tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-89509311970435656702024-03-16T14:46:02.286+05:30Mizo Writings in EnglishZualteii Poontehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03894762926515124116noreply@blogger.comBlogger156125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8950931197043565670.post-66991397503100778692023-11-06T21:31:00.004+05:302023-11-06T21:33:18.558+05:30The State Library – Rosalynd Lallawmsangi<p> </p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"></p><p class="MsoNoSpacing">Last night I looked up suicide hotlines<br />But I didn't call any<br />Instead I stared at the wall<br />While I scratched and choked myself in my delirium;<br />The very previous day I tried to drown.<br />And last night I fell asleep (in the nude)<br />Before I could take off my earphones.<br />I took them off at midnight.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><br />
Today I visited the state library–<br />The same one I've been trying to visit for over a year.<br />To my family, I was going to college as usual<br />And to my college friends, I was sick at home.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br />
Nobody knew me in the library,<br />And I knew nobody.<br />I worked on my assignment (tomorrow is its deadline)<br />And put my phone on 'Do Not Disturb.’</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><br />
My best friend texted me a few 3,500 kilometres away<br />And asked if I was doing okay;<br />It's funny how he always knows when I'm not.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br />
I texted back.<br />We talked about life<br />(Ours and our other friends').<br />I read.<br />I wrote.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">It was the most peace I'd had in a long while<br />Even though I got quite hungry by the end<br />Since I hadn't eaten for hours.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I know I shouldn't make it a habit –<br />It won't do me any good,<br />And I have responsibilities on my shoulders<br />And a 'life' I have to go back to.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing">But tonight I haven't looked up suicide hotlines<br />So I guess the library did me some good.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><br /></p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b><i>Rosalynd Lallawmsangi</i></b>, 19, is a promising young Mizo writer in English. She is presently an English Literature college student, and has already made a name for herself in collegiate literary circles, winning prizes both in poetry and short story writing competitions. We wish her a wonderful writing future.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p><br /><p></p>Zualteii Poontehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03894762926515124116noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8950931197043565670.post-69858079408863130492023-07-22T18:35:00.011+05:302023-07-22T20:16:30.727+05:30Ka Miaw: Adaptation of a Khasi Folktale - Lalramengmawia Khenglawt<p> I<br /><br /><br /><i>(Part I is an imaginative narrative of how humans and cats came to live together)<br /></i><br /><span style="text-align: justify;">Have you ever wondered how we came to live with cats?
The smallest ones at least? How did they become our pets? When hath their
jungle abode they ceased?</span></p><p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: justify;"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: justify;">I should
wager, on whatever measly stores I have left – that cats came to live with us
when we first discovered agriculture. Somewhere probably very long ago, people
might have had no television and were bored; and having not yet invented a
brick wall to stare at, would resort to the vast expanse around them. But with
paint not yet concocted, they would watch others do things equivalent to the
aforementioned drying.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">One person might have chanced upon a
grain seed sprouting. In between clubbing Gork down by the creek and hunting
gazelles, he might have passed by this sproutling over and over, watching it
grow till it ripened and even more grain-bunched about it. Having discovered
fire already, he would have been able to cook this grain and while lying down
after enjoying his rudimentary porridge, he might have pondered upon the pros and
cons of the hunter-gatherer life. He might have thought that maybe, he had
gotten a bit old, and perhaps it was time that humanity settled down. What is
true of man is true of </span><span style="mso-ligatures: none;">mankind. But how
and where? Here was the where. He only needed to tame his surroundings.
Finally, he might have thought to himself, “Hmm, I shall invent civilisation!”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: justify;">And
thus, the beast-slaying lance was bent and reshaped into a sickle; so that
weeds may not hinder the year's yield. Man always changes things to suit him.
He might have cut down some long trees and re-arranged them ever so carefully,
so as to let neither prowling beast nor howling wind in. He would need a place
to store his treasure of grain, of course. He would build it. And from
somewhere deep deep in the jungle surrounding, he might have heard a faint
meow. And closer it comes, all the while lowering in volume. Suddenly, a
squeak! Man's storehouse brought along with it an infestation of vermin, which
brought along with it a peculiar apex predator.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: justify;">Mouth to ear, sound to mind. And then,
eye to eye.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"></p><div style="text-align: justify;">Cautious as its kind, the man takes to the cover of darkness. The cat sees all in the
darkness. The cat is timid – as if acknowledging that it is intruding. The man
has not been used to the idea of home as of yet. This was the first time he
tried living the territorial life. That very night, having secured his food for
the foreseeable future, and having a basic shelter to keep him from all that
wants to harm him, and having a warm body to snuggle with, he might have
thought that he had all that he needed in life. And he would be right.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><br /><o:p></o:p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p> II</o:p></p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p><i>(Part II is the actual adaption of the Khasi story)</i></o:p></p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: justify;">Ka Miaw lived in the jungle with her brother, the tiger.
Her brother was the king of the jungle. And unlike <i>some </i>other 'king of
the jungle', he actually lives in the jungle. The tiger was boastful and vain.
He was also mighty and skilled in battle. With agility unbecoming of his
massive girth, he would dash through the thicket and bring a swift end to
whatever poor thing that may catch his eye that day. A tiger in a jungle is
indeed a marvellous sight! All striped up and camped atop a boulder or a tree,
he would greedily gobble up all his gatherings; leaving nothing for his kith
and kin.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: justify;">Like
every good housekeeper, Ka Miaw would daily check the pantry for food stores.
Deplored was she when she saw that all was empty! She felt it was upon her to
keep up the good name of the family and so, thought to herself to go hunting.
Nightly, she would venture, so as to hide the shame of her family's poverty
from daylight's mockery. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: justify;">Ka Miaw
was formidable in her own right and within her own weight class. While her
brother was loud of mouth, she always listened carefully. In the thicket, she
would keep an ear out for crickets or whatever vermin she may make mincemeat
of. Thus, flanked by the moonlight and only needing it, she kept <span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ligatures: none;">up the dignity of the
house.</span></p><p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: justify;">Now it so happened once,
that the tiger should catch a wandering illness. A great distress! The jungle
folks came in regularly to pay a visit to their ailing chief. According to
custom, it was the duty of the eldest daughter to start the hookah for the
guests. But due to his haste and lack of civility, the unruly tiger roared at
his sister to prepare a smoke immediately. Ashamed and abashed, Ka Miaw lied
that there was no fire in the house. Incensed, the tiger ordered her to set out
for the abode of humans to fetch fire.</p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ligatures: none;">If might makes right in
the jungle, Ka Miaw could only hope that the settlement ahead would have
different standards. The humans were very tall, so much so that she forgot the
greatness of her lineage and crept like a thief in the night. There was so much
movement about and mirth floating around that Ka Miaw felt alienated at first.
But like all cats, she was taken in by curiousity. She had many lives to
spare, after all.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ligatures: none;">The source of the great
crescendo proved to be a bunch of children entrenched in their frolicking.
They seemed to be playing. Something instinctive in Ka Miaw told her so. Play
is so very vital for a thing to grow up and live as much as could be lived. It
is a wonder that it is as of yet to be considered a thing to be pursued and
had. When the children caught a glimpse of the bedazzled Ka Miaw, they took her
before her instincts kicked in and told her to run for the hills! They stroked
her fur gently and they said many things in tolerable tones that made her purr
endlessly. What she would give to know what they were saying!<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ligatures: none;">Then a booming roar
from the jungle reminded her of her task. Her brother had always been harsh of
hand and his uncomfortable disposition did not prevent him from seeking out his
sister in anger. Taking a whiff from the king's hookah was considered to be a
very high honour and all the guests were eagerly anticipating for the
opportunity to indulge in such a luxury. After waiting patiently for a long time,
they had become impatient and left. This set the tiger off on a mighty rage.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ligatures: none;">Ka Miaw quickly snatched
a piece of ember and set out for home. Her brother met her on the way. When
they finally came across one another, the tiger met her with one harsh slap
after another. Thus was the first recorded case of domestic violence in animal
history! Ka Miaw dropped the ember at her brother's feet, which distracted him
for the tiny bit of moment that she needed to escape. She quickly made her way
back to the human settlement where she found the children fractically looking
for her. As she was showered with pettings, she resolved to being their pet in
exchange for clearing their settlement of vermin. She happily accepted to do
the thing she had always been doing; only now for people who loved her
wholeheartedly.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p><br /></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: justify;"><o:p><b>Lalramengmawia Khenglawt</b> who came up with this exquisitely written piece finished his MA in English Literature from Mizoram University and was leader of the Literature Club in his time there. He is an art journalist at Web Studio 8, a website he started up with a good friend. He also does translation works occasionally and worked as an editor at In Lehkha (a local publishing house) for a while. He presently teaches English Literature at Noah's Foundation School in Aizawl.<br /><br />We may also safely assume he's quite a cat person.</o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p><i></i><p></p>Zualteii Poontehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03894762926515124116noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8950931197043565670.post-58686776235159259412023-06-18T18:20:00.002+05:302023-06-18T19:20:23.094+05:30Dear Benny - Cherrie Lalnunziri Chhangte<p>Dear Benny,</p><p class="MsoNormal">
In the two decades that I have looked for you<br />
In the crevices of people’s conversations,<br />
The waves of laughter washing over silken attires,<br />
Between the delicate weaves of myth and history,<br />
Even in the curious song-wail-chant of your nation,<br />
You remained elusive.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">So I contented myself in the remembering -<br />
Two young girls clutching their bellies<br />
Filled to bursting with laughter<br />
At Laitumkhrah, at Nongthymai,<br />
Where in the windowless, dark space of the tiny room you rented,<br />
You introduced me to strange smells and tastes and people<br />
of a place you called home.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I came to that place, you know,<br />
It felt like revisiting an old, familiar place<br />
In a world where we can no longer hide our smallest mis/deeds,<br />
Nobody I asked knew you.<br />
Like the clean, artistic strokes of your lettering<br />
You left no smudges behind.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Tonight, I have finally found you.<br />
Your elusiveness was not by design – not yours;<br />
I piece together your story:<br /><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span>Young<br /> <span> <span> </span><span> </span><span> </span></span>Naïve<br /> <span> </span><span> <span> </span><span> </span></span>Pregnant<br /> <span> </span><span> <span> </span><span> </span></span>Ashamed<br /> <span> </span><span> <span> </span><span> </span></span>Married<br /> Abused<br /> <span> </span>Controlled<br /> <span> </span>Exhausted<br /> <span> </span><span> </span>Cynical.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“Nagaland was not for me,” you said,<br />
All these years it had represented you to me.<br />
You spoke of your greying hair,<br />
The suffocating heat,<br />
Your beautiful children,<br />
Your sister’s appetite,<br />
You told me to be greedy<br />
To live a life you never would.<br />
You briefly showed me your old fire and called him “caveman”<br />
until we giggled like old times.<br />
But he came home, and you abruptly left me<br />
Holding on to a faded picture of two fresh-eyed girls<br />
Laughter ready to bubble over at a moment’s notice,<br /><span style="font-family: inherit;">
Curious about the future.</span><o:p></o:p></p>
