But before you take your head back, understand
That I am from a people
With names such as Faka and Faki
And coincidentally, you probably have guessed their gender correctly
See, in my language
Fak, spelled F A K, is a good word
It means to praise or to exalt
So fak Eliot and fak Shakespeare
And fak you too.
Now that you've learned a word in my language
Maybe I'll learn one in yours.
Maybe then the boxes that we put each other into
Will start to take the shapes of people
Starting across each other amidst the rubble
Arranging the stones,
Trying to make something beautiful
Maybe my word will replace yours and yours will replace mine
And maybe then,
The falconer will hear the falcon
And things won't fall apart so often
But until then,
From inside this box dreaming
Fak everybody.
Sanga reading his poem at the Hilltalk literary event in Aizawl on the 25th November 2017.
Blogger’s Note: When I read Naga writer Easterine Kire’s "Mari", a family biography set during World War II in Nagaland, I felt a rush of envy that our state neighbours had this wonderful documentation of their experiences during the war. Late last year, I was delighted to come across Pu Sangzuala’s autobiography with detailed descriptions of his involvement in the war, and all of it in English! I immediately called his daughter and asked if I could blog an extract and she gracefully agreed. My one regret is that it took me so long to get this fascinating piece of history online. I thank Pu Sangzuala for leaving behind this invaluable documentation, as also his family for permission to post a segment here.
During the last part of October, we received orders to join the 11th East African Division, which was operating west of River Chindwin, south of Tamu, with the objective of crossing the river in force, attack the enemy wherever they were found and then destroy them. Men of this Division were drawn from Kenya, Uganda, Tanganiyka, Nyasaland and Rhodesia (all black Africans). All their officers and senior NCOs (sergeants) were whites. For security reasons, we started on foot and from Moreh at midnight on 1st November 1944. Foolishly I put on a brand new pair of military boots which caused blisters in various parts of my feet. This made marching difficult. Everyone had to carry his own kit (all belongings – bedding, garments etc), arms and ammunition, ground sheet and ration, and had to be self-supporting. The only transport available to us were mules which were used for transporting heavy materials and stores like mortar, bombs, reserve ammunition and rations.
On the third day of marching on foot through jungles, we contacted the 21st East African Infantry Brigade under which the battalion was to operate. Most of us spent the night in abandoned enemy bunkers. I was in one of them. It was very difficult to sleep because sands were falling off and on from the top cover of the bunkers. We did not take the risk of staying outside for fear of enemy shelling – sporadic shellings by mountain guns were made by the enemy in the area. The enemy had been driven across the river Chindwin. And the nearest enemy post was about 2 kms away east of the river. The following night, a patrol party was sent across the river to locate the enemy. In the meantime, preparations were on in full swing for large scale crossing of the river. Rafts were constructed with bamboo and tarpaulins. In the evening, the patrol party reported that the enemy had withdrawn towards the east. The following day, the battalion crossed over to the east bank without any hindrance. All types of available river transport were used – sampans, dug-outs, bamboo rafts, tarpaulin with wooden or bamboo frames. I was in one of the dug-outs, along with six others. It was overloading and the level of water was barely 2 to 3 inches below the edge of the dugout. My boatman was jittery out of fear. Because of fear, he would make a move off and on, and the dugouts would swerve and would nearly swallow the water. The distance from West to East bank was about 300 metres. Perhaps this was the longest 300 metres I had ever travelled. We then had the honour of being the first full infantry battalion to re-cross River Chindwin during the re-conquest of Burma.
The advance party took position in the hillock overlooking a village. No sooner were they in position than a Japanese fighting patrol of about fifteen men appeared. Our patrol party killed six of them without suffering any casualty, and the remaining Japanese disappeared into the jungle. We then slowly advanced towards the south, and ‘B’ Company was detached to the east as a flank protection. We spent three nights on the east flank. On the fourth day, there was heavy firing to our east – both of rifles and automatic weapons interspersed with explosions of grenades and two inch mortar bombs. We, in the HQ thought that the enemy might have launched an attack on our company deployed in the east, and that the enemy might try to drive us out of the east bank. We were worried because there was no means of crossing the river to the west in that area and a large area east of the river was sandy, barren and exposed to the enemy. Even for those who could swim, the river in that area was narrow, the current was extremely strong. There was apprehension in everyone’s mind. To our great relief, a message from Major A.I. Calistan of “B” Company came saying that since they could not locate the enemy, they had discarded part of their ammunition and bombs for practicing river crossing. As the enemy was retreating fast to the east and the south, contact could not be made of their whereabouts. The battalion crossed over to the west bank of the river in piecemeal and concentrated in the area near the river port of Mawlaik.
