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our names are
old names. unwritten
unrecorded wrenched
from stone
mawngap
mawsynram,
mawphlang
or coaxed from water
umiam,
Umlyngka
Umphyrnai.
light as the wind
on a white storks back
which travelled here in summer
and rested at Demthring.
they aren’t carved on our
monoliths. The Mawbynna
are smooth from relentless
wind and rain.
we have no letters
with which to etch
those come and gone,
save the sounds
of our names
we set to music.
they aren’t embedded
in lawkyntang,
our sacred forests
remain untouched
nor cast down rivers
as sacrificial flowers.
instead they travel
with us on our children’s
backs, in rough bamboo
baskets heavier than
stone.
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our names
are old names.
untranslated.
sitting uneasy on
a foreigner’s tongue.
untraceable on parchment
save for stories
behind our names
we set to music.
No names save
for old names
after water um
and stone maw
“Where will your history
be found?”
For that you must play
our music, and search for
Lumsohpetbneng,
the mountain at the centre
of the sky.
Dr Janice Pariat, New Delhi
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