More Poems by Somte Ralte

Random Spring Musings

 No one dies before their time.

Though the living rant on -
"Gone too soon,"

No leaf falls before its time
Nor flower, before its due.

And I was wrong 
- to think
that the rains would bring back
The passing spring blossoms;

For all that remains,
After the showers
Are bare branches trailing off
Towards the ever changing sky.

I look at us and I see
Spring is one adventurous season,

For who knew, a year ago,
That we'd be as happy
As we are, together

But who knows
A year later,
Where we'd be
As these spring blossoms fall to the ground.

This Rain

"The rain is long overdue," they say,

Its gentle drizzle speaks of its latent arrival;
For long has our sky been impregnated with rain clouds
That have decided not to fall too soon.

Waiting seemed like forever,
And the first rain was welcomed with earth-lovers
Standing outside the comfort of their homes
Watching the rain splatter on the parched ground,
The smell of the first rain hanging above the earth.

I do not know what this rain will bring,
Though flowers are fallen and dust washed off the leaves of the trees,
I do not know what this rain will bring.

I do not know if I was waiting for the arrival of this rain,
And as I lie awake, listening to the sound of the pouring rain
I don't know what I'm waiting for,
I don't know what I'm hoping for.

The rain will run its course
And once the clouds are emptied of their bowels,
The rain will stop
And the earth shall devour the waters,
The leaves will glisten at the first rays of dawn.

I know nature will run its course:
The trees will bloom
And our lives will go on;
I know time will pass by before I know it:
Seconds will turn to minutes
Minutes will turn to hours
Hours will turn to days
Days will turn to weeks
Weeks will turn to months
And months will turn to years.

Still, I do not know what this rain will bring
And I do not know what I'm waiting for.

If I say I'm waiting for you
I also know that I'm waiting
For the aches that only you can bring;
And if I say I'm waiting for you,
I know disappointment is right around the corner
Waiting to grapple me,
With all the persons that I would have to fall in love with
And I know I'm not capable
Of loving everybody that you are:

Therefore I do not know what I'm waiting for
And I do not know what this rain will bring.

But I know time will pass, seasons will change,
The city will bloom on in its varied hues and colours.
Someday soon I might call this city "my home."

But God forbid I ever lose my love for my home in the hills
God forbid I ever lose the love of the people I have left behind
Even as I strive to love and reach the hearts of the people that are nearby.

I do not know what I am waiting for,
And I do not know what this summer will bring.

And the rain is gentle,
Perhaps the clouds are emptied of their bowels.
Do they know what they are waiting for?

And I think of you.
Has sleep eluded you
Or are you able to sleep soundly,
Forgetting the day's trouble
Looking forward to tomorrow
When our lives will resume
And responsibilities consume.

Are you listening to the rain too?
You say you love April. And she's here.
But do you know what you're waiting for?
Were you waiting for the rains too?
Were you hoping that the rains would change the heat of summer's thaw,
And cool our earth with fresh air?
Do you know what you're waiting for?
Do you know what this summer will bring?

Perhaps I'll never know what I'm waiting for
But it's okay.
I don't have to know everything.
For sometimes, most times, ignorance is bliss
And not knowing, often, is better than feigning ignorance.

Perhaps,
When the morning comes, the rain will have stopped;
Perhaps,
The earth will have swallowed the waters;
Perhaps,
I will walk on dry ground;
Perhaps,
Tomorrow I might wake,
Knowing what I've been waiting for.

On Growing Old

Growing old puts many things into perspective,
Though not all become wiser with age.

What younger fellows fail to understand,
Smirking at honest revelation of our age

The only truth I refrain from telling them
Growing old comes with being alive.

What changes have taken place,
From outward to inward, from showy to comfort
Affected only by the passage of time;
Priorities shifting from one to the other,
Values inherent being internally modified,
Culminate with the addition of our years.

Growing old is no cake-walk,
Forget what they'd said about teen-age:

Storms and stress still prevail,
Following straight into our wasted years,

The only difference being the difference
Of what age could fathom and ignore.

Somte Ralte is no stranger to this blog, having had her poems featured here several times in the past. She is perhaps the most published Mizo poet in English with three collections of poetry, Wild Hearts (2019), A Place in the Sun (2021), Brave (2023, from which these three poems are taken) and another waiting in the wings that is already fully compiled but is being translated into Hindi at the recommendation of her publishers. Somte Ralte does things quietly without fanfare or show, no elaborate book releases, no grand interviews. Instead she keeps her head down and works on her art of poetry like a true artisan. She is at present on the faculty of the Department of English at Mizoram University.

