At the threshold of the city, seasons often arrive unannounced. Sometimes without warning, sometimes slowly, like a shy visitor testing the door. Like the sky over Bangalore, an unspoken music of rain, soft summer, pink-tinged winter. All three seasons tangled yet distinct, each speaking its own language.
Rain was the city’s most erratic season. One afternoon, clouds gathered without ceremony. Streets glistened beneath the sudden downpour. Autos, buses, cars, everything became wet shadows, indistinct and moving.
Remis Thongkhom was returning from the office. The roof of the auto dripped incessantly. It was as if the clouds had emptied themselves all at once, and the earth had drunk in all the water. His clothes were soaked, his shoes filled with water, yet there was a tired, gentle smile on his face, a smile he had known in the rains of Imphal years ago, and which, even now, travelled with him along this unfamiliar road.
No sooner had he opened the door to the house than his seven-year-old daughter, Ivani, came running and leapt into his arms.
“Papa, look! I’ve made a drawing!”
In her small hands was a picture, drawn in colored pencils, a blue mountain, a lake at its feet, and a small house with a red roof on the edge. She was learning painting from their neighbor, Nidhi aunty.
Remis smiled. “Where is this, my daughter?”
“It’s Manipur. Mummy told me about it.”
There was moisture on his face, rain and memory both. In his eyes, distant mountains seemed to settle quietly.
Aibemchanu emerged from the kitchen, smiling at the sight of her drenched husband and lively daughter.
This tiny house, two rooms, a balcony, was their world. From the balcony, half the sky was visible.
After the rains, when the air smelled of washed earth, she would stand there, her mind asking, “Is this really our home?” And Remis, buried in the newspaper, would murmur, “We chose this place. But belonging… that is still in the soil of Manipur.”
When the rain passed, Bangalore’s soft summer arrived with a quiet pleasure. Its heat was not cruel as in North India. No harsh sun, no unbearable scorch. Even under the glaring light, a gentle breeze would touch you like a tender hand, bringing calm amidst the city’s constant hum. The freshness of the morning, the golden hue of the evening, each corner held its own secret joy. Parks and gardens, the shade of trees, the smell of wet earth, the rustle of leaves, all offered a sense of peace, of renewal. The city seemed to invite you to walk, to breathe, to be alive in its open air.
And then came the pink winter. People called it ‘romantic’. A gentle cold, neither sharp nor soft. In the evening, the air turned pink, the streets shimmered, people wore sweaters, and the queues at filter coffee shops lengthened.
In that season, Aibemchanu’s mind drifted further towards Manipur. She remembered the cherry blossoms flowering together, the women in the village singing by the fires, the smoke curling into the sky. Winter in Bangalore stirred those memories, like a half-remembered song echoing again and again in her ears.
It was in this city that Remis and Aibemchanu had met, at the library and cafeteria of Christ University. Friendship, then love, and finally marriage.
Both were from the Meitei community; their families had hesitated before giving consent. After marriage, they chose this city.
“There will be work, studies, and a better future for our next generation,” Remis had thought.
Ivani was born here. Her first word had been “Amma,” followed later by “Ima.” Aibemchanu had felt a twinge of pain but smiled and kissed her daughter.
This was home. Language, belonging, distance, rain, memory, all entwined, all present at once.
That night, when Ivani had gone to sleep with her drawing, and the rain outside had ceased, and the streets of Bangalore gleamed wet and reflective, Remis opened the newspaper. News from Manipur, roads blocked, clashes, protests. He sighed.
Aibemchanu came close. “Is it the same again?”
Remis lowered his head. “Yes. No matter how far we are, every piece of news from there drenches us here too.”
Rain, summer, winter, they were never just seasons. They were bridges between memory and the present. Each one carried home, pain, hope, all wrapped in the smell of earth and the quiet of life lived somewhere else ...