Near Mawlaik, a paddy field was flattened for use as a landing ground for small planes, and cargo-carrying gliders. We called it “Jeep plane” because it could carry only one passenger apart from the pilot, and the fuselage was made of reinforced canvas. The “Jeep planes” were operated from Yajogyo, about 50 km away to the West, where a makeshift airfield was constructed and operated by the U.S. Air Force. The plane was operated for evacuation of casualties. Very often, cargo-carrying gliders also landed at the landing ground – a Dakota plane would tow the glider, release at the right altitude and direction and then the glider would land, and cargo unloaded. A big iron ring was attached to the head of the glider, and the Dakota would come low, release the two ropes with a big hook attached to the end, which would hook the iron ring, and off they would fly. It was a risky operation which needed perfect skill. Though some items of rations like rice, atta, animal ration were freely dropped by planes, ration and ammunition were mainly dropped by Dakotas. Silk parachutes were used for dropping breakable items liquor; cotton chutes for ammunition and supplies, and Hessian chutes for other items. There was serious shortage of cloths amongst the civil population. Hence there was heavy demand for parachutes among the civilians for making garments. Normally we could have two fowl in exchange for one parachute. At any rate, the parachutes had to be left behind, since there was no means of carrying or sending them back. We, therefore, had plenty of chicken to supplement our ration. Occasionally we received fresh frozen Australian mutton and rum through airdrops. While in Mawlaik, we leant that a pontoon bailey bridge, the longest of its kind in the world, had been constructed across river Chindwin at Kalewa, downstream. This was a big morale booster for the officers and men as they realized that the Allied Forces meant real business. The long awaited operation – the big push into Burma started at last.
Before the battalion marched back to to Moreh on foot, it was decided that the Adjutant (Capt. M.G. Williamson) and I should leave for Shillong to sort out some official matters, so as to be back before the battalion involved itself in the high push into Burma with the 19th Division. We left by ‘jeep’ plane and landed in Yajagyo where we were received by the medical staff thinking we were casualties. We were then transferred to an ambulance plane (a single engine high wing monoplane with fixed under-carriage) with accommodation for 6 stretcher cases and 10 sitting patients. We landed in Tamu where we were received by the medical staff along with casualties who had travelled with us. The dedication of the US pilots and ground crew were commendable. From Tamu, we went by jeep to Moreh and then to Shillong. Capt. Williamson was my Adjutant from mid 1944 till mid 1945. He had since died in Australia in 1981. But the time we returned to Moreh, the battalion had already moved across River Chindwin. On my leaving Mawlaik for Shillong, I had to leave behind my batman, Rohnuna of Hlimen. During my absence from the battalion, the poor fellow was blasted to pieces by an explosion. An investigation revealed that while cooking in the open, an explosion occurred at the spot. It appeared that during the battle which took place in this area, some bombs and shells must have been embedded and covered by monsoon mud and must have been heated by the fire above. The limbs of Rohnuna were said to have scattered over a wide area and had to be collected for burial.
We proceeded towards Homalin on the banks of River Chindwin, along the route used by the Japanese during their invasion of India. It was not a motorable road but a bridle path which was widened to take motor vehicles. The gradients were very steep at places. The local villagers told us that the Japanese had to use elephants to tow vehicles at places, since the vehicles were unable to negotiate the gradients with their own power. Unfortunately, the brakes of our jeep was out of order. There were no means of repairing them in the jungles. The bulk of the troops with supporting units like the recovery unit and repairing units had all gone ahead. With a skillful driver, we managed to negotiate the jungle roads without any mishaps. Soon we could join the battalion. On Christmas Eve, we spent the night in the jungle and a complete blackout was maintained. There was no Christmas service, no carols, and no feast. Next day, on Christmas day, we went on towards Central Burma.
