How an ordinary morning in Imphal snowballed into the Manipur inferno

Our house in Paite Veng, a colony set up sometime in the 60s, was buzzing that day with residents going about their everyday routine. The vegetable vendor, a middle-aged lady, who usually began her day at dawn, had already bought her stock of vegetables from growers and producers and set herself up in anticipation of her daily customers. The ‘paan dukan’ nearby had started seeing the first trickle of its usual suspects. My mother, an early riser, had begun her day with a prayer in our colony church. She was always one of the first to step in through the church door that was kept unlocked by the keeper.

Our home, my parents’ pride

I have often accompanied my mother to this church. It was my most intimate time with God. I would sit on the hard wooden bench, join my hands in prayer, close my eyes and feel embraced and loved. Sometimes, and often in my mind’s eyes, I would see my late grandfather sitting on a bench up on the dais where the elders of the church are seated. Sometimes, I would see him in his beige suit singing his favourite hymn ‘Sweet hour of prayer’.

Sometimes he would be listening to the sermon in rapt attention and then we would find him suddenly dozing off. My aunties would prod me to sneak up on him and wake him up. In my mind’s eyes, I see, vividly, scenes at the church of the childhood I had left behind to start a life outside of my beloved Manipur. There I was a chubby little girl reluctantly standing on stage and reciting a verse from the Bible. Or as part of a group of the neighbourhood children doing a Christmas skit on the Three Wise Men. It was, dare I say, a blissful childhood, interspersed with blockades and other acts of protests against the State.

Also read: Mother Mary Comes to Me: How Arundhati Roy’s mother made and unmade her

And so that morning, after her quiet moment in prayer, my mother dropped in at her sister’s house adjoining the church and then knocked on her brother’s iron gate, also on the way to the church. As the eldest, it was a duty she took seriously. Her morning drill always included a quick peep-in on them. There was no time for a cup of tea and a chat. She still had her household chores to do before heading out to her treasured brick factory. As she walked back home, she picked up some fresh greens after driving a hard bargain with the equally tough vegetable-seller lady.

We called it the Hauzel Brickfield, though it was more than just a brick kiln, it was a sprawling estate of nearly 200 acres, located just a few kilometres from Imphal airport in Nambol district. It began from scratch, a tribute to my mother’s vision. She saw the city growing, houses rising everywhere, and believed a brick-making business could thrive.

A panic call