to the gyadi posts at the kempu lapang. 12. In Neli, the land of our grandfathers, We tie cows to the gyada posts at the itan lapang. 13. Tightly the animals are tied to these posts in Neli; Only now can I return to the land of the living. 14. Spirits in Neli, please protect me!

The soul of the dead brings mithuns and cows as gifts for his relatives in Neli. When the soul of the dead crosses the Ayen stream, he is received by his relatives and friends in Neli. 39 40

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chapter five Give me blessings as numerous as mithun hairs.

15. Now I want to return and bring my possessions back; I must go safely to the land of the living. 16. I untie all the mithuns; I loosen all the ropes. The tace, tah and mar ropes, the pandu, bipa and manii ropes. I take them all back; they do not belong in Neli. 17. I put the ropes in my cane bag, for holding birds and rats; I sling the bag over my shoulder and return to the land of the living. 18. I have guided you to Neli and shown you the land of the dead. But where will I go now? I cannot eat the food here, not from these fertile fields, Where cocks crow and birds sing. 19. Here we must part; I must build a wall between us, A bund of mud and clay, a fence of split bamboo.41 20. Following the route of the ancestors who made the journey to Neli, I must now climb back to the world,

41 A small mound of earth is formed on top of the grave, and a fence of split bamboo is built around it.

ritual texts up the steep mountain path Where the wild bamboo grows. 21. Following the path of the ancestors and the souls that went before, I climb toward the world of the living, along the pinku-jorku path. 22. I travel over fog covered mountains, through dense bamboo groves; Protect me as I go and keep my soul strong. 23. Young bears and boars blazed paths through thick forests; Little monkeys cleared the way through dense undergrowth; I follow their narrow paths, upward toward the earth. 24. I return to the world of our people, to the land of the living; I ask you to safeguard my soul, to protect the souls of my family, The souls of our mithuns, of our chickens and pigs. 25. I follow the path of the monkeys to whom I give thanks; I travel toward the Sun-Water path, where the bears and boars live, Along wild bamboo paths, to a deep pool of water. 26. Here I must be careful at the pool’s edge in this place of Sun-Water; Bending down to quench my thirst, I am careful not to drown.

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27. From the land of Sun-Water, closer and closer to our village, I travel the pantii path, the path of our mothers; I travel the letii path, the path of our fathers. 28. Leaving the land of Sun-Water, I follow the path of our mothers to the nearby rantii forest; I follow the path of our fathers to the nearby piige field, where the su spirits reside.42 29. Let the mothers of the rantii path protect us; Let the fathers of the piige path guard us. Having crossed the mountain paths, let the su spirits keep us safe. 30. I return to the nago of our ancestors, The forefathers of our clans, Mitan Libya and Doging Loda, Chiging Mipya and Tamen Milo and Turu Kago.43 31. I come back to the village, the home of our ancestors, The village of Koji and Pilya, of Tai Gyati, Marpu and Eka.44 32. I come back to this thriving village of crowing cocks and barking dogs; 42 43 44

Potentially dangerous spirits. Ancestors of clans in the chanter’s village. Sub-clans in the chanter’s village.

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I come back to these houses; I return to my children. 33. I come to my husband’s house, the house of my children; Let the spirits of this house protect and strengthen us all. 34. Keep us safe and sound, spirits of the lapang and babo poles; Make us all strong, spirits of sigan sanga and buken talyang.45 35. I, Rinyo, wife of Tamen,46 ask the su spirits of cogio abya to strengthen us all. Let me remain here and not wander away; Let me stay safe and sound in the doko corner With my metal bells and plates. 36. Inside our house, in the rear right-hand corner, Let our souls reside, safe inside the basket, Protected by Lyapin Chantung.47

45 Sigan sanga is a small stream near the chanter’s house where altars are built to the su spirits; buken talyang is an altar constructed during Myoko. Cogio abya (next verse) is another location where su spirits are worshipped. 46 The names of the chanter and her husband. 47 Lyapin Chantung protects the house, especially the doko corner and the yadin (or dinci diru) basket hanging there, which contains valuables and the souls of the living. She is invoked once a year and on special occasions, for example, when a child is born or a new bride enters the house.

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chapter five 6. Stomach Cure: Diipa Meko

This final ritual text is one of several dozen healing chants, which are the bread and butter of a nyibu’s repertoire. As a genre, they are known as wi benii (‘chating to a [specific] spirit’). They are also referred to as cicing because they contact harmful spirits (cicing wi ), whereas other ritual texts call the benevolent (tiigo) spirits responsible for prosperity. As with all Apatani healing chants, the ‘Stomach Cure’ is based on an episode in the life of Abo Tani. Most nyibus were reluctant to chant any healing text into my microphone, and certainly not in their own house, citing fears of cicing spirits. Mudan Pai only agreed to do so if we recorded in my room at the guesthouse in Hapoli and only after several years. I had repeatedly asked him to perform a healing chant, and at the end of my stay in 2006, knowing that I would leave the next day, he agreed. When he arrived that morning, I had no idea what he would perform. He began with two chants that are not exactly healing texts but are performed in order to strengthen someone during a journey. Later I wondered whether he chanted them in order to protect me when I left the next day or to strengthen himself before tackling the dangerous healing chant. Always quiet and thoughtful, he suddenly grew animated and began to chant something new, at a fast pace and in a high-pitched voice. Barely twenty minutes later, he stopped and explained that he would not continue. What he had chanted, he said, contained the ‘story, which is all you need.’ The rest, describing the healing ritual itself, he was not prepared to chant, not even in the neutral space of my room. ‘Now,’ he said, settling back in his chair, ‘I’ll tell you the story in everyday speech, so you can understand.’ Several times as he told the story below, he laughed, inviting us to join in his appreciation of Abo Tani’s cunning. Abo Tani, the first ancestor, was born at Chantu Kochun. His rival, Chinii, the leader of the spirits, was born at Endii Bubyan. It happened that Abo Tani married Ayo Diilyang Diibu, while Chinii married Endii Dinii Biinyi and Tangu Panii Biinyi. Before long, Abo Tani and Chinii became good friends. They often went hunting together, usually to the Tamin Talo forest, looking for rats, deer and birds.

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One day they went to the Mudo Siko river, which was full of fish, but neither of them caught anything. Disappointed, Abo Tani said to Chinii, ‘Look. Your uncles are the poisonous sanku tree and the poisonous tangu tapa grass. Why not ask them to kill some fish for us?’48 So that’s what Chinii did, and many fish died and were caught. So many, in fact, that Abo Tani couldn’t put them all into his cane baskets. So heavy that Chinii couldn’t carry all the baskets. In the end, they sat on the bank of the river and decided to roast the fish inside sections of bamboo. Abo Tani cut his bamboo section correctly, opening it up at the top; but Chinii made his opening at the bottom.49 Next they collected more firewood. Abo Tani got the hard santi santo wood, which burns well. But Chinii brought back only the soft tagin tamo wood, which crackles a lot but gives little heat. After that, they both went to pick leaves. Again, Abo Tani found iiji oho leaves, which have flavour, while Chinii got only the prickly and poisonous piirii tamo leaves. Finally, they put the leaves and fish into their bamboo pieces. Abo Tani added soft vegetables, but Chinii put in little insects. While the bamboo sections were cooking, and when he thought Abo Tani wasn’t looking, Chinii switched them. Now his bamboo was near Abo Tani and he had Abo Tani’s. This is how he planned to poison Abo Tani. But Abo Tani had seen all this and tried to distract Chinii so that he could switch the bamboo sections back. ‘Look, Chinii!’ he said. ‘The earth and sky are revolving!’ ‘Nothing new in that,’ said Chinii unimpressed. Next Abo Tani called out: ‘Chinii! Look over there, at that elephant with a white ear!’ ‘Seen it a hundred times,’ replied Chinii. ‘Over there! A dumb tiger!’ ‘Big deal.’ ‘There’s a pure white crow!’ ‘So what?’ Poisoning was a common method of fishing. Since the top section is weaker, Chinii’s bamboo will split when it is put into the fire upside down. 48 49

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Then Abo Tani tried another trick. He caught a mole and put it underground, where it burrowed along and bit Chinii. Chinii tried to ignore the pain, but while he was distracted, Abo Tani managed to grab a piece of Chinii’s soft firewood and toss it in the fire. Suddenly sparks flew into Chinii’s eyes, blinding him. Swiftly, Abo Tani asked a deer to kick the bamboo sections toward him. He grabbed them and put them back in their original positions. And so when Chinii ate from his own bamboo, it was he who became ill and vomited. A few days later, Abo Tani decided to go to Chinii dressed as Chinii’s daughter. First he disguised himself as a woman and went to see the daughter. When he found her, Abo Tani said, ‘Give me your best necklaces and clothes. I’m going on a journey.’ When the daughter said nothing, Abo Tani asked, ‘Are you Chinii’s daughter?’ ‘Yes,’ she answered. ‘How is he?’ he asked. ‘He is always tricked by Abo Tani, and now he is very ill.’ Abo Tani took her clothes, and went to Chinii dressed as his daughter. Thinking it was his daughter, Chinii said, ‘If I continue to vomit, I’m going to die. Now listen; you must be careful. Don’t eat any of Abo Tani’s poison. But if you do eat something from his garden, here is the cure. . . .’50

50 Mudan Pai stopped here and explained that he did not want to chant the verses that describe the cure itself.

CHAPTER SIX

COMPARISONS, LOCAL CULTURE AND IDENTITY With the exception of some ritual texts (healing chants and ayus), this book has presented most of the stories told with any frequency by Apatanis. But an oral tradition is more than a collection of stories. Whatever its narrative content, in the Apatani valley or elsewhere, each oral tradition is also a combination of linguistic forms, local conventions, cultural attitudes and behavour patterns, all of which comprise a system of oral genres. This complexity makes the study of oral tradition fascinating at the same time that it renders ambitious any comprehensive description or analysis. No definitive statement is attempted in this concluding chapter. Rather, I will try to characterise Apatani oral tradition by illustrating the key idea outlined in the Introduction, that oral stories take us both inside and between cultures. The discussion brings together observations made throughout the earlier chapters, adds new material and reaches conclusions about Apatani oral tradition from these two perspectives—its local significance and its relation to stories in adjacent regions. The first section is a comparative analysis of Apatani oral stories, which is summarised in Appendix 3. As a glance at this comparative profile shows, Apatani stories have significant parallels not only in central Arunachal Pradesh but also along the India-Burma border, in upland Southeast Asia and in southwest China. The second section turns back to local culture and discusses the tradition as a whole and then its two primary themes of differentiation & exchange and alliance. The final section returns to issues raised in chapter 2 and touched on throughout this book: historical change, Abo Tani and Apatani identity.

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chapter six Comparisons: Apatani stories in the wider world 1. Myths

Beginnings of the World There is no single, discrete Apatani ‘myth of creation,’ only a set of recurring motifs with a common theme. They are typically embedded in ritual texts but are sometimes also narrated in everyday prose. As illustrated by Myth and History 1, Apatanis conceive of a state of undifferentiated ambiguity (kolyung-kolo) from which individual forms emerge, a process of materialisation that is found in the cosmogonic myths of other tribes in central Arunachal Pradesh.1 This and other regional explanations for the beginnings of the world—creation from an egg, separation of sky and earth—are popular elsewhere in the world. Nevertheless, it is revealing that the dominant creation myths among tribal groups in upland Southeast Asia (‘Flood’) and central India (‘Earth Diver’) are virtually absent in central Arunachal Pradesh. Also, as with most tribes in the region and northeast India generally, Apatanis do not attribute the beginnings of the world to a creator god or goddess.2 Rather, Apatanis recognise a procreative female power whose body is the source of the natural world. Grasses arise from her hair, the sun-moon from her eyes, the horizon from her buttocks and so forth. Her body is also the source of threads, dyes and weaving instruments (Myth and History 6). In some texts, she gives birth to Chantung, the protective female spirit who safeguards the souls of the living; and from Chantung comes Abo Tani (Myth and History 1). This story of a female body as the source of the world is not as widespread as one might think; and its underlying process—differentiation from a prior unity—is one of the two linked themes that run through Apatani oral tradition as a whole. Verrier Elwin, who attempted to match Arunachal stories with Indian classical or tribal myths, claimed that the Apatani myth was parallel

Most Tani tribes have a cognate word for kolyung-kolo and with the same meaning. See Danda and Mandal 1998; Elwin 1958. Only the Ao Naga figure Lijaba (or Lichaba) is said to create the world ex-nihilo (Beck et al. 1987: 273; Jacobs 1990: 83), but this may be the result of inaccurate translation. Among Apatanis, only the idiosyncratic Mudan Donyi spoke of a ‘creator god.’ 1 2

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to the ancient Indian myth of the division of the cosmic man.3 Elwin noted, for example, that in both Apatani and Indian texts eyes become the sun and moon. Despite such similarities, I doubt that the Apatani myth is related to the Indian story of sacrifice. To begin with, the Vedic story is a version of the ‘Ymir’ creation myth, from the eponymous Norse story in which the world arises from the body of a slain giant, god or ancestor.4 Also, the motif of the sun and moon arising from human eyes is too widespread to demonstrate any historical relationship. Even more telling, the protean power in the Indian and other versions of the Ymir myth is male, whereas in the Apatani story it is female. A final difference is that in the central Arunachal stories the world is not created as the result of deliberate action, such as the Hindu sacrifice or Norse slaying of the giant. Instead, in these regional myths the world emerges, takes shape and evolves passively. In short, the Apatani explanation of the beginnings of the world— formlessness differentiated into forms through the division of a female body—is a story of emergence not creation. It owes little to Indic or Tibetan traditions and belongs, instead, to a regional tradition in central Arunachal Pradesh. Sun-Moon Other Apatani myths have parallels not only in central Arunachal Pradesh but in adjacent regions to the east and southeast, as well. One of these, the story of Sun-Moon (Myth and History 13), is told across much of the eastern Himalayas. It has three core motifs: excessive heat of multiple suns (and moons); shooting down one (or more) of them to cool; and the coming of mortality as a result of the shooting.5 Almost all tribes in central Arunachal Pradesh, plus the Idu and Digaru Mishmis to the east, tell this story, and the great majority of their versions include all three elements.

