The wonder of it is that I had no idea that such a huge world, such a fascinating history of Manipur, lay in my own family like some hidden storehouse. It was a like a jewel that could not be found, invisible though before one’s very eyes, slipping away to be left behind, like a philosopher’s stone that would turn all, at the merest touch, into gold. Gurudev Rabindranath Tagore wrote:
The mad mendicant searched everywhere
For the Philosopher’s Stone…35
This is the fate that befalls me today. I sit helplessly with a limitless vastness before me. I wonder what this could be, and can I cross it? The story’s beginning is the story of the household of my sovereign father, Churachand by name, the little monarch of Kangleipak, a tiny subjugated foothill kingdom called Manipur. The story began when I saw the photograph of a beautiful woman, a queen called Tampak the Lady Chongtham. But let us leave this aside, so what do I do now? How shall I manage the rare gems scattered before me? In my eyes, I see a huge wave, a terrifying wave, a beautiful wave. Next comes a cooling, a submerging green vastness. What to discard and what to retain, I do not know.
Overwhelmed, I ran to my Ta’ Khelchandra, the scholar Khelchandra. He told me, laughing, ‘Your sovereign father was an amazing man.’ He took out many books and was about to show me, together with examples but I said, ‘Tada, I will come another day. Please come to my place so that I can ask all I want to know….’ He tried to go on, sharing his boundless store of knowledge. But I could not grasp what he was saying. Tied down by so many worthless tasks that day, I could not spare the time to listen. He did tell me one thing though and what he said was among the most priceless things I was to hear in my life. He said, ‘As far as Manipur is concerned, the palace of Manipur is a university; it is an institution. Let people say what they want – they will come to understand on their own. Our kings of Manipur are divine….’ Such were the words of the scholar. What was I to do now? Where do I start and where do I end?
Taking shape before me are people and events from the moment I first became aware – no, from the moment I was barely aware – that have been in hiding until now. Stories of various rooms, stories from nooks and crannies, stories about ordinary people, stories the reasons for which I do not know even to this day. Before my eyes are some people who were very important in the personal life of my sovereign father. They are all people who will not be commemorated in history, who will not fit into any story.
I used to see a small thatch-covered hut just adjacent to Sovereign Father’s bathroom. The hut was used to store charcoal for the royal family to use in the winter. Many people came there to collect coal to use in the palace. That is, the servants and attendants of the officials, princes and princesses. I used to be fascinated by the man who guarded the hut. Even today I can see him vividly. I never knew what he did at other times. Most of the time, I remember he sat dozing in a corner of the hut’s verandah, a bathing sarong tied around his knees. Landriba was his name. Ipu Landriba was skinny and very fair. He would wake up from his doze and spring to his feet the moment Sovereign Father came out to go to the bathroom. Perhaps he was attached to the Office of the Janitors.
The other person was Ta’ Mukta. I think Ta’ Mukta was attached to the Office of the Retainers. He was my sovereign father’s valet and was in charge of the large dressing chamber. He was fascinating too. In this large dressing chamber, Ta’ Mukta would arrange and put out all the clothes that would be worn by my sovereign father that day and he would wait, dozing. People used to say that Mukta was a favourite of the king. It was true, and we often heard Sovereign Father shout, ‘Mukta! Mukta!’ in a loud voice when he was ready to put on his clothes. But if there were even the slightest problem with the attire, he would be beaten. That used to upset us greatly. But still Mukta would jump to and eagerly hold the mirror up when Sovereign Father tied the long cloth Ajmeri turban in the manner of the Indians of the north. It fascinates me even today, though there were many large looking mirrors in that chamber, that instead of looking in them, he only looked at himself in the one Mukta held up for him. And yet, he would beat Mukta often. And still Mukta would keep going, eagerly buttoning the king’s shirt for him. He would hand out the articles of clothing to be worn by the king one after the other in their proper order.
As a child I used to watch these goings-on with great interest. But we did not know what other work Mukta did at other times. We never saw Ta’ Mukta wearing a pheijom. He wore only the khudei. We never knew how Ta’ Mukta spent his free time. We cannot remember whether Sovereign Father took Ta Mukta with him or not when he went abroad. Ta’ Mukta was always very jumpy. My sisters told me, one day when Sovereign Father called, ‘Mukta!’, Ta’ Mukta ran about crying, ‘Mukta, Mukta’! Then realizing that it was he who was being summoned, he rushed to Sovereign Father’s side. Mukta’s story does not end here. My readers may find this boring, but if I do not write about Mukta, who will remember him?