Discovering Imphal through its markets and martyrs

A lady in Imphal’s expansive Ima Keithel (literally mother's market) persuades me in jumbled Hindi to buy a traditional Manipuri shawl. I've already spent all my cash, so I quickly drift through this group of sharp -eyed imas calling out from besides their stacks of handicrafts to another raucous section of this one-of-a-kind ‘all women’s market’. Nearby a section filled with the aroma of freshly procured, fertiliser-free, mostly organic produce looks vibrant with bright oranges, dangerous red bhut jolokias (ghost chillies), lavish green pineapples and yellow, blue, green and pink lotuses.

My friend and guide Ryen explains that the slots are handed down over generations and held on to, religiously. A little ahead, the meticulously arranged earthenware section sells everything from decoratives to household stuff. But in this kaleidoscopic exhibition, the only  colour that doesn’t fit in is the olive green of the uniforms  of commandos, who seem to have merged with the daily lives of locals, but silently echo as a dirge.

The thrum of crowd and traffic on the road make Imphal seem like any other Indian metropolis, with the centre being the hub of all activities. But as you make your way through  the side lanes, the real Imphal emerges. Ryen points out small joints (rather homes), where traditional Manipuri rice beer is brewed (tribal communities are allowed to do so in this dry state). In the evenings, their verandahs light up (sometimes with candles), are laid out with drinks and snacks, and turn into a rendezvous for story sharing and discussions on local politics.

Lanes also reveal hills that extend upto Myanmar and hold evidence of the war of 1944, when the Indian National Army (INA), backed by Japan, advanced against the British army. Wars are still fought today on this picturesque valley, though they are smaller, messier, long-drawn and of a different nature. As testimony to past wars, hidden in the calmness of the valley, stand two cemeteries housing memorials of the brave souls. The most tangible remnant is the British-built metallic road leading to Moraing, where the INA laid seige and planted the Indian tricolor. Back then, Ryen says, “INA had distributed pamphlets in Moraing, seeking help for soldiers and for doing so many locals, including my grandpa, were arrested and incarcerated in an underground prison by the British”. The state resisted the British even in 1891, during the Anglo-Manipur war. Heroes are still remembered, ballads in their praise are still sung and stories of their chivalry are passed on to youngsters. As Ryen talks about Manipur's tumultuous past, I realise its organic connection with life here. Imagine my excitement at listening to Imphal’s GenNext on the Anglo-Burmese wars, controversial Kabaw valley and redrawing of Manipur’s map.

For another dose of history, Ryen takes me to Kangla Fort, where Manipuri kings were coronated, and lived. Though in ruins, it speaks of the might of the empire that remained undefeated for centuries. Its grassy grounds and splendid outer and inner moat, royal enclosures, a temple’s remnants and a hijagang (boat shed) for the serpent-headed royal boat, ‘Hiyang Hiren’, make this fort worth a visit. The State Museum in Kangla treats us to Manipur's royal history through paintings, intricate  Manipuri jewellery, costumes  and weapons.

While my thirst for history and watching it blend with the culture is now quenched, I've built up an appetite for a good meal. And what can be better than getting a taste of Meitei food from Ryen's house? It has almost no trace of oil and is full of water-rich foods—fish and rice are dominant features, as are vegetables like pumpkin and squash. Ryen cautions me about u -morok (bhut jolokia), popular all over the Northeast, but most celebrated here. Locals use it in curries, for flavouring fish, making pickles and also to fry into fritters. Most seasoned travellers have stories of their first encounter with it. Mine commences with Ryen’s mother’s Iromba, a household Manpuri dish—a thick mash of boiled veggies luxuriantly veneered with stir-fried onion stalks, and dried fish and chopped u-morok fritters—served on a mountain of rice. The chilli explodes in my mouth and for a minute I lose my senses.

Keeping his promise, Ryen takes me to the world's oldest polo ground. Looking at the empty stretch of the playground, he shares the Manipuri belief that, “The sport  originated in Manipur and is considered a God’s game. When the British saw locals playing it, they remodelled it, christened it polo and popularised it”. As the sun goes down, we return to The Classic Hotel, where I’m staying  (it’s the best in town), and head to Rita Café to relax our weary shoulders while sipping on its famous Italian Smooch mocktail.

At night, I look at this beautiful land of blue-green hills, cascading rapids and carpet of flowers, where faith, tradition and life seem to flow into each other organically. A land where history is still a reality and reality can appear a myth.