Showing posts from September, 2011

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On Freedom

Freedom is too politically incorrect. And when our gloomy collective life is shackled that can be unbundled, conversely, by an enlightened collective life, the strata where we can find freedom lies only in some empathic individual pursuits. There can be no denying that this seeking and searching would be in a maze, more confusing with the cacophony of our bewildered generation on the left and the right, nevertheless, it will be worth all the pain for we lack it utterly. It is unfortunate, what it is quite desirable has been rendered to have a negative connotation. For some people, in popular vocabulary, it is the sense of living in a free country in which we are not in the real sense of the term; and for some other people, it is equated with fighting for self-determination, which is again in a crisis.

This is a tragedy of living in a beleaguered state. We live in a dark civilization. On the outside, there is a struggle for power between the so-called state and non-state actors. Ther…

In Defence of the New

The end is the new beginning
Put a period on the wasted thinking
A new start should be the 'in' thing
And the students start arguing
And the teacher took out his ruler
Whack, whack he whips the boys
And the books burst as in thunder
And he yells it's all in there:
there are always rooms for doubts
there are always ways of well articulation
it is always a waste to see no possibilities.

Outside the sheltered classrooms,
though, the life of the unlearned lulls
the blaring sound of the screams inside.

Short Stories' Propaganda

What is being us, and what is not being us; we are lost for we have lost our plots, the dizzy-messy world of concocted stories, narrated by the All-Powerful Men and Women’s Groups of our time. The tales we need to tell are not the tales we have been telling the world; these tales scripted by all but not ourselves: the master story-tellers who have high hopes if not telling stories, who live life stealing for their wives and children and grandchildren and great-grandchildren and so on; and the original story-tellers of the land, whose stories — filled with the tales of valour in the jungle, and of knack for mixing business with pleasure — all of these we find more interesting, yet our self-narrated stories are fake and inaudible. We must play the main characters in our own stories but they have been playing the main characters in our stories, while we are side-cast, we are downcast — that they have scripted our stories, that they have played our parts; but then, is this why we have s…

Inside the Big Picture

Our life is a pale blue dot, in its scheme we are stumbling over, trying to connect the mess and maze, when the fragments of so many things around us are making the grey areas so black that we feel, so dark is everything but the time of our birth and death when we feel a little alive. The social connection and the power structures are too corrupt; on their foundation we are a blunder, trying to find the solution in some utopian ideals; we have also invented gods and goddesses — so many of them divided on the lines of false beliefs — but we have harked back to heaven while we made this place a hell; and when we finally see some light in books and education, these have so suddenly become an economic and financial thing, we read and study for the sake of livelihood. We are bunch of memories; the moment when we get rid of the present moment, we are lost in the past — as we explain about things; as from experience, we plan about; we talk to others as we relate to others — all of these are…

A Rendition of Dreams and Reality

The days are all days
As much as I find when I 'find'
And my dreams are just dreams,

hope is the only hope
and the nights are only what they are.

The days are more deeper,
more than the complications
of turning cloudy and having eclipses;
The days, they died with my dreams.

And I find I was looking for
yet there are many things I’m not searching
And I don’t seek for the graveyards
though I find them in rows along riverbanks.

But when I wake up, leaving my dreams
in some unconscious state I’m not sure of
I realise the dreams are not dreams.
but the things in life I miss.

After the First Fag After a Fix

Oh! Redeemers and reformers!
What you have been trying
Those morals and examples I need not.
All I need are a fix and a fag
Oh! Redeemers and reformers!
What have I done —
you always look at me so suspiciously?

Worry not, for me, the hinterland
Fear not, for me, the mainland
No ideas that a gun
can kill by the saviours,
No wealth that you
would keep for your health,
No voice that all of us
have it in our silence,
But a fix
And a fag.

Fuck and suck, two words we will only care
Have you ever tried, I doubt, puffing
if you e’er do it, after fixing?
We must migrate to Burma
The entire land must be a no man’s land
Prison me in an animal cage
All the gun holders must die of overdose
The nearest drop-in centre is so close
The army must be mass-castrated
My attention span is 5cm at the longest
I have lost my mind
When powders flow more swiftly
than the streams in wet seasons,
I have no qualms about your rules
When the only thing I want is a clean syringe,
I mind not another issue;
on my libe…

Silent Sounds of Sorrow

In the morn when balmy sunlight bathes the sky
In the noon when any hunger beats the fast’s dye
In the night when darkness belittles my little eyes
Only silent sounds of sorrow are all I hear:
unmelodious cacophonies of cries and wails;
the clamour for consciousness rises —

in the so worldly streets of protest
in the dingy living rooms for resistance
in everywhere my averse ears turn to;
And noises there are, and more noises
even amidst the silence of midnight

and even across the town of the dead
and even amongst the light, the noises so dark
and even in happiness the noises so wretched;
and even if no one is listening.

But even in this despair I do see some hope
So I walk alone silently,
Time ignored rudely.

When we go together
I hear it muted:

The silent sounds of sorrow.

To Leimakhong, With Love

Lively green
Lively living
in the land of the dead.

Five stars for the generals
Five stars for the colonels
Five stars for the captains
in the land of the dead.

Your machine guns
Your sophisticated ammunition
Your gaze that annoys
in the land of the dead.

Mother India is calling you
You, the sons of the soil
Every chapatti you miss at home
Every lick of pickle you miss at home
Mother India cries for you
Every day
Every year
when you are there
in the land of the dead.

Please Don’t Include Me

In your billion-million things;
I have so many issues so pressing,
Please don’t include me.

And please don’t include me
in your dreams of a billion
to win a game so trifle
a game so religious,
the ex-master gave it for free;

Please don’t include me
in counting your supporters
I’m a fan of no one at all
I admire only non-living things
like mountains, and whisky;

Please don’t include me
when you say there are
one billion people following
the hunger strikes and fasts and protests
All the time I’m just too hungry.

Hungry to live a life
Thirsty to drink the blood dry
I’d include myself
if you can say or just push:
“Democracy is just a fucking lie.”


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