Showing posts from September, 2016

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The Song of the Children

A translation of Thangjam Ibopishak’s Angang-gi Eesei, which was originally published in the collection Drópadi, in Nov 2010

Mother, mother, give me some bullets
Let me play; let me play with them as marbles
My friend Subol is here, Mangal is here, so is Santi
Nando’s son Kanhai is also here
—Give me some bullets
Let me practise how precise I can shoot;
How my friends and I can precisely shoot

Mother, mother, give me a hand grenade
Let me play with it as a football
Please, let me kick it, tackle it, dribble it with my friends
My friend Subol is here, Nityai is also here, so is Madhusudhan
Yaifaba is here and so is Chinglemba.

Mother, if I made a revolver out of my pen
—From its barrel, on the rear side of your head
If your hair is knotted and I finish the maths assignment
If I wrote the answers on my father’s chest
With the front side of the AK47
If I wrote with the blood as the ink
Will you laugh like an insane person?
—As you fold your eyes in surprise
My father would really be so…