Elwin 1958: 6. The Ymir story is also known in native North America and China, although the international motif index lists only the Norse example (A 642 in Thompson 1955–58). The motif index for India lists a single example of ‘universe from body of slain giant’ (A 642 in Thompson and Balys 1958). Rooth (1957: 179) cites examples from ‘Tibet, East Asia, and the Pacific Islands’ but without giving sources. 5 The Sun-Moon myth is not the only explanation for death among central Arunachal tribes. In a second popular story, death arrives in the form of a song or tear that Abo Tani receives from a grieving bird. 3 4

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Thirteen of the 21 versions from the region explicitly attribute the origin of death to the harming of the luminaries. Either the Sun-Moon demands that humans die or curses them to die, or the Sun-Moon is given souls of the dead as compensation for the killing of one of the original suns. In the eight other tellings, the association with death is less explicit but present nevertheless. Finally, whether the Sun-Moon is directly or indirectly responsible for the origin of death, in nearly every version it is the cause of the death of those who die from the intense heat of multiple suns. The first motif in this myth—multiple suns (and moons)—is extremely popular in the world’s mythology, not least in tribal central India where seven suns are common. However, whereas in central India and elsewhere, a male sun is typically paired with a female moon, the reverse gender pairing is the norm in central Arunachal Pradesh. A combination of female sun and male moon is not restricted to the eastern Himalayas (and gender is not identified in every version); but the story of multiple female suns and male moons that generate excessive heat is found almost exclusively in this area. In addition, although many stories across the world have female suns and male moons who are brother and sister, and often incestuous, this relation is not found in the central Arunachal Pradesh versions. The second motif of the Sun-Moon myth—shooting down one or more suns to cool the withering heat—is also reported widely in central Arunachal Pradesh, upland Southeast Asia and southwest China. While this shooting motif is found in a few tellings scattered on the periphery of these areas, too, it is extremely common among ethnic minorities in southwest China.6 With one exception, archers in these stories shoot down female suns and male moons, leaving one of each, as in central Arunachal Pradesh. A Drung (Rawang) story in Yunnan is remarkably similar to those told by Adis, Galos and others in Arunachal.7 The third motif—death as a consequence of shooting the sun (or moon)—is found only in central Arunachal Pradesh and in Yunnan (the Drung version just mentioned). The limited distribution of this motif is curious since the setting of the sun and moon would seem to provide a natural explanation for death, and their decline is linked to human

6 These stories are probably the source of the Chinese legend in which the hero Yi shoots down nine of ten suns. 7 Miller 1994: 61–62.

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death in many cultures. The moon appears in some myths of the origin of death but only in its waxing phase, which represents immortality or rejuvenation; by contrast, in our myth the moon as the ‘dead sun’ is a symbol of mortality.8 The Sun-Moon story does resemble other myths of the origin of death, however, in that it explains the coming of death as a mistake. As one writer put it, the decision by men to shoot down the unbearably hot Sun-Moon was just ‘stunning bad luck.’9 Looking at all versions, the full myth of the Sun-Moon is unique to central Arunachal Pradesh and Yunnan. Nowhere else is the origin of death explained as the penalty for shooting down one or more female suns. Versions elsewhere often contain one or sometimes two of these elements. For example, in a Weyewa story in Indonesia the cessation of tremendous heat brings human mortality, but there is no shooting down of sun or moon.10 Or, closer to Arunachal Pradesh, the Magars in central Nepal tell a beautiful story in which the daughter of Siva and Parvati opens two boxes, releasing the excessive heat of nine suns and extreme cold of nine moons; humans die and are later regenerated by Siva. The suns and moons, however, are not shot down, only put back inside their boxes.11 Many other versions told across the eastern Himalayas—by Idu and Digaru Mishmis, several Naga groups, Kachins, Meiteis, Lisus, Blangs, Drungs, Miaos and Akhas—are similarly close to the central Arunachal myth. To sum up, the closest parallels to the Sun-Moon story in central Arunachal Pradesh are found among Tibeto-Burman speakers in the hills along the India-Burma border, in upland Southeast Asia and in southwest China. The absence of reported versions in the rest of India and Tibet is equally revealing. Lost Writing Substantial parallels between central Arunachal Pradesh and these areas exist for another myth, too. The story of lost writing is told across most of the Himalayan range, from Nepal to southwest China. From the more than 100 reported versions, we can identify two major variants.12 8 Frazer 1913 remains a useful survey of myths of death. For Africa, see Abrahamsson 1951; for Japan, Waida 1977, 1982a, 1982b and Taryo 1966; for Oceania, Anell 1964; for native north America, Hultkrantz 1957. 9 Anell 1964: 13. 10 Kuipers 1990: 36. 11 See Oppitz 1991: 24–27. 12 Many of these versions were collected by Mark Oppitz.

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One, found mostly in Nepal, centres on a contest in which the winner becomes literate and the loser becomes the keeper of oral tradition; this division correlates with two kinds of ritual specialists in the central Himalayas: a literate lama and an illiterate shaman.13 In the second variant, writing is lost unintentionally: an animal skin or paper with writing is eaten, burnt or dropped in water, sometimes during famine or by accident. Frequently, as in the Apatani story (Myth and History 3), the accident occurs while crossing a river.14 Stories similar to the Apatani one, in which writing is lost unintentionally, are widely distributed across the eastern Himalayas, including central Arunachal Pradesh and among a few Arunachal tribes east of this region. Distribution also extends to eleven tribes in northeast India and the India-Burma border, and to no fewer than 23 groups, often in more than one version, in upland Southeast Asia and southwest China. In fact, this variant of the story of lost writing is told almost exclusively among these groups, the great majority of whom speak Tibeto-Burman languages and are marginalised within nation-states.15 As an explanation of inferior status in relation to dominant, literate populations, this story reveals dimensions of Apatani identity that are discussed later. Here, however, I want to emphasise its geographical distribution. Like the Sun-Myth myth, the story of lost writing suggests that Apatani stories, and those of their central Arunachal neighbours, are related to oral traditions extending across the eastern Himalayas. Journey to the Land of the Dead A third story, ‘Journey to the Land of the Dead’ (Ritual Text 5), lends further support to this argument. Since this is not a conventional narrative but rather a narrativisation of a belief, the data are less easily compared. Nevertheless, the distribution and shared details of this imagined journey are striking. Many religious systems have some notion of the soul leaving the body on a ritual journey, and several have elaborated this into a story with deep cultural meaning. The ‘shamanic flight’ in Tibet, central Asia and northern Asia is well-known, but this and other journeys of the soul are also prominent among tribal cultures across the

Oppitz 2006. Apatanis use two words for ‘write’: the Assamese-derived (lek) and the indigenous (ke), which denotes any kind of marking. 15 Only three (Khasi, Wa, Hmong/Miao) of the reported 42 versions are not from Tibeto-Burman speakers. 13 14

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eastern Himalayas. A quarter of a century ago, Nicholas Allen identified the ‘ritual journey’ as fundamental to the religion of Tibeto-Burman speakers in Nepal; his observation was recently expanded by Martin Gaenszle, who concluded that ritual journeys are ‘a special phenomenon of the indigenous religions of the Himalayas.’16 These ritual journeys assume various forms—the flight of an ill person’s soul; the retrieval of the fugitive soul by a ritual specialist; the ascent or descent of the specialist’s soul to contact spirits in order to heal disease, predict events and so forth. Among these variations, a very specific journey is described in Apatani and other central Arunachal chants. Here, a dead man’s soul is guided down a long and dangerous path to the land of the ancestors. Christoph von Fürer-Haimendorf first drew attention to this journey when he wrote: ‘The most characteristic feature of the eschatological beliefs of most of these tribes [in central Arunachal Pradesh] is a very detailed picture of the Land of the Dead, including the often tortuous path by which it is reached.’17 For Apatanis, the route to Neli, or the afterworld, is made difficult by physical obstacles, mythic creatures and an ever-present potential for ritual error. The journey is defined (like the ancestors’ migration route in Myth and History 2) by a series of named locations, where one might take the wrong path and not return. Versions of this journey, as well as funerary beliefs and practices similar to Apatani ones, are found throughout central Arunachal Pradesh and among a few tribes on the eastern edge of the region. One version of an Idu Mishmi funeral chant (mabra), for example, guides the dead person’s soul to 146 named places on a route that crosses the Himalayas and ends in southwest China.18 Taken all together, these parallels for the stories of Sun-Moon, lost writing and journey of the soul show that Apatani oral tradition is linked to traditions in three regions: central Arunachal Pradesh; the India-Burma border; upland Southeast Asia/southwest China. Equally significant, these stories appear to be found only in these three regions—with no close parallels in Assam or Tibet—and largely among Tibeto-Burman speakers. This distribution, plus further parallels presented below, suggest that these regions, stretching for approximately

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Allen 1976; Gaenszle 2002: 122. See also Höfer 1999. Fürer-Haimendorf 1952: 42. Blackburn 2005.

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1000 kilometres along the eastern Himalayas, share similar oral traditions. This combined area is difficult to label because it crosses both international borders and area studies boundaries. I call it the ‘extended eastern Himalayas.’ 2. Tales Several Apatani folktales are also told (in different versions) in nearby regions. Their parallels in the extended eastern Himalayas, however, are neither as numerous nor as widely distributed as those for the myths. Insufficient on their own to support an argument for a common oral tradition in the extended eastern Himalayas, the folktale parallels nevertheless supplement the evidence from the myths. At the very least, they demonstrate that Apatani oral tradition is part of a regional tradition in central Arunachal Pradesh. Below I discuss six Apatani folktales, each of which is a version of an international tale-type. Five of them are also told by other groups in central Arunachal Pradesh. More important for comparative purposes, each of these five tales is what folklorists call an ‘oicotype’: a variant of an international folktale that is found in only one geographical region. Our central Arunachal variants, in other words, differ from variants of the same tales in India and elsewhere.19 The Innocent Persecuted Heroine (Tale 10) This first tale is the odd one out. Although it is an Apatani telling of an international folktale (with parallels in southwest China), it has no reported versions elsewhere in central Arunachal Pradesh. While it is therefore not an oicotype, it shows us that a story is often less local than it first appears. It is also my favourite. The Apatani story of Kokii Yamu belongs to a cluster of international tales called ‘the innocent persecuted heroine.’ ‘Cinderella,’ in its various forms, is the classic example, and the Apatani tale bears more than a casual resemblance to the world’s best known folktale. To begin with, Kokii Yamu has no parents, and although she is not maltreated by her stepmother, that role is amply filled by her sister-in-law. This cruelty at the hands of her family was emphasised in all the versions of the story I heard.

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A second resemblance between the Apatani story and ‘Cinderella’ is the derivation of the heroine’s name. In nearly all versions of the international folktale, her name comes from the disguise or thing that obscures her true identity: the cinders (or aschen) in Europe and the mask or pot in south Indian versions.20 While there is no physical disguise in the Apatani story, the heroine is named after the field (kokii) in which she is hidden away. Also, like other Cinderellas, Kokii Yamu is kept as a servant, until her true beauty is recognised by the hero who marries her. Marriage, however, does not bring an end to her mistreatment. When she returns to her brother’s house for a big festival, she is scolded by the cruel sister-in-law, who turns her out with next to nothing. Desperate to give meat to her children, she carries home a snake that she kills on the path. Her fortune changes when the snake turns into expensive beads, which she and her husband hide from jealous neighbours. In the end, her husband, an unpromising hero in his own right, is favoured by another animal, a mithun, which brings them lasting wealth and status. This is the defining episode of the Cinderella variant known as ‘The Little Red Ox,’ in which that animal (similar to a mithun) helps a poor, young man.21 In ‘The Little Red Ox,’ the hero’s enemy is a spying stepmother or stepsister, a role played in our story by the neighbours, who are jealous of the hero’s new wealth and attempt to take it from him. In these various ways, the Apatani story retains the core elements of the international folktale but localises them with topographical and cultural details, particularly the miserly rejection of the heroine at a festival and her later reward in the form of beads. The Two Sisters (Tale 1) This is the first of five Apatani stories that are regional variants of an international folktale. By a curious coincidence, it was also the first story I heard during fieldwork. While this may be fortuitous (for comparative research), it also indicates the popularity of this story about two sisters. In fact, Apatanis and their neighbours tell a number of different yet related tales about these two girls, known locally as Biinyi and Biine. This particular story of ‘The Two Sisters’ belongs to a cluster of folktales in which a girl marries a snake. Although snake-husbands are 20 21

See Ramanujan 1982; Blackburn 2001: 290–93. ‘The Little Red Ox’ is AT 511A.

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popular among young women across the world, the Apatani telling belongs to a specific tale-type.22 In this form of the story, the serpent wins his bride, but she is unhappy with her scaly spouse and burns his skin; there is also a second girl, usually a jealous sister who dies when she imitates her sister by attempting to marry the snake.23 This is what we might call the ‘Asian’ story of the snake-husband folktale since it has previously been noted (with few exceptions) only in India, Southeast Asia and China. To these versions of this Asian story, we can now add several more from Tibeto-Burman speakers in central Arunachal Pradesh and the extended eastern Himalayas. More important, some versions of this Asian story of the snake-husband form a regional variant defined by the motif of a fruit tree, owned by the snake and desired by the girls (or their mother). Tales with this tree motif are told only in central Arunachal Pradesh, plus a single version from southwest China.24 The Two Sisters (Tale 2) The second Apatani tale of ‘The Two Sisters’ is also a central Arunachal variant of an international folktale, this time ‘Hansel and Gretel.’25 The resemblance may not strike us at first. Looking again at the Apatani story, however, we see that the paired sisters confront not sexual desire (as in Tale 1) but rather fear of the outside world, as expressed through the familiar narrative sequence of ogre, capture, escape, flight and reunion with parents. The Apatani story also includes most of the details that define this famous folktale, such as climbing a tree to escape from the ogre, his attempt to trick the children into climbing down, and their escape, with an animal’s help, across a river. What is interesting, however, is that the Apatani (and other central Arunachal versions of this international tale) have been shaped to fit the local narrative framework of the two sisters. Hansel and Gretel are replaced by the clever Biinyi and the stupid Biine, a contrast that explains their actions and motivations throughout the story. The

22 ‘The Serpent Husband’ (AT 433C in Aarne and Thompson 1964). A revision of the international tale-type index has expanded AT 433C to include AT 433B, a variant told mostly in Europe (Uther 2004). See also Ting 1978. 23 In Tale 1, the second sister is merely humiliated by receiving a necklace of eggshells; but in another Apatani version, she attempts to imitate her sister and dies when bitten by the snake. 24 Many versions from southwest China include a tree, but the ethnic group is not always identified (AT 433D in Ting 1978 ). Eberhard argued that the snake-husband story is part of the cultural core of south China (Eberhard 1968: 382–83). 25 AT 327.

