O. Jungio is an assistant research officer for the Department of Arts and Culture, government of Nagaland. When he is not writing, you can find him noodling on the guitar and the ukelele or cooking up kooky projects for his YouTube channel (an interesting project of late is ‘Screaming Plant’, a device that allows a plant to ‘scream’ when it’s ‘thirsty’).
NAW: What inspired the choice of the title A Kite of Farewells? How did the kite come to represent themes of memory and parting?
The book’s first working title was The Newspaper Kite—a name that, I’ve got to admit, just didn’t have the punch of A Kite of Farewells. I don’t exactly remember how I landed on the current title, but I’m definitely glad for the change.
Letting go, kind of like setting a kite free in the wind, feels both sad and freeing. It’s about recognizing what happened, accepting what is now, and opening yourself up to what might come next. In these stories, the kite is a symbol of fleeting moments, the heavy feeling of loss, and the courage it takes to untangle yourself and ride the unpredictable winds of the future.
What’s more, for me, a kite—especially one put together from newspaper (like in The Newspaper Kite, the last story in the book)—also evokes a specific kind of childhood spirit: one that’s stubborn, almost fiercely ambitious. It reflects that innate human desire, especially strong when you’re a kid, to rise above where you started, to bravely push past tough times, and to ultimately come out on top despite all of life’s curveballs.
NAW: A lot of stories center on objects and their emotional significance. Did you start each story with a specific object in mind, or did the story naturally develop around the objects as you wrote?
My deep emotional connection to everyday objects comes from a very personal place (you could even call it a past habit): I was a compulsive hoarder well into my mid-twenties. One day, during an “I’ve had enough” moment, I was sitting in a mountain of old stuff (mostly junk) and really thought about why I struggled to let go of old fascinations. Then—bam!—it hit me like a lightning bolt. I looked at the cluttered mess of items—a dusty hardcover astronomy book, a tiny brass toy chair, a Reader’s Digest from the 2000s—and had this huge new realization. Almost immediately, I started seeing personal connections to them. My hoarding quickly turned into something more focused: collecting stories, each one centered around an object. Before long, I had a notebook packed with potential tales, all inspired by the ordinary things I saw around me.
So, when it was time to write the first draft, it became all about carefully choosing and refining the most compelling story to work on.
NAW: How important is nostalgia in your writing? Do you see your stories as an effort to capture and preserve a disappearing way of life?
Given that only a handful of stories in this collection are set in the present, nostalgia undeniably serves as a significant driving force behind my writing. This inclination perhaps mirrors a broader Naga tendency to view storytelling as a vital vehicle for preserving and honouring the ways of our ancestors. Without the privilege of a written script, Nagas have historically and effectively used oral tradition—through stories and songs—to safeguard their history and cultural wealth. This powerful tradition has significantly influenced my approach, leading me to document the way of life I experienced in my childhood.
This is evident in stories such as The Encyclopaedia Salesman, which harks back to my school days when men in suits went door-to-door selling hardcover encyclopaedias and dictionaries. Similarly, the character in Time laments the local businesses’ tendency to jump on the ‘café’ bandwagon while largely retaining their original menus. A close examination of the settings in most stories would reveal a plethora of similar relics from bygone days.
NAW: Your stories are deeply rooted in Naga identity and daily life. How crucial is it for you to portray Naga culture through your fiction?
I’m driven to tell stories about Nagaland and the Naga way of life for one main reason: representation. Mainstream India often sees Nagas as peculiar and exotic—once warring tribes with unique village governments, now India’s largest Baptist Christian state. This, combined with other (mostly misinformed) ideas about our hilly state, has led to many stereotypes. The fact that Nagas look different (more Asian than typically Indian) doesn’t help.
Fiction is a powerful way to reclaim Naga cultural pride and build connections with other Indians. By letting them walk among Naga characters in these stories, I want them to see that despite our cultural differences, our lives are fundamentally similar. We grieve, honour our dead, and remember loved ones in the same ways, proving that our shared humanity connects us far more deeply than any superficial distinctions.
NAW: The list of translated terms is full of cultural significance. How do you strike a balance between making your work accessible to a wider audience while staying authentic for local readers?
I was initially apprehensive about including translated terms in the text—not out of fear of alienating readers, but due to a lack of trust in the fidelity of their translation. These terms—mostly from Lotha, my mother tongue—serve a dual purpose. Beyond simply assigning meaning to character relationships (such as Apo for father, Ayo for mother, and Angofor son), they also function as vital cultural anchors.
