Random Musings on Spinsterhood

Memories stored on social media platforms often pop up with the most random thoughts to follow. But the thing with being friends with yourself is that those random thoughts are ever entertaining and never dull; splitting you into peals of laughter or rolling you around on the bed with embarrassment. Those are the most private, most intimate moments of the self that could never be shared with anyone else because no one else would understand.

Having said that, this morning I woke up to a notification of an old memory of a picture posted on one of my social media platforms which dated way back when: slim was much slimmer and dark was much darker and the smiles were still carefree and young. One closer look at the picture of the six of us and a realization dawned: after a decade and more, I’m still alone.

And I laughed.

You see, we have a saying for someone in Mizo that connotes “long-standing” or, “patient” which usually implies having the patience to sit and wait for things to fall into their places: “tei rei peih” and the implication would often be for someone that commands respect because of that particular virtue, and as is often the case, success following sooner or later.

And between myself-es, I took the liberty to claim the respectable saying for myself because, hey, am i not the most “tei rei peih” among the girls in the picture? And never a day have I complained in my long-standing patience. I wished to claim it because my society would not see me that way; and there’ve been several instances where people have called me out for being unmarried and being a “nula senior.”

A Google-search of the term “spinsterhood” brought me to this article titled “If you’re an unmarried woman over the age of 26, you’re not a spinster, you’re a thornback” written by Faima Bakar in 2019. I learn that originally, “spinsterhood” is the glorious years between 23-26 in the life of a woman and she graduates to another “hood” after which is “thornback” but then, based on what she continues on in her article, I’m currently in my “Lady of the Blade” hood. You can’t hear me laugh out loud as you read this but I actually am laughing my eyes out! In another four years or so, I’ll move on to “Fanged Dowager” and then to an untitled hood after 45 but characterised by “terrified silence, shifting eyes, if you speak of her she will know and she will show you no mercy.”

I never knew that the world had so much preoccupations with single women who choose to grow old graciously and well. Harmless women who choose the comfort of their beds after a long day at work; boring women who’d rather sleep in every holidays or vibrant women who grasp every opportunity of fun; older young women who are living out their missing teenage years and having the times of their lives. But how I see me is never how others see me, right?

Which is why I will continue to embrace being “nula tei rei peih” because it takes courage to stand unperturbed being constantly the butt of misogynistic jokes that bear so little to my mental health. It takes great courage to not succumb to the age-old assumption of marriage being the epitome of successful women. And greater courage to unlearn many unfair ways of the world.

And if I think “spinsterhood” is derogatory, I seriously need to reconsider how I’ve been living my life because no one can define my life. Peace.

“Madam, your Cross arrived.”

I come from a culture where we give gifts to people who move into their new homes: simple but thoughtful gifts; not as much congratulatory but more as indirect means to relieve them of their expenses. And writing this, I realize that I am oblivious to the history of this tradition: if this is intrinsic to us since time immemorial or if this is a cultural import.

When I moved to Bangalore a year ago, I was beginning a new chapter of my life, which to some people (as I later learnt, much to my delight), was a bold decision to be moving out of one’s comfort zone when I was already way into my adulthood. (I had never known that there were criteria for starting anew until then). But then, here I was; leaving all that I had grown to love for over a decade, and let me add here:- all that I had become during those precious years to find a new identity, a new self in a new place quite far away from home.

And the goodwill and love of the people in my life followed me through their gifts. They kept coming; to the point where calls for me to pick my courier up became slightly embarrassing but hey, there’s no complaining from this end!

Now I have one very smart niece who called and asked what I’d want her to buy for me and not knowing how my life was going to turn out to be and wanting to be minimalistic, I thought long and chose, finally, from her suggestion of a wall clock to letting her buy me this very solid- looking, Celtic cross from Amazon. But my niece, being her, went overboard and got me another gift which I had no clue about. So when the Amazon guy called me to the gate, I collected it with great pleasure because I could tell that the quality of the wood was top-class. To my surprise, it was not the cross that I had expected but a beautiful wooden tray “straight outta Kashmir” which sits proudly over my 4 foot refrigerator today.

The next time the Amazon guy called me, he simply said, “Madam, your Cross arrived.”

What a call! My cross arrived. I mean- to Christians who are familiar with the call to bear the Cross, this can be wrong on so many levels. Where was your cross all along?? What were you doing all these times?? How was your life that your cross found you one bright and sunny winter day via Amazon??

I remember a sermon on carrying one’s cross that had made me laugh for a long time. The preacher, an evangelist, talked about the dire situation of us Christians when it comes to carrying one’s cross saying: “These days, we don’t even carry our cross, we drag them.”

My situation seemed the worst. My cross arrived, you know. Arrived.

When I picked up the call, I could immediately hear that “something” in the tone of his voice. Not sarcastic, nor adoration but something I can’t quite name. Perhaps amusement. Yes, that’s it. He sounded amused saying that.

I walked to the gate, wondering how in the world the Amazon guy could tell that it was a cross. I felt like he somewhat killed the delight of a suspense by letting me know what it was. After signing his receipt, he disappeared to get my Cross and came back, his eyes shining mischievously as he handed my packet.

And boy, did I laugh there!