A New Year Poem - Brenda Sailo

 

The year leaves softly,

Heavy with what I could not mend,

I set it down without protest,

Tired, but still believing.

 

The new year comes without promise,

Yet I step into it upheld by faith,

Not healed, but helped,

Not fearless, but strong enough to hold.

 

The calendar closes,

But I do not slam the door,

I bow,

And step on.

Brenda Sailo is an Assistant Professor of English. She lives in Aizawl with her husband and their two adorable young daughters. Though she does not often write poetry, she was inspired to write these beautifully written lines in a mood of melancholia at the passing year.  

 

Mid-June, Mid-Monsoon - Zualteii Poonte

Mid-June, mid-monsoon,

raindrops cluster on windows,

tree branches sway in the wind outside.

The front page of Vanglaini this morning carries

a picture of workers in a clearing on a steep hillside,

bent low and weeding,

The caption says the YMA of Samthang village yesterday

came together to weed the land of a farmer

ailing and unable to tend to his land.

The paper also says there were 83 volunteers in all.

In the face of rapidly changing values and priorities,

Tlawmngaihna lives on,

and my faith in humanity is restored

this dismal monsoonal day.

Writer's note: This poem was inspired by this photograph that appeared on the front page of Vanglaini (Mizoram's widest-selling daily newspaper) on the 18th June 2025. The spirit of tlawmngaihna, the jewel in the crown of Mizo culture, clearly lives on today: small, quiet, unobtrusive gestures of humanity that are never splashed all over social media or even seem to be part of our contemporary life anymore but instinctively come to the fore when the need arises.

Mannequins - Lalremengmawia Khenglawt

 

They come alive where light enters not,
Where blight blankets the deep undergrowth,

Where one has to squat and squint,
To chance upon the thought of a glimpse

The passage of time is strange;
It makes the lucid deranged

It renders mechanical joints to creak and moan,
While the dearth of it makes grown men groan

Audibly, yet the mass of likeness offends no audiophile
On the contrary, they are simply lined up in a pile

For the next make-believe organ to come along,
Till the whole forms a singular throng

And when you prop them up in broad daylight,
It becomes clear that they are not quite right

They are like us - the illusion of skin and bone,
Two bulging temples, housed by a skeletal dome

But they do not feel like we do, they dare not
Let emotions out to wander and trot

For emotions unchecked tend to run riot,
Till deep dark secrets are no longer private

They only emerge in tandem with the shadow,
Always mindful to avoid the evening glow

But if you ever chance upon them in the dead of night,
I implore you to chide your primal urge to take flight

Seek them, look where the light enters not,
Where unrelenting blight blankets the deep undergrowth.

 

Lalramengmawia Khenglawt  loves nature and draws inspiration from hikes around the outskirts of Aizawl where he lives and works. He gave a reading of this poem recently at a Poetry over Coffee programme organised by the Department of English, Govt. Aizawl College, of which he is a proud alumnus.

August - Zualteii Poonte

 

August with its

wild, sweeping curtains of fog and mist

that cover and lift, and cover and lift

over the landscape throughout the day.

And the rain,

the relentless, unceasing rain

that pounds and punishes the earth,

the sludge on roads

from hillsides that slide

in slow motion, upending

full grown trees left rootless

in brutal aftermath.

And when the rains hold,

the heavy humid heat that

oppresses and threatens

yet more rain.

Plath called it the odd uneven time;

the rain reigns most days in August.

Blogger's Note: To celebrate my retirement after 40 years of teaching English lit. at college this August, I thought I'd post one of my own writings. I hope to use my new free time to bring out a book or two, perhaps even an anthology of some of the writings collected here.

Let's see how things go.

The State Library – Rosalynd Lallawmsangi

 

Last night I looked up suicide hotlines
But I didn't call any
Instead I stared at the wall
While I scratched and choked myself in my delirium;
The very previous day I tried to drown.
And last night I fell asleep (in the nude)
Before I could take off my earphones.
I took them off at midnight.

Today I visited the state library–
The same one I've been trying to visit for over a year.
To my family, I was going to college as usual
And to my college friends, I was sick at home.

Nobody knew me in the library,
And I knew nobody.
I worked on my assignment (tomorrow is its deadline)
And put my phone on 'Do Not Disturb.’

My best friend texted me a few 3,500 kilometres away
And asked if I was doing okay;
It's funny how he always knows when I'm not.

I texted back.
We talked about life
(Ours and our other friends').
I read.
I wrote.

It was the most peace I'd had in a long while
Even though I got quite hungry by the end
Since I hadn't eaten for hours.