On New Year’s Eve, we reached the railway station Kawlin in Central Burma. From there we advanced towards the South following the motorable road which ran parallel to the railway lines. Late at night, we came across a road block set up by the enemy by felling trees on the road. The leading vehicle struck a land mine which resulted in damage to the vehicle. Cautiously we went on but fortunately the road block was not manned. We went on to the South, and on the 4th January 1945, the battalion launched an attack from the right flank of the Division. In the course of the battle, our C.O. (Lt. Col. W.F. Brown) was killed. Sadness overshadowed the officers and men alike. The Second-in-Command, Major Mohd. Ayub Khan had to take over command. While advancing towards the south, I came across two dead Japanese in a slit trench. They were in a sitting position facing each other The head of one of them appeared as though it had been chopped off cleanly just above the eyebrows. It was the work of the shell of 25-pounder anti-personnel shell. I thought to myself, “These poor boys must have relatives at home longing for their return, like me. How ugly the war is!”
J. Lalsangzuala (1924–2009) was one of Mizoram’s most prominent and respected public leaders. He joined the Indian army in 1941 and had the honour of being the first Mizo and the youngest Indian army personnel to be promoted to the gazetted rank of Viceroy Commissioned Officer, Jemader Head Clerk at the tender age of 19. After military service against the Japanese army during World War II, he retired from the army in 1958.
He then held the post of Secretary, Soldiers’, Sailors’ & Airmen’s Board and was deeply involved in relief operations during the 1960 Mizoram famine, and the subsequent insurgency movement which followed in 1966. In 1970, he moved on to a highly successful career in politics with the Indian National Congress. He died on the 9th June 2009.
Tell me again how all men are equal.
When I don't see the rich man's son
get his share of guilt and war,
and the poor man's son is gone.
When barrels of water are wasted
while the tongues of some are parched,
when piles of food are thrown out
while some die starved and dry.
When religion dictates who's right
and who's wrong based on beliefs,
and who's to be saved
and who's to suffer for an eternity.
When the goodness of the heart
goes unrewarded while vile acts
receive notice and praise.
Tell me again how all men are equal
and let me laugh at your delusions
as I struggle to keep alive
while you wallow in your wealth.
This is the second time JHK's poetry has been featured here. I love how this one begins - grabs your attention in the way that you'd normally expect a nice old-fashioned story to follow. But no, it breaks into a angry spiel about all that's wrong with the world - an explosion that's still highly lyrical, if you could describe it thus.
told them to choose tlangsam [3] over kangthai [4]
Their annoyance grew day by day,
decided to silence you altogether
Shut you out from golden sunlight
wind and call of chuk-chu-ri-kur [5].
Your gong still rings under the earth
Bong! Bong!
A disturbance in tyrants’ ears.
* The first known Mizo poet. She was buried alive supposedly for going on composing songs.
[1] The place where the spirits of dead people were believed to go. ‘Heroes’ who had slain many enemies and animals were supposed to receive a special treatment there.
[2] Wood nymphs who helped men they fell in love with to shoot many animals.
[3] A plant used for healing wounds.
[4] Nettle
[5] Spotted dove
~~~
The Songster’s Lament
On blue mountain the songster sits
guitar strings all broken
the song becomes a tuneless chant:
“When guns sounded in our land
bombs shouted
fire screamed
cicadas stopped singing
homes went up in flame
hearths were razed
the sacred profaned
music fell silent
laughter turned to shrieks
dreams to nightmare
wild wolves prowled
fear stalked every street
songs curdled
frozen by night.
I’m waiting, waiting.
Will the great bear turn around*
over our bamboo hills?"
* signifies the coming of dawn
~~~
Malsawmi Jacob is among our foremost Mizo writers in English and her work has been featured on the blog a number of times over the years. These poems are from her recently published book of poetry titled Four Gardens and Other Poems available on amazon.com. The collection is divided into seven thematic sections and the three pieces selected here are from the section entitled Roots, dealing with her ethnic identity and cultural origins.