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Apatani tale follows the narrative logic of these paired sisters to the very end, when the stupid girl is left under the house, where chickens peck away at rubbish. Another local, specifically Apatani, element in our tale is that the fleeing sisters repeatedly request help by invoking a form of ceremonial friendship (pinyang). This variant of ‘Hansel and Gretel’ is found among two other tribes in central Arunachal Pradesh (and Angami Nagas), but it is not reported in Assam or elsewhere in India. The Tallest Tree 1 & 2 (Tales 6 & 7) Local culture has influenced another Apatani folktale that is told around the world but belongs to a central Arunachal variant. Again, although the similarities are not readily apparent, ‘The Tallest Tree’ is a telling of ‘one of the most popular [folktales] in the world.’26 ‘The Dragon-Slayer’ is actually a cluster of related stories, one of which is told in central Arunachal Pradesh.27 As in virtually all forms of this international folktale, the hero in central Arunachal Pradesh pursues a monster to an inaccessible realm (underworld, cave or tall tree) and kills it there with the aid of a friend’s extraordinary eyesight. Then, when the hero attempts to return to the real world, he is betrayed by his friend and left to die in the ogre’s realm. Eventually, however, he escapes, returns to the world of men by flying on the back of a bird and marries a princess. Although the central Arunachal stories follow the outline of this international tale-type, they form a distinct regional variant. For instance, in a striking departure from most Indian versions, they do not focus on the hero and his adventures. He is present, of course, but in Apatani versions he is an outsider, a halyang, whose marriage takes place not in the valley but in the plains. Apatani attitudes toward outsiders turn this hero of the international tale into a figure who is distrusted and feared. His betrayal—leaving him stranded on top of the tall tree—is not portrayed as an injustice to be overcome by a brave hero, but as a punishment deserved by an arrogant enemy. With the hero marginalised, the tale told by Apatanis and others in the region focuses on his adversary, the evil bird and the extraordinary tree on top of which it lives. As the Apatani tellers point out, no one knows what sort of

26 27

Thompson 1977 [1946]: 33. ‘The Three Stolen Princesses’ (AT 301).

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creature this bird was, only that it was enormous, that it flew and that it was born from a protean force called arii. Even this obscure creature, however, is overshadowed by the tale’s eponymous tree, the khaku sanii. It is a tree beyond measure, broader than the valley and taller than human eyes can see. It cannot be cut, penetrated or scaled (although somehow iron steps are nailed into it). Only another form of arii, a termite born from the bone marrow of arii, is able to destroy it. Also, just in case we have not yet fully grasped the height of the tree, the teller explains that it is as high as the distance travelled by another insect over fifteen years. Knocked dead by the falling tree, the poor insect would have been revived except that the priest, who was summoned to cure it, failed to turn up because he, too, was struck dead—by one of arii’s pubic hairs. With a narrative coherence not always found in central Arunachal tales, the teller concludes by pointing out that the tree, though fallen, remains a potential danger and must be chopped up, again by the powerful termite. The pieces of the tree then form the ritual platforms (lapangs) in Apatani villages. In this localised telling of an international folktale, the dragon-slaying human hero is overpowered by the natural world of birds, trees and termites. Even the immeasurable tree is vanquished and transmuted into the wooden structures at the centre of local religion. The Magic Tree (Tale 9) An extraordinary tree plays a key role in another Apatani story that belongs to a central Arunachal variant of an international folktale. This magic tree produces beads and exonerates the heroine, Ami Dori, of false claims against her character. The prominence of this bead-bearing tree makes this Apatani story a version of a dramatic tale (and ballad) in which the identity of a murderer is revealed by a singing bone or by a bush, flower or tree that grows above the victim’s grave.28 In the Apatani story, there is no murder—the heroine commits suicide—and no singing tree. Nevertheless, the silent tree that grows over Ami Dori’s grave serves the same truth-telling function that defines the international tale. When the dead girl’s uncle calls on her to ‘give us a sign from your grave that you led a good life,’ the tree begins to grow. Though it does not speak, the tree laden with valuable necklaces tells everyone

28

‘The Singing Bone’ (AT 780).

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that the heroine was innocent of the allegations of sexual misconduct and that her death was caused by her family. Magic trees of all sorts—golden, silver, eternal, not to mention the famous ‘tree of life’—are popular in oral traditions of India, including the northeast. Nonetheless, stories of a bead-bearing tree are told almost exclusively in central Arunachal Pradesh. The local popularity of this motif is not surprising since beads are important markers of status and identity throughout the state; in Tale 1, for instance, the contrast between two sisters is visualised by the kind of necklace each receives. Although rings and jewels are standard fare in wonder tales around the world—in which they transport heroes, open locked doors and reveal treasures—in central Arunachal Pradesh this magic is worked by beads and necklaces. Although ‘The Singing Bone’ is told in many parts of the world, ‘The Magic Tree’ variant is found only in this region. Trickster Tales (Tales 3, 4 & 5) The last example of a central Arunachal variant of an international folktale concerns a trickster. As with other tricksters, there is no single story of Abo Tani but rather a repertoire told with different details, in various combinations and in a variety of contexts. Some of Abo Tani’s mischievous adventures are known all over the world. For example, the episode in which he tricks his rival into killing his own children is told by Turks, Tamils and Tagins; and the story in which he fools the monkeys and grasshoppers is known in Latvia, Greece and Orissa.29 Still, the trickster whose stories are told throughout central Arunachal Pradesh is a unique figure. Like his counterparts, Abo Tani is clever, amoral and sexually ambitious. A Rabelaisian character who mocks authority and stricture, he illustrates Paul Radin’s portrait of the trickster as a representation of a protean ambiguity lying beneath distinctions such as good and evil, human and divine.30 In fact, Abo Tani belongs to that handful of ‘classical’ tricksters from north America and Africa who are culture heroes because they bring fire or agriculture or set up a fundamental social institution. Abo Tani is the source of everything valuable in central Arunachal Pradesh, from mithuns and rice to beads and bells. In addition, for most tribes in the region he negotiates the alliance with the spirit world that results in the establishment of a major festival.

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The first episode is AT 1119; the second is AT 1586 A. Radin 1972: 168–69.

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More than trickster and culture hero, Abo Tani is also the first human and the father of the Tani people, the collective term for the tribes of central Arunachal Pradesh. No other trickster in world literature appears to have an equivalent cultural role. The well-known figures of Raven and Coyote in north America and Ture among the Zande in central Africa, for example, are not recognised as the first human. Likewise, characters in the Indian subcontinent (Tentan in Assam; Che, Iki, Matsuo and Apfuho among Nagas; Tennali Raman in south India; Birbal in north India) may be clever rouges, but none is also both culture hero and first ancestor. Similarly, while tricksters exist in oral traditions among Tibeto-Burman speakers in other adjacent regions, none matches the cultural role of Abo Tani among Apatanis and their neighbours.31 Abo Tani is the defining figure of oral tradition in central Arunachal Pradesh. No other story is told as widely and as often, by as many types of people and with as much narrative consistency. In folktales, he is an entertaining trickster. In ritual texts, he is a culture hero. As the first ancestor, his genealogy is an idiom of cultural identity. 3. Stories, History and the Extended Eastern Himalayas In their geographical distribution, narrative consistency and cultural significance, the stories of Abo Tani strengthen the case for a common oral tradition in central Arunachal Pradesh. We have seen that several other folktales (and myths) are told throughout the region and, equally important, are not reported in Assam or the rest of India.32 Conversely, story types that are popular in India, such as the animal fable and formula tale, are absent in the Apatani valley and uncommon in the region. Nor is there any sight of that sure sign of Indian influence, the polymorphous story of Rama. This regional oral tradition is not, of course, entirely uninfluenced by Indian, especially Assamese, oral tradition. Several legends about marriages between Hindu kings/gods and tribal princesses, for example, reflect the historical process by which

31 The closest parallel is a trickster in eastern Nepal (Gaenszle 2000: 248–69). On tricksters in Assam and Naga groups, see Goswami 1954, 1960; in Burma, see Abbott and Thant Han 2000: 218–66; in Yunnan, see Dorson 1976: 277–86; among Lisu on the Burma/Yunnan border, see Dessaint and Ngwâma 1994; in Tibet, see Stuart et al. 1999. 32 A study of regional folklore in northeast India (Datta et al. 1994) identified no stories common to Assam and Arunachal Pradesh.

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tribes in the Brahmaputra valley were incorporated into Hinduism. However, these stories are found only on the border with Assam.33 This distinction between oral traditions in central Arunachal Pradesh and Assam is a conclusion we might have anticipated, given the linguistic, cultural and natural barriers between these regions. On the other hand, we know that oral stories easily leap across such borders. Still, while we would not have expected tribal stories to become popular among the dominant, literate population in Assam, it is curious that stories from the plains have not travelled into the mountains of central Arunachal Pradesh. This boundary of the regional oral tradition recalls, on a broader scale, the separation from the halyang that we have noted in the Apatani valley. The other geographical boundary of this regional oral tradition, however, is less expected: I have found no significant parallels in Tibet.34 Only the ‘shamanic’ ritual journey appears to link Tibet with oral traditions in central Arunachal Pradesh, and even that journey is not the same as the geographically-detailed journey to the land of the dead that is so uniform among the Tani tribes. Nor do any of the Tibetan tricksters match Abo Tani in narrative content or cultural significance.35 It is equally significant that neither of the two major story cycles of the Tibetan cultural world—Gesar Ling and Aji Lhamu—is told in central Arunachal Pradesh. Finally, a few parallels exist between myths told in central Arunachal Pradesh and areas to the west (Sikkim and Nepal), but no such parallels for tales are reported.36 This substantial body of parallels for central Arunachal stories in the extended eastern Himalayas and their absence in Tibet raises the unresolved question about the origin and migration of the Tani tribes. Did the Tani group originate from somewhere in the Tibetan plateau and migrate to their present locations by crossing the high Himalayas to the north? Or, did they enter the subcontinent by crossing over the

Gait 1926: 17–18; Osik 2001a: 73; Datta 2003. My sources are limited to O’Connor 1906, MacDonald 1931 and the 17 volumes in Schuh 1982–2005. 35 Abo Tschang (Bielmeier and Herrmann 1982: 37–38, 110–11, 312), Awu Tschang and Awa Dschang (Kretschmar 1982: 305–07, 312) resemble Abo Tani only in their first names (‘father/grandfather’). 36 The journey to the land of the dead among Tibeto-Burman speakers in Nepal is similar to that in central Arunachal Pradesh; the story of lost writing is widespread in Nepal but in a variant different to that in the extended eastern Himalayas. A weak version of the Sun-Moon myth is told by the Tamang in Nepal (Höfer 1994: 111, 258) and a strong version by the Lepcha in Sikkim (Stocks 1975: 39–41). 33 34

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(much lower) Patkai hills on the border with Burma to the east? This second possibility, the ‘Burma hypothesis,’ has dominated scholarly and popular writing, from colonial officials and European linguists to contemporary Indian and local scholars.37 The two anthropologists who have conducted extensive field research in central Arunachal Pradesh rejected a Tibetan origin for the local populations they studied; they argued, instead, that Apatanis and Adis were culturally allied with Tibeto-Burman speakers south of the Brahmaputra River, particularly in the Naga Hills.38 Recent linguistic evidence, although inconclusive, also points east rather than north.39 This scholarly consensus, however, collides with an equally consistent claim by local oral histories that the Tani tribes originated in Tibet and migrated to their present settlements in central Arunachal Pradesh by crossing over the Himalayas. Virtually every recorded oral or printed local account of the migration of the Tani people, including the Apatani story in this book, points north to Tibet.40 In some Apatani oral versions, the ancestors complete the journey by crossing the high hills to the east before settling in the valley; still, the starting point is identified as Nyime (Tibet). In recent years, the idea of a Tibetan origin has gained support from local scholars, too. The most detailed study is by T. Nyori, who assembled a large number of Adi oral accounts and mapped them. He concluded that the migration route was north to south, from ‘somewhere in Tibet’ to central Arunachal Pradesh.41 Nyori also rejected the argument that the Adis were not of Tibetan origin simply because their material culture was not Tibetan; as he pointed out, the bamboo-cane culture of Adis is an adaptation to the sub-Himalayan environment and cannot be used as evidence of an historical link with Southeast Asia. Aside from oral histories, however, he offered no positive evidence of a Tibetan origin. As a folklorist, I find it difficult to ignore the unanimity of these oral histories. On the other hand, the various versions of the Apatani

See Blackburn 2003/2004. Fürer-Haimendorf 1962: 6; Roy 1997 [1966]: 259–63. Mills (1952) also thought that the Mishmi groups came from Burma. For a summary, see Chowdhury 1978: 15–17. 39 Sun 1993: 12–14; LaPolla 2001. 40 A similar claim of northern origins is made by many other Tibeto-Burman speakers in the eastern Himalayas. 41 Nyori 1993: 60, passim. 37 38

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migration legend contain no identifiable place-names beyond the Kuru and Kime rivers (one or two days’ walk from the valley) and nothing near the border with Tibet.42 Also, my comparative analysis of oral stories in central Arunachal Pradesh does not support the claim of the oral histories.43 On the contrary, the evidence shows that this regional oral tradition has strong parallels not in Tibet but throughout an area extending southeast to the India-Burma border and east to upland Southeast Asia/southwest China. These common oral stories among speakers of related languages in adjacent areas suggest historical continuity through vertical transmission. Others will disagree, citing the imprecision of historical linguistics and the uncertain correlation between language and ethnicity.44 In the present case, however, I would argue that similar oral stories are the result of transmission among Tibeto-Burman speakers over time. How else can we explain the fact that Assamese stories resemble German and not Apatani stories? Or that Nyishi stories resemble those told by the Lisu, with whom they have had no direct contact, and not those told by the Assamese, with whom they have interacted for hundreds of years? The extended eastern Himalayas as a culture area is an hypothesis and will remain one until more comparative research is completed. Still, the parallels identified here suggest, at the very least, that the stories and cultures of central Arunachal Pradesh are more closely linked with groups in the extended eastern Himalayas than has previously been known. Earlier arguments for a culture area in this part of the world used a variety of criteria and different geographies. The best-known is Edmund Leach’s thesis concerning political systems, while others have focused on material culture and ritual practices; one American anthropologist, for example, concluded that Tibeto-Burman speakers in this area ‘possess a fundamental similarity of culture.’45 Building on these ideas, the present book adds the criterion of oral stories and confirms the place of central Arunachal Pradesh within this culture area. This comparative analysis also leads us back to local culture. Although Leach and others used different elements to define their culture area,

42 Regarding Adis, Nyori concluded that it is ‘difficult to identify many places mentioned in the early stages…of their migration’ (Nyori 1993: 61). 43 I offer an explanation for the Apatani claim of a Tibetan homeland on pp. 245–46 below. 44 See, for example, Burling 2007; also Blackburn 2007. 45 Katz 1928. See also Lehman 1963; 1996; Kauffmann 1934.

