KAPIL ARAMBAM • In Pursuit of Freedom •

In Pursuit of a Pattern



Into the fabric
A single thread runs from one edge to the other
How would a lesser mortal know it is such stubborn
When the entire camaraderie has metamorphosed into a drapery?

In the almirah
Soft hands fold and arrange the apparels
Numbers in as twice and thrice as that of body parts
There is only reason in their being: to clothe

When it is time to get out of the closet
It makes sense how we see in the patterns
How it exists all around all along
“Beyond our pathetic myopia
Beyond the blindness
We are only hell bent for chaos,” said no one ever

From the fabric to the end of the universe,
We have seen it but then
We have seen it in war and worldliness as well
We have seen it
We are out of synch
But then again, does it even matter?!

It’s ironical we live in both order and disorder
We might live with the government and without
While the recently formed regime announces its promises
Just like everything will fall into their places
Just like something’s better than nothing.

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Melancholy

How do you cure it
I do not—
I only feel it
I can only force myself to sleep
And only wait for the light, the following dawn
And then when the whole world bask in the glory of the sun
For the want of a suitable word
The dawn has faked
But you cannot fake the burden on your heart
The heaviness in the throat, the silent choking feeling
Even the proverbial tunnel lies beyond a great distance
And all along all you have are words. Bloody words.



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The Enemy’s Manifesto


The invisible prokaryotes insult the mothers of the believers
“And the bloody scientists dare to sleep with our gods”
The believers would cry in the name of the father.
Well in my neighbourhood the gods are made of mud,
Plastics, woods, metals and plaster of Paris and I hardly know
What the fuck is wrong with those scientists. Sleep with mud?
Plastics? I don’t know either what is wrong with the believers.
I don’t know why I’m even concern about them.
I only hate them. Because this is my manifesto.

All the people are kings and queens of their own kingdoms
I’m just an outcast peeing on their gardens. One at a time.
Because I got nowhere to go—perhaps, except in the frontiers
But I heard the national armies are polishing their balls out there
They got balls, I heard, as shiny as their new machine guns
I had heard, balls and guns are considered a jinx by foreign marauders
At the end of the day, I got nowhere to go but crawl in these kingdoms
And by night, each night, I retire by the Lake of Hate.
In summers, I live on the coldness of the kingdom’s heart
By the heat of the kings and the queens’ debauchery, in winters.
And I don’t mind it. Because I hate everything.

If hate is a crime, all the kings and queens are in trouble
And what—would the asses and donkeys come, decked up
Dressed in gaudy Bolywood attires, to judge the mortals?
Judge about killing. Judge about rape. Judge about discrimination.
Judge about extortion. Judge about robbery. Judge about burglary.
Judge about fucking others’ wives. Judge about Staying alive like in Imphal.
I’d really hate them. I have only peed—and is it a crime too?
I’d really hate if it is. But you bet I care about it.




gif from raidous


Weekdays Blues





Stories, Characters and All the Related Items


Do the stories make the characters or the characters, the stories?
The stories arrive in droves and the characters alone
Happiness comes in bubbles
Sadness drags with heavy feet
Ridiculous shits as usual in the story called living
At each turn it bends to absurdity
As if this is the only possibility
Oh...no; no stories are the same.


Annual Pilgrimage

Home
Planning
Memories

And then the everyday fuck.


On Waking Up

i saw the realities in dreams,
as in holding a stone firmly in the water
even if the reluctant water only lets me float,
and later drenched, but with the hope of getting dry
and live a life happily thereafter;
and i saw the dreams in realities
as the happiness of dreams collided with the pain of realities
the moral of the lesson was understanding just a part of why i woke up
it’s bloody late for work!


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Self-determination
An extract from a paper by Prof. Dr. Kamarulzaman Askandar
Nation and State-building, Self-determination and Conflict Resolution in Southeast Asia presented in the 9th Arambam Somorendra Memorial Lecture held on June 10, 2014

Self-determination as reflected here is not a dirty word as bandied by those in power. It is not something that was created for frivolous reasons, but something that has come up because of unfinished business in the decolonisation process of a nation. It represents collective rights of a distinct group of people and is a driver of genuine democracy.

It is, thus, a form of conflict resolution because it envisions a solution to the problem through the restructuring of relationships, modes of governance and addressing real needs of the people. For it to be successful though, it needs to be translated into action and into actual new relations, guided by a new arrangement, constitution or structure. When this happens, you will see peace in the region. These are the lessons we have learnt from the challenges of decolonisation in Southeast Asia. They might be of use to friends here in the Northeast part of India.

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Complaint Box


It could have been Utopia
Yet it’s not
But that’s not the problem

That amazing thing, that amazing place
That amazing moment and that perfection,
—None is the issue here

It could’ve been happiness
It could’ve been cheerful
It could’ve been harder
It could’ve been painful

It could’ve been anything
Take the peace but why come back for war;
Take the war and there’s not going to be peace either.
It is killing. We ever suffer for others’ stupidity.





Cages



Gunmen are in a cage of guns
Bards in that of words
Newsmen in that of scoops
Musicians in that of notes
Professors in that of books
Workers in that of machines
Ibobi in that of money
Butchers in that of meat
Neighbours in that of gossips
Sex workers in that of genitals
Believers in that of gods
Tailors in that of threads

Let me be nothing
And fly away freely
And then I hear the music
The crooner, seemingly sneering,
Singing “Even the birds are chained to the sky.”


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