Showing posts from August, 2011

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Howling for a Radical Literary Landscape

We are what when nobody is watching. We become more genuine, not when we are alone, but when we see ourselves in literature in our private moments. The works of art offer a space to turn around and sideways to watch and see ourselves. Our actual vanity and arrogance, and the raw reality are absent in the literally, fictitious world. We are a self-conceited animal even when we are alone; we hardly know our own faults. However, a figment of imagination in black and white can uncover the falsities, which hopefully allows us to become more humane.

Through other ways too, our test on self-identity can make it conspicuous, our true self. Even if we kill and murder, when nobody is watching at broad daylight — those examples set by the self-styled saviour of the land in planting bombs at crowded places, and in fake encounters: the favourite past time of the legally sanctioned gunmen called police and armies — we know inside us, we know them inside, who we are. Yet far from the madding crowds…

Mondays’ Moaning and Blues

A voiceless left
A vociferous right,

in a slow motion, to and fro
the pendulum seesaws,
the eerie, scary silence swallows;

but in the clamour, I had found
a new consciousness around,

— on a Sunday when they talked
about East Timor
about the folklore
in a fit of emotional outpour —

yet I lost it the next day
I was so busy that day

I had to go
pay my rent
pay my electricity bills
pay my life insurance dues;
please do see

all I have were unpaid bills,
and I’m far away from the hills,

and I’m too unlettered
to learn or earn
to replace the pendulum,
with things like a growing income,
somehow I can help, break it anyway
but I was late and had to rush for work.

But I’m sorry before I can take my time out for a bomb blast, that now we are having yet another highway blockade. I should have taken my time out... When the ennui sets in—when there is no murder, when there is no loot, when there is no nothing, I’m surely g…

India, Anna, Army and Insurgency

From Manipur, with some love.

What’s the one thing common about corruption and army? 

It’s not the recent multi-crore defence equipment scam or any other Bofor-like swindle issues. I’ll give you no unnecessary headache amidst the clarion calls for laws against stealing and robbery by the people in power these days. These two things have been tied by the bond of, or the answer is simply, the people’s protest again them. The only difference might be a variation of intensity, which exist for some obvious reasons, in the popular resistance against bribery and graft, and the army. However, there’s a catch in this obviousness — and this defines what India is for us. And this is our story of the day.

Before the explanation, here’s a preface to the tale. 
Of late, India is giving its best performance in the drama of corruption, to make a law to fight bribery and such rottenness and in a protest against the government. Bricks and bouquets for the play. Anna Hazare, the septuagenarian, the devou…

Written on the Mountain Highway

What the things are
And what the things are not
They make a hell lot of differences.

me with my friends;

It was the smell of heaven
not the smoke from a crematory
we had felt when we touched the sky
on our ride on the misty mountain roads

It was the green of the wild
not some filthy scarlet of the dead bodies
in the happy and contented landscape we saw
it made our heart hopped around crests and troughs

It was a great delight
the gorge that took our heart down from such a height
and not some futile, fearful stories on the front page
of newspapers and their stories of rapes and murders

life can be so simple;

If only the things are what they are
but they are not;
This makes all the difference.

Written on the Plain Highway

On the highway to Lansdowne, I saw
Ganga lying under the colourful skies
attracting everyone's attraction against my jealous eyes
there she was seductively, in her gracious best,
her voluptuous body glowing in the day's old hours
when the sun was shining in its last best shot
and in a typical thinking of yours truly
I remembered Iril
I used to call her Irin lovingly
but she failed to turn me on
failed utterly now
even after recalling those many memories
of so many nights that we shared together.

My life has changed now
I read it between the dark lines of the night
tho' I'm still on a highway
and when a day ends
I would go to one of the whorehouses
en route to my endless destination
and there is no love now, no hate
Just a fine line of blissful ignorance
and life goes on and will end
not at the highway, unfortunately,
but at some riverbank crematorium.

