I first heard of Umang Lai from my grandfather, who worked briefly in the Northeast in the 1950s. Posted in Kolkata, he would stand beneath the iron vault of Howrah railway station and speak of survey lines pushing toward hills that had not yet agreed to steel. Back then, there was no railway in Manipur, and both Umang Lai and its festive spirit lay far from any tourist’s imagination.
When I finally stood inside an Umang Lai grove, I understood his fascination with the Lai Haraoba festival. Lai Haraoba—literally “the pleasing of the gods”—is a vibrant, ancient, and essential festival of the Meitei community in Manipur.
I came from Chennai with digital tickets and a backpack, retracing my grandfather’s arc in reverse. From Guwahati, I boarded a train toward Jiribam, travelling along the partially operational Jiribam–Imphal railway line up to Khongsang. Though steel has now entered hills he once mapped in pencil, the line still ends at Khongsang. The final stretch to Imphal must be completed by road.
The village grove does not announce itself with grandeur. It simply exists—a clearing ringed by ancient trees, their trunks wrapped in white cloth, their roots breathing through damp earth. Women in white phaneks move like constellations between offerings of flowers and rice. Men tune drums. And at the edge of the grove, a musician draws his bow across the pena. The sound startles me. It seems to rise from the soil itself. I remember Ammachan’s words: “It sounds like memory.”
Lai Haraoba is dedicated to forest deities worshipped in sacred groves across Manipur’s valley districts. These groves are not ornamental woods; they are ritually protected spaces, often centuries old, maintained by the community. Shrines are simple, whitewashed structures, often without anthropomorphic idols—the deity resides in the grove itself. The festival is typically held between April and June and may last for over a fortnight.
Lai Haraoba—literally “the pleasing of the gods”—is a vibrant, ancient, and essential festival of the Meitei community in Manipur.
On the first day, the ceremony begins with Lai Eekouba—the calling of the deity. The maiba (male priest) and maibi (female priest) lead a procession to a nearby pond, offering flowers, fruits, and rice beer. The deity is believed to reside in water before being invoked into the shrine. When the maibi enters her trance-like state, it is not theatrical, but a manifestation of divine presence.
Historically, the maibi has been priestess, healer, and medium combined. Throughout the rituals, the pena provides the sonic spine. This single-stringed bowed lute, tied to pre-Hindu Meitei religious practice, follows precise melodic structures aligned with ritual sequences. Then comes Laibou Jagoi—the dance of creation. The maibi’s hands trace invisible diagrams in the air: over three hundred stylised gestures enact the formation of the earth, the emergence of plants, the building of the first house, the spinning of thread, the cultivation of land, and human reproduction.
The rituals re-enact origin, affirming an identity rooted in land and ancestry. Because the deity resides within the grove, conservation is embedded in belief—trees here are never cut.
The festival draws the community together—through sports, feasting, and shared labour. Though rooted in the indigenous Sanamahi religion, it has coexisted for centuries with Vaishnavite practices. It is syncretic, layered, and alive: sometimes adjusted, occasionally shortened, and at times staged for visitors, yet still deeply local in its essence.
My grandfather arrived after days of interrupted rail journeys and mountain roads. I arrived by flight, train, Gypsy, and foot. The railway now pushes toward Imphal; bridges rise and tunnels advance. But Umang Lai—and its spirit—remains unchanged, held in the shadow of timeless groves.