*
In the steady rhythm of Bangalore’s ceaseless rain, Remis often felt the memories of Manipur rise within him, as if gentle ripples had stirred the surface of a quiet lake. Watching the droplets racing down the windowpane, he wondered, “Is rain just water, or is it some invisible bridge carrying me back to the mountains I left behind?”
Ivani came close, her small voice curious. “Papa, why do you watch the rain for so long?”
Remis smiled, then said softly, “Because in this rain, I see our other home, Ivani. Far away, in Manipur.”
Ivani’s eyes sparkled. “Manipur? What is it like there?”
Remis pointed to the cascading drops outside the window. “There, the rain falls on the leaves like music. The bamboo sways as if someone is playing a flute. And the mountains… the mountains stand wrapped in blue sheets. When the mist descends, it feels as though the sky has come down to touch the earth.”
As he spoke, Aibemchanu emerged from the kitchen, a quiet smile on her lips. “Your papa used to play in the mud when he was a child there,” she said lightly. “When he came home, your grandmother scolded him plenty, but she would still serve hot tea and fry fish for him.”
Remis looked at her, and in her face, the old memories floated like a soft haze. Memories… sometimes sweet, sometimes heavy, he thought quietly.
Ivani asked eagerly, “Will I ever go there, Papa?”
Remis gazed into his daughter’s eyes. They held hope, curiosity, a little hunger for the world beyond their walls. “Yes, my child,” he said gently. “One day, you will see how the sparkle in your papa’s eyes came from those very blue mountains.”
But deep inside, Remis knew that Manipur had changed. The images of violence, conflict, and a fraying society, appearing in the news, swam before his mind’s eye. He feared that Ivani might one day see those mountains as broken and scattered, not as he had once known them.
Outside, the rain fell harder. Touching the tiny drops on the windowpane, Remis murmured to himself, “Why do memories sometimes feel like a burden? And yet… within them lie the true breaths of life.”
Aibemchanu came close and laid her hand on his shoulder, silent, as if saying, you are not alone.
“Papa, next rain, will you sing me a song from Manipur?”
A light returned to Remis’s eyes. “Of course, my daughter.”
In that moment, the rain was no longer just water falling from the sky, it had become a thread weaving together the past and the future.
The rains had stopped. Remis sat by the window, staring outside, but his mind was tangled elsewhere.
“Remis, you’ve been quiet these days,” Aibemchanu said softly, placing a cup of tea on the dining table.
When they came to Bangalore, they thought the city would embrace them. The office, the school, the apartment, they were orderly. Yet slowly they realized that, even while living in the city, they always seemed “slightly different” in the eyes of others.
At office parties, someone would laugh and ask, “You’re from the North-East, right? Are you even Indian?”
Remis would smile and deflect, but the question echoed in his heart: Have we truly been accepted?
Ivani started noticing too. At school, children often asked, “Why are your eyes different?”
“Why do you speak differently?”
Remis took a deep breath. Sometimes it feels like we’re in this city, and yet not.”
Ivani, listening while doing her homework, said, “But Papa, my friends are nice, right?”
Remis smiled faintly. “Yes, for you it’s easy. You blend in quickly. But for us… this city never fully accepts us.”
Aibemchanu added, “When the women in the neighborhood speak in their own language, it feels like we are stuck in the middle. We get smiles and greetings, but deep bonds… maybe they’re hard to find.”
Remis looked out the window. The wet smell of rain lingered in the air.
“Language, customs, faces, everything feels different. People see that we don’t belong here. Sometimes I wonder, who are we, really? Where do we belong?”
Ivani said innocently, “But I’m Indian.”
Remis was silent. To feel estranged from the soil of your own country was something else entirely, even while being Indian.
Aibemchanu whispered, “Perhaps this is the burden of being outsiders. Memories of Manipur hold us back, while life in Bangalore pulls us forward. In between, we are alone.”
Remis sipped his tea. “This city is not bad. Its warmth, the soft pink winter, the endless rain, they all have their own beauty. But forming a connection here is hard. Estrangement rests on our shoulders constantly.”
