“When you light a lamp, its glow holds back the dark for a while… but beyond that small circle of light, something else remains; waiting, carrying secrets that were never meant to be seen.”
I did not notice it the first few days. In the hills of Ukhrul, silence has a presence of its own. You begin to notice it across the ridgelines, in the forests, along the paths between homes and valleys. At times, it feels like the place carries something you cannot immediately understand. Life goes on in its usual way, people moving through their routines, voices rising and fading through the day, until evening slows everything down. Even then, a sense of presence remains, in a way that is hard to ignore.
Spending time in such a place, you begin to notice it gradually. Not all at once. It comes through small moments, often when you are not really looking for anything. One of the comforting things about Ukhrul is that people speak Hindi, and many understand English, so conversations move easily across backgrounds. Words come easily here. What stays after the conversation is often a feeling that lingers a little longer than you expect.
At the same time, it was clear that life here was not untouched by change. Phones rang, bikes passed, conversations shifted easily between local stories and things happening far away. Even within that movement, older ways of understanding the world stayed present, sometimes without drawing attention, sometimes in the background, and always continuing.
After college, once I got home, I would head out for an evening walk along the same familiar paths that run across the slopes and open spaces where the air feels calm. I would meet friends on the way, sometimes people I already knew, sometimes new faces. We would sit together without any plan, just letting the evening settle around us.
I do not have any non-local friends. Everyone I spend time with is Tangkhul. It has been that way without me trying to make it so. I find myself at ease among Nagas, anywhere I go. Conversations move easily, and I do not have to think about how I fit in. It comes naturally. I am already part of the space I am in. There is a kind of understanding that does not need to be spoken. I rarely find myself outside of it. I never feel like a stranger. It stays familiar in a way that does not need explanation. I have always met my friends beyond the idea of identity, beyond any sense of “us” and “them.” That is why I often say from Dimapur to Noklak, from Ukhrul to Somra, from Mon to Lahe, I always have people who are my own. I have parents in different places, brothers and sisters I did not grow up with, and the connection stays steady over time. The bonds have grown over time, and they run deeper than blood. Many in Ukhrul have known me for more than ten years, going back to my days in Dimapur. Even now, while I am here living, working, and loving Ukhrul in a different way, nothing feels new in the way that matters. I carry a sense of home wherever I go, and there is always someone waiting for my arrival.
That sense of belonging shows up in small, everyday moments. The other day, while I was searching for lemons for my routine morning juice, I met a lady in Ava Market who gave me what I needed and, in her own way, welcomed me into a short but memorable exchange. Her broken Hindi and English met the way I speak, and the conversation felt like a small wrestling of languages. At one point, we both paused and laughed, realising neither of us was completely sure what the other meant. Somehow, we still understood each other. It was awkward at moments, but also enjoyable. Somewhere in between, she invited me to her home, which I took as a good sign that I had not confused things too much. I said I would visit someday. I might. It stayed with me longer than I expected.
Moments like that stay with me for a reason. I find myself more comfortable among simple people, those who are still finding their way through life’s difficulties. There is something grounding about being around people who face life and still manage to create moments of laughter. I tend to listen more in such spaces. Conversations move beyond the surface when you allow them to. People do not try to present themselves in any particular way. They speak as they are, and somehow, that stays with you longer.
In spaces like that, you begin to hear more than what is said openly. I have always had an interest in the supernatural. It comes from curiosity more than anything else. When people speak about such experiences, I do not feel the need to question them immediately. I listen to how they remember it, how they describe it, and what stayed with them. Some stories do not need to be explained. They stay with you in their own way. Over time, I realised that if you simply listen, stories come on their own.
When you listen that way, some things begin to stay with you. During my travels and stays in different parts of the “Naga-Lands”, I have come across things I could not fully explain. They appeared in small ways and stayed longer than expected. I never felt the need to deny them. That does not come naturally to me. I tend to leave room for things I do not fully understand. Maybe I have always believed in possibilities in some way.
Over time, you begin to notice how these things come up in everyday spaces. In such settings, stories begin to come out. They do not come all at once. They come in pieces, in between pauses. People speak of nights when they found themselves talking to someone who was not visible. No one reacts strongly. The story just moves through the group as if it belongs there. There are moments when the silence around you does not feel empty. The descriptions stay simple, and it sounds like any other memory being shared.
At times, I realised that not everything visible is truth. What people described was not always something that could be seen clearly, yet it stayed with them in a way that felt real enough. It stayed with them as a memory rather than something to prove.