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many cited a festival known as a ‘feast of merit.’ Feasts of merit were written into the anthropological record by early twentieth-century descriptions of them in the Naga hills, but they are also found throughout the extended eastern Himalayas.46 Not the least impressive is the Apatani Murung festival, which enacts the twin themes of local oral tradition described in the next section. Stories and local culture Before discussing specific stories and themes, I want to consider Apatani oral tradition as a whole. Returning to a point made in the Introduction, we have seen that as a system of genres and contexts, this oral tradition expresses and reinforces local attitudes toward certain kinds of tellings and tellers. For example, although Apatani stories are both chanted in ritual speech (miji ) and spoken in conversational speech (migung), prominence is given to performance in ritual speech. Even the term for ‘oral tradition’ (miji-migung) is a noun-pair, the feature that defines ritual speech and ritual texts. Again, while many stories may be narrated in prose, the most public and frequent form of storytelling is chanted ritual speech. Apatanis use proverbs and riddles, and did sing field songs, but none of these is recognised as miji-migung. Similarly, local oral genres make no distinction between factual and fictive stories, and there is no word for ‘folktale.’ Although Apatanis tell versions of ‘Hansel and Gretel’ and ‘Cinderella,’ this type of storytelling is not accorded the status of a genre. Since folktales are not recognised as a genre, it is hardly surprising that they are not often told as separate narratives; instead, they are usually narrated as episodes embedded within the labyrinth of ritual texts. Of the eleven different tales in this book, only four (Tales 1, 2, 8 & 12) are not told as part of ritual texts; and the other seven are rarely told outside a ritual text. In fact, these eleven stories represent almost the entire repertoire of Apatani folktales; by contrast, in south India, it is not uncommon for a hundred folktales to be told in a single village and for one person to tell 30 or 40 tales. Another striking feature of Apatani oral tradition is that its few tales are not told in ‘sessions,’ as is common elsewhere. Apatani tales are told singly, often as part of everyday conversation, and sometimes by mothers to young children. 46

For a comparative study, see Birket-Smith 1967.

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Apatanis do not gather around the hearth to swap tales; they do not value domestic tale-telling, and there are few accomplished performers of this verbal art. Although correlations between gender and genre are never absolute, the association between women and tales in the Apatani valley is unmistakable. Whereas ritual texts (and myths & histories) are told primarily by male priests, folktales are told mostly by and about women. These Apatani stories, like märchen everywhere, concentrate on conflicts within families. More than that, fully nine of the eleven Apatani tales are female-centred: only the trickster repertoire of Abo Tani, which is unique in any case, and ‘The Tallest Tree’ do not focus on a woman or women. The fruit tree in Tale 1, for example, is a symbol of female sexuality; similarly, the jewellery given to the sister who marries the snake in that tale is a marker of feminine identity (only married woman wear the expensive sets of necklaces during festivals). In addition, three tales speak of sexual desire, and two are local examples of ‘the innocent persecuted heroine.’ It is significant, too, that half of the Apatani tales are named after the heroine, while another (Tale 8) is the story of a lost sister. Finally, if we set aside the two male-centered tales (Abo Tani and ‘The Tallest Tree’), which are popular with men, Apatani tales are told mostly by women. Though infrequently told, these tales are nevertheless widely known. Many people could give me summaries, and characters and events were often dropped into conversation. An unlucky girl is said to be ‘like Ami Dori’ (Tale 9); a good boy is ‘similar to Neha’ (Tale 10); an unexplained illness is caused by contact with spirits ‘as in Papin-Pame’ (Tale 11). Young girls are scolded for being lazy or stupid ‘like Tapu Yapi’ (Tale 12); and anyone about to face potential danger might be warned to ‘remember Kar Siimi’ (Tale 8). Predictably, the adventures of Abo Tani are a commonplace in everyday speech. In other words, although these tales are part of local cultural knowledge, the narrative expression of their themes—mistreated heroines, sexual awakening, personal loss, secret love—is limited. Domestic taletelling by women, or men, is not encouraged; even the ballads, which used to be sung by women, were heard away from the house in the paddy fields. Chanting ritual texts by men, on the other hand, is a high status display of cultural knowledge. That knowledge is not entirely restricted to priests, and some men and a few women are able to discuss ritual texts; but, as with the tales, such references are more fragments than performances. In general, Apatani oral tradition does not favour the expansive telling of female-centred folktales by women; instead, it

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is virtually synonymous with the rule-governed ritual chants by men, especially priests, who embody traditional authority in the valley. These local attitudes toward storytelling, encoded in the system of oral genres, apply to other forms of speaking, too. It was not long before I noticed that emotive talking of any kind is unpopular among Apatanis. They prefer to confine public displays of sentiment to contexts in which they are constrained by the structures of ritual speech and action. Shouting and talking loudly are discouraged. I have often sat in a group for ten minutes or more without a word being said. Groups of men and women do sometimes raise their voices, especially on ceremonial occasions, while donating baskets of rice, placing leaves on the nago hut or dragging the babo pole to the lapang. Hours, however, may be spent with these same people, sitting and talking on a porch, without a loud sentence heard. Most Apatanis speak in low tones, one at a time, slowly and with few gestures. Laughter is usually a chuckle not a roar. Similarly, expressive culture is not elaborated among Apatanis. They do not (with one minor exception) play musical instruments, and they perform only one dance.47 Nor do they often sing; of three song genres (field songs, lullaby and daminda), the first has disappeared, the second is infrequent and the last confined to a few public occasions. Finally, oratory, which has no local genre term, is restricted to speeches by men during a particular feast, itself a regulated event, in which one man stands, speaks and then sits to let another take the floor.48 In summary, the most highly valued speech is also the most highly regulated: ritual chanting by priests. 1. Exchange and Alliance ‘One man cannot chant an ayu; one log cannot make a fire.’ (Apatani proverb)49

Turning to the stories themselves, in earlier chapters I have remarked once or twice on specific motifs and themes. In several of the tales, for

Men strike a brass plate with a bamboo stick during the Murung procession; ritual texts mention a bamboo flute (elu), which no longer exists. Daminda is a women’s dance (and song genre) performed during the summer Dree festival and ‘cultural programmes.’ 48 This is the miida, described below. 49 Milo kone gyontii lama, sampo koje litle lama. People also say, however, that a good nyibu should be able to chant on his own. 47

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example, the dangers of excessive love were noted. In one telling of ‘The Two Sisters’ (not in this book), for example, jealousy proves fatal, while in another story (Tale 10) the same emotion nearly destroys a young couple’s happiness. In still another (Tale 11), a powerful attachment to spirit-lovers brings temporary disorder, and in ‘The Magic Tree’ (Tale 9) accusations of sexual misconduct lead to a suicide. As we know, however, Apatanis do not express themselves chiefly through these domestic stories; instead they prefer histories, myths and ritual texts. Their imagination is primarily articulated not in terms of tasks, taboos and transformations but in the long and difficult business of contacting and negotiating with spirits. This does not mean, of course, that Apatani folktales are entirely unconnected to other kinds of stories. In fact, they all share a repertoire of motifs, episodes and characters, but these elements are arranged to different purposes in the folktales and ritual texts. For instance, ritual texts contain the deep forests, dangerous beasts and magic trees of folktales, but only as part of a landscape in which the ongoing conflict with the spirit world is described and brought to its eventual reconciliation. From what has already been said, it is not surprising that Abo Tani brings about this all-important alliance with the spirit world. The Apatani culture hero is not a folktale character, a dragon slayer or a faithful John. He is Abo Tani, the trickster who is clever but fragile, who loses his special eyesight and suffers from loneliness. He is the ancestor from whom all people trace descent. More important, for this discussion, he is the culture hero because he negotiates the founding alliance with the spirit world when he persuades his father-in-law to accept the gift of a pig. This is why Abo Tani’s story is the defining narrative of local oral tradition: in it he establishes the practice of exchange and alliance that is central to Apatani culture. Within the Apatani narrative world, exchange and alliance is linked to the other dominant theme: differentiation, or the division of unity into separate units. Differentiation, as we have already seen, is fundamental to Apatani thinking about the past.50 In the story of the origin of the world (Myth and History 1), for instance, formlessness breaks up into distinct forms; parts of a woman’s body become the sun, moon, mountains and so forth. A similar process of diversification occurs both

50 Doging is the Apatani word that I translate as ‘differentiation,’ with implications of ‘development’ and ‘growth.’

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genealogically and geographically during the migration story (Myth and History 2): the original stock of ancestors split into smaller groups (the tribes of the Tani group) as they travelled from a common origin to the separate locations where they settled. The migration story also illustrates how these two themes form a single process. Since each division of the ancestral stock opens up the possibility of conflict between the newly-formed groups, each split is accompanied by an animal sacrifice, gift-giving and the creation of ceremonial friendships. This two-part process—a differentiation that requires exchange and alliance—is also found in the story of the origin of the mithun (Myth and History 5). After man and mithun have been separated, in a competition to ferment rice-beer, they are joined together like ‘chicken and grain,’ which is an Apatani metaphor of interdependence. These twin themes of Apatani oral tradition underlie the story of Abo Tani’s life, too. As with the ancestors, and the man-mithun separation, he moves from mythic ambiguity toward socially defined boundaries. At the beginning, Abo Tani is shape-shifting, half-human and half-spirit, but during his cycle of stories he gradually acquires a social role with a specific habitation. In Tale 4, for example, the conflict between humans and spirits is resolved when the opposing parties are allotted separate domains: Abo Tani is given fertile land to cultivate, while his rival is banished to the forest and high hills. Later (Ritual Texts 3 & 4), Abo Tani’s trajectory toward social definition is complete when he marries his spirit rival’s daughter and then strengthens that alliance through the gift that establishes the Myoko festival. That ritual exchange is considered the proto-type of the many ceremonial friendships that bind Apatanis together. Through Abo Tani’s story, and others discussed above, oral tradition expresses a local cultural logic: differentiation necessitates exchange and alliance, which produce a cohesion that ensures prosperity. 2. Ceremonial Friendships While Apatani marriages are not visually interesting or ritually elaborate, they establish several important ceremonial alliances. Local marriages are exogamous by clan and (in principle) require that partners have no blood connection for five or six generations. There are no preferred partners, but cross-cousins and mother’s sister’s daughters are ruled out. In this bilateral system, any family (outside one’s own clan) is a

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potential wife-giver and wife-taker. However, marriage between gyutii and gyuci clans is rare. Polygamy, practiced by wealthy men, was never common and is now rare. Apatani marriages begin with the ‘going of the son-in-law’ (mabo inci). The boy, accompanied by his father and a few clansmen (anu-aban), goes to the girl’s house where three exchanges are negotiated, each creating a life-long alliance. The first alliance (diran) is made when the husband gives his wife’s parents two mature mithuns (one male and one female) or its equivalent in cash (approximately 20,000 rupees in 2008); from them he receives rice of equal value.51 The second alliance (lace) is created when the son-in-law gives a medium-size male mithun to one of his wife’s brothers, who reciprocates with rice of the same value (about 12,000 rupees). The third alliance (ari mecu) is made between the son-in-law and one or two other brothers (or male cousins) of his wife, to each of whom he gives a cow and from whom he gets rice (worth approximately 5,000 rupees). These three marriage alliances are reciprocal. Throughout the young man’s life, he is obliged to make gifts to his in-laws during major festivals and when misfortune strikes. In turn, his in-laws are under the same obligation to him and his wife (their daughter or sister). Gift-giving on a more grand scale between marriage parties also occurs, but only years (often ten or twenty years) after marriage. This miida feast is hosted by the wife’s family for the husband’s family, in part to reciprocate the gifts given by the son-in-law at the original event.52 Embellished by minor animal sacrifices and chanting by a nyibu, the feast involves a series of exchanges and speeches. The showpiece is a large bamboo and cane basket (miida yaju) given to the husband’s family by the bride’s family. The baskets I saw contained two prime slices of bacon, three dried squirrels, several small packets of dried cow and mithun meat, valuable brass plates, as well as 20,000 to 30,000 rupees in cash. For their part, the husband’s family gives a smaller amount (5,000 to 10,000 rupees) to the host family. Although not uncommon, the miida is celebrated only by wealthy families and those who wish to appear wealthy. For those who can afford it, the miida provides an opportunity to strengthen the alliances created by marriage and to gain social prestige by large cash gifts. [see photograph 6] 51 Exchange practices vary from clan to clan. Mithuns are measured by height and length of horns. 52 Three grades of miida are distinguished by the number of guests from the husband’s family, ranging from eight to sixteen men.

