Showing posts from March, 2012

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Helicopter Hangover

Atop the army man and his helicopter broke
The eerie silence of the calm and haunting hill,
When he slowly flew over the rebel’s nest
Nestled amongst the green-veiled tableland.

The buzzing machine was disturbing.
It was made known in the next few minutes
In the spectacular exhibition
Of who lords over the teeny-weeny land
In the teeny-weeny dot of territory.

Some youth appeared and pelted stones and more stones;
In the salvo of stones were included
Defunct magazines, animal bones, balls of mud,
Anything that they can held in a hand and hurl.

Like a drunk suddenly loosing control
of his intoxicated mind
The chopper ricocheted as it flew
and fled in a serpentine drift.
The call for action ceased, the silence re-emerged;
And all the anxious voices were muted
It was so quiet as some other youth stood
With long and fresh green, bamboo sticks.
They gazed at the sky as if the sky had hidden
Their enemy and his machine;
There were grass leaves, singing the songs of resilience;
Next day th…
I have been an Indian for the last sixty-three year,  a Manipuri for the last two thousand years,  and a human being from the beginning. 

Last week, after protests from the Tibetans against the visit of the Chinese president in the capital, the Delhi Police took up some measures to counter the Tibetan threats. But the police committed a blunder in their routine exercise, while frisking when they asked several Manipuris and other Northeasterners to verify their identity. They had even demanded to show the passport. Yes, a passport to show we are Indians! Please imagine the plight; the sheer frustration of being the citizen of a country in one hand, where we are subjected to be a citizen even if we are not willing, and on the other, the impending dangers of being neglected and abused if we go with the flow when we put an effort to be a part of the country. Why is India so arrogant, so racist, so third class?  

Animal Transformation

How effortlessly
can we form and frame
A time machine, fly
To other world a glitter,
Out of our dark caves?

Razzle-dazzle worlds,
They would go back now:
Savour the nature,
And then they would make the moves;
They are going strong.

And us, the copies
In flights of fancy
Brought down as a bat,
Insomniac, in daytime,
We squeak like monkeys.

The Great Gig in the Sky 1.0

In March and April there is a sky, brimming with all the colours it had breathed it from the new season. Wonder if it knows how in its artlessness the colours emanate, especially after a brief shower.

Matchbox Magic: Light My Fire

What would be the worst tragedy of the history of humankind? (A tragedy, and the worst in it — this is quite too much, isn’t it?) But it would indeed be the ultimate tragedy, a wise man had once said, if the history of the human race proved to be nothing more noble than the story of an ape playing with a box of matches on a petrol dump. Leave these depressing tragedy and humanity things. But do consider how much the government is a pain in the ass and how much relief we will get if it is gotten rid of. Tragedy will find a new weaker yet worthy synonym.  
Most of the time, we are more occupied with what we eat, what we drink, what we love, what we hate and with whom we have sex. The times they are also a-changin’ and a-bloody-ever uncertain too. So I have decided to choose at least one field, where I can fall back to, in times of need, in case of any unavoidability. Now I’m assured I can join the matchbox industry even if the government dies or not.

Old Man and Whisky

My grandfather opens his heart,
Now on his ninety-eighth birthday
He will make out what he had rued.

So he told me: Fairly he’s been drinking
Off and on, he would regret drinking too much
But it was exaggerated, he said
By teetotallers and advertisements
Now he cackles at concern and caution:
‘How much had the extra pegs troubled me?!’

The old man is prepared: come gun or bomb;
He will drink every peg he missed in fright
For the last eighty long years of his life
Reasoning health and the drinking’s failings,
When whisky can be saner than army
When Kakhulong cannot be Nagaland
When you would sell your wife for some money
When war is which side I am supporting.

In the Market Where We Sell Our Soul

In the market just by the river Naga, I saw them in their best evening dresses, in their coat and suit and tie stitched at the Rajen Dresses and in their elegant sarees handcrafted at the Ibecha Boutique. But clothes make no man, or woman for that matter; as it was apparent in the shimmering light of the evening while the perfume blended intolerably with the filth around.

There were countless heads: the sellers some of them into the evening of their lives and some others magically bright and young, selling their commodities, and the buyers of all hues flocking together to get the best deal. The coat and suit and tie and saree were neatly ironed, but the wrinkle on the sellers’ faces was glaring; perhaps with the fear that a profitable sale would invite more demand letters than they have been receiving from the landguards. I have seen the sellers’ little sons and daughters, crying for their parents, puking profanities at the landguards, appreciating the revolutionary ideals of Warren …

After the King’s Coronation

1 Black Glory

In sorrow the trees, they shed leaves in spring;
When in spring the king was crowned in sorrow;
The unchaste leaves squeaked, they had turned insects
They had sank into the sea of lorn leaves,
Unknown, soft; the death râle was so hard.

