In Memory of Aheibam Koireng
(17 August 1977 – 07 March 2022)
- A Scholar, a Friend, a Giant among Men -

Homen Thangjam *

Aheibam Koireng :: Pix - The Readers Book Store FB Post

I want to extend my deepest gratitude to Syed Bhai for the gentle nudge – or the painful shove – that made me write this obituary. It's heart-warming to see how easily memories fade when they become inconvenient and how quickly people move on when there's nothing left to gain. But here I am, going to stitch together the fragments of a friendship that others have chosen to ignore.

Some lives are too vast to be contained within the limits of time, and some friendships are too profound to fade into mere memories. Aheibam Koireng was one such soul – a towering intellect, a fiercely loyal friend, and a man whose presence filled every room he entered. He did not just live. He left an imprint, shaping the conversations, thoughts, and spirits of those fortunate to have known him.

If you ask me, let me be honest – we weren't childhood friends. As our acquaintances began, I listened to Koireng's stories with scepticism, convinced he had a knack for embellishment. Who could believe the tale of an infamous drunkard who once stood for elections only to be accused of stealing a radio?

Or the story of a man who, like clockwork, made his rounds on the 10th of every month, collecting his "friendship tax" from office-goers – threatening dire consequences if the amount fell short?

Then there was the story of this village terror – universally disliked – that had a peculiar habit. Whenever he got into a fight and ended up on the losing side, he'd return the next day with a troop of paramilitary personnel to "balance the score". Koireng swore this man lived in an abandoned forested area near the cremation ground. And, to top it all off, the village terror's son is now a respected MCS officer.

Then, there was also the story of the retired army officer from Manipur, who had once served as a gate officer at the New Delhi defence headquarters. His job? Opening the gate and saluting every car carrying higher-ranked officers as they entered and exited the gate. After years of following protocol, this poor chap developed an uncontrollable habit of saluting everyone he met.

Even after retirement, he would lift his walking stick and salute passersby with military precision during his morning strolls. His family, unable to curb this relentless display of discipline, became the butt of jokes. Ultimately, his children devised a clever solution – they replaced his cane walking stick with a heavy, lead-topped wooden one. And, as Koireng put it, 'that' finally put an end to the saluting.

But the real kicker? One day, Koireng casually mentioned that a person named Tomba (name changed) had contested elections, and his election symbol was – a radio. Naturally, I braced myself for another tall tale. He described how, being sprightly by nature, Tomba marched briskly ahead during his campaign, holding up his radio, the election symbol.

At the same time, his security guards struggled to keep pace behind him. A lady drying clothes on her terrace happened to witness this peculiar scene. Jumping to conclusions, she muttered, "Ah, today, Tomba must have stolen a radio – that's why the police are after him!"

I was certain Koireng was making all of this up. But, as it turns out, others later confirmed his stories – each one as bizarre and entertaining as the last. And if there's one thing I can vouch for now, it's that Koireng may have been many things, but a teller of tall tales? That, he certainly was not.

Our bond was gradually forged through deep intellectual exchanges after I began teaching at MB College, Imphal, in 2010. My room at the college became our nocturnal retreat, where we wrote articles and books, edited several souvenirs, and immersed ourselves in discussions that flowed late into the night.

In that shared space, our companionship became something far more significant – a union of minds and spirits bound by the pursuit of knowledge and understanding. Beyond academia, our friendship extended into shared adventures. Often, we went out for outdoor picnics, joined by our family members – above all, Iche Anita and her family.

We also ventured to remote areas in the Ukhrul, Senapati, Tamenglong, and Jiribam districts for heritage documentation as part of the INTACH Manipur Chapter. These journeys were not just about work. They were filled with laughter, debates, and the joy of discovering stories hidden in forgotten corners of our land.

Koireng was a man of formidable presence – towering at six feet, with a love for good food and a hearty drink. We could sit together, drinking like a fish, only to dissolve into tears, mourning the absence of the fathers who were never there for us. Our friendship was one of shared sorrows and quiet understanding, a bond that needed no words.

He was a man with a keen sense of humour, a joy to be around. He would often utter anecdotes with a mischievous grin, like his famous reply to shy girls who commented on his colossal physical size: "A heavy rock does not flatten a tortoise, whatever the circumstances are". It was his way of laughing off remarks, turning awkwardness into amusement.

Beyond our camaraderie, he was an intellectual giant, a scholar of unwavering dedication. His writings on the Suspension of Operation (SoO) – a tripartite agreement between the Government of India, the Manipur Government, and Kuki militants – became some of the most cited works, especially after the violent turmoil that engulfed Manipur on 3 May 2023.

He had an uncanny ability to unravel the complexities of conflict, and his insights shaped many critical discussions on Manipur's contemporary political landscape. Best of all, he could immerse himself in reading, writing, or working on his computer for endless hours – a true testament to his academic dedication.

