The Stories Manipur's Fires Could not Burn

The following is an excerpt from chapter four of the Stories the Fire Could Not Burn by Hoihnu Hauzel, published by Speaking Tiger Books.

This was a house that was full of memories and stories. A home that always stretched out its loving arms to guests and made sure they didn’t leave without a warm home-cooked meal. There was always a tray of hot tea poured and doing the rounds. Even a delivery person knew he was welcome—he’d settle onto the wooden bench outside without a word. We understood what that meant: tea would be served.

The same went for the vegetable vendor who dropped by regularly. Our kitchen was like a fountain of blessings—always generous, always ready. There was always enough to share, and somehow, always a little more.

Stories the Fire Could Not Burn, Hoihnu Hauzel, Speaking Tiger Books, 2026.

This was where one of my nieces, Nianghoih, would invite her friends over on Sundays and cook Maggi noodles for them in the big kitchen. It was also where my brothers and their wives started their lives together, adding new stories to our family.

Our home was more than just a house. Every corner held memories of our parents’ hard work and their drive to make the best of what they had, even when things were difficult at the start. But they didn’t have to wait long as they saw better days, bringing with them a life full of generosity, style, and they lived in abundance of everything. Most of all, abundance of love from one another.

Sometime around 19 May 2023, we saw the first photos of our house—our home—after the violence had forced my family to flee. It broke our hearts in a way that’s hard to put into words. There was shock, grief, and above all, a kind of numbness. Just days earlier, we were living there. Now, we were looking at the charred remains of what had been our life.

The walls were blackened with soot and smoke, a macabre illustration of all we had lost. None of the flowers were left. At the entrance, broken planters lay scattered, like pieces of memories without a place to store them.

The terrace, once bursting with orchids and crawling vines, stood stripped bare in those photos. It was hard to believe that just months before, bunches of colourful, scented orchids had welcomed visitors. The potted bonsais my sister had tended to her whole life were nowhere to be seen, they had either been destroyed or taken. Even the photographs that used to hang on the walls had vanished.

For a family that rarely left the house without locking every door and the main gate, suddenly running away and leaving everything behind was almost impossible to accept. Looking back, it felt like someone else’s story, not ours.

We left behind so much—more than just things. Our rooms, with cupboards full of treasured items, the garments, shawls, blankets, even the lockers holding gold and precious stones—all abandoned. The house had been full of life: plants that brightened our days, memories tied to every corner. Now, it was just an empty shell.

I saw photos of every room. The four-poster beds were gone. My father’s office, once filled with writing tools, was reduced to ashes. His library had been gutted as well. Fragments of a piano, and the family parlour, the hearth of our home, had nothing in it. Even the ceiling looked as if it had taken the worst of the fire—charred, blackened, and barely holding on.

The bicycles and cars in the garage had disappeared.

One kind Meitei neighbour, who stayed in touch throughout the chaos, told me, ‘I tried to stop people looting from morning till night for four days, but they threatened me.’

I replied, ‘It’s okay, Uncle. What’s left doesn’t matter anymore, we’ve already left our home behind.’

My father had stacked all his manuscripts—handwritten pages—carefully in his study. I asked him what was the most precious thing that he had left behind. For a man who barely had time to put on his shoes, I wondered what it could be. I already knew, but I wanted to hear it hoping it might ease the heaviness in the room. His eyes welled up. I knew I had touched the rawest part of his wound.

‘My books and my typewriter,’ he said.

I’ve seen him wipe away tears more times than I can count. His love for books ran deep—they weren’t just possessions. He drew his identity from the words he read and the stories he wrote. Losing them was like losing a part of himself. It was he who taught me to love books and stories. He was the one who wrote many tales of the tribes. And now, he had left all of that behind.

‘What is the most precious thing we left behind?’

It’s a question I often ask myself and others from my old neighbourhood or friends who once lived in Imphal like us, whenever our paths cross.

Hoihnu Hauzel is a veteran journalist.

The Wire is now on WhatsApp. Follow our channel for sharp analysis and opinions on the latest developments.