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A few poems of Ibohal Kshetrimayum
Aboki sham
(Grandma’s hair)
They say
Whenever grandma did let her hair
Blow in the wind
Villagers couldn’t see the sky
And hurriedly gathered cloths
From cloth lines
Sensing rain
As she walked through
Rice fields swaying
In jealous rustling
When she pinned to her hair
Chigonglei the village became yellow
And with kaboklei on her curls
All breathed white
But for reasons best know to him,
When grandpa demanded
She should bind her hair,
Grandma scissored away her hair,
Wept out a few tears
And left for the hills
With black clouds following her
Trumpeting like wild elephants
They say
(Chigonglei: a variety of acacia
Kaboklei: white aromatic flower often grown around ponds in Manipur)
Eedhougi khongthang
(Grandpa’s strides)
Decked up in white,
White pheijom and pumyad,
A folded lengyan neatly placed
Over his shoulder,
Bokul mohori, my grandpa,
Walked on the village lanes.
As if he owns the countryside –
Men grumbled stealthily.
But women of the village cautioned
Each other, softly, whispering –
Bokul is prowling.
And it was known,
They loved the silent fear and
The sudden urge they felt,
When their lips murmured his name.
He took bold steps,
His cheishu making
Rhythmic punctuations in between.
And it is also said,
0n muddy village paths, on which he had walked,
One often saw imprints of paws, big paws.
And in curious envy,
If a rival shadowed him on dark nights,
He would walk gently across a pond,
Would look back only when the drowning spy
Called out for help.
But I pity him,
When he walked with warbling strides,
On moonlit nights, to the end of his rice fields
Where hills knelt by swamps of fireflies
At the edge of the valley, and
Looking up to the black hills, he
Wept aloud –
Eemoinu! Eemoinu!
(Pheijom – dhoti in Manipuri
Pumyad – a kurta in Manipuri
Lengyan – a folded cloth hanged across the shoulder
Cheishu – walking stick in Manipuri
Eemoinu – believed to be goddess of Manipuri hearths, symbol of prosperity and wellbeing)
Aboki Pirang
(Grandma’s tears)
Through windy days,
On her lonely hill,
She had been taming
Cotton blooms in a kaptreng,
Making yarns in a tareng,
Weaving a khudei in her loom
On moon washed nights,
Singing a song as ancient as
A memory she couldn’t discard,
Pedalling in the rhythm of pangandem.
On the day a new spring came,
When a sudden jolt in her heart
Brought back forgotten touches,
She folded an old name
In the folds of the new cloth
She weaved aimlessly.
And she heard a cry.
Standing on a black stone
By a burn trickling down to the swamp below,
She took out a copper coin
From her shenkhao, threw it into the streamlet,
Kissed the khudei and let it go in the night air, and said –
Now I return to you, all that you’ve given me!
Took out another coin, scooped two teardrops with it,
Dug a hole on the soil, and buried it.
The tartan cloth flew till the foothill, and
Amidst twinkling fireflies by a swamp,
On a shadow, kneeling and weeping,
It landed like a question,
Aboki pirang!
(Kaptreng – a small hand tool with two grinding wooden cylinders, to flatten cotton blooms.
Tareng – charkha
Pangandem – handloom shuttle
Shenkhao- a pouch used in old days by women for carrying money, tied to the wrist)
Jingkynmaw
(Memory)
A full moon was hanging low
Above Nongkhyllem forest.
Standing amidst sun burnt trees wobbling in slivery breeze,
Listening to susurrus chirping of sleepy birds,
I was looking at the woods, blankly.
A brook was rolling down on slippery stones
By a path downhill, leading to a thatched shack
From which light from a hurricane lamp,
Dangling down from the eves was playing hide and seek
With an old oak tree, and in the echo of Wah Umtru
From the western end of the forest,
I heard a deer barking nearby.
And I saw a woman’s figure emerging from a sumac bush,
Nimbly walking down the path to the hut.
Her tresses flying waywardly like white flames,
In the moonshine, and I saw tied around her waist
Two bamboo jars gently swaying
As she moved down like a prowling beast.
Curious and nudged by her mesmerising suppleness,
I ran towards the shadowy fairy.
I could she her face, a face to remember with fear,
Red and burning but sultrily passionate.
As I followed her, I broke the silence and asked –
Who are you?
Jingkynmaw – she replied hollowly
What business you had in the woods? – I inquired
Gathering mushrooms – she answered
But I heard sounds of insects and frogs
Coming out of the bamboo tumblers she was carrying.
I followed her till the solitary hut,
Her home and when she entered the rugged gate,
I stopped.
In the feeble light of the lamp, I saw her turning back and
Gave me a smile that looked almost like a grin,
And as she crossed her threshold, I saw her heels,
Hind legs of a tigress, and I murmured “Jingkynmaw!”
(Nongkhyllem – a dense rainforest at Ri-Bhoi district of Khasi hills.
Wah Umtru – a river that flows through Nongkhyllem forest)
Rongdik
(Rice Pot)
The night I spent at Asigre,
In a cabin made of bamboo mats,
A ceiling fan was churning a baby storm,
And I heard a battlefield on a tempest outside.
A spring’s water was crying
Below the rocky hill, a bamboo cluster creaked
While a streak of lightening
Frightened a stridulating cricket.
And I was sad about the lamenting spring.