Our work has often attracted unwanted attention from critics. There was a time when one of our edited books became the centre of controversy, drawing scrutiny from various quarters. TV channels, social media platforms, and newspapers carried our photographs – secretly taken by those in power while we were merely watching a polo match. Despite the mounting pressure, we stood firm as true friends, unwavering in our commitment to intellectual honesty and integrity.

This experience taught us a profound lesson that resonates with the powerful message in H.G. Wells' "The Country of the Blind". In Wells' story, a sighted man, Nunez, stumbles upon a secluded valley where all its inhabitants have been blind for generations. Believing himself superior because of his sight, he assumes he will quickly dominate the community.

However, he soon realises that the blind society has developed its own logic, rejecting his perception of reality. When he tries to assert his knowledge, they consider him delusional and suggest that he should have his eyes removed to 'cure' his madness.

The story carries a striking message about conformity, power, and rejecting perspectives that challenge the dominant worldview. It reflects our reality. In a world where the majority adheres to accepted narratives, those who see differently – who challenge, question, and illuminate hidden truths – are often perceived as threats.

Just as Nunez's sight was dismissed as a flaw rather than an advantage, our intellectual pursuits were met with resistance from those who feared the disruption of their comfortable beliefs.

Nevertheless, like Nunez, we faced a choice – whether to conform and surrender our vision or to uphold our truth, even at significant personal cost. However, to value life, one must apologise how-much-so-ever one detests the idea of conformity.

There are moments when survival demands a reluctant compromise when standing firm becomes a luxury that life's harsh realities do not afford. And so, we learned the price of dissent and the burden of necessary submission – a bitter pill to swallow in a world that does not always reward integrity.

Koireng always stood up for puny friends like me, shielding us with his physicality, wisdom, and courage. His advice was laced with worldly wisdom, which made me question the essence of friendship in a world obsessed with material gains, fame, and power. He was too open, too generous – often at the mercy of those who exploited his kindness, only to abandon him when he needed them most.

His giving nature was remarkable – whenever he visited other places, he always remembered to bring us a souvenir (ladle, jacket, tracksuit, or an exotic drink), including gifts for our children. It was his way of showing love, a small but significant gesture that spoke volumes about the kind of person he was.

I still remember our penultimate meeting. By then, we had drifted apart – nearly two years had passed without our usual gatherings, shared meals, or deep conversations. After I joined IGNTU-RCM, the room at MB College was no longer accessible. Moreover, the strain of the public apology had taken its toll, creating a rift between us. Plus, my personal troubles only deepened the divide. I was in a severe distress.

This situation affected me and several friends, relatives, and others. As my circumstances grew heavier, I withdrew from public life and distanced myself from friends. In many ways, life has pulled us in different directions, each grappling with our own uncertainties.

Personal struggles weighed heavily, and our once tightly-knit circle of four had begun to unravel. A quiet distance settled between us, a silence neither of us could find the words to break.

Our meeting occurred a day after he underwent surgery at RIMS. I learned about it from a friend (doctor) who was treating his retinal condition. The RIMS procedure had been to remove his gangrened left big toe, ravaged by diabetes.

When I entered the room, the sharp scent of phenol filled the air. Koireng lay on the hospital bed, staring blankly at the ceiling. I sat beside him, my gaze fixed on the floor. We did not speak. The silence between us stretched – heavy yet strangely comforting as if words were unnecessary.

I didn't ask about the surgery because, to me, he was still the same old friend – strong, resilient, and always optimistic. Moreover, I held back from probing the subject, knowing my intrusion could wound his pride. But deep down, I knew the truth.

The disease was taking its toll. His vision was fading, his movements had slowed, and the once-commanding presence he carried was diminishing. Yet, what indeed weighed him down was not just the physical suffering but the emotional burden he bore.

As the silence became unbearable, I quietly got up and left, not wanting to disturb whatever thoughts held him captive. I didn't say goodbye. I thought there would be another time. I couldn't acknowledge that we were nearing the end. And perhaps, more than the illness, it was the weight of disappointment and disillusionment that truly broke him.

The unceremonious dismantling of the Centre for Manipur Studies, Manipur University, where he had poured his soul into teaching and research, had left him deeply wounded. It was more than just a professional setback – a personal loss, a matter of passion and prestige, a cruel erasure of his contributions and dedication.

He felt discarded, as if all the years of hard work, the intellectual rigour, and the passion he had invested had been reduced to nothing. Manipur University instead granted him a non-teaching job. Once rooted in his scholarship and commitment to his students, his sense of worth now seemed stripped away.

When I looked into his eyes that day, I saw not just the exhaustion of illness but also the weight of disillusionment. This man had given so much only to find himself abandoned at his most vulnerable moment.

