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From the outset, the title of Jim Wungramyao Kasom’s book, 'Cradling Memories of My Land,' mirrors on the cover photo: a man wearing a red traditional shawl outside his hut, beside a hen and a chicken coop which he holds.
The initial black-and-white photographs depict scenes of everyday life: an elderly woman by a hearth, wrapped in a shawl, and a man feeding chickens outdoors, wrapped in a shawl as well.
Divided into three sections—Belonging, Longing, and Liminal—the collection features poems complemented by artwork from Kasom’s brother, K Free Themreichan.
My grandmother had no birth records.
She was born during a festival
So, we began celebrating her birthdays
with the seed-sowing ceremony.
That gave her a reason to brag
among her friends who count years by harvests.
(Names)
Too often, we forget about the elders among us who have no birth records, where years are counted by harvests as the author illustrates in his poem. This offers a glimpse into the lives of the elderly who are gradually disappearing from the face of the earth.
A similar sentiment is echoed in the lines of ‘As Old as Time’
I asked her, ‘Ayi, how old are you?’
…back then we didn’t keep track of time like you do now
…seasons came down from those mountains.
My initiation gift into boyhood,
a husk to protect the tender years,
a wall of confidence in my teens,
a fortified space in my youth
where I mourned my heartbreaks,
a shield when I took my vows,
a company that will keep me warm
in my winter years
Red shawl,
our people’s last swaddle blanket
over the coffin,
the prayers of our people wrapped in it,
the only thing worth smuggling into the afterlife.
(The Red Shawl Through the Years)
…but they all bask in the red shawl
(Here at Twilight)
In Naga culture, renowned for its deep traditional roots, shawls hold a special place as heirlooms passed down through generations. The author breathes life into the 'red shawl', which, otherwise, is a mere ‘still’ piece of item that many overlook in their daily lives. And how the shawl accompanies a person from birth through to the afterlife.
The summer, my parents sent me away
to Shillong for college.
That first bus ride felt like freedom.
But was it?
(A Bus Ride to Freedom)
The concept of freedom spans a broad spectrum; here, it is evoked akin to the first bus journey to Shillong — the author adeptly captures subtle nuances.
and memories as unsteady
as her wobbly knees
(Shards of Orange Light Sit on Ayi’s Face)
Rarely does one encounter parallels as poignant as likening unstable memories to aging knees. He aptly portrays this resemblance.
…but my brain is a caravan that never stops travelling
(Picking Memories)
I am most curious about memories afterlife,
If we get to keep them.
(The Riverman)
Perhaps this is why he remembers and writes about memories; he is curious about them.
In Kasom’s book, nature plays a central role. Words such as hills, mountains, village, kingfisher, lake, river, clouds, and seasons—cold, hot, winter, spring, wind, and snow—permeate his writings; he seems to be one with nature.
The author appears drawn to the comforts of familiarity, often evoking the essence of his native land. He serves as a chronicler of his homeland, detailing every facet—ancestral heritage, local produce like dried chilies, bamboo shoots, pork ham, and yam, alongside the rustic charms of hills and village life.
Apart from memories of his homeland, Kasom also has poems that transcend beyond the themes of his land, offering readers a wide array of choices. His writings reflect that of someone who is not only observant but knows how to connect his observations into coherent thoughts and tie them into a symphony. Once you finish reading, you will feel compelled to revisit and flip through the pages, as deep and profound anecdotes that strike straight to the heart await.