<span style="font-size: 11pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I found you,<br />
And I felt I lost you again.<br /></span><br /><br /><br /><b>Dr. Cherrie Lalnunziri Chhangte</b> has made major changes in her life since the last time we posted her works here. She now lives in the US of A with her husband and two lovely daughters. She, however, remains devoted to literature and fortunately for Mizo writing in English, continues to write top-notch poetry and prose. <br /><br /><br /><br />
<!--[if !supportLineBreakNewLine]--><br />
<!--[endif]--></span>Zualteii Poontehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03894762926515124116noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8950931197043565670.post-968056738373684222022-06-12T19:12:00.016+05:302023-06-19T08:43:52.490+05:30The Names of Gods and other poems - rdp ralte<p> </p><p><b>The Names Of Gods<br /><br /></b></p><p>on your walls are gods i do not worship<br />but when you pray<br />i see we pray for the same things</p><p>rain for our fields<br />sun for our flowers<br />deliverance from our sins</p><p>so does it matter<br />if you pray with your palms facing heaven<br />or if i pray with them joined tight close</p><p>when you shake my hand and i shake yours<br />do i ask for the name of your god<br />or you, mine</p><p>between my prayer and yours<br />must we argue<br />which one rises and which one falls</p><p>when we are only men<br />of equal faith and different beliefs<br />travelling myriad roads converging to one soil</p><p>and however different the names<br />of our creator is<br />you and i are one believer</p><p>and the form and shape and name<br />of religion is many, but faith is faith<br />and i hope your prayers are answered</p><p><br /></p><p> ~ ~ ~</p><p><b><br />Six Letter Drink</b></p><p><b><br /></b></p><p>i change my mind every two hours, three on a wednesday<br />my favourite colour goes from red to green like a road signal<br />and i prefer tea to coffee because the first time i was made<br />to spell the word coffee<br />it went something like K-O-F-I<br />it didn't sound funny to me that i spelled out something<br />the way it was pronounced<br />but i can still hear the giggling crowd<br />who were too kind to laugh out loud at the child who<br />couldn't understand things just by looking at the sound.</p><p>so at the height of three foot tall<br />i saw nothing was ever the way it seemed<br />and i learned without being taught<br />that i had to be careful and cautious with the C<br />and i knew without being told that if i didn't want<br />to feel so small<br />i could prefer tea to coffee because hopefully<br />i wouldn't mess up with a three letter drink.</p><p>or i could pretend to love chemistry just to prove<br />that i knew it doesn't spell with a K<br />or i could go back and realize sooner that everything<br />becomes something else when you look closer<br />and prepared myself to be mispronounced and misspelled<br />but nothing could change the fact that i had to go <br />by the book<br />or else i would no longer be the smartest kid in class<br />and people would wonder what went wrong.</p><p>follow your heart, they said, but don't go too far<br />not as far as to rewrite the rules of K and C<br />follow your dreams, they said, but keep track of the<br />economy and dream accordingly<br />they praised my paintings on the weekend but on<br />all the other days<br />they reminded me that by the height of five foot three<br />i should be a doctor with a C. Because that is what<br />success sounds like.</p><p>so at the height of four foot something<br />i traded colour pencils for a book of instructions and formulae<br />and i sold my dreams with all their wings<br />and bought a degree and starbucks coffee<br />but trust me, they smelt like the common sense i lost<br />and the freedom i had never known.</p><p>so at what height of something foot tall<br />will i grow out of a confusion so small<br />and understand the seven letters that make all<br />the difference between Coffee and Kofi<br />and it really was just a small dislocation of the jaws<br />so couldn't you have let me, just for once, bend that small law<br />and hear me spell the way i understand......for god's sake i<br />was three foot shy. that was my cup of kofi<br />and you ruined it for me.<br /><br /></p><p>now i am five foot nothing and you call me deformed<br />because i refuse to conform with your C.</p><p><br /></p><p> ~ ~ ~ </p><p><br /></p><p>my mother prays when she wants to curse<br />and my father jokes when he wants to fall apart<br />and their daughter writes a poem<br />every time she excruciatingly despises life</p><p> ~ ~ ~<br /><br /></p><p>in the culture of my father<br />praise is a flood<br />that drowns a man in his death bed<br />and flowers are language<br />most earnestly spoken at funerals</p><p> ~ ~ ~</p><p><br /></p><p><b>rdp ralte</b> (Rodingpuii) published her first collection of poetry called "Secondhand Scars" in 2019. On the 11th June 2022, she released her second collection titled "Guest of Eden." The four poems here come from the new book. </p><p>It is such a pleasure having an addition to the still very small body of work that is Mizo writing in English.</p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhu_FUs2z9hitnJNSGova6RsM-TwMpftZQtc7amGkIIhshZHX-jDyf4LhwYuMRZzTC9WZ8i1AyW3hqWMoh3dijQCDaTypo-Ug_wVlrlzuUSe0LEhPwt0eHToWoI-q7SrS3cAKwVTcTpG7iUezBpJHypY6oZHtnuYkqPWLxa_MIde0GR6_bYL0I-yJV0/s909/17d8ed24-7322-409d-a125-683663ee8200.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="909" data-original-width="601" height="527" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhu_FUs2z9hitnJNSGova6RsM-TwMpftZQtc7amGkIIhshZHX-jDyf4LhwYuMRZzTC9WZ8i1AyW3hqWMoh3dijQCDaTypo-Ug_wVlrlzuUSe0LEhPwt0eHToWoI-q7SrS3cAKwVTcTpG7iUezBpJHypY6oZHtnuYkqPWLxa_MIde0GR6_bYL0I-yJV0/w349-h527/17d8ed24-7322-409d-a125-683663ee8200.jpg" width="349" /></a></div> <br /><div style="text-align: left;"><i style="text-align: center;"> Cover art: Lalnunsangi Khiangte (rivca)</i></div><div><div><p> </p></div></div>Zualteii Poontehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03894762926515124116noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8950931197043565670.post-32194481056106443472022-01-12T18:58:00.023+05:302023-06-19T08:47:16.069+05:30Songs & Poems - Jeremy Zobiaka (JBa)<p> </p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><u>Hope<o:p></o:p></u></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">In time <br />
I shall find<br />
peace sublime<br />
of a kind that won’t melt<br />
away.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">When the night<br />
and the shadows<br />
and the sight<br />
of tomorrows <br />
fade away.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Now I’m here<br />
and I shelter<br />
my fear<br />
in laughter<br />
and song.<br />
<br />
I’ll bide<br />
my time<br />
till the tide<br />
carries me <br />
home.<br />
(2.9.1974)<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b><u>Queen of the Universe<o:p></o:p></u></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Hate to leave you now<br />
you gave me so much joy<br />
A thousand years of loneliness<br />
is crammed inside my brain<br />
And you<br />
shall remain in the twilight of my vision<br />
and the universe will sing<br />
and babies<br />in crazy crayon cradles <br />
will sing in harmony <br />
for you.<br />
<br />
Undertaker, make me<br />
as pretty as you can<br />
A million times I’ll pay you<br />
in stardust and moonglow<br />
Don’t be sad ‘cause I’m dead<br />
And you<br />
shall remain in the twilight of my vision,<br />
and the universe will sing<br />
and babies<br />in crazy crayon cradles <br />
will sing in harmony <br />
for you.<br />
<br />
Far beyond the future,<br />
I’ll save a place for you<br />
‘cause no one can replace you<br />
and no one else will do.<br />
I’ll form <br />
a constellation and you shall be the Queen.<br />
Queen of the universe<br />
and the universe will sing<br />
and babies<br />in crazy crayon cradles <br />
will sing in harmony <br />
for you.<br />(18.10.1977)</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b><o:p> </o:p></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b><u>Transparent Sea</u></b><br />
<br />
You make me think<br />
of forbidden things,<br />
of hidden desires,<br />
undying fires,<br />
and deep down yearnings<br />
that need releasing.<br />
<br />
So come with me<br />
to the transparent sea<br />
There’s only me on the transparent sea<br />(that's right, baby)<br />
So come with me<br />
to the transparent sea<br />
Come share with me<br />
My transparent sea.<br />
<br />
I’d like to take you<br />
without a crew<br />
on a<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>sailing ship<br />
We’d make a trip<br />
around the world<br />
and let love unfold.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">A thousand nights<br />
of sweet delights<br />
we’d share together<br />
maybe forever<br />
and let all reason<br />
blow with the wind.<br />(20.<sup> </sup>5. 1979)</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b><u>Do It Again<br />
</u></b><br />
Every day the past grows dimmer<br />
Dreams of yesterday fill the mind<br />
and the future makes you shiver<br />
Creeping up to you from behind<br />
and the nights of neon glory<br />
get you thinking about the same old story<br />
Desperation gets you to do it again<br />
You find a reason to do it again.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">And you race towards the glitter<br />
Screening fantasies in your head<br />
Soon you will find the taste is bitter<br />
But you’ve got to carry on or you’re dead<br />
when you reach the end of the line<br />
But desperation gets you to do it again<br />
You find yourself a reason to do it again.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">When everything is over<br />
You’re back to where it started<br />
You dream of friends and lovers<br />
and desperation gets you to do it again<br />
You find yourself a reason and do it again.<br />(20.2.1981)</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b><u>Endless Journey<o:p></o:p></u></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Loneliness<br />
is a never-ending road<br />
The carpet in the middle<br />
keeps leading me on.<br />
I see a rainbow in the horizon<br />
it never seems to fade<br />
And the wind whispers softly<br />
of a long dead serenade.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Silence <br />
is an engine<br />
a thousand years old.<br />
Friends are so far away<br />
Lovers dead and gone.<br />
Roses by the roadside<br />
turn their faces away<br />
as the beams of sunset<br />
turn to pieces of gold.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Happiness<br />
is a million miles away.<br />
Even the fastest horses<br />
won’t ever get me there.<br />
But to stop is an aimless notion<br />
For the carpet in the middle<br />
of the road and my emotions<br />
won’t set me free.<br />
And this lonely endless journey<br />
will last an eternity.<br />(5.3 1984)</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b><u>One in Jesus<br />
</u></b><br />
Crossed the night<br />
Driving free<br />
On highway fifty three<br />
Morning light<br />
came at four<br />
with pedals to the floor.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Thirty nine souls<br />
heading for home<br />
one in the body of Jesus<br />
Happy to be<br />
Servants of God<br />
one in the Church of God.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Dear Father<br />
which art in heaven<br />
Hallowed be thy name<br />
Thy kingdom come<br />
Thy will be done<br />
On earth as it is heaven.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Weeping sky<br />
Through the day<br />
I close my eyes to pray<br />
Cool and dry<br />
Through the door<br />
To highway fifty four.<br />
Overdrive<br />
to the hill<br />
At the wheel was Buffalo Bill<br />
Praise the Lord<br />
We’re still alive<br />
on highway fifty four!<br />(8.5.1993)</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b style="font-style: italic;">Jeremy Zobiaka, </b>or<b style="font-style: italic;"> JB</b>, as he was better known, is legendary as Mizoram’s most iconic rock music performer. As
an influential early figure in contemporary Mizo pop culture, I believe
it necessary here to establish his place in history.<br />
<br /></p><div style="text-align: justify;"><u><b>Life and Music</b></u>: Born on the 18<sup>th</sup> April 1953, <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>JB received a solid school education at Dr. Graham’s Homes in Kalimpong where he picked up a fluency in English that was to give him a distinct edge later in life. He then began studying medicine in
Ahmednagar as his family wanted but, as he later put it in a letter to
an old school friend, <i>“the Flower Children had reached India and the Hippie
movement had started. I got caught up in the initial love and drugs culture of
the movement and my studies were shot to pieces.”</i> He continues, <i>“I was lucky. I
came back to Shillong, converted to Arts classes, swallowed my remaining pills
and switched over to drinks.” </i><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<br /><div style="text-align: justify;">In 1972, he
joined a local band the Young Generation and jumped headlong into the rock and roll
scene in Aizawl which was just starting out. It was an especially good time for
the Mizo rock music scene because in the early to mid-70s, government
authorities were very keen to divert the attention of young people away from
the ongoing insurgency movement of the Mizo National Front which had started in the
mid-60s and lured many young men into going underground. In an all-out effort to woo
the younger generation, in December 1975 the Mizoram government organized a
Winter Festival whose main attraction was a Beat and Music Contest. The event
was taken up by the Information and Publicity department, fronted by the indefatigable
<b>Pu R.L. Thanzawna</b> who shared a wonderful rapport with young people. And in as
much as was possible in those pre-social media, pre-television days, the Beat
Contest was extensively hyped in the double-sided, one-paged print media. It was
at this event that JB with his rock star stage presence, gifted voice, long hair and imposing height, really
exploded into celebrityhood as he and his new band Creation Flame rocked the young
milling crowd with Led Zeppelin’s <i>“Black Dog,”</i> The Who’s <i>“See Me, Feel Me”</i> etc.