Ivani, lost in thought, asked, “Papa, will I feel this way when I grow up?”
Remis stroked her hair. “No, my daughter. You won’t carry this burden. You will connect both worlds. That’s the hope.”
A cold breeze drifted in from outside. Aibemchanu closed the window. But Remis knew estrangement’s window never truly shuts. It remains open inside.
That evening, they all realized: home is where love, memory, and identity reside. People may misunderstand, and cities may hesitate to embrace you, but acceptance lives within.
Bangalore’s pink winter had begun. The air was crisp, the evening breeze threading through the trees thickened the memories. Remis took colorful decorative pieces from the cupboard. Aibemchanu busied herself in the kitchen; the aroma of spiced fish curry filled the house.
“Mummy, why is the house decorated so much today?” Ivani asked, closing her books.
“Today is Ningol Chakouba,” Aibemchanu smiled. “A festival from Manipur. On this day, daughters return to their parental homes, and siblings feast together. We’re here, far from home, but not from our roots.”
Remis looked at his daughter and added “Ivani, this festival reminds us that family is more than blood, it is shared tradition and memory. In Bangalore we are alone, but this day always connects us to our village, to our people.”
In the evening, friends came. Among them were Sumathi and her daughter Niriksha, who were from Karnataka. They marveled at the spread.
“Remis, all this is so different! But what a beautiful tradition,” Sumati said.
Aibemchanu smiled and handed them a plate. “Festivals aren’t just about food. They link our past and present. Wherever we are, these roots remind us of belonging.”
Ivani was delighted. “Can I invite my friends next time?” She whispered to her father. “So, they can see festivals of Manipur too?”
Remis’ eyes lit up. “Yes, my daughter. That’s the point, so your friends understand that diversity is India’s strength.”
Amid the festive bustle, Remis became quiet for a while. He remembered how the village celebrated: the whole place illuminated, songs, the drumbeats. Here in Bangalore, it wasn’t the same, but a small house tried, with all its might, to recreate that atmosphere.
When the guests left, and only their laughter remained, Aibemchanu said softly, “Remis, it feels like we are on two boats. One pulls us toward this life, the other toward our roots. But festivals… they keep us from sinking.”
Remis nodded silently.
Ivani suddenly said, “Papa, I like Manipur’s festivals. Celebrating them here makes our home feel bigger.”
Remis held her close. “Yes, festivals expand the walls of a home, so that all memory and identity can live within.”
Outside, the cold breeze ran through. That night, Bangalore’s pink winter seemed to merge with Manipur’s skies.
Dinner was over. Half-filled glasses and unfinished conversations lingered on the table. Remis picked up the remote and turned on the TV. Flipping channels, he stopped at a news clip, Manipur. Houses burning, people screaming, children running through streets.
His heart raced.
“Remis, change the channel,” Aibemchanu said softly, her voice trembling.
Remis set the remote down but couldn’t look away. “That’s the road… the one we walked every day. Look, the temple’s platform is the same.”
Ivani closed her book. Innocently, she asked, “Papa, why is there so much smoke? Why are people running?”
Remis exhaled. “Because, my child, when people forget that they are human, hatred sets homes on fire.”
The anchor spoke in rapid, mechanical tones: “Ethnic violence, months-long tensions, administrative failure…” But Remis heard something else, the quivering voice of his mother, the tears of his sister, the laughter of childhood friends, perhaps now lost in the smoke.
Aibemchanu placed her hand on his shoulder. “Remember when we last visited the village? Everyone lifted Ivani, played with her. Now, how many of them are even safe?”
Remis’ throat tightened. “Yes… and that’s why fear grips me. We sit here comfortably, but there people live under the shadow of death every moment.”
Ivani stared silently out the window. After a while, she asked, “Papa, can we ever go back? Papa, what if I never get to see Manipur? Will I only know it from your stories?”