Consider a term like Echu Li. While it literally translates to “a field of the dead,” such a direct rendering risks empty oversimplification. In Lotha, Echu Li is a word deeply laden with spiritual and emotional significance, referring to a specific, revered place where the souls of the departed are believed to await their loved ones. For the Naga people, Echu Li transcends mere metaphor; it is commonly understood to be a tangible location, nestled within Mt. Tiyi in Wokha.
In light of this great cultural responsibility, I have strived for authenticity in every translation. This commitment sometimes led to deliberate choices. For example, in Scared Crow, I intentionally used “Great Father” instead of inventing a hypothetical Posto Eramo—a non-existent Lotha religious deity. This was a conscious declaration to signal that “Great Father” is my own invention, carefully placed within the shared narrative unfolding in the sacred grounds of Echu Li.
NAW: How have your childhood and life experiences in Nagaland impacted the development of particular stories or characters in your writing?
The landscape of my childhood in Nagaland serves as the primary setting for nearly all the narratives within this collection. Growing up in Wokha—a small district in Nagaland—during the Y2K era as a true “90s kid” was an undeniably interesting, if not unique, experience. I lived through a significant technological shift: from the Hong Kong Kung Fu craze of the VCR days to the arrival of CDs (my family briefly operated a CD rental business), and eventually, the slow rollout of the internet—a luxury that wouldn’t reach Nagaland until 2003, when it got its first cellular network. This atmosphere of change is deeply embedded in stories like Code Blue and The Newspaper Kite.
NAW: Grief and loss—whether of loved ones, places, or moments in time—appear frequently in your work. What attracts you to explore these themes?
Both of my parents, in profound and shaping ways, are products of early, devastating loss. My mother was a mere child when her own mother passed away, while my father never knew his father, who died before he was even born. Witnessing the enduring shadow of their respective losses has given me a unique insight into how they grieve and remember—a process communicated through both the tangible and intangible.
My mother, for instance, is ever engaged in a quiet, tireless quest for old photographs of her mother. Each discovery—even a spotty photograph retrieved from a stranger’s trunk—is a treasure, meticulously printed and then framed with an almost ritualistic care. My father’s remembrance, conversely, resides in sound: a vast, carefully curated library of songs (mostly English and Hindi classics) saved on the family computer, each melody a direct echo of the music his own father cherished.
NAW: Do you believe literature can help heal personal or community trauma?
For me, literature has always been the metaphorical “woods in the wilderness”—a secluded, sacred space where I retreat to unleash the raw, untamed beasts of my anguish. It is there, amidst the spaces between words, that I find the freedom to scream away the heavy burden of trauma, emptying its weight onto the page. In the stories I have written, I have wrestled fiercely with my demons, languished in the depths of my pain, and ultimately, against all odds, triumphed.
I also think literature can do more than help us deal with personal hurts. A great example is the work of a writer I deeply admire, Avinuo Kire. Her works address the turbulent 1960s in Nagaland, a time filled with grave violence and loss. Her writing is vital for remembering that chaotic past, which could easily be simplified or forgotten. By giving a voice to all the different experiences from that decade, Kire doesn’t just show the harsh realities of conflict—she helps us gain a deeper understanding of how communities cope with shared trauma and the difficult process of uncovering truth after so much widespread pain.
NAW: Please name five favourite writers—writers who shaped your writing.
Julian Barnes, Gabriel García Márquez, Kurt Vonnegut Jr., Kazuo Ishiguro, and Hemingway are the writers whose works compelled me to move beyond passive reading and pursue my own writing. I’m drawn to works that linger in the mind like the aftertaste of a great meal, evolving and deepening long after the initial experience.
Daniel Defoe’s Robinson Crusoe was the first book of my childhood that truly introduced me to the magic of stories and their powerful grip on the imagination. My works are, admittedly, a contrived reproduction of that initial enchantment, born from the desire to recreate the vivid, immersive experience I had when its pages transported me far beyond the confines of my own room.
NAW: What are you reading currently? What do you do apart from writing?
My recent interest has gravitated towards translated works, particularly those by fellow Indian writers. I’m captivated by the fidelity achieved in some translations—a fascination stemming from my own writing challenges. (While most of my ideas often crystallize perfectly in my mother tongue, Lotha —and sometimes Nagamese— the act of translating them into English for typing can be a struggle.) On that note, I’m currently reading Damodar Mauzo’s Karmelin, translated by Vidya Pai. I hope to read more translated works this year.