They Are Them : Three prison poems of Hijam Irabot
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Homen Thangjam
In the dark years of colonial rule, Hijam Irabot turned to poetry from his prison cell. Between 1940 and 1943, while incarcerated in Sylhet, he wrote fifty-two poems. They were later collected in Imagi Puja (Prayer to Mother). These are not mere literary works. They are reflections on labour, suffering, beauty, and human existence under colonial domination and social inequality. Read today, they remain strikingly relevant.
Irabot’s literary journey began much earlier. In about 1924, he published Seidam Seireng, a collection designed for school children. Those poems used simple language to cultivate moral values, discipline, and attentiveness to the natural world. Yet even in these early works, a socially aware voice was emerging. That voice deepened and sharpened in prison, where poetry became a medium of reflection and critique.
The Three Poems
The following translations are interpretive. Some expressions have been adapted to preserve meaning, tone, and poetic effect rather than to follow a strictly literal rendering. For the Manipuri text, kindly refer to Hijam Irawat Singh. 2005. Imagi Puja. Imphal: Langol.
Makhoishini 1 (They are Them 1)
Majestic, he strides along the grazing summits
By the mountain’s red road, a few men
Break stones crack, crack under hammer blows
Only when the summer sun stands high.
Nearby, heavy-bellied motor lorries
Rumble past in threatening rows.
Yonder, an engine stands on guard.
Some passers-by glance at them in passing.
Even their dogs pause to look.
Crows, breathless beaks agape
Still refuse silence in the searing heat
They caw on and then take flight
Deepening the day’s scorch.
From the sight of the rising sun
To the sinking of its red descent
The hammering never ceases
Crack, crack without end,
And when the crimson of the sky begins to fade
They lift their hands
To wipe the sweat from their brows (Singh 2005, 22).
Makhoishini 2 (They Are Them 2)
On the left hand, the goad;
on the right, the plough—
driving the oxen aar titi.
Right leg presses the ploughshare,
eyes fixed upon the furrow.
A crow cuts swiftly overhead,
darkness turns, then returns.
The wind follows faithfully,
the sun stares, intent to consume.
When the sun glares down from above,
the oxen exhale, plucking grass.
They bathe in heat,
they sweat in rain,
they roll with tinpha kakphei,
embrace the gnats and mosquitoes.
When the sun descends with its final stare,
they sit on the verandah, legs stretched.
Their portion: the sunken stomach,
their garment: ragged cloth.
They are them—
Makhoishini.
“Sharuna Nokli” (The Laughing Bone)
In a graveyard by the crossroad
The dry skull of a once-beautiful woman,
Whitish rows of pearly teeth
Brushed by the hard wind
Laugh in a dying voice.
Thunderstruck at the sight,
As if nectar brimmed within form
Tell me, where is that breathtaking figure?
Such beauty one cannot turn away from
Eyes refusing to wander elsewhere
Envious of such radiant form
The black nectar-bee stings
Tell me, where is the hair
That once embraced the golden curve?
Tell me, where are the words
That outshone the cuckoo’s song
Charmed by mantra’s spell?
Where are the eyes that bewitched
The arched brows that enthralled?
Where is the courteous grace
TilTed at every step?
From ages past until ages to come
The bones have grinned thus
And will go on smirking
In the graveyards (Singh 2005, 26).
Labour and the Silence Around It
The two poems “Makhoishini 1” and “Makhoishini 2” offer a powerful portrayal of labouring lives. Though set in different contexts, one in road construction and the other in agriculture, they speak to the same underlying condition. That condition is relentless work without dignity or reward.
In “Makhoishini 1,” Irabot depicts men breaking stones along a mountain road. The repeated sound, “crack, crack”, echoes throughout the poem. It captures the monotony and harshness of manual labour. The work continues from sunrise to sunset without pause. Around them, motor lorries rumble past. An engine “stands on guard.” This suggests the presence of a larger system, colonial infrastructure, that depends on their toil but offers nothing in return.
