Ka Sur Mynsiem

The hustle and bustle of everyday life has something in it. There is a quietness in all that activity. It is oblivious to many. But for those who pause and feel deeply, this gentle rhythm is admirable.

In Khasi, we call it Ka Sur Mynsiem—the voice of the soul. It is not always loud. Sometimes, it is how a fluffy furry mole runs across the garden, trying to escape a cat or the sunshine. Sometimes it is in the rustle of leaves, the heaviness of the air that comes before the storm, the stillness of the trees in the eye of a storm, the ache behind a smile, or the quiet strength of a mother, be it a human mother or an animal mother.

Ka Sur Mynsiem is sacred. Too often, in the rush of daily routine, we forget that the soul still sings. Each morning, I sit on the veranda and watch the birds and insects go about their day. The world is not yet awake, but in that silence, there is a buzz, an entire world that comes alive.

I sit by the window with a cup of tea, watching the sky change. In that moment, I hear the birds begin their morning song and imagine them having full-blown conversations. I see how they fly from one roof to another, sitting on the wires with different groups of birds telling each other the news of the day, the gossip… I look at the Bulbul that comes to eat my mulberries and never allows any other bird to sit on or near it.

It also threatens my mother if she goes near the tree or scolds it. I think about the rooster that crows at 3:20 every morning and at all hours except sunrise. I look at the lizard that threatens my mother every time she cuts the Elder Flower Tree, because there was a day when she went to do a bit of gardening and disturbed his mating rituals.

Ka Sur Mynsiem for me is embodied in my animals and the trees and plants that surround me. As I write this, I realize my mother is often threatened by the various creatures in the garden. It shows that even the creatures can be greedy and hold grudges.

Throughout the day, the moments unfold—hidden, subtle, yet always nearby. In the crowded market, where vendors spread their vegetables, fish, and meat and call out to their customers, I see the soul in motion in the basa dohkha (fish market). A mother balances her child on her hip as she exchanges money.

A young boy hums to himself as he counts coins. Laughter rings from one stall to another; a soft argument flares at the end of the basa dohkha, where they sell mutton. The girl who comes to bring the tea and food into the basa dohkha from the dukan jadoh from outside is being teased for wearing a beautiful pair of ballet flats and doing up her hair just to come to give tea to the wettest and stinkiest part of the market.

The women teasing her are old, with big arms and solid legs, adorned in gold from head to toe, their kids and grandkids by their sides. The kids are with books on their laps, the girls are doing each other’s hair, and the boys are playing around while the women work. The only two men who sell fish keep quiet and do not engage in such teasing, except for a few times when the older women tease them about being young and men working in a female-dominated area.

I see Ka Sur Mynsiem in all this bustle. I see the customers' faces lit up against the light: some tired, some troubled, a few in love, and some passionate about cooking the fish. I see the kids looking at the fish, asking questions, and looking disgusted as the fishmonger guts them.

I look at the women, and they are kind and hardworking. I don’t care much about fish, but I love the basa dohkha. I love the warmth it holds and the friendly feelings: I can sit there and observe everyone. I leave the fish market and move outside to the vegetable sellers, who sit not in the market premises but on the road. I look at the villagers who come to sell their produce in Laitumkhrah (a locality in Shillong city).

Even though they cause some trouble along the footpaths, they still have a soulful charm about the way they conduct their business, the way they look at you and smile with such a sweet smile, and the way they speak, especially the older women. They call each other out in rough Khasi and Jaintia dialects, or yell at their sons, brothers, and husbands. The sweet lady who sells the local berries like Sohshang, Sohshiah, Sohphi-Nam, Sohphi, Sohlangdakhur, and other berries.

A young girl sits with her father as she studies her school books while her father sells vegetables. Some customers haggle, some treat the vegetable sellers like long-lost friends: there has never been any middle ground between customers and sellers. It’s either this or that. A few dogs run up and down the street, sitting with anyone who acknowledges them. Their soulful eyes met mine, painfully at peace.

One might think Ka Sur Mynsiem is non-existent in this mundane, ugly bustle. But no—here, the soul is vibrant, colourful, and fragrant with the different smells and feelings of the market. It lives in every interaction, in every exchange of goods and glances. The market is alive not only with business but also with connection. Every smile, every hand extended, every story exchanged with vegetables, fish, meat, fruits, or even our daily things. These are the voices of people living from their spirit.

— Shailin H. Lyngdoh.

Silent Soliloquy

It's always the eyes, they used to say, that speak the heart.

But so do the tears.

When she cries in the middle of the night, 

When her mouth can't utter a word,

But in her head, a chaotic storm is brewing day by day.

Her mind is haunted by “what-ifs” and ““maybes.”

The agony of not knowing what lies ahead besides

What she knows now traps her within the cage.

She ponders over the word 'Hope'

When, all along,

She knew that word quite well — now bleak.

Because all she seems to be doing

Is pleading with anyone to help her, listen to her,

See the storm within that's making her vision blurry 

Alas! Everyone's blind to her slowly deteriorating.