I know I shouldn't make it a habit –
It won't do me any good,
And I have responsibilities on my shoulders
And a 'life' I have to go back to.

But tonight I haven't looked up suicide hotlines
So I guess the library did me some good.

Rosalynd Lallawmsangi, 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.

Dear Benny - Cherrie Lalnunziri Chhangte

Dear Benny,

In the two decades that I have looked for you
In the crevices of people’s conversations,
The waves of laughter washing over silken attires,
Between the delicate weaves of myth and history,
Even in the curious song-wail-chant of your nation,
You remained elusive.

So I contented myself in the remembering -
Two young girls clutching their bellies
Filled to bursting with laughter
At Laitumkhrah, at Nongthymai,
Where in the windowless, dark space of the tiny room you rented,
You introduced me to strange smells and tastes and people
of a place you called home.

I came to that place, you know,
It felt like revisiting an old, familiar place
In a world where we can no longer hide our smallest mis/deeds,
Nobody I asked knew you.
Like the clean, artistic strokes of your lettering
You left no smudges behind.

Tonight, I have finally found you.
Your elusiveness was not by design – not yours;
I piece together your story:
            Young
                       Naïve
                               Pregnant
                                        Ashamed
                                                  Married
                                       Abused
                              Controlled
                      Exhausted
           Cynical.

“Nagaland was not for me,” you said,
All these years it had represented you to me.
You spoke of your greying hair,
The suffocating heat,
Your beautiful children,
Your sister’s appetite,
You told me to be greedy
To live a life you never would.
You briefly showed me your old fire and called him “caveman”
until we giggled like old times.
But he came home, and you abruptly left me
Holding on to a faded picture of two fresh-eyed girls
Laughter ready to bubble over at a moment’s notice,
Curious about the future.

I found you,
And I felt I lost you again.



Dr. Cherrie Lalnunziri Chhangte 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. 

The Names of Gods and other poems - rdp ralte

 

The Names Of Gods

on your walls are gods i do not worship
but when you pray
i see we pray for the same things

rain for our fields
sun for our flowers
deliverance from our sins

so does it matter
if you pray with your palms facing heaven
or if i pray with them joined tight close

when you shake my hand and i shake yours
do i ask for the name of your god
or you, mine

between my prayer and yours
must we argue
which one rises and which one falls

when we are only men
of equal faith and different beliefs
travelling myriad roads converging to one soil

and however different the names
of our creator is
you and i are one believer

and the form and shape and name
of religion is many, but faith is faith
and i hope your prayers are answered

                            ~ ~ ~

Six Letter Drink

i change my mind every two hours, three on a wednesday
my favourite colour goes from red to green like a road signal
and i prefer tea to coffee because the first time i was made
to spell the word coffee
it went something like K-O-F-I
it didn't sound funny to me that i spelled out something
the way it was pronounced
but i can still hear the giggling crowd
who were too kind to laugh out loud at the child who
couldn't understand things just by looking at the sound.

so at the height of three foot tall
i saw nothing was ever the way it seemed
and i learned without being taught
that i had to be careful and cautious with the C
and i knew without being told that if i didn't want
to feel so small
i could prefer tea to coffee because hopefully
i wouldn't mess up with a three letter drink.

or i could pretend to love chemistry just to prove
that i knew it doesn't spell with a K
or i could go back and realize sooner that everything
becomes something else when you look closer
and prepared myself to be mispronounced and misspelled
but nothing could change the fact that i had to go
by the book
or else i would no longer be the smartest kid in class
and people would wonder what went wrong.

follow your heart, they said, but don't go too far
not as far as to rewrite the rules of K and C
follow your dreams, they said, but keep track of the
economy and dream accordingly
they praised my paintings on the weekend but on
all the other days
they reminded me that by the height of five foot three
i should be a doctor with a C. Because that is what
success sounds like.

so at the height of four foot something
i traded colour pencils for a book of instructions and formulae
and i sold my dreams with all their wings
and bought a degree and starbucks coffee
but trust me, they smelt like the common sense i lost
and the freedom i had never known.

so at what height of something foot tall
will i grow out of a confusion so small
and understand the seven letters that make all
the difference between Coffee and Kofi
and it really was just a small dislocation of the jaws
so couldn't you have let me, just for once, bend that small law
and hear me spell the way i understand......for god's sake i
was three foot shy. that was my cup of kofi
and you ruined it for me.

now i am five foot nothing and you call me deformed
because i refuse to conform with your C.

