May’s Fading Dreams

[ Khoithumlaba Khonjelsina Nang-gi…]

I could hear the song blasting from a radio somewhere in the neighbourhood that morning.
 “That old rascal!” I muttered.
 “What does he think of himself? Old and worn out in his early 40s, with gnarled hands. Doesn’t he feel any shame, listening to songs we should be living instead?” I scoffed silently.

I heard that he had a lover in his prime. They were nearly engaged.

Things were going exactly as they planned. But all of a sudden, the girl disappeared. As if swallowed by the very air, she vanished. News and reports of her disappearance were circulated widely. Days passed, and all efforts to find her were unsuccessful, each search yielding nothing but only despair. Almost after three weeks, the girl who was in her mid-20s was found dead on the side of the Chakpi river. Since then, he decided never to get married.

Every year, he would visit the place and listen to the wounded and roaring sound of the rushing water, as if he could communicate. He is a victim of his memories as those memories must have weighed heavy on his soul. Yet an epitome of true, unwavering love. While things about him often felt immense, I hated him that morning.

The music played on, drifting through the air, and then it reached the crescendo:

“Machu kayana leitengla eigi manglangi sangaisida keidou-ngei nganbirani
 Purnima thaja gumna… x2
 keidou-ngei chaibirani nungshibi chinghi manam……x2”

I chuckled. Now that was a song.

Then a thought flickered—what if someone whispered that song to me?
 Suddenly, a radiant glow crept across my face.
 I blushed, smiling just a little.
 Only when no one was watching.

The sky is stained dark outside; the rolling clouds unfold in the distance today. The clock in my room reads twelve minutes past eight in the morning. Misty rain begins to fall.

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The fall starts around November, and occasionally, brings light rains to bridge the ethereal distance between any two successive years. For me, details and events in the past are hard to carry along—still like a curfew imposed in my life—my hands shaking and my cerebral cortex processing those information in my brain becomes a dubious task.

Summer’s fiery grip tightens as we enter late April. At night, I can hear the gentle melodies and the tune of lullabies that the ritual of “Lai Haraoba” demands. The fall season ends, some amphibians’ hibernation ceases, and spring gently lingers, but not for long. It persists, then every day becomes a scorching, bright summer day.

The weather these days is like the thoughts in my head: entangled wounds of threads—interwoven illusions. In recent years, my exchanges with my former friends from this town have faded a little, and as time advances, I become estranged from them. Connections between hearts, secrets untold, desires wander away across the landscape.

My exam ended this May. Like a tumour removed from the most critical part of my body, the thought of it alone provides some relief. It eases the burden I bear in silence.

Now, I have plenty of free time and next to nothing to kill this time.

Now that the sky is clearer, like an old man desultorily cutting the shortest path to make his destination, the mist of clouds vanishes quickly without any warning. The books on my shelf are covered in fine dust as I have parted with them for some time. Watching them and the sunbeams streaming in through the window, I feel a little dizzy—my mind in a state of perplexity and my body paralysed by a vital force.

Warmth eventually seeps in as the window lets in the sweltering breeze. Overall, it’s a sad, lonely summer for me. In times like these, I think of my friends I have lost touch with, of people I knew in the past, my one-time lover, and my dream of visiting Ukhrul one day. Just the vivid memories, promises I couldn’t keep, feelings dwelling in unknown depths.

ALSO READ: OCTOBER

I rarely switch authors once I’ve immersed myself in their work. Reading a completely different writer is never easy for me; it demands everything I’ve learned in life. It’s like experiencing multiple lives within one. That’s how I approach it. However, it takes time to build these distinct worlds, especially when the differences are subtle, like distinguishing between the Muggle and Wizarding worlds in Harry Potter. I’m particularly fond of Asian writers. Living amidst lush green hills, open meadows and willow-lined roads, I find myself unconsciously drawn to their books, almost as if I’m a character in them.

Noon acts as a middleman if we assume a day as our lifespan. Soon, darkness descends. The 7:30 pm news on the radio occupies a unique setting in the hearts of every Manipuri. The news reports about the celebration of the Shirui Lily Festival. After that, I think of myself living there.

