“The Curse That Broke Itself”
It all started with a samosa. It came wrapped in an old newspaper, its corners stained with oil. A samosa, just a warm snack, handed to the writer by a vendor walking through the slow-moving train. The writer was a quiet man, someone who liked to follow strange and forgotten stories. He wasn’t expecting anything that day except a bite to eat.
But sometimes, small things can open the door to something much bigger.
As the train moved gently through the countryside, he glanced at the newspaper used to wrap the food. Most of the words were too smudged to read. But one short headline stood out clearly:
‘Twelve Men Killed in Rupohi River Ambush. Investigation Unlikely.’
There were no names or photos. Just one small paragraph tucked between a cricket match score and the daily weather update. It was easy to miss. Most people would have looked away, but not him.
He folded the greasy paper with care and slipped it into his bag. The next day, he packed what he needed
and left.
He didn’t take a taxi or bus from his home. He walked when he could. Rode in wooden carts when he was lucky. Once, he sat behind a pair of cows pulling a plough. Another time, a farmer gave him a lift on a rattling tractor. The deeper he went into the countryside, the harder the journey became. The roads cracked. Then vanished. The signposts disappeared. After two days of
walking along the Rupohi River, he finally reached a place no one had spoken of, a place called Khuya, lying on the river’s southern bank.
The villagers told him the name meant ‘where fog sleeps’.
It was true.
Mist was everywhere. It covered the trees and the roofs of houses. It clung to people’s shoulders and faces like a soft blanket. Khuya didn’t appear on any of the writer’s maps. It was a place that didn’t shout or call attention to itself. It hid gently between hills that looked like old, tired shoulders, resting after a long day.
The land was quiet, wrapped in green. Bamboo forests swayed like tall whispers. The sal trees stood still and silent, as if holding on to lost secrets.
There were no streetlights in Khuya. Just the soft glow of lanterns behind closed curtains. At night, these lights blinked like small stars, low to the ground.
Children ran barefoot through the fog. Their laughter was soft, almost dreamlike. Women washed clothes at the edge of the river without saying a word. Even the dogs barked gently and never chased anyone.
Time in Khuya moved differently. It didn’t stop, but it seemed to forget where it was going. It wandered slowly, like a Rupohi River that had lost its way.
In the centre of the village stood a banyan tree. It was enormous, so old that its roots had grown above the ground, twisting and curling like snakes bowing in prayer. Nearby was a tiny shrine, built from smooth river stones and bits of broken mirrors that caught the light like scattered stars.
The writer sat under the banyan tree to rest. He was tired. But something about the place felt like it was waiting. Holding its breath.
It was there, beneath the old branches, in the heart of the mist that he first heard the name.
‘The Twelve.’
Beside the banyan tree, near a slow river, he found an old man sitting by a fire.
The man didn’t look up. “You came about the twelve,’ he said.
The writer nodded.
‘They weren’t soldiers,’ the old man said, his voice soft and thoughtful. “They were just regular young men—farmers, shepherds, singers. Boys from simple families. They had no weapons, no uniforms, and no one had asked them to fight. But they saw something important, their way of life was disappearing. And it was happening fast.’
He paused for a moment, watching the smoke rise from the fire.
‘Our names, our songs, the clothes we wore, even the gods we believed in—people were starting to forget them. It wasn’t just the things. It was who we were.’
The old man looked down.
‘People began speaking in new languages and stopped teaching their children the old ones. They traded traditional clothes for what they saw in the cities. Sou plants were left to dry. Stories that had lived for generations were no longer told. Children didn’t even know the names of their ancestors. People were forgetting, not because they didn’t care, but because it was easier.’
Then he said something the writer never forgot: ‘When forgetting becomes easier than remembering, you start to lose yourself.’
That’s when twelve young men made a decision.
They came from different villages. Some lived near forests, some by rivers, some in the hills. They didn’t grow up together. They weren’t family. But they all felt the same deep sadness in their hearts. They were watching their culture disappear, and they couldn’t just stand by.
They didn’t want to fight anyone. They didn’t want power or fame. They just wanted their people to remember where they came from. They wanted the songs, the stories, the way of life to live on.
So, they came together and formed a group. They called themselves nothing at first, but later, people started calling them “The Twelve Roots’.
They started with small things, things anyone could do.
They visited the elders in their villages. They listened for hours and wrote down old songs and folk tales. They asked how things used to be done, how arguments were settled, how festivals were celebrated, how children were named.
Then they began to share what they learned.
They taught children the old stories.
They held evening gatherings where people could sing traditional songs.
They replanted the syou plant that had been dry or forgotten.
They used herbs and healing methods their grandparents had passed down.
They helped neighbours solve problems in peaceful, respectful ways, the way their ancestors had done for generations.
They encouraged people to be proud again.
They asked tailors to stitch traditional clothes.
They helped organize dances and ceremonies that had not been seen in years.
They used what little they had—songs, kindness, courage—to bring people together.
And people began to listen.
The Twelve didn’t have money. They weren’t leaders or priests. But their love for their roots was strong. That’s what made people trust them. That’s what made others believe in what they were doing.
But not everyone was happy.
Some people in power felt threatened. They were afraid that if people began to remember who they were, they might stop listening to the ones who had taken that power. These powerful people wanted to control the villages by making people forget their past.
One day, a young boy came running into the village.
He was scared and out of breath.
He said, ‘A girl has been taken. A shrine was burned down. Two men were beaten just for speaking in our language.’
Excerpted with permission from The Memory Of Shadows And Other Folktales From The Northeast by Mijing Gwra Basumatary. Excerpt permission obtained via publisher.