I was sorting the river pebbles for my garden this morning—green ones from Umiam, white ones from the Wah Umkhrah—when a student asked if Cleopatra really bathed in milk. I told her that's the accepted story, but in our own Khasi folklore, the queen of the fairies once washed her hair in the waterfall mist and the whole village recovered from drought. Perhaps both tales have a kernel of truth, but I'd rather trust the version that leaves the village better off—sngewbha the outcome, not the ornament.
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