“How much is the kabok khoidum?”, a woman clad in a saree matek asks a vendor, a woman in her late 60s. “Ten rupees each”, the vendor responds. The woman hands over a 20-rupee note from her bag. Once she leaves, the vendor—my grandmother—sighs in relief, murmuring, “At least I made 20 rupees!” She kisses the note and tucks it into her safe. She’s been sitting here since 7 a.m., amidst her wide assortment of kabok, hoping for customers.

It is 11 p.m., and this was her first sale.

This fate isn’t unique to my grandmother; over twenty women selling kabok in Lamlong Keithel share it. Kabok, made with puffed rice and brown sugar, is likely Manipur’s only sweet dish—a surprising fact given the state’s rich cultural diversity with over 30 tribes. Despite this unexpected singularity, kabok bound our communities together. Sadly, this beloved treat that once sparked sweet cravings among every Manipuri has now fallen on hard times.

For most Manipuris, kabok is a sweet snack that finds its place in traditional ceremonies. But for me, born and raised in Lairik Yengbam Leikai, a small locality in the Imphal East district, kabok is a way of life. Oral tradition suggests that the making of this sweet treat was entrusted exclusively to the skilled hands of people living in our locality, making it an integral part of our heritage for generations. As I write this, I have in front of me three kabok laloo, wrapped neatly in a tiny jute bag and urging me to tell its story.

Since childhood, I’ve heard stories from my grandparents about their parents making kabok for the royal family of Manipur during the monarchical era. Their eyes sparkled as they recounted these tales. After the kingdom era ended, my grandparents continued the tradition. My grandmother would sell homemade kabok at the Lamlong Keithel, initially to feed my father and his four siblings, and to keep the tradition alive. Even now, at 68, she diligently sells the sweet at the market. 

Growing up in a joint family, I was cared for by two sets of grandparents. Bobok—my grand-aunt—married into our family in 1983, while my grandmother married in 1970. Together, they’d make kabok; my grandmother sold them in the market while Bobok managed the household. My father and his siblings, in their childhood, would often sneak a taste when the women weren’t looking, but they knew better than to get caught, lest they face the consequences typical of Indian discipline in the 80s. The siblings would also wait eagerly for my grandmother’s return from the market, their eyes lighting up at the prospect of enjoying the leftover kabok. After all, when packaged snacks were a rarity, kabok wrapped in banana leaves became a cherished treat for children. Parents would lovingly purchase kabok for their little ones, who would savour every bite of the sweet, puffed rice snack. It also had a special place in the lives of young lovers, who would often meet and share kabok and singju, a popular snack that remains a favourite to this day.

Despite the fun to be had with kabok, to my two grand-relatives, kabok-making was a sacred ritual that demanded respect and care. Kabok, after all, is also the most commonly offered sweet to the Meitei deities; without them, prayers are considered incomplete. The spiritual significance of kabok is further evident in its preparation—before shaping the kabok into traditional forms like round, cylindrical, or bowl-shaped offerings, a small piece is offered to the fire as an offering, a barter for divine blessings.

Ironically, though, the people skilled in crafting kabok have historically faced social exclusion. There’s an unwritten history of heinous discrimination that Lairik Yengbam Leikai inhabitants have faced. When I spoke to Abok Binodini, an elderly woman from my neighbourhood, she recounted: 

When I was young, classmates would often mock me, calling me from an ‘amaangba jaat’ (polluted caste). I didn’t understand their claims, so I ignored them. One day, I saw a classmate visiting our locality with his father to collect kabok for a religious ceremony. I asked him, ‘you label us impure, yet you seek our kabok for offerings to God?’ He couldn’t respond, and I felt relieved and vindicated.

Fortunately, born later, I didn’t experience it first-hand, but anecdotes about harsh treatment and condescending attitudes from other localities have been passed down. It made me realise kabok’s multifaceted importance to our locality: economic sustenance, a treasured tradition, and a subtle yet powerful rebuke to societal biases.

However, times have changed, and the role of kabok in everyday life has shifted. Nowadays, neither the children’s eagerness nor the lovers’ meets over kabok remain, leaving only the ceremonial aspect. 

In 2019, as the world grappled with the COVID-19 pandemic, Bobok’s eyesight was severely impacted because of an untreated eye condition, leaving her unable to do the things she loved. Losing her vision made it difficult for her to move around the house and continue making kabok.

But the tradition had to be preserved, and my mother and aunt stepped in to carry it, diligently making kabok for my grandmother to sell. I asked my mother what would happen if she couldn’t continue making kabok like Bobok. With a reassuring smile, she said that the next generation would take over, learning the art of kabok-making and carrying it forward. The tradition would remain alive, even if the hands that made it changed.

Sitting beside my grandmother in the Keithel, I spoke to a neighbouring vendor, who shared that kabok sales had declined sharply due to increased competition from other regions and manufacturing processes. With more vendors entering the market, demand for traditional kabok has dropped, making it tough for long-time sellers like my grandmother. However, another vendor’s words left a lasting impression on me. She said, “Many kabok makers will come and go, but the true tradition of kabok-making will remain with our locality. What sets our kabok apart is that we make it to preserve our cultural heritage, while others make it primarily for profit.”

As I watched my grandmother count and recount her small pile of kabok, each one crafted with the same love and tradition her mother-in-law had passed down, I felt the weight of her words. That’s a sentiment that many other residents share. Abok Binodini told me:

Nowadays, with everyone consuming packaged and fast food, kabok is mostly reserved for divine offerings. Children barely know what kabok is.

But recently, a middle-aged man visited the keithel where I sell kabok, intending to buy some for his children. Surprised, I asked if they’d even like it. He reassuringly said he’d teach them about its significance and share his own childhood memories. His words brought me relief; I thought people like him were a rarity.

As her words echoed—“I thought people like him were a rarity”—I realised that preserving kabok’s legacy requires more than nostalgia; it demands endurance.  The kind of endurance my grandmother shows every morning when she arranges her kabok display diligently, knowing very well that she might sell only one or two pieces. It’s the same endurance my mother and aunt show in tirelessly making fresh kabok every alternate day, against a world that has moved to packaged snacks.

Despite its nutritional value and availability, kabok struggles to compete with packaged foods, pushing many locals to abandon it. Nevertheless, my grandmother and family continue this tradition, a refusal to let the last use of kabok be only symbolic.

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Daniel Yumkham is a History student currently pursuing his BA Honours degree. Hailing from Manipur, he draws inspiration from his cultural heritage and personal experiences. His writing reflects his passion for storytelling and exploring identity.