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)

We Sing As The Days Go By

Upward, upstream and uphill we go
Braving the scorch and the wind;
With each climb our limbs strengthen
And our hearts, skilled with each fall.

We sing as the days go by;
Casting old worries aside, we make peace
With ourselves and the world
For soon will our feet be washed by eternity’s genesis.

There, at the shading shed overlooking the lake
We contemplate on our journey made;
Stories that line our faces deepen,
With the setting of the evening sun.

We will stay for the night, to rest
And dream of younger days;
When words were puzzles and riddles,
And love, an embittering enigma.

For when we wake to the new day,
We will rise with the dawn, knowing
How time has changed everything
And placed all things to perfection.

Note: My ancestors believed that upon death, the soul crosses ‘Rih’ lake and reaches ‘Hringlang Tlang’, a hill from where the soul can see the mortal folk. Here on this hill is an enchanted spring, whose ‘lunglo tui’ waters cause oblivion; ensuing the soul to forget its memories. Once the soul is captivated by ‘hawilo par,’ a magical flower that prevents the soul from looking back, the soul is finally freed to enter into ‘pialral,’ or heaven.

This poem is about growing old and coming to terms with life in all its surprises and bafflements; to accept and let go; to forgive and to heal for once our journey is over, all that really matters is peace.

March Moon

March Moon rises behind Cannon-hill
Seeped in rusty blush from the season’s burn;
Curious eyes in wonder still its sight
Wagging tongues its beauty enunciate.

Comes quarter to midnight, and March Moon
Basks in its ivory splendour overhead.
From its heavenly seat it beams,
While the world under its radiance sleeps.

And sleep we shall, under the dying March Moon
Our precious shut-eyes to depart
From shifting notions of rights and wrongs,
Benumbed by our obsessive interests in the selves.

Tainted March Moon from our embers:
A testament of our adulterated intellect,
Where faith and customs assimilate
Into a perfect decree of void.

Yet we lull ourselves to sleep so dear
While voices are silenced and arts contained
While masculinity and effeminacy tread on thin lines
While we all are victims of socio-political experiments.

Just like rusty March Moon, so are we
Corroded in our proximities; dulled to senselessness;
All the more apt, in our slumberous state
To claim our beauty in our moribund frames.

Vigilant shoots rising from the mire,
Like March Moon climbing the spire
Surely shall their glory attain in ivory
Once distanced from the drowsing fire.

Take Me With You

To the rolling mountains of green
Where the earth converses with the sky
Take me with you
If only for one moment in time;
Let me watch the blazing sunset
Colour your youthful face
Let me still you in my mind
To keep you till my last breath:
Take me with you
As you become one with Nature
Freed from all pressures,
Let me see you bare your soul to her.
For in your eyes, are writ
Of dreams perished under fire
And your mouth is full
Of desires waiting to be spoken.
So take me with you
And let me treasure
A moment in time
Where your youngling heart is freed.

Autumn Letters

Dear B,
If you’d ask me
How I do these days,
I’d tell you that
There’s not a day that doesn’t bring
Thoughts of you;
There’s not a day I don’t think
Of all the things we’d talked about-
More so now, as my only world
Is growing smaller and tighter.
I should’ve listened to you
And uproot myself many moons ago.

Is it too late?

I wish to call you,
And talk with you again
Of these things that’s looming about us
To listen to your calming voice once more
To assure me that all will be well.
But I know that miserly Time
Has never been our friend
And our days and nights
Are never compatible.
I thought you should know
How I feel like such a fool
To finally realize that
The binding noose has tightened
And young saplings of dreams
Have been crushed by the weight of responsibilities.
You would understand if I say,
I feel suffocated in this freedom
Where double standards rule
And etiquettes so easily faked.

I wish to vent myself
So I could rest easy on my solitude
And roam my skies once more,
Without baggages weighing me down.

Am I too late?

When you hear from me,
I count on you, to assure me
That I’m not too late.

Semblances of Love

Why do they always have to end
These wandering hands
Searching for semblances of love
On these two mounts of the chest?

What message do they convey
These soft mounds of flesh,
In sacred whispers to these loving hands
That words and deeds fail to show?

Love is abstract, so we are taught
That can be felt but not seen;
Yet it is only too humane
To want to hold on to the material.

So we look for semblances of love
In things that we believe represent
The concrete for the abstract,
The logical for the illogical.

And as your arms enfold me tonight
I wonder if I am enough to you
Just as I am, with no pretense
To be the semblance of love you look for.

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.

Hands

Held hands.
Tight.
Not about hands being held.
But about how they were being held.
Squeezed.
Tight.
Fingers interlocking,
Fingers unlocking.
Fingers talking skin,
Skin talking skin.

Sweaty palms,
Burning yours;
Bony fingers,
Claiming yours.
Held hands.
Suffocated hands.
Burly hands.
Fingers gripping.
Fingers numbing.

Unheld hands,
Free.
Disbanded fingers,
Carefree.
Dry palms,
Relaxing.
Unheld hands.
Swaying to the wind
Dancing to the beat
Happy unheld hands.
Clean.
Bare,
Unheld hands.

