Mama
by The Little Journal
One of my earliest memories of my mother is when I was about six years old. I was staying with an aunt and her family because my mother got a job in a faraway town, Nainital. Once she settled down and set up our home there, she’d come and take me along. It had been several months since she’d been away and sometimes, I would try to recall her face. One morning, I was having breakfast with my cousins when she’d walked into the dining room and lifted me in her arms and kissed me. The sleepy room was suddenly filled with surprise and laughter.
I remember how strange it felt–the feeling of belonging to someone I’d almost forgotten and the lingering memories that became clearer being in her arms.
1980s, Guwahati
Grasshoppers
by The Little Journal
I was staying at a cottage at the end of an uphill street. The first evening, a mosquito net was tied neatly over my bed. As I read myself to sleep, I left a lamp on and the window overlooking treetops and black hills wide open.
At night, I opened my eyes to find a green canopy—a bevy of grasshoppers resting, latching onto the net. Out of fear that they might enter the net, I stayed up all night, wide-eyed. When the sun’s first rays streamed through the window, I watched them swarm into the light of vast blue skies.
2000s, Tura
Roses
by The Little Journal
Abuta, my grandmother, took great pride in her well-tended garden. Even though we weren’t allowed to pluck flowers, her roses enjoyed extra protection from us brigands, the grandchildren. Every morning, Abuta tended to the roses. The only ones we were allowed to pick up were those lying withered on the ground.
One February morning, something strange happened: my cousin and I were heading to a school festival when Abuta stopped us midway and walking over to the rose bush, cut two short-stemmed roses. Her hands smelling of wet soil—she tucked a rose each in our hair.
1980s, Guwahati
Herbal Relief
by Kanak Hagjer
The 70s—and the cure for a bout of dysentery was to pluck a bunch of mikharing leaves, wash them, grind them on a stone, add the paste to a cup of water, and gulp it down. Dawn, and these sounds immediately brought a smile to my face. Someone having to wake up in the wee hours to make the medicinal paste brought joy from the absolute fact that I wasn’t the sufferer. Ensconced under my blankets, I slept with a mild sympathy for the unfortunate one who had to go through this inevitable ritual.
Footnote:
Mikharing: The Dimasa word for coinwort
1970s, Haflong
Fleeting Encounter
by Bikika Laloo Tariang
Dear Kong, you knocked on my car window in Mawlai that evening, and I was the typical entitled brat, eating pizza with the windows rolled up, declining your sale with a shake of my head. I’m usually not like that. It’d been a long day at work. I hadn't eaten since midday, and the drive home was long and strained by the savage traffic. Besides, my hands were greasy from the pizza. As you slowly walked to the next car, I cursed the technology that wouldn’t let me open the car window without turning the ignition on.
Mawlai, Meghalaya
Full
by Harsita Hiya
I sat in the verandah watching the jackfruit tree in the backyard.
This was a new tree. A different house. At lunch, the faces around the dining table had been familiar. All the smiles and frowns I could have painted from memory.
Familiar, yes, but too few.
The old chairs, the varnish dull upon their wooden legs, had stood empty as we had eaten—reminders of death, distance, and dispute. We no longer had need for more than three of them.
The warm meal of rice and fried pabho sat heavy in my stomach.
I was full. I was not.
Pabho: A type of catfish mostly enjoyed in Assam either fried in mustard oil or in tangy curries
2021s, Balisatra, Assam
Wood, Oranges, and Aita
by Shravani Bhattacharyya
Houses with wooden interiors aren’t uncommon in the Northeast. The first room in Aita’s house has a wooden floor, which the sun warms during the winter. Here, we used to share stories and sour oranges—Aita narrated stories of freedom in her hometown, Digboi. She had thoroughly enjoyed being the eldest in her family, but after marriage, her life had become one of conformity before she found agency in the new house.
Stepping into the room last winter, I craved her voice, which carried stories all the time, for every occasion—my anchor in a changing world.
2000s, Guwahati
Gems
by The Little Journal
In the front row of a family wedding, my six cousins and I–aged between five and twelve–sat staring blankly at the priest sprinkling grains and flowers ceremoniously into a fire, chanting words that sounded made-up. When our uncle offered a stroll, we leaped out of our seats in joy.
To our surprise, the stroll was to Gems, a popular ice-cream parlor in town.
Our ice creams in wafer cones melting fast in the midday sun, we hurriedly took large bites and licked clean our palms and fingers as we walked back reluctantly to the wedding that seemed insipid, filled with adults.
1990s, Guwahati
Night Bus Rides
by The Little Journal
In the 90s, whenever we visited my aunt, whose husband was an estate manager in Assam’s tea gardens, we took night buses. These buses had flashy lights on the outside; inside, half-curtains and blue or red neon lights. I’d seen such buses in movies. They smelled of liquor, betel nut, and perfumes. The conductor would stand outside, in the muck, loudly announcing the destinations while loudly slapping on the sides of the bus.
Last year, I saw such a bus in Paltan Bazaar and was happy to realize they aren’t out of the memory-making business yet.
1990s, Guwahati