This is how it all started. The one dreaded sentence that destroyed the very essence of being Rongkup. I don’t blame my parents or even my grandparents or for that matter even my Rong relatives who for reasons of their own taught me to say – go rong ring mayen (I don’t know lepcha language). Maybe it’s the deep rooted rong reflection of “nung nahan” which so profoundly engrained that we tend to consider the other persons comfort more than ours even when the very existence of the rong ethos is threatened by the overwhelmingly large population of the guests that entered our mayel lyang. “Go along la rong ring mayen”
As I recollect my early rongkup years I still can hear the musical fluency my “nyukung” had over this beautiful language. In fact I always thought this was the only language she knew. Maybe few of the words like “katak rekshye” or “kujyu zong maatlu manyet” were harsh when she uttered in utter dismay over my performance as a mischievous child. But even those harsh words got edged in my tiny curious “aayoung” ( by the way I still wonder why it was so difficult for her to share her biksa aayoung which looked so delicious every time my aneu served her “kayo” fulls). As my tender years matured into adult years and the number of households increased tenfold in and around kyoung, the rongaring was there but scattered few. The long overdrawn musical sentences slowly changed into shorter versions like “aadosa aathyak” or even “kujyubu” (mind you the harshness remained-in fact increased in her senile years). While I happily adopted our western neighbor’s language as my very own, I even went further and honed my English as I thought I was different and people would respect me more for knowing the “mikdum aring”. Even the songs like “aye ley ley go tungkee” that was so common in my young cow grazing days fast disappeared from my song lists as I had to make space for the “long haired “ rock n roll rebels who were crying hoarse with down tuned guitars. Days were good-everyone was awed at my effort to sound and even look like the “SUN-magazine” poster boy. How many pairs of jeans were treated with utmost care to extract the delicate number of loose threads to give it the “rough look” while my Thokro dum (the RONG look) peacefully retired amongst the mothballs stored in that long forgotten wooden trunk placed in the corner of the dusty and smoky ceiling. Learning to play “mikdum vom” on the guitar was much easier and groovy, than trying my hand on the tungbuk. Days even got better when I thought my middle name, so carefully given to me by my fiery yet gentle Apa timbu, made me the object of ridicule in the school. It was much trendier being remembered by my decent anglo name than by my “rong abryang”. Even though my nyukung insisted in calling me by my rongaabryang I was kind of turned off by the prospect of my name being distorted into something like “hongkong’ or hornjong (these 2 are the only non-embarrassing distortions I can think of). Days were the best when I left no stone unturned to identify with the majority community so that I may be welcomed into their folds and could adopt their own courageous and wild history as my own. Now it was the best time to say “go rong aring mayen”.
This had to end and the EETBU DEYBU RUM had not made me for this and I had to be taught the lesson-it all started by one unruly misadventure. It is true I am not blessed with the “Punu Gaybu Acchyok” looks and maybe he too thought I was from “kunchu community”. He just pushed me to the corner between the two houses and raised his small but strong rongkup fists and shouted with face damaging anger “who are you to laugh when my friend teased me for being a lepcha?’ I knew the fists were on its way and I had to tell him the truth fast –“what made you think I was laughing at you? In fact even I am a lepcha and I was just telling your friend not to make those jokes because even I was being pulled in.”(Whew! That was close but did he believe me?) The next minute that followed changed the entire history of rong memong (why “history”? Read on). The change was too sudden for me to believe- the fists that were intended to disfigure my not-so-handsome face, came down for a friendly handshake and apologies followed. The next few days were spent in making acquaintances with his lovely family (ajee, apa, anum nyet and anom nyet). Well when good things happen it pours. Before long I was playing guitar to “laaso aarey rongkupsa” and “naam aal naamsa naambun rey” and hey I was good at it-then barge of rongvoms followed-“chyukong chenjong” “Kurfokalee darjyulyang”, Lho Chu tendong” and even the punchy vom “nye mayel lyang”. Now it was time for me to re think my strategy. No more “go rong aring mayen” it was more like “go rong aring kaam kaam yeu senla go nyengru sa depka taapet maatsyo aun rongaring hlap syo”
Here I stand and watch the graceful rongnyu and rongneet meander their way down the mayel lyang and realize much water has flown through the two ungkyongs and times have changed. Its with utter pride I look upon the Kingchum chu and the lower tendong lho and maenam lho, the forests and caves, the trees and birds, the stones and hillocks. I just know long days ago my ancestors walked this way in their everyday search for food and water and shelter. They ran in the jungles and played in the rivers. They sang with the birds and hunted with the animals. They knew which leaf had the taste and which trees made the strong bases for the “dokeymu lee”. They saw sanctity and purity in the nature around them and learned to flow with the ebb of the seasons. Fires were lit, stories were told, wailing infants and doting mothers, chee intoxicated father dancing by the fireside and nyukungs and thyungs ever ready to indulge their kupzongs. The music in their life was tuned to the melody of the nature. A song that echoes in every corner of the forests and peaks of mayel lyang and in the pure hearts of the mayelmoo. A song that so loudly echoes in our hearts even when though we try to drown it with other tunes- a song we all so well we know- a song that reminds us time again that this is who we are –rongkups to the hilt, mayelmoos to the last drop of vee-the song of being one with the land, very soul of the NYE MAYEL LYANG.
Go rong ring yeu……aacchuley