                                   ~ ~ ~ 

my mother prays when she wants to curse
and my father jokes when he wants to fall apart
and their daughter writes a poem
every time she excruciatingly despises life

                         ~ ~ ~

in the culture of my father
praise is a flood
that drowns a man in his death bed
and flowers are language
most earnestly spoken at funerals

                             ~ ~ ~

rdp ralte (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. 

It is such a pleasure having an addition to the still very small body of work that is Mizo writing in English.

                                               

                                          Cover art: Lalnunsangi Khiangte (rivca)

                                       

Songs & Poems - Jeremy Zobiaka (JBa)

 

Hope

In time
I shall find
peace sublime
of a kind that won’t melt
away.

When the night
and the shadows
and the sight
of tomorrows
fade away.

Now I’m here
and I shelter
my fear
in laughter
and song.

I’ll bide
my time
till the tide
carries me
home.
(2.9.1974)

 

Queen of the Universe

Hate to leave you now
you gave me so much joy
A thousand years of loneliness
is crammed inside my brain
And you
shall remain in the twilight of my vision
and the universe will sing
and babies
in crazy crayon cradles
will sing in harmony
for you.

Undertaker, make me
as pretty as you can
A million times I’ll pay you
in stardust and moonglow
Don’t be sad ‘cause I’m dead
And you
shall remain in the twilight of my vision,
and the universe will sing
and babies
in crazy crayon cradles
will sing in harmony
for you.

Far beyond the future,
I’ll save a place for you
‘cause no one can replace you
and no one else will do.
I’ll form
a constellation and you shall be the Queen.
Queen of the universe
and the universe will sing
and babies
in crazy crayon cradles
will sing in harmony
for you.
(18.10.1977)

 

Transparent Sea

You make me think
of forbidden things,
of hidden desires,
undying fires,
and deep down yearnings
that need releasing.

So come with me
to the transparent sea
There’s only me on the transparent sea
(that's right, baby)
So come with me
to the transparent sea
Come share with me
My transparent sea.

I’d like to take you
without a crew
on a  sailing ship
We’d make a trip
around the world
and let love unfold.

A thousand nights
of sweet delights
we’d share together
maybe forever
and let all reason
blow with the wind.
(20. 5. 1979)

 

Do It Again

Every day the past grows dimmer
Dreams of yesterday fill the mind
and the future makes you shiver
Creeping up to you from behind
and the nights of neon glory
get you thinking about the same old story
Desperation gets you to do it again
You find a reason to do it again.

And you race towards the glitter
Screening fantasies in your head
Soon you will find the taste is bitter
But you’ve got to carry on or you’re dead
when you reach the end of the line
But desperation gets you to do it again
You find yourself a reason to do it again.

When everything is over
You’re back to where it started
You dream of friends and lovers
and desperation gets you to do it again
You find yourself a reason and do it again.
(20.2.1981)

 

Endless Journey

Loneliness
is a never-ending road
The carpet in the middle
keeps leading me on.
I see a rainbow in the horizon
it never seems to fade
And the wind whispers softly
of a long dead serenade.

Silence
is an engine
a thousand years old.
Friends are so far away
Lovers dead and gone.
Roses by the roadside
turn their faces away
as the beams of sunset
turn to pieces of gold.

Happiness
is a million miles away.
Even the fastest horses
won’t ever get me there.
But to stop is an aimless notion
For the carpet in the middle
of the road and my emotions
won’t set me free.
And this lonely endless journey
will last an eternity.
(5.3 1984)

 

One in Jesus

Crossed the night
Driving free
On highway fifty three
Morning light
came at four
with pedals to the floor.

Thirty nine souls
heading for home
one in the body of Jesus
Happy to be
Servants of God
one in the Church of God.

Dear Father
which art in heaven
Hallowed be thy name
Thy kingdom come
Thy will be done
On earth as it is heaven.

Weeping sky
Through the day
I close my eyes to pray
Cool and dry
Through the door
To highway fifty four.
Overdrive
to the hill
At the wheel was Buffalo Bill
Praise the Lord
We’re still alive
on highway fifty four!
(8.5.1993)

Jeremy Zobiaka, or JB, 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.

Life and Music: Born on the 18^th April 1953,  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, “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.” He continues, “I was lucky. I came back to Shillong, converted to Arts classes, swallowed my remaining pills and switched over to drinks.”  

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 Pu R.L. Thanzawna 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 “Black Dog,” The Who’s “See Me, Feel Me” etc. A star was born, the likes not seen or heard since in these parts.

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.  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 Salvation to Everyone 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 Satisfaction, Honky Tonk Women etc.

On the 16^th August 1999, this multi-talented man passed away at the young age of 46.

