Why Lei Ingkhol is called the village built on tears

In the serene embrace of Irong Rivulet and Cheiraoching Hill lies Lei Ingkhol in Imphal East of Manipur, a village born from the ashes of rejection and suffering. Founded in the 1940s by outcasts shunned for the social stigma of leprosy and tuberculosis, its forefathers endured a world that deemed them untouchable, their lives stripped of respect and dignity. Over seven to eight decades, their descendants—759 souls across 156 households—have toiled through education and hard work to reclaim their humanity, transforming this haven into a vibrant community of homes, ponds, playgrounds, and sacred spaces. Yet, the tears of their ancestors still echo, as the Capitol Project threatens to uproot them, treating them like animals in a cruel replay of the ostracism their forefathers fled. 

 

For generations, leprosy patients in the state has endured social stigma, rejection by families, and neglect, living as outcasts with tears shed in silence. In July 2011, a media visit at the State Leprosy Hospital at Lei Inkhol exposed a deplorable state: a non-functional laboratory filled with cow dung, no electricity since 2001, and broken toilets. The living quarters at the , housing five patients, were unhygienic and dilapidated.

 

These five, among over 20 leprosy patients in the area, are physically disabled, having lost fingers, hands, or legs to the disease. Though the hospital provides occasional treatment, government support like rations ceased years ago, leaving patients reliant on NGOs for survival. Despite being classified as outpatients and pressured to vacate, patients have refuse to leave, fearing discrimination and with nowhere to go. Evern, expressing their wish to die there, forgotten by society and without a place to call home. They demand alternative arrangements from the government to live with dignity.

 

In 1918, around 400 people in Manipur were living with leprosy, forced by the state darbar to leave their villages and stay far away. The Christian missionaries at the Kangpokpi Mission Leper Colony cared for them with kindness, but for many Hindus, leprosy was more than a disease—it was seen as a divine punishment for sins or selfish acts from a past life. Those afflicted were often met with pity or scorn, their suffering viewed as proof of past wrongs.

 

The stigma didn’t stop with the patients. Their families, though healthy, faced rejection too—shunned from social gatherings, marriage prospects, or steady work. Fearing this, some with leprosy hid their condition, enduring pain and disfigurement in silence to spare their loved ones from shame.

 

Later on, these outcasts found refuge in the present Lei Inkhol, a marshy stretch along the foothills of Chingmeirong, far from others. There, they lived in isolation, their hearts heavy with the pain of separation. It took over 70 years for the government to take notice in 2005—not to offer treatment or support, but to claim their land for so-called development projects, adding another layer of hardship to their already burdened lives.

 

While politically powerful villages like Tarung Kabui Khul could challenge and reverse such decisions, Lei Ingkhol remains helpless, caught in a web of poverty, lack of political outreach, social stigma, and administrative apartheid.  The villagers have fought for two decades with courage, heartbreak, and unyielding hope, only to face betrayal, violence, and systemic injustice. This is their story—a piercing cry against a system where contractors and legislators profit while the poor bear the scars of displacement.

 

Lei Ingkhol is more than a place; it is a lifeline, a testament to survival against all odds. Its 22 acres—shrunken from 29 due to government’s eviction —cradle a community of wage laborers, artisans, and petty traders, most clinging to survival below the poverty line, reliant on Antyodaya Anna Yojana and Priority Household ration cards. Here, 201 children play under the shadow of uncertainty, 189 students walk to nearby schools, and families gather at the village crematorium to honor their dead. The Irong Rivulet’s waters and the hill’s wild edible plants have sustained them for generations, while Imphal’s markets, hospitals, and schools, just 1-5 kilometers away, anchor their economic and social lives. Communal spaces—ponds, playgrounds, sacred groves, and the abodes of Meetei deities like Ima Yumjao Lairembi—bind the village in a delicate ecosystem of spiritual and social cohesion. This is home, where their ancestral's  umbilical cords (khoiri-naophums) rests peacefully and the ashes of loved ones root their identity before the Capitol Project came up like a lightening bolt upon them. 

 

The Capitol Project—a multi-crore scheme for a new legislative assembly, secretariat, and High Court Complex—has loomed like a storm. Its promise of progress masks a brutal truth: it seeks to erase Lei Ingkhol, displacing its people All the proposed relocations in the past ignored the village’s organic ecosystem, offering tiny 30x40 sq. ft. plots that cannot sustain their communal life or livelihoods. This is not development—it’s destruction, threatening to sever the economic, social, and spiritual ties that define Lei Ingkhol.

 

Lei Ingkhol’s vulnerability stems from a cruel interplay of factors. Poverty and lack of access to political and administrative elites have left them voiceless. The stigma of their forefathers’ diseases lingers, branding them as descendants of “enfeebled lepers and TB patients,” denying them external solidarity. Political and administrative apartheid isolates them further, while the fragmented nature of Meetei society—unlike the collective solidarities of Scheduled Tribes or religious communities—leaves them without defenders against project-induced displacement. Misrepresentation as “encroachers” despite their pre-1949 roots and enrollment in Laipham Siphai’s electoral rolls strips them of legal protections. Coercion, through eviction notices and armed intimidation, silences their protests. These barriers—poverty, stigma, isolation, and coercion—have rendered Lei Ingkhol helpless. 

