Maiden's Lament

When the high priest of tiny Manipur heard that the Japs were drawing near (see p. 29), he advised the youthful Maharaja to take a third wife; in time of crisis, he said, three could better rule the ruler's heart than two. The Maharaja complied, then issued a ringing challenge: Manipur would resist the Jap to the last man. The young men of Manipur, busy dancing and throwing crimson and purple powder on one another, paused. Wedged between India and Burma, 400 miles northeast of Calcutta, 200 northwest of Mandalay and just south of the realm of Bong Wong, the Ang of Namsang. Manipur has one smooth, green valley, 50 miles long. The rest is towering, jungle-covered mountains. Lakes dot the Imphal Valley and ducks dot the lakes. British officers, stationed in India, have long known Manipur for the finest pheasant shooting east of Suez. Until last week, Manipur's tough little polo ponies, twelve hands high, thundered twice a week over Imphal fields to help the officers pass the time.

Saddest of all in food-loving, fun-loving Manipur today are the maids of marriageable age. When no war threatens and the moon is right, custom lets them waylay young men, strip and hold them until they pay the price demanded. If the victim demurs, they may lock him up until he changes his mind. When next the moon is right, no men will be on hand to play--if they heed the Maharaja's call.

For the Manipuri with their rusting muskets and their home-ground powder made of goat dung, war is better as a sport; the modern, murdering, burning, bombing kind is hard to understand.

This file is automatically generated by a robot program, so reader's discretion is required.