A star was born, the likes not seen or heard since in these parts.</div><o:p></o:p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"></p><div style="text-align: justify;">Besides his passion for music, JB had good writing skills as
well, writing and singing his own songs with his later bands, Crimson Dust, Exodus,
Otto Band, JB & Friends etc. After several years of hard living in the way
of all rock bands, and subsequently plagued by health issues, JB found God and
salvation in 1991.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The experience led
him to write twenty three deeply personal gospel songs in English and seven in
Mizo. He recorded a number of these songs in a studio album titled <i><b>Salvation to
Everyone</b></i> which is both a blessing and something of a bane, because it
is the only audio documentation available today of his singing voice, and something
of a bane because most 30 to 40 somethings today remember him as a mellow gospel
singer with his easy listening, country-inflected English songs while the older
generation remembers him as a rock performer par excellence who enthralled Northeast audiences with rock standards like <i>Satisfaction</i>, <i>Honky Tonk Women</i> etc.</div>
<br />On the 16<sup>th</sup> August 1999, this multi-talented man passed away at
the young age of 46. <o:p></o:p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"></p><div style="text-align: justify;"><u><b>Songs and Poetry</b></u>: JB is featured on this blog thanks
to his song writing skills. In 2000, his wife Pi Ngurthankhumi published his songs in a
book called <i>JBa Damlai Sulhnu</i> <i>(Selected Songs & Sketches)</i> with 151 songs,
14 in Mizo and the rest in English. I am deeply thankful to her for graciously
presenting me with a copy of the book and would love to see the book reprinted
as many people have expressed interest in getting hold of it.</div><br /><div style="text-align: justify;">What blew my mind
as I began reading it is the realization that JB started writing his songs and
poetry in 1969 which effectively makes him one of the, if not <i><b>the</b></i>, earliest Mizo
writers in English. His writing career spanned 28 years (1969 to 1997) and
while the melodies of some of these compositions are perhaps now forgotten, it
must be noted that JB essentially wrote them as songs, composing them with his guitar
which he always had by his bedside. His wife speaks of how he would sometimes wake
from deep sleep in the middle of the night, reach for the pen and paper tucked
under his pillow, and write. His writings seem effortless and come straight from
the heart. I have included six song poems here in chronological order and hope they evoke an
interest among the younger generation in re-discovering this authentic homegrown cultural icon.</div><o:p></o:p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjzsuwc7Ui4kWF9B766OwALtsSCQmzueZpSPrHbkYKl7LlUr35qX_QSWkgBxks1Vrqeya7C-L26E3oFZSnMp2LQaAIQJTMBL23MXxggrt098SDtVxyS9lNR-mFnef0-mSopwx-sch-9lgMhXE0wL00r6_i-CPlbNNI-Hn2DWgqUrebsmwkRC_ZXjqZV=s681" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="572" data-original-width="681" height="336" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjzsuwc7Ui4kWF9B766OwALtsSCQmzueZpSPrHbkYKl7LlUr35qX_QSWkgBxks1Vrqeya7C-L26E3oFZSnMp2LQaAIQJTMBL23MXxggrt098SDtVxyS9lNR-mFnef0-mSopwx-sch-9lgMhXE0wL00r6_i-CPlbNNI-Hn2DWgqUrebsmwkRC_ZXjqZV=w400-h336" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><p></p>Some YouTube links -<br />1. <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IPdP2UKSgRc" target="_blank">Glory to the Father - JBa</a><br />2. <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WP_BzeUn4Bg" target="_blank">Salvation to Everyone - JBa</a><br />3. <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2Lv1wBUVQH4" target="_blank">Free at Last - JBa</a><br />4. <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gm7gY1EEeuI" target="_blank">Transparent Sea - Daphne London</a><br />5. <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_BJ9ESOIKY4&t=606s" target="_blank">Interview with Pi Nguri</a><br />6. <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=S1LXPSyH5io" target="_blank">Queen of the Universe - F. Sanglura</a><p></p>Zualteii Poontehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03894762926515124116noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8950931197043565670.post-53160611253541151912022-01-12T14:11:00.003+05:302022-01-14T13:24:13.594+05:30How to Enter a New Year - Ben Zongte<div class="kvgmc6g5 cxmmr5t8 oygrvhab hcukyx3x c1et5uql ii04i59q" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-size: 15px; margin: 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; white-space: pre-wrap;"><div dir="auto"><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit;">
To begin a new year, you must first be empty.<br />So when you enter, your feet will be light. <br />Then, you must plant your feet, on the soil where the Chrysanthemum once flourished. <br />Allow yourself to marvel there — at the thought <br />that come autumn, they will flower again.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit;">This is how you draw fresh hope. That while your dreams from last year slowly decay,
there are new ones buried beneath the ground. <br />And come autumn, they will all be yours.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><i><b>Ben Zongte</b></i> is a writer who has been featured here a number of times before. In this new poem here, his trademark elegance of style and thought has a cadence that is both dignified and stately. </span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></p><span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span></div></div><div class="cxmmr5t8 oygrvhab hcukyx3x c1et5uql o9v6fnle ii04i59q" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: "Segoe UI Historic", "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; white-space: pre-wrap;"><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;">
</div></div>Zualteii Poontehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03894762926515124116noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8950931197043565670.post-66002742309177122922021-09-06T14:56:00.002+05:302021-09-06T14:58:30.579+05:30Poems - Bazik Thlana<p> </p><p class="MsoNormal"><b>An Eye-Identity</b><br /><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">the human eyes are the windows to his soul<br />a window for looking in, looking out and illumination<br />the windows to my soul are framed by small and narrow panes;<br />polite passers-by in Delhi have sometimes asked me if I
could see clearly through them<br />i stare at the mirror and fake a smile:<br />my eyes tell a different tale.<br />i wonder if anyone would notice,<br />i’m hoping someone would<br />i hope they’d take a peek and see what’s inside</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"> <br />i make my way outside<br />i’m called a Chink- a reference to my eyes i suppose<br />i take it in stride<br />i’m still faking that smile but i’m tearing up again<br />damn these eyes!<br />did anyone see?<br />they never do.<br />nobody peers through the window when they judge it by the
panes</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"> they gaze,<br />they stare,<br />they pre-suppose<br />yet again my entity has been summed up by my eye-dentity</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"> <br />a Chink- a flaw in the armour of unified India?<br />a chink in the chain of uniformity?<br />i’m taking it back<br />a Chink- it’s narrow and slanted: it’ll do to let the light
in<br />if only they’d look in.<br /><br /><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b>Presence in Absence</b></p><p class="MsoNormal">Presence in absence<br />Absence in Presence<br />Remnants of old and new<br />Some lost, some given away<br />Some abandoned and some outgrown<br />An attempt to capture and preserve them<br />In jars and photographs and marks<br />With brushes and ink<br />Memories hanging by a thread<br />The void is not always empty<br />The missing are not always missed<br />The missed are not always missing.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"> </p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><i>Bazik Thlana </i></b>is a Mizo artist who describes himself as "<span face="Roboto, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: #f9f9f9; color: #030303; font-size: 14px; letter-spacing: 0.2px; white-space: pre-wrap;">a socially conscious eccentric - owning a conscious refusal of a centrally-defined axis as well as an unconventionality to his practice." He is currently doing his Ph.D. in visual arts at JNU in New Delhi. For further insight into his art and writings, check out his <a href="https://bazikart.wordpress.com/">blog here</a>.
<i>An Eye-Identity</i> was co-written with a Mizo friend of his, Sallie Chianghnuna, who also lives and works in Delhi.
Deep gratitude to Thlana for allowing me to post these here, particularly An Eye-Identity which all North-Easterners can completely relate to.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>Zualteii Poontehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03894762926515124116noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8950931197043565670.post-66292105939364308412021-05-13T13:09:00.007+05:302021-05-13T13:13:22.767+05:30The Weight - Sanga Says<p> </p><div class="o9v6fnle cxmmr5t8 oygrvhab hcukyx3x c1et5uql ii04i59q" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-size: 15px; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; white-space: pre-wrap;"><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: inherit;">There are two presences
</span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: inherit;">The tangible and the intangible
</span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: inherit;">And the weight of either vary
</span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Upon those caught in its gravity
</span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Here in hospitals rooms and corridors
</span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Spilling out to the wailing, breathless streets
</span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: inherit;">To the crematoriums of fire and water
</span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Ashes dissolve into holy rivers
</span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: inherit;">My country, in crimson ember,
</span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Flickers between two presences
</span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: inherit;">And the weight
</span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: inherit;">The weight... </span></div><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></div><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;">
<b><i>Sanga Says</i></b> or <b>Lalnunsanga Ralte</b>, has been regularly featured here being one of our most well-known Mizo poets in English. This is his take on the Covid situation in India, the disaster of apocalyptic proportions that has left us all reeling.</div><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></div><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></div><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></div></div>Zualteii Poontehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03894762926515124116noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8950931197043565670.post-76043702753158775892021-05-12T12:06:00.004+05:302021-05-12T12:06:57.878+05:307 a.m. – Lalrinsangi Nghinglova<p><span style="font-size: 12pt;">7 a.m. <br /></span><span style="font-size: 12pt;">it has become<br /></span><span style="font-size: 12pt;">a habit of sorts<br /></span><span style="font-size: 12pt;">to wait<br /></span><span style="font-size: 12pt;">with bated breath<br /></span><span style="font-size: 12pt;">for 7 a.m.<br /></span><span style="font-size: 12pt;">The hour that tells
you<br /></span><span style="font-size: 12pt;">the number.<br /></span><span style="font-size: 12pt;">Every day at 7 a.m,<br /></span><span style="font-size: 12pt;">DIPR gives out<br /></span><span style="font-size: 12pt;">the statistics<br /></span><span style="font-size: 12pt;">of new positive
cases.<br /></span><span style="font-size: 12pt;">As the numbers
increase,<br /></span><span style="font-size: 12pt;">I pray every morning,<br /></span><span style="font-size: 12pt;">at 7 a.m.<br /></span><span style="font-size: 12pt;">that very soon,<br /></span><span style="font-size: 12pt;">the hour will tell
us<br /></span><span style="font-size: 12pt;">that we have defeated<br /></span><span style="font-size: 12pt;">the virus<br /></span><span style="font-size: 12pt;">with prayers and
obedience<br /></span><span style="font-size: 12pt;">and that<br /></span><span style="font-size: 12pt;">7 a.m. will show us<br /></span><span style="font-size: 12pt;">the answer to our<br /></span><span style="font-size: 12pt;">prayers and
obedience.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "inherit",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "inherit",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" />
<!--[if !supportLineBreakNewLine]--><b>Lalrinsangi Nghinglova</b> is an Assistant Professor in English at Govt. Zirtiri Residential Science College in Aizawl. Married with three children, she is also currently pursuing a Ph.D. at Mizoram University. While she says she's no poet, these lines are a brilliant snapshot of the apprehension and anxiety that accompany the dreaded hour of 7 in the morning when the latest updates on the Covid situation in Mizoram are announced on social media platforms by the Directorate of Information & Public Relations.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "inherit",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><br /></span></p>Zualteii Poontehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03894762926515124116noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8950931197043565670.post-71527406228818615122021-05-05T14:26:00.013+05:302021-05-06T11:12:55.600+05:30A Prayer for the Dying, April 2021 - Mimi Pachuau<p> </p><p class="MsoNormal">My heart breaks into tiny sharp pieces<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">When I see the morgue vans queuing for hours <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Outside crematoriums…imagine, just imagine<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Being one of the drivers<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">He must wonder if, or when<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">He may be the cold passenger…<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">He may not even be lucky enough to make it there<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Like so many, the pavement could be his ending.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">My skin no longer feels like mine<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">For there is death in the air<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The Indian summers of the past seem mellow<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Compared to the heat today, <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The very air we now breathe<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Is mixed with the smoke from funeral pyres<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">It is ironic that we breathe the remains <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Of those who have died because they couldn’t breathe.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">My Delhi is gasping for oxygen but it’s in short supply.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I’ve never felt this small in my life<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">As I earth these big prayers for my India<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">For the lakhs of Covid cases found every day<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">For the thousands dying each day,<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">For the crumbling healthcare system,<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">For children going hungry at night,<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">For our burning forests in the hills,<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">For our leaders who are overwhelmed,<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">For some who just don’t seem to care,<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">For your children who are like a speck of dirt in this