Sight of insanity

So, she leaves her marks before she turns into a high tornado,

Wreaking havoc within herself and among those who walk into her path.

Shrinking her into a trap, 

Made up of a shimmering moment in the past, 

A trap where she endlessly repeats that singular moment,

When she was surest of being alive and free.

— Emitre Kyndiah.

Comfort

I find comfort in the strangest of things or events—

Whether it be a choice or a moment experienced.

The comfort I find in the presence of true friends,

Be it either physically or virtually present—

Sometimes this feeling I can't quite comprehend.

I also find comfort in food items,

Especially if loved ones cook it.

Loved ones—kite kiwa maïa,

Kam ka bei wa u pa,

Ki lok, ki hynmen, ki para.

Katwa shet ki;

Lada ha pliang em tang ka ja wei bluh,

Syrwa tyrso wa sohso khleh,

Wei tungtoh ne doh khu.

Ini toh ite wa khana ki ru man da shah kylli,

Lï ite i bam wa e jingsuk I met I phad—

Wei di phareñg "comfort food".

Ka sha saw ba tiew ha dpei,

U shira shella, u putharo, pukhleiñ, pumaloi, pudoh, pusaw.

U battar sohrap bad la ka sha,

Hapdeng ka jingdon ryngkat lang ki bahaing ha sem.

Ngan tynsat sa khyndiat ki dieng thlieh,

Ban rhem met bad mynsiem;

Ba kum kine ki por, ngan ïaï khmih sa shisien.

—Hun.

Whispers of the soul.

When all is quiet, calm, and deep,

A voice inside begins to speak.

It doesn’t shout, it doesn’t cry,

It feels like wind or like a sigh.

It whispers low, but it is clear.

It speaks the words you need to hear.

It knows your hopes, your silent fears,

The smiles you show, the hidden tears.

It says the things you often hide,

It knows the truth you keep inside.

It talks of dreams you wish were true.

And tells you what is right for you.

It speaks of kindness, strength,

and grace, of finding peace in every place.

It tells you when to rest, to try,

to lift your wings, and to learn to fly.

It isn’t loud, but it is strong.

It helps you know where you belong.

It holds your pain with gentle hands,

And helps your heart to understand.

When others doubt or walk away,

This voice will always choose to stay.

It shines a light when you feel lost.

It warms your soul, no matter the cost.

This voice is you, your truest part.

It speaks with love; it speaks with heart.

It grows with time, with every breath,

and stays with you through life and death.

So take a breath and just be still.

Your soul will speak, if you will. In every step,

in every role.

Be guided by the voice of the soul.

—Samridhi Das.

Guitar strings resonate on my Duitara

I am taut between the ends,

With steel wires wound around my neck,

And animal skin on my belly. I am hollowed, but whole when I sing of

The tales that were and the stories that will be, In a language that needs no words

To become a melody.

Shall I flow or be staccato as I speak?

Will you listen to the radio or sit before me?

As the shawla ash clogs the AC,

You sing of worlds beyond the hills,

With a tongue red with kwai,

And the smoke of tobacco leaves

Fills the room as we sing and dance together,

Around the hearth, crackling in laughter,

With our feet stomping to the frequency of our shared history.

—Menangtei Thangkhiew.

Irresponsible Journalism

Dear Editor,

It is very distressing to see irresponsible journalism displayed by The Times of India. A couple went missing in Sohra, also known as Cherrapunji.

How does that tragic event describe my state, Meghalaya, as “crime-prone hills”? TOI’s statement has deeply hurt the sentiments of the people of Meghalaya. Experienced guides are available everywhere to ensure tourists' safety. A small fee is charged for the guides. Most tourists understand that they must hire a guide.

However, those who prefer to explore our hills, forests, caves, and rivers without a guide do so at their own risk. It becomes especially perilous during heavy rainfall. Unfortunately, this couple may have decided to go ahead without a guide. Ever since the couple went missing, we have been experiencing torrential rains every single day. The police, along with the people of Sohra, are risking their own lives every day to search for this missing couple. Does that fit the description of “crime-prone hills”?

We are truly heartbroken that The Times of India employs journalists who say whatever they want without even setting foot in our state. For the record, YouTubers from every walk of life come to Meghalaya and praise our hospitality. We are kind and friendly people, and this is reflected in all the videos that travellers post on their YouTube channels, Instagram posts, and other social media. I run a homestay and have hosted people from all over.I know how well we host our guests.

From the food we serve to the taxis we arrange and the guidelines we provide, we ensure their experience in our state is safe, enjoyable, and memorable. The Times of India should not just take down its post; it must also publish a written apology to the people of Meghalaya, especially those of Sohra.

Yours Sincerely,

Ajita D. S. Lyngdoh,

Owner of Troya Homestay, Shillong — 793011.

Mario Nongrum

Misty Pines

Mario Nongrum

Afterglow