The reveal came on a quiet Sunday evening. A page admin posted a blurry photograph: an old hand holding a smartphone, the screen displaying the very story. The caption read simply: "Eteima is all of us. But also, Eteima is my mother. She is 78. She dictated the story. I typed. The Mathu was never lost. You just stopped smelling it."
But the story has not ended. It continues in thousands of private messages, in the way young people now greet their elderly neighbors, in the revival of forgotten Lai rituals livestreamed on Facebook Watch.
If you travel to any leikai in Manipur today and ask about the Eteima , you might get a confused look. But if you say the words "Mathu Nabagi Wari" , they will smile. They’ll pull out their phone, scroll through Facebook, and say: "Here. Drink this tea. And read. The Eteima is waiting for you."
In the vast, ever-expanding universe of social media, where millions of stories are uploaded every minute, only a rare few manage to transcend the boundaries of entertainment and touch the raw nerve of human emotion. One such digital phenomenon that has recently taken the Manipuri social media landscape by storm is the story of Leikai Eteima Mathu Nabagi Wari —a tale that, while rooted in folklore or metaphorical village lore, has found a staggering new life on Facebook.
One prominent Manipuri writer, speaking on condition of anonymity, noted: "Our Eteimas are not metaphors. They are real women with broken joints and empty rice bowls. A Facebook story will not bring back their Mathu. It will only give the urban middle-class a moment of sentimental tears before they scroll to a cooking reel."
In the end, the story is simple: The fragrance ( mathu ) of your community is never truly lost. It is just waiting for someone to remember it. And in the digital age, that someone might be an old woman, a smartphone, and a Facebook post that became a lifeline. Have you experienced the Leikai Eteima Mathu Nabagi Wari on your feed? Share your thoughts in the comments. And next time you scroll past an old photo or a forgotten tale—stop. Read. The Mathu might be closer than you think.