Everyone could tell that it was a cross because whoever had packed my niece’s order had wrapped the cross with a bubble sheet and plastered it good with a brown tape and that was that. The vertical line, the short horizontal line, the carvings- whoever had packed the cross should be promoted or given a bonus because of the great care taken to retain the original shape.

And it was huge! I had no peg to hang it; and the display rack has too small compartments so the Cross wouldn’t fit. It’s also stated in our Rent Agreement that I need prior permission to drill any holes and I didn’t want to go to all the trouble of doing that…not that the owners are problematic because they are the sweetest and are absolutely wonderful people but because I hate phone-calls and I didn’t want to bother them. I haven’t told my niece this yet but I decided to give it a home to someone I know would treasure it.

So the day came and the Cross was being adopted till I find it a proper place with me. When Zuala came to pick me and the Cross up on his scooty, we hung the bag we kept it in on the peg in the front. We were caught in a traffic and that was when we heard a clatter on the road.

“U Sawmte, your Cross fell.”

And there it was, lying face up on the ground, in the middle of a busy traffic. I got off from the pillion and picked my Cross up. I didn’t let go until we reached Zuala’s home. After a long deliberation, we decided to hang it on the inner wall of his sitting room where it proudly hangs on till date, as you can see in this picture.

Yes, my Cross arrived; couldn’t find a peg; fell off from the scooty and was duly picked up. Now my Cross hangs in Zuala’s home. And I’m happy. I got a replacement of a Cross which is so tiny that if you’re not a keen observer, you’d definitely miss it among the little things I place on the display rack.

Picture: My Cross at Zuala’s home. Used with permission.

What’s in a name, anyway?

“You, of all people should have used
The correct spelling of your name.”

And you could only smile, wryly
For phone conversations can only last thus long.

Venflon stuck to my vein,
Tears flowed endless on our cheeks
As he told me the story of how he was called to be
As I recounted mine, in that Emmanuel Hospital so many years ago.

He said, “Sometimes the Lord speaks
To His chosen people,
And gives them insight
So that names have meanings for His calling.”

I bear the name, the blessing of God
For of the many names brought forth
Great-uncle thought befitting of me
Not just to be his namesake,
But because my parents waited
Five long years to have a child.

But why I chose to be “Somte”
Replacing our native “aw” for “o”
Is a different story
Which began, when as a teenager
All you wanted was to fit in among
Peers who were prone to dismiss you.

And being in a culture so diverse
And languages so different
Your name was prone to misspelling
“Sawmi” as “Swami”-
And each syllable of your name
Pronounced to bear different meanings:
“Laal” for the colour red
“Maal” for an article, but has sexual connotations
“Swami” for addressing the yogi or the husband.

And to say, “Hi, I’m Somte,” seems to be
Easier, even though still different
From saying, “Hi, I’m Chanda/ Meena/ Neetu”
Rather than saying, “Hi, I’m Lalmalsawmi.”

Much easier, or so I thought, to type
Somte Ralte
In my Orkut and fb accounts,
Though some friends still search to find
Lalamswamte Raltei.

Then, and maybe till now, I have never
Felt the need to assert my cultural identity
Through the correct spelling of my name
Or one without.
For I believe, despite the “aw” or “o”
Or the feminine indicator “i” behind the name*
I still am a Mizo, and proud to be so
My only fear is I would not live up to my name.

*Common names may be shared by both genders in Mizo society which
is made distinguishable by the “-a” suffix that indicates male and
“-i” suffix that indicates female.

** Previously published in “Hilltalk: Collected Writings from Mizoram: (2017) and my first poetry book, “Wild Hearts” (2019)

Hairy Business

If there was one thing I hadn’t expected at the beginning of 2020, it was how much I’d get caught up in this moderately cumbersome hairy business. Despite the professionals involved trying to talk me out of it, I’ve given my business a lot of thought and the stubborn Taurean me had to have her way.

And I hadn’t ever thought that I would so much contradict myself as I am doing right now with my hairy business. It’s very rare that I don’t laugh at myself whenever the thought crosses my mind because there’s so much war waging right on the headquarter of my senses.

Without going into details, let me fleetingly mention that I had my head shaved. But that wasn’t the only thing that I had done in my hairy business.

Just two days before Mizoram Govt. imposed lockdown within the state, which was three days before Modi announced nation-wide lockdown, I had my moustache and beard laser-removed. Well, I need seven more sessions to go before the treatment is over and this lockdown has messed up with the timelines a bit. Anyway, I’ve always had faint moustache and beard on my face but following my PCOD condition, my facial hair got thicker and looked more prominent. I had tried shaving and had an incident where I almost cut part of my upper lip really deep. The harrowing experience left me too scared to shave any more. Besides, I don’t really take care of myself that much despite my consciousness of my facial hair. To me, laser treatment seemed the best solution for me and went ahead, accompanied by my cousin. I’m pretty excited about the outcome because I can already see the results and can’t wait for the lockdown period to be over.

So here’s the most contradictory act. The hair on my head and around my lips has been partially removed but I am also desperately trying to re-grow my eyebrows using a serum. This is what amuses me much: two removals, one acquirement. All business taking place on the head. Crazy, right?

