By Teinam Dkhar
In the middle of Jowai, hidden behind the noise of everyday life, lies a pool that comes alive just once a year, Aitnar. “Aitnar” comes from the Pnar words “Ait” meaning muddy or unclean area, and “Nar” meaning iron. It symbolizes a sacred place where impurities are cleansed through strength and ritual, especially during Behdieñkhlam. To someone passing by, this area may seem like just another muddy body of water. But to us, it is something much more. It is sacred, it is personal, it holds the soul of Niamtre.
There was a time, during the colonial days, when outsiders looked at this muddy pool and laughed. They saw it as dirty, backward, unworthy of admiration. But they did not understand. They did not feel what we feel when we step into that mud. They did not know that we do not dance in Aitnar to impress, we dance to heal.
Every jump, every splash in Aitnar has meaning. We bring our burdens, our illnesses, fears, brokenness, anger, and we leave them in the mud. To dance in clean, polished waters would be easy. But healing is never easy. And neither is letting go. We choose the mud because that is where the real work of cleansing happens.
During Behdieñkhlam, women’s participation is primarily confined to the household level, where they prepare offerings and observe rituals from home. However, they do not take part in the public processions, including those at Aitnar and other ceremonial spaces, which are traditionally reserved for men.
And what is most beautiful is that no one is left out. It does not matter if you are rich or poor, dark or fair, old or young. Behdieñkhlam welcomes everyone. We all come together, dancing, soaked, laughing, shouting, to throw away what holds us back. For a moment, all lines disappear. There is no “them” and “us,” just “we.”
But Aitnar is not just for Jowai. Every Seiñraij, like Mukhla, Tuber, Ialong, has its own Aitnar, each with its own stories and heartbeat. These sacred pools connect us across the hills, like hidden veins of memory and belief. Each one whispers a version of the same prayer, U khyllah khatai ia i sih i roi, i kjut i chitom napoh ka Raij ka Chnong. This means praying to God to drive away all illnesses, diseases and negativity from the society
What makes Aitnar even more remarkable is the fact that it stood strong through centuries of change, pressure, and misunderstanding. Despite colonial efforts to reshape indigenous beliefs and the widespread wave of religious conversions, the faith of the Niamtre followers remained firm.
These sacred pools, along with the rituals tied to them, are proof of an identity that could not be erased. While the world around shifted, Aitnar remained, quietly holding space for a people whose connection to their ancestors, land, and rituals runs deeper than any outside influence ever could. And then, there is that moment, if you have seen it, you never forget it. The rots—decorated shrines, are pulled through this pool by hundreds of men. The Khnong Blai, sacred tree trunks believed to carry divine force, follow close behind. The sound of drums rises, people lean out of windows, children run, elders watch with pride. And just before the rots reach Aitnar, time almost feels like it pauses. It is as if everything, our history, our faith, our future, moving together in that one breath. This is Behdieñkhlam, not just a ritual, but a living memory that returns to us each year, reminding us who we are.
In recent years, the government has begun to see what we have always known, that these Aitnars are not just religious spaces, but living heritage sites. Funds have been introduced to preserve them, promote them, and welcome visitors from around the world. Tourists may come to see the spectacle, but if they stay a little longer, they will feel the soul behind it too.
And now, the time has come again. You can feel it, the streets of Jowai are waking up, drums are being tuned, families are preparing. From 11th to 14th July, the muddy waters of Aitnar will be ready. We will gather again, not because we are stuck in old traditions, but because we know they carry something deeper. We dance in the mud not to show where we have come from, but to remember what we must leave behind. And this year, like every year, we step into the water together, uncertain, hopeful, human, and come out whole.