A few days after our meeting, he called me around 7 o'clock at night and said, "Nan-gi nakhol taningbagini" (I just wanted to hear your voice). I don't know if he had called others too – perhaps to say an unspoken farewell – but I could listen to the despair in his voice.

I immediately left the party where I had been drowning my sorrow, rushed home, grabbed an ash gourd (people say it's good for diabetes), and went straight to him with Oja Ukil Premjit. The desire to meet him was overwhelming. He wasn't surprised to see me. Maybe he had counted on me – on the friend who would show up and try to talk some sense into him.

There he was – motionless, dishevelled, shoulders slumped, face ashen, eyes sunken as if the weight of the world had come crashing down on him. I was drunk, yet I could see his pain. I tried to console him, saying, "Bhai, I'm in a worse state than you. Everything will be alright. Be brave".

In his usual way, he pulled me into a bear hug and smiled. At that moment, we felt the weight of each other's sorrow – two broken hearts beating in unison.

His last words were, "Oja Homen, you're a good man. Do not be very direct all your life".

Since his passing, I have avoided visiting his home – unable to face his sweet daughter, his loving wife, and, most of all, Ima, his mother. Of the four children she bore, Koireng, though the eldest son after two elder sisters was the apple of her eyes – cherished not just by her but all his siblings.

Even after Koireng had a daughter, Ima remained his unwavering caretaker. She would walk miles to gather medicinal herbs for him and wait patiently for his return late at night. I still remember the time we attended a wedding feast. Drunk and sentimental, Koireng had stuffed two chicken leg pieces into the pockets of his white kurta to bring home.

When Ima discovered the greasy stains and the pilfered chicken, she scolded him furiously, shouting, "As if I don't feed you well at home!" She was the best cook, except for a tiny problem – we couldn't drink in the house. So we would sneak out before meals, down our drinks outside, and devour nearly a kilogram of meat before returning.

The weight of these memories is too much to bear. That is why I have not been able to visit Koireng's home. The grief would be unbearable, an ocean too deep to cross. When I heard of his final hospitalisation, I rushed from Thoubal, where I was on election duty as a micro observer, desperate to see him one last time. But by the time I arrived, he was gone.

The hospital was uncannily crowded, more like a bustling bazaar than a place of grief. Relatives, acquaintances, and self-proclaimed friends filled the space – some with whom I had long severed ties and others who had betrayed him in ways too painful to forget. Though sorrow weighed heavily on me, I couldn't help but feel a tinge of amusement at the spectacle.

There they were – those who could change their loyalties as quickly as shedding an old coat – mourning with the same fervour they once distanced themselves from him. Perhaps they had come to cleanse their sins, to make peace with their own conscience, or to publicly declare their association with him as if friendship were a badge of honour worn only after death.

It reminded me of Julius Caesar, betrayed by his enemies and those he once considered friends. Like Brutus, there were people in Koireng's life who had struck him with words and actions far deadlier than a dagger – deceiving him with the pretence of loyalty while quietly stepping away when he needed them most. And now, at his final hour, they had returned, not to right their wrongs but to script a new narrative in which they remained his devoted friends till the end.

As for me, I did what I could. I helped lead Koireng's funeral cortege, performed the last rites, and attended the Asthi ritual. But when it came time for his Shraddha, I could not summon the strength to participate. The weight of loss, coupled with the presence of those I could neither forgive nor forget, was too much to bear.

Since then, I have avoided his home. I cannot bring myself to pass by the street where his once-lively house stands. The house where we had spent countless evenings experimenting with food, laughing over shared stories, and believing, perhaps naively, that true friendship would stand the test of time. Writing a memoir gives me a chance for confession. Though I often project an ideal image, I, too, am imperfect.

Yet, we thrive because of friends who accept us as we are. Koireng accepted me without judgment for all my flaws and failures. In that sense, he was rare – more than a scholar, a father, a son, or a husband, he was a true friend in the most profound sense of the word.

Though Oja Koireng is no longer here to raise a toast, argue over an idea, or share a knowing smile, his laughter still echoes in our hearts, his wisdom remains a guiding light, and his kindness lingers in the stories we tell. In his absence, we do not just mourn: we celebrate a life well-lived – a life of intellect, camaraderie, and unwavering generosity.

Rest well, dear friend. The world may turn, but those who knew you will always carry your spirit forward.

And so, I end this with the heaviest of hearts – knowing that no words can truly capture the depth of the loss. Koireng was not just my friend. He was my brother in spirit, my companion in thought, and a light that can never be extinguished. He remains, in memory and in heart, a giant among men.

Homen Thangjam resides on the eastern bank of Manipur's most polluted river, the Kongba River.
He is from Kongpal Chanam Leikai, Kshetrigao Assembly Constituency, Imphal East.