With all these to say, I hope I don’t come across as advocating the things that I’ve been doing. A few days ago, I saw a picture of a couple getting their heads shaved as they were preparing to battle cancer of one of the spouses. The picture hit me hard. While I’m here doing it as a luxury, some had to do it because of dire consequences. It made me introspect quite a bit and I want to state here that I had never meant to make light of anybody’s situation by doing what I had done. Many lovely friends have sent me concerned texts asking if I was okay healthwise. I hadn’t meant to shock anyone. Like I’d said, it was purely personal. This isn’t me regretting; no, I am not.

Just last night as I looked into the mirror, I thought about how I was also contradicting myself with my self-acceptance by opting a laser removal. I remember past posts and speaking about self-love and self- acceptance in front of youths and it nagged my soul thinking that here I was doing minor changes with the way I looked because there was an inability to accept myself with a moustache and a beard. I felt like I had been untrue to myself and my principles. That sucked, really. I haven’t still recovered from it even as I write this post. Will there be an easy way out to forgive myself? Time can only tell, right?

Ever since I had purple ombre for my hair last year, there were people who were kindly critical of me. Two younger members of the youth fellowship in my local church even reprimanded me for it because it was “unlike a senior member of the faith.” I remembered scolding them of their judgmental hearts 😞 but their criticism struck my mind to the extend that till today, I’ve been pondering on Apostle Paul’s virtues on Philippians 4:8:

“Finally, brothers, whatever is true, whatever is noble, whatever is right, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is admirable- if anything is excellent or praiseworthy- think about such things.”

Till now, my paths have crossed with very few selected people who has shown unconditional love for me sans the hair. But it’s not easy getting over the quoted lines above knowing the non-written decree that we church-goers have on many certain things. Which also takes me to a whole new perspective that leaves me feeling what? I can’t really name what I feel.

Anyways, that’s my hairy business. I didn’t mean to jump from my amusement to my introspection but I did just that. So much for the desire for self-validation! So much for attempting to play your cards right by giving out TMI (too much information)! But then, they are all fundamental to my hairy business and thus, I end here, hoping for better days to come!

Updates: This is to the women who reached out after reading my blog and taking their time to tell me that there’s no fixed rule of loving oneself. Words can’t express just how grateful I am that these women have gone out of their way to let me know that self-acceptance should be without the jurisdiction of prejudices. Once we let fixed ideals affect our notion of self-acceptance, that is when we allow ourselves to be dragged into the endless circle of dogged notions of identity vis-a-vis societal norms.

Ka Che Chhia a

Thian thenkhatte chuan ka chet chhiat theih zia hi an hria a; whatsapp group pakhatah “Girls, ka che chhia a,” va ti zauh ila min rawn nuih nghal ringawt zel. Phur takin ka chet chhiat dan min lo ngaihthlak sak a, kan hlim thei phian a. Min lo hlimpui thei lutuk avang hian ka chet chhiat apiang hian ka va hrilh vat thin a, mahse zanin chu anmahni hrilh lovin, heti zawng hian ka’n sawi ang e.

Kan Branch Thalai Pual Camping kal zelah Follow-up kan nei chhunzawm zel a; tul dang avangin duh angin ka lang hman loa. Zanin chu kan programme neih sa kan thulh thut avangin ka va tel ve ange, tiin ka insiam a. Ka va thu lut ve a, phur takin ka va zai ve ar ar a..

Tichuan kan speaker a rawn ding a, kan veng pa tih takah min hre chiang bawk a. C.Th zir chhuak list a’n sawi a, ka rin loh takin a list-ah ka tel ve kiau mai a; a hriat pawh ka rin loh tehreng nen.

Kan speaker hi ka rin ai daihin thu a sawi thiam a, a ngaihnawm thei em em a; a sawi lai te hian ka lo mitthla thei hial a ni. Chuti khawpa thu sawi thiam mi a ni. Ngaithlatute a chawk phur thiam a, fiamthu a zep thiam a, a chhiar zau bawk.

Mahse zanin chu, kan speaker ka chhaih buai nek a. A zialo hle mai! A sermon tirhah a hminga ka certificate lo neih ve a puang dum dum a, a zawhna hmasa zawk ka’n hrethiam lo tlat mai a! “Enge a hman kha?” tih zawng hriat hman chuan chhan ngaihna a vang fu. Midang lahin min en deuh thup a. Ka rilruah lah “bialnu tomato pe” tih chiah a lang si a, ava harsa em!

“Enge a hman kha?”

“Tomato!”

Chhan chi zia zang a ni lo!

Kan Branch hruaitu pakhat erawh chuan chhanna dik tak a rawn pe a:

“Hmunphiah leh khawnvar.”

Kan speaker zawhna chu: “Nula duli sawm neiin duli pakhat a tihbo zawn nan enge a hman?” tih a lo ni a.

“Tomato” tia ka chhang lo chu ka mualpho lo hle.

Tichuan kan thupuiah kan lut a. Jona chungchang kan ngaithla a. Kan speaker-in Jona’n Pathian thu a dawna a fiah zia sawi nana General Conference Hla bu hmanga a dula a bel thlap khan ka rilruah a fiah tur zia a nemnghet hle a; hetiang em em a entirna fiah hi ka la hre ngai lo! A ropui ka ti! A bei thlap mai a nia! In ngheng thlap, rinhlelhna awm reng reng lo! Ava han chiang tak em!

