Jobeth Warjri: Thank you very much for being part of this interview. I want to start by commenting on
the vast repertoire of books you have written—six books of poetry, a large collection of fiction, and critical readings. What makes you so prolific?
Kynpham Sing Nongkynrih: I would like to hold my restless energy responsible for making me attempt so many things. But I know it is not as simple as that. The truth is, I have found peace and a sense of
fulfilment only in my creative and literary endeavours. And that is not only about the
cathartic nature of literature. My firm conviction is that I can be most serviceable to society,
contribute the most to it, only by doing what I can do best. Perhaps, here is the real reason
why I have done so many things—because I can. Without talent or knowledge, no one can
write anything.
But, at times, I also think, what if I had focused only on a genre or two? Would I have
accomplished much more? I certainly regret not writing my novels sooner. Working in two
different languages and on too many forms can take away so much of your free time. And I
regret, too, that I cannot be a full-time writer.
JW: After all these years, do you think there is more to to be said, and, if so, why?
KSN: It will be a sad day when a writer has nothing more to say. Fortunately, I still have a
few stories and ideas to share that have already developed into clear outlines. As for poetry,
as long as my heart feels strongly about something, it will always come knocking. If a writer
writes about what he knows best, he will always have things, and new things, at that, to say.
Writers, with their vast knowledge gathered from life’s varied experiences, have a duty to
share their wisdom, to speak out and voice their conscience. My worry is time, ‘flashing
through / our lives like a shooting star across the sky.’
JW: I think readers of English know you as a creative writer, but you have also written quite
extensively in criticism. Do you perceive a connection between the two seemingly distinct
fields? If so, what is it?
KSN: The creative and the critical are not as distinct as they may seem. The first known
critic, for instance, was a poet—Aristophanes, the famous Greek comedian. The two faculties
are inextricably intertwined. Horace beautifully brought out the connection between them:
‘I’ll serve as a whetstone which, though it cannot cut of itself, can sharpen iron. Though I
write nothing, I’ll teach the business and duty of a writer’. A good critic is a whetstone that
can sharpen the iron of a creative writer. I don’t consider myself a critic, but I do believe that
the better the critic you are of your creative work, the better your work will be.
JW: Funeral Nights is a tome of a book in which material from your research is quoted quite
frequently as part of the narrative. What made you think of integrating research material as
part of the book?
KSN: Initially, I conceived Funeral Nights as a form of writing back. I wanted to counter the
misrepresentations and the slander spread by outsiders about the Khasis. But that was not all.
Even more appalling to me is the ignorance of my own people. I remembered what Achebe
said about the novelist as a teacher: I wanted to teach and educate them. And when a writer
sets out to educate, and Hamlet-like to tell the story of his people, to clear their ‘wounded
name’, he must first become as near a master of the subject as possible. How does one
achieve such mastery? The experiences of life are not enough. He must search and explore far
and wide, dig deep into the past and scrutinise the present intensely like someone sifting rice
in a winnowing basket, separating it from the husks. That is why I have braided into the
novel’s narrative materials from my research and reading.
JW: You are also an editor of anthologies. The first poetry anthology from the Northeast,
Anthology of Contemporary Poetry from the Northeast, was co-edited by you. How has being
engaged with the craft aided (or impeded) your profession as an editor?
KSN: You are right; I have edited a few poetry and prose anthologies in Khasi and English.
Among the latest are Late-Blooming Cherries: Haiku Poetry from India, to be brought by
Harper Collins later this year, and Lapbah: Stories from the Northeast. I’m co-editing them
with my colleague, the poet and writer Rimi Nath.
The craft, as you put it, has only assisted me in many ways. It has acquainted me with some
of the best literary works written in the country and thus affording me the opportunity to learn
from them. And editing them has also helped me edit my own work much more efficiently.
As you know, no creative piece can shine in its splendour without some rigorous and
competent polishing.
JW: You have often said that the purpose of storytelling is ‘to teach with delight’
(particularly, in the Prelude to Around the Hearth: Khasi Legends). If we understand the
classroom as one of the places where critical reasoning is taught, how do you see this statement
play out both within and outside the classroom?
KSN: I have always believed in teaching through illustrative examples and amusing
anecdotes relevant to a point I happen to be making. I practise this technique not only in
teaching but also in my writing. I find it to be quite rewarding. Students enjoy the little stories
I tell them, and outside the classroom, whenever I read or talk about poetry, people have
come to me and have said, ‘We never knew that poetry or criticism could be so entertaining.’
JW: You are one of the very few writers who treat Khasi philosophy as equal to any other
philosophy around the world (canonical literature in English usually adores the Greeks or, in
the case of India, Sanskrit philosophy). How is your celebration of Khasi philosophy
significant to your understanding of literature and the craft of writing?
KSN: I’m not much of a believer in any organised religion, but I do admire some aspects of
Khasi religious philosophy, in particular, three. One of the three Commandments in Khasi
religious philosophy says, ‘Tip briew, tip Blei’ (‘Know man, know God’), meaning, ‘Live in
the knowledge of man, in the knowledge of God’. It would take pages for me to elucidate on
the significance of this Commandment. But very briefly, as I wrote in Funeral Nights, in its
deepest connotation, the knowledge of man forms the basis of all human actions. It teaches
man to be prudent and urges him to ponder his every move carefully. He thinks things
through—both the task and its outcome—and only then takes a decision on whether to
proceed.
In this manner, a person guided by the knowledge of man is also guided by his conscience,
which, by its very essence, weighs all things on the scales of virtue and truth. Therefore, a
person blessed with conscience, or the knowledge of man, is also blessed with the knowledge
of God because God stands for virtue and truth. By placing, in the Commandment, the
knowledge of man before the knowledge of God, the Khasi faith indicates two things. One,
that man must serve God through service to his fellow man. In other words, service to man is
service to God. Two, man must always be guided by his conscience.
I also admire the Khasi philosophy’s anti-anthropocentric attitude. This attitude is crucial.
The Jews, for instance, believe that God made man so that he might populate the earth with
his countless hordes. ‘Go forth and multiply,’ he said. This assertion places man at the
pinnacle of all creation. This kind of anthropocentrism encourages man to indulge in all sorts
of earth-wrecking activities in the name of progress and development. He tears down trees in
the forest, he quarries the earth, destroys hills and rivers, land and sea, earth and sky, and thus
places all species of living things (himself included) and the entire planet in terrible danger.
But the old ones who formulated Khasi thought, in their compassionate wisdom, stressed the
fact that man was sent to earth by God, not to multiply himself, but to be the honourable carer
that Ramew, earth’s guardian spirit, pleaded for. They did not believe that man was the crown
of creation. To them, everything that breathes, and even those without life, like sand and
stones, are equal creations of God. Because of this, the old Khasis held nature in great
esteem. They never indulged in acts of wanton destruction. For instance, when they went to
the forest for tree-cutting or hunting, they bowed low and explained themselves, they prayed
and appealed, they asked and pleaded before God.
These principles have shaped my attitude to life and, thus, my writing. And I rue the fact that
we have become so different: truly a generation kaba bam duh, one that eats till extinction.