 

The struggle began in February 2005, when the Manipur government targeted Lei Ingkhol for the Capitol Project, shifting its site after resistance from more powerful communities. On April 19, 2005, the JAC Against Eviction of Lei Ingkhol launched a sit-in protest, mothers clutching children, elders praying, and youth standing firm. On April 21, they submitted a memorandum to the Governor, their words heavy with hope. On April 26, they appealed to the Chief Minister, only to be ignored. On April 28, Justice B.K. Sharma of the Guwahati High Court approved the High Court Complex, dismissing their pleas. Denied a meeting with the Chief Minister, they protested outside his bungalow, their voices raw with desperation.

 

Again on May 4, they half-blocked National Highway No. 39, their bodies a barrier against injustice. On May 5, memorandums reached the President, Prime Minister, and Ministry of Environment and Forests, each word a plea for survival. A cycle rally and signature campaign followed, amplifying their cry. But on June 6, a highway blockade met brutal repression—tear gas, mock bombs, rubber bullets, and lathis. Eight women were hospitalized, one needing 24 stitches on her face, a scar mirroring the village’s wounds. Three men were beaten mercilessly, and eight women lepers, three men, and two children—including a girl—were arrested, their dignity crushed. From June 7, a relay hunger strike began, villagers starving under the stars, their empty stomachs a testament to their resolve. By August 2, 2005, the government’s silence left them in psychological torment, many abandoning work to guard their homes, hearts gripped by fear.

 

The villagers’ pain is deepened by betrayal. In 2006, Union Minister Oscar Fernandes promised to spare Lei Ingkhol, only for the government to allocate 29.526 acres to the High Court in 2010 without consent. In 2011, the villagers’ wooden bridge over the Irong Rivulet was demolished, isolating them. In 2013, armed police conducted a sham “survey”, photographing residents to justify meager compensation. Eviction notices followed—July 15, 2013; January 31, 2014; May 13, 2014—demanding they vacate for Lamlongei, a site promised with neat houses but canceled without explanation. In 2021, 30x40 sq. ft. plots in Kamu Yaithibi were offered, only to be scrapped in 2024 as “inconvenient.” New sites like 38-Top Dusara offer no space for their communal life, ignoring vital assets like ponds, pastures, and sacred spaces fir their ancestral deity, Ima Yumjao Lairembi.

 

The government’s claim of “adequate rehabilitation” is a lie. Compensation, ranging from zero to Rs. 2,00,000, is a mockery, based on fraudulent surveys and siphoned off by political agents. These actions violate the Indian Limitation Act 1963, the Environmental Impact Assessment Notification 1994, the Right to Fair Compensation Act 2013, and the UN Declaration on the Rights of Indigenous Peoples. Repeated eviction notices, deceptive sampling, and blackmail—such as threats to lose everything if compensation wasn’t handed to political leaders—have humiliated and dehumanized the villagers.

 

The Capitol Project is a playground for contractor-legislators who thrive on corruption. During the Congress Okram Ibobi regime, funds from the Special Plan Assistance fueled a scramble for commissions, bypassing democratic norms. Site selections shifted capriciously—from Kangla Fort to Chingmeirong to Mantripukhri—each change marked by destruction, like the demolition of the TB Hospital and PWD stores, rebuilt elsewhere at great cost. Lei Ingkhol’s scenic land, ideal for an “elite zone,” is a prize for these profiteers. The High Court Complex’s expansion, far beyond the approved 12.4 acres, includes luxuries like bungalows and a cricket field, built on the villagers’ dreams. The lack of transparency in environmental reports and the fate of dismantled infrastructure points to systemic corruption. Why destroy a thriving village when other sites exist?

 

The pain of Lei Ingkhol is visceral. Mothers watch their children grow under displacement’s shadow, their laughter tinged with fear. Elders, once finding solace in the village’s embrace, guard their homes in dread. The youth see their futures dimmed by exile to barren lands. The loss of communal spaces—playgrounds, crematoriums, sacred groves—tears at their soul. For 20 years, they’ve lived in limbo, betrayed by broken promises like Fernandes’ 2006 assurance. The Lei Ingkhol Kanba Lup’s memorandums to the present  Governor Ajay Kumar Bhalla (April 23, 2025) and Deputy Commissioner of Imphal East (May 15, 2025) plead for retrocession of 21 acres and legal entitlement, but meetings, like the one on May 5, 2025, are hollow, with key decision-makers absent and dialogue unfulfilled.

 

This fight is a cry for dignity—the right to live where their ancestors’ graves lie, where their children’s dreams take root. The government must end its coercive tactics and engage in transparent dialogue. A joint survey could fairly assess their needs, and alternative sites for the High Court Complex must be explored. The contractor-legislator nexus must be dismantled. 

 

Lei Ingkhol, built on tears, fights for its soul. The Capitol Project threatens to erase their history, bonds, and existence. Yet, through sit-ins, hunger strikes, and bloodied protests, they stand unbroken, their pain fueling their resolve. We must hear their cry: development that shatters lives is no progress. Retrocede the land, grant legal entitlement, and let Lei Ingkhol live, preserving our shared humanity.