What is most striking is the indifference of the world around them. Passers-by glance and move on. Even dogs pause only briefly. The labourers are visible, yet unacknowledged. Nature itself provides no relief. The heat intensifies. Even the crows, breathless with open beaks, continue their restless cawing. The environment mirrors the workers’ exhaustion rather than easing it.
“Makhoishini 2” shifts to the agricultural field. Here, the focus is more intimate and physical. The farmer’s body is fully absorbed in labour. His hands grip the tools. His leg presses the plough. His eyes fix on the furrow. The work extends across seasons. They “bathe in heat” and “sweat in rain.” There is no moment of rest, no escape from hardship.
Yet the outcome remains the same: deprivation. At the end of the day, the labourer’s share is a “sunken stomach” and “ragged cloth.” The contrast is stark. Those who produce sustenance remain deprived. In the first poem, labour is observed by others. Here, the peasant’s isolation is more pronounced. This suggests a deeper entrapment within agrarian structures.
Read together, these poems reveal a continuity between colonial modernity and agrarian life. Both depend on the extraction of labour without fair return. The repeated phrase “They are them—Makhoishini” transforms anonymous figures into a collective identity.
It is a quiet but significant step. It recognises labour not as individual hardship but as a shared condition. Irabot does not romanticise labour. Instead, he exposes its realities with restraint and clarity.
Beauty, Illusion, and the Mockery of Death
If the “Makhoishini” poems are grounded in social reality, “Sharuna Nokli” moves into a more reflective and philosophical space. The poem begins with a stark image: a skull lying in a graveyard at a crossroads. Its “pearly teeth” appear to laugh as the wind brushes against it.
This unsettling image becomes the centre of a series of questions. Where is the beauty that once defined this person? Where are the eyes, the voice, the graceful movements that once captivated others? The poem reconstructs the woman through fragments: hair, eyes, words, grace. It does so only to emphasise their disappearance.
The repetition of “where” is crucial. It does not seek answers. It underscores absence. What was once admired and desired has vanished completely. The skull remains as a reminder. Its silent laughter mocks the value placed on physical beauty.
Yet the tone is not entirely harsh. There is also a trace of wonder in the recollection of that lost beauty. This creates a tension at the heart of the poem. Beauty is real in experience, but it is fleeting. The poem does not dismiss it outright. It questions the weight we give to it.
The setting, a graveyard at a crossroads, adds another layer of meaning. It suggests a meeting point of life and death, memory and forgetting. The skull’s laughter extends “from ages past until ages to come.” This transforms the image into a universal condition. All beauty, however celebrated, ends in the same way.
In this sense, the poem can be read as a reflection on illusion and attachment. It challenges the tendency to value appearance and charm without recognising their impermanence. At the same time, it invites a more reflective engagement with life itself.
Why These Poems Matter Today
Though written in prison over eighty years ago, these poems speak directly to the present. The conditions Irabot describes have not disappeared. In Manipur and across the world, labourers continue to work long hours under difficult conditions. Often, they do so without security or recognition. Agricultural distress remains a pressing issue. The gap between producers and beneficiaries persists.
At the same time, the questions raised in “Sharuna Nokli” remain deeply relevant. In a world increasingly shaped by appearances, whether through media, consumption, or social expectations, the poem’s reminder of impermanence carries renewed force.
What makes Irabot’s poetry enduring is its restraint. He does not rely on slogans or overt declarations. Instead, he builds meaning through detail: the sound of a hammer on stone, the movement of a plough, the silent grin of a skull. These images stay with the reader. They compel reflection.
Irabot wrote these poems while confined, yet they are expansive in their vision. They connect the local with the global, the social with the existential. They reveal both the material realities of exploitation and the deeper illusions that shape human life.
Read today, Imagi Puja is not simply a historical document. It is a reminder that literature can illuminate injustice, question values, and sustain thought across generations. In that sense, Irabot’s prison poems remain not only a literary inheritance but also a continuing moral and political resource.