Chutah Jona’n Pathian thu ni lo zawkin Tarsis lam pana a kal thu a sawi chho va; Pathian thinurna Jona chungah a lang ta! Tuifinriatah chuan thlipui Pathianin a tleh tir ta!

“Kan harsatnate hi tawngtai ngawt a kian tir chi an ni lo!” tiin kan speaker chuan a sawi dup dup a; ka pawm hle. K nun ka en a, dik ka va han ti tak! Pathian thu ni lo lama ka kal ngat ngat vanga thlipui nuai hrep ka nih lai ka ngaihtuah a….

Chutah kan speaker bawk chuan, “Nl. Sawmtei ka’n zawt leh teh ang. Jona khan lawng atang khan ‘min paih mai r’u’ a tih khan, a thih loh a rin i ring em?” a rawn ti!

Kei lah….Jona hnena Pathian thu hai rual loha bet thlap entirna ka mitthlaa la cham chiang lutuk leh Pathian aw hai theih rual a nih loh zia in min chiah mek lai chuan, eng dang mah ngaihtuah lovin, “Ring ang,” ka’n ti a!

Speaker ngaihdan a ni chiah lo nge mawni, min zawt leh a. Kei lahin, Conference Hla bu kan Speaker dul chunga bet thlap ang tluka nghet chuan, “A thih loh a rin ka ring,” ka’n ti leh fak mai!

Beidawnna hmel hmuh chu a nuam lo. I laka beisei sang tak neia i hming ko chhuaktu hmela beidawnna hmuh chu a nuam miah lo.

Mahse Pathian aw hre chiangtu chuan Pathian tum a hriaa, Pathian thu chu hlen a ni dawn tih a hre si a.

“Aw, inzawh thut chuan tum lo deuhin kan chhang pawh a ni thei,” a ti zuk a, tichuan ama’n chu zawhna chu a chhang ta a: “Jona khan a thih a ring a ni. Chu zawk chu a ni thih huama rawngbawlna…” a’n ti chho chu….a…ka nuih hi a va han za tak! Ka hnunga thu tlangval pakhat lah lo zak lutuk niin, “Che team-work lo hle mai a,” min rawn ti; ka nuih hi a za a nia aw! Nuih awr awr chi a ni si lo!

Chutah, “khatianga mak deuha in rawn chhan te chuan kan sermon tur a buai vek dawn asin!” tiin kan speaker chuan a han chhunzawm leh zat a. Mi pangngai chu an zak mai thei. Mahse ka chhan chhan ka chiang si a, ka zak duh lo a ni. Ka chiang ve tlat alawm, a thih a ring lo ang, ka tih khan.

“Nghapui in a rawn dawlh tih kan hria vang ani ang,” tiin min chhan naa, ka rilruah kan Speaker-in Jona’n Pathian aw a hriat chian zia khan min hneh em a; chu chuan Pathianin a tum a la hlen loh avangin a thih mai a rin ka ring thei lo a ni.

Kan Follow-up banah kan Branch hruaitu, zawhna hmasa chhang dik chu ka bulah a rawn kal a. “Engtinge tuifinriat tui phul bulh bulh, nasa taka thlipuiin a nuai karah Jona khan thih loh a inrin ang?” min rawn ti a, ‘A thih a ring ang. Nghapui kawchhungah pawh khan a dam chhuah a in ring lovang,” a ti a.

Ni e. Jona chuan a dam chhuah a ring lo ang. Lawng atanga paih tura a inpek lai pawhin a dam chhuah a ring lovang. A rinawm loh alawm.

Mahse, Pathian hmu tawh chuan A thiltihtheihna hi kan hriat loh lai pawhin a lang reng a; kan beisei loh lamah pawh hian kan rin Pathian hi a che thin. Mihringin thiam taka, chiang taka 1+1=2 kan tih thlap thlap lai hian, Pathian chuan 1+1=3 emaw, 1+1=0 pawh a ti thei. Mihring ngaiha chiang em em; mihring dana thil thleng thin kha Pathian danah chuan a lo danglam zawk thin.

Chuvang chuan, Jona’n khatih lai khan eng rilru nge a put ang aw, tih ngaihtuah maih lovin, Jona mihring thlir lo khan Pathian ka lo thlir daih a. Chuvang chuan kan Speaker tibuai nawk khawpin zawhna ka chhang ta mai a ni!

Ka nuih a la za, che chhia ka in ti ve thlawt. Mahse ka chhan chhan hi ka thlirna tlang atang chuan a dik ve viau chuan ka hria asin.

Kan banah kan tin darh dawnin za tak maia min nuih an awm a. Ka insawfiah peih loa; mahse ka nuih zat a reh chuang si lo nen, ka’n ziak kur ve leh duah a nih hi.

Ka che chhia a, thil thar erawh a ni lem lo e!

