As the title suggests, Naga Notes is a compelling collection of Naga-centric narratives that blend together fifteen anecdotal articles which vividly explore the essence of home-grown identity and the Naga experience. Intermingling communal insights, instances and keen personal observations, each piece throws up interesting perspectives into the lives, tales, habits and quirks that are decidedly Naga. J. Longkumer exploits the oddities of her people using a special ingredient that is at the centre of the Naga society’s way of life—humour. Spanning decades, the narratives throw up prisms of memories, culture, land and language. The anthology captures the full emotional spectrum through the accessible and versatile form of the anecdotal narrative, mirroring oral traditions of yore. Infused with local metaphors and grounded storytelling, these essays resonate with authenticity and invite readers from all backgrounds to connect with the stories at both a personal and collective level. A truly diverse and engaging compilation, this work proves that the power of storytelling lies not only in what is told but, even more imperatively, in how it is told.
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Expect not, then of the stories embedded within, dry humour, inscrutable and cryptic. Wit, definitely, is employed, with the author winking at the knowing reader; but the broad appeal of the jokes and snide remarks lies in the fact that they land. This is a brand of humour which is “massy”. Take, for instance, the reference to the “barbed comments” in the titular story, which are meant to be understood and swallowed with a laugh, even as the cutting remarks find their mark “in the most befitting manner.” In the story of the old lady who puts her photograph in an envelope as a token of condolence to the family of a dearly departed neighbour; or of the falsely accused man who speaks up to logically declare that he only used his mouth for eating meat and fish, the sense of communal bonhomie is unmistakable.
Some stories derive from the realities of people who live on the fringes, such as orphans like Akokba (“A Simple Man”), who, without the magnanimity and condescension of relatives like his uncle and aunt, would have no one to turn to. Whilst enlightened relatives see through his exploitation, deprived of education unlike his benefactors’ children, Akok remains the devoted ‘son’ despite becoming the centre of comical episodes such as bathing with the bathroom cleaner, instead of liquid soap. His simplicity, nonetheless, is endearing.
The author indulges in clever wordplay as she lampoons the erstwhile head hunters, now trading spears for wads in their quest for a different kind of head — Gandhiji’s, on currency notes. The penchant for heads is now replaced by a ‘heady’ rush for crisp notes, satirising Naga society’s moral decline in “Heads You Win…”. The gears shift and the humour turns self-deprecatory in the next piece “From Amma to Didi.” The gears shift, and the humour turns delightfully self-deprecatory in the next piece, “From Amma to Didi.” An irksome, albeit not uncommon, habit among unschooled vendors is their ‘reverential’ cry of “Aunty,” “Didi,” and the like especially in the shared public space of the market. When the author is greeted with a hearty “Amma,” one fine day at the new market, she storms off, the mortifying appellation still echoing in her ears. Her friend offers sympathy by promptly collapsing into a fit of guffaws. Determined to reclaim her dignity and earn the subtler, more flattering title of “Didi,” she embarks on a mission involving early morning walks with said friend. Not only does this wreak havoc on her circadian rhythm, but, fatefully, this is also the hour when the choicest cuts of pork are laid out in pork shops she chances upon. The temptation proves too strong to be resisted. She succumbs, as any sane Naga naturally would, with the humbling acknowledgement that her journey to ‘Didi-dom’ would come at a more favourable time such as a famine.
The next story highlights the warm camaraderie among a group of women as they casually delve into politics. Electioneering in the state is satirised in rollicking fashion, especially through Lomya’s aunt, who now insists on voting for the “inktipingding” (independent) candidate, having dismissed all political parties as mere windbags. While Lomya still expresses faith in the electoral process, her friends respond with amused cynicism. The tale innocuously references Naga independence, electoral malpractices like proxy voting, and even offers a cheeky nod to good old Alokba of Ao Milen renown, whose take on democracy as “poor,” “off,” and “buy” the people, evokes Horatian satire at its finest. The hapless reader is left laughing out loud, even while lamenting the state of affairs. This story shines with wit and subversion, delivering political critique with a light touch and a generous dose of laughter.
Another tale of female friendship unfolds in “The Beauty Parlour,” where women from different communities converge in the salon of the spirited widow Nukshila, a confidante, a much sought after beauty therapist, and a keeper of secrets. Her parlour becomes a confessional space, a sanctuary where stories spill out; of the wronged woman, the pampered housewife, the newly in love young woman, and the fiercely independent widow, and more.
Despite their varied backgrounds, a shared thread of resilience emerges, a nod to the unyielding strength of Naga women. As Lomya maintains, “For all the blather that the guys spout, Naga women are tougher and better.” Lomya reappears in “The Gift,” having been disinherited of her ancestral home after her parents’ passing, “a mere girl” in a society still shackled by patriarchal and inheritance norms. Yet, the story tenderly subverts this injustice: her father, in a quiet act of love and defiance, has quietly built and left her the home of her dreams, almost like a secret parting gift. These stories balance feminist commentary with emotional nuance, celebrating the solidarity of women and the bittersweet humanity of men within the structures that bind them.
“Three Ladies” is another tale evoking raucous laughter, just at the names given to the women with tribal suffixes. Devili, Satanuo, and Mujingla, which all mean she-devil in one form or the other; these women are pious, outwardly assiduous Christians who never miss church. They are actually the town gossips who will not spare anyone with their tongue- lashing. Choicest barbs are reserved for the women; the trio seem more acerbic versions of Easterine Kire’s Grandmother. The iconic Ezhao! Ayaleh! and Aiya! are not to be missed.
Longkumer explores the theme of grief with keen cultural insight and sensitivity in “Homecoming.” As the community gathers to keep vigil for the deceased Uncle Temjen, the weight of mourning is lightened not through solemnity alone but through shared laughter, an organic, uniquely Ao way of processing loss, which Narola is made to understand by her father. Even amid sorrow, there is space for joy in remembering and retelling stories of the departed. This unusual communal response to death reveals how memory and humour intertwine and how the latter is used as a “weapon” to balance out the darker side of life and promote emotional strength.
“The Naga Survival Kit,” shows Longkumer turning her attention to the underlying interconnectedness within Naga and Ao society, where family extends beyond immediate blood relations, to encompass the village, clan, and community. Here, kinship is both bane and boon, described with characteristic wit as “the wellspring of all things good and wonderful…and also the source of migraines.” In a society where the extended family governs both social conduct and a big part of the personal, there is little room for rudeness, laziness, arrogance, or envy. The capacity to pontificate is a prerogative so pronounced that even the sacred Commandments are made out to be personal notes from “good ole Moses” to keep erring kin on the straight and narrow. In such tightly knit social set up, one is kept busy either entertaining relatives or evading them; yet they are indispensable and the narrator quips, almost tongue-in-cheek, “Thank God for relatives.” The raucous humour the piece evokes is not merely for laughs; it comes across as an almost affectionate censure of thesocial expectations and relentless communal obligations that define Naga life.
“Random Thoughts,” offers a glimpse into the creative drought of writer’s block when inspiration wanes and the metaphorical ink runs dry. Yet, true artistry, the writer suggests, lies in the ability to seize ideas that are all around, perhaps a newspaper headline, or some unique piece of news that has the nation in thrall. This is evident through the way she imbues the Lord Ganesh story with imaginative flair, getting the creative juices flowing again.
The author is at her humourous best in “The Transfer Game.” She turns a satirical eye toward the absurdities of the Naga bureaucratic system, chronicling the circuitous and strategic dance required for favourable government postings. Here, success belongs not to the diligent, but to the diplomatic, those who master the art of oblique flattery and backdoor manoeuvring. The upright are banished to obscurity, relegated to remote corners of the state with only the radio for companionship. Meanwhile, the more cunning, not unlike Dickens’s Uriah Heep, navigate their way through a maze of ‘oily’ hierarchies and breathless petitions. Particularly hilarious motifs are the ever-ailing absentee government employees or the ever-dying relatives of said employees, whose excuses for remaining in urban centres border on the tragicomic. The tale culminates in the caricature of a paan-chewing minister at the zenith of power, whose incoherent utterances, “blmmmnngysgrrwm,” “hrggggphmmnxx”, offer a masterstroke of auditory satire: absurd, and yet, alarmingly familiar.
“Food Glorious Food” is a piece any true blooded Naga will identify with- “What the Naga…will not do for food!” There is no rhetoric here; it is a proud exclamatory claim. While “rhapsodizing” on the goodness of pork and acknowledging the wide canvas of the Naga palate, including creatures tame and wild, there is a cutting reference to another, more dangerous species of “urban wildlife” on the rise; extremely telling, prophetic even, given the disturbing news items that have been dominating headlines in the contemporary milieu.
There is a bittersweet finality in the closing parody of the anthology “Paradise Lost.” The disunity and relentless jostling for power, by any means necessary, serve as a sobering reflection of a fractured Naga society. The once-idealistic “Nagaland for Christ” is ironicallyrecast as a version of Paradise Lost, evoking Milton’s epic not just in name but in theme — a fall from grace, a loss of moral and communal clarity. The piece delivers a poignant endnote, laced with irony and despair. The last story veers toward Juvenalian satire, depicting a loss of vision and no hope of ever reaching the Promised Land Jungmayangla Longkumer employs wit not as a mere comic device, but as a radar to expose the layered hypocrisies and performative civility within a tightly bound society. The satire is seldom cruel; instead, it draws attention to societal quirks inviting both recognition and reflection. In doing so, the humour becomes a cultural mirror of contemporary Naga reality.
The resultant Southeast Asian style laughter, particularly among women, is both inevitable and affirming. From the rituals in “Homecoming” to the often-exhausting familial obligations in “The Naga Survival Kit,” and the salon-as-sanctuary dynamic in “The Beauty Parlour,” the stories echo the Austenian tradition of using domestic life and social etiquette as material for deeper socio-political commentary. Personas like Lomya offer insights into the author’s own perspectives and critiques. The overall result is a collection that simultaneously carries unique cultural overtones with a universally resonant celebration of imperfectly perfect human experience. The robust, flawed, and very human story of Naga life, unfold with incisive precision, unapologetic honesty and communally flavoured humour, within the pages of the book.
Though certain sections carry the familiar tonal echoes of Temsula Ao, the author’s voice remains distinctly her own. Her deft wielding of wordplay, slapstick, familial satire, and social parody forms a signature style, one that draws from the legacy of her Naga literary doyen mother, yet forges a path that is unmistakably hers alone.