enormous country.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Kyrie Eleison - Lord, have mercy!<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">May the ashes from the funeral pyres turn to crown of beauty<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">May you release waves of healing across this land.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><i><b>Mimi Pachuau</b></i> wrote this on the 25th April 2021 when the entire world looked on in horror as the Covid situation in India spiralled out of control and we saw picture after picture and video after video of smoking funeral pyres and people dying while gasping for oxygen. For Mimi, Delhi is her second home as she spent several years there, first as an English Honours student at Lady Shri Ram College and later as an MA student at the Delhi School of Economics. She later received a Ph.D. from Mizoram University and had a stint working in the Sociology department at Mizoram University. She very rarely writes poetry. </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><br /></o:p></p>Zualteii Poontehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03894762926515124116noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8950931197043565670.post-21020785795645957772021-04-26T17:23:00.005+05:302021-04-29T12:36:13.192+05:30Lines on Covid-19 written in the Solitude of Covid-Imposed Lockdown - Ralteite Pa<p> </p><p class="MsoNormal">I see God in His omniscience<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">smiling<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">to see His beloved wayward children<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">squabbling over existence and self defined boundaries.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">For it was His decree that set in his Eternal immutable will<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">how far the sea should cover the land<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">and how far the puny pride of man<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">should dare to question His sovereignty.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Let man realise his impotence against the most insignificant
member of His vast family that sits at His cosmic table daily,<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">and tremble at the noiseless thunder of applause<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">praising the just and immutable rule of Him that raises the
miniscule head of the nano-cellular virus above the self-ordained authority of
the youngest bipedal creature who in his beggarly effort shakes the very house
built for him <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">to his, alas, irrevocable doom!<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">So let all homo sapiens respect this invisible co-denizen of
this planet and stay a tolerable distance from his immobile clutches or become
the unwilling vehicle of its conquering might!<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><i><b>Ralteite Pa</b></i> has given me strict instructions on how he wishes his name to be published here. Incognito :) However, I believe I have the freedom to state that this is a departure from the Mizo Writers under 26 feature I've been following over the last few months. Thank you, Pu Ralteite Pa, for your poetic effort of what you call "more prods to sensitize us: drought, fire, environment crisis, universal morbidity."</p>Zualteii Poontehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03894762926515124116noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8950931197043565670.post-85342876239471476562021-03-07T22:10:00.004+05:302021-03-07T22:30:33.922+05:30Poems - rinsangi<p> </p><p class="MsoNormal">i smile as i watch you run through sunlit fields of daffodils and daisies under the canary tinted sky. the warmth of the evening sun reflects your soft honey eyes. your scent is of fresh freesias, a sweet reminiscent of midsummer dreams and twilight wishes. the summer stars start to appear shyly as your soft coral lips form a seraphic smile and as the diamond-flamed crescent moon slowly dances into view, the sky kisses poetry and places the stars in your eyes.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><o:p> ~ ~ ~</o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br />watching sunsets has become a habit now, partly because i love that time of evening when everything seems to fall into place and the sun seems to tell me i’ve done well for the day, but also partly because you remind me of them.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">breathtakingly beautiful and calm, golden and warm, but also something i can’t make stay, something i acknowledge every new day, but have to say goodbye to for more times than i want.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">you remind me of the sunset in a bittersweet way, and although it aches my heart bidding goodbye every day, i still eagerly wait for each new evening, just to experience it time and time again.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><o:p> ~ ~ ~</o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br />you told me you liked the dawn because i reminded you of it, because i was the luster in your overcast sky.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">you said that to me two weeks after we met, a little too soon for such words. i thought maybe we were just different, maybe you were the type to take things at a relatively faster pace than i did.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">so I thought of what i’d say to you someday, that would have as deep an impact on you as your words had on me.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">romance, love, the sugar-coated words were never my forte so i looked up quotes online, all of which were too cheesy and corny for my liking. i never found one i liked, mostly because it didn’t feel quite right to use other people’s words to express myself, and also because they never conveyed my feelings towards you.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">but i couldn’t construct my own. my dictionary didn’t contain much words for these kinds of scenarios so i came to the conclusion that i’d wait, and just settle to listening to you talk and talk while i admire the amount of words you have in your dictionary. i was okay with that, since i liked watching you and hearing your voice.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">but maybe i waited too long to find my own voice that you grew impatient. you left as quickly as it took for you to say that i was your dawn, and just as surprised as i was then, i felt the same when you went out the door.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">now it’s been months, and i’ve finally found the words i wanted to say, although now they would be unheard.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><i>you were my dawn too, as much as you are my dusk now. you were like the first ray of light that brought along hope and every lovely thing i can imagine, and i was in love with the warmth that you bore. now you are also the darkness in which all of that sunk into, completely dissolving the blaze you brought into my heart.<br /><br /></i></p><div style="text-align: center;"><i>~ ~ ~ </i></div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal">but how will i ever be good enough for myself?<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">my mother tells me i’m beautiful and my father says he’s proud of me. but how will i ever stop magnifying the flaws stitched onto my skin and the shortcomings rooted deep within me?</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">~ ~ ~</p><p class="MsoNormal"><i style="font-weight: bold;"><br />rinsangi </i>is all of seventeen and still in school. Daughter of a father who also writes poetry, she says she was inspired to start writing at a very young age, and in December 2020, came out with a little collection of prose poetry titled <i>crimson</i>. Like rdp, she also prefers to write in the lowercase. Her writing is often lushly descriptive, perhaps because it is partly prose while still being clearly more poetic than prosy. She loves Jane Austen and Pride and Prejudice, and hopes to fulfill her grandfather's wish that she become a missionary some day.<br /><br />We can definitely see a bright writing future ahead for this precocious young talent.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p><p><i><o:p></o:p></i></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></p>Zualteii Poontehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03894762926515124116noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8950931197043565670.post-2623873332218964492021-02-22T14:27:00.007+05:302021-02-27T13:20:17.758+05:30Poems - rdp<p> <b>A Woman's Language in a Man's World<br /><br /></b>"friendly men, smiling men<br />monsters my father's age,<br />they walk in broad daylight<br />and cast their shadows in my way,<br />they smile and say only good things<br />though their eyes and limbs leave me scared.<br />i thought then compliments were paid<br />in whistles and hands brushing my back,<br />a child's language does not know<br />how to say No to men her father's age</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing">boys will be boys as i heard them say<br />and i am just a girl as they also said,<br />and the language of a good girl is silence<br />wear pretty skirts and tie your hair back,<br />this is a man's world. watch and learn<br />and remember the language.<br />when boys come pulling at your ponytail,<br />when men come pulling at your pretty dress<br />remember the language.<br />you carry on you parts<br />that make you a woman<br />and they carry with them<br />eyes that see what makes you woman,<br />what can be done<br />this is a man's world</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing">a good woman speaks the language<br />of silence, of listening, of nodding head<br />of closing eyes and walking quietly on.<br />when a man speaks his language<br />loud, harsh, eyes roaming your skin<br />speak your language.<br />and i speak my language<br />the one you taught me<br />i speak it as loud as i can<br />but nobody listens<br />because nobody understands<br />the language of a woman in distress<br />this is a man's world"</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p> </o:p><b>The Year 2020</b></p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><br />"'it was the best of times<br />it was the worst of times”<br />a year of empty streets and undecorated winter,<br />a year of oversleep and overthought<br />a dreary odd year<br />with few days and so many nights<br />a year without proportion,<br />of disorder and delay<br /><br />it was a year of making ends meet, of trying<br />to make things look better than they are,<br />a year of learning to change and<br />to be the same all at once<br />a tough long year of tolerance, of understanding<br />of learning to accept a half-opened door<br />and a nod instead of a handshake<br /><br />it was a year of learning to be still<br />in a speeding wagon,<br />to hold onto whatever bars and hooks we find<br />it was a year of taking a step back,<br />to learn to watch and love from a distance<br />it was a year of rest and reflection<br />of risk and reminiscence.<br />and most bitter, most sweet<br />shall be the tales we tell<br />of the best of times<br />and the worst of times"</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><br /></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b>My Funeral</b><br /><br />"i am not scared of death, but i am nervous being
the only dead person in the room<br />what are these people going to say about me?<br />what do they remember of my unhappy life?</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNoSpacing">my kind teacher says, 'she was an extraordinary
individual'<br />thank you but i was not, except around my wrists where i
think i stand out because they survived all the cuts, until they didn't of
course.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNoSpacing">my generous neighbour says, 'she was an angel'. oh but
you should have seen my soul.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNoSpacing">my old grandfather says, 'she was a tough one.' but
grandpa, didn't anyone tell you how i died?</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNoSpacing">my sweet friend says, 'she was my rock.' but i got
crushed by the weight of all the air i breathed.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNoSpacing">then comes you and you say to me, 'i know you don't like
flowers too well,<br />but they're all i can give you now i'm afraid'</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNoSpacing">ladies and gentlemen gathered here today<br />now you know i was the unhappiest person alive<br />and i apologise that this is how you find out<br />but my blood was blue right from the start<br />and it didn't grow any brighter<br />the world is not to blame<br />the world is beautiful and you all are too<br />even dressed all black and tears in your eyes<br />you still look so lovely to me<br />and this is what i will picture when i think of life<br />and i know it is too late to change my mind<br />but if i may make one last amend...<br />Oh world, I am the happiest person dead."</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><br /></p><p class="MsoNoSpacing">Rodingpuii, or <b>rdp</b> as she signs her name on every poem she posts on her very popular Instagram page (<a href="https://www.instagram.com/rdp_ralte/" target="_blank">rdp_ralte</a>), was my neighbour for almost 20 years. In all the time that she grew up from a little girl to a young adult, I had absolutely no idea that she wrote, and so prolifically at that, until the middle of last year. Ironically, just a few months after I found out, her family moved away.<br /><br /><b>rdp</b> has published a collection of poems titled <i>Secondhand Scars</i> (2018) and appears to be one of the most promising writers of her generation. It may also be noted that somewhat like e.e. cummings, she tends to write mostly in the lowercase, with an irregular use of punctuation. She is presently doing her MA in English Literature at Pondicherry. </p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><br /></p>Zualteii Poontehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03894762926515124116noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8950931197043565670.post-87156911308191985972021-02-16T18:16:00.013+05:302021-02-16T18:28:19.789+05:30Poems - Chawnga <p><b>What Ails You?</b></p><p><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">I want to know what helps you sleep at night. Of little disputes, light grazes or even </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">emotional mortal wounds that we have to deal with every so often, deep cuts just heal<br /></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">too slow but maybe for a cause; the value of trusting and the price of betrayal.<br /></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">Something that shapes us now, everything we’ve experienced, individually or<br /></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">collectively.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">I want to know so much more. Tell me what ails you?</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">I’m glad we met, and I hope you never forget me. Even if you leave me.<br /></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">I’ve learnt you can’t expect everyone to be there, all the time.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">People need space to grow. To think. To romanticize;<br /></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">to overthink, to act recklessly, spontaneously.<br /></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">A double-edged process in which it’s your choice and mine collectively;<br /></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">The existence of our bond and our meaning lies in each of us.<br /></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">And I do hope, through it all that you always find meaning in us.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">Something superficial, love, like justice and law – they are crucial cogs in the<br /></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">collective understanding which we have built up, stories that we have told ourselves,<br /></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">stories in the civilization that has been the product of human constructs, which have<br /></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">no meaning without us humans interpreting those stories.