Why I Write What I Write

I’ve been criticized for taking things too personal. A dear friend of mine, much to my respect, once told me straight to my face, “Not everything is about you. You need to learn to let go.” Of course, I’ve been meaning to do that ever since but then there are situations that call for me to take things personal. Because there are things that affect me and include me; things that have indirect references to me as well and I hope I’ll always have the passion to take such things personally and not shy away because of some popularity game or such.
All these aside, somethings that I’ve taken really, really personal have led me to multiple self-assessment and have made me question many things about myself, and about why I write. Friends who have known and read me have called me “confessional,” and I’ve got nothing against that because it’s the absolute truth. This is why I write: to get things out of my system. Writing is my therapy; it’s where I heal and breathe. But the degree to which it is “confessional” often vary because of the endless fluidity of words and expressions, and the varying degrees of the signifiers to each reader might differ from mine own. And it’s been fun: to have someone tell you that your writing resonates with them, and that they’ve been through the same thing are moments when I feel immensely contend, yet humbled at the same time.
I should say God is good because the Bible says that God resists the proud. And He’s done that to me all the time. Every time I should be proud and arrogant, He always sends His agents to pull me down the pedestal; and I don’t complain because having nothing to be proud of is excruciatingly grounding. Though painful at times, I know He has my best interest at heart and so all I can do is say “thank you, Big Man” and go on living.
Like this one time I was invited to an open mic session. I thought I was really being clever by coming up with a hilarious poem to read; basically because our session was at the very end of a long day of activity and all I wanted was to engage the crowd. I felt we had real connection, and I went back to my seat fully satisfied. Until the next person stood up and insinuated that whatever I had just done was “narcissistic.” To be honest, I laughed at that word, amused that it was the first time I had ever been called that and it was all too new to me. Then I saw the face of the guest speaker who had flown in from outside the state. The way the guest speaker looked at me- I don’t know if it was me, but I believe I read people quite well- as if the word “narcissist” was anything else but amusing; as if I should be offended or feel small or feel the exact opposite of whatever self satisfaction I was basking in at the moment; and because I have the utmost respect for this person on the stage I wouldn’t allow myself to think of the term as nothing but said in the right spirit or humor. Every time I remember this moment, or the word reminds me of this incident, I tell myself that it was the interpretation of the guest speaker and nothing else.
But that has made me reflect a lot about my writing. To be honest, I haven’t written as much as I used to for quite a while now. Even though I’ve been extremely busy, I had always had the time to write or had always managed to find the time to write. I did write some, but not to the extent of what I was used to. I’ve contemplated a lot; and went through re-reading re- rereading and made several attempts at re-writing many because I didn’t want to appear “narcissistic.” I want what I write to be relatable, to be approachable, to be simple and engaging. Not something that sends people away. Not something that builds walls between us. And I know there’s a long way for me to reach that milestone; loads of hours still required to hone myself up; loads of exercises to take to get there. But all I wanted was to stop being “narcissistic.”
I’ve looked up various sites on the web to see if I’ve understood the term correctly. Yes, a narcissist is someone with an inflated sense of the self. True with me. An excessive need for admiration. Excessive? Who doesn’t need admiration? But excessive? Disregard for others’ feelings? I picked to read something so the audience wouldn’t be bored. An inability to handle any criticism. Like I am self-assessing over it as I’m doing right now?
For a long time I’ve thought about it. And the more I’ve thought about it, the more assured I’ve become of one thing. Yes. I am a confessional writer and that makes me a narcissist, right? I write about me, about my life, my experiences, my sorrows and joys and fears and doubts and heartaches and pains and hopes and dreams. I rarely write about my neighbour’s fears and doubts and dreams and ambitions. Or what my best friend feels about her husband or her husband about her. Why? Because my relationship with writing is this. Writing about what I know. I can’t ever pretend when I write because that’d be making a total fool of oneself and who in the sanest mind would want to appear like a fool? I write because there are so many things that spoken words fail to convey; there are so many things left to talk with people I treasure and because we just don’t have the time to talk, I talk to them through my writings. Or at least, pretend to. There are things that can’t be said exactly as they are because it’s not acceptable according civilized code and thus I write however I want to and get it out. In that way, writing is a sieve to me. I write because I needed space to vent out; to go on uninterrupted and not worry about who’s paying attention to it or who’s not. I write because writing is a pivotal part of me and I can write in the only way I know. Just as I can laugh in the only way I know or as a dog barks just as it is created to.
Do I want to be heard? Yes. Do I want people to read what I write? Yes. Do I want to make an impact through my writing? Of course, that’d be awesome.
But what if no one reads me? What if no one cares about what I write? Will I still write?
YES! How can I let go of a part of me just because it’s not appreciated by others?
Because of what writing is to me, I agree that it is a narcissistic act on my part. To all who has taken writing as a serious business and to anyone I have offended with my way of writing, I here apologize with all my heart. It never is my intention to cross anyone serious with writing because of my whimsical outpourings. I’m just sorry that writing has meant differently for us. But I also want to make my point saying that despite the content of my writing, I’ve never made fun out of writing. I have the utmost respect of writing as an art-form. And because of the sanctuary that writing has been to me, I never ever will disrespect it in anyway. This is to confirm that I can only be true to writing in the way I know it and sadly, it also entails that I can only write narcissistic things. Forgive me, but I can’t write anything else outside my conviction or belief.
But it’s really humbling to know that I’ll always have this thought nagging at me from the back of my head, despite all my self-assurances, that I’ve been insinuated as a narcissistic writer and had received a look of pity from a celebrated writer because of that.