Remis had no answer. He pulled her close and said softly, “My child, Manipur is in our veins. Even if it burns, its ashes will call us.”
The TV displayed smoke-filled skies. That night, their small Bangalore home seemed filled with that same smoke. Yet amidst it, the three of them clung tighter.
Sometimes, in the thick silence of the night, when Bangalore’s traffic ceased and only a gentle breeze came through the window, Remis felt he was back in his village, amid Manipur’s hills. Closing his eyes, he could see Loktak Lake, the floating islands, children playing, women fishing.
He remembered his mother’s voice, singing Lai Haraoba songs. During festivals, the whole village transformed: people giving thanks to earth and gods, dancing to drums and penakh beats. When the cherry blossoms bloomed, it felt as though all of Manipur smiled together.
When Ivani came home from school and asked, “Mummy, what is Manipur like?”, Remis felt his throat tighten.
Aibemchanu smiled and began telling her about the blue hills, the lakes and the villages she remembered. “There are mountains there, so high that the clouds seem to rest on them. There are lakes where boats move slowly across the water, as if they are carrying a story.”
Ivani listened carefully. She had never been to Manipur, but she had begun to imagine it through the stories her parents told her.
But these luminous memories were entwined with darkness. In recent years, violence between Meitei and Kuki communities had stained these memories with blood. Homes destroyed, people displaced. Former neighbors, once singing at weddings, had become enemies.
Remis often spoke to his cousin Ramchan in Imphal over the phone. Amid sobs, his cousin said, “Brother, even our neighborhood’s identity has changed. The house of your friend yesterday is now piles of ashes.”
Remis listened silently, feeling the tension between memory and reality reaching even his daughter’s soul.
Ivani remained innocent. Yet one day she asked, “Papa, aren’t the people of Manipur Indians? Then why does the TV say they are different?”
Remis could not answer.
His silence carried centuries of burden, the shadow of a corner on India’s map, blurry in the eyes of the rest. He held Ivani close and whispered, “My child, we are all Indians. But sometimes, people forget their own home.”
Manipur was more than geography, it was a question: had India’s far northeast been embraced as much as Uttar Pradesh, Gujarat, or Maharashtra?
Morning light spread slowly, but a haze of sadness lingered. Rain tapped against the window like a restless drum.
The newspaper fell at the door. Remis’ eyes caught the headline:
“Violence again in Manipur, hundreds displaced.”
On TV, the scenes repeated houses burning, families fleeing, army vehicles everywhere and nowhere.
Remis said quietly, “This fight is not just between two communities… it’s a battle of our soul. We forget that the same land gave us birth, the same rivers quenched our thirst. Now see, the same land is red with blood.”
Aibemchanu’s eyes filled. “And the government? This has been going on for months. Children died, women humiliated, villages destroyed. Yet those in Delhi only issue statements. Perhaps they think Manipur is not part of India, just a distant blot on the map.”
Remis nodded bitterly. “Yes, their silence is the greatest violence. Bullets and bombs burn villages, but official apathy turns whole societies to ash. That’s the scariest truth.”
Ivani listened silently. For her, Manipur had been blue mountains, flute melodies, stories of Ima Bazaar. Now it seemed wrapped in smoke and screams. Tears glimmered in her innocent eyes. She asked softly, “Papa, if grown-ups can’t make it better, can children do something? Maybe we can try. In or dreams.”
Remis was startled. “In dreams?”
“Yes,” Ivani said, looking out the window. “I imagine a day when everyone dances together. Meitei, Kuki, Naga. No one calls names, just embraces. Fish, rice, and flowers sold in Ima Bazaar again, without fear. Rain will fall everywhere; mountains will be blue again.”
Aibemchanu hugged her. “Ivani, perhaps our liberation is hidden in your dreams.”
Remis’ eyes filled. He realized maybe change wouldn’t come from leaders, but from the innocent hope of the next generation.