Picked up a flashlight,
Walked down the hill slope,
Found the feeble sprout of water,
And asked –
What ails you?
A naiad flew out, and said –
I am thirsty, let it rain.
She glided up in the air,
Sat on a bent bamboo tip,
Like a child playing a see saw, and
Her breasts pale and tiny like two ripe guavas,
Her eyes those of a parrot,
And she sobbed, her tears dropping like
Glow drops, some pink, some red and the rest
Like raindrops.
A rongdik came rolling down from the house
Of my host, a drunk school teacher,
Stopped between us, the water fairy and me.
I saw tears overflowing from it,
No rice no grain inside, only tears!
Aboki Pirang
(Grandma’s tears)
Through windy days,
On her lonely hill,
She had been taming
Cotton blooms in a kaptreng,
Making yarns in a tareng,
Weaving a khudei in her loom
On moon washed nights,
Singing a song as ancient as
A memory she couldn’t discard,
Pedalling in the rhythm of pangandem.
On the day a new spring came,
When a sudden jolt in her heart
Brought back forgotten touches,
She folded an old name
In the folds of the new cloth
She weaved aimlessly.
And she heard a cry.
Standing on a black stone
By a burn trickling down to the swamp below,
She took out a copper coin
From her shenkhao, threw it into the streamlet,
Kissed the khudei and let it go in the night air, and said –
Now I return to you, all that you’ve given me!
Took out another coin, scooped two teardrops with it,
Dug a hole on the soil, and buried it.
The tartan cloth flew till the foothill, and
Amidst twinkling fireflies by a swamp,
On a shadow, kneeling and weeping,
It landed like a question,
Aboki pirang!
(Kaptreng – a small hand tool with two grinding wooden cylinders, to flatten cotton blooms.
Tareng – charkha
Pangandem – handloom shuttle
Shenkhao- a pouch used in old days by women for carrying money, tied to the wrist)
Jingkynmaw
(Memory)
A full moon was hanging low
Above Nongkhyllem forest.
Standing amidst sun burnt trees wobbling in slivery breeze,
Listening to susurrus chirping of sleepy birds,
I was looking at the woods, blankly.
A brook was rolling down on slippery stones
By a path downhill, leading to a thatched shack
From which light from a hurricane lamp,
Dangling down from the eves was playing hide and seek
With an old oak tree, and in the echo of Wah Umtru
From the western end of the forest,
I heard a deer barking nearby.
And I saw a woman’s figure emerging from a sumac bush,
Nimbly walking down the path to the hut.
Her tresses flying waywardly like white flames,
In the moonshine, and I saw tied around her waist
Two bamboo jars gently swaying
As she moved down like a prowling beast.
Curious and nudged by her mesmerising suppleness,
I ran towards the shadowy fairy.
I could she her face, a face to remember with fear,
Red and burning but sultrily passionate.
As I followed her, I broke the silence and asked –
Who are you?
Jingkynmaw – she replied hollowly
What business you had in the woods? – I inquired
Gathering mushrooms – she answered
But I heard sounds of insects and frogs
Coming out of the bamboo tumblers she was carrying.
I followed her till the solitary hut,
Her home and when she entered the rugged gate,
I stopped.
In the feeble light of the lamp, I saw her turning back and
Gave me a smile that looked almost like a grin,
And as she crossed her threshold, I saw her heels,
Hind legs of a tigress, and I murmured “Jingkynmaw!”
(Nongkhyllem – a dense rainforest at Ri-Bhoi district of Khasi hills.
Wah Umtru – a river that flows through Nongkhyllem forest)
Rongdik
(Rice Pot)
The night I spent at Asigre,
In a cabin made of bamboo mats,
A ceiling fan was churning a baby storm,
And I heard a battlefield on a tempest outside.
A spring’s water was crying
Below the rocky hill, a bamboo cluster creaked
While a streak of lightening
Frightened a stridulating cricket.
And I was sad about the lamenting spring.
Picked up a flashlight,
Walked down the hill slope,
Found the feeble sprout of water,
And asked –
What ails you?
A naiad flew out, and said –
I am thirsty, let it rain.
She glided up in the air,
Sat on a bent bamboo tip,
Like a child playing a see saw, and
Her breasts pale and tiny like two ripe guavas,
Her eyes those of a parrot,
And she sobbed, her tears dropping like
Glow drops, some pink, some red and the rest
Like raindrops.
A rongdik came rolling down from the house
Of my host, a drunk school teacher,
Stopped between us, the water fairy and me.
I saw tears overflowing from it,
No rice no grain inside, only tears!
A shooting star drew a bright line across the sky,
A swarm of akin flew out of the pot, and
The spring angel smiled and said-
There will be rain soon. I will prosper, and the harvest also
She then dropped a glowing teardrop on my palms,
And vanished.
And I saw my woman in the glow drop,
Madly dancing in Himalayan rain, and
It rained and rained,
Seven days seven nights.
(Rongdik (Garo) – earthen rice pot
Akin(Garo) – termites with wings)
About the poet -
Ibohal Kshetrimayum was born at Imphal, Manipur. He worked as an engineer in State Sports Council, Meghalaya. His poems have been published in many journals including Indian Literature. His first poetry collection, It No Longer Rains Like Before was published in 2015. The poet believes in passiveness of a poet. Always waiting for his muse to wake him up in the world of poetry. He hopes, someday a poem will perch on him breaking his heart and that of the universe.
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