The Crash pt. I

It is pitch black. The air suffocates.
The sound of the engine has stopped.
It is eerily silent; no, there are voices coming from afar. The darkness overwhelms.

Where am I? Where are the others? What has happened?

The warmth of the night air seems to breathe in through the neck, crawling its way down the chest and to the feet that felt numbed. The front light of the vehicle is fixated at a brown object that looks like a beaten-up pulp.

Perhaps we had ran off the road and hit a tree.
How far are we from the main road? Is the tree before us blocking our fall further? Can I get out of the vehicle?

I try to move in the darkness. My neck is sore. As I sit up, I am aware of thick, warm fluid flowing down from the left side of my head. At the same time, I can feel the woman sitting beside me turn towards me.

So I’ve hit my head somewhere.

The smell of my warm blood fills my nose which leads me to the realization that my nostrills are caked dry. Without another thought, I dig my little finger inside my right nostril.
“Are you awake?” my fellow passenger asks me, a note of worry in her high pitched voice. I turn to her, finger still in the nostril. There is a look of horror in her eyes as we face each other.

Oh. I’m more hurt than I think I am…she looks scared of whatever she’s seeing.

I can hear the muffled sound of the girl at the back seat weeping in distress.

“Am I bleeding much?” I ask her, while looking at the wax my little finger has dug out from my nostril. The wax is broken into tiny scraps on the finger, and I realize that it is the crust of my congealed blood. As I speak, I can also smell my blood inside my mouth.

“Lie down, darling,” she says to me, moving sideways so I can have more space. She helps me lie down on the seat.

“I might have internal bleeding as well,” I tell her, as I make myself comfortable on the seat. “There’s blood in my mouth.”

“Let me see you,” says the girl at the back, leaning in from the back seat. I see the cut on the bridge of her nose, and as our eyes meet, I see her fear which makes me feel pity for her.

She’ll be having an ugly scar the rest of her life, poor girl.

“Oh, is she worse than me? Is she?” she begins to wail.

“Don’t worry, we’ll all be fine,” someone tells her.

I take a deep breath, listening. I try to put pieces of the night together but my mind isn’t working. I can hear a raspy breathing coming from the front seat and someone’s faint voice outside, saying, “No, she has woken up just now.”

Oh, I must’ve passed out for quite a time.

“Are you feeling better?” the woman beside me is asking someone. “I can breathe better, but I’m still stuck,” she is being replied to.

It’s the driver, he’s hurt as well.

“Where’s the vai passenger we picked up on the way?” someone from the back seat asks.

“That zawngsen ran off,” replies the driver. “Typical.”

I want to ask so many things, but I have no energy. My eyeballs feel dry as sand. The smell of my fresh blood is sickening. I dig my nostrils clean of congealed blood.

“Do you want to drink water?” someone asks me.

“No, there’s blood in her mouth. She might be bleeding inside,” someone else says.

I cough, and there’s a worried silence. “I’m fine. No blood spurting,” I report to whoever care. “I’d really like to drink water, though.”

“Best not to,” the driver says from the front seat, in a raspy voice.

“Best you don’t talk either,” I say to him, and the ridiculousness of our exchange make all of us break into laughter.

“Are you two going to argue, out of all of us here?” the woman beside me laughs.

“Let’s leave them behind to argue,” someone says, and we all laugh again.

“There are two sumos coming our way, they’re telling us to wait for them,” the same voice I had heard just a minute ago says, sounding much nearer now. “Might be another hour or two.”

The girl at the back seat breaks down again. “Why can’t it be sooner? I can’t wait for that long. I’m bleeding and I’m in pain.”

No one speaks. There’s silence for sometime till the driver speaks up. “There’s biscuits at the front if you’re hungry.”

“I’m just warm, not hungry,” someone replies him with.

“Ahhhh…..it was just a split second!” the driver sounds sorrowful.

“It’s okay,” the woman beside me comforts him, which is to little effect as the girl begins to wail again.

I ignore the irritation that creeps in my mind at her constant wailing. Her face is ruined forever, I tell myself.

Cheers!

Today at a small class of barely over thirty pupils I spoke about mental health and positivity. Prompted by the knowledge that my stint as a sub- teacher is almost over, I took liberty of the extra few minutes after the lessons to deliberate on things that have been close to my heart for sometime now.

I began with how important words are; how they can build or break and why choosing our words carefully is a must.

Then I proceeded to talk to them about survival; how, even when everything feels wrong we should never give up on life for once we are past that phase, we learn that life does go on. I talked a bit about myself; about the state that I had been in once and how low I had been during those years; how I’d felt worthless and devoid of hope but how, after all those bleak phases in life, things have changed for me. I told the class how happy I am now; how, despite letting go I’ve grown and am now at the place I’d never thought I would be.

And then the class did something I never expected.

They clapped for me.

At first, I was taken aback. Because it was totally out of the blue, I couldn’t comprehend what was taking place. The first thought that crossed my mind was: are they making fun of me? But then I looked at their faces. I could see that they weren’t.

But I didn’t know how to react; so my first instinct was to continue. I told them of my wish that none of them be where I had been in life, wished them well, and left the class.

