I grew up here inside a cloud,
Not the kind that passes but the kind that stays,
wraps itself around Lunglei’s hills like an old
shawl
nobody thinks to take off anymore.
Our roads disappear after 5:30 pm,
then headlights drown ten feet from our face when
we drive through the mist
like a rite we never asked for
squinting for tail lights, trusting the same old
road more than the eyes.
The Misty Roads are like a little grief, like
remembering
someone who used to matter so much.
We don’t have enough hands to heal us,
not enough machines to see what’s wrong inside a
body,
so anything that matters
we carry to the city instead…
We don’t have enough rooms for the ones who want
to keep learning.
The shopkeepers count coins like rosary beads,
praying the month closes even.
the young ones leave
not because they stop loving this place,
but because love doesn’t build,
love doesn’t open a university.
They leave the way water leaves a cracked jug
not out of betrayal, just physics.
Everyone still knows everyone here despite the
mist
There’s a kind of grace in a town too slow to hide
anything.
I don’t know if we’ll grow
I don’t know if the fog will ever lift.
Martha Khenglawt is a Philosophy
graduate from St. Mary’s College, Shillong (bronze medalist) and is currently
teaching art part-time on weekends at Leikapui Hall in Lunglei, the second
biggest city in Mizoram. She is preparing for government job exams and says that
art has been a steady companion alongside it all.
A big thank you to Martha for allowing me to post this beautifully written lament on
her hometown (which had also been my father’s).
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