An Ode to the Independence Day

the rebels say my freedom to go naked
ends at the door of my house

the government says my liberty to kill
ends at the election booth

while in some forbidden abode
have humanity and sanity turned reclusive

on this independence day, I wish
all of you must go fuck yourself.

and we would pass comments
the universe's so relative
there are reasons we are so anguished
there are reasons we are so slavish

and we would play the usual game
the dull games of the plebeian so tame
on the landscape so barren
on the independence day

and the naked lies have raped my freedom
—  of backbreaking wings that allow no fly
—  of fleeting clouds that promise phony permanence
and I have nothing to depend on

on this independence day:
freedom is found only in the power's kingdom
liberty is doing things too beastly
independence is a dream so far in the distance.

Thawan Haiku: An August 13 Tribute

The thawan haiku
My tribute to the patriots
On August 13th

In history textbooks
You wrote with your blood and pain
For you die, we live

You only exist
Memories and energies
Now we care no more

The old BT Park
In old days we went with grass
Sometimes old men barked

Hicham Yaicham Pat
We know not where the lake is
We know rock at Range

The cops should be hanged
The court says about the fakes
Death has changed a lot

For the land they die
For the land you and me kill
When are we living?

August 15th comes
Two days after the 13th
Nothing to bark now.



Thawan The fifth month in a Manipuri calendar
BT Park A memorial park in the heart of Imphal. Two great martyrs -- Bir Tikendrajit and Thangal General -- were…

Fear Psychosis

People are afraid of the police
And people are afraid of the guerilla
And I'm afraid of everybody.

And people love to steal from the government
And people love to bitch about other people
And I'm only afraid of everybody.

I'm also afraid I have stopped being terrified,
when the cops frisk me, dabbing their lathi on my butt;
I'm afraid I'm no more dismayed,
when the guerilla did what they do best most of the time:
tickling the arses of everyone who don't have a gun;
I'm afraid all of us are turning into swollen anuses.

It's too dirty
It's too filthy
Yet I'm afraid I'd ever get clean.

The doctors advised I should eat more
The teachers lectured I should speak more
But I'm just afraid of everybody.

I'm afraid to be poor, I would die a poor, unknown man
I'm afraid to be rich, they would send me demand letters
I'm afraid to be so common a man they would simply kill me
I'm afraid to be a cop, they would ca…

That Common Thing

There is one thing so common
between you and me,
between your day and night and my day and night
between your life and my life:
as in birds and skies have freedom
but not as free as the limitless bullets of our homes.

The love is what the other things are not
What the other things are not, it is
Just the plain, old, tender feeling
yet so special in its worldliness,
as in there are many flowers so special
but unusual they are as the Shiroi Lilies

and no new day can rewrite its lines
and no new lines can rewrite its old days
It is what it is
It is not what it is not
and there will be heartfelt closeness
and there will be heartbroken moments.
But I will climb no mountain
I will get you no star from the heaven;
The only thing I have is the thing we have
We have it so common between you and me;
an unproven fact has found new meaning.

There is one thing so common,
as common as the trodden track;
between you and me,
between our lives and our death ||

••• •• ••••• ••••• •••• ••••• ••• ••• ••…

Seasonal Affective Disorders

In the new year we have in April
with the beginning of the new season
And in the time we follow from January,
there is something so misleading,
as annoying as the Indian stare in various places.
On an apathetic cosmic ride,
the airs whisper, never say never.

On Feeling Homeless, Yet Again

Life's too ironic; more clear it was
when I planned for vacation at home
a long time ago; nowhere will I find
this enigma but in planning
for those holidays in the place I grew up.
Sometimes I feel like a vagabond
but then I realise I have found
my home in being rootlessness.
In this plight, I have lost
all my connection, and if not for the rare
adrenaline rush when I think back,
yet I feel so detached.

Made in Yunnan

I bought a gun
from Yunnan
when I went there to check
what it takes to cross the border
from my town; and they said I will die
of several Chinese ailments
if I continue living so close, but
it didn't matter for I was so happy
to be there, to be going
and I was happy
I bought a gun.

When I returned home,
there was not a single soul
in my lifeless town;
so I shot at the stones,
and I shot at the stars
and I was saddened by the fact
I didn't get other things to shoot at,
when I returned home.

Made in Yunnan
this gun is, and I'm tired
searching for a soul —
not to shoot at — but
my exaggerated social mindedness;
nevermind it, I'm sick of this loneliness
and am going away; and if you ever find
my dead body lying here, please place an
epitaph on my graveyard —
Made in Yunnan.


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