Songs and Poetry: 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 JBa Damlai Sulhnu (Selected Songs & Sketches) 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.

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 the, 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.

 

Some YouTube links -
1. Glory to the Father - JBa
2. Salvation to Everyone - JBa
3. Free at Last - JBa
4. Transparent Sea - Daphne London
5. Interview with Pi Nguri
6. Queen of the Universe - F. Sanglura

How to Enter a New Year - Ben Zongte

To begin a new year, you must first be empty.
So when you enter, your feet will be light.
Then, you must plant your feet, on the soil where the Chrysanthemum once flourished.
Allow yourself to marvel there — at the thought
that come autumn, they will flower again.

This is how you draw fresh hope. That while your dreams from last year slowly decay, there are new ones buried beneath the ground.
And come autumn, they will all be yours.

Ben Zongte 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.

 

Poems - Bazik Thlana

 

An Eye-Identity

the human eyes are the windows to his soul
a window for looking in, looking out and illumination
the windows to my soul are framed by small and narrow panes;
polite passers-by in Delhi have sometimes asked me if I could see clearly through them
i stare at the mirror and fake a smile:
my eyes tell a different tale.
i wonder if anyone would notice,
i’m hoping someone would
i hope they’d take a peek and see what’s inside

 
i make my way outside
i’m called a Chink- a reference to my eyes i suppose
i take it in stride
i’m still faking that smile but i’m tearing up again
damn these eyes!
did anyone see?
they never do.
nobody peers through the window when they judge it by the panes

 they gaze,
they stare,
they pre-suppose
yet again my entity has been summed up by my eye-dentity

 
a Chink- a flaw in the armour of unified India?
a chink in the chain of uniformity?
i’m taking it back
a Chink- it’s narrow and slanted: it’ll do to let the light in
if only they’d look in.

Presence in Absence

Presence in absence
Absence in Presence
Remnants of old and new
Some lost, some given away
Some abandoned and some outgrown
An attempt to capture and preserve them
In jars and photographs and marks
With brushes and ink
Memories hanging by a thread
The void is not always empty
The missing are not always missed
The missed are not always missing.

 

Bazik Thlana is a Mizo artist who describes himself as "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 blog here. An Eye-Identity 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.

The Weight - Sanga Says

 

There are two presences

The tangible and the intangible

And the weight of either vary

Upon those caught in its gravity

Here in hospitals rooms and corridors

Spilling out to the wailing, breathless streets

To the crematoriums of fire and water

Ashes dissolve into holy rivers

My country, in crimson ember,

Flickers between two presences

And the weight

The weight...

Sanga Says or Lalnunsanga Ralte, 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.

7 a.m. – Lalrinsangi Nghinglova

7 a.m. 
it has become
a habit of sorts
to wait
with bated breath
for 7 a.m.
The hour that tells you
the number.
Every day at 7 a.m,
DIPR gives out
the statistics
of new positive cases.
As the numbers increase,
I pray every morning,
at 7 a.m.
that very soon,
the hour will tell us
that we have defeated
the virus
with prayers and obedience
and that
7 a.m. will show us
the answer to our
prayers and obedience.

Lalrinsangi Nghinglova 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.

A Prayer for the Dying, April 2021 - Mimi Pachuau

 

My heart breaks into tiny sharp pieces

When I see the morgue vans queuing for hours

Outside crematoriums…imagine, just imagine

Being one of the drivers

He must wonder if, or when

He may be the cold passenger…

He may not even be lucky enough to make it there

Like so many, the pavement could be his ending.

My skin no longer feels like mine

For there is death in the air

The Indian summers of the past seem mellow

Compared to the heat today,

The very air we now breathe

Is mixed with the smoke from funeral pyres

It is ironic that we breathe the remains

Of those who have died because they couldn’t breathe.

My Delhi is gasping for oxygen but it’s in short supply.

I’ve never felt this small in my life

As I earth these big prayers for my India

For the lakhs of Covid cases found every day

For the thousands dying each day,

For the crumbling healthcare system,

For children going hungry at night,

For our burning forests in the hills,

For our leaders who are overwhelmed,

For some who just don’t seem to care,

For your children who are like a speck of dirt in this enormous country.

 

Kyrie Eleison - Lord, have mercy!

May the ashes from the funeral pyres turn to crown of beauty

May you release waves of healing across this land.

 

Mimi Pachuau 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. 

Lines on Covid-19 written in the Solitude of Covid-Imposed Lockdown - Ralteite Pa

 

I see God in His omniscience

smiling

to see His beloved wayward children

squabbling over existence and self defined boundaries.