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Apatanis also form ceremonial friendships with neighbouring tribes in the region (misan). In the past, these manyang friends were extremely useful since Apatanis traded with Nyishis and Hill Miris for household items, such as cotton and pigs, as well as the highly-valued swords, metal bells and plates. Apatanis rarely marry the misan, however, and disputes between them frequently escalated into feuds and raids, and occasionally deaths. With the disappearance of the barter system after the 1960s, the manyang alliance has faded into irrelevance, but formerly it was considered a good ‘foreign policy,’ as one man put it. Manyang friends are mentioned in two stories in this book. In the description of the first colonial contact (Myth and History 8), a Nyishi murderer sought and received refuge in the house of his Apatani manyang, an act of friendship that placed the Apatani man in danger. The second mention is in the account of trading expeditions (Myth and History 11), in which the narrator regularly stayed in the houses of his Nyishi and Hill Miri ceremonial friends. Although manyang friendships have virtually vanished, they still exert a vestigial force. In 2006, the son of the man who narrated these trading expeditions took a tractor-load of iron bars to one of his father’s manyang friends in the upper Subansiri region. Among themselves, Apatanis practice several kinds of ceremonial giftgiving, some of which are extensions of the marriage alliances already mentioned. Four different kinds of friendships are activated during the Murung festival, in which an individual man gains prestige by sacrificing animals and distributing meat throughout the valley. Parts of the sacrificed animals are given to the sponsor’s wife’s family (the three alliances created by marriage), who in turn supply him with much of the rice necessary for the meals he supplies during the festival.53 The most prestigious gift, the head of the largest mithun is given to another ceremonial friend (pinyang), who must be from another clan but (unlike most alliances) may come from one’s own village.54 A third ceremonial friend, known as gyotii, gives cash and meat to the man who sponsors a Murung festival; an Apatani man may have as many as three or four gyotii friends, but this practice is declining. The fourth alliance, called alii kutin, is the most complex: sixteen maternal uncles—of both husband and wife, of their parents and grandparents—receive animal 53 They receive parts of the mithuns and cows sacrificed on the first day, and parts of a pig killed later in the festival. 54 The sisters in Tale 2 tell several characters that they must assist them because they are pinyang friends.

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parts; and another sixteen descendants of these uncles receive minor gifts. In return, all these recipients give rice, cash or help to the sponsor during festivals, funerals and emergencies. In addition to these obligatory friendships, two voluntary roles are assumed by the sponsor’s clansmen during the Murung festival. The eko honii usually supplies meat for the participants on the day-long procession through the valley. Similarly, the pukun honii provides two or three mithuns and cows, whose meat is later distributed to the several hundred (sometimes more than a thousand) women who donate rice to the sponsor during the festival. Prosperity of family, fields and animals is the aim of a Murung, and no one can conduct this three-week event without the considerable resources donated by his ceremonial friends. Exchange, alliance and prosperity also converge in Myoko, the other major Apatani festival. The first verse of the Myoko Ayu (Ritual Text 3), for example, identifies the two groups who will exchange gifts throughout the festival: This year we are the hosts of the Myoko festival; Our villages in the west welcome guests from the east.

Myoko is hosted each year by a different village or group of villages, and here the singer indicates that his group is this year’s sponsor. This means that during the five weeks of Myoko, families in his group of villages must be prepared to entertain their friends, ceremonial or not, whenever and however many arrive at their door. Rice, meat and ricebeer will be in plentiful supply, and ayus will be performed to entertain the guests. Today, these visits and performances have decreased, but the sense of prosperity imagined in the following verse remains: Let us all gather together, like a star-filled sky; Let our lives flourish, like the glittering stars.

In addition to this general gift-giving, Myoko involves a specific and important exchange between ceremonial friends known as buniin.55 Nearly all Apatani men have buniin friends (typically three or four)

55

Sometimes called dingia ajin in ritual texts.

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through alliances set up by their fathers during childhood; later, when a man dies, his buniin friends are passed on to his eldest son, who keeps some and distributes others to younger brothers (and/or paternal cousins). Like most alliances, buniin friends must come from outside a man’s clan, and not more than one such friend should come from the same clan. Each man in this alliance is obligated to help his partner whenever necessary—bamboo houses burn down with alarming frequency, people stray into financial trouble and good schooling is expensive. These ties are considered unbreakable: one can add to but not subtract from one’s list of buniin friends. As an Apatani proverb warns, ‘Whoever breaks the bond first will die first.’ The buniin alliance is most conspicuous and obligatory during the annual Myoko festival, when each man in the host villages is required to give gifts to his buniin friends. In addition to the usual meat and cash, one highly visible gift is emblematic of this friendship. A special slab of bacon, roughly half a pig’s back, about 3 inches thick, 6 inches wide and 18 inches long, must be given. This expensive pork piece is placed upright in a basket, packed with smaller pieces of meat, and sent to the house of each buniin friend.56 Members of the recipient’s family also go to the host’s house to receive lesser gifts of food, rice-beer and sometimes cash. During the three days set aside for these exchanges during the Myoko festival, nearly everyone in the Apatani valley either takes a gift to a friend or goes to receive one. On these evenings, a steady stream of people, mostly on foot but also in cars, flows along the roads to the host villages. Alliance with the spirit world is also renewed and celebrated during the major festivals. The Subu Heniin chant on the first day of the Murung festival (Ritual Text 1), for example, summons the spirits and ancestors to the feast. The nyibu then leads the souls of the sacrificial animals to the land of the dead, where each spirit is given a share of the sacrifice. Verse after verse of this long chant repeats the hope that the spirits will accept the sacrifice and bring health and wealth to the sponsors. Alliance with the spirits is even more explicitly celebrated in the Myoko festival (Ritual Texts 3 & 4). As we saw in those chants, the conflict between humans and spirits is reconciled when Siikki, leader of the spirits, accepts a castrated pig from Abo Tani. His acceptance

56

A man may also give a large pork piece to his and his wife’s maternal uncle(s).

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is signalled when a leaf mysteriously moves inside the airless ritual hut. At that moment the expectant crowd outside cheers: now every family in the host village can sacrifice its pig, whose blood, mixed with rice, is later eaten only by family members. Ritual practice and oral tradition during Murung and Myoko festivals thus combine to tell the same story: alliance with the spirits created through ritual exchange underlies social solidarity. 3. ‘The roots are always entangled’ (Apatani proverb) Living in a narrow valley surrounded by mountains, Apatanis have developed the complex network of obligations and gift-giving sketched above. Cohesion is the ideal, but Apatani society has fissures. The split between gyutii and gyuci clans runs deep, and about one in eight families is landless. Wealth and political power is also unequally distributed and resides largely with the higher status gyutii clans, although that correlation is changing. One task of the series of ceremonial friendships is to arrange these potentially competitive parties into patterns of cooperation. Many pinyang, gyotii and buniin friends cross the gyutii-gyuci divide, while diran, lace, ari mecu and alii kutin bonds bring together families of different social and economic status. Alliances, no matter how obligatory and regulated, fray and break. A nyibu once described ceremonial friendships as an insurance policy: ‘If things go wrong, someone will be there to help, always, no matter what.’ Another man explained it to me this way: ‘We like to have allies everywhere, in every village.’ With about 30,000 people, divided into 78 clans, living in a compact valley, where no village is more than half an hour’s walk from the next, where every available foot of land is cultivated and everyone lives in dense villages with tight rows of small houses, social interaction is frequent and conflict-prone. For Apatanis, alliances and social cohesion are an ideal because they are a necessity. Although cohesion is seldom visible in any society, it seemed palpable on many occasions of Apatani gift-giving that I observed. While watching hundreds of women donate rice and receive a piece of meat in return, or men distribute thousands of pieces of meat, one to each family in the valley, or streams of people deliver gifts to their buniin friends, ‘cohesion’ was the word that came to mind. Cohesion is also reflected in the pattern of paddy fields in the valley, and not without good reason since they are a family’s most valuable asset. The plots are

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small, about one-half acre, but they require attention throughout the year.57 Dykes and bunds must be repaired, logs hollowed out as water sluices, manure spread, nursery beds tended, weeds removed, seedlings transplanted, crops harvested, threshed and stored in granaries—all by human hands, a short hoe and sickle, without machines, wells, animals or ploughs. Today this work is done partly by wage labour but also by voluntary groups, mostly women, who work for a day in one family’s field, the next day in another’s and so on. The dizzying mosaic of these several thousand small plots, variously shaped and individually owned yet cooperatively managed, is a mirror image of an Apatani social ideal.58 It is also the main idea expressed in oral stories and social practice: division requires exchange and alliance, which ensures prosperity. Identity, change and Abo Tani Apatanis who were familiar with Assam were all of them convinced that their own home is superior and their own people better than anything that could be found on the plains. To visit the plains was an exciting adventure, but to live there—never!59

The British officer who wrote this in his diary in 1945 probably knew little about Apatani stories or exchange, but he did understand something about their sense of themselves. The criss-crossing alliances between ceremonial friends, shored up by those negotiated with the spirit world, are vital for creating social cohesion. But that internal unity also requires external boundaries. In Frederick Barth’s well-known statement, it is the ‘ethnic boundary that defines the group, not the cultural stuff that it encloses.’60 We also know that identity is no more static than other aspects of culture, and ethnic categories are partially produced by the history of contact with the people they describe. To understand the role of history in the construction of Apatani identity, we need to recall its terminology. Looking out at the world, Apatanis see three categories of people. In the centre, in the valley, are

57 Many families own two or three plots, totalling 1 or 2 acres, but the average amount of land owned per family is less than one acre (Sundriyal et al. 2002: 212). 58 On labour patterns among Apatanis, see Kumar and Ramakrishnan 1990. 59 Davy 1945: 79. 60 Barth 1969: 15.

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misan

tanii

misan

halyang (Assam)

the Apatanis themselves, the tanii. Surrounding them are the other tribes in central Arunachal Pradesh, the misan. Finally, on the southern edge stands everyone else, principally the Assamese, other Indians, the British and all foreigners, collectively known as the halyang. Apatani identity is defined by these two boundaries, one between themselves and their tribal neighbours, and the other between themselves and outsiders to the south. To the north is Nyime, or Tibet, but Apatanis have no name for ‘Tibetans,’ a curiosity I will discuss below. 1. Outsiders: Halyang As we have seen throughout this book, Apatanis maintain a cultural and territorial separation from the halyang. This boundary also has a history. Embedded in Apatani tradition is a belief that all humans descend from the first ancestor. Most accounts of the migration story, including the one in this book, list the halyang among the descendants of Abo Tani. They, too, were once part of the ancestral stock that migrated from somewhere ‘up north,’ split up and settled in the mountains and plains. In oral stories, these ‘outsiders’ are usually mentioned alongside other groups who now live far from the Apatani valley or whom Apatanis are said to have fought before settling the valley. When the migration story comes closer to the present, however, when the ancestors of misan and Apatani villages are named, the halyang disappear. There are no named halyang ancestors, only an impersonal group who are portrayed as deceitful. Today, too, no one (outside ritual texts) acknowledges this bond. In a variety of contexts, we hear Apatanis say, in effect, ‘We are not halyang.’

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Efforts toward cultural preservation—reinvented religion, invented scripts, schools (Abo Tani School), organisations (Indigenous Faith and Culture Society)—all assert Apatani identity by emphasising differences from the halyang; parodoxically, each effort is a local alternative to an institution first brought by outsiders. The desire for separation is expressed in everyday speech, as well. When I asked nyibus about the fact that the halyang are included as part of Abo Tani’s genealogy in ritual texts, they answered uniformly and without hesitation, ‘No. Halyang are not the children of Abo Tani.’ Similarly, on the porch, on the bus and around the hearth, ‘halyang’ is used to identify something or someone different. ‘It’s a halyang shop,’ or ‘He’s halyang,’ or ‘The halyang did it.’ To my ear, although the word was not spoken with hostility, a distance was unmistakable. Differences from the halyang are also expressed in stories throughout this book. They are lazy, wealthy, literate, dangerous and deceitful; above all, they are ‘outsiders.’ These qualities are attributed to them not only in accounts of the first colonial contact and later Apatani resistance, where we would expect them, but also in stories without any specific historical context. In the story about Abo Tani’s sons (Tale 5), for instance, we are told that his lazy wife came from the plains, and he is urged by an Apatani woman to leave her. In another story (Myth and History 2), the halyang twice deceive the other ancestors when they all travel along the migration route. First, they cut down trees to block the progress of the others. Later, by cunningly marking trees, they trick the Apatanis into thinking that years, instead of days, have elapsed since the cuttings. Believing that the halyang are too far ahead to follow, the Apatanis decide to stay put in the hills. The wealth and power of foreigners is prominent in other stories. In ‘The Magic Tree’ (Tale 9), for instance, the beads of the tree above the heroine’s grave are too expensive to be bought by anyone except a merchant from Assam.61 Again, while the man who comes to rid local people of the man-eating bird on the tree appears to be a saviour, people soon fear that he is too strong and must be opposed (Tale 6). This man eventually returns to the plains, where he gains ‘all the riches of the halyang,’ and at his marriage he rides in a palanquin and receives gifts of elephants. Another valuable possession of the halyang is writing, which Apatanis lose while crossing a river (Myth and History 3). In

61

This episode is not found in the version in this book.

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this story, which may be no more than 100 or 150 years old, Apatanis say, ‘We are not halyang because we are not literate.’ Stories about colonial encounters contain more explosive statements of separation. A 90-year old man, squatting on his porch, gave me a brief but pointed account of the first official visit in 1897: ‘The halyang came up here, to our valley, but we didn’t invite them. We didn’t want them here.’ [see photograph 16] The outsiders’ technological superiority eventually displaced local authority and by 1948 generated enough resentment to spark an armed revolt, as one of the tellers of Myth and History 9 explained: ‘First we were made to carry loads; then the halyang began to settle our disputes for us. Before they came, we settled them ourselves. Soon people started to say, “We shouldn’t allow these halyang to come up here…We should drive out these outsiders.” ’ Although the attempt failed, it is remembered in more detail and by more people than any other event, not for itself but for what it signifies. As the other narrator of this event said, it was an attempt to prevent ‘the capture of our land by the halyang.’ 2. Tibet: Nyime This mistrust and fear of the halyang stand in contrast to the valorisation of the other powerful foreigners on the borders of central Arunachal Pradesh, the Tibetans to the north.62 As mentioned earlier, Apatanis and all the central tribes regard Tibet as their place of origin.63 Every oral history that I collected, and nearly every printed version, claims that Apatanis migrated across the high Himalayas from Tibet (Nyime). The oral version in this book (Myth and History 2) goes further and says that the ancestors assimilated Tibetan culture by wearing local necklaces—an important source of wealth and marker of identity. More than assimilation, this version claims an explicit genealogical link through the marriage of an Apatani man and a Tibetan princess. Why, although the Apatani valley lies equidistant between the Brahmaputra valley and the Himalayan snow-line, is Tibet seen as the ancestral homeland and invested with prestige, whereas the halyang from Assam are perceived as alien and threatening? Why is one group viewed On the other hand, Tibetan refugees in Arunachal Pradesh are sometimes the target of campaigns to ‘drive out the foreigners.’ 63 Fürer-Haimendorf (1945: 19) reported a similar story of assimilation by marriage to a Tibetan girl. 62

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positively as ancestors, while the other is regarded with suspicion as ‘outsiders’? And why do Apatanis have no name for ‘Tibetans’? The answers, I believe, lie in the contrast between the historical influence of Assam and Tibet on life in the Apatani valley.64 Boundaries define identity, as Barth pointed out, but only in opposition to groups with whom there has been significant contact. This explains why Apatanis have a name for the misan and the halyang, and why they build barriers against them, but have no name or barrier for Tibetans. While Tibet (Nyime) may be prominent in local genealogical imagination, Apatanis had little direct contact with it. Instead, trade with Tibet was conducted by intermediaries who carried goods from the high Himalayas to the river systems in central Arunachal Pradesh.65 Although a few individuals did travel near the border (Myth and History 11), Apatanis as a group had little personal experience with the supposed homeland. Nor is there much evidence, linguistic, textual or cultural, to support local traditions that Tibet is the origin of Apatanis (or others in central Arunachal Pradesh). Similarly, none of the local oral histories I recorded or the written sources available in print describe any identifiable migration route from Tibet. Finally, as my comparative analysis of oral stories suggests, Apatani cultural parallels lie to the east and not to the north. As a place, however, Tibet is central to Apatani ideas of the past.66 Nyime is not only a location on the ancestors’ migration route (‘Nyime Supung’ in Myth and History 2); it is also a personal name, the name of a spirit and of a chant.67 Like the mysterious lake (Tale 8) somewhere in the north, Tibet’s status appears to be enhanced by a lack of direct knowledge. Here I borrow from Mary Helms’ argument that the origins of objects acquired by indirect trade are often imbued with prestige.68 The beads, swords, metal bells and plates obtained by Apatanis were not used, or usually even made, by Tibetans. Because Apatanis believed them to be Tibetan, however, the status of these objects was transformed 64 For a similar development among Wanchos in southeast Arunachal Pradesh, see Borooah 2000. 65 Trade between tribal groups and Tibetans in the upper Subansiri is described by Huber 1999. 66 There is, by contrast, no Apatani word for ‘Burma,’ or any region to the east. 67 Chige Nyime (a famous nyibu); Diibo Nyime (an ancestor of the Nani clan); Lod Nyime (a misan ancestor); Nyime (a spirit); and Nyime Ayu (a chant). 68 Helms 1993: 46–51, passim.