People sometimes speak of something called “Mi Khangayei.” They do not explain it directly. They describe it as a state where a person is present, yet their attention seems to slip somewhere else. There is no clear moment when it begins, and no one can say when it ends. It passes, often without anyone noticing at first. At times, even the person themselves does not seem aware of where they have gone. Even when it is spoken about, it remains difficult to put into exact words.
What stayed with me was not the stories themselves, but the way they were shared. There was no effort to separate belief from daily life or to prove it against anything else. It remained part of how people understood certain moments while other parts of life continued to move.
Some stories carry a different weight. They are tied to a kind of attachment that does not end even after someone is gone. A few people spoke about encounters they still remember clearly. The way they spoke made it sound like those moments had not fully passed. At times, it felt like what they had seen had not completely left them. They shared it and left it there, without trying to explain it.
Other things were spoken about more carefully. Not directly. You could sense it in the way people spoke about certain places, in the way their voices lowered without reason. Sometimes they would stop mid-sentence, as if they had said enough, or too much. Their eyes would shift, not towards anything in particular, yet not staying where you expected. There was always a pause before they continued. It felt less like hesitation and more like a choice. It was the kind of silence that made you aware of everything around you at once. That was enough.
On some evenings, I noticed the light would go slowly. It did not disappear all at once. The hills would grow darker first, then the trees, and after a while even the paths would begin to fade. In the distance, smoke from a few homes would rise and drift into the mist. Everything would feel still for a bit, as if the day had not completely ended and the night had not fully begun.
During my days in Dimapur, I developed the habit of walking late at night, and I have carried it with me to Ukhrul. Here, it feels different. I step out in a jacket and hat, and the chilled mountain wind becomes part of the walk. The roads are quiet, and the darkness stretches further where there is no light. There are moments when I pause without any clear reason. I walk without a plan, letting the hour pass on its own. It has become something I return to without thinking, something that has become part of my routine.
Walking around the hills in Ukhrul added something more to these experiences. The paths were familiar, and there were times when they felt slightly different. The air would go still, and even small sounds would travel further than usual. Footsteps, faint echoes, little things that were easy to miss. I would notice them, and then keep walking.
I usually spend time alone along these paths, and sometimes with friends. One of them is an old friend who cannot see with one eye. She lost the sight in her left eye during an accident in Gurgaon, where she was working. She has not had much formal education, yet she understands life in a way that feels deeper, and at times she teaches me more than I expect. There are moments when I realise she sees more clearly than most of us. Like a small child, she would ask me to recite one of my poems, and then she would laugh. Such walks are rare, as life has placed a heavy burden on her shoulders. Silence, at times, feels more true than words ever could. We walk the same paths, often without saying much, just moving at our own pace.
Spending time like that, you begin to notice things in a different way. Over time, I began to understand that the land is not treated as ordinary. There is a way people walk through it, a kind of awareness that does not need explanation. The hills, the ridgelines, even certain paths carry a sense of being lived in beyond what you can see. It is not spoken of directly, and it shapes how people move.
People also spoke about the land in a way that made you realise it was not just physical space. Certain forests, streams, and even stones were believed to have their own guardians. In a simple, understood way. These presences were not always harmful, and they were not ignored either. People said that disturbances, illness, or sudden misfortune sometimes had reasons that could not be traced directly, and often, they were linked to something unseen that had been unsettled. It was not explained in detail. It was simply known.
Sometimes the silence would feel a little different. Not around me, more like I had walked into it. I would slow down without really noticing. Nothing in front of me had changed, and I would still pause for a moment. It felt like I had come a bit late, like something had just passed through before I got there. I did not think much of it then. I remembered it later.
At times, a place does not change, and a feeling in it does not settle. I have felt that more than once. It felt closer to hesitation than anything else. I remember standing still once, listening without knowing what I was listening for. The silence stayed. It did not move. For a brief second, I felt that if I turned too quickly, I might see something unfamiliar that did not belong there. I did not turn. I started walking again.
Once, I had the feeling that I was not the only one walking that path, even though I could see no one ahead or behind me. It did not come from sound or movement. It was just a kind of certainty. I kept walking, telling myself it would pass, and after a while, it did. I remember adjusting my pace slightly, as if I did not want to fall into step with something I could not see.
I did not think much of these things at the time.
One evening, while walking along a path I had taken many times before, I became aware of footsteps behind me. Slow and steady. They stayed at the same distance. I slowed down. The sound adjusted. I did not turn immediately. Something about that moment held me there. When I finally turned, the path was empty. The sound did not return.