For it was His decree that set in his Eternal immutable will

how far the sea should cover the land

and how far the puny pride of man

should dare to question His sovereignty.

Let man realise his impotence against the most insignificant member of His vast family that sits at His cosmic table daily,

and tremble at the noiseless thunder of applause

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

to his, alas, irrevocable doom!

 

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!

Ralteite Pa 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."

Poems - rdp

 A Woman's Language in a Man's World

"friendly men, smiling men
monsters my father's age,
they walk in broad daylight
and cast their shadows in my way,
they smile and say only good things
though their eyes and limbs leave me scared.
i thought then compliments were paid
in whistles and hands brushing my back,
a child's language does not know
how to say No to men her father's age

boys will be boys as i heard them say
and i am just a girl as they also said,
and the language of a good girl is silence
wear pretty skirts and tie your hair back,
this is a man's world. watch and learn
and remember the language.
when boys come pulling at your ponytail,
when men come pulling at your pretty dress
remember the language.
you carry on you parts
that make you a woman
and they carry with them
eyes that see what makes you woman,
what can be done
this is a man's world

a good woman speaks the language
of silence, of listening, of nodding head
of closing eyes and walking quietly on.
when a man speaks his language
loud, harsh, eyes roaming your skin
speak your language.
and i speak my language
the one you taught me
i speak it as loud as i can
but nobody listens
because nobody understands
the language of a woman in distress
this is a man's world"

 

 The Year 2020

"'it was the best of times
it was the worst of times”
a year of empty streets and undecorated winter,
a year of oversleep and overthought
a dreary odd year
with few days and so many nights
a year without proportion,
of disorder and delay

it was a year of making ends meet, of trying
to make things look better than they are,
a year of learning to change and
to be the same all at once
a tough long year of tolerance, of understanding
of learning to accept a half-opened door
and a nod instead of a handshake

it was a year of learning to be still
in a speeding wagon,
to hold onto whatever bars and hooks we find
it was a year of taking a step back,
to learn to watch and love from a distance
it was a year of rest and reflection
of risk and reminiscence.
and most bitter, most sweet
shall be the tales we tell
of the best of times
and the worst of times"

My Funeral

"i am not scared of death, but i am nervous being the only dead person in the room
what are these people going to say about me?
what do they remember of my unhappy life?

my kind teacher says, 'she was an extraordinary individual'
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.

my generous neighbour says, 'she was an angel'. oh but you should have seen my soul.

my old grandfather says, 'she was a tough one.' but grandpa, didn't anyone tell you how i died?

my sweet friend says, 'she was my rock.' but i got crushed by the weight of all the air i breathed.

then comes you and you say to me, 'i know you don't like flowers too well,
but they're all i can give you now i'm  afraid'

ladies and gentlemen gathered here today
now you know i was the unhappiest person alive
and i apologise that this is how you find out
but my blood was blue right from the start
and it didn't grow any brighter
the world is not to blame
the world is beautiful and you all are too
even dressed all black and tears in your eyes
you still look so lovely to me
and this is what i will picture when i think of life
and i know it is too late to change my mind
but if i may make one last amend...
Oh world, I am the happiest person dead."

Rodingpuii, or rdp as she signs her name on every poem she posts on her very popular Instagram page (rdp_ralte), 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.

rdp has published a collection of poems titled Secondhand Scars (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. 

Poems - Chawnga

What Ails You?

I want to know what helps you sleep at night. Of little disputes, light grazes or even emotional mortal wounds that we have to deal with every so often, deep cuts just heal
too slow but maybe for a cause; the value of trusting and the price of betrayal.
Something that shapes us now, everything we’ve experienced, individually or
collectively.

I want to know so much more. Tell me what ails you?

I’m glad we met, and I hope you never forget me. Even if you leave me.
I’ve learnt you can’t expect everyone to be there, all the time.

People need space to grow. To think. To romanticize;
to overthink, to act recklessly, spontaneously.
A double-edged process in which it’s your choice and mine collectively;
The existence of our bond and our meaning lies in each of us.
And I do hope, through it all that you always find meaning in us.

Something superficial, love, like justice and law – they are crucial cogs in the
collective understanding which we have built up, stories that we have told ourselves,
stories in the civilization that has been the product of human constructs, which have
no meaning without us humans interpreting those stories.

To find meaning in this small speck, a fraction of existence we get to savour.

Tell me again, what ails you?

An Open Letter to Us

Hey you,

You just went off the radar. I was worried.