In the dark years of colonial rule, Hijam Irabot turned to poetry from his prison cell. Between 1940 and 1943, while incarcerated in Sylhet, he wrote fifty-two poems. They were later collected in Imagi Puja (Prayer to Mother). These are not mere literary works. They are reflections on labour, suffering, beauty, and human existence under colonial domination and social inequality. Read today, they remain strikingly relevant.
Irabot’s literary journey began much earlier. In about 1924, he published Seidam Seireng, a collection designed for school children. Those poems used simple language to cultivate moral values, discipline, and attentiveness to the natural world. Yet even in these early works, a socially aware voice was emerging. That voice deepened and sharpened in prison, where poetry became a medium of reflection and critique.
The Three Poems
The following translations are interpretive. Some expressions have been adapted to preserve meaning, tone, and poetic effect rather than to follow a strictly literal rendering. For the Manipuri text, kindly refer to Hijam Irawat Singh. 2005. Imagi Puja. Imphal: Langol.
Makhoishini 1 (They are Them 1)
Majestic, he strides along the grazing summits
By the mountain’s red road, a few men
Break stones crack, crack under hammer blows
Only when the summer sun stands high.
Nearby, heavy-bellied motor lorries
Rumble past in threatening rows.
Yonder, an engine stands on guard.
Some passers-by glance at them in passing.
Even their dogs pause to look.
Crows, breathless beaks agape
Still refuse silence in the searing heat
They caw on and then take flight
Deepening the day’s scorch.
From the sight of the rising sun
To the sinking of its red descent
The hammering never ceases
Crack, crack without end,
And when the crimson of the sky begins to fade
They lift their hands
To wipe the sweat from their brows (Singh 2005, 22).
Makhoishini 2 (They Are Them 2)
On the left hand, the goad;
on the right, the plough—
driving the oxen aar titi.
Right leg presses the ploughshare,
eyes fixed upon the furrow.
A crow cuts swiftly overhead,
darkness turns, then returns.
The wind follows faithfully,
the sun stares, intent to consume.
When the sun glares down from above,
the oxen exhale, plucking grass.
They bathe in heat,
they sweat in rain,
they roll with tinpha kakphei,
embrace the gnats and mosquitoes.
When the sun descends with its final stare,
they sit on the verandah, legs stretched.
Their portion: the sunken stomach,
their garment: ragged cloth.
They are them—
Makhoishini.
“Sharuna Nokli” (The Laughing Bone)
In a graveyard by the crossroad
The dry skull of a once-beautiful woman,
Whitish rows of pearly teeth
Brushed by the hard wind
Laugh in a dying voice.
Thunderstruck at the sight,
As if nectar brimmed within form
Tell me, where is that breathtaking figure?
Such beauty one cannot turn away from
Eyes refusing to wander elsewhere
Envious of such radiant form
The black nectar-bee stings
Tell me, where is the hair
That once embraced the golden curve?
Tell me, where are the words
That outshone the cuckoo’s song
Charmed by mantra’s spell?
Where are the eyes that bewitched
The arched brows that enthralled?
Where is the courteous grace
TilTed at every step?
From ages past until ages to come
The bones have grinned thus
And will go on smirking
In the graveyards (Singh 2005, 26).
Labour and the Silence Around It
The two poems “Makhoishini 1” and “Makhoishini 2” offer a powerful portrayal of labouring lives. Though set in different contexts, one in road construction and the other in agriculture, they speak to the same underlying condition. That condition is relentless work without dignity or reward.
In “Makhoishini 1,” Irabot depicts men breaking stones along a mountain road. The repeated sound, “crack, crack”, echoes throughout the poem. It captures the monotony and harshness of manual labour. The work continues from sunrise to sunset without pause. Around them, motor lorries rumble past. An engine “stands on guard.” This suggests the presence of a larger system, colonial infrastructure, that depends on their toil but offers nothing in return.
