The children of the palace came to play at our house, the quarter of the maharani the Lady Ngangbam, in the evenings. Each one would come with a young nanny and play till he or she was worn out. And what a din we made! At times, when she thought we were making too much of a racket, my birthmother the maharani the Lady Ngangbam would come after us with a stick. The children would scatter everywhere. But we would soon be back at play again.
I was told that my eldest sister Tamphasana was very ill at that time. The princess Tamphasana was the eldest daughter and the most adored and highly regarded by my sovereign father. There were not many years between her and her older brother Bodhchandra. She died early – shortly after her marriage to Sinam Krishnamohan. I saw her wedding, my wet-nurse carrying me on her back. She was not brought to the Sinam homestead but was kept instead in a beautiful mansion some distance away from the palace. It was said that both his daughter and Krishnamohan were kept there. Tamphasana fell very ill when Krishnamohan was away studying for his Master’s degree. My sister Tamphasana loved me dearly. Unlike my other older maiden sisters, she never once scolded me. So I too was very fond of her.
During that time I saw our mother Tampak, the Lady Chongtham, come to our quarter very often. Sometimes she would also stay for quite a while. Another frequent visitor was my elder cousin Bidhumukhi, first wife of my older cousin Bhaskar Manisana, the son of my eldest uncle. Surely my clever mother the Lady Chongtham would have looked after my sister. My mother the Lady Ngangbam would surely have placed her daughter Tampha in her care. And it would have warmed her heart to entrust her daughter to her younger step-wife Tampak. But Princess Tampha died shortly after she turned twenty. My sovereign father could not save her. I saw my father weeping, ‘Tampha! Tampha!’ We saw our eldest brother crown prince Bodhchandra on the day of the funeral crying, ‘Ibemma! Ibemma!’16 as he rolled on the floor and wept in front of the gods at the Temple of Lord Govinda. I heard he wrote a poem and lamented for his younger sister. It was said that the poem was distributed to the gathering.
And so my mother the Lady Chongtham bore the pangs of separation from her daughter and close friend princess Tampha till the end of her days. When she was ailing, my aging mother Tampak always said, ‘If only my daughter Tampha were alive….’ I want to cry out loud this very moment, ‘But Mother, I am here! I am still alive, even if you cannot hear me Mother.’