I don’t remember the first time I heard the national anthem nor the first time I learnt to sing “Jana Gana Mana”at the top of my voice. It must have been in one of the schools I went to for my formal education, for mark sheets, for certificates, for documents I have now learnt to laminate (to avoid tear and wear) because I know they are as important, if not more, as the beat of my heart during job interviews. “…. Adhināyaka jaya hē, Bhārata-Bhāgya-Vidhātā Pañjāba Sindha Gujarāta Marāṭhā, Drāviḍa Utkala Baṅga Vindhya Himācala Yamunā Gaṅgā, Ucchala Jaladhi Taraṅga Tava śubha nāmē jāgē, Tava śubha āśiṣa māgē, Gāhē tava jayagāthā….” I don’t keep count of the number of times I have sung the national anthem duly standing in attention but it can’t be less than the number of anniversaries India has celebrated its Independence day. Yet my tongue refuses to caress the words of the anthem with ease and eloquence and fumbles, instead, through the lines like my fingers did the first time they learnt to type on a computer keyboard. You see, every word in the national anthem is a challenge to my tribal tongue that is more used to a slightly altered version of the English alphabet than it is to the Devanagari script. It must be of no surprise to you then that the meanings of the words, and the lines are as evasive to me, as the colours of the rainbow are to my colour blind eyes. So when you get confused about my identity and where I am from, the God I worship, the way I dress, the way I look and behave, and the lores that lure me, remember that I am just as confused for I am alleging my loyalty to a country through an anthem that has to be explained to me for me to understand what it means. “….Jana-Gaṇa-Maṅgala-Dāyaka jaya hē, Bhārata-Bhāgya-Vidhātā, Jaya hē, jaya hē, jaya hē, jaya jaya jaya jaya hē.” Lalsangliani Ralte speaks for every Mizo, and possibly every Northeast Indian, in this poem about linguistic and socio-cultural differences, while at the same time affirming allegiance and loyalty to the mother country. I have deliberately chosen to post this on the 71st anniversary of India's Independence Day. Thank you, Sangliani, for being our voice.
"You, of all people should have used
The correct spelling of your name."
And you could only smile, wryly
For phone conversations can only last thus long.
Venflon stuck to my vein,
Tears flowed endless on our cheeks
As he told me the story of how he was called to be
As I recounted mine, in that Emmanuel Hospital so many years ago.
He said, "Sometimes the Lord speaks
To His chosen people,
And gives them insight
So that names have meanings for His calling."
I bear the name, the blessing of God
For of the many names brought forth
Great-uncle thought befitting of me
Not just to be his namesake,
But because my parents waited
Five long years to have a child.
But why I chose to be "Somte"
Replacing our native "aw" for "o"
Is a different story
Which began, when as a teenager
All you wanted was to fit in among
Peers who were prone to dismiss you.
But being in a culture so diverse
And languages so different
Your name was prone to misspelling
"Sawmi" as "Swami"-
And each syllable of your name
Pronounced to bear different meanings:
"Laal" for the color red
"Maal" for an article, but has sexual connotations
"Swami" for addressing the yogi or the husband.
And to say, "Hi, I'm Somte," seems to be
Easier, even though still different
From saying, "Hi, I'm Chanda/ Meena/Neetu"
Rather than saying, "Hi, I'm Lalmalsawmi."
Much easier, or so I thought, to type
Somte Ralte
In my Orkut and Fb accounts,
Though some friends still search to find
Lalamswamte Raltei.
Then, and maybe till now, I have never
Felt the need to assert my cultural identity
Through the correct spelling of my name
Or one without.
For I believe, despite the "aw" or "o"
Or the feminine indicator "i" behind the name
I still am a Mizo, and proud to be so
My only fear is I would not live upto my name.
~~~
The Exchange
What seemed to be just another night
At Grandpa's village in the early '67
Turned out to be a night unforgettable.
As the small family of three laid down to rest
Came a knock on the door:
"Is Zokhuma at home?"
"Aw, so here am I.
I'm lying in with my little infant son.
Let me come out from the bedroom."
From the outside,
Came the appalled voice:
"Zokhum, is that you, old friend?"
In the darkness of the night
Two old friends re-united
With Imphal memories that bound them together.
Two old friends:
One, a soon-to-be Govt. teacher
One, a serving commandant of the Front.
"My dear friend, if you are the only Zokhuma of the village
I have been ordered to take you away,
For we have heard that you are to serve the Indian Govt. soon.
"But let me talk to my boss
Maybe you could later arrange
To rent a house on the outskirts."
"That is a favor
I cannot grant.
You have disallowed setting up schools here.
"But the Indian Govt. is doing so.
And on the outskirts
Will be no proper houses to rent."
So the two friends parted once more.
This time,
With precious tokens and secrets to keep.
An old friend keeping his friend's life
And the exchange of
A waterproof wristwatch and a non-waterproof one.
This is the third time Somte Ralte's poetry has been featured here. Being a member of a very active choral group keeps her busy but fortunately not so much as to stop her from coming up with beautifully diverse poems like these - one dealing with the bewildering intricacies (for non-Mizos) that are Mizo names, and the other with the traumatic rambuai years of the mid-60s that continue to gradually be explored in Mizo writings in English.