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">To find meaning in this small speck, a fraction of existence we get to savour.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">Tell me again, what ails you?</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 17.12px;"><b><br />An Open Letter to Us</b><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">Hey you,</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 17.12px;">You just went off the radar. I was worried.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 17.12px;">I mean, I should worry; friends who have supported me through my trivialities. Even the smallest </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">scratch gets diagnosed, yet still the friends who get to peek off the deepest wounds life had </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">inflicted. And each has their time, you can’t expect everyone to be there all the time.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 17.12px;">As long as they’re alive, the ones who understand will always be open for reconciliation and </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">confrontation.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">Do trust others, but also do not be naive; trust accordingly.<br /></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">You’re too smart for your own good, the self-conscious person that I admire for your strength </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 17.12px;">and</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;"> vulnerability.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">The moments shaped us, like a young nation starting to build itself. All craving for meaning and </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">dreading the life un-lived.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">My friend, I have trusted you with honesty and myself. I do hope I’m sometimes useful or amusing but </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">always the one you trust.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">Loyalty, I won’t ask of you; for our views may have conflicts, better confronted than silently alit. I </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">won’t ask you to compromise your “Self” for something as vain and selfish. I continue to ask for </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">honesty and communication, be it in any volume at any bulk of time you have limited for you.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">Our conflicts and confrontation will be the ones weaving our experience.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 17.12px;">Comrade, rest well, for we have the world to confront and most importantly ourselves.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 17.12px;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 17.12px;"><br /></span></i></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 17.12px;">Chawnga</span></i></b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 17.12px;"> (Chawngthanmawia) </span>calls himself a young radical who was involved in the Darjeeling Insurgency as a schoolboy. He says he has been influenced by the writings of Rosa Luxemburg and Bhagat Singh, to name a couple, and is convinced that writing has the power to influence history. Despite claiming to be a pessimist, he hopes to work towards helping humanity in some way and to make a ripple with long lasting effect if only for just one person. <br /><br />He is currently a college student in Aizawl.<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 17.12px;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p>Zualteii Poontehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03894762926515124116noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8950931197043565670.post-20216530806373793872021-01-20T18:11:00.006+05:302021-01-20T18:16:45.154+05:30A Letter and an Apology & Small City of Small Wonders - Candle Vanrempuii<p> <b>A Letter and an Apology</b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Today I found a letter you wrote in an old notebook of mine.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">It broke my heart just picturing you write it alone at
night, in the room we used to share, while I was away.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">It was a resignation letter addressed to the owner of
Genesis.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">You wrote about how your health has been an ongoing problem
for you and I'm pretty sure you meant your mental health.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">You wrote about how you needed to take more days off than
the 12 days Casual Leave you are allowed to take a year.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">You wrote about how you've caused a great inconvenience for
your colleagues and how it was unfair for them.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">You thanked your employer for having helped you in your
professional life and personal life.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">You thanked everyone there for welcoming you to be part of
their family and how much you've learnt not only as a laboratory technician but
also as a person.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I picture you writing all these things.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I picture you alone.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Scared.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">At night.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Scribbling down a resignation letter you would not send.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I wish I had been there<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">To tell you you're not alone and that we will deal with your
health issues together.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">To tell you you've made a grammatical mistake here and
there.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">To hold you and tell you everything will be alright and that
I have got you and you need not be scared.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I would've written a better letter than that -<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">one that isn't as humble or as thankful.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I'm so sorry I didn't.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b>Small City of Small Wonders</b><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p>I live in a city which is often taken for granted and
criticised for quite a lot of things.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">A city which always seems to be hated for what there is to
hate and never seems to be loved for what there is to love.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">This is a city where -<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I see the bus stop sign lean on a middle aged beggar who has
quarrels with a supposed friend we cannot see.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I see an old lady who sits on a plastic chair on a public
step sunbathing<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Her hair shining<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>like
silver against the winter sunlight.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I see an old man who wears an awkward little hat the looks
of which he pulls off anyway, most probably owing to age<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Whom I told I fancied his fashion sense that one time I had
the chance.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I see a determined old man who irons every single paper
money he receives from his small <i>ei chawp dawr<o:p></o:p>¹</i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I see successful old men marry young beautiful women and be
criticised for doing so<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Just as I see successful old women marry their young
handsome drivers and be criticised for the same<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">But I have also seen both overcome the criticisms and build
beautiful families.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I see old men with whom we can share taxi cabs give away
handshakes at the time of a pandemic as blessings to youngsters that educate
them on it.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I see educated and well intentioned men love this land so
much so that they squander their entire life earnings<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>to become politicians for the people and
fail, my grandfather was one of them;<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">And I also see corrupt men rich with dirty money and a
mouthful of shit successfully become politicians for the people.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I see a person tell me I will outgrow writing about love
with age and I see myself outgrowing that person instead.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">This is a city where -<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">There is a man who has written the entire English Dictionary
by hand because he couldn't afford one and he happens to be my uncle.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">There is another man who has not only read the Bible but
written It in Its entirety again by hand and he also happens to be another
uncle.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">There are people who read their Bibles in the secrecy and
sanctity of their bedrooms without people having the slightest hint.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">There are kind old ladies- mother to local artists like
tailors and musicians who do not know what further to do with their talents-
who shopkeep for their daughters while they're in labour and their sons while
they're away. These kind old ladies have mean negotiations with other kind old
ladies and agree on a price that makes the two of them smile, my grandmother
was also one of both.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Gardening is not yet a profession<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">and there are people like myself who love that it isn't
because it means that every single flower or plant or shrub you see within this
city are either planted and nurtured by hands that love them<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">or that they are strong enough to withstand the world and
its cruelties on their own and that they beat the odds that so often are not in
the favour of us all.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">This is the city that mourns and cries with a single voice
in chorus for a man who lost his life to the love of his life in the blink of
four innocent eyes and he also happens to be another uncle of mine.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">No October sunsets are as beautiful as the ones in the city
of Aizawl and this is coming from a person who has not even been to every state
and UT in India.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">It has taken me 22 years to realise that there will never be
October sunsets as beautiful as the ones in this city no matter how many states
or countries I go to.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">This is a city often taken for granted.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">This small city of small wonders.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">If there ever is a place where the god of small things lives
<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">and survives<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I am convinced it is in this small city of small wonders.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">So often taken for granted<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">It's no surprise that so many of us take after you.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">But in you I see what there is to love and what there is to
hate but I chose to love you for whatever there is to love. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">You choose to do the same and you choose to be my home.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">And I choose to be the same.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">And I hope one day we find a person who looks at us and sees
in us what I see in you now that I've turned 22.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><i>¹ a grocery</i></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><i>Candle Vanrempuii</i></b> has been off the poetry writing grid for some time since bringing out her first book <b><i>Evermore</i></b> two years ago. We're really happy to have her back with these two new poems written in her inimitable first person narrative style that draws you in and makes you feel like a confidant to her deepest thoughts and observations.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p>Zualteii Poontehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03894762926515124116noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8950931197043565670.post-38724497210391043942020-12-23T16:24:00.000+05:302020-12-23T16:24:44.053+05:30Poems - Airawdi<p><br /></p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-family: "Constantia",serif;">I was hoping
to come home safe and happy<br />
I was hoping to sleep to my mother's lullaby<br /></span><span style="font-family: Constantia, serif;">but Ma, I
came home bruised and broken<br /></span><span style="font-family: Constantia, serif;">I came home
with a sad lullaby.</span></p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-family: Constantia, serif;">I was hoping
to learn to fly soon<br /></span><span style="font-family: Constantia, serif;">But my wings
were clipped by someone<br /></span><span style="font-family: Constantia, serif;">in a
shepherd's coat.</span></p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-family: Constantia, serif;">He came into
me like a sinner to a church<br /></span><span style="font-family: Constantia, serif;">in desperate
need of salvation.<br /></span><span style="font-family: Constantia, serif;">He let loose
all his sins inside of me,<br /></span><span style="font-family: Constantia, serif;">but Ma, I'm
not a church<br /></span><span style="font-family: Constantia, serif;">his cross is
too heavy for me to bear.</span></p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-family: Constantia, serif;">He crushed
my life with each thrust,<br /></span><span style="font-family: Constantia, serif;">leaving an
invisible scar inside and out.<br /></span><span style="font-family: Constantia, serif;">The help I
screamed for<br /></span><span style="font-family: Constantia, serif;">could not
seem to penetrate his ears<br /></span><span style="font-family: Constantia, serif;">even as they
were wide open.</span></p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-family: Constantia, serif;">I was hoping
to sleep to your bedtime story,<br /></span><span style="font-family: Constantia, serif;">But Pa, I
came home with a sad story<br /></span><span style="font-family: Constantia, serif;">for us to
cry to.</span></p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-family: Constantia, serif;">Tell me I
was not at fault for the darkness<br /></span><span style="font-family: Constantia, serif;">that came my
way,<br /></span><span style="font-family: Constantia, serif;">Tell me I am
more than the dirt on my skin<br /></span><span style="font-family: Constantia, serif;">coming from
the hand that touched<br /></span><span style="font-family: Constantia, serif;">without
permission.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"> ~ ~ ~<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-family: "Constantia",serif;"><br />We never
really own anything, do we?<br /></span><span style="font-family: Constantia, serif;">Even our own
flesh,<br /></span><span style="font-family: Constantia, serif;">how the
earth claims for it<br /></span><span style="font-family: Constantia, serif;">once life
gives up on us.</span></p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-family: Constantia, serif;">We never
really own anything, do we?<br /></span><span style="font-family: Constantia, serif;">Even our own
heart,<br /></span><span style="font-family: Constantia, serif;">how it often
is full of others,<br /></span><span style="font-family: Constantia, serif;">how it often
