Rubu Yari 
… who ventured into the wild world of my words… Thank you for investing your time, attention, and heart into my stories and poems. You have always been there for me, and your support has kept me going as a writer and my stories flowing. Whether you smiled or maybe even scratched your head, your
The sun peeped through the slits of my grandma’s weathered curtains. “Ata Yari, kiije insa!” (Sister Yari, let’s go!). Cousin Hagio’s voice exuded with excitement. He was up and ready for our bug hunt. As I clambered down the cramped wooden stairs, I saw him looking up at me with his doe eyes, hair combed
In the heart of Ziro is a place called Khotiir, once an ancient route for commuters. With modernization, asphalt roads began to replace the narrow winding paths. Despite this, pine trees, bamboo groves, and rice fields still cloak most of the area. Occasionally, news of night travellers assaulted by uyi (spirits) in Khotiir would surface
It’s 3:00 am. Sulyu’s eyes are wide open, sight fixed on the ceiling. A beep on her watch breaks her attention. She gets up clumsily and moves to the side, placing her bare feet on the cold surface. She drags herself towards the bathroom, puts her hands on the basin slab, and stares at the
I see a faint glimmer of brightness in my dog’s face as I clean it with a damp towel. It warmed my heart for a while. Joy moves us, but pain has a unique way of shaping us. As Dean Koontz puts it, “Pain is a gift. Humanity without pain would neither know fear nor
I would rather stay in the forestand live among the dandelion fairieswho travel through the air,the wind that blows. The whispers of mystical creaturespassing between tall bamboo groovesfiltering the wind, creating gentle tunesthat ring in my ears. Reindeers and wolves, owls and foxes,crickets and frogs, fishes and dragonflies. I lie down, while tall reeds surround
My fingers long to compose those intrinsic words — words that make me come alive, words that raise my imaginations to life since life began through Imagination and was created through Words. Words and Imagination are interconnected, like a baby is to its mother through the umbilical cord, as words are to imagination. Words are
It was late Autumn in 1987, as far as Tubing could recall. The rice fields in Ziro had turned brown and withered down to their roots. The sun was setting, casting an orange hue across the sky, and everyone was returning home. The only sounds reverberating in the quite, parched air, were the laughter of
“Ugh! Jonk!(Leech)” I hear this frequently these days. Leech is everywhere. Those icky creatures inching up every direction they smell humans, not even shoes can shield us from them. Every morning, as students glide their way up the steep stairs to the school, they would invariably make their way to the school kitchen, requesting, “Aunty
Teaching in the pahads (mountains), has triggered a profound shift in my mental and emotional state. I’m starting to question the knowledge and experience I have amassed over the years. It’s as if I’m undergoing a metamorphosis mentally and emotionally to the point that I almost feel lost, giving up to the flow of a