A Journey Through Time: Life, Love, and Change

STEPPING back into Aizawl after twenty-five years felt like waking up in a dream. Standing on a corner in Bawngkawn on a sunny March day in 2026, the memories of the good old days came flooding back, bringing a bit of a lump to the throat. The city, perched high on a mountain ridge, remains a beautiful sight, but the way we travel here has been completely transformed. Today, Mizoram is connected to the rest of the country by rail. Thanks to the new services inaugurated by the Prime Minister in September 2025, one can now catch the Rajdhani Express from Sairang, just 20km from the capital. It is a long journey of over 2,500km to Delhi, but sitting on a modern train is a world away from how things used to be.

Back in May 2000, travelling to Aizawl was a true test of strength. I remember the journey under a relentless downpour where the bus simply couldn’t go any further because the Tuivai river had swollen so much. At that time, there was no Tuivai bridge, or at least none that was safe enough to use. To get across, we had to rely on a rope stretched from one riverbank to the other. We sat in groups of five or six on a bamboo shaft, dangling over the rushing water while men on the opposite side pulled us across. Our luggage was hauled over the same way. By the time we reached the bus waiting on the other side, we were soaked to the bone and covered in mud from slipping down the hillsides. With no private place to go, we had to change our muddy clothes right there inside the bus. Many of us rolled and slid down the steep hillside toward the riverbank, while our luggage scattered everywhere. None of us escaped the fall, and we were all soaked in mud. In those days, that difficult journey from Lamka took over twenty-four hours and cost ₹500. In August 2003, the then Chief Minister of Mizoram, Zoramthanga, inaugurated it, thankfully making travel easier.

Looking for the school that once felt like home - where the days were spent teaching and the nights were spent as a warden - proves difficult. The old signboard near the sub-post office has vanished, and the building seems to have been swallowed by the city’s growth. Bawngkawn has always been an important gateway to the capital, but it is much more crowded now. In the old days, there was plenty of space to stroll along the roadside, but today the junctions are packed with cars and motorbikes. At the busy places like Zasanga Point and Zosangliana Point, traffic wardens work tirelessly, signalling “Stop” and “Go” to a never-ending stream of cars and motorbikes, to keep things moving. Even with the narrow footpaths and the sheer number of people, these officers manage the chaos with a calm and steady hand, ensuring everyone stays safe.

Walking down towards the bazaar, the search for familiar landmarks continues. The old houses that used to line the downward steps are gone, replaced by tall, modern buildings. It is impossible to find the home of a former student and his lovely sisters, a place that was once so familiar and loved to be there. Even my old college has a new look; the gate is now marked as a Govt. J. Thankima College Women’s Hostel has a proud history, started in 1992 by local people who wanted better education for their children. It began with the help of a kind businessman and grew through the community’s own hard work. Thinking back to my own graduation in 2001, life was quite a whirlwind. My marksheets were a bit of a mixture -- final year was under Mizoram University (JTC), second year under NEHU (JTC), and first year under DMCollege, Imphal.

By 2002, the college had joined with another and became a government institution. The memories of the staff are still so clear: the friendly principal, the chatty clerk, and the wonderful teachers. My history teacher was particularly kind, often inviting us to her home for tea and snacks, treating us more like friends than students. In those days, life was a rush. College started at 6:00 am, and as soon as it finished at 9:00 am, I would race off to start my teaching job. Earning ₹1200 per month!

One of my favourite memories takes me back to the IGNOU Study Centre at Hrangbana College. The centre always ran so smoothly under the steady guidance of our coordinator, Pu Lalrinawma and the lady office assistant. The day of our final exam was memorable, the air in the room was thick with nerves. We sat at our desks with our hearts racing, watching our coordinator as we waited for the question papers to be handed out. Right next to me sat the famous singer, Liandingpuii. On stage, her voice could move the soul of the entire Mizo nation, but here, she was just another student. She sat hunched over her desk, working just as hard as the rest of us to earn her Master’s degree. Once the exam began, a deep silence filled the room - you could have heard a pin drop. No one spoke or even looked up. We were all lost in our own worlds, our pens flying across the pages as we fought a private battle against the clock.