What is most striking is the indifference of the world around them. Passers-by glance and move on. Even dogs pause only briefly. The labourers are visible, yet unacknowledged. Nature itself provides no relief. The heat intensifies. Even the crows, breathless with open beaks, continue their restless cawing. The environment mirrors the workers’ exhaustion rather than easing it.
“Makhoishini 2” shifts to the agricultural field. Here, the focus is more intimate and physical. The farmer’s body is fully absorbed in labour. His hands grip the tools. His leg presses the plough. His eyes fix on the furrow. The work extends across seasons. They “bathe in heat” and “sweat in rain.” There is no moment of rest, no escape from hardship.
Yet the outcome remains the same: deprivation. At the end of the day, the labourer’s share is a “sunken stomach” and “ragged cloth.” The contrast is stark. Those who produce sustenance remain deprived. In the first poem, labour is observed by others. Here, the peasant’s isolation is more pronounced. This suggests a deeper entrapment within agrarian structures.
Read together, these poems reveal a continuity between colonial modernity and agrarian life. Both depend on the extraction of labour without fair return. The repeated phrase “They are them—Makhoishini” transforms anonymous figures into a collective identity.
It is a quiet but significant step. It recognises labour not as individual hardship but as a shared condition. Irabot does not romanticise labour. Instead, he exposes its realities with restraint and clarity.
Beauty, Illusion, and the Mockery of Death
If the “Makhoishini” poems are grounded in social reality, “Sharuna Nokli” moves into a more reflective and philosophical space. The poem begins with a stark image: a skull lying in a graveyard at a crossroads. Its “pearly teeth” appear to laugh as the wind brushes against it.
This unsettling image becomes the centre of a series of questions. Where is the beauty that once defined this person? Where are the eyes, the voice, the graceful movements that once captivated others? The poem reconstructs the woman through fragments: hair, eyes, words, grace. It does so only to emphasise their disappearance.
The repetition of “where” is crucial. It does not seek answers. It underscores absence. What was once admired and desired has vanished completely. The skull remains as a reminder. Its silent laughter mocks the value placed on physical beauty.
Yet the tone is not entirely harsh. There is also a trace of wonder in the recollection of that lost beauty. This creates a tension at the heart of the poem. Beauty is real in experience, but it is fleeting. The poem does not dismiss it outright. It questions the weight we give to it.
The setting, a graveyard at a crossroads, adds another layer of meaning. It suggests a meeting point of life and death, memory and forgetting. The skull’s laughter extends “from ages past until ages to come.” This transforms the image into a universal condition. All beauty, however celebrated, ends in the same way.
In this sense, the poem can be read as a reflection on illusion and attachment. It challenges the tendency to value appearance and charm without recognising their impermanence. At the same time, it invites a more reflective engagement with life itself.
Why These Poems Matter Today
Though written in prison over eighty years ago, these poems speak directly to the present. The conditions Irabot describes have not disappeared. In Manipur and across the world, labourers continue to work long hours under difficult conditions. Often, they do so without security or recognition. Agricultural distress remains a pressing issue. The gap between producers and beneficiaries persists.
At the same time, the questions raised in “Sharuna Nokli” remain deeply relevant. In a world increasingly shaped by appearances, whether through media, consumption, or social expectations, the poem’s reminder of impermanence carries renewed force.
What makes Irabot’s poetry enduring is its restraint. He does not rely on slogans or overt declarations. Instead, he builds meaning through detail: the sound of a hammer on stone, the movement of a plough, the silent grin of a skull. These images stay with the reader. They compel reflection.
Irabot wrote these poems while confined, yet they are expansive in their vision. They connect the local with the global, the social with the existential. They reveal both the material realities of exploitation and the deeper illusions that shape human life.
Read today, Imagi Puja is not simply a historical document. It is a reminder that literature can illuminate injustice, question values, and sustain thought across generations. In that sense, Irabot’s prison poems remain not only a literary inheritance but also a continuing moral and political resource.