Dear Kohima, Ever since I was a child, I have dreamed of leaving you – detaching every ounce of myself from you and going somewhere far away. I did not know where that somewhere was, but I was adamant on finding a ‘better’ place. Something about you made me feel suffocated. Perhaps it was your mountains, limiting my view and dreams. Your narrow roads, often strewn with litter, were a constant reminder for me to rage about and spite you for being small, dirty and falling short of whatever ideal I had constructed in my mind. I harboured a coldness towards you for your perpetual gloomy sight, filled with fog and drizzles, rarely letting the sunlight pass. I never understood why people chose to stay and called you home. What did you offer them, anyway? Back then, you seemed like a place to escape from, not return to, and I was desperate to leave. Now, as I navigate life in my twenties within your cracks and terrains, I am beginning to realise it was never your fault. You were never miserable: I was. Standing on your mountains, I see nothing but kindness and warmth in you. I am sorry for trying to abscond without ever truly knowing you, for chasing a dream that was no match for the comfort and belonging you quietly channel. These days, when I commute back home in the evenings, I see your streets filled with lights, people and cars, painting you in calmness and vibrancy. You have taught me, simply by existing, the beauty of growth, that we too can become busy and full of life, yet remain calm and settled. Our journeys are long and often challenging, but they have a way of rewarding us, with wisdom, lessons, experiences and memories. Your roads are narrow because you have been sustaining countless livelihoods, making room for vendors who have built their lives in the very spaces you provide. Thank you for giving them hope and a purpose. You have shown me that offering space to people does not make you small. It becomes a part of who you are and is often what gives you meaning. I apologise for all the trash that litters your lands and clogs your rivers. It was never you, but us, your inhabitants and visitors, who were reckless with what you so generously gave. But people are waking up. Organisations are working to make it right and so are the people. We will clean you up, this is a promise. Thank you for your patience and for teaching me that our mistakes are not beyond repair with the right intention and efforts. A flower kiosk at the Bamboo Market in BOC, Kohima. Photo: India Development ReviewYour cold weather has shaped me as a person. I doubt I would survive anywhere too warm. Your fog and your drizzle, which I once resented, now make my ordinary days feel mystical and romantic. The sun was always there, I was simply too miserable in my own unhappiness to notice. Your monsoons, which once upset my mood, now fill me with gratitude every time it rains, for replenishing our water, for watering my mother’s flowers and cleaning every crevice of the world surrounding us. Your weather defines you, and it makes perfect sense. Similarly, you have taught me that we are who we are for a reason. That real peace comes from accepting our messy parts along with all the easy ones. My favourite thing about you? Your people. The many lives that converge and make this small city home: those born here, those who arrived from other districts and those from other states. You have welcomed everyone unconditionally. Sometimes I worry we are overcrowding you, building too many structures in your hills, making pieces of you give way. Yet, you heal and keep making room. I hope we learn to stop pushing and rather start living well within the space you have already given us. The people you hold are extraordinary, teeming with energy, warmth, laughter and resilience. Facing their own quiet battles but showing up for one another nonetheless. Their rose-tinted view of the world and vast space within their hearts is a product of hard-earned tenderness. They are, in every way, a reflection of you. We, the people of Kohima, are moving alongside the rest of the world, but you keep us grounded. Perhaps, your mountains are not limiting, but humbling. Reminding us that true greatness is not conquered alone, but together, carrying more than just our roots with us. There are places within you that hold pieces of home I could never leave behind: my high school, the quaint state library, the taxi stand full of black-and-yellow cabs. How could I ever detach myself from you when everything about you is woven into my innocence, my rebellion and my youth? With time, you have become a part of my identity and I would not have it any other way. From the anticipation of a hot cup of tea at the office, to returning home to a warm meal of soupy fermented vegetables, tender meat and a fiery chutney, to enjoying a bowl of noodles on the weekend from one of the many beloved eateries, you have given me a deep and abiding lovefor food and the people who make it. You have built an environment where we can slow down, sit together, and savour our meal. Without exception, every person I have met in Kohima is a food lover. You are not just a place, my dear Kohima. You are a beautiful amalgamation of everything one needs to grow and become human. Your layers require a nuanced understanding; it took me over two decades to know you and I have only peeled past your first few layers. In this fast-paced world, you have taught me to slow down, take my time to understand people and situations, before drawing conclusions. In understanding you, I have also come to understand myself. Thank you, Kohima, for the plethora of life lessons you have taught me. I am late, as usual, but you have been patient with me, as always. Here’s to our continued voyage, but this time, with love and gratitude! Sincerely yours, KeleKeletsino Mejura is a resident of Kohima, Nagaland, with a passion for storytelling. She works as a communications consultant in the social sector across northeast India.