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by the mystique of distance, as well as by the material wealth, state power and literate civilisation of Tibet. Distant but prestigious, unknown yet familiar, Tibet is a model ancestral homeland. 3. Tribal Neighbours: Misan In addition to a separation from the halyang, Apatanis also define themselves in opposition to their tribal neighbours (misan). Misan is more or less a synonym for Nyishis, the Apatanis’ closest neighbours, trading partners and bitter rivals. This mixture of intimacy and competition makes the boundary with the misan more ambiguous than that with the halyang. ‘Misan’ can be a term of mild abuse; their speech and ‘savage’ ways are often the butt of local jokes (as in the last episode of Tale 2). On the other hand, a prudent ‘foreign policy’ seeks out Nyishis as ceremonial friends (manyang). As slaves and servants, some Nyishis have also assimilated to Apatani culture and form part of gyuci clans. Still, marriage with Nyishis is extremely rare in the valley, and these close neighbours can not own land or a house in an Apatani village (although this is permitted in Hapoli).69 In the end, however, Nyishis and other misan are accepted by Apatanis as cultural kin because they are Abo Tani’s descendants, whose ancestors migrated together from the same homeland. That affinity has recently been revived by the advance of the halyang from the south, both real and perceived. In the process, the word tanii (the Apatani autonym) is now more and more used to mean the ‘Tani group,’ that is, all the tribes of central Arunachal Pradesh linked by their common ancestry with Abo Tani. This is not so much a new usage as the revival of a dormant meaning since the ancestor’s name, as locally pronounced, is Abo Tanii. Until recently, however, this term was rarely used by Apatanis to refer to other tribes as a group; instead, they were known as misan, a derisive and parochial term. Today, in the new context of state-wide politics, that usage is shifting: when Apatanis attempt to build alliances with other tribes in order to stem culture loss, they tend to avoid ‘misan’ and use ‘tanii’ instead.70 While the line dividing Apatanis from their tribal neighbours has never been firm, it I know of only one case of an Apatani man and his misan wife living in a village. 70 While this shift is most evident in public speeches and written material, it is heard in informal contexts, too. 69

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is now more ambiguous than ever as the rival misan become new allies in a struggle for cultural survival. As these examples show, Apatani ideas of who they are have changed and are changing still. Their sense of separation from the powerful southern outsider is impossible to date, but it has clearly been reinforced by historical events during the past hundred years or more. In local eyes, that history is seen as the coming of the halyang, their civil administration, literacy and religions, against which Apatanis increasingly define themselves. The halyang were genealogical kin until they imposed their authority, with military support, on the valley. Tibet was a distant place in the imagined past, and the misan were troublesome neighbours, until Apatanis felt threatened by the presence of outsiders, first in the valley, then in Hapoli and now in villages. They had no need to define or preserve their ‘religion’ before seeing Christianity and Hinduism practiced in the valley; and they did not know they had lost writing until they were exposed to literacy. Ethnic boundaries are never so necessary as when they are breached. Old rivals are never so warmly embraced as when new enemies appear. With the misan reimagined as allies, all the children of Abo Tani can unite in order to preserve tradition. [see photograph 10] This shift in Apatani definitions of identity can also be understood in terms of the process of differentiation that, as described above, underlies local thinking about the past, migration and origins. Embracing the misan represents a step backward in that historical push toward diversity; it is a reassuring return to a condition of unity before the individual tribes of the Tani group split off from the ancestral stock. As a reaffirmation of Abo Tani’s genealogy, it is a movement toward the mythic unity that political cohesion requires. 4. Abo Tani No matter which way we turn when exploring the relations between local oral stories and culture, we find Abo Tani. His trickster tales are the most frequently told and most widely known of all stories in the valley; and episodes in those stories are the basis for all healing chants. More importantly, for the argument developed in this book, his myths express the twin themes of Apatani oral tradition: the evolution of his descendants and his own maturation represent differentiation; and his gift to the spirits is the foundation of exchange and alliance. While

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Abo Tani is a major figure throughout the region, he has special significance among Apatanis because his name is their name (tanii). Since his genealogy provides the language for expressing their identity, it is no exaggeration to say that his story is one that Apatanis tell themselves about themselves. That story is changing. It seems unlikely, however, that Apatani oral tradition will any time soon be overwritten on this palimpsest of change. Miji-migung is part of a culture that has been reacting to and borrowing from outside influences for a long time: a special shawl, once worn only by priests and councilmen, was woven with wool from Tibetan blankets; and the metal-tipped hoe, which everyone uses in the paddy fields, came from Assam. It is true, nonetheless, that over the past hundred years the growing presence of the halyang has brought far-reaching changes to the valley. During the past three decades, Apatanis have responded to these changes in a variety of ways. Many welcome the new economic opportunities, nearly everyone likes the new goods in the bazaar and some have embraced the new religions. Others, however, are alarmed at the loss of culture and have initiated a programme of reform and restoration. Tattooing, nose-plugs and child marriage have been banned, while local language and dress are encouraged. Rituals and festivals have also been reformed. In the 1970s, a minor summer agricultural ritual was expanded and reconfigured as a fixed-date, community festival for all Apatanis. Today Dree is celebrated on a grand scale, with printed, colourful souvenir booklets and football games. More recently, the heavy and obligatory economic burden of the Myoko festival, which falls equally on rich and poor, has come under the scrutiny of reformers. New limits for gift-giving have been proposed for this festival and for other ritual exchanges, too. At the centre of this activity in the Apatani valley stands Abo Tani. Although Donyi-Polo is the focus of cultural preservation elsewhere in the region, in the valley it is Abo Tani. When the official state holiday of Donyi-Polo Day is celebrated on 31 December, Apatanis gather in the Abo Tani Hall. Abo Tani Day, an unofficial local holiday celebrated a few days later in that hall, draws a larger crowd. When the first Donyi-Polo worship hall appeared in the valley in 2004, it was dedicated to the ‘children of Abo Tani’; and today some suggest that it should be renamed the ‘Donyi-Tani’ hall. Abo Tani’s visual image is also a significant and new presence in this cultural activity. Until the

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1970s, Abo Tani was only imagined and never seen. Today, his imposing figure—hair wound into the distinctive knot and skewered with a brass pin, a large machete slung over his shoulder—is seen on posters inside and outside buildings, on signs for the Abo Tani Wine Shop and the Abo Tani Academy, on calendars and in comic books. Whatever form the interaction between oral tradition and culture assumes in the future, it seems likely that Apatanis will draw on the figure of Abo Tani. Not because he is a protean trickster, but because he is the ancestor. As the personification of the past, he embodies identity in the present. When that identity appears threatened, preservation turns to him, to his story and his genealogy. As Apatanis react to the changes around them, as they realign themselves north and south, Abo Tani is becoming an increasingly potent and visible symbol of their historical separation from outsiders. Whether that separation is sustainable, or desirable, in the long-term is not yet clear.

APPENDICES

APPENDIX ONE

TRANSCRIPTION AND ANALYSIS OF A STORY1 Tale 1

The Two Sisters: A Snake-Husband

1. Tabu-bo yalang lampii snake-top stone cave A snake crawled out of a cave,

hokii abl

lyi-nii-la-la. emerge-nzr-conj-conj

2. Ho akhu-mi apa-te-la myu-pa then skin-acc leave-pfv-conj man-adv shed its skin and became a young man— hemper yapa very young man a very handsome young man. 3. Biinyi Biine nyi Biinyi Biine dl da-lyi-la. exist-ipfv-conj

tabu-ka snake-gen

aya-pa nice-adv

da-lyi-la. exist-inch-conj lyi-la. be(come)-conj

takun-mi fruit.variety-acc

dii-pyo-do-la eat-good-stat-conj

Biinyi and Biine, the two sisters, began to steal the fruit of the takun tree which belonged to the snake-man. 4. Ho takun dii-pyo-do. then fruit.variety eat-good-stat And the takun fruit was tasty. 5. Ho then mi[hi] wife He said,

‘Niinyi takun-mi di-pyo-koda 2.dl fruit.variety-acc eat-good-cond pa-ci-ku-la.’ get-fut-cmpl-conj ‘If you eat my fruit, I’ll take you as my wives!’

ninyi-mi 2.dl-acc

This appendix was prepared jointly with Mark Post. A comprehensive study of Apatani grammar remains to be conducted, and our analysis (particularly of verb morphology) should be considered provisional. 1

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6. Biinyi-bo denki-ya lyi-nii. Biine-bo Biinyi-top good-ints be(come)-nzr Biine-top dema-ya lyi-nii. bad-ints be(come)-nzr Biinyi was the good one; and Biine was the bad one. 7. Ho Biinyi-bo-mi rite tasan-mi so-ro so-ye then Biinyi-top-acc rite necklace-acc clf:long clf:long a-gii-bii-lyi-nii. put-wear-keep-ipfv-nzr Their parents put an expensive rite bead necklace on Biinyi. 8. Biine-bo-mi papu paku a-gii-bii-lyi-nii Biine-top-acc egg shell put-wear-keep-ipfv-nzr anii-aba. mother-father But to Biine they gave (a necklace of ) egg shells. 9. Ho hii-la a-gii-nii Biine hem-pyo gii-la. then anap-foc put-wear-nzr Biine think-good wear-conj And when they put the beads on Biine, she felt very happy. 10. Alo alo gii-la. day day wear-conj Biine wore the egg shell necklace every day. 11. Ho hii miidin ho tu-le-do. nursery.field loc kick/move.foot-slip-stat then anap One day she slipped and fell into the nursery field. 12. Biine bogii-la. Biine sink-conj Biine sank into the muddy field. 13. Ho Biinyi-bo denki-nii hii-nii then Biinyi-top good-nzr anap-ind Biinyi, the good sister, became the snake’s wife du-lyi-ku-mapo tabu-mi exist-ipfv-cmpl-conv snake-acc and gave birth to a snake-son.

tabu snake

mi[hi] wife

bu-la-la-la. bear-conj-conj-conj

14. O[ho] du-lyi-ku-mapo ayo-ayo tabu-pa lyi-lyi-nii. son exist-ipfv-cmpl-conv night-night snake-adv be(come)-inch-nzr After the son was born, every night her husband became a snake.

transcription and analysis of a story 15. Alo alo myu-pa hemper-ya-pa aya-pa da Day day man-adv very-ints-adv nice-adv exist Every day he again became a handsome young man.

255 hii. anap

16. Da-to-la Biinyi-bo hen-ci-ku-ma-pa, exist-pfv-conj Biinyi-top think-fut-cmpl-neg-adv Living like that, Biinyi was unable to tolerate it (and thought), 17. ‘Sii-mi-ja ngo ja tiyo-mi milo bugii dema.’ this-acc-ints. 1 ints.2 reptile-acc husband have/keep bad ‘I can’t keep this reptile-husband any more.’ 18. Tabu ja-mi hii-la snake ints.2–acc anap-foc kahe-le-ku. big-pfv-cmpl Meanwhile her snake-son grew up.

oho son

du-le-ku. stay-prv-cmpl

o[ho] son

19. O[ho]-mi lugii-la-la pamang-ho kami-ho tabu-ka son-acc persuade-conj-conj rack-loc end-loc snake-gen akhu-mi atii-ya-to-la. skin-acc keep/get-[?]-pfv-conj One day she asked her son to get her husband’s skin that was hanging on a rack. 20. Hu-la-la-la yamu hom-pa gather-conj-conj-conj fire burn-adv hii, anap She picked it up and destroyed it in the fire,

nyi-ma-po have/exist-neg-emph

21. ‘Sii-mi ngo myu-pa ayo miilanju lyi-lyi-ke’ prx-acc 1 man-adv night all be(come)-inch-pf hen-ci-la. think-fut-conj thinking to herself, ‘I’ll make my husband become a man at night, too!’ 22. Tabu a-bii-ku-la ho hii-ka akhu-ho snake come-cmpl-cmpl-conj then anap-gen skin-loc lyi-lyi-ha-ku-la imi-du-ku-pa-la be(come)-inch-enter-cmpl-conj sleep-ipfv-cmpl-adv-conj a-bii-kile. come/enter-compl-conv The snake-husband came home and went to crawl into its skin to go to sleep.

