Writing On Tradition And Identity: An Interview With Inakali Assumi On Her New Book Isu Le

The newly released book of poems, Isu Le: Songs of Ordinary Days, by writer Inakali Assumi from Nagaland, published by Red River Press with an introduction by Easterine Kire, is the newest addition to the growing body of Naga writings in English—a canon that has quietly emerged across academia and the literary world in recent years.

Isu, the short form of Isuna, which means “morning,” and Le, which means “song,” reflect the Sumi tradition of composing songs in the early morning. Inakali takes this tradition forward, preserving it through writing and singing, even when the language and experience are more contemporary.

Akishe Jakha sat down with Inakali Assumi for Outlook to discuss the larger context of the national and regional dichotomy within which her book is emerging. The interview with her explored questions on identity, Naga writings, and their pivotal role in engaging with the national context of identity crisis, exclusion in higher education, and the literary scene in Nagaland. Edited excerpts:

Isu Le is a very evocative title. What is its history, and how did your book come about?

The literal translation of the title will be “this morning’s song.” Our Sumi ancestors used to have very exceptional folk songs called Isu Le. But now, most of these folk songs have been forgotten and are no longer sung because no one could document them. These songs were about everyday activities and a documentation of their daily lives, like when one goes to the field, on a daily expedition, or hunting. And now there are only one or two songs left; the rest are all lost. I call these diary songs. Because our ancestors didn’t know how to read and write, they never documented our history in the traditional way of the world. But they were already documenting our past through the only way they knew: songs. So, my book draws its stylistic and structural elements from this to write about the daily lived realities of a Naga in modern times.

How do you see your book within this history you are describing? How does it reflect the past, and what essences of folk songs and history can readers expect, apart from the stylistic elements?

These folk songs have a particular musical tone to them, and stepping into that, poem 11 in the book is translated into Sumi and recorded in a studio. So, there is a sense of contemporality in the body and text, but an ancient tune in how the poem is composed. This book is a way of paying tribute to the creativity of my ancestors, and what connects the past and Isu Le is that we are all engaging in singing and writing about our everyday experiences. In the book, there are three sections. The entire book is like one day with three sections: morning songs, afternoon songs, and evening songs. Each section reflects the time, activities, and mundaneness of a single ordinary day; this makes the composition of the book stand out and carries the essence of our literary history.

Every creative work, including literature from around the world, carries aspects of regional, national, or communal identity, socio-political realities, and culture. Do such elements of identity appear in your book?

Yes, you’ll see it right from the beginning till the end. This book will take you to the hills and orange groves. Most of us who grew up in the mountains had orange farms, which grew well in our lands. So, it introduces you to the fruit that is close to us. There are also poems in the book about soaking kidney beans at night and eagerly waiting to cook them with bamboo shoots and dried meat in the morning; these are a rich cultural heritage of indigenous cuisine that I am introducing to the readers. Certain words are not present in our dialect. One of my poems narrates, “My father loves watermelons/ but he calls them cucumbers.” It is a simple poem, yet it carries an underlying note on the struggle of non-existent words in our indigenous dialects and the gap in the language. I think these are very identity-specific. It is collective nostalgia and memory, in the absence of written history, that helps one to archive personal histories, which are also a significant part of a larger public history.

As a writer from the Northeast, how do you think one should engage with food as identity?

The identity through food that I bring is by writing about how we are defined by what we eat, because our food also tells a lot about where we came from and how. For example, most fermented food today speaks about how our ancestors had to preserve food for a long time and how they would scavenge for food. Food has much to do with our identity, which I subtly bring to my works. In my previous works, I have also addressed it as I bring in the story of a young girl finding cooked wild edible leaves, which in turn reflects the larger history of how forests were home to our ancestors and their survival. There’s also this poem where I have written how my aunt sent me a cooked river fish and how this river fish tells the story of the forest wood. Every food carries a story of its own and tells a lot about our identity. Food can also be a form of poetry because both involve emotions and evoke deep, evocative feelings. Our food carries a narrative of our past and how our ancestors foraged for food in the wild

What role do you think Naga/Northeast writings in English can play in shaping and establishing the voices of Nagas and the Northeast in India?

For us, literature is a way of finding our voice and telling our stories. Recently, we have started documenting our stories, and literature is giving us a voice we never had before. That’s why we can use our voices wisely to share our experiences.

In recent years, Naga/Northeast writings have been included in higher education curricula. However, compared to writings from the rest of the country, they have yet to gain the same academic value. What do you hope for literature from the Northeast in academia?

Literature in academia is stereotyped. For example, who will decide what literature will be studied? With the new education policy, there seems to have been some addition of Northeast literature, but we are yet to reach the kind of visibility in academia—inclusivity is needed. We talk about finding our voices in literature, but is the literary field also becoming political in marginalising some voices and deciding which voices need to be heard? There is a stereotyping of indigenous writers that they are only writing about their folktales, folk stories, and how they evolved.

Suppose one calls it an American, British, or German writer. In that case, that’s right because one is associating the writer with a specific geographical and national location to which they belong. But to call one an indigenous writer, and not an Indian writer, raises questions about who qualifies to be called an Indian writer and who does not.

Yes, there are also categorizations of texts into Adivasi literature, indigenous literature, etc. See, there’s nothing wrong with these terminologies, but these terminologies are used in a different light, which implies that your literature is inferior. It is something like what the colonisers did with Indian literature during the colonial period—that even the entire library of Indian literature is not equal to a book of Britain. Now that indigenous writings are being sidelined, we need inclusivity. The historical fact that Nagas have unique experiences and traditions should not become a reason for excluding our literature from being called Indian writing. When one hears the word ‘indigenous writer,’ I think outsiders perceive that the writer has come fresh from the village and just learned how to write.

Over the last few years, many budding writers in Nagaland have been publishing their own books. At one point, it even felt overwhelming, and some people were critical, questioning the value of literature since everyone seemed to be becoming a writer. What are your thoughts on this current trend of literature in Nagaland?

That is something that really needs to be addressed. We lack literary criticism here in the literary scenario; we need more critics. Good literary critics can judge any literature and its value. Criticism brings out the best in any work; we need a filtration method. Some works have quality and deserve a spotlight, but are not getting it because our literary critics are not that strong. If a writer wants their work to be quality work, they need to find their own voice; writing should not just imitate others’ work. It’s easy to lose our voice when consuming so much European, American, and other literature. We should not just write, but know what we are writing.

If there is Indian writing in English and Northeast writing in English, how should one differentiate between the two?

Actually, Northeast writings also come under Indian writings in English. I was teaching Indian writings in English in one semester, and under that were works of Temsula Ao and Easterine Kire. It’s a tricky positioning.

Given the political tensions between our region and the Centre, with Nagas seeking separate nationhood and many in the country not accepting us as one, this division in the Indian literary world adds another layer of complexity. How do you see this situation?

Yes, it is a significant and complex situation. These are issues one needs to contemplate.

What are some major themes readers can expect to find in your book?

Themes like collective nostalgia and memory. My book is about finding meaning and purpose in everyday life, not missing out the small things while looking at bigger things. My book gives the reader a single day with poems opening with morning songs and closing with evening songs.