Evenings in Calcutta were a number of things,
They were mostly conversations, the kind that always linger.
Evenings in Calcutta were honest,
They didn't betray you with pleasantries; they were
as they always were, loud and humid.
Evenings in Calcutta were addictive, an equilibrium
of peace and chaos. They were the colour of a
perfectly-made chai, skimmed with pale brown
pollution.
Evenings in Calcutta were glasses of wine,
the deepest red,
and the most sparkly white.
Evenings in Calcutta were life's lessons
of truthfulness and acceptance,
that one's anticipation of a breeze would only be
disheartening.
Ben Zongte is from Lunglei, Mizoram, and presently studying creative writing at the Aurobindo Centre for Arts and Communication in Delhi. He describes himself as a retrophiliac who is drawn to melancholy in people and literature, and seeks comfort in poetry.
My scowl and
my piercing eyes are my weapons of choice
My clenched mouth,
my uninviting brows,
They are armour against the world,
armour in a world of catcalls and whistles
of uninvited appreciation of my body, my breasts, my legs
in their professional business skirt,
because a skirt is still a skirt,
and it has always carried a symbol,
a thought of a golden triangle between feminine legs, a thought of inferiority.
A stigma, an insult that a son passes to his son,
Professional or otherwise, a skirt is still a skirt.
And an uninviting ugly face becomes a weapon, a haven.
Against uninvited wandering eyes that talk to your chest and ass, instead of searching for your soul in your eyes.
Lydia Ralte describes herself as a "weirdly fun person. Proud Feminist. Awkward friend and loyal daughter." She recently completed her M.Phil. in English literature from Mizoram University, and was awarded an O for her thesis, and will probably go on to do her Ph.D. She has been writing poetry for several years.
The road’s bumpy. And somehow, it seems like it doesn't really lead anywhere. There are plants all around but they look like they could be poison ivy or some such poisonous plant…they look anything but inviting. And plants are supposed to give some feeling of peace…or even perhaps normalcy. Because they live - they’re living things. But these plants don’t seem to breathe. In fact, they’re somewhat sinister, almost as if they’re telling you to get out of there.
If you know you have to go somewhere, what do you do? You go. Even if the road’s bumpy and the plants aren't friendly. And it doesn't seem as if it leads to anywhere. A speck or a dot is all that can be seen. It’s a lot bigger, of course, but from where you’re standing the truth is its just a speck. You could keep telling yourself it’s a mere speck and return to familiarity. Or ‘home’ as everyone likes to call it. You could go home.
Home. A safe haven. But you left it behind. You left it behind knowing full well that you were… well, leaving it behind.
You could go ahead instead. After all, you left home for it.
For that speck. The plants seem to be saying, “No matter how close you get, it's not gonna get any bigger.”
How many rules did you break to get in that damn forest? You broke the law. You went against convention. You chose your own path. You picked up your belongings and said goodbye to the life that others who hardly know you etched out for you. You watched your friends drown in the black sea, and even though they said, “Come on in, the water’s great,” you said, “No, I can’t swim.” They can’t really swim either but they try every day to convince themselves that they can. Because the other fish keep telling them they can. And maybe one day they will swim. One day they’ll swim as well as the other fish and they’ll look just like the other fish. One day you won’t be able to tell the difference. You decided then that you’d rather be you.
Your friends didn’t succeed in stopping you. So no plant is gonna stop you now. The road itself seems to be saying stop too. It’s the bumpiest road one has ever been. Every stone trips you. Some stones don’t but they still seem to want to. You realize these stones aren’t so different from the plants. They too seem to jeer at you, their intentions are definitely not good.
Stones were always present. Even when you were small, pebbles would get in your shoe and they’d hurt your feet. Then as you got bigger the stones got bigger too. Yet they still made their way inside your shoe. You knew then that wherever you went stones would always follow.
Sometimes you wouldn’t mind too much if a stone hurt you because you kinda had the feeling you must have done something to deserve it. But most of the time they wounded you for no reason. They wounded you because you strayed away from the main stream. Because you were alone when you shouldn’t be. Because you refused to swim. So you decided to leave. To get away from stones. Even though you knew there’d be bigger stones where you went.