[ Ukhrul Town.. ]

I picture myself passing down that road between the hills—its curvature and the stretching hillock. The gentle breeze of May sweeps toward the west, as if making an announcement of its nearing termination. The stereo system plays Suren’s Haipham Khangde. The verse echoes in the dark, making me fall in love sometimes, and sometimes I sob silently. Gazing into the distance, I feel lost—lost in the woods, or as if sliding into the darkness, slowly descending into a dark abyss.

I would close my hand and stretch it out from the window. Light rains are falling soundlessly. An empty world, where I find nothing but silence and darkness. I close my eyes and think of the Shirui Kashong trek. Right there is where the Shirui Lily blooms. Watching it alone in reality would make me bloom too.

“Sangbaan-naba Shirui gi Chingsangda, Pikpna Pom-gan-bi Lily suu…”
The wind roars down the Shirui Kashong, lashing the verdant hills, mountain gusts whipping through foliage with wild abandon. Night’s canvas unveils a celestial clarity, surpassing day’s dull radiance. In this luminous haze, I envision autumn’s whispers in summer’s warmth in Ukhrul, as the two seasons narrate each other’s tales. Cherry blossoms’ fleeting beauty lines the roadside, like a promise of seasons to come.

I listen to Janis Joplin’s Me & Bobby McGee. It feels like I am free from the reality of life—or as if I’m on a train alone, one that will take me nowhere.

What would it be like if I existed during the time when people could guess the time based on the broadcasting programme on the radio? What sort of music was famous, and what kind of punk bands stole the utmost interest of the public back then? Who were they? Guns N’ Roses? Pantera or Metallica? The Police or Smokie? Bryan Adams or The Smiths? Or maybe Suren or Uttam? Or Old Pahari?
Although my mom enjoys Mariah Carey and Dolly Parton, I usually listen to Soraren ( their interview recently broadcasted on the radio, Miwakching and others I cannot remember. I occasionally also indulge in the work of retro musicians. However, one Tangkhul folk-rock band, Featherheads is a different story altogether_though their lyrics remain a mystery to me, the enchanting melodies weave a spell, mesmerising me in an inexplicable way.

“How is the town there different from mine?
Do people live there with their shadows? ( At this point, I would think of Lo! Peninsula’s “Chasing Tidal Waves”. “The shadows on the walls don’t recognise me anymore.” The melody’s chill runs deeper this time, its familiar tremors now a seismic shock. It eventually shatters me.)
Are loyalties subjective there?
“Before we enter that town, must we leave behind all that is ours?”

Some people from there never moved out of that place and perished, right? The thought of it is so beautiful—but excruciating. Life here and there. My feelings toward it can be a bit of a confusion—like a mystery hard for me to unlock, or like the miseries of life I can never get rid of.

A bit of nostalgia. Like reminiscing the mild fragrance of that familiar cologne a person inherited from his or her one-time lover’s warm jacket.

Slowly holding that one novel about a city without shadows, I slide into my bed, carrying the fact that even though my desire to visit Shirui Kashong burns strong within, paths remain unseen. My heart yearns to wander there, yet fate remains anchored.

But what can I do?

This time, everything feels futile, like ordering sugarcane juice without sugar – a pointless desire. Like a flickering flame slowly dying, it’ll be gone forever. That night I hummed to myself in the dark, listening to the passage of time, Urirei Madhabi’s Chakliba lammei Athappa chingda. Indeed as if I could hear.

“Chakliba Lammei athappa chingda….

Mutchakhini Mathannata…………”

Perhaps, like this, I’ll wait—my desire—for its gentle departure.

READ MORE: Immortal Intimacy

(The author can be reached at phianingthi654@gmail.com)

LitWeekend invites short stories, folklores, poems and anecdotes with objectives of instilling reading culture, promoting literary and aesthetic creativity, besides honing aspiring writers of our region. Mail your stuff at ukhrultimesdesk.com.