I mean, I should worry; friends who have supported me through my trivialities. Even the smallest scratch gets diagnosed, yet still the friends who get to peek off the deepest wounds life had inflicted. And each has their time, you can’t expect everyone to be there all the time.

As long as they’re alive, the ones who understand will always be open for reconciliation and confrontation.

Do trust others, but also do not be naive; trust accordingly.
You’re too smart for your own good, the self-conscious person that I admire for your strength and vulnerability.

The moments shaped us, like a young nation starting to build itself. All craving for meaning and dreading the life un-lived.

My friend, I have trusted you with honesty and myself. I do hope I’m sometimes useful or amusing but always the one you trust.

Loyalty, I won’t ask of you; for our views may have conflicts, better confronted than silently alit. I won’t ask you to compromise your “Self” for something as vain and selfish. I continue to ask for honesty and communication, be it in any volume at any bulk of time you have limited for you.

Our conflicts and confrontation will be the ones weaving our experience.

Comrade, rest well, for we have the world to confront and most importantly ourselves.

 

Chawnga (Chawngthanmawia) 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.

He is currently a college student in Aizawl.

A Letter and an Apology & Small City of Small Wonders - Candle Vanrempuii

 A Letter and an Apology

Today I found a letter you wrote in an old notebook of mine.

It broke my heart just picturing you write it alone at night, in the room we used to share, while I was away.

It was a resignation letter addressed to the owner of Genesis.

You wrote about how your health has been an ongoing problem for you and I'm pretty sure you meant your mental health.

You wrote about how you needed to take more days off than the 12 days Casual Leave you are allowed to take a year.

You wrote about how you've caused a great inconvenience for your colleagues and how it was unfair for them.

You thanked your employer for having helped you in your professional life and personal life.

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.

I picture you writing all these things.

I picture you alone.

Scared.

At night.

Scribbling down a resignation letter you would not send.

I wish I had been there

To tell you you're not alone and that we will deal with your health issues together.

To tell you you've made a grammatical mistake here and there.

To hold you and tell you everything will be alright and that I have got you and you need not be scared.

I would've written a better letter than that -

one that isn't as humble or as thankful.

I'm so sorry I didn't.

 

 

Small City of Small Wonders

 I live in a city which is often taken for granted and criticised for quite a lot of things.

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.

This is a city where -

I see the bus stop sign lean on a middle aged beggar who has quarrels with a supposed friend we cannot see.

I see an old lady who sits on a plastic chair on a public step sunbathing

Her hair shining  like silver against the winter sunlight.

I see an old man who wears an awkward little hat the looks of which he pulls off anyway, most probably owing to age

Whom I told I fancied his fashion sense that one time I had the chance.

I see a determined old man who irons every single paper money he receives from his small ei chawp dawr¹

I see successful old men marry young beautiful women and be criticised for doing so

Just as I see successful old women marry their young handsome drivers and be criticised for the same

But I have also seen both overcome the criticisms and build beautiful families.

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.

I see educated and well intentioned men love this land so much so that they squander their entire life earnings to become politicians for the people and fail, my grandfather was one of them;

And I also see corrupt men rich with dirty money and a mouthful of shit successfully become politicians for the people.

I see a person tell me I will outgrow writing about love with age and I see myself outgrowing that person instead.

This is a city where -

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.

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.

There are people who read their Bibles in the secrecy and sanctity of their bedrooms without people having the slightest hint.

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.

Gardening is not yet a profession

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

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.

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.

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.

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.

This is a city often taken for granted.

This small city of small wonders.

If there ever is a place where the god of small things lives

and survives

I am convinced it is in this small city of small wonders.

So often taken for granted

It's no surprise that so many of us take after you.

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.

You choose to do the same and you choose to be my home.

And I choose to be the same.

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.

¹ a grocery

Candle Vanrempuii has been off the poetry writing grid for some time since bringing out her first book Evermore 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.

Peanut Butter & You and I - Priscilla Lalnuntluangi

 Peanut Butter

The train from Delhi to Mumbai
was set to last for three days.
Mama and I were on our way to meet daddy.
Mama held my arms tight,
so tight, that it almost made a mark.
I had recently turned five
and girls that age often stray from their mama.

The train was blue, duskier than the sky.
The coolies carried our bags
and mama my arm.
Mama sat me on a bunker,
warned me not to move an inch.
But I moved my head
into the compartment that was next to ours.

There sat a girl that looked like me.
We were so alike
that when I smiled at her,
she smiled at me too.
Her compartment was next to ours
Mama told me they weren’t Indians
Mama told me we weren’t alike
Mama told me we spoke a different tongue.