Empty Inboxes and the Search for the Self: A Short Analysis of Kimkimi’s “Inbox”

First of all, this write-up is totally unplanned. I never intended to do any reaction kind of writings but regarding this new video there’ve been things that have triggered me; and with Mona Zote’s words “the things that you have to say, no one can say them for you” resonating in the mind like a chant and a tiny poster of Kim Namjoon’s “Speak Yourself” posted on my mirror, I am here doing what I am doing: analysing the lyrics to Kimkimi’s “Inbox” song.

Before I begin, I want to make myself clear that I haven’t read any of the comments on youtube and since I’m not on fb any more, I know very little except what I’ve seen from a few w/a statuses of my contacts.

Tbh, someone in one of my w/a groups posted the mv and the discussion that followed intrigued me to download and watch it. My first reaction was, “Wow, what a fresh vibe!” I suppose that’s a reaction most kpop enthusiasts would make to the very lively, club- party-ish song. The beat, the rhythm, the neon lights and the dark contrasts, the artist looking like a dream and the solid wardrobes throughout the mv all worked together to me. I envy Kimkimi’s hair; I always wished I had the guts to wear whimsical hair colours and just have fun, but I haven’t really dared.

The lyrics, yes. The song is in English; and because English isn’t our first language, I’m not here to comment on the usage of it except that if it was mine, I wouldn’t bother too much with maintaining rhythmic pattern throughout the song. I find rhythmic patterns congesting and suffocating so for me, free verse is a big thumbs up.

To me, what stood out the most at the initial watch is the progress of the persona in discovering his/er own self as suggested by the song. It didn’t occur to me the first time that the song was about a one-night stand. And it really didn’t matter. For me, the fact that the song ended with the realization of one’s worth was the most important thing. Because life is often cruel and there are reasons to feel worse off everyday; people or events that make us feel undervalued or insignificant. It takes much to realize that you’re so much better without things that you’d once thought were indispensable to your existance; and the song ending with “I’m movin’ on, I’m movin’ on” gives a positive vibe to the whole ambience. To me, the song would have come to a complete circle if it had ended as: “My inbox is empty, but I don’t give a d*mn!” or something to that effect.

What I like about the song is the fact that it talks about a very real, contemporary topic which many experience but do not really talk about. So you go fall hard for this person, and be it a one night stand or whatever, you gave your all but your efforts weren’t well reciprocated. Before you knew it, you are now at the mercy of this person’s attention. Perhaps it’s because I’m empathetic by nature or being disciplined in Literature, I find it difficult to ignore the overwhelming thoughts that form the underlying theme of this song. The feeling of dejection, hoping against hope, wishing that your efforts to score this person would somehow not go vain, expectant of being noticed. And the ache that is being laced by the line “you’re not even my best” seems to be a vain attempt at trying to find reasons to assure the self of the insignificance of this person. There’s nothing to laugh about the pangs of an unloved person; and the development from the dejected state of dependence on this person for self worth to the realization that one can be better without it, is the kind of growth I believe all of us should make in our journey to personal discovery.

And the artist. I love, love, love Kimkimi. To me, she embraces the “Love Yourself” message so completely and I so admire her for that. Life is cruel at times and people are savage most times; especially in this community where we tend to feel better by making fun of others, or by making others feel small and insignificant, Kimkimi stands out as the emancipated woman who has found her voice and who’s not hiding about her feelings any more. She literally had me say, way to go, girl! and I was so so proud of her.

To me, “Inbox” is a song that has taken huge risks in many aspects: but only to mention here the theme of the song and the medium of the song. What a true reflection of our lives in today’s world where real conversations are replaced by virtual ones and where attentions are sought in a virtual world where realities can be can be warped and loyalties questionable. What a true reflection of the shifts in our sensibilities where you give your all to a certain someone in a matter of a night hoping that it would be enough to keep him or her for life.

Hope with me, dear friend, that in such life that has become to us, that we would find real conversations, real relationships, real people to invest our time on rather than on inboxes flooded with messages and emoticons.

May we all find ourselves irrespective of who is to stay and go in our lives.

And because it means much, I hope you have inboxes full of messages and love.

Peace to all!

NB: If you haven’t watched Kimkimi’s video, here’s the link to it

Dear Isa

Today we put to ground
The star that was sent to illumine our hearts,
The joy that was placed among us for a short, short while.

How do we even explain, how
With hearts broken, we love deeper
With tear-rimmed eyes, we see clearer:

That the ground we stood on needed to sway,
That a lighting was needed to strike on our cloudless day,
That a sacrifice was required to wake us from our complacency.

We look at each other, speechless
Searching for answers none of us can provide,
Each of us believing that it could have been otherwise.

And how do we move on with such a loss,
Carrying this gaping hole no one would ever fill?
How do we rise together from this mire,
Knowing that nothing would bring our star to shine again?

How do we find the right words to say,
When they do not even form in our hearts,
When no adverbs can qualify the depth of our sorrow?

And how do we not hear the voice now silent,
In your melodies we all sang together,
In another lifetime that seem too long ago?

Sing to us, of songs that would soothe
These bereft hearts still in daze;
Sing to us so we would gaze heaven-ward,
And find restoration our weary souls are in want of.