It dawned on me only much later while walking homewards that what the class had done for me was the sweetest gesture that a class of students had ever done for me. The fact that they actually clapped at my survival story suddenly hit me hard.

Everybody’s survival story needs to be cheered on. Every survivor needs to be appreciated. Every story needs to be told.

I never will forget what had happened to me today. Someday this memory might grow old and allow for those young and eager faces to grow dim, but my heart will forever cherish them.

I dedicate this little write-up to the boys and girls of the Combined Elective Class. Little did I know that they would change my life this way. I hope somehow, I had changed theirs too.

Cheers to life!

Ka Hmingin Min Ko

Zirtirtu thlah chhungkuaa piang kan nih avangin kan chhungkaw inhmuhkhawmnaah hian zirtirna leh zirtir dan chungchang titi a tel lo thei lova. Chung atrang chuan aniang e, hming inhriatsak hlut zia hi ka rilruah a bet nghet hle a. Ka theih ang tawkin mi hming hriatsak hi ka tum thrin a; ka tum em vang a ni bawk ang chu, vawi tam tak mi hming koh sual ka nei tawh a, zak taka awm chang ka ngah tawh hle. Chu lam erawh kan sawi dawn lo.

Hei chen lei ka rah ve hnuah hming inhriat sak hlut zia hi a takin ka tawng ve a. A hretu in a ti hlu a ni e, ti dawn ila a sual thui lo khawp ang. Ka thrianpa pakhat chuan min sawi nep sak khawp a; “Hre lo chi pawh ni suh,” min tih sak a. A thusawi chuan dikna thui tak a nei tih hre mah ila, a lawmawm dan a ti nep chuang lo a ni.

Pathianni chawhnu a ni a; ruahmanna angin engkim a kal tluang a. Gospel Concert pawh a zo ta. Zah loh theihna zawng zawng sawm khawmin, stage-ah chuan kan mi sawmte chibai turin kan han lawn chho ve a. Ava han hrehawm tak em! Chibai chak si, hreh si khawvel kha!

Mahse he mihring hi a lo mak thei khawp a; Sam ziaktu in a lo sawi angin, hlauhawm tak leh mak taka siam ni ta réng chuan kan huphurh em em pawh min paltlang tir mai thrin a. A rei lem lo; chibai a ni mai. Mahse trum danga ngaihsante chibai laia eng ang chiaha kut nem leh nem lo nge a nih chu ka ngaihtuah hman lo. Rilruah a leng tawh lo a ni ber ang chu.

Chung hnua hruaitute nena thla la ho tura an intlar chu keini stage-a ding tawh lo tam tak zingah, ka hming ngei chuan min rawn ko ta:

“Sawmte, thla min lo lak sak thei em?”

Ngaihtuah let ringawt pawhin ka tha a la khur theiin ka hria.

Stage hmalamah chuan lo pheiin, a phone chu ka ban phakah min rawn pe a. Aih, tih theihna hun leh hmun a ni lo. Kha iphone kha a rit ve hrim hrim nge, a case dum kha rit zawk pawh ka hrethiam lo.

A phone number min petu leh min duhsaktute’n “Trang viau rawh aw,” an tih chu hnai lo tak a ni. Kaha se, a ni deuh top mai.

Kum in min chaldelh ve viau tawh aniang a, tha khur leh zam em em ka tawng khat ta viau. Mahse hemi ni hi chuan ka pianpui zia ang rengin ka tha a khur zawih zawih. Ava han hrehawm tak! Stage-ah an ding tlar thrap tawh a, ka lam en in an inring thrap tawh. Kei lah phone lek khur zawih zawih chu sawi loh, focus ka la adjust thei miah lo zui! A hrehawm pawh a ni tawh lo, khúk bo mai duhna khan min bual thlan hluah tawh ber mai!

“A fiah loh pawhin min hrethiam r’u aw,” tiin ka au chhuak hialin ka hria. A lo va’n atthlak tak!!! Ka hmet a, ka hmet leh a, ka hmet leh a. Tichuan thla pawh kan la dun nual a. Ka phone-ah erawh kan la loa, pawi ka ti hnuhnawh hle mai. Ka neih ve chhun lah naute’n “I va in la baby ve,” emaw, “I va nui happy lo ve,” “Hei aia nuih nasat zawk tur asin le!” min la tih sak nawk zui!

Engpawh ni se, ka rilrua tla na ta em em chu hei hi a ni. Kan mihring puite’n kan hming an hriat pawh heti taka kan lawm pui a nih chuan, lei leh van siamtu Pathianin kan hming a hria hi kan lawmna tur ava sang nasa tak em! “Hlau suh u, ka tlan tawh che u hi; in hmingin ka ko che u a, ka ta in ni asin” (Is. 43: 1b) tia sawitu engkimtithei Pathian chuan kan hming chauh ni lovin, kan sam zai zat thlengin min hria a. Nu pum chhunga siam kan nih hma atrangin min lo hre tawh a (Jer. 1: 4-5), kan beiseina turin kan thratna min ngaihtuah sak a (Jer. 29:11). Pathianin min hriat chian zia a ngaihtuah chuan Sam phuahtu chuan, “Chuti kauva hriatna chu ka tan a mak lutuk a; a sang em a, ka phak lo a ni” (Sam 139: 6) tiin a lo sawi hial a nih kha.