That night, as Bangalore’s rain washed the streets, Ivani’s dream brought a new light into the house, like a lamp lit amidst smoke and darkness.
Ivani threw her bag down with force, face full of anger and despair. “Papa, everyone teases me!”
Remis was startled. “What happened at school, my child?”
Tears shone in Ivani’s eyes. “When I speak Manipuri, they laugh. They say, ‘What a strange language.’ I think I should speak only English or Kannada, so they don’t make fun.”
Aibemchanu drew her into her lap. “Ivani, mocking a language is the greatest ignorance. Our language is not just words, it is our soul, the river of our memories.”
“Remember grandmother’s lullaby?” Remis said softly. “You first said ‘Maa’ in that language. English connects you to the world, but Manipuri connects you to your roots. To leave your language is to close a window. To protect it is to keep a window open, through which air, fragrance, songs come.”
Aibemchanu opened a book of Manipuri poems and began reading. The rhythm made Ivani smile. “Mommy, it’s the festival poem!”
“Yes, my dear,” she said. “This poem is like green fields, like the cool river, like the beat of folk songs. As long as we speak and sing it, no one can erase us.”
Ivani looked at the city streets below. Amidst the traffic, she could hear her mother’s words, fields swaying, fishermen singing, children dancing, the earthy smell of her village.
She whispered, “Papa, tomorrow I’ll recite this poem to my friends. If they laugh, let them. I’ll tell them, this is my window. Beyond it is my whole world, my village, my land, my roots.”
Remis and Aibemchanu exchanged a look of relief and pride. Their daughter had, for the first time, truly spread her wings, like a bird gazing through her language’s window at the sky.
Evenings in Bangalore glimmered with neon lights, the roar of malls, and bustling crowds. Yet Remis often felt alone amid the streets.
One day, returning from a club football match, he hailed a taxi. The driver leaned out, smiling: “Where are you from? Nepal? Or China?”
Tired, Remis said, “I am from India… Manipur.”
The driver laughed. “You don’t look Indian. You seem like you’ve come from somewhere else.”
Remis stayed silent. Sitting at the back, he pressed his head against the glass. The city shone outside, but within him, a quiet emptiness remained.
At work, colleagues often asked,
“Remis, your name is so unusual. What does it mean?”
“Your accent is different.”
“How did you learn Hindi so well?”
He smiled and answered, but a subtle sting lingered.
That night, Ivani ran to him as he entered. “Papa! Today I recited the Manipuri poem in school. At first, they laughed, but then they clapped. They said your language is like music.”
Tears filled Remis’ eyes. He hugged her tightly. “See, child? When we don’t fear our identity, the world begins to understand it.”
Ivani’s eyes shone. “Tomorrow, I will recite more poems. I want everyone to know how beautiful our language is.”
Aibemchanu said, “This is our greatest victory. When our daughter is proud of her roots, no shadow can diminish us.”
Remis looked at his wife. He saw the courage he had once seen in the streets of Imphal, years ago. Outside, the city lights glittered. But in their small home, the light was deeper, more permanent, found in a child’s laughter, a poem, and the flame of identity.
The rain had ceased, but tiny droplets clung to the window. Ivani was drawing in her notebook. Remis looked over. She had drawn a bridge, on one side “Bangalore,” on the other “Manipur.” Between, she had painted red, blue, and green.
“What is this, my daughter?” he asked, smiling.
“It’s my dream, Papa,” Ivani said, eyes bright.
Aibemchanu kissed her forehead. “This bridge isn’t only on paper, Ivani. Every time we speak our language, celebrate our festivals, share our culture, we lay a brick on this bridge.”
Remis breathed deeply. “Yes. And perhaps our greatest responsibility is to keep building it, so the next generation never faces loneliness or shadows.”
Ivani closed her notebook. “I will write a book one day. I’ll show that Manipur is not just about violence. It has stories, music, festivals. So, when people hear its name, they will smile, not fear.”