breaks for others.</span></p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-family: "Constantia",serif;"> ~ ~ ~</span></p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-family: Constantia, serif;">This October<br /></span><span style="font-family: Constantia, serif;">I am
starting to believe in impermanence.<br /><br /></span><span style="font-family: Constantia, serif;">I have heard
enough of funeral bells,<br /></span><span style="font-family: Constantia, serif;">and the
sound of hearts breaking.<br /></span><span style="font-family: Constantia, serif;">I have seen
the tears of the one<br /></span><span style="font-family: Constantia, serif;">who is left
behind,<br /></span><span style="font-family: Constantia, serif;">I have seen
loneliness creeping through<br /></span><span style="font-family: Constantia, serif;">cracks of
heart;<br /></span><span style="font-family: Constantia, serif;">Another leaf
has yet fallen around me,<br /></span><span style="font-family: Constantia, serif;">And all I do
is watch.<br /></span><span style="font-family: Constantia, serif;">Another leaf
has fallen softly,<br /></span><span style="font-family: Constantia, serif;">but how it
breaks the tree that bears its absence.</span></p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-family: Constantia, serif;">This
October,<br /></span><span style="font-family: Constantia, serif;">I am
starting to believe in impermanence.</span></p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-family: "Constantia",serif;"> ~ ~ ~ </span></p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-family: "Constantia",serif;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-family: Constantia, serif;"><b>Airawdi</b> (Femina Hlychho) is a postgraduate in English literature from Mizoram University. She is presently working at Govt. Saiha College as a casual lecturer. She describes herself as a realist by day, a thinker by night. She writes mostly about humanity, human loss, love, recovery, and death, and her poems are sometimes confessional, sometimes inspired and sometimes therapeutic. Through her lines, she hopes to connect the common thread that holds humans together.</span></p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-family: "Constantia",serif;">She has a <a href="https://www.instagram.com/_airawdi_/" target="_blank">page on Instagram</a> where she posts her poetry.</span></p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-family: "Constantia",serif;"> </span></p>Zualteii Poontehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03894762926515124116noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8950931197043565670.post-36537107194134661352020-12-10T15:27:00.001+05:302020-12-10T15:27:55.904+05:30Peanut Butter & You and I - Priscilla Lalnuntluangi<p> <b><u>Peanut Butter</u></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><p class="MsoNormal">The train from Delhi to Mumbai<br />
was set to last for three days.<br />
Mama and I were on our way to meet daddy.<br />
Mama held my arms tight,<br />
so tight, that it almost made a mark.<br />
I had recently turned five<br />
and girls that age often stray from their mama.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The train was blue, duskier than the sky.<br />
The coolies carried our bags<br />
and mama my arm.<br />
Mama sat me on a bunker,<br />
warned me not to move an inch.<br />
But I moved my head<br />
into the compartment that was next to ours.<br />
<br />
There sat a girl that looked like me.<br />
We were so alike<br />
that when I smiled at her,<br />
she smiled at me too.<br />
Her compartment was next to ours<br />
Mama told me they weren’t Indians<br />
Mama told me we weren’t alike<br />
Mama told me we spoke a different tongue.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The girl offered me her peanut butter<br />
I politely took it<br />
Together we sat watching running trees<br />
We talked, never needing language<br />
I knew we were going to be great friends.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The sun rose and set for three days<br />
and so did our time.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Papa stood on the platform, waiting for my hug,<br />
She and I quickly waved a farewell,<br />
Never knowing our names.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Thirteen years have rolled by<br />
and we never met again.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Does she remember me?<br />
I remember her peanut butter.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><br /><br /><b><u>You and I</u></b><br />
<br />
Some days<br />
I wish<br />
that I could have your life<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">On better days<br />
I wonder<br />
Who prayed for mine.<br />
<br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" />
<!--[if !supportLineBreakNewLine]--><br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" />
<!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><b>Priscilla Lalnuntluangi</b> lives in Aizawl and is doing her M.Pharm pharmacy practice at Jamia Hamdard. She recently brought out a charming book of poetry and illustrations titled The Dearest Things and maintains a similarly-titled <a href="https://www.instagram.com/thedearestthings/" target="_blank">page on Instagram.</a> She has written all her young life and says that while she changes a lot, her poems and words are the only things that have stayed constant. We hope she continues to put her talent to good use in her poetry and art.</o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><br /></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUCFkIxcesZ4Cph8RewOaPAUtYrIx3t0V-TXHP2PVRkSwckpuJ2LkpJdsNEqLl1Gou8drqcdnLj0kjDBx1jBLI4IwfLhMdbE1kaI12X-I3_fzYt31irgo_WGzpEMkwYMOYtFleu5ajGuc/s2015/129759442_10225571555422856_8900647518969273806_o.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2015" data-original-width="1511" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUCFkIxcesZ4Cph8RewOaPAUtYrIx3t0V-TXHP2PVRkSwckpuJ2LkpJdsNEqLl1Gou8drqcdnLj0kjDBx1jBLI4IwfLhMdbE1kaI12X-I3_fzYt31irgo_WGzpEMkwYMOYtFleu5ajGuc/s320/129759442_10225571555422856_8900647518969273806_o.jpg" /></a></div><br /><o:p><br /></o:p><p></p><p></p>Zualteii Poontehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03894762926515124116noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8950931197043565670.post-57874594130537675472020-12-06T15:18:00.013+05:302020-12-06T17:22:45.012+05:30I am a Mizo & 90s Baby - Kim Miller<p><b><i>Foreword: </i></b> <i>When I started this blog in November 2007, it was tough finding Mizo writers in English to feature. Every time I was tipped off that so and so wrote poetry (or prose bits), I'd call them on the phone to ask if I could publish their writings and most times they would decline, some even squealing in embarrassment to say that they did do a bit of writing but it wasn't anything great and that they wrote just for themselves and would die of mortification to see it published for all the world to read. Since then, there has been a wonderful welcome change. I'm not sure when the tide began to turn, perhaps with the advent of Lang Leav and her ilk and the popularity of Instagram but young people today are not just writing poetry but publishing them - if not in print, then on blogs or on social media. Over the next few posts, I hope to feature a number of promising young Mizo writers in English all happily under 26. Happy days ahead!<br /></i><br /><br /></p><b>I Am a Mizo</b><br />
<p class="MsoNormal">I am a Mizo<br />
Born and raised in these green hills<br />
Played in the sand after church <br />Collected marbles for the thrills<br />
Wooden swords clash on till dusk<br />
I am perfectly happy here<br />
Said my prayers and palms joined hence<br />
Words flow by innocence of nature<br />
Culture neatly cushions my existence<br />
A loudspeaker announces my duty<br />
My identity stands firm in the people<br />
The strong, standing code of the community.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I am a Mizo<br />
One ancestor roamed the missionaries’ land<br />
A diluted burden of genetical gripe<br />
The other welcomed them into the clan<br />
Clad in the warmth of my traditional clothes<br />
I obediently speak my people’s language<br />
“But never speak the white man’s tongue,” they guffawed<br />
While we go to his church for marriage<br />
Lest they laugh and make fun of my oddities<br />
I head up the hill for the gatherings<br />
We shouted and called and listened to a voice<br />
A voice to control all our policies.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I am a Mizo<br />
My religion is European<br />
My accent is American<br />
And my culture is Korean<br />
The TV speaks of life never envisioned<br />
Books read stories of the great beyond<br />
My mind twirls around in curious bigotry<br />
The fate of a stagnant life prolonged<br />
Bathed in the aroma of the Sunday pork<br />
The commanding bells ring through the city<br />
The selfless inclination of an ancient passing<br />
Now flow in the blood by decree.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I am a Mizo<br />
But I went far far away<br />
Went to the mainland for education<br />
Surrounded by souls my people hate<br />
In the South I stopped rolling my r’s<br />
Away from the safety of the ILP<br />
“I hate our outdated palette,” my roommate declared<br />
To Starbucks for a cup of coffee<br />
So I stand firm for the truth of the moment<br />
An individual through the reason of senses<br />
If my core beliefs and identity ever collide<br />
I shall see the world through my lenses.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I am a Mizo<br />
As Mizo as can be.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b>90s Baby<o:p></o:p></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><b> </b></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I was born; the year Cobain passed,</p><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">When FRIENDS graced the television screens of Americans<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">Crawled and wailed when Tupac left a legacy,<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">And too busy weeping to see the Lion King.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">Opened mom’s drawer, her Backstreet Boys cassettes she hid<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">Ripped the tape apart, the plastic plaything<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">Yet received a generous visit from Santa.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">My innocent eyes watched the news, a channel reports an accident<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">Two twin towers hit by two planes<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">Then continued playing, parents watched in shock<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">At least that’s what they told me anyway<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">Mom and Dad were my solace, tucked between them in bed<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">For all the Archie comics I read, the worn out Tinkle magazines<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">Were three G.I Joes without limbs, and dusty SEGA cartridges<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">I dreamt of nothing, closed my eyes then became morning<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">While the world moved on with its everlasting dread.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">I knew not of my purpose, my existence<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">And so Mondays were joyful, weekends were magical<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">Impressed all my classmates with my eraser collection<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">And my extensive knowledge of Dexter and DeeDee’s anatomy<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">Kicked a plastic ball on the field till it rolls out to oblivion<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"> Traversed through the grass for its whereabouts<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">One friend decided to call it quits, so we stopped playing<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">All for a good two days.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">That one Firehouse song kept playing, a recluse for everyone<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">But soon, Boney M will replace all playlists in households<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">Yet life went on, Eddie Guerrero’s funeral proved it<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">But this time, my parents didn’t say anything.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">There’s something that sparks joy in me<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"> In the past of which I mostly dwell<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">Before Spotify and Netflix, and all streaming services<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">Trampled all our inconveniences to dust<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">Where someone could show off their mp3 collection<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">Thousands of songs proudly displayed on Winamp<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">Downloaded from shady websites of malware<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">With internet data to sell kidneys for<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">My Nokia gleefully tuned its ring, the notification<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">To the latest SMS pack for my weekend<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">Texted my crush, with butchered words and bracket emojis<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">Then off to play my games copied from the privileged<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">I thought of a new creative name for my Facebook<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">While I aimed to have a thousand friends displayed<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">But I had to stop playing all my songs at once<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">Since the Illumati claimed literally all the celebrities<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">Twenty six years later, I live on with this memory<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">Not a long time indeed, yet I’ve said my goodbyes<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">We all come and go like tumbleweeds on the sand<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">To create a generation of memories and cringy dance fads<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">We had to work for everything, but so did the past<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">The future too will create its own set of dilemmas<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">As I live today while Gen Z lost me with their humor<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">Were times when boomers got lost to the world we lived in.<o:p></o:p></p><div><br /></div><div><br /><br /><i><b>Kim Miller :</b></i> Besides being one of a lamentably few Mizo males writing in English, Kima also writes very articulate prose. He holds a postgraduate degree in English literature, was a Project Fellow at Mizoram University, taught English for a few months at T. Romana College and currently attends coaching classes. He enjoys writing, playing the guitar and reading. He also maintains a blog, albeit rather sporadically, at https://kimmiller116.wordpress.com. We hope to see a lot more writing from him in the future. </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Zualteii Poontehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03894762926515124116noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8950931197043565670.post-79060170304875683192020-11-04T20:17:00.006+05:302020-11-07T12:38:35.917+05:30Lockdown Poetry - Doris Zualteii<p><br /></p><p>I.</p><p>From the start,</p><p>The gamut of information</p><p>Bubbled and burst.</p><p>And simultaneously,</p><p>Fear and hope alternated.</p><p><br /></p><p>(Acceptance sometimes</p><p>made an appearance)</p><p><br /></p><p>But mostly, we are learning..</p><p>Then relearning</p><p>About this strange new virus</p><p>That refuses to stick to prototype,</p><p>To obey its classification, to be slotted and subdued to submission.</p><p>It evades and changes behaviour</p><p>Seemingly slowly, but continuously.</p><p><br /></p><p>An article here, supports a theory</p><p>An article there, dismisses the theory.