KAPIL ARAMBAM • In Pursuit of Freedom •

New Year Wishes, More Wishes








Another year, only more rituals
December does serve coldly
Heavier clothes and all and the good food
Heaps of mustard and peas and stink beans

And some whisky and some rum
With a toast to the approaching suns,
Let there be. . .

More bullets and more bombs and more blood
While we hope desperately for an end point
Unlike here and now—we have been grinding at a point of no return,

More army men and more, more army men, more worms
With their special books on peace and serenity
And their ammunition and their love for the nation,

More expressionless school kids out of the classrooms to crowd the streets
With unclear banners and insane adults’ demands
Doing everything but what they are supposed to.

Let there be more heroin in BOC, let it flow ceaselessly
Let there be more sex workers in each alley in Paona Bazar
The tomorrow has never lose its significance like this
Only the powerful people see beyond the horizon

How about a suitcase of money and a dozen of guns for the farewell party
—And more general strikes, more blockades, more murders
More darkness, more insanity, more hate
More loot, more robbery, more shamelessness
More territorial pissing, more empty promises from the masters

Even life has an end; everything has an end
Even this nonliving year is melting away
Some of it into memories and words and a large part into oblivion
No matter how December is too feeble to sub for the past eleven months
So colourful is the impending New Year in the darkness.








..............................................................................................
THE SMALLEST COFFINS
ARE THE HEAVIEST

From a tweet #PeshawarAttack
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It Matters No More

The golden fields may call again
But I’d be far away—I have been walking since morning
I’d only hope that the calling does not reverberate
Just like the incessant wailing of the people of the land
Maybe I’m just making it up as if it cares
But nothing matters anymore
My vagabond life has no root
It matters no more
Azure skies and cloudy days have become one
The bloody rivers have formed a unidirectional stream
And it’s most unlikely the blends of clouds and skies
Or anything else would stop me, re-offer me a chance
Live like a normal person, getting rid of this crouching back
But nothing matters anymore
My vagabond life has no root
It matters no more
But for the blue and green mountains I long
White ibises that appear when March arrives
No, it matters no more
My vagabond life has no root
Nothing matters anymore
And I’m not coming back. Anymore
If only your god can help me fall off the Earth
I bet I’ll start worshiping for anything that heals separation
With no life we are just the same: living or dead
Green and yellow fields and greyish memories and cerulean skies hold me in
Only life is marking the path and I’m far away from home already.








On the Road

I’m not coming back
Even when the sun rises;
Vanished, my home’s gone

Now I’m on the road again.



A collection of mobile-phone shots from Imphal taken in Nov-Dec 2014 



One Evening

When It Occurred the Strangest of Things Was Normal and One of the Most Normal Things Was the Strangest

It’s strange this holiday at home

There has been no power cut
Except there where the waiter who said he cannot serve tea
The light was too weak to run the tea-maker,
There has been no bomb blast in the locality till now
No murder if not for the sporadic killing here and there
Should I confirm I landed on the right place?

I do remember I had booked the ticket for home a week ago
And I got the ticket stub in my souvenir bag
It’s strange this holiday
Yet as always the police dogs are out on the street
Sniffing around for unsuspecting balls and pussies
Carrying trendy guns sponsored by their hard-task masters
But then again the gaudy decoration lights have covered up
In and around Kanglapat and Keishampat
In the name of turning a shithole into a paradise
And the workers are painting the streets black and white and yellow
And the contractors are selling their dreams
And all I can do is to make a graffiti
About the government always smelling of excrement

And the extraordinary mundane affairs of our lives
Like public transport department staff stealing millions of money
The ceaseless arrest of armed rebels
The overlapping general strikes called by civil organisations
The killing of natives in mainland India
The street demonstration against the authority’s apathy
The ambushes that have been a pain in the armies’ asses
Kangaroo courts and mob justice
I have started seeing them in the background
It’s started getting clear now when I’m sober
And it’s not strange anymore
It’s strange no more
I’m home!


One Evening When It Occurred the Strangest of Things Was Normal and One of the Most Normal Things Was the Strangest


A Hymn to Love


Love is a tharo
In some unknown pond in Andro
I have never even seen it but only heard
In booze-filled streets, where the righteous folks have ever sneered

So it was no surprise when I was sober
When little broken hearts and pieces consumed me faster
As if love was what the lovers had been longing
And for the sake of conclusion I ended up merely with ‘fucking’

............................................................
From hymn to humming

Tharo - Water lily, in Meiteilon
Andro - A historically and culturally significant hamlet located in Imphal East

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Amazing images of Naga folks by Canato Jimomi.
Check more of these illustrations on his blog  http://canajimo.blogspot.in/
(Used here without permission!)


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