Remis and Aibemchanu exchanged a look, eyes glistening. The mountains far away, hidden in mist, seemed alive with hope.
Next day at school, Ivani showed the bridge to her friends. They giggled: “A bridge? Really?”
Ivani calmly said, “Yes, it’s real. It connects people, so no one feels alone. You can color it too.”
The girls became silent. One drew a sun on the bridge, another painted flowers on its sides. Slowly, it became part of their play.
Walking home, Ivani said, “Mom, look, they colored the bridge!”
Aibemchanu hugged her. “This is the greatest miracle, my daughter. A bridge of dreams grows when people color it together.”
Remis watched from afar, heart swelling. For the first time, he believed, this dream was not only a child’s but the reality of tomorrow.
Every year, during Lai Haraoba, Aibemchanu decorated the house with petals, built a small altar, played traditional tunes, and taught Ivani gratitude toward earth and water. Ivani repeated every ritual, her innocent face radiating curiosity and energy, filling Remis and Aibemchanu with life.
Remis taught his daughter folk songs, explaining tradition belonged not only to the past but to present and future.
Yet shadows remained. News of violence, fractured relationships haunted their memories. The contrast, nature and festival’s beauty against the black stain of violence, was always a challenge.
One evening on the balcony, Ivani asked, “Papa, where is our real home? Bangalore… or Manipur?”
Remis paused, seeing the question gleam in her eyes. The wind rustled leaves, in the distance, the metro rumbled. Her eyes reflected smoke-filled skies and festival lights together.
Aibemchanu said softly, “Home is not a place, Ivani. Home is where you feel belonging, where your language, your memories, and your dreams live.”
Remis smiled. “Yes, daughter. You belong to both worlds. Here, we work, study, and learn. Manipur… holds our roots, memories, soul. When you share its stories, sing its songs, this home is here, inside you.”
Ivani thought for a while, then said, “So can I say my home is in two places? School is my home in Bangalore. And during festivals, when I dance to drums, when I listen to Manipuri poetry with Mom, then Manipur is my home.”
Aibemchanu held her small hand. “Yes, dear. That’s the truth. Living between two places is our strength. One home gives you the present; the other gives your identity.”
Ivani’s eyes shone. “Papa, I think home can be in two places. We live here, but Manipur is also our home. Maybe we can make a bridge so the two homes can meet.”
Their eyes filled with tears.
That night, the sky clear, stars twinkled faintly. In the Bangalore air lingered the scent of Manipur’s soil. Three of them looked at each other and knew, they had found home. Not in walls, but in their conversation, laughter, songs, memories, and shared experience.
Remis stood on the balcony of their little house in Bangalore, looking at the city’s lights like distant stars scattered across the ground. Somewhere far away, in the blue mountains of Manipur, fires had burned, and children had cried, and families had been uprooted. And yet here, in this small home, life persisted. A girl’s laughter, the soft murmur of her mother’s voice, the unbroken rhythm of rain, it was all a testament to endurance.
Ivani had grown, and her dreams had grown with her. She built bridges with her drawings, with her songs, with her insistence that language, identity, and hope are not disposable. Each story she told, each poem she recited, placed a new brick in the invisible bridge that connected two skies, two lands, two hearts.
Remis realized then that the true struggle was not against distance, or violence, or forgetting. It was against silence. Against letting the stories, the music, the love that defines us, vanish. And in that understanding, he felt a quiet victory.
A breeze carried the scent of flowers across the balcony. Ivani’s drawing lay on the table, Mountains. River. Red-roofed house. And in that simple, trembling vision, he saw the future. Not a perfect future, never perfect, but one stitched together with courage, memory, and imagination.
Home, he understood, is not in walls or roads or addresses. Home is in the bridges we build, the stories we preserve, the songs we pass on. Home is a thread between two skies, and if that thread holds, nothing is truly lost.