Showing posts from April, 2011

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Into the wild

Copy and pasted from the digital diary of a reluctant traveler who went for a weekend trip to the Jim Corbett National Park and Nainital in Uttrakhand

We used to have a funny riddle when we were kids — a sort of question which weknow its answer by heart but we would keep asking others: How would you go to a kingdom that lies beyond a field of thorns, a hospital, a pit of shit (exactly!) and a lake? It’s not about the amusing question and the even more risible answer anymore. 
A couple of Mondays ago, we came back not from a riddle competition, but with plenty of feel-good feelings and a worthwhile experience after passing through such an ordeal of visiting a kingdom.
On the Friday night, waiting for a train to the Jim Corbett National Park was like we were being made not to walk, but run on the field of thorns after a hard day’s work at the office. The train got delayed for more than two hours. Imagine waiting for something without knowing how long we would wait  — and add to that, the …

Disorientation of the lost boy

I saw the trace of innocence in memories
when I look back on those days,
Then out of nowhere
the first cigarette came, wrapped
with the choice of substances
that offered me more quick rush
and then the stuffs were everywhere
and then the manufactured chemical products
and then it was almost the end of the world.
But then came my bare-ass poetry
In its nakedness, I can relate my life easily,
though I don't know where I came from
I don't know where I'm heading to
I'm just waiting for the last shot
and I'll come clean.

When the neighbourbood and beyond
are suffering from cancer
that eats the happiness of our time
I resort to things that are available
within the close radius of my home.
For instance,
I watch the weeds grow at the river banks
I love their independence, growing anywhere
In its appreciation I get stoned
and dream about going places,
But as I cannot leave
with this baggage of violence,
I travel around with a figment
to each corner of my hometown
I cannot …

On a fear, the world will not agree

Why did you let all of them in,
while you looked at me
with suspicious gaze
that pierced my heart?
It was not that I want to be in,
It was that I want not to be in
the mess.

I had searched for the snow
what I was shown was water
melted out of
your buckets of pretense,
And I had searched for blackness
inside the milk that it was
a dope's effect, I was told
I admit my mistake now.
But the milk's already white
My conceit cannot make it whiter
like a more real milk.

Now you have left me again
with this water that you have soiled, soaked
with every parts of your body,
with the pale stale milk.

April passes by the shop

So many people
passed the shop this evening
And I was watching
Their best evening dresses
so apparent;
Their legs no different,
the saunter-style;
Their hands so normal,

But none of them had a head
As I counted their numbers,
one by one, or in groups;
As the number of death at home raises,
like the rivers of monsoon;
As the summer airs come blowing happily;
Though the people
talked secretly as they gaited.

The headless people
Their happiness hid above the shop's shutter
while I dream for home when there are fetes,
Their sadness hid above the shop's shutter
when I was sitting inside the shop
How could I have seen them
when the shutter was so low
And the shop was
one level below the footpath.

Platform poetry

All hues and all shades all noises of our lives
the home trains have arrived
more multiplied voices and noises
the travelling class, middle, lower, upper
sideways, left, right, all levels
all have a case,
waiting for the giant that will take us home
take home special gifts with wrappers
and I was dehydrated, the summer's curse
and I drank too much and in this cacophony
shrieking babies, their colourful mothers,
big brothers, their pretty sisters
scraggy dirty men, clean shaven gentlemen
my oh my
Yet so melodious is the common end
all of us want to be home in the end.

• • • • • • • • • •• • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • •• • • • • • • •
Press start for pressure
This is the story
the story of the end

you do it,
before leaving
Or you do it,
after reaching home
But in no way,
in the middle of the road
travelling on a bus
you can express it.
The end.

After the day the night was killed

The sun rose, kingly kind
Dead the night was
And unfortunate it was
It missed its own funeral
Its own occasion
This is the tragedy
The stories of the night
Never mind, we
we will miss it too
People condole
People leave
We just burn down.

I saw the lilacs and roses
Withered with hokum

The young blood
The no man's land
Their dead bodies had long gone
A long, long time gone
Their ghosts live
Every river bank.