The girl offered me her peanut butter
I politely took it
Together we sat watching running trees
We talked, never needing language
I knew we were going to be great friends.

The sun rose and set for three days
and so did our time.

Papa stood on the platform, waiting for my hug,
She and I quickly waved a farewell,
Never knowing our names.

Thirteen years have rolled by
and we never met again.

Does she remember me?
I remember her peanut butter.

You and I

Some days
I wish
that I could have your life

On better days
I wonder
Who prayed for mine.

Priscilla Lalnuntluangi 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 page on Instagram. 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.

I am a Mizo & 90s Baby - Kim Miller

Foreword:  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!

I Am a Mizo

I am a Mizo
Born and raised in these green hills
Played in the sand after church
Collected marbles for the thrills
Wooden swords clash on till dusk
I am perfectly happy here
Said my prayers and palms joined hence
Words flow by innocence of nature
Culture neatly cushions my existence
A loudspeaker announces my duty
My identity stands firm in the people
The strong, standing code of the community.

I am a Mizo
One ancestor roamed the missionaries’ land
A diluted burden of genetical gripe
The other welcomed them into the clan
Clad in the warmth of my traditional clothes
I obediently speak my people’s language
“But never speak the white man’s tongue,” they guffawed
While we go to his church for marriage
Lest they laugh and make fun of my oddities
I head up the hill for the gatherings
We shouted and called and listened to a voice
A voice to control all our policies.

I am a Mizo
My religion is European
My accent is American
And my culture is Korean
The TV speaks of life never envisioned
Books read stories of the great beyond
My mind twirls around in curious bigotry
The fate of a stagnant life prolonged
Bathed in the aroma of the Sunday pork
The commanding bells ring through the city
The selfless inclination of an ancient passing
Now flow in the blood by decree.

I am a Mizo
But I went far far away
Went to the mainland for education
Surrounded by souls my people hate
In the South I stopped rolling my r’s
Away from the safety of the ILP
“I hate our outdated palette,” my roommate declared
To Starbucks for a cup of coffee
So I stand firm for the truth of the moment
An individual through the reason of senses
If my core beliefs and identity ever collide
I shall see the world through my lenses.

I am a Mizo
As Mizo as can be.

 

90s Baby

 

I was born; the year Cobain passed,

When FRIENDS graced the television screens of Americans

Crawled and wailed when Tupac left a legacy,

And too busy weeping to see the Lion King.

Opened mom’s drawer, her Backstreet Boys cassettes she hid

Ripped the tape apart, the plastic plaything

Yet received a generous visit from Santa.

My innocent eyes watched the news, a channel reports an accident

Two twin towers hit by two planes

Then continued playing, parents watched in shock

At least that’s what they told me anyway

Mom and Dad were my solace, tucked between them in bed

For all the Archie comics I read, the worn out Tinkle magazines

Were three G.I Joes without limbs, and dusty SEGA cartridges

I dreamt of nothing, closed my eyes then became morning

While the world moved on with its everlasting dread.

I knew not of my purpose, my existence

And so Mondays were joyful, weekends were magical

Impressed all my classmates with my eraser collection

And my extensive knowledge of Dexter and DeeDee’s anatomy

Kicked a plastic ball on the field till it rolls out to oblivion

 Traversed through the grass for its whereabouts

One friend decided to call it quits, so we stopped playing

All for a good two days.

That one Firehouse song kept playing, a recluse for everyone

But soon, Boney M will replace all playlists in households

Yet life went on, Eddie Guerrero’s funeral proved it

But this time, my parents didn’t say anything.

There’s something that sparks joy in me

 In the past of which I mostly dwell

Before Spotify and Netflix, and all streaming services

Trampled all our inconveniences to dust

Where someone could show off their mp3 collection

Thousands of songs proudly displayed on Winamp

Downloaded from shady websites of malware

With internet data to sell kidneys for

My Nokia gleefully tuned its ring, the notification

To the latest SMS pack for my weekend

Texted my crush, with butchered words and bracket emojis

Then off to play my games copied from the privileged

I thought of a new creative name for my Facebook

While I aimed to have a thousand friends displayed

But I had to stop playing all my songs at once

Since the Illumati claimed literally all the celebrities

Twenty six years later, I live on with this memory

Not a long time indeed, yet I’ve said my goodbyes

We all come and go like tumbleweeds on the sand

To create a generation of memories and cringy dance fads

We had to work for everything, but so did the past

The future too will create its own set of dilemmas

As I live today while Gen Z lost me with their humor

Were times when boomers got lost to the world we lived in.

Kim Miller : 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.