Damchhung nitin khawsaknaah thil chi hrang hrangin min bawm vel a. Kan ngaihhlut leh ngaihsak thilte’n kan hlutna min theihnghilh tir fo thrin. Kan nundan phung avangin rualawhna nunah kan lut a, kan hmuh theih thilte avangin kan hmuh theih loh thilte kan theihnghilh fo. Chung karah chuan Pathianin min hriat chian zia hi hai a awl em em a lo ni.

Hlutna nei ta lova inhriat avangin kan beiseina bo ta in kan inngai a, mahni hlutna zawngin kan thiam danin khawvel thil zingah kan in zawng a. Kan hmuhte’n min daih rei si lo.

Krista thisena lei mihringte hlutzia kan inhrilh nawn fo hi a lo va han pawimawh tak em! Chumi bakah kan nuna Pathianin a dah te hnenah an hlutzia hriattir turin, an hming chauh ni lovin anmahni kan hrechiang a, kan ngaihsak tak zet a ni tih hriattir thei ila chuan mi nunah danglamna tam tak kan siamsak theiin a rinawm a ni.

Meeting An Unlikely Angel

Something happened to me today as I was walking homewards from the main market that reminded me, totally unrelated though, of an episode I had watched on Oprah many years ago where she had an interview with Ashley Smith, the author of An Unlikely Angel. On that particular talk show, Ashley Smith talked about how she was able to save herself from the man who was holding her hostage and how the circumstances that followed the ordeal brought her to write the book.

Well, what happened to me that triggered the memory into being had no connection at all to Smith’s experience or the book she had written or The Purpose Driven Life that she had been reading during her encounter with the man who held her hostage. It was the title of the book, An Unlikely Angel.

Wearing my purple windcheater, homebound under the rain that had softened to a drizzle, a traffic policeman rode past me. He was mumbling something to me and it took me a second to register what he was saying:

“I’m going upto Dinthar, do you want a ride?”

My first reaction was: who are you? I don’t know you! But I managed a smile and said, “No, I’m walking upto Vaivakawn; thank you!”

The traffic policeman, covered in his raincoat that had an official Traffic written on the back rode down the little slope and stood on the small landing by the flight of steps I would be taking. He was adjusting the foot pegs and I realized that he was waiting for me. I tried to walk past him, but he said, “Hop on, you can ride halfway. Better than walking under the rain.”

I am a firm believer of many things. Among them, I believe that one should accept any kind of actions done out of goodwill. Although I desperately wanted to walk because I had been missing too much of my morning walks these days, I couldn’t relent the goodwill of the policeman and so off we went, from the little lane above the Dawrpui Church towards the junction by the Dawrpui Primary School.

“Are you going home to Dinthar?” I asked.

“No; there’s a landslide that has blocked the road to RTP Peng. I have been summoned to divert the traffic from Dinthar. Are you on your way home?”

We chatted throughout the short ride; me at the pillion wondering why this policeman on the wheels stopped and insisted to give me a ride all the while. I got off at the junction, grateful to the core, thanking him for the ride and wishing him to have fun at the duty.

Who was he, I probably will never know. And he would never know who I was as well because we didn’t see each other’s faces properly at all. I didn’t ask him anything that would give me an information or two about him either. That was when Ashley Smith’s unlikely angel came to my mind. That I met an unlikely angel on my way home who showed kindness to a random citizen walking under the rain.

To anyone who might think of our actions anything but, let me argue my case that I had considered everything as well. If I hadn’t trusted that policeman, I’d lie my way out. But I didn’t. As he stood there on the little landing, I knew that I should take the offer. And I did so.

What touched me is not the ride on the traffic policeman’s bike. No, I didn’t need the ride at all. But what touched me is the thought behind the offer for a ride. That he stopped for someone who said, “No” to his initial invite and actually wiped the pillion seat dry while waiting for me.

There’d been times I’ve been totally disillusioned by institutions and unwritten rules and codes we abide by; times when I lost my faith in power structures and hierarchies. And being someone who had given up her zest for life a lifetime ago, there’ve been things that have taken place in my life that have made me grateful that I’ve chosen life. Like this kindness and thoughtfulness of this traffic policeman who offered and insisted to give the ride and wiped the seat dry for me. I’d like to believe that this wasn’t his first time offering a ride to a random citizen, and I hope that this wouldn’t be his last.

As I walked on, I thought that I should’ve thanked him more profusely or tell him that I was grateful in better words. I suddenly felt my “Thank you very much” quite insufficient. Yet what was done was done. All I could do was tell the Old Man upstairs just how grateful I was because of the policeman who had been kind enough to offer me a ride.

I hope that his kindness and thoughtfulness towards me would warm him somehow as he stands under the rain, diverting the traffic in our tiny little landslide-prone capital. I hope that more people will be touched by his kindness and thoughfulness and that somehow, all these will come full circle for him so that he will be repaid to the full not only in the lifetime that is to come, but in this very lifetime as well.

I’ve never been more blessed to meet this unlikely angel. I hope I can be one too, and many more times as well.