</p><p>An obvious contact tests negative,</p><p>A distant passerby gets positive.</p><p><br /></p><p>A strange virus, that begot this strange rhyme.</p><p><br /></p><p> ~~~~~~~</p><p>II.</p><p>'We were born to die'</p><p>What a crass definition</p><p>That deserves an angry denial,</p><p>At the least, a parting dirty look.</p><p><br /></p><p>But being alive only ascertains</p><p>That yes, we are most surely</p><p>Likely to die. Someday, not soon</p><p>Maybe, but someday, definitely.</p><p><br /></p><p>And the certainty of death</p><p>Is what makes life precious.</p><p>And it makes the living so alive</p><p>And the leaving, so difficult</p><p>And the left, forever bereft.</p><p><br /></p><p>~~~~~~~</p><p><br /></p><p>III.</p><p>I'd like to travel, she said.</p><p>She had dreams of Paris and New York.</p><p>I promised her, someday.</p><p><br /></p><p>He loved weekends,</p><p>How he could simply stay home</p><p>Or visit family or a favourite hangout.</p><p><br /></p><p>Now she doesn't speak of travelling,</p><p>And he prays for school to start. Every night.</p><p><br /></p><p>It breaks my heart.</p><p>I've travelled, though not far.</p><p>And the smallest, will she ever</p><p>Be confined to Home, no school,</p><p>Not... ever?</p><p><br /></p><p>6 months, and it feels</p><p>Paralytic, a lifelong diagnosis,</p><p>With a terrible prognosis.</p><p><br /></p><p>~~~~~~</p><p><br /></p><p>IV.</p><p>I have lost my vocabulary.</p><p>It was misplaced somewhere between my phone</p><p>And the television.</p><p>I struggle for words,</p><p>Synonyms that would deliver.</p><p>But i have to settle for words that convey</p><p>Half the meaning, with half the impact.</p><p><br /></p><p>I have to read, again.</p><div><br /></div><div>~~~~</div><p><br /><br />As distressful and trying these pandemic times have been, it has also created circumstances and opportunities for people to do things they don't normally have time for. Such as our featured writer here.</p><p><i style="font-weight: bold;">Doris Zualteii </i>is a medical doctor, a pathologist to be precise, at the Mizoram State Cancer Institute. When she's not busy at work, her three young children and a medico husband keep her extremely busy at home. The last couple of months, however, have helped her birth these very personal reflections in poetry - something she hasn't done for several years. We'd love to see more creative output from her so do keep writing, doc!</p><p><br /></p><p><br /><br /></p>Zualteii Poontehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03894762926515124116noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8950931197043565670.post-14460412675951234782020-11-02T15:57:00.005+05:302020-11-03T15:54:43.420+05:30Winter's Prelude - Somte Ralte<p> <span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; text-align: center;">Distant
mountains wrapped in lavender clouds</span></p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><span lang="EN-IN" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Standing
resilient against nature’s ravages;<o:p></o:p></span></p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><span lang="EN-IN" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Beneath
the vastness of the bluest skies<o:p></o:p></span></p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><span lang="EN-IN" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Lulled
by gurgling streamlets;<o:p></o:p></span></p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><span lang="EN-IN" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Your
stories are the whispers of the wind<o:p></o:p></span></p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><span lang="EN-IN" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Fabled
by monotonous whistles of the valleys. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><span lang="EN-IN" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"> </span></p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><span lang="EN-IN" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Beyond
your running chains, you are nought-<o:p></o:p></span></p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><span lang="EN-IN" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Succumbed
by perilous lines of orderly governance,<o:p></o:p></span></p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><span lang="EN-IN" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Undone
by new stories that validate<o:p></o:p></span></p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><span lang="EN-IN" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">The
fallacy of an apathetic century’s rule.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><span lang="EN-IN" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">A</span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-hansi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">midst</span><span lang="EN-IN" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">
the struggle for rightful heirdom, you remain<o:p></o:p></span></p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><span lang="EN-IN" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">An
enigmatic mass of spiralling mounds<o:p></o:p></span></p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><span lang="EN-IN" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"> </span></p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><span lang="EN-IN" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Gazing
long at the unbreakable silence,<o:p></o:p></span></p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><span lang="EN-IN" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">While
your sides plummet and your cores tremble,<o:p></o:p></span></p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><span lang="EN-IN" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">You
convene with the maddening skies</span></p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><span lang="EN-IN" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">
To bring all things to </span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-hansi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">their</span><span lang="EN-IN" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"> causal pass;<o:p></o:p></span></p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><span lang="EN-IN" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">While
we wary in our earthly commotion<o:p></o:p></span></p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><span lang="EN-IN" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Seeking
for an assurance of normalcy,<o:p></o:p></span></p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><span lang="EN-IN" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"> </span></p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><span lang="EN-IN" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Some
wounds are yet to heal,<o:p></o:p></span></p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><span lang="EN-IN" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Some
truths are yet to surface;<o:p></o:p></span></p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><span lang="EN-IN" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">And
I wonder, standing on this windy hillock<o:p></o:p></span></p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><span lang="EN-IN" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Bathe</span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-hansi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">d</span><span lang="EN-IN" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">
in your evening’s endearing hues:<o:p></o:p></span></p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><span lang="EN-IN" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Will
your stories ever be the whispers of my mouth,<o:p></o:p></span></p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><span lang="EN-IN" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Or
your fables, the monotonous lines of my verse?<o:p></o:p></span></p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
</p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><span lang="EN-IN" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"> </span></p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><span lang="EN-IN" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: left;"><span lang="EN-IN" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><b>Somte Ralte</b>, a writer whose works have been featured on the blog a couple of times before, was awarded a Ph.D. in English literature last year, published a collection of poetry in October also last year, and has just started working at a college in Bangalore. This particular piece, she says, is </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; text-align: center;">her "response to the present <i>ramri buai </i>situation (<i>the escalation of hostilities between Mizoram and Assam over the boundary dispute</i>). It's disheartening to see how
things are unfolding till date towards the border-issue, and more so at our
apparent disengagement from the issue."</span></p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><span lang="EN-IN" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p>
</p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><br /></p><p><br /></p>Zualteii Poontehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03894762926515124116noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8950931197043565670.post-16412862799370236662020-04-17T13:30:00.001+05:302020-04-17T13:32:45.667+05:30Untitled - Lalnunsanga Ralte<div style="background-color: white; margin-bottom: 6px;">
<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px;"><br /></span></span><span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px;">While drowning he cries her name</span></span><br />
<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px;">She does not reply</span></span><br />
<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px;">Repeatedly, as the waters engulf him</span></span><br />
<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px;">He cries and cries</span></span><br />
<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px;">But his love does not reply</span></span><br />
<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px;">Then suddenly he smiles</span></span><br />
<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px;">For he knows he must be dreaming</span></span><br />
<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px;">For she does not reply.</span></span><br />
<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px;">The more honoured the departed</span></span><br />
<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px;">The deeper the grave</span></span><br />
<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px;">That's the way of my people</span></span><br />
<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px;">When you buried your stillborn, grandfather,</span></span><br />
<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px;">You said you could not dig so deep alone</span></span><br />
<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px;">But you placed a huge rock as a headstone</span></span><br />
<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px;">That will last a lifetime not lived</span></span><br />
<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px;">And among a different people</span></span><br />
<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px;">They struggled to understand why</span></span><br />
<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px;">You always dug so furiously</span></span><br />
<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px;">Next time I sit by your grave</span></span><br />
<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px;">I will think of all you've taken with you</span></span><br />
<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px;">To an eternal sleeping</span></span><br />
<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px;">I will bring all that is left to me still living</span></span><br />
<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px;">And I will wonder</span></span><br />
<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px;">Which one of us is dreaming.</span></span><br />
<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px;"><br /></span></span></div>
Zualteii Poontehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03894762926515124116noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8950931197043565670.post-55548172666366190232019-09-26T20:27:00.000+05:302019-09-26T20:37:41.957+05:30Beautiful Woman - Lalsangliani RalteBeautiful woman,<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
It torments me deep inside to know that I cannot call you by your name because people would then know of the secret that has been gnawing at your heart for so long. It breaks my heart that yours is a story of a six year old girl violated by a man when he should have been protecting her instead.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
It bothers my conscience to no end knowing I am a part of a society that imposes silence on victims; silence imposed through prejudices and judgments. We are taught of the dignity of silence, but what good is silence if it does not bring justice? What good is silence if a victim has to live alone with memories that haunt her every day, forcing her to live a life of shame and sense of worthlessness?</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Sometimes I wonder how different things might have been for you had you spoken out against him. Perhaps you would have found freedom from the clutches of your past. But how were you supposed to know that you did not have to be silent? How were you supposed to know you were not to be touched by a grown man the way you were? How were you to know no man’s hands have the passport to travel across your body without your consent? Claiming to understand what you have been through would be an injustice to you. I was not there when you were terrorized over and over again. Nobody was there when you felt alone and frightened. Nobody was there to tell you that not all men are like him, and that you need not fear all men.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
But I wish I have words that could make you accept that what he did to you does not make you all the horrible names you call yourself. You are not defined by what somebody else does to you. Your future is not destroyed; you do not have to let it be. You are not in any way a lesser woman or a human being. You are still the beautiful woman God created you to be, as pure as any woman could be. You can only be defined by the strength, wisdom and grace with which you face every new day, and for that you are a beautiful woman.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<i>This powerful, beautifully written piece comes from <a href="http://thismizogirlsays.blogspot.com/2019/09/beautiful-woman.html" target="_blank">this blog</a>. It is something new in Mizo writing in English - a first person narrative voicing pain, guilt and sorrow, addressing in poetic prose an issue again not often seen in our genre. Perhaps it is a happy indicator of how Mizo writing in English is slowly coming of age.</i></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
Zualteii Poontehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03894762926515124116noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8950931197043565670.post-20212634452780780002019-05-13T18:23:00.000+05:302019-05-14T10:58:01.849+05:30The Cord of Life - Mafaa Hauhnar<b>Translated by Zualteii Poonte</b><br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "constantia" , serif;">“We are connected,<br />
You and I,<br />
By an invisible cord,<br />
Not seen by the eye.”<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "constantia" , serif;">The most
powerful cord that holds my life together, the single strongest strand that
binds life to mankind for me is literature. Often it is my only solace of
refuge and rest.<br /><br /><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "constantia" , serif;">Without it, I
would be but a paper kite without a string, set adrift and wafted about by
every breeze that blows, buffeted by unkind storms and eventually battered
down.<br /><br /><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "constantia" , serif;">When the silver
cord that binds this body and soul (Ecclesiastes 12:6 ) is severed, I shall no
longer be mortal. But the chain that binds my heart, with apologies to P.S.