Even after that, there were nights when I found myself listening more than usual. It had become a habit. Sometimes I would stop without realising it, as if waiting for something to show itself. Nothing ever did. It felt like the silence was not always empty, and that some presences simply chose not to show themselves.
I kept walking. I did not try to understand it.
Many of these stories connect to the idea that life continues beyond what we can see. In Tangkhul belief, this is often spoken of as “Kazeiram”, existing alongside the present world. People speak of dreams, of moments where someone is felt without being seen. It is simply accepted.
What we don’t understand is not something people dismiss easily here. It is allowed to remain, without being forced into explanation or doubt.
There was also a sense of a larger order beyond these everyday experiences. There was an understanding that not everything could be explained through logic or science. Some things were simply experienced and left as they were.
People say the soul does not leave all at once. It stays around for a while, coming back to familiar places in its own way. You do not see it clearly, and you feel it sometimes. As if something has been there, or passed through. No one tries to follow it or question it too much. That is simply how people understand it.
There was also an understanding that the world of the living and the world beyond it were not completely separate. People spoke of a place where life continued in its own form, not very different from this one. It came up in stories, in songs, and in the way people spoke about those who had passed on. The sense was of continuation, somewhere just beyond reach.
There is also a way these things are carried without being spoken openly. It is not taught directly. You pick it up over time. In how people avoid certain paths at certain hours, in how voices lower without reason. No one explains it fully. They do not need to. After a while, you find yourself doing the same without knowing exactly why. I noticed this slowly, without anyone pointing it out.
Even among younger people, I noticed that these ideas had not completely faded. They may not always speak about them in the same way, and the awareness remains in small habits, in hesitation before certain places, and in the way some stories are still listened to more carefully than others.
Over time, I also realised that these beliefs were not held as fixed explanations. They were part of how people made sense of what they experienced. The idea that not everything can be controlled or fully understood seemed to be accepted early on. Rather than trying to explain everything, people seemed to adjust themselves to it, through small acts of care, caution, and awareness.
In the higher parts of the hills, where mist gathers, people sometimes speak of faint sounds moving with the wind. Not clear enough to follow. Most people just let it pass.
Gradually, it changed how I move through such places. I pay more attention now. To pauses. To small shifts that do not fully make sense.
People seem to let things be. I think I have learned to do the same.
As I walked further that evening, the path narrowed and the light softened through the trees. Everything went back to normal. Nothing seemed different.
There is something about the “Naga-Lands”. It does not try to impress you. It stays with you in simpler ways. Through people, through places, and through moments you do not think much about at the time. And then later, you realise they stayed.
It is 2.15 at night, and I am still writing. I had not planned this. Somewhere along the way, it just became something I kept returning to. I started paying more attention to people, to small things, and to conversations that stayed longer than they should. I do not know what that makes me. Maybe nothing in particular. Maybe just someone who listens a little more than usual.
I write at night, because that is when I can no longer keep a distance from myself. The noise fades, and everything slows down, as if the world has stepped back for a while. Things I notice during the day begin to return more clearly at night, slowly, in parts. They do not arrive all at once. They stay just long enough to be felt. There are moments when it feels like I am not the one beginning the writing, like something has already been there before I sit down. It does not ask for attention. It stays, as if it has been waiting. I follow it without trying to understand it. I write for as long as it stays with me. When it leaves, everything returns to normal, and I am left with what I managed to write.
There are moments when I stop writing, and for a second, it feels like I was not alone while I was doing it.
I think it changed me in ways I did not notice while it was happening. I did not try to hold on to it. I did not try to understand it either.
I just let it happen.
And now, I find myself saying yes to things I cannot always explain.
I had the feeling that some experiences are not meant to be followed.
I did not look back again.
There are moments when the land itself feels present in a way that stays with you. The hills, the paths, the spaces between homes carry something that feels older than memory. People do not speak of it directly. They live with it. They move through it with care. Some things are left undisturbed. Over time, you begin to understand that certain things are not meant to be approached or named. They remain where they are, and people allow them to remain.
Beyond what we understand, something always remains.
Dr. Aniruddha Babar
(Dr. Aniruddha Babar is a Senior Academician, Public Policy Expert & Social Development Specialist, Writer, and Researcher currently serving in the Department of Political Science, St. Joseph College, Ukhrul, Manipur. He is also the Co-Founder and Deputy Director of the Centre for North-East Development and Policy Research (CNEDPR), St. Joseph College, Manipur.)
