This was written on an evening before I left Bomdo. There had been no electricity in the village for almost a week, and I was preparing to leave the village after a seven month stint. The only thing I could do more than mentally bid a bye to Bomdo was write about what I felt, so here goes...
"The evening sun creeps behind the green hills and darkness spreads, ever slowly,
there is no moon yet and I can't turn on any lights, there are none to be.
But I feel sublime, for, there is a glistening spark inside me
a glint of my spirit that ignites the embers within.
For a while, there will be no humming water springs, no more gush of the river below,
no more flowers that paint an entire hill, no orchids that rouge a tree,
no more humbling mountains, no more tall trees to gaze upon
and no more rain that forms cascades ever anew.
No more butterflies that paint the day, no more fireflies to flicker the night,
no more birds to add sounds to a silence
and no more clouds that move as fast as the river in might.
Yet this journey has now hardly come to an end.
After few days in the place I belong,
where the skies oft turn black from smoke, where refuse oft fills the lakes and soil,
where time will be spent racing with time itself, and days are not as long,
here I shall return where nature is unbound and where still stands time."
Incidentally, the day I left Bomdo was the biggest festival of the Adis, the Solung. The significant activity during this festival is that of sacrificing Mithuns. Five Mithuns were hung in the morning and I meticulously videotaped two of them. Millet beer was served for everyone and a dish made of fried Mithun stomach. After a stomach full of stomach, I packed up and left on my bike and was contemplating the day and the field season while I was slithering down the winding road from Bomdo to Yingkiong. Somewhere in the back of my mind I realised why Mithuns are so important for the Adis, not only are they a major protein source, they are also an essential part of all the rituals and festivals that go on throughout the year. My mind kept ringing 'The king is dead. Long live the king.'
|An eight year old Mithun, she gave birth to many successors|
|The meat being distributed to the seven families who bought the Mithun|