The Importance of Being Bob

What's in a name, they say. Balderdash! If I changed my name to Jignesh Patel, Bhikku, would you still be disciple?

-- The Diary, Date Unknown.

Through the heart of New Hampshire's White Mountains flows the Pemi. In some places, it is a wide roaring river. Elsewhere, it is but a fast-flowing stream, cutting its way through dense tree cover and solid rock. To follow its meandering course, noting the wondrous shapes it cuts in the rocks, is one of the delights of the New Hampshire summer ("summer" being the somewhat pompous term used by the locals to refer to the third week of July).

One of these expeditions lands the explorer near an information board, which says:

"This place once had Indians. Lots of them. Well, it still does, but the older variety did not all write software, so they were far less boring. Also, unlike the rather odious present bunch, the old Indians were kind of cute. For example, their name for this river was, believe-it-or-not, Pemigawasset, which is the Indian word for 'swift'. Everything considered, it is a little unfortunate that the old Indians were killed off by our noble ancestors, the Pilgrim Fathers. Not that we are complaining. The Pilgrim Fathers were perfect in every possible way, of course. But they could have been a little more perfect and spared a few of these Indians. It would have been fantastic for tourism."

The information board, like all information boards, gets one thinking. What were these native Indians like? How did they manage to live in so much harmony with so much Nature, without something or the other slowly slithering up their chaddis and causing extreme itchiness in the Netherlands? Above all, how did they get so thoroughly screwed by people who can't even eat with their own fingers?

I was there. I saw the board. I got thinking. I found some answers. They are here, for your enlightenment.

The Last of the Chiefs

All his mates had come to grief,
He was now the last living Chief,
So chances he no longer took,
The Wise Chief of the Pennacook. [Pennacook : Name of an Indian tribe]
He called forth his great family,
And gloomily gave this homily:
"Flee, all! Ride Pemigawasset! [Pemigawasset = "swift"]
Let us hide in yon Wachusset." [Wachusset = "mountain place"]

His lion-hearted little son,
Flat out refused to run,
Saying, "No, dear Father!
I would stay and fight rather!"

At this the Pater softly cried,
"Son, you fill me with pride.
But it must also be stated,
That courage is over-rated.
The clever and wily Cherokee, [Cherokee, Abnaki, Navajo : Indian tribes]
The able and brave Abnaki,
The proud unyielding Navajo.
Where, oh where, did they all go?
Wisely they should all have fled,
They didn't, and now they're dead.
True, the White Man has no skill,
But faith, very well does he kill.
So let's flee while we can,
For hark, I hear the White Man."

The White Riders weren't close,
But the Chief had a sharp nose.
And though he knew no science,
He could read Nature's signs. [read as sigh-ans, please. poetic license and all that. thanks, b.]
There wasn't time to waste,
So out he ran to advise haste.

"Nashashuk, Magaskawe, [Indian names]
Quick, they aren't far away.
Run, Guitonkagya, Hiawassee,
By God, don't be so damn lazy.
Hiawatha, Opechancanough,
You've dawdled long enough.
Oh! Saukamappe, Eyanosa,
Look, They're now close-ah"

Forsooth, his voice was strong,
But the names were way too long.
Soon, alas, the Chief lost his breath.
And the White Men rode in like Death.
The one who looked like he led,
Turned to his mates and said:
"Jack, Joe, Nick and Chris,
Fire and please don't miss.
Shoot! Jim, Bob and Bill,
We've got a tribe to kill."
And ere you could say Kissunguaq [Indian name]
They'd shot down the whole flock.

This isn't an unusual scene,
Ay, it's how it has always been.

The White Man has no brains,
The reason he still reigns,
Isn't that he's so damn big,
(Why he is just a fat pig!)
Nor is it his Science or Art,
(Why he is just an old fart).
No, he rules cos he's smart,
At making long names short.