In the history of Manipuri journalism, few names carry the same intellectual sharpness and moral conviction as Thengra-the pen name that became a voice of conscience on the pages of Lamyanba Journal. His column was not merely a chronicle of events; it was a mirror held up to society, politics, and power. Thengra’s writings were marked by fearlessness, wit, and a deep sense of responsibility-trait hallmarks of a generation of journalists who understood their vocation as a public trust, not a profession of convenience.
To speak, therefore, in these times, of the “death of Thengra” in Manipur journalism is not merely to mourn a person or a pen name but to lament the decline of a spirit — the death of a culture of fearless inquiry and principled dissent. In the Lamyanba columns, Thengra dissected the contradictions of Manipuri politics with a surgeon’s precision. He questioned the complacency of bureaucrats, the hypocrisy of self-proclaimed leaders, and the silence of the masses. He wrote from conviction, not compulsion; and his words carried weight because they emerged from a journalist’s moral duty, not from a patron’s directive.
Today, that legacy stands dimmed. The contemporary media landscape of Manipur, like most of the world, has moved into sensationalism, partisanship, and survival within shrinking freedom spaces. The journalist who once dared to confront authority often fears its shadow today. The newsroom, a space once for debate and courage, now wrestles between state pressure, corporate influence, and social media populism. Instead of fostering independent thought, journalism increasingly panders to confirmation biases and momentary outrage.
One wonders how he would have viewed the present context if Thengra were alive and writing today, when Manipur faces all kinds of conflict, displacement, and distrust. The Lamyanba of his time was a site of ideological introspection and social commentary; it believed that journalism could change peoples’ consciousness and set right the ways of power. Journalism in contemporary Manipur, however, is often caught between fear and fatigue. Many journalists work under threat, sandwiched between competing narratives, or silenced by political and economic pressures. The public, too, has grown cynical, consuming news as spectacle rather than as truth.
The “death of Thengra” is thus symbolic—a metaphor for the erosion of journalism’s ethical core. It represents the loss of a questioning mind, of fearless writing, and of commitment to truth above alignment. Yet, this death need not be final. The values that Thengra embodied-integrity, courage, and moral clarity-remain timeless. What is needed today is not nostalgia but revival—a rediscovery of journalism as a mission of service to society, not an industry of influence.
For that revival, three things are required: First, media houses must go back to editorial independence, resisting partisan or sponsored journalism. Second, journalists have to return to the craft of investigation-not just reporting what is said but rather unearthing what is hidden. Third, the readers and citizens must do their part by demanding truth, not comfort; accuracy, not propaganda.
Thengra’s death in Manipur journalism, therefore, is not an obituary; it is a call to conscience. The lamp he lit in the Lamyanba Journal was never for one generation alone. It was meant to guide the moral compass of all who claim to speak for the people. The question before us is simple yet profound: will we allow that lamp to flicker out in the storm of convenience, or will we, as heirs of that fearless tradition, rekindle it in our own time?
If we still believe that words can challenge power and that truth can wake up society, then Thengra is not dead. He lives on — in every journalist who writes without fear, in every editor who refuses to compromise, and in every citizen who insists on knowing, not merely believing.