Chawngthu, is literature.<br /><br /><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "constantia" , serif;">When the world
becomes too much, and life turns ugly, when brutal waves bash me around, it is
the anchor that keeps me holding on and saves me from drowning.<br /><br /><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "constantia" , serif;">Riches and
wealth, houses and lands, positions and privileges, power and authority – of
these I have none. Like the popular song that goes, “It’s only words, and words
are all I have,” my words and writings are about all that I have.<br /><br /><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "constantia" , serif;">I am the kind
that kicks shut opportunities opened by others. I spill more than I get into
the pot, and knock down more than I get to prop up. I chop off more than I can
even hope to pick up; fling away more than I can ever hope to gather.<br /><br /><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "constantia" , serif;"><i>“I am such a
mess, even at my best”</i> as the saying goes. At times that I try to shine I am frivolous,
and even in my finest moments I am flippant.<br /><br /><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "constantia" , serif;">That I am
inept, ineffectual and incompetent I am all too aware, and need no one else to point
it out. The knowledge of my own foibles and follies leave me downhearted and
downcast, despondent and disconsolate. At such times when my spirits hit rock
bottom, it is the rope of literature which hauls me back to sanity.<br /><br /><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "constantia" , serif;">Certainly there
are many points that my detractors can focus on to deprecate me. They are right
when they say I am nothing and the truthfulness of it <span style="mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">exacerbates</span> the painful fact. <br />
<br />
Much like the lines, <i>“The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars/ but in
ourselves, that we are underlings.” (William Shakespeare, Julius Caesar, Act I,
scene II)</i>, it is simply that I am so flawed. Nothing else is to blame. The only
thing that I do have, my writings and poetry, I treasure deeply and will guard
with my life. It is, after all, what bonds me to life.<br />
<br />
You may know my face, perhaps you even see me often; but do you know the
details of the ups and downs of my life?<br />
<br />
Believing you know me inside out, will you be so quick to damn and condemn me?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "constantia" , serif;">You hear me
laugh and often see me in a joyful mood, don’t you? But do you also see my tears?<br />
<br />
When the clouds can no longer hold in the water they carry, rain falls. When
the heart can no longer bear the pain within, tears fall. <br />
<br />
Despite that, the pain I carry inside is not usually revealed in tears. Instead
it is sometimes the cheerful facade I somehow project that reveals the deep
sadness I feel within.<br /><br /><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "constantia" , serif;">If you will accept
me, take me for what I am, with all my faults. If you embrace me hoping to turn
me into what you want me to be, then you are in for disappointment.<br /><br /><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "constantia" , serif;">Because my
weakness is often so strong, I can never really live up to your expectations or
fulfil your ideals.<br /><br /><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "constantia" , serif;">That I am a
happy, jovial person, always laughing and keeping everyone around me in splits is
how many see me, I am certain. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Perhaps
even as gregarious and sociable, spreading laughter wherever I go, the life and
soul of every gathering. <br />
<br />
But I spend more time on my own, a lonely man, brooding over sad and vexing
thoughts that bring me to tears and cause me sleepless nights. A man who
prefers solitude to company, like a ship stranded far out at sea and gently
rocked by sea waves.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As lonesome as a solitary
sparrow drenched in the falling rain. A man who enjoys his own company and
spends time at home on his own. <br />
<br />
I am a lone wolf. As the poet I greatly admire Rudyard Kipling once wrote, “He
travels the fastest who travels alone,” which is echoed in the popular Merle
Haggard song, “For he who travels fastest goes alone.” Our forefathers used to
advocate following in the path of the most number of footprints but I would
rather set off on my own so I can concentrate on my life’s pathway.<br /><br /><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "constantia" , serif;">Intoxicated with madness,<br />
I am in love with my sadness.<br /><br /><o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "constantia" , serif;">In public view
and with company, I may guffaw as loudly as one stoned on weed. But since early
childhood I have always chosen to shun company for my own, playing quietly by
myself. Engrossed in my own imagination, I talk often to myself. Wanting to
engage in serious conversation with my heart, I crave quiet time. It seems to
me that it is the weak and those lacking in self-confidence who need to be
constantly surrounded by other people.<br /><br /><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "constantia" , serif;">As different as
my fingerprints are from everyone else’s, so is my character and I have no
intention of changing just to impress or appease some; I am no chameleon. I do
not aim to please everyone, I am not <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Lengzem</i>
magazine.<br /><br /><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "constantia" , serif;">I do not change
my traits to force myself on others so they will accept me.<br /><br /><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "constantia" , serif;">This is who and
what I am, take it or leave it. Just as I have never apologised for my diabetes,
I have never apologised for my character.<br /><br /><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "constantia" , serif;">I have a mind separate
from yours, allow me to have opinions of my own.<br /><br /><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: "constantia" , serif;">Were you to
attempt to understand my life, you would never succeed; I myself fail to
understand it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Walt Whitman’s lines<br />
<br />
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">“Do I contradict myself?<o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "constantia" , serif;">Very well then I contradict myself,<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "constantia" , serif;">(I am large, I contain multitudes.)”<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "constantia" , serif;">describes me
exactly.<br /><br /><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "constantia" , serif;">Sometimes I feel
like a paper kite with broken string, cast on a tree branch by the wind and
hanging there aimlessly.<br /><br /><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "constantia" , serif;">Not just any
kite but one with eye-catching colours and made of quality paper is what I would
like to be though.<br /><br /><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "constantia" , serif;">One that
someone walking out in the wilds catches glimpse of and happily climbs up and
takes home contentedly. Repairs with great care the spine, the spreader, the
cross, the tail, and reconnects with a strong, sound string.<br /><br /><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "constantia" , serif;">Perhaps <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><b>you</b></i> are that solitary walker who finds
that paper kite.<br /><br /><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "constantia" , serif;">It is my dearest
wish that you and I remain thus connected, with I being your source of joy and
happiness.<br /><br /><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "constantia" , serif;">But when the
day comes that you grow weary of playing with me, take me to a wide, open
hilltop on a bright, sunny day and release me into a light, cheery breeze. That
is when you will break off the connection between us. <br /><br /><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "constantia" , serif;">Perhaps the
kind breeze will lift me onto a nearby tree branch again – to be rescued once
more by someone else.<br /><br /><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "constantia" , serif;">Then he will
lift me up and let out the line, and I will sail the skies and dance among the
clouds.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And when he wishes, he will draw
me back in, and taking a quick sniff of me, will exclaim, “Ah, a scent of
heaven!”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkCrXFM0vhDdEnH5PcdEwF5eVeT6aX1VPrmnnVTB7jzzZVfZ9PvJuO_Pgp-v2ikFGx5Ru7EpGBfPZIVQ4I_O7uhGlX0g5vZ6fXaeBXRDEp8zON2MENNcl2D7-wu4oeLDMARh9SAQRkgCQ/s1600/IMG-20190118-WA0001-01.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="847" data-original-width="1280" height="422" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkCrXFM0vhDdEnH5PcdEwF5eVeT6aX1VPrmnnVTB7jzzZVfZ9PvJuO_Pgp-v2ikFGx5Ru7EpGBfPZIVQ4I_O7uhGlX0g5vZ6fXaeBXRDEp8zON2MENNcl2D7-wu4oeLDMARh9SAQRkgCQ/s640/IMG-20190118-WA0001-01.jpeg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "constantia" , serif;"><o:p><br /></o:p></span></div>
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<i style="font-family: Constantia, serif; text-align: left;">Photo credit: Mala Pachuau & Amtea Hauhnar, with special thanks to C. Lalawmpuia Vanchiau</i></div>
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<span style="font-family: "constantia" , serif;"><o:p> </o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "constantia" , serif;"><o:p><br /></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "constantia" , serif;"><b>Translator’s Note</b>: I am so pleased to finally bring out this memorial tribute in the form of a translation of this soul-baring <b>Mafaa Hauhnar</b> piece, the introductory essay to his last anthology of prose writings <i>Hringnun Hrualhrui</i> (published March 2018). The book would earn him a posthumous Book of the Year (2018) award from the Mizo Academy of Letters four months after he passed away in the early hours of December the 30th 2018 due to complications from diabetes. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "constantia" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "constantia" , serif;">I began working on this translation shortly after Mafaa’s death but had to shelf it temporarily due to work pressures. Despite buying the book at its launch last March, I somehow never quite read the introduction. When I eventually did though, it took my breath away especially the poignancy of the paper kite analogy: Mafaa the writer, the paper kite blown around by every current of air, then nestling forgotten in the branches of a tree only to bring immense pleasure to those who take time to spend time with him, soaring high above the skies and bringing back a taste of heaven as he does time and time again to his readers.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "constantia" , serif;">I really got to know Mafaa in early 2015 when I was asked to work on a translation of one of his writings for an anthology (<i>Contemporary Short Stories from Mizoram - Sahitya Akademi</i>). We connected on Facebook and I quickly realised he had a tremendously quick mind which often reminded me of a witches’ cauldron because it always seemed to be bubbling over with some interesting thing or the other! Since unlike other Mizo writers, he also wrote in English, he became a permanent fixture at our Mizo writing in English events such as HillTalk, and assorted seminars and workshops: he was always one of our own. And despite his boisterous, laugh-a minute reputation, I found him to be thoughtful, well-read and respectful. It surprised me though when he talked about his love of solitude, no, his <i>preference</i> for solitude because he always struck me as such a people person. In this essay, he touches on all that and in hindsight, I wish I had known how vulnerable and sensitive he had been as a person. Rest in gentle peace, my friend.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "constantia" , serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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Zualteii Poontehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03894762926515124116noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8950931197043565670.post-63277079287035622072019-05-02T20:20:00.002+05:302019-05-02T20:20:47.231+05:30Mombati Sarkar & Nostalgia Spills Over - Ben ZongteLike words from a stammering tongue,<br />
Power keeps eluding us in the hills.<br />
It slips away unannounced<br />
and when it comes back,<br />
as though a war hero has returned -<br />
is met with bursts of applause<br />
and the mothers’ resounding ‘hallelujah’<br />
can be heard across the land.<br />
<br />
Its absence brings talk of politics<br />
And the angry menfolk have even<br />
branded the government ‘Mombati Sarkar’<br />
Some proclaim that they<br />
are being forcefully cut off<br />
because the government<br />
is making up for losses<br />
While others in defense<br />
Shout, ‘It’s because of the rain!’<br />
<br />
In some houses, the darkness<br />
lends room for an eerie setting<br />
to talk about encounters retold<br />
of creatures pale and cold<br />
that rode with lone riders<br />
on their way back home.<br />
And on this note, the storyteller<br />
would send the youngest boy<br />
scurrying reluctantly to fetch<br />
a glass of water, though<br />
none seemed thirsty at all.<br />
<br />
Meanwhile in corners<br />
mothers and grandmothers gather;<br />
cradling infants frightened by the dark.<br />
They hum hymns from Church<br />
and talk softly of the impermanence of darkness,<br />
and how it makes the stars appear brighter.<br />
They pray to God and ask for light to be restored.<br />
<br />
Then by strange consonance, or utter luck,<br />
a star indeed appears victorious<br />
to form a new government,<br />
which sends the people asking,<br />
<br />
If this could be the answer<br />
‘Will the star restore their light?’ or<br />
Have they been cursed with yet<br />
another ‘Mombati Sarkar’?<br />
<br />
~~~<br />
<br />
Nostalgia spills over<br />
this soul like a hedge<br />
of pink bougainvillea<br />
on a white picket fence<br />
in spring.<br />
<br />
Yet, amidst the billowing<br />
and spring songs,<br />
the warm reverie<br />
and my gandmother's memory.<br />
I still cannot make amends<br />
with what time has done.<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
Zualteii Poontehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03894762926515124116noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8950931197043565670.post-3821659569336493582019-01-26T10:43:00.000+05:302019-01-26T10:48:14.494+05:30Yellow - Lalrinkima "Seiji" RalteIt is illogical to think<br />
that any one who doesn’t like you,<br />
Likes everyone who doesn’t like you.<br />
<br />
A land belongs to its people,<br />
& people like us —<br />
who are alienated, segregated<br />
and isolated in these hinterlands.<br />
From a great civilization<br />
whose fame expands<br />
far beyond boundaries<br />
and eons of history where<br />
the greatest achievements<br />
of mankind have been<br />
witnessed then and now.<br />
<br />
We are its illegitimate brother,<br />
bonded by the imperialist white.<br />
And a conflate<br />
of brown & yellow can never<br />
become something nice.<br />
Though we too,<br />
chant ‘Jai Hind’, our voices<br />
fade in the midst of<br />
disdain and discrimination<br />
since we are the<br />
shallow yellow fellows<br />
who are not more<br />
mammals than a cow.<br />
<br />
But we too<br />
sing ‘Vande Mataram’<br />
& pledge our allegiance<br />
to the Tiranga,<br />
Even when we are asked<br />
to pay extra rupees<br />
to enter the Taj.<br />
Because we are<br />
the yellow pad that lets<br />
the magnificent lotus<br />
float on water.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<b><i>Lalrinkima "Seiji" Ralte</i></b> is currently working as Guest Faculty in the Dept. of Economics at Mizoram University. He enjoys writing in both English and Mizo, and his take here on the 70th anniversary of India's Republic Day from the marginalised Mizo point of view is particularly interesting.<br />
<br />
<br />Zualteii Poontehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03894762926515124116noreply@blogger.com0