Title: Uchi Uzah (Flesh and Blood)

Language: Chokri

State: Nagaland

Uchi Uza

Rase mükütayo pu bo lü raküyi ce,
sopӧ-e photü pu müzoküta mhüzü
pu krü pu tsüpumi chi mu za cela pü khavasü
pu tho pu chi pu za chi-i tayoa?
Tütse mücitütha süboyo lü lhütakütasü,
thünopfü rei nha mu raseko do lü
pu tho pu ba pӧ ngoyite.
Pu-e thümako dibi vo rase mükütako
rӧ küthinyiko khro lü rülüyoshi, mu
püko dibi mharӧ küthinyiko mu sӧkhriko
u khra kütasa tatayoshi ngoyo;
dibi puko be pӧ rase müno phesü
pu mo pu lhü krӧ, pu rӧ thünyi,
pu pӧyiküto bizovasü kükre pӧ ra sü rütatayoshi;
dibi rase pӧ ra sü müthasü sü—thui!—
thi kha kügü vayoshi;
dibi puko sübo ce rünasü sü uko rase tü
cejü lü tsükütako pӧ uko tsüsüyo shi ngoyo,
mu rüvӧmi Sübo Cerünaküsüyo ngoyo
kümo la rase rütukütako mütü
tükhrako zӧ kürüyotayotsü lüyo.
Kürho nyi kümo be phe pu rayi
kümo lü pu rütute mu puku pfüte,
süla mi chi mi za chi sümote.
Tütse mücitütha te, mu tüzhe lü

sӧbo mütüko pu müzüküta ngovata.
Mütüko pu küveküsu müde pe, pu razüta—
pu ngu me khro shi, thürü u khraküdeko
vo pu kho chi pu ti bame dibi shi?
Pu tüte. Pu tüte.
Pu sübo phe lü chetütsü ba sü pu pi
kha sӧbo me lü tüsü krazü.
Pu sӧbo me tsakütako dolü cejü chilü
pu zu-e pu zutsa ti vekrü tsü pӧ pӧ
putsüküsüyo pӧ khrüva, mu pu
thüchi sülü pu sӧboyo ce chele sü:

Satsü puko n bo lü a rayite;
Dipӧ na n kuko uko tho uko ba lü
mütüpfü bazo ga?
Dipӧ na tsü kütso rei n meko
rünyo kümütü khro lü mütüpfü bazo ga?
Pu a rayi vo pu sӧbo lü pu chi pu za
chitazo ri, a rükra mota hite.
Kükrelamoli Azutsa, Azu hako hiche züzüe—
N me bethikütako zü küdupfü zü,
N tsoko, n nyiko, n seko thükü küzüko hako.

Hako ri n chi n za zo,
I tsü mi chi mi za chiküta kümha.

Flesh and Blood

When the ripened fruit is plucked out from its tree,
who is it that peels off its ancestor’s flesh and blood
before swallowing it whole, making it his own flesh
and blood? Twenty-eight years in the tree, she’d found
her branch among its leaves and fruits. She’d seen how
they rest beneath the scent of ripening fruits and walk
away when they’re tired of scent and shade; how they
bring their hands close to a fruit, teasing its contours,
sniffing its skin, almost plucking it, then strolling
away with another; how they pluck a fruit only to taste
it—ptui! —and toss it away; how they shake the tree and
give us our fallen fruits while the sojourner, blind to
the Tree Shaker, says every fallen fruit has flirted with
the winds, fallen before an unsoiled hand could pluck
it, marred, unfit to be infused into his flesh and blood.
Twenty-eight years, and every tree in the garden said
she was ripe. She’d been eyed and weighed up—is she
sweet, sour, infested with stubborn devils?
It was time. It was time.
She knelt beneath the tree, her head pressed against
its roots, sobbing. She dug the ground among the aged
roots and buried in it her grandmother’s bright necklace
that she inherited from her mother, and sang there to her tree:

Now they’ve plucked me out from you;
why do the lines in your bark
run firm even so?
Why do your roots still stand strong,
buried in mud as in tarmac?

Do not forget me now that he’s plucked me,
now that he’s carrying me away to his tree
to be his flesh and blood for here
we lie—Grandmother, Mother, and I—
interlaced with your age-old roots,
nurturing your branches, leaves, and fruits,
as much your flesh and blood
as I am now his.