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23. Ho akhu nyi-ma-po. then skin exist-neg-emph But his skin had vanished! 24. ‘No-na, Biinyi, ngii-ka so-ka in-e-ku-nii akhu hii?’ where-foc Biinyi 1–gen here-gen go-away-cmpl-nzr skin anap ‘Biinyi!’ he screamed. ‘What happened to my skin that was hanging here?’ 25. ‘Nii-ka o[ho] hunyi ngo duhu-la da-to-ne 2–gen son pestle 1 husk.paddy-conj exist-pfv-pst a-bii-ku-kile. come-cmpl-cmpl-conv ‘While I was husking paddy, our son came into the house, 26. ‘Yamu-ho “buji-buji” hom-bii-to-la. fire-loc crackle-crackle burn/cook-cmpl-pfv-conj [There was] a crackling sound [burning] in the fire. 27. ‘Ngo yamu-acam-ya byo-pa-la har-byang-ku 1 fire-flame-ints burn-stop-conj ran- quickly-cmpl hen-kile. think-conv ‘I quickly ran to the hearth [thinking] to put out the fire.’ 28. ‘Ya-ja-to-ku-la-la.’ be.destroyed-ints-pfv-cmpl-conj-conj ‘[Your skin] was totally destroyed.’ 29. Simkane amu ako ka-te-la. this.much fur/skin one see-pfv-conj He saw only this little bit of his skin. 30. Sii kontii yaku-do-ku byo-ke ah? this only destroyed-stat-cmpl burn-pf tag It burned up and this is all [that was left], isn’t it? 31. ‘Ho ngo o-mi men-ci-ku-ja-ma. Nitan-pa then 1 son-acc kill-fut-cmpl-ints-neg how-adv mii-co? No lu-su-to-ku.’ do-fut.emph 2 say-refl-iptv-cmpl ‘You see, I just couldn’t beat him! How could I? He’s my son,’ she explained. ‘You talk to him (because I can’t).’ 32. ‘Nii-la lu-ci-ko,’ what-foc say-fut-nzr.loc ‘What can I say?’ he asked.

hiila thus

lu-to-la. say-pfv-conj

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257

33. Ho myu-pa lyi-lyi-da-ku-la ayo-ho-ka then man-adv be(come)-inch-stat-cmpl-conj night-loc-gen tabu-pa lyi-ku-ma lyi-ne. snake-adv be(come)-cmpl-neg be(come)-pst Having become a man, the husband was no longer a snake at night. 34. Ano ka-ru ye-ku-la tabu very look-bad become-cmpl-conj snake gii-ru-pa hii da-ku-la. wear-bad-adv anap exist-cmpl-conj The snake skin was now dark and ugly. 35. Ho then

hii anap

tabu snake

hii anap

taru rope/skin

lancang red

akhu-hokii lyi-lyi-ha-ku-ma-ne skin-abl be(come)-inch-enter-cmplneg-pst1

da-ku-la. exist-cmpl-conj So the snake could not enter the skin. 36. Ho hii myu-pa then anap man-adv And he had become a man.

da-ku-le. exist-cmpl-pst2

37. Ho-pa ngunu nyimii hii tabu anap.loc-adv 1.pl woman anap snake That’s why we women don’t eat snake meat,

yo meat

38. Ho-pa ngunu nyimii tabu-mi anap.loc-adv 1.pl women snake-acc i-ma. go(marry)-neg and why we don’t marry snakes either.

dii-ma eat-neg

na. tag

milo husband

Abbreviations abl acc adv anap clf cmpl conj conv dl emph

Ablative Accusative Adverbial(izer) Anaphoric Classifier Completive Conjunctive Converb(ializer) Dual Emphatic

foc fut gen ipfv inch ints iptv loc neg nzr

Focus Future Genitive Imperfective Inchoative Intensifier Imperative Locative Negative Nominalizer

pcnj pf pfv pl prx pst refl stat tag top

Past conjunctive Perfect Perfective Plural Proximate Past Reflexive Stative Tag/rejoinder Topic

APPENDIX TWO

LIST OF STORYTELLERS

Name

Age & Gender

Village

Story

Comment

Tale 1

friend’s mother

Hage Yabyung c. 60, f

Mudan Tage & Hapoli Hari

Hage Biinyi

c. 70, f

Hari

Hage Nanya

40s, f

Hari

Tage Diibo

40s, m

Tajang (Bula)

Hage Bhatt

c. 70, m Hari

Hage Hiiba

c. 70, m Hari

Hage Tapa

c. 65, m Hari

Liagi Niting

c. 65, m Mudan Tage

Mudan Donyi

39, m

Mudan Pai

c. 55, m Biirii (Mudan Tage)

Kalung Lento

c. 40, m Kalung (Bula)

Leegang Yakhu c. 55, f

Mudan Tage

Leegang Kago c. 35, m Mudan Tage

Myth & History 6 Ritual Text 5 Myth & History 14 Myth & active in culture History 7 preservation movement Tale 12; father of my Myth & research assistant History 9, 11 Myth & History 1, 3, 8, 12(1) Myth & History 1, 2, 8 Tale 5, 6 friend’s father, nyibu Tale 2, 7, prolific and 9, 10, 11; imaginative teller Myth & History 1, 9, 10, 13 (1) Myth & nyibu with whom I History 5; worked extensively Ritual Text 1, 2, 4, 6 Myth & friend’s husband History 4 Ritual Text assistant nyibu 3 (bo)

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Appendix Two (cont.) Name

Age & Gender

Village

Padi Tasan

c. 55, m Reru (Bula)

Story

Myth & History 1 Tilling Tak 48, m Hong & Hapoli Tale 3, 8 Tilling Gumbo 23, m Hong & Hapoli Myth & History 12 (2, 3) Takaiyam c. 75, m Jomo, near Myth & Tallong Along History 13 (2) Talum Babla 48, m Babla, near Tale 4 Daporijo

Comment nyibu, father-in-law of a friend friend’s father son of Tilling Tak, university student in Guwahati Minyong Adi Nyishi/Tagin

APPENDIX THREE

COMPARATIVE PROFILE OF APATANI STORIES Close parallels are reported in three regions in the extended eastern Himalayas; versions elsewhere in brackets; number of versions in parentheses, not including author’s Apatani versions. Story

central AP

India-Burma Border upland SE Asia & sw China

1. Myth & History Apatani (2), Adi 1, origin of (4), Galo, Tagin, world Nyishi 2. Myth & History Apatani, Adi Lhota (2), Ao, 13, Sun-Moon (17), Tagin, Angami & Sema Galo (2), [Aka, Naga, Meitei (2), Idu Mishmi, Digaru Mishmi, Singpho]

Hmong/Miao (3), Kachin, Akha (2), Blang, Lisu (3), Hani, Drung/ Rawang, Yi, unidentified (2)

3. Myth & History Nyishi, Adi 3, Lost Writing (3), Galo (3), Mising, [Digaru Mishmi (2), Wancho, Nocte, Idu Mishmi (2), Tangsa]

Kachin (4), Kammu, Akha (2), Drung/Rawang, Hmong/Miao (2), Hani, Lahu (2), Dong, Qiang (3), Baima, Shixing, Pumi, Wa, Nu/ Nusu, Moso, Lisu, Jinuo, Dai, Bulang, Yi (2), Dulung/Dulong, De’ang, Zhuang,

4. Ritual Text 5, Journey to the Land of the Dead

Apatani, Adi, Hill Miri, Nyishi, [Idu Mishmi]

Lakher/Mara, Haka Chin, Rengma, Sema & Marring Naga, Thado-Kuki, Mizo, Mru, Chin, [Garo, Khasi (2)]

Naxi (4), Lahu, Lisu, Pumi, Moso, Hmong/Miao (3), Yi

262

appendix three

Appendix Three (cont.) Story

central AP

India-Burma Border upland SE Asia & sw China

5. Tale 10, Innocent Persecuted Heroine, AT 511 A

Lahu, Akha

6. Tale 1, The Tagin, Lisu/ Two Sisters (1) Yobin AT 433 C

Kucong/Lahu

7. Tale 2, The Nyishi, Tagin Two Sisters (2) (2) AT 327

Angami Naga

8. Tale 6 & 7, The Tallest Tree, AT 301

Ao Naga

Nyishi (2), Adi (3), Galo

Li Su [Lisu?], ‘Tibetan Mongols,’ Pai, Chuang

9. Tale 9, The Nyishi Magic Tree, AT 780 10. Tale 3, 4 & 5, Abo Tani

Nyishi (12), Adi (9), Galo (4), Hill Miri (3), Tagin, Sulung, Bangni/Bengru, [Aka, Digaru Mishmi]

11. Tale 8, The Blinding Lake

Adi (2), Nyishi (3), Galo

12. Myth and History 5, Origin of Mithun

Nyishi, Tagin, Hill Miri

Sources 1. Origin of World from Body central AP: Apatani (Elwin 1958: 8–9, 40), Nyishi (Tara 2005: 2), Adi (Elwin 1958: 9; Megu 2000; Tayeng 2003: 6; Mibang and Abraham 2002: 19), Tagin (Mitkong et al. 1999), Galo (Ete 1974)

comparative profile of apatani stories

263

2. Sun-Moon central AP: Apatani (Elwin 1958: 42), Adi, Galo & Tagin (Elwin 1958: 45–53, 57, 60–61), Adi (Dunbar 1916: 65, 66; Tayeng 2003: 31–32; Ghosh and Ghosh 1998: 60; Tayeng 1976: 162; Rukbo 1998; Bhattacharya 1965: 10–12; Osik 2001a: 9; author’s field work, 2002; Mibang and Abraham 2002: 26–27, 28–29; Nath 2000: 119; Kumar 1979: 289), Galo (Ete nd.), [Digaru Mishmi (Yapa et al. 1999: 34–35; Elwin 1958: 50), Idu Mishmi, Aka & Singpho (Elwin 1958: 48–49, 320–22, 59)] India-Burma border: Lhota Naga (Mills 1926: 313–14; Hutton 1921: 411), Ao and Angami Naga (Luikham 1983: 17–20), Sema Naga (Hutton 1921: 411), Meitei (Hodson 1908: 188–211; Kirti Singh 1993: 138) upland SE Asia & sw China: Kachin (Hertz 1917: 59–60), Hmong/Miao (Graham 1954: 172, 265–66; Miller 1994: 85–88), Akha (Lewis 2002: 116–18), Blang (Miller 1994: 90–94), Lisu (Miller 1994: 80–81; Fairy Tales 1987: 370–77; Dessaint and Ngwâma 1994: 154–56), Drung/ Rawang (Miller 1994: 61–62), Hani (Fairy Tales 1987: 322–24), Yi (Fairy Tales 1987: 276–79), two unidentified groups in southwest China (Giskin 1997: 170, 178) 3. Lost Writing central AP: Nyishi (Shukla 1959: 93), Adi (Elwin 1958: 130–31; Tayeng 2003: 131; Goswami 1949: 209), Galo (Elwin 1958: 178; Pandey 1985; Post 2007: 897), Mising (Pegu 1981: 102), [Digaru Mishmi (Elwin 1958: 142–43; Yapa et al. 1999: 39), Wancho (Elwin 1958: 147–8), Nocte (Elwin 1958: 129), Idu Mishmi (Bhattacharjee 1983: 18–19), Tangsa (Ghosal 1999: 27)] India-Burma border: Lakher/Mara (Parry 1932: 559), Chin (Sakhong 2000: 76), Rengma Naga (Mills 1937: 286), Sema Naga (Hutton 1921: 299), Marring Naga (Hodson 1911: 29–30), Thado-Kuki (Thirumalai 2004), Mizo (Downs 1992: 193–94), Mru (Brauns and Löffler 1990: 235–36), Haka Chin (Head 1917: 49), [Garo (Rongumuthu 1960: 2), Khasi (Downs 1983: 95, fn. 107; Gurdon 1914: 10)] upland SE Asia & sw China: Kammu (Lindell, Swahn and Tayanin 1998: 22), Kachin (Abbott and Thant Han 2000: 70; Hertz 1917:

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56; Hanson 1913: 117; Gilhodes 1966: 21), Akha (Lewis 1970: 787–89; Kammerer 1990: 282–83), Drung/Rawang (Stéphane Gros, personal communication, 2005), Hmong/Miao (Tapp 1989: 122; Enwall 1995: 47–53), Hani (Lewis and Bibo 2002: 55–56), Lahu (Antisdel 1911; Pun and Lewis 2002: 24–25), Qiang (Graham 1958: 7, 22), Baima and Shixing (Katia Chirlova, personal communication, 2006), Qiang, Dong, Yi, Pumi, Wa, Nu/Nusu, Moso, Lisu, Jinuo, Dai, Bulang, Dulung/Dulong, De’ang & Zhuang (Michael Oppitz, personal communication, 2005) 4. Journey to the Land of the Dead central AP: Apatani, Nyishi, Hill Miri (Fürer-Haimendorf 1952, 1982b: 135–37), Nyishi (Shukla 1959: 112–21; Tara 2005: 119–20), Adi (Nath 2000: 111), [Idu Mishmi (author’s field work, 2004; Gerhard Heller, personal communication, 2007)] upland SE Asia & sw China: Naxi (Rock 1955; McKhann 1998: 29–30; McKhann 2003; Oppitz 1999; Bender 1996), Moso, Lisu & Pumi (McKhann 1998: 29–30; McKann 2003), Lahu (Walker 2003: 488–94), Yi (Bender 1996), Hmong/Miao (Lemoine 1972; Falk 2004; Symonds 2004) 5. Innocent Persecuted Heroine upland SE Asia & sw China: Lahu (Pun and Lewis 2002: 78–80), Akha (Lewis 1970: 790–91) 6. The Two Sisters (1) central AP: Tagin (Krishnatry 1997: 196–97), Lisu/Yobin (Kharmawphlang 2002: 80–85) upland SE Asia & sw China: Kucong/Lahu (Miller 1994: 153–55) 7. The Two Sisters (2) central AP: Nyishi (Bora 1995: 54–57), Tagin (Krishnatry 1997: 196–97; collected by Dugli Don, 2003)

comparative profile of apatani stories

265

India-Burma border: Angami Naga (Hutton 1914: 493–94) 8. The Tallest Tree (1 & 2) central AP: Nyishi (Bora 1995: 49–51; Tara 2005: 164–65), Adi (Elwin 1970: 142–44; Mibang and Abraham 2002: 88–89; Osik 2001a: 56–58), Galo (collected by Terge Sora, 2002) India-Burma border: Ao Naga (Smith 1926: 382) upland SE Asia & sw China: Li Su [Lisu?], ‘Tibetan Mongols,’ Pai & Chuang (Ting 1970: 60, passim) 9. The Magic Tree central AP: Nyishi (Tara 2005: 191) 10. Abo Tani central AP: Apatani, Nyishi, Adi, Galo, Hill Miri & Tagin (Elwin 1958, chap. 8), Nyishi (Pandey 1981: 20–22; Bora 1995: 9–21; Tara 2005: 166–69, 182–83; Osik 2001a: 19–20; Aisher 2006: 393–94, 397–99; 5 versions collected by Dugli Don, 2002–2003), Adi (Mibang and Abraham 2002: 55–59; Nyori 2004; Osik 2001b; Saikia 1964: 9–14; Kabnang 1999; Roy 1960: 233–34; Banerjee 1999: 157), Tagin (Shukla 1970: 308–12), Galo (Ete nd.; Post 2007: 897), Sulung (Pandey 1981: 32), Bangni/Bengru (Xian and Shang 1987: 300–09), [Aka & Digaru Mishmi (Elwin 1958: 181–84, 198)] 11. The Blinding Lake central AP: Nyishi (Bora 1995: 46, 69–70; Tara 2005: 172–73), Galo (Post 2007: 897), Adi (Mibang and Abraham 2002: 54–55; author’s field work, 2001) 12. Origin of the Mithun central AP: Nyishi (Tara 2005: 175), Tagin (Mitkong et al. 1999: 84–86), Hill Miri (Elwin 1958: 438–39)

