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Showing posts from February, 2013

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Hapta Haiku

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On Sunday I sing All the songs of liberty; The chains of weekdays.

On Mondays I have Over-rated morning blues What's the day's schedule.

He sings Tuesday's dead He changes his faith; his folks; American drones.

Midlife crisis' real Wednesdays lay bare to show Lives and weeks don't blend.

He fasts on Thursdays; The gods, though, come every day. Dieting and prayers.

Workers of the world unite, you got nothing to lose, but your Fridays.
Saturday nights sneer For all the things you have done; Chirps, peeping weekdays.

The Centre of Attention and the Masters of Puppets

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In Manipur, the fertile valley area is located right at the centre, which gives a distinctive topography, and geographically a ‘well-rounded’ terrain, with verdant landscapes, winding rivers — and is surrounded beautifully by nine ranges of hills. Again, situated at the heart of this valley is Imphal, the capital town set quietly amidst the natural landscapes as well as the cacophonies of political conflict and social unrest that the state has been facing for the last five decades. Incidentally, the erstwhile capital of Manipur, the Kangla is also set right at the centre of Imphal with a moat enveloping its outer circumference
With its rich heritage, the Kangla vividly offers glimpses into the history, archaeology, cosmology, sensibilities, royal generations, social mores of Manipur in particular, and of the region as a whole. The British used to called it the Manipur Fort. Once the citadel of power and truly the innermost core of the land, the Kangla has seemingly grown bigger now, …

Change the World

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The lovers want to change the world with their hearts
The teachers want to change the world with their books
The patriots want to change the world with their guns
The police want to change the world with their guns too
The poets want to change the world with their words,
I just want to change the way how I tell you fuck you.





No More Saturdays and Sundays

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What do you think about Saturdays and Sundays? I mourn for the dead days.
In the last few months, the weekend has become so over-rated and redundant. No matter how many times it comes so special every week and every month, it has withered and lost all its sheen. I would say, age is the main culprit; following close in the second spot is the meaninglessness of life.

A Saturday or a Sunday, it is only as good as any of the weekdays or is equally worst for that matter. The silver lining is in the consolation to get drunk on Saturday nights, without worrying about the hangover whether we would suffer or not the Sunday mornings. See there is a condition again, because we have to measure the drinking glass on Sundays. It is totally another matter whether we really measure our pegs with a tubing.

Possibly, it only matters how we live, regardless of the day. On Sundays, go to exciting places, meet some people; on weekdays, work smart at the offices; and on Fridays and Saturdays, do something…

Numit Kappa - Missing the Wide Open Shots

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Scribbling while shooting at the sun

Numit Kappa has created a few facts. Yes, we can create facts; after all, we have created the universe and what we believe is a fact is a fact, though it might be thousand of miles away from what truth or reality is.

❶ First, let us set the record straight. You are in a conflict zone, with no sense of identity... you look at the mirror and do not see yourself, hardly surprising though. At most there is a crisis, if you know you do have an identity. The society is a moronic individual writ large. Plato was kind enough not to use moronic. For your kind information, this does not mean a person can choose to live apart from it. This is non-optional. We are all a part. You know it. Everybody knows it.

❷ Back to the topic: Numit Kappa. It is written in an archaic language. The bad news: Our tragedy is that we cannot even read the modern script that has evolved over two millennia. Main reason: Forced proselytisation. Three hundred years of cultural subjuga…

Haiku from Theatre of the Absurd

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Light, Camera, Action!
Part OnePart Two
✂-------------------✁-----
I put on my shirts
And I put on my pants then
I got a pressure


✂-------------------✁-----
They come from Bombay
There's nothing to do with them,
We go to Delhi


✂-------------------✁-----
In Delhi we spend
Hundred winters and summers
When our home's burning


✂-------------------✁-----
Go back to the hall
Life's created on large screens
Reality's a hell.


✂-------------------✁-----
As the screen rolls up
As men and women appear
All the world's a crap


✂-------------------✁-----
Heroes and heroines
They have redefined largely
Our absurdity


✂-------------------✁-----
The projector's smeared
When the kids watched Peeping Tom;
Bared hands, kill the poor


✂-------------------✁-----
Directors come here
Make movies for funds, friendship
And we puke film reels


✂-------------------✁-----
We understand well
Our thoughts they speak on the screen
Subtitles sleep tight
✂-------------------✁-----
The show must go on
The arm…

From the Land Covered with Gold

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Like Dogs with Noses Covered with Craps

Image courtesy: Jewel casket in steel and enamel by Alexander Fisher. c.1902. From “Studio-Talk” The Studio. (www.victorianweb.org.) Is it a mere coincidence? There is the mit (the 'M') of Manipuri script, near the right stand.

In the land of
jewels, the birds lay no more
manipulated golden eggs
and the pearls lie
in the guarded and decked up
oyster of ministers,
Hidden but exposed on their mistresses'
necks and ears and a couple of them each
Hidden again, those are tied on their unseen fleshes;
As big as the largest booby traps the stones,
Unaffected they lay; on them

The destiny was engraved, of tales,
of dead men, of violated women;
In the land covered with jewel
As in dogs, their noses covered with craps;
The gold flows, turning into
tears unrestrained,
in the rivers of blood
wailing for the unknown dead people,

In the crimson sky
cast the silver in utter futility,
The bronze are broken into a thousand
pieces of outrage…

Monkey Talk

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Once an old lady told us
Once we used to talk with the gods
Then we part our ways because too much we swear, fuck you

With a gun each, tucked in their trousers
They told us
Freedom is our destination
We would stand by ourselves
We would fight until the end
Yet you know the most important thing
Should you not ignore but pay the money
We had mentioned on our letterheads.

In the sea of humanity
In the cacophony
With arms pressed on the hips:
If you are buying we would hesitate not
To sell ourselves
If you are selling we would hesitate not
To buy anything
We could drink all the free booze
We could let ourselves lost in the maze
We could ignore all but these wasted lives.

In the palace so prosperous
Our masters make merry
Whores for their company
Like the army would protect them
In their puke-filled castle
They are building a land for us.

In my eyes they are the only people
Even if the old lady grieved for the god that got lost
Today, some mortals have changed into gods
And the others hav…