Another memory that warms my heart is the arrival of a sincere letter from back home. I remember the flutter in my heart when a letter arrived from a young lass back home. We had only just fallen in love - the kind of love that is written in ink and whispered in promises - before life forced us apart. Her words would reach out to me across the distance, her handwriting carrying all the warmth I was missing. “When are you coming home?” she would ask. “Will you be here for Christmas?” It was a love that lived through those pages. Even though we were separated physically almost as soon as our hearts met, her letters were the thread that kept me connected to home. Every time I read her words, it felt as though she were standing right there beside me in the hills, her voice calling me back to where I truly belonged. Through the loneliness and the long letters home, I knew exactly why I was here: to earn a living and to learn the ways of the world. Thus, for me, Aizawl became a home away from home.

Cherished moments with beloved brother Lun Taithul (Rest in Peace).

Today, we all carry smartphones, yet it feels harder than ever to truly reach out. In those golden years, there was no gadgets or screens to stay in touch; people were connected by heart and soul, tied together by shared laughter and genuine conversation. Standing in the bustling streets of modern Aizawl, the silence of a digital contact list feels heavy. There is a deep, aching longing for those old mates, the wise teachers, and the bright-eyed students who are now surely grown. Though the world is now connected by wires and waves, it cannot replace the warmth of those old bonds. One can only hope that, by some grace, another chance will come to look into those familiar faces once more.

With my old friend, Sir Thangbawiha.

While lost in such moments of flashback, a sudden encounter with a motorbike taxi brought the past back to the present. When the driver pulled off his helmet, it was an old friend from those teaching days. We spent the afternoon catching up at his home in Saikhamakawn, before he dropped me off to catch a city bus. On the ride back, I chatted with the bus conductor - a hardworking woman running the family business with her husband, the driver at the wheel.

The visit takes place on 26 March 2026, a month that holds a heavy weight in Mizoram’s history. The Indian government used the Indian Air Force to bomb Aizawl on 5 March 1966, targeting Mizo National Front(MNF) guerrillas. It has been sixty years since the dark days of 1966 when the region faced incredible hardship and conflict. People remember the hunger and the pain of villages being moved or destroyed. Yet, despite that difficult past, the Mizo people today carry a powerful spirit of unity. They live by a beautiful idea called ‘tlawmngaihna’ - the act of being selfless, helping others, and putting the community first.

Even though Aizawl is built on steep, rocky mountains with tiny roads, the way people drive is a lesson in itself. There is no aggressive honking or reckless rushing; everyone looks out for the safety of others.  There is a deep respect for one another that makes the crowded streets feel orderly. It is a city where modern buildings cover the hills, but the old values remain. 

As you look around the city, you see houses that seem to defy gravity, clinging tightly to the steep hillsides. Some are built on incredibly tall concrete pillars – some reaching 20-30 feet high – just to stay level with the road. It is enough to make your head spin if you look straight down.

The buildings look as if they have been glued to the slopes or are hanging by a tiny, thin thread. Living here feels a bit like being a bird perched on the very highest branch of a tree; it’s beautiful, but there is always a sense of danger. When the heavy rainy season arrives and the water pours down the cliffs, life feels fragile. You can’t help but feel the risk that these families face, living so high above the valley floor while the clouds swirl around their windows.

Returning to a place after decades proves that while buildings and roads will always change, the heart of a community is what truly lasts. Aizawl teaches us that progress doesn’t have to mean losing our manners; even in a crowded, modern city, silence and patience on the road can exist if people value each other. The lesson for anyone visiting this high-altitude city is simple: be ready for a lot of walking up and down steep steps, but more importantly, be ready to be honest and friendly. If you carry that same spirit of tlawmngaihna with you, you will find that even though places change and buildings disappear, the kindness of the people remains the true heart of the home. Embracing this selfless way of living is the best way to navigate both the narrow streets of Aizawl and the journey of life itself.

~ Bruce K. Thangkhal | Zogam Today | 15.05.2026

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