All deceased
The day shrinks
The onslaught
I will write
the night’s obituary.

The thread of mess

We are in a thread of mess.
We are bind to the thread of mess
A thread binds us
Of mess
We believe
A days's the night's departure
Yellow's the red's fade

We are in a thread of mess.
We are bind to the thread of mess
And we come together
And we fight together
For the thread's as holy
as Nungjreng Pukhri
For the thread's as strong
as our wrong
And we believe
Light's the darkness' absence
Gun's the evolution's weapon

We are in a thread of mess.
We are bind to the thread of mess.
The scissor of our time
Out of grime
No preach for the error
No preach, yet apparent everywhere
Complaints of too much self-medication
Bargain life and filthy transaction.

We are in a thread of mess.
We are bind to the thread of mess
Bargain life yet lose it all over
The fine string of bloody melody
We dance
The drumbeats of divinity
See it in our folly
It is pain, the thread cuts.

Koiba Chatpa / Kurak Langtaiba

Koiba Chatpa

Gari mataduga Bamon Leikai gi thong-gi khungamduga
Eina Tombada hai', kumnaba
Ma' kumtharagadi thougatpa ngamgani eina
Ta'Enao workshop tagi second hand da leijaba eigi scooterna
Moan ani-animuk loomlaba akhoinibu poo-thang-ngamdrabada
Khekna houna makhol thoklak khibani motorduna turel mapanduda.

Tapna thouwi amuk, yotki thong mathaktuda
Thoudei amuk, laimai haifet manaba lambifaoba
Khang-houdana huinao kharana tunglomdagi khonglak-khi
— Bow bow! Bow bow!
Khangprek hek khang-ngi
Tongkhat ke touramba Tombasu phan laona chong-thakhi.

Huinao mayam adudagi machin tongba, maya chouba amana laorakkhi:
"Akhoi hui ni, nakhoi kanano?"
Kallapna mahakna amuk Tomba romda onsinduna samtharak-khi:
"Nahak keidoubagi gari dagi kumthahourino?
Nahak keidoubagi gari da amuk tongkhatlibano?"

Tangaifadana tamjakhi akhoigi awaba
Khangbikhi akhoigi wari, hui oijarabasu meeron lonbanina.
Akhoini amuk thouw…

The Zookeeper's Tale

Nowadays, in social gatherings, there has been a change in how we introduce ourselves to friends and folks. A few years ago, it used to be about our studies and about colleges and about the places where we belong to, and now, the overtly formal nuances of telling others our names and addresses remain as firm as the rigid etiquettes of a social animal, but basically, the interrogative sentences have found new vocabularies. Perhaps it’s the age factor that has brought about this uninteresting revolution of new conversation. People would simply ask me, “What do you do for living?” — and not anymore I have to tell the name of the universities in acronym like MU and DU and PU these days — so I would usually retort in my ever deadening tone, “Man, I work in a zoo.” “Work in a what?!”

The Universal Zoological Garden. That’s where I work, earning my bread and butter, while learning it don’t always take to be a human to be an animal. It always stuck me that we are just comparatively better th…

The Sleepwalkers

On the way to the Promised Land
Deadened are we,
the happy sleepwalking people
We watch with pleasure
Dead animals on the streets,
Nudging the folks, gesturing
the death of light,
the death of everything
And play the games,
our usual games.

Take the air on the streets of Sleepwalkingland
our happiness, the sleepwalking gunman stole
His weapon he brought from Kunming
I was no more affrighted
for I walk without my sense
I had bargained my sense
with some coriander from Khwairamband.
An old man was sleepwalking
Last he was seen walking uneasily
with fifty years of juiceless life
dried and cut near the khongban
The gunslinger fired at him
He fell down, bleeding profusely bloods
So amazing that the bloods had the colours of money
Then he banged his butt against the man’s head
Then he barked all the money were his prize now
Then I was surprised how another sleepwalker
How he could feel so excited
when we are paralyzed with decadence.

I didn't feel anything

Dynamic views -- it's exciting!

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