Miri

Miri was born into an Austroasiatic-speaking river-valley community in the wet forests of the upper Brahmaputra, where authority sat with elders in a few related households and disputes with neighboring settlements flared over fishing stretches and forest edges. His compound held several married couples, their children, and an old grandmother, Aru, who kept a small ancestor place under the eaves: a flat stone darkened with smoke, a clay cup for rice beer, and a dish for fish and cooked grain.

The household had already known loss. A baby girl, Saling, had died years before Miri was born. Darok, a toddler brother, had died two years before. Tin, the eldest daughter, died of fever before Miri’s first year ended. Their names were spoken at the ancestor place, and Aru warned the children about wandering spirits. The deaths made the adults watchful when fevers came.

His father, Borang, cleared and planted small fields and set traps and nets in the creeks. His mother, Nalik, pounded grain, cooked, carried water, and weeded with the other women. His father’s brother Kendam shared the yard cluster with his own wife and children; he was the one who set rules about children going near the river. Korun, the eldest surviving brother, was already competent at fishing and field clearing. Luma, an older sister closer in age, guided Miri around the compound, warning him away from deep water and thorny brush.

Miri stayed close to Nalik. When she stepped onto the path at dawn, he followed crying until she turned back and lifted him once, then handed him to Luma to keep him in the yard. He watched more than he joined. Kendam’s children and the children of the other household chased each other between posts and canoes; Miri sorted seeds, tapped a stick against the packed earth, and gave up what he held when a younger child reached for it. A younger brother, Hak, was born when Miri was about two, and the two slept near each other. Miri tried to soothe Hak when he cried.

At four, during the monsoon, a long fever left Miri’s eyelids crusted and swollen. Aru set extra offerings—beer, a smear of fat, a pinch of ash—calling to the dead by name. When the swelling went down, one eye stayed cloudy. Luma took his hand to lead him around cooking fires and puddles, and Borang stopped urging him toward the forest edge.

That same year, Hak fell sick. The fever lasted days. Miri watched from the corner of the sleeping platform while Nalik held Hak and rocked him. When Hak stopped breathing, Miri cried and would not leave Nalik’s side for days afterward. His fear of losing people sharpened into something the adults could see in how he startled at coughs, how he reached for his mother when anyone left the yard.

Another baby, Porom, was born shortly after. Miri watched him with care but avoided holding him without an adult present.

In his fifth year, Miri began coughing. The cough deepened over days, and his breathing grew fast and shallow. Nalik kept him by the hearth, and Korun brought him bits of fish broth, but he could not swallow. He died there, held against Nalik’s chest. Borang and Korun wrapped him in woven leaves and placed him in a shallow pit on higher ground near the compound, with a small lump of cooked grain and a few drops of rice beer for the ancestors.