GLOSSARY Abo Tani ayu bo bulyang buniin

ancestor of the Tani tribes; culture hero, trickster oral genre; chant with verbal duelling, now attenuated assistant priest (nyibu) village-based council; councilman ceremonial friend, especially important during Myoko festival. Chantung female spirit, who protects family; has shrine in Apatani houses; mother of Abo Tani in some stories cicing ‘bad’ spirits and rituals that invoke them (see tiigo) Danyi Apatani for ‘sun’ (Donyi) Donyi-Polo ‘Sun-Moon’; revitalisation movement begun in late 1960s gaunbora local ‘headman’ appointed by NEFA gyuci lower status group in Apatani society gyutii higher status group in Apatani society halyang non-tribal outsiders, especially Assamese and other Indians. Hapoli administrative centre of Apatani valley and headquarters of Lower Subansiri District; built in the late 1960s lapang raised wooden platform in villages; site for public rituals; cement slabs have now replaced most wooden planks kobyang tubular, brass (now aluminium) wrist ornament worn on ceremonial occasions by men and women machete translates ilyo, a single-edged knife carried by men in a sheath; used to cut cane, bamboo, meat etc. miji-migung traditional knowledge and stories; oral tradition misan other tribals, primarily Nyishis and Hill Miris Murung festival sponsored by an individual Myoko festival sponsored by a village or group of villages nago small, wooden ‘hut’ for rituals, especially during Myoko NEFA North-east Frontier Agency (1954–1972); administration for present-day Arunachal Pradesh nyibu ritual specialist; priest Nyime Tibet Nyishi populous tribe living outside Apatani valley

268 pidin pinyang

glossary

hair knot worn by Apatani men from early age ceremonial friend, to whom head of sacrificed mithun is given sepoy Indian soldier in the British colonial army Siikki leader of spirits; father-in-law of Abo Tani supung legendary places where ancestors lived along migration route takun fruit tree that marks start of Myoko festival in March; symbol of sexual awakening. Tani group tribes (and languages) in central Arunachal Pradesh, based on common descent from Abo Tani tanii Apatani autonym tiigo ‘good’ spirits and rituals that invoke them (see cicing) wi spirit

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INDEX

Abo Tani, 11 and Apatani identity, 33–35, 246–49 (see also tanii) and Apatani oral tradition, 63–64, 227, 235, 247–48 conflict and reconciliation with spirits, 74, 182, 184–85, 234–35, 239–40 genealogy of, 227, 246–49 and healing texts, 247 as origin of culture, 114, 119, 226 and revitilisation movement, 35, 248–49 trickster and culture hero, 226–27 Ahoms, 36; historical chronicles (buranji ), 36 animism, 10–11, 162 Apatani(s) attitudes to forms of storytelling, 232–33 clans, 31 education, 41; medium of instruction, 42 ethnic categories, 241–42; shift in definitions of, 246–47 (see also Apatani identity) expressive culture, 233 family structure, 31, 32 festivals and feasts (see Dree; miida; Murung; Myoko) funeral, 201–02 historical references to, 36 houses, 32, 33 language, 12–13 marriage, 32, 235–36 and neighbours, 9, 10, 30–32; relations with, 151–52, 246–47 (see also Apatani ceremonial friendships: manyang) oral tradition (see Apatani oral tradition) origins, claims of Tibetan, 110, 244 population, 31, 46–47 rank among, 31 religion, 11–12, 160–63, 201–03 land of the dead (Neli ), 202; journey to, 201–203, 218–19 (see also animism)

ritual specialist (nyibu), 31, 160–62, 163, 164; compared to shaman, 161 ritual structures, 45, 50, 125, 196, 233; nago, 183, 184, 185; lapang, 83 social cohesion, 31, 240–41 social divisions ( gyutii-gyuci), 31–32, 78, 126, 236, 240; disputed origins of, 125–29; gyuci as assimilated misan, 126, 246 spirits (see Apatani(s): religion) traditional method of counting (kottir), 41, 130 village councilmen (bulyang), 9n19, 31, 40, 45, 99, 113n9, 137, 138 villages, 32–33; compared to Hapoli, 44–47; and oral culture, 43; seven original, 44 Apatani ceremonial friendships, 31, 51, 111, 235–41 buniin ajin, 238–39 manyang, 132n39, 144, 146, 147, 152, 237, 246 and marriage, 236 and Murung, 237–38 and Myoko, 185, 238–39 pinyang, 61, 62, 224, 237 See also Apatani stories: themes, exchange and alliance Apatani identity, 10, 241 and halyang, 30, 43, 110, 128, 145, 224, 242–44, 247 (see also colonialism: in Apatani valley) and misan, 30, 246–47 (see also Apatani(s): and neighbours) village-based, 44–45 and weaving design, 99, 123 See also Abo Tani: and Apatani identity Apatani oral tradition (miji-migung), 18, 231–33 contexts, 14–15, 107–08, 185, 231–32 and gender, 232–33 genres, 17–22, 55, 231; miji contrasted with migung, 18–19, 20, 115n15, 159 healing texts, 19, 162, 210

280

index

and oral tradition in central Arunachal Pradesh, 221–27 ritual speech, 18, 58, 159–60, 231 ritual texts (miji), 19, 210, 231; ayu, 19, 92, 108, 172 song/singing, 21–22, 89, 233 Apatani stories folktales: and everyday conversation, 105, 232; lack of genre for, 8, 20–21, 23, 55; and ritual texts, 234 storytellers (see Appendix 2) themes: ‘creation’ myths, 108, 214–15; differentiation, 111, 214, 234–35; exchange and alliance, 111, 186, 234–35; formlessness, 108, 214, 234; love with spirits, 99, 100, 233–34; path (lenda), 110–11; procreative female body, 108, 122–23, 214–15; ritual error, 183–84, 219 Apatani valley agriculture and forestry, 45–46 colonial history, 37–40 description of, 32 Arunachal Pradesh history, 35–37 languages, 27 and non-tribal outsiders, 29–30 political system, 30 population, 27 religions, 27–28 Assam influence on central Arunachal Pradesh and Apatani valley, 35–40; compared with Tibetan influence, 35–36 oral tradition, 227–28 trade with hill tribes, 36 Assamese language, 42, 138

Chantung (female spirit), 110n3, 143n51, 163, 209n47, 214 Chinese invasion of NEFA, 40 Christianity in Apatani valley, 49–51, 162 in Arunachal Pradesh, 28 in central Arunachal Pradesh, 47 in northeast India, 36–37 See also religious change ‘Cinderella’, 5 Apatani version, 94, 221–22 colonialism in Apatani valley, 38–39, 129–34 in Assam, 35 creation myths, 214 culture change, 27, 248–49

Barth, Frederick, 241 Béteille, André, 9 Betts, Major F. N., 39n32, 138n48 Betts, Ursula (neé Graham Bower), 39n32, 138n48 Boas, Franz, 4

Gaenszle, Martin, 219 gaunboras, 40, 136 Geertz, Clifford, 5 Gesar Ling, 228 Gossen, Gary, 17 Grimm, Wilhelm, 6

Carey, William, 36 central Arunachal Pradesh oral tradition, 215, 221–27, 230; and oral traditions in Assam and Tibet, 227–28 and religious change (see Donyi-Polo movement; Christianity; Hinduism)

halyang (non-tribal outsiders), 9, 30, 43 in Apatani stories, 242–44 See also Apatani identity; colonialism ‘Hansel and Gretel,’ Apatani version, 59, 223–24 Hapoli, 40, 43–44 contrast with village, 43–47

dictionary, controversy over, 32, 126–29 Donyi-Polo (Sun-Moon), 48, 154, 155, 160, 248 myth of and death, 153–54, 215–17 Donyi-Polo movement in Apatani valley, 51–52, 156 in central Arunachal Pradesh, 47–49, 155–56 ‘Dragon-Slayer, The,’ Apatani version, 224–25 Dree festival, 113 Elwin, Verrier, 8, 94, 214–15 Ete, Tumpak, 21 extended eastern Himalayas as culture area, 220–21, 227–31, 230 feast of merit, 231 Flueckiger, Joyce Burkhalter, 17 foundation myths, 117 Fürer-Haimendorf, Christoph von, 8, 219 in Apatani valley, 39, 40

index Helms, Mary, 245 Hinduism in Apatani valley, 51 in Arunachal Pradesh, 28–29 in Assam, 35, 228 in central Arunachal Pradesh, 47–48 See also religious change Inner Line, 29 Izzard, Ralph, 117 journey to the land of the dead, 218–19 Leach, Edmund, 230 literacy among Apatanis, 41–43 in Arunachal Pradesh, 9 and missionaries, 37 and orality, 43 See also writing McCabe, Robert Blair, 32, 130–31 miida feast, 236 Murung festival, 15, 96–105 passim, 162, 164, 171–82 passim, 231, 237–40 Myoko festival, 32, 82–201 passim Nagaland, 144, 145 necklaces/beads (metal bells and plates), 14, 31, 114n12, 141–42, 144–51 passim; inherited by women, 118n24, 202 brass plates, 117–18 and identity, 91, 226, 244 NEFA (North-East Frontier Agency), 39–40, 42, 47 nyibu. See Apatani(s): ritual specialist Nyishi(s). See Apatani identity: and misan; Apatani(s): and neighbours Nyori, T., 229 oicotype, 221 Oppitz, Michael, 217n12 oral genres, 16–17. See also Apatani oral tradition: genres oral history, 229–30 oral tradition comparative study of, 6–7 and culture, 4–6 and culture area, 230 genre distinctions, 19–20 and history, 5, 6 See also Apatani oral tradition

281

Pederson, Morton, 11 print and oral culture, 128 Radin, Paul, 226 Ramayana, 8, 227 religious change, 27–28, 47–52, 155–56 See also Donyi-Polo movement revitalisation movement. See Donyi-Polo movement ritual journey, to the land of the dead, 218–19, 228. See also Apatani(s): religion ‘Singing Bone, The,’ Apatani version, 225–26 ‘Snake-Husband, The,’ Apatani version, 222–23 Stonor, C. R., 117 Sun-Moon. See Donyi-Polo Tani group languages and people in central Arunachal Pradesh, 33, 227, 246 origin and migration of, 228–30, 244 tanii, Apatani autonym, 30, 33, 35, 242, 246 Tibet (Nyime) and Apatanis, 88, 110, 244–46 and central Arunachal Pradesh, 35 perceived source of valuable objects, 141–42, 245 and Tani tribes, 228–30 Tibeto-Burman languages, 9, 27, 33 Tibeto-Burman speakers, 217–30 passim trade Apatani, 144, 237, 245; with Assam, 38; with Tibet, 88 Assam with hills, 36 tribe/tribal definitions of, 9 place in Indian historiography, 10 trickster tales, 226–27. See also Abo Tani writing among Apatanis, 41–42 invented scripts, 42, 58 lost writing, 116, 217–18 unscripted languages, 9, 42 See also literacy Ymir myth, 215

Fig. 1. Apatani valley. 2002 (Michael Aram Tarr).

Fig. 2. Hage Gyati finishing a basket. Hapoli, 2001.

Fig. 3. Tasso Tangu chanting and building ritual altars, with a young man. Hari, 2002.

Fig. 4. Hage Hiiba (right) and Hage Kago building altars and chanting. Hari, 2002.

Fig. 5. Hage Tado with the kobyang bracelet, altar and chicks during the Myoko festival. Hari, 2002.

Fig. 6. Mudan Pai with dried squirrel chanting during miida feast. Lempya, 2001.

Fig. 7. Entrance to Tajang village. 2001 (T.I.F.P.G. = ‘Tajang Indigenous Faith Promotion Group’).

Fig. 8. On path leading to burial ground. (Pui Putu = name of the burial ground). Lempya, 2002.

Fig. 9. Baptist and Catholic churches on the outskirts of Hapoli. 2001.

Fig. 10. Poster on wall (IFCSAP = ‘Indigenous Faith and Culture Society of Arunachal Pradesh’). Old Ziro, 2001.

Fig. 11. Mudan Donyi with the paraphernalia of his own ‘religion.’ Mudan Tage, 2002.

Fig. 12. Lod Talyang’s daughter-in-law holding the damaged myamya brass plate. Kalung, 2002.

Fig. 13. ‘The Palaver.’ Apatani valley, 1897 (Asher Leventon). British officers negotiate with Apatanis over compensation for a murder, with Nyishis and others in attendance. The Commanding Officer, Robert Blair McCabe, sits to the left of centre (looking at the camera and apparently taking notes), surrounded by British and Indian officers and soldiers. [with the kind permission of the British Library]

Fig. 14. Tasso Nama holding the skull of the monkey he shot. Hari, 2002.

Fig. 15. Structure with mithun skulls above a man’s grave. near Michi Bamin, 2001.

Fig. 16. Tage Doging, ‘the oldest man in the village.’ Tajang, 2002.