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Showing posts from June, 2014

without

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stripping the layers of what is not,
false identity, vanity; trying
to be me

without the sun there is no night
without the night there is no day
without the day there is no light
without the light there is no life
without the life there is no god

without the bestiality there is no civilisation
without the civilisation there is no history
without the history there is no Naga
without the Naga there is no Indian ignorance
without the Indian ignorance there is no mess 

without the bullet there is no gun
without the gun there is no patriot
without the patriot there is no border
without the border there is no nationality
without the nationality there is no nationalism

without the summer there is no spring
without the spring there is no colour
without the colour there is no emotion
without the emotion there is no vanity
without the vanity there is no human being

without the mountains there is no valley
without the valley there is no home
without the home there is no root
without the root …

of laughing

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the only way to stop him
laugh will be to kill
him
but what’s laughing got to make you
a killer
& that would only make the joke so grim
the joke’s on us;
the laughing man needs no jokes
as long as he got the sacks
& rags to cover his bare body
and newspaper sheets to make his ridiculous caps
an’ he laughs
when, sometimes,
he sees blood on the street
i panic at the sight
of tomato sauce stains
& he cackles harder seeing
the logical men
the more such men are,
the more he is lost, roaring & hooting
i’m usually in awe,
usually dumbfucked when i see logic
sometimes he’d chortle
seeing the powerful folks
those with guns and books and money
maybe he knows, maybe he knows not
gunshots are louder than mad laughter
& bullets are as normal as his cackle
insanity is as thick as the voluminous books;
oh boy, the world is echoing
with guffaws
as the war between
the saviours continues
as wise people flip
the pages of their books for wisdom
as brave folks seek for power
in the barrel of their guns
as…

Junk Blues 2: Relational Mission

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prostitution & constitution
addicts & conflicts
’tween them there’s no relation at all
we were talking at the tea stall

and the epiphany hit just too hard
why wouldn’t sisyphus just go to his graveyard,
than go up the hill—expecting the next highway blockade;
tell though the king can be as well afraid 
at least roll down with an oxygen cylinder;
—but why with nothing; but the hill, with the bloody boulder?

the tea got colder than the heart of the master
yet it mattered only how much the stuff it kicked harder
when there’s little time for the next shot
to know the plan we didn’t have to be an astronaut
know no rocket science as they say

the texture of the sky so grey
the impending june rain before we make any move
before we lost ’to another talking groove
we got to be ready
we got to go steady
the holes in the pockets were worse than the people
leave them, ignore them, e’en the supernatural

the rich men’s safeboxes
& their ilk’s stocks
the localities’ galvanised iron p…

Junk Blues 1: The Cycle of Nothingness

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From the first generally things go to its end
From the first to the last, that’s the trend
But what if there’s no finishing point
No stopping even at gunpoint
And get lost in a cycle of nothingness

Drown in self-pity
Get down on a knee
Or both
And loath
And curse
The whole world in a verse
And get lost in a cycle of nothingness

But not before getting a hit
Before, agreeing to senses, the things fit
Or else it does not matter
What’s his or her, is better
And get lost in a cycle of nothingness

From the first hit to the latest
Thence the next to the deadest
Ephedrine-laced nightmares
Confusion scales the stair
At the speed of (5α,6α)-7,8-didehydro-4,
5-epoxy-17-methylmorphinan-3, 6-diol diacetate
And get lost in a cycle of nothingness

Gotta be some hope losing in science
Unfortunately it’s not, if not for the pleasance
Of a mercilessly short duration
Of a false notion
Everything will get better somehow
As long as one shot is available then and now
And get lost in a cycle of nothingness

Nationalism: The Destruction of a Nation

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Resistance has one important goal—to question the present for an unquestionable future; while the fact that nationalism can be the root cause of a nation’s destruction and its reality are just about making a statement.

Nationalism can be considered the reason behind the destruction of a nation. This might sound contradictory but this is the case and this is stated with reasons galore. How old is the oldest nation? We have been in a cycle. Just seven decades ago, we used to live in a kingdom. To start with, taking a case, when the Indian nationalists were celebrating a post-independence party, a spoilsport reminded the guests that it was just the beginning of making another new nation. Pakistan was ripped off, forever making its vilification the height of Indian patriotism; so was the then East Pakistan less than three decades later, which has been rechristened as Bangladesh now. In this midst, religion can be such a pain in the ass and the nationalists learnt it the hard way. However …

War/Peace

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There are wars
    Which I can win
        With my sense of rightness
             Without biases;
Such fake sincerity!
    And wars which I cannot
        Like a nuke assault on a nation
            Total annihilation
And peace
    Such a wicked caprice
        Lose in duality
            The sun and the stars are so clumsy.







Blur/Focus

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When I got up the world was so blurred
The ember could not have regained its light better,
The corners of the wall were dingy, the sides shadowy
The tube light could have cleared the blear
The whole world was so full of blister
Dark, dreary, confused it was   
As if the evil was lost in unseen guffaws;
Then I saw on my right side, this I had not tried
The eyeglasses in my right hand with sweat it was tied
Then I put it on, ignoring my yawn  
And the world became so clear, on me it dawned;
So clear I could see an ant on the other side of the wall.








For the Sake of the Passing Months

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In January I was born
Happily I was torn
From nothingness to today
With breathing and all I pay
Putting up with this world so ridiculous
How am I alive is miraculous!

