It was eight o’clock on a foggy winter night. Outside, the silence was heavy, and visibility was near zero. Rema stepped out once, but a piercing gust of wind drove him straight back to the warmth of the fireplace. Rosangi was just finishing dinner when Jitinga pushed the door open. He was bundled so heavily against the bitter cold that only his face was visible; at a glance, even his closest relatives wouldn’t have recognized him. Rema and Rosangi peered closely at the newcomer
“Hey, judging by the way you’re staring, you’d think I was a stranger. Don’t you recognize me?” Jitinga teased.
At the sound of his voice, Rema and Rosangi knew him instantly. They felt a bit sheepish that his strange, heavy layers had fooled them, even from just a few feet away. Jitinga, however, seemed delighted by their confusion.
Jitinga grinned, pleased that his disguise had worked so well. He slowly removed his hat and settled onto a log near the fireplace, scooting closer to Rema. Rema shifted to make room.
“The way you’re dressed,” Rosangi teased, “one would think a creature had escaped from the zoo.”
“To survive the cold out there, you have to become a wild animal,” Jitinga countered. “You’re sitting comfortably by the fire, so you wouldn’t understand.”
“You’re right, brother,” Rema said. “The cold outside isn’t just cold; it’s a shock to the system. But tell me, friend, what brings you here tonight?”
“I’ve come to deliver good news,” Jitinga said, his eyes twinkling. “But I can’t just blurt it out. News this good needs to be savored.”
He looked at the couple and smiled. This was typical Jitinga. No matter the obstacle—storms, enemies, or freezing cold—he remained unflappable. His constant smile was why everyone loved him; he delivered news to the right place at the right time, unfazed by fear.
“What sort of ‘good news’?” Rosangi asked skeptically. " usually, your news is that five of our men died in a skirmish, or that the enemy has surrounded the Lalbung punjee and arrested everyone on suspicion of being M.N.F. volunteers. Is that your version of good news?"
“No, not today,” Jitinga beamed. “Today is different.”
Rema realized that if left to their banter, it would take ages to get to the point. He interrupted gently. “Friend, enough wordplay. Tell us the real matter.”
“The real matter,” Jitinga announced, “is that Yangaya arrived in Aizawl two days ago.”
“Yangaya is back?”
“Yes. And we will meet him in person within two or three days.”
The news sent a jolt of joy through Rema. The thought of seeing his old friend after so long flooded him with warmth, and for a moment, he let his mind drift back to the distant past.
Yangaya had been born in a small, secluded punjee on a hill near Demagiri. Like many boys in the hills, he grew up close to nature. Rema had met him in his adolescence, and their bond had forged quickly. They finished matriculation in Aizawl together, then chased their ambitions to the hill town of Shillong for college. But ten years ago, their paths diverged—Yangaya went to the distant Kachin region of Burma, while Rema returned to Aizawl. Rema had felt a profound loneliness ever since.
News had trickled in over the years. Yangaya had joined the Burma Air Force, not just as a soldier, but as a skilled engineer. He had also excelled in sports, becoming a star hockey player for the Air Force team—a far cry from the boy who had played in the Mizo hills. But after the fall of the U Nu government, Yangaya left Burma for London, and the letters stopped.
Now, after years abroad, he had returned. But why?
Rema’s mind raced. Yangaya must know that the Mizo hills were on the brink of historic change. The once peaceful hills were now a furnace of revolution. In the name of national integrity, security forces were cracking down brutally. Surely Yangaya hadn’t left a comfortable life in London just to visit? The call of the motherland must have reached him. With the Mizo people—young and old—fighting for independence, Yangaya surely knew he could not sit idly abroad. As a true patriot, he must have come to join the liberation movement, to stand by Rema on the battlefield.
Rema was so lost in these thoughts that he completely ignored the others in the room.
Jitinga, sensing his friend’s distraction, spoke softly. “It seems you’ve forgotten us already. If you meet Yangaya, I doubt you’ll even let us near you.”
Rema flushed, realizing he had been rude. He composed himself. “No, no. He is such an old friend… the mention of his name just brought back a flood of memories.”
“I try to avoid nostalgia,” Jitinga said, his tone turning serious. “When I dwell on old memories, my mind becomes restless. It invites a kind of inertia. The harsh reality is that we have a future to shape; we can’t afford to get lost in the past.”
Rema understood the hint. Jitinga was reminding him to stay sharp. “You are right,” Rema replied. “But we cannot build a future by completely ignoring the past, either.”
Rosangi, seeing the conversation turn heavy, decided it was time to intervene. She poured the tea she had brewed. “Let’s leave the philosophy for later,” she said, handing them steaming cups. “Drink this and refresh yourselves.”
Grateful for the interruption, both men took the tea, sipping it with satisfaction. Rosangi had never met Yangaya, but through Rema’s stories, she felt she knew him. The idea that Rema’s old friend had returned to join the struggle gave her a sense of hope and pleasure.
The clock ticked on. Outside, the deep silence of the foggy night was broken only by the sound of dew dripping from the leaves near the house.
“I should move,” Jitinga said, standing up. It was nearly ten o’clock. He adjusted his hat and tightened his layers against the cold.
“You’re leaving already?” Rema asked.
“Yes. I came to deliver the news, and I’ve done my job.”
“This was truly special news,” Rema said softly, his voice thick with genuine gratitude. “Thank you.”
“Stop, stop,” Jitinga waved a hand dismissively. “Don’t be so polite. If you puff me up with too much gratitude, I’ll float away.”
With that, he pushed the door open.
Rema and Rosangi followed him to the threshold to bid him farewell. Jitinga stepped into the mist, then turned back.
“Mangtha,” he said. Good night.
“Mangtha,” they replied in unison.
Outside, the fog had turned the world into a strange, dark void. Jitinga took two or three steps, and just like that, the darkness swallowed him whole.