During the late 2000s, frisking and checking by army and state police force were a part of daily life in Manipur. On-duty personnel in Khaki or olive-coloured uniforms could stop anyone, anywhere on the road, ask anything, touch anywhere without the person’s consent. It made people not want to pass through any checking points for no other reason.

The constant scrutiny was rooted in the decades-long insurgency in the region. Multiple armed groups were fighting for autonomy or independence, and the Indian government responded with heavy militarisation under laws like AFSPA. It granted the military wide powers of arrest, the right to shoot to kill, and to occupy or destroy property in counterinsurgency operations. While the state insisted the checks were necessary to curb violence and maintain law and order, for the common people, it often felt like collective punishment, suspicion cast over every face.

Army trucks and state police could rumble down the narrow lanes, between the houses and could announce sudden combined operations. But mostly it happened in the evening when the sun went down and it was hard to see those faces in uniforms. In some rare instances, they would come early in the morning before a locality’s peace was broken by people in shops, and the local hotels and businesses around the area started their day’s work. In simple words, the military personnel did not appreciate attention.

During these operations, if they found anyone they wanted to question, people were taken away without a word, without a warrant. And, these people who were taken away sometimes came back, sometimes they did not. So we made it a habit to shut our businesses and work as soon as it was dark, lights out early in the houses, voices low, to rest with silent prayers.

But inside our walls, there was still some laughter left. Two of my father’s friends from our neighbourhood would come and have a quiet get-together along with my father every weekend. Mocha, a contractor who was the wealthiest of the three, my father and Naobi, the most unfortunate of all. Their friendship had been the talk of the locality. And, although they grew up together, fate could not be the same for all three. They knew that and they accepted it well.

I still remember that day. I still remember because my father and his two friends had a party and it was not yet a weekend. The reason was that uncle Naobi had to leave Imphal the next day and make his way to Ukhrul, one of the hilly districts of Manipur. Transportation and communications were not very great in those days. According to uncle Naobi, the roads were pathetic, narrow and eroded in places. If it rained, they would turn muddy and dangerously slippery. And there was a single PCO near the workplace whose network worked for about a couple of days in a week.

They sat in front of my father’s bed, cross-legged on a Kouna mat. They shared a quiet drink over roasted peanuts and Morok Metpa, a fermented fish and chili chutney. The incandescent bulb above them buzzed weakly, cutting shadows on their hands and glasses.

They spoke in low voices and decided that they should not take more time that day. On other days, they talked about politics, insurgencies and curfews, and how hard it would be for their children to grow up in those situations. Then they finished it with another round of glass.

Uncle Naobi leaned back, glass in hand, and said, “I am leaving tomorrow morning. Going there with those four boys.”

“So probably you will reach before it is dark. Call me when you get there.” Mocha said.

“Yes I will. And don’t worry. I will keep an eye on the labour and supplies.”

My father nodded. “Just be careful. Those roads are hard to travel in this rainy season. And one thing, if possible, take another person with you.”

“Why? It is so hard to find workers these days. Five of us it is.”

“Then it will be Manga gi Khong Pham ( a Journey of Five). It is considered inauspicious.”

“Don’t worry nothing will happen. I will put a stone with us so that we will be counted as six.” He laughed.

The night went by and so did half of the next day. In those days, load shedding of electricity was frequent. Every alternate day was a dark day. And if the day fell on a New moon the thought of going out would give us chills. The dog’s bark, the cat’s cry, the rustling of leaves and wind whooshing behind our ears made the hairs stand on our skin. I had never gone out alone when I was a boy.

But that evening, I volunteered to walk around from our house to the gate, a distance of about sixty feet. It was not a new moon day. Neither was it a day of powercut. It was around eight at night and I stepped out to close the gate. The air was sharp and cold, carrying whispers from the nearby hills. Just as I turned back toward the house, I saw a figure standing on the courtyard. I could not see the face as it was dark although a small bulb was hanging in front of our courtyard. As I stepped towards the house, this dark figure moved slowly beside our house. There was a toilet space between our house and the neighbour’s. So, I didn’t think much of it. I thought it must have been Baba, doing his usual round before bed. But when I stepped inside, everyone was there in the back room. My father too.

“Is Baba here?” I asked, just to be sure.

“Of course, where would he be?”, my mother replied.

My stomach sank, and every hair on my body stood on end. I was trembling as if from a cold, but it was from something inexplicable. There was no way anyone could have entered or exited from the back. Our house was boxed in tightly. The neighbouring walls pressed against ours on all sides like a fortress of bricks. The only way in or out was through the front gate, which I had just closed.

I hurriedly walked into the front room, locked the main door and told my mother and my siblings about it. Everyone was convinced that it was just my imagination. I too was sure of that in some time. I didn’t say anything. I didn’t want to think about anything. So I didn’t. Not that night. So after a few minutes of careful observation, I went to sleep.

But the next morning, there were police personnel in front of our neighbour’s house. Couple of gypsies were parked crookedly across the narrow lane. Boots in the dust. The sound of radios hissed. That sight meant danger. We shouldn’t ask why they were there. We shouldn’t peek through curtains. In Imphal, in those times, a uniform at your doorstep could change your life forever. We waited in silence, wondering who would be taken away. But this time, the news was not about questioning or search operations.

It was a death report.

My father’s friend, Uncle Naobi, was dead. It came as shocking news. He had just left early yesterday morning. But the police reported that before they reached the site, the truck fell off from the steep terrain on the edge of a hill. It was raining and the road was muddy and slippery. While three of them at the back were able to jump out. The driver and uncle Naobi, who were in the front, went down with the truck and landed between the trees.

According to those survivors, Uncle Naobi was stuck between a tree and the truck but the driver was not, though he was severely injured. There was no way to make phone calls. The only thing they could have done was to wait for any other vehicle to pass them on that muddy road. And it did not happen anytime soon. Uncle Naobi was stuck for a very long time and died at around eight at night.

Suddenly it struck my mind. That was around the same time when I had seen someone in our courtyard. And I just realised that it was in the Khangenpham, that I saw it. In Meitei tradition, Khangenpham is the right side of the courtyard where a temporary hut is constructed for resting the deceased before cremation. 

I did not remind my family again about it. And I told no other person what I saw that day. It would sound strange. Maybe I didn’t want to believe it myself. Or I could not say for sure if it was because they had taken the journey of five. But deep inside, in the soft place where logic didn’t matter, I was certain. He had come home. Not his body. But something about him. A shadow. A memory. A soul. Not lost. Not wandering.

Just stopped by. One last time.