Mejop : the lovely child of India


In Mawlong’s emerald cradle, Asia’s cleanest gem,

Where Khasi hills breathe mist and jungle rivers hem,

Lives Mejop, six years small, a whirlwind wrapped in sun,

A naughty spark of laughter when the day has just begun. Beneath the bamboo roofs where women hold the rein,

Mothers steer the family ship through joy and through the rain.

Grandmothers count the harvest, sisters guard the flame,

In matrilineal grace they weave the village name.

No stern paternal shadow falls across their door—

The hearth is hers, the future hers, forevermore. Yet Mejop darts like monkey through the forest’s play,

Steals ripe wild guavas, leaves the basket in disarray.

He splashes crystal streams till fish protest and flee,

Then flashes gap-tooth mischief straight at you and me.

His small brown feet leave footprints on the cleanest clay,

A tiny rebel king who rules the green all day. I hold the memory dearest: twilight’s golden thread,

He perched upon my shoulder while the crickets sang instead.

We chased fireflies dancing like the stars come down to earth,

And every captured glow became a promise and a mirth.

His sticky fingers pressed a leaf into my palm—

“Keep it, Uncle, it will guard you when you’re gone.” One sun-drenched noon he tugged my sleeve with urgent might:

“Puska! Puska! Quick, I want it now—tonight!”

I blinked, bewildered, searching maps inside my head—

What secret treasure did this little rascal dread?

He stamped and grinned and pointed where the vendor’s cart stood tall,

Till understanding bloomed: golgappa, crisp and small!

Tamarind water bursting, spicy-sweet surprise—

We crunched together, sauce on cheeks and in our eyes.

His naughty laugh exploded like the monsoon’s first delight,

And in that tangy moment all the world felt right. Now wheels will turn, the road will call me far away,

Yet parting claws my chest with sorrow’s sharpest ray.

I see him waving wildly from the village’s clean white gate,

Small hand still clutching one last leaf to keep me safe and straight.

The jungle sighs behind him, women watch with steady grace,

And Mejop’s bright defiance lights the empty space. O little storm of Mawlong, forever in my core—

Your mischief, your pure wonder, your laughter at my door.

Though miles may stretch between us like the hills we roamed,

The boy who taught me puska keeps my heart at home.