I see the irony in February
A man is different from the authority
No matter what is right or wrong
We can hear about it only in a song
Whilst we bear
All the insanity and the fear

March comes with its own story
All the cheerful and colourful...it will always carry
It grins
Overlooking our filth and sins
Pray—let it shine
Let it takes us to cloud nine

Albeit April knows too well
All’s not well
When home becomes a refugee camp
Life turns into a swamp
See the gun-slinging bastards galore
Each day we are only deceived more

When the heat of May prevails
The thieves we call the masters get bails
We are almost in a prison
Regardless of the season
Freedom and independence are over-rated
Inside the cage we are badly junketed

The June rain has failed to wash away the grime
Living in a jungle of crime
The masters are slaves and the slaves are masters
The looters…

The Revolution Will Not Be Militarised

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Imagine the impossibility of life in the so-called Northeast India if not for the men in uniform. We could have become dinosaurs a long time ago.

A recent argument and counterargument on the website of an independent think tank illustrate the veracity of these statements. Life in this corner of the globe is always a surprise test. It is even more surprising in a few areas, so to say. I belong to one of these more surprising areas. To get rid of generalisation let’s see into today’s issue.

Argument
On 3 June last, Thangkhanlal Ngaihte, a social science researcher, wrote an article on the website of the Institute of Peace and Conflict Studies (IPCS).

In the new BJP-led government that has just been sworn in, Gen VK Singh has been given the charge of Minister of State (Independent Charge) of the Ministry of the Development of North Eastern Region (DONER), apart from other responsibilities.

...the appointment of a just-retired Army General (who is now an elected MP) to oversee a Northeast…

And the Most Prestigious Award Goes to

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The Manipur Public Service Commission.

You might ask what for, but it’s not important. What is significant is that this public service commission is going to grab the trophy. This mysterious award is the most prestigious and the commission deserves it — and the prize, for an idea, costs more than how much the aspiring candidates or future bureaucrats are willing to pay for the equally honourable job.

MPSC needs complete change over
Wrong or erroneous questions/answer keys in as many as 15 questions of the Manipur Civil Services (Prelim) Exam 2014, allotment of grace marks for the wrong answer keys and declaration of the exam results in two phases sum up (the) clumsiness of MPSC.
—    The Sangai Express editorial, 30 May 2014
HC directs MPSC to re-fix qualifying marks for English in MCSCCE
In a landmark judgement, the High Court of Manipur directed the Manipur Public Service Commission to re-fix the qualifying mark in the General English paper for the Manipur Civil Services combined c…

King Sagolthingba Sing No More (33 AD to 2014 AD)

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Manipur — Wangam Sagolthingba Sing, died 30 May 2014, at the Regional Institute of Medical Science in Imphal following an illness that was diagnosed a century back as syphilis. Like stars, his name will always shine till the end of time.
The living mighty and the powerful (asslickers to a layman) of the land has decided, in the memory of the great ruler, his epitaph should include this obituary. And no surprise we saw not even a trace of objection to the demand. The king is dead but his legacy remains. Sagolthingba: Death unlocks the door to the infinite universe of bloody eternity.    

In keeping up with his universal world view, the request was made from the royal court to write this obituary-resembling piece; albeit there is no ritual of writing obituaries in the local culture; and further, to print it if not publish it before his soul leaves the earth, or 12 hours after his death.

He leaves his thirty-fifth wife Ibecha, 19 years old; thirty-fourth wife Ibetombi, 29; thirty-third…

Summer Midnight

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Deserted
The sweat makes the day
Like the blockaded highway;
Muted
The heat wave,
The sound of a lost generation;
Scalded
The air,
The sanity. Gone.
And below
I wish for a fan
The size of the Mount Tenipu
And blow
The soft breeze
The happiness,
And blow away
All the things we make and call destiny
All the things we mention in revolution,
Anchor the sun on the yellow wall
Even the night will understand
This madness,
Albeit make everything alright
Never mind this forty-five-degree heat.   






King Kong Kang

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In our traditional best we took our positions
School teachers would be thrilled about our obedience
It was made possible by the serpentine line of men in olive
They had built a fortress around the town as well
As they flaunt their machine guns
Just like sex workers would do with their assets
But nothing was greater as we were told
Nothing other than this day; the king would be chosen
And we were standing there on that scorching day
Someone pointed out this was a part of a Brobdingnagian festival
The cacophony, the smiles, the hopes, the nothingness
We were guarded by men and millions of their arms
As we stood, as we were fucked to get the new king.





Hallucination in a Slave Nation

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I see in my friend’s face
His face is made of window
He has a face of window
I would love to close the window
He lives in a door
Inside the door, inside
The house is a switchboard
The switchboard has a lot of cigarette buds
And thousands of words dance on the wall

And the character comes out of the story
My imaginary buddy comes out of the story
Crawling on the page, walking by the margin
Peeping on each leading and kerning,
A story is only as good as how it is told
The reality is a fucked-up mess,
Then he slips out of the page
He runs out of sight
I see nobody but my master

And I see in my master’s face a bruise today
His face is an asshole
It is as real as the power of a god
The big pair of butts makes one big bruised face
In serving him, I have seen it close
He got the face of an asshole,
And his face is where his asshole should be
But the bruise is oblivious of the assholeness
Or the whole bunch of assholes around him