One night I helloed Thingchom. A small village defined by beauty. She has a river running besides her.

Sometimes rushing away like excited children. She wakes up everyday to still dew. Faithful nature would still be there to greet her. Hills and mountain tower by her side.

They slumber in their decades of undisturbed sleep. So peaceful their sleep was that one never knows when they would wake. One place where cow grass in peace as they were milked. Passion fruits, mangoes, papaya and sugarcane grow in plenty. She has the best jaggery in Churachandpur.

But she was not in peace when I last called. She couldn’t speak. I was told that she was shot from across the river, Tuithra, the other night. I was told she was heavily guarded because the expectation was not good.

That means it was bad. I thought to myself the heavier the security, the insecure she must be. Today security comes with guns and armaments. Not without. I tried imagining her in fear and unrest. She was ugly. The conceived image was dark and heavy.

Big white gothic-like eyes. If the white did not show it was all black. And the colours were disturbingly unknown. If sin have a colour, that would be hers. Not her sin.

Call it an inheritance again. The sin of the apple. It was difficult to imagine what expression she would bear in such situations. Would she still be the one I knew? Would she still be the one I love?

Imagine love lost in the guess of imagination. Imagine holding a brush and a rich palette without being able to strike even a single stroke. The colours spilled and overflow with the desire to express. But nothing comes out. Not even a thin line.

The blank canvas would only house imagination. If that were a warrior, he would be the least celebrated one. Armed to the teeth without meeting any enemies.

A warrior unto the grave without a fight. Without any battle. Without a sight. Worst, without a cause. But a celebrated martyr. What do you call that? Fortunate son? Unfortunate son? Magical son?

That question reminds me of one of our pastors who retired from the service of the pulpit few years back. On his retirement the institution that employed him presented him with more than one, but two big silver pots and a traditional shawl, Thangsuo Puon that ended with a prayer. Nothing more than that. No pension. No savings. No investment other than what is hopeful in heaven.

The sombre ceremony was no place to tell him to go and live peacefully. That was another cradle of his worries. All I could say was, God be with us. Throughout his service he struggled with a frugal life, if not broke. When he was not on fast, his diet was never balanced. After more than thirty years of faithful service he was not seen as a martyr. He left for Mizoram to become a cultivator to save his life from hunger and all insecurities that gripped him.

Thingchom was also a victim in that she happens to be the battlefield for people who were not supposed to fight. Or fighters even. That’s a trap where we all are entangled. Everyone is on the wrong side as we seek for the triumphant glory with small arms gnawing all our resources.

Be it the little money that we earn. They gnaw and bite. Be it lives and youth. They rotted. Hope and peace too. Trust and values are ragged. All wane and went. They left without a trace. But fear grows in abundance.

How can we export this for a good price? Are there buyers and market for those excesses? Or is this just a beginning for the perdition? Sometimes we are compelled to see the doomsayer’s dream. The nightmare is not far from what we live with everyday. The worst could be ours anytime. What about the best then? That doesn’t seem to be close anywhere yet.

We breed generation of fear. Generation of unrest. Generation of struggle. Generation of victims. Generation of reactors and protesters.

That’s not all. Those generations represent the future. They represent us and them if there would be tomorrow. Imagine them shivering into new time and place. What would they tell their children if they were to situate their pride and bravery? Where would they be if they have to situate themselves somewhere? Will that puzzle the emerging sons and daughters? Will they blame us for not teaching them what it is?

Thingchom, the village that still house traditional knowledge and tools to seek their livelihood, boom with sophisticated guns. The catching up with things “outside” or “global” is miserably disturbing. I was told it even resulted in displacing and migrating the villagers at one point of time. The small barrel is not a mite. It is a might.

The discovery was genius. But it serves everything that is unwanted. Blood peace. Blood trust. Blood understanding. Blood death. Blood martyrs. Everything is just bloody.

People who believed might is right trampled the good-hearted villagers. If the incoming technology could only turn their soil, protect their cattle from all sorts of viruses, clean their water, deliver them latest news, and all that are still missing, the village is ever ready for green revolution, white revolution, and all that sort.

The productive villagers that used to overflow with energy need no push to activate those revolutions. They just need a touch. That is enough to spark them for catching up.

I could only ask from a distance, what have they done to my love as my small corner is caught in global fever.