Bye-Bye Manipur? Farwell Accepted for Peace

Ah yes, nothing says “happy harvest festival” quite like a room full of people waving goodbye to the very state they’ve been living in for decades while grinning like they just won the secessionist lottery. The Young Paite Association (YPA GHQ) and Kuki Women organisation for Human Rights (KWOHR)’s Chavang Love Feast was apparently less about thanksgiving and more about thank-u-next-ing the entire geographical entity known as Manipur.

Look, I get it. Identity politics is the new opium of the masses in Northeast India. Everyone wants their own little Lego nation where the flag matches their traditional shawl and the anthem is conveniently in a dialect nobody else understands. First it was “Zalengam,” then “Kukiland,” tomorrow someone will declare their kitchen a sovereign republic because the Ngathu is just that good.

Now, let’s rewind the clock—not to ancient history, but just a casual 100 years or so, back when many of these folks’ grandparents and great-grandparents were hightailing it out of Myanmar and what was then the Lushai Hills (now Mizoram). They showed up in Manipur with little more than the clothes on their backs, probably a bamboo basket or two, and a heartfelt plea for refuge.

And what did Manipur do? Rolled out the red carpet—or at least the red soil. Land to till? Check. Food to eat? Double check. Air to breathe? Well, that’s free everywhere, but hey, points for not charging extra. They even got the full citizenship package: Scheduled Tribe certificates for that sweet affirmative action glow-up, and political voices loud enough to echo through the assembly halls.

Fast-forward to today, and suddenly it’s “Bye-bye Manipur” like they’re ghosting a bad Tinder date. But hold up—when exactly are they planning to hand back those benefits?

The land, the ST perks, the voting rights that Manipur so generously bestowed? Are we talking a graceful exit with packed suitcases, or is this more of a “keep the house, I’ll just rename it” vibe? Because if you’re waving goodbye while still lounging on the couch, munching on the snacks from the fridge, that’s not a breakup—that’s squatting with extra flair.

Somewhere in New Delhi, a sleepy bureaucrat just woke up, spilled his chai, and added another fifty pages to the already unreadable “Manipur Peace Talk Version” document. The armed groups are confused—are they supposed to shoot at the new country now or wait till the flag is officially hoisted?

And the poor tourists who booked flights to “Manipur” next year are frantically checking if their tickets will still be be searching where is this Kukiland or if they need a visa stamped in fermented bamboo shoot sauce.

So congratulations, folks. You’ve turned a perfectly nice Love Feast into the ethnic equivalent of a mic-drop exit from a group chat you never really left. Very classy. Very on-brand for 2025 Northeast India, where the only thing we unite over is our talent for dramatic fragmentation.

Well, dear friends, if the farewell wave is truly final, then far be it from us to cling to a relationship that has apparently run its emotional course. Consider your goodbye enthusiastically accepted—no hard feelings, no custody battle over the hills, no dramatic airport chase scene.We accept your departure with the same open-hearted generosity Manipur showed your grandparents a hundred years ago when they arrived tired, hungry, and empty-handed.

Just a calm, dignified “Safe travels.” So yes, farewell accepted. Bon voyage to your Kukiland, somewhere in Myanmar or Pacific Islands. May your new nation have impeccable 2G, uninterrupted electricity to light a single 3 Watt bulb, and a functional bureaucracy that doesn’t require seventeen signatures and a blood oath to fix a pothole.

We’ll even help you pack—just let us know which direction you’re heading so we can allow your safe passage to Airport or are you going back to the Tedim. Doors are wide open. Bye-bye, and thank you for the memories!

Sweetie, the state isn’t going anywhere. It’s you who might need to update your address soon—and pack a sweater, because sovereign nations apparently don’t come with central heating. Oh, and don’t forget to return the keys on your way out.

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