THUMBPRINTNE POETRY COLUMN
POETRY EDITOR ANANYA S GUHA'S NOTE:
Daniel Ebor Challam’s poems draw on memory, myth and nostalgia. A home town lost and found are the centrality of these poems. The evocative images coupled with a lyricism is sure to draw the attention of the discerning reader. The leitmotif of the poems are the hills and pines of Shillong. One looks forward to hear more from him in the future, as ingenuity of style and theme invest his poems with subtlety; without any craft consciousness.
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Shillong
Shillong, city of hills and whispers,
Where clouds gather like old friends
And the wind carries stories of belonging;
Tell me, who can call you home?
Is it the mist that wraps around your peaks,
Or the rain that drums on tin rooftops?
Do you belong to the Khasis,
Who have known your red soil the longest,
Who speak to your rocks and streams
As if they were kin?
Your laws say yes,
But your streets hum with the steps of many.
The British left their mark too,
Reshaping you into a summer retreat,
Building wards and clubs,
Bungalows and churches;
Do you still carry them in your bones,
Or have they faded like the monsoon mist?
And the Garos, who crossed hills to build lives here;
Do they belong to you?
What of the Bengalis, Nepalis, Assamese,
And Marwari traders?
The students from Manipur, Mizoram, Nagaland?
Have they carved out corners in your heart?
Shillong, you are a crossroads,
Where traditions meet the present,
Where sacred groves stand near coffee shops,
And festivals light up the cold winter nights.
Your music reaches far,
But so do the cracks in your peace.
Do you belong to only those who own your land,
Or to those who have only walked it?
Are you a place for the rich,
Who build high walls and quiet gardens,
Or for the poor,
Who fill your bazaars with life?
Your history is restless —
A patchwork of settlers and visitors,
Colonizers and keepers,
Politicians and pressure groups,
All claiming pieces of you;
While you remain silent.
And yet, perhaps you belong
To none of them entirely;
You breathe through all who live here,
In the clamour of small town / city life,
In the stillness of your hills,
In the stories that never stop telling themselves.
Shillong, whose city are you?
Maybe you are simply yours —
To share, to shelter, to have and to hold;
A keeper of memories
Never truly owned,
Only ever belonging to time.
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Home, Again
I’ve always called Shillong home —
Eighteen years of childhood
(Fifteen of those were school),
Walking the same streets,
Breathing the same pine-soaked air,
Watching the landscape rise and fall,
Rise then fall,
Like old companions.
The first time I left,
It felt like tearing,
Like roots pulled out of soil too soon;
College in Delhi —
Six years of learning
Not just from books,
But from the rhythm of a city
That never stopped moving.
I tried to keep up;
I built a home there,
Piece by piece—
A couch I chose myself,
Plates I washed after late dinners,
Shelves that held way more books than they should have;
It felt like permanence,
Until it wasn’t.
The pandemic came like a storm,
Sweeping me back to Shillong,
To streets I had stopped calling mine;
I remember the first few months,
The silence of lockdowns louder
Than the city’s usual quiet;
Everything the same,
And yet, it was all so unfamiliar.
It felt like exile, at first —
Missing the chaos of Delhi,
Missing the life I’d built;
But slowly, the hills worked their way back —
The mornings began to speak,
The evenings softened around me,
The air carried stories I’d forgotten,
Memories hidden in the cracks of these old hills.
Now, I live here again,
Not as the teen who left,
But as someone who has returned,
To relearn what home can be;
Delhi is a chapter,
One I’ll always revisit,
Maybe one of many other chapters;
But Shillong is the book.
It holds me in a way no other place could —
Not always gentle,
Not always kind,
But steady, like roots
That know the soil they belong to;
Yes, I know it’s complicated,
Yes, I know it's imperfect,
Yes, I know it's flawed.
And yes, it’s home.
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Ward's Lake
It’s where we went after school,
Feeding puffed rice to the ducks
From the top of the bridge,
Watching the ripples carry our laughter.
Mornings bring joggers, pacing the curve,
Their breath mingling with the mist;
Afternoons, it’s boat rides,
Pedals spinning, slicing the water clean.
