A Kite Of Farewells: A Poignant Anthology Covering Stories Of Nagaland

A Kite of Farewells is a poignant—and, at times, absurd—anthology of departure. Each story within these pages is tethered to an object that bears silent witness to the lives that once brushed against its form. As you turn these pages, you will encounter stories that weave the threads of loss, each narrative a delicate strand in the fabric of existence. The objects—mute spectators to human sorrow—become the vessels of collective grief, the repositories of the most intimate of farewells. These stories are like the eponymous kite, soaring high, carrying with it memories and goodbyes, perhaps symbolizing the soul’s journey or the act of releasing emotions and memories into the sky.

Here's an excerpt from O. Jungio's A Kite of Farewells 

I was six years old then, but I figured something was off from the way a sombre hush suddenly descended upon the modest name-giving party of about forty people. It was the christening party of the newest member of our growing family—my baby sister, born in the early hours of a  June Sunday with the monsoon rain banging on the tin roof of our wattle-and-daub government quarter. With the yellow tinge of the morning sun glazing the frosty window panels, I remember waking up to the sound of hurried footsteps outside the room where I slept with my younger brother. I pushed myself out of the bed, my eyes half open, and kicked around to find my chappals. An uncle passing through the room saw me awake and called out to me: 

‘Ngongo, up already? Good, come with me, quick.’  I slipped into my oversized chappals and shuffled along. ‘What happened?’ I asked.

‘You will know soon,’ he remarked gleefully. 

When I made my way into the room, I saw Mother on the bed, cradling a sleeping baby in her tired arms. ‘Look, it’s your sister,’ said my uncle, nudging me forward. ‘Go on, have a look.’ 

She was swaddled in a polka-dot blanket with only her tiny face and gloved hands showing through. A part of me wanted to pinch her plump cheeks, not to give in to an  impish impulse but to ascertain that she—my baby sister— was indeed flesh and bones and not one of those lifelike plastic dolls they have up in the storefronts in Police Point,  the main town in Wokha. When I leaned forward, I saw the most beautiful pair of eyes looking back at me with wonder. In that moment,  even my child self knew that she was going to be the most precious person in the house.  

I held her tiny hands in mine until she fell asleep, still clutching my finger. I gently ran my fingers over her sleeping face—she responded by twitching her mouth. In the kitchen, as I was sipping on the morning jaha, my younger brother rushed in with his toothbrush still in his froth-filled mouth. ‘Ata, Ata,’ he called out in excitement. ‘Have you seen the baby? Have you seen our kaka?’ 
I responded in affirmation. The last time he had seemed that excited about anything was the day Father took him down to town on his second-hand Yamaha RX bike to buy him a certain toy he had been raving about for days. The toy in question—a battery-operated Jeep model. It went everywhere with him, leaving tiny tyre marks in his imaginary open road.

I figured it would not last a month given the shoddy build of the toy, but to my surprise, that cheap mould of plastic and cranky tyres held their own for a good year. Eventually he got bored of it and traded it with an older kid next door for a comic book. It was to be noted that he wasn’t yet able to comprehend written words that well, but every night after he was done with his homework, he would splash down on the bed beside me and guide me through the colourful panels of the comic while putting up a commendable effort to read aloud the sentences inside the speech bubbles.

I would interrupt at times to point out certain dialogues that evaded even my comprehension, and proceed to make up the most ridiculous story on the spot. He would listen with rapt attention to my cock-and-bull story. But upon realizing that I was just making things up, he would grumpily stuff the comic book under his pillow and go to sleep without a word. 

‘Ngongo, take your brother and go to the kitchen,’ my aunt said.  

I was dressed in a tailored waistcoat and even wore my favourite Bata shoes polished to a shine, sitting on one of the benches arranged in rows under a makeshift tarpaulin tent. 

In my hand I held a folded copy of the invitation, which was plain given the financial situation—Father was running helter-skelter looking for any job to keep the lights on in the house. Pots of steaming rice and pork cooked in bamboo shoots,  and plates of hotchpotch salad and crispy brown papads came flying out of the kitchen in the hands of the colony women folks who had been up the previous night, toiling and chattering into the late hours.  

I heard all of them sigh with relief as they laid the pots on the teak dining table outside, right next to the stacks of cheap plastic plates and disposable cups, and a plate of ripe bananas. 

But I figured that something had gone awry by the way the pervasive atmosphere of gaiety abruptly made way for a deafening hush. I noticed the sudden traffic of alarmed faces rushing into the room where Mother was with Kaka. I got up and disappeared into the rush to make sense of what was going on.  

I tapped on the shoulder of one of my aunts standing outside the door.  

‘Ano, what happened? Why is everyone going inside?’ I asked. 

Her hand reached around my shoulder, enveloping me in her gloomy silence. A faint sobbing was heard through the thin walls. It sounded like Mother, but it was hard to tell, especially given the agitated fluttering of the tarpaulin sheet outside that had been shaken into activity by the wind coming in from the west. 

Father walked out tailed by two of my uncles, but before  I could ask him anything, Ano signalled to the colony aunties to usher me and my brother to the kitchen.  

‘Something happened to Kaka, na?’ my brother asked. One of the colony aunties quickly looked to the corner at one of her companions, telling so much yet so little with her woeful eyes.  

‘Something is wrong with Ayo, na?’ my brother continued. ‘Shhh, Ngongo,’ the lady commented. ‘I will tell you everything after you are finished with the tea I am making  for both of you.’

Tea was soon served in oversized pannikin cups with a bowl of rusk biscuits. We noisily munched on the biscuit,  sipping the tea in brisk intervals; the lady sat down on a moora beside us. Her eyes were stirring with pity at our naivety.  

‘Your Kaka…’ She paused. 

I craned my neck out the window to the loud outburst of crying outside. I saw Ayo inconsolable, with a still Kaka in her arms. I got up and pressed my person against the latched door, and watched them get into a car and disappear into the thick blanket of dust the road threw up behind its track. 

‘…is with God now.’ 

Extracted with permission from O Jungio's A Kite Of Farewells; published by Rupa Publications.