And even though the stones hurt you and the plants continue to insult you, you’re grateful that you’ve come here. You’re grateful for what the magician told you.
He was loved by everybody, for reasons of their own. Some loved him because he gave them food, some because of his healing potions that saved their lives, some simply loved him because of the security they felt when he was around. Some even loved him because they thought they were supposed to love him. In fact, a majority loved him for that last reason.
You loved him secretly. Others would brag that they loved him the most. Sometimes they’d hold competitions to see who loved him the most. You didn’t want to be a part of it. So if anyone asked if you loved him, you’d say “No.”
But he gave you a gift. A secret gift. He said “You’re special, so im giving you this” And he handed you an instrument. “But I don’t know how to play it,” you argued. Then he looked straight into your eyes, right when you thought you didn’t have eyes worth looking into. And he said, “Yes you do. You can play it better than anyone. And one day everyone will want to hear you play it.” You believed him beyond a shadow of doubt. Then you tried to play it and something beautiful came out of it, you rushed to play it for the people you knew. But they couldn’t hear a thing. You couldn’t understand how it was that only you could hear it.
So you asked the magician why this was. He said “You haven’t been to the Secret Garden.” He turned to leave. “I want to go there!” you shouted. He smiled and said, “Then go.”
And even though you didn’t think you’d ever find the way to this place, somehow you did. An unattractive road not tread on by many. And yet it was the road you had to take to reach your destination.
Your destination.
Sarah Aineh (Lalrinkimi) grew up in Pune, Maharashtra and is presently based at Khawzawl district in Mizoram as an MPS (Mizoram Police Service) officer.Shedescribes herself as an amateur singer, poet, and air guitarist, as well as a lover of the road and the sea. She is also one of only a handful of Mizo creative writers who have published works in English. In 2014, her first novel Jo's Journal was published by Notion Press, which was recently followed up, in February 2017, with her second, Zeb and the Girl. Both are available on Amazon.
Why do you write?
they asked me once,
though absurd the premise
and childish maybe
I gave an answer nobly.
Why, you ask?
Do you ask the sky
why it's blue?
Or the winds
why it blows reinless?
It's because it is
the way it's meant,
and that too I must
write my own laments
like anyone should.
So I answer you now,
of the question you raised;
Why do I write?
I write because I must,
because I must.
~~~
Death
Death came knocking at my door
garbed in black from head to toe.
He dragged his frame across the floor
and whispered to me, "I am no foe."
I cowered, my back against the wall,
as my final moments passed me by
I heard the others and their call,
and dared to ask my waiter why.
He showed me things I saw before,
From baby steps to love's first kiss,
to hedonistic practices, and much more
I wished the ethereal keeper to miss.
"Come now, there is nothing here
that may alter your given fate,
There is no harm - nothing to fear,
only to rest and only to wait."
"Wait, for the love of the Virgin,
wait," I gasped as I fought him back.
He showed his face; a perpetual grin -
a visage of grey in a sea of black.
He proceeded to stare into my soul,
and I saw therein the ultimate flaw -
He was merciful, yet he is foul
to the living and to life's flow.
"I am a necessity, endless and kind,"
a cold voice spoke as the day proceeded,
"You fear me and it makes you blind
to the little things like deeds and misdeeds."
"I bring no suffering, I bring you peace,
yet you fail again and time again
to understand that there is peace
after one's last sun and one's last rain."
"No more of the petty wars you fought,
no more of the disease that eat away
your heart at every waking thought;
No more lonely nights, no more day."
"Only rest, my son, only rest -
For you are tired, you have endured.
Let it go now, it's for the best,
You are now free, you are now cured."
I got up and walked to him,
a pale man he was - from head to toe,
Death smiled as if on a whim
and whispered again, "I am no foe."
~~~
Dream
She is lost.
Lost in the deep pool
of his eyes
that shine like beacons
on a starry night.
He found her.
She found him.
Like two vortexes that meet
and disperse
they found each other.
Now we watch.
And we wait.
For them to fail again
like all mortals who dream
eventually do.
~~~
Jake Hruaixela Khiangte has a postgraduate degree in Zoology from Mizoram University, and is presently preparing for his combined service exams. He says he became interested in poetry "by luck" in high school when he came across Kipling's If and read it through ten times for his viva the next day. Sadly, he couldn't recite it the following day so the teacher made him write it out ten times. That got him hooked on poetry, and he's been writing ever since.