Autumn turns the lake into a stage —
Poets, storytellers, music in the air;
Winter wraps it in a quieter charm,
The chill softened by Christmas lights.
We’ve all come here at some point,
Drawn to its calm in the city’s noise,
Finding a bench beneath the shade,
Or standing still, just watching the geese.
But even as the years go by,
Ward’s Lake stays the same:
A quiet escape, a moment to pause
Right in the middle of everything.
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Whispering Pines
We grew up beneath the pines,
Their needle-like leaves stitching sunlight
Into the playgrounds of our youth;
Blotches of gold danced on our faces,
Shifting with the wind that whispered
Secrets only the trees could keep.
Our hands knew the rough touch
Of dried pine needles,
Heaps, woven into forts and walls,
Temporary kingdoms of imagination.
Pine cones became treasures and tools —
Cricket balls, mysterious seeds
With wings that promised flight;
We’d crack them open,
Pretending to find gold.
The sap, sticky and amber coloured,
Oozed like a tree’s quiet blood,
Turning our mischief into art.
When the pines would shed their pollen,
Everything turned yellow —
A dusting of gold that made the mundane magical;
We’d breathe it in,
Dreaming of riches in the air,
While sneezes and allergies betrayed our fantasy;
A shimmer that settled on leaves,
On rocks,
On us.
Even now, I still smell the pine,
Sharp and earthy,
Especially when the rain
Sends its scent rising
From the forest floor.
And in the evenings,
The smoke of burning pine wood
Lingered like an old song,
A melody of warmth and familiarity;
We knew the power of its resin,
How a single twig could coax a flame
Into roaring life,
Its crackle a steady companion
On cold Shillong nights.
Now, when I see them —
The White Pines, Red Pines, English Pines,
Their tall, elegant forms swaying —
I wonder how many children
Still play in their shadows,
Still find magic in their cones,
Still shake their branches to feel
The world spills over with dust and light.
Seasons change,
But the pines remain.
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Nongkyndong
I come from one of the
Corners of the world,
Where clouds knit shawls for the hills
And rivers hum their ancient ballads;
They call me Nongkyndong —
As if to say, "You are untouched,
Unformed, unfit for the light
Beyond your narrow sky".
But what they don’t see,
What they don’t know,
Is the way curiosity stirs like a restless wind
Inside those of us who
Come from the edges;
How we stare at horizons,
Not with fear,
But with wonder.
Yes, I have been that child,
Feet calloused by red earth,
Unfamiliar with the languages
Of city walls and concrete skies;
And I have been that stranger,
In the bustling streets of Delhi,
Where the air smelled
Of ambition and alienation.
I could have clung to the familiar,
Woven my tongue tightly
Around my mother’s words;
Found solace only in those
Who spoke my name without stuttering;
Defended the smell of my food,
As if its pungent truth
Needed an apology.
But no —
I also chose to taste the sharpness
Of foreign spices,
To walk into rooms
Where my silence felt heavier
Than my speech,
To let discomfort carve
New spaces in my soul.
Call me Nongkyndong,
If it means I carry my roots
Like a lucky charm,
Not an anchor;
If it means my ignorance
Is not a boundary,
But the beginning of
A map waiting to be drawn.
I will take your cities, your books,
Your stories, your cuisines, and your chaos,
Fold them gently into myself
Like a sacred offering;
I will return to the hearth
And feed them to the flame,
Let their warmth mingle with
The ferment of bamboo shoot.
For what is a villager,
But someone who knows
The wildness of home
And still hungers to taste the world?
What is a Nongkyndong,
But a heart unafraid
To leave the corners
And chase infinity?
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ABOUT DANIEL EBOR CHALLAM
Daniel Ebor Challam is an Assistant Professor of Economics at St. Anthony’s College, Shillong. Born and raised in Shillong, Meghalaya, Daniel brings a unique perspective to his work, shaped by his experiences navigating both local and global spaces. His reflections explore themes of identity, belonging, and the delicate balance between tradition and change. When not teaching or writing, Daniel spends his time delving into photography, culinary experimentation, and curating local history through herbarium sheets and his collection of vintage books and postcards.
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