SweetyMon Rynjah’s house in Shillong’s bustling Bara Bazar market is small, grey and built on a slope. On the crooked walls hang family portraits and traditional cane baskets; the sofas have handwoven lace slips on them; in the living room are displayed medals and porcelain dolls.
I place my teacup on the table where a cup ring forms on the wood polish. Before I can wipe it, Rynjah walks into the room. She is a small, narrow-shouldered woman, about 83-years-old, but still upright. Her hair, white but not scant, is tied tightly into a bun. Fine wrinkles ripple down to her neck.
“You will get your information in tourist shops,” she says, in a tone of faint displeasure, as she rubs at the smear my teacup has left on the table. I’m here to talk to her about Shad Suk Mynsiem, where the Khasi community celebrates a three-day festival of song and dance.
For 53 years, Rynjah, a retired civil servant and doyen of Khasi culture, has been teaching this traditional formation-based dance to young tribals before the festival. Like in most matrilineal Khasi families, her husband, M.F. Blah used to live with her family and took her name. As the president of Seng Khasi community, he is the keeper of the community’s traditions, but is happily subservient at home.
Guardians of community
“That’s not entirely true,” Rynjah snaps. “Of course my husband has an equal say in matters,” she says, straightening her dhara, the traditional Khasi robe knotted at the shoulder. Together, the couple has contributed immensely to this community.
In the 90’s, Rynjah started publishing her research on the community, and many of these books won awards. Before this exercise, most Khasi culture and language was oral, due to the absence of a script. “It was easy for anyone to exploit us,” she says, warming up as we talk about her favourite subject. “Back in the days, early in their rule, the Raj bribed Khasis to convert into Christianity. They encouraged marriages within the clan. This is a taboo for us.
That’s when the Ka Shad Suk Mynsiem festival gained popularity, binding the community together, she says. The festival celebrates more than the arrival of spring and the sowing of seeds: it reinstates faith in the Khasi philosophy of the matrilineal system. Men dance with their swords and whips, donning the role of protectors of young women, she says. Would matrilineal also imply that it’s a matriarchal system? “No, definitely not,” Rynjah says. “Although the economics of the family are in the hands of the women, the maternal uncles and brothers play a key role in religious ceremonies, management of ancestral property and wealth. They approve marriages, ensuring they aren’t within the same clan. The religion isn’t really an ode to feminism,” she cackles.
“The practice session is about to begin. Let’s walk down to the Seng Khasi hall,” she says, heading out with her hands folded behind her back. The air is pleasantly pine-scented in the narrow streets. Greenery sprouts out of giant cracks in the stones. Along the walls are pots of orchids planted by Rynjah—pink, blue, violet, yellow. “I take care of them like my babies. Its springtime and they are almost about to flower.”
Dhum, dhum, dhum...
It’s getting cold as the sun begins to set. As we turn on to the street, drumbeats start at the hall. “Ah, that is the lumpa beat or the gathering beat. Dhum dhum ... it’s like announcement beat in the villages,” she says tapping her feet. Two weeks before the festival, the children of the Khasi families come together to practise.
“As a baby, my mother used to make me dance in her lap to the sing padiah beat. When I was around 12 years, she took me to the practice sessions. Every year after that, I would dress in traditional family heirlooms of silver (including taj rupa or crown) rupa, sai khyllong along with a lasubon and flower in my hair and dance.”
Soon after marriage, Rynjah stopped dancing and began teaching it instead. Men can dance till their feet permit, but girls may dance only when they are virgins. “You must respect the tradition, but I sometimes wish I could still dance at the grounds. The Khasi blood in my veins starts pulsing as soon as I hear the music and my heart sings that Hindi song of Manna Dey, ‘Jhanak Jhanak Tori Baje Payaliya’…” she laughs, swinging to the music as passers-by smile.
We walk into the hall where drummers are tapping against hulls , indicating changes in beats and movements with a nod of their head. They begin with mastih beat, where only men dance with swords, depicting victory at war. A few teens wait in the background for the rehearsals to begin. Rynjah walks down to them, and with both hands on her waist, screams over the music. “Khasi music is not what you just listen to. You dance. Listen, and not a limb will move out of pattern. Dhin ta taken dhin ta taken ...”
Then, in a split-second manoeuvre, she bends a knee and tosses a hip to one side. Her students try to follow her, but the sleekness eludes them. “No distractions!” Rynjah admonishes them. “Let the music touch your Khasi soul.”
She later tells me: “I’ll dance until my hips can’t move.”
Author of The Lost Generation: Chronicling India’s Dying Professions , the writer digs coffee shop talks and pens them into stories for a living.