Hands and legs twisted, people turned zombies;
Guns, paper pistols; skies, grey; and eyes, blind
Screaming and shrieking, tedious time’s travel
It’s wasted after the king’s coronation
In the darkness, he basked in his glory;
In some unknown winter, some hope flickers.

2 Beyond the Wall

The king is divine,
Though I’m more interested in the queen
I let them know ne’er;
But her beauty betrays me not, ever.

So I decided
This kingdom be departed, and me, stroll’d

“As your inspired coronation’s over
Permit me to leave;
I have no good place to go and stay
But I have to go.”

“We have seen gods in your royal image
We have seen you well
You have been giving us a royal fuck
Or maybe we’re blind.”

Let these words be no calumniation
The reason’s …

José Martí - I Wish to Leave the World

Text Source:AllPoetry

Third Time Lucky, Ibobi Is Manipur CM Again

From a Useless Stringer

Imphal, March 14 2011: Okram Ibobi has been appointed  the Chief Minister of Manipuri for a record third time in a trot. 
He will take the oath this afternoon. It is likely he will submit  his band of sterile men to move Manipur forward, towards  the west through New Delhi.  
Official reports confirmed that three elected representatives  had to lick and suck New Delhi’s arse more than usual for  the green light from the high command and that Ibobi was  selected after a careful deliberation. The two failed morons  were unavailable for comments but political spectators saw  their two faces resembled two impotent balls while they were  heading towards IGI Airport.   
It added the reelected CM has been given stern orders on  the limits of how much he could loot as the landlord of Manipur  and on the number of times he can beg for grant-in-aid in  a financial quarter. 
Culvert News mentions the people should start going fucking  themselves ASAP.   
AIR had eavesdropp…

A Cocktail of Tragedy, Rules and Revolution

ONE    Zero Mile Syndrome: An Imphal Tragedy
Have you been to any place, where it is comparatively safer where you stay, but it’s a crime to drift beyond 20 kilometres from where you are?
In Manipur, travelling and committing crimes are strange bed-partners and that’s one of the unceasing tragedies we are facing remorsefully.
You are helpless and the laws are in the hands of several conflicting power players: the government, the anti-government, the army, the state police, the village police, the insurgents, the other insurgents, the thugs, the looters, all of them existing in the name of the land.

It’s a crime, no matter how clean you are, if you mess up with one of them or you are caught between them. This is the tragedy of Imphal―located exactly in the middle of the land of fake jewels*―where bombs and bullets dictate the way of living and amassing ill-gotten wealth is a status sym…

From Gods to Guns, We Have Come a Long Way

From gods to guns, we have come a long way
We would hum the hymns, we would change our names
Once the gunman appeared out of nowhere,
Barked: ‘How can the gods save you from bullets?’
It was not his arm but his smile so ill
A mad commotion clouds the assembly.

From gods to guns, we have come a long way
Now the powerful people wear only
Bulletproof jackets; they would move around
Only in imported bulletproof cars
They still do worship, but have changed the stand
From 33 billions of gods, and now
Only wealth is the object of worship.

From gods to guns, we have come a long way
A bulletproof glass is more powerful
than the gods, than your love for the country
While we walk in nude, unconscious of all
the shame, the dignity, the so-called rules
The cow dung scoffs they are more expensive
They are not available, but we are,
to be killed, to be tortured, to be raped.

From gods to guns, we have come a long way
But we still don’t know we are heading
I care about life and death while you talk
Of bloody freedo…

Sunday Matinée

On the design A few minimal movie posters at the Inspiration Feed pepped me up to create this vertical poster. But there is a problem in using the original-size dimension, which spans the entire width, even after scaling the image on Photoshop at 680 px. In fact, it has been increased to 700 px but the Blogger's composition editor is hell bent on retaining the present dimension. My amateurish skills are no match for it, and are so obvious, here and in the design too! But no worries, here it is below, the set of randomly selected four old Manipuri movies.


The journey began in 1972, the same year when the consolatory status of a state was recognised by the Indian union. Matamgi Manipur, the first Manipuri movie debuted with style as well as substance so to say, and won the President's Medal in the 20th National Film Festival.

There has been no looking back but a more focus attention at the front, on the lens of this in…

Shits of March

Last year when the winter left, its cold spurned
When the china roses were in the pink,
The writing, with blood, was plain on the wall
Something was wrong with us or with the time;

More than two months parted ways and we had
No collective dive into the abyss
Of bestiality and triviality.

But March’s deception is all but abrupt,
Like a windstorm in the middle of spring;
We, the brute of folly, wish for only
Green, green grasses and happy, sunny days.

And so did the procession come to pass,
In mid month, peace and war were in limbo
As if out of winter's hibernation:

The march of government killing
The parade of army killing
The cortège of rebel killing
And a 790-km long blockade.

Though this year, there is no expectation
Let March leave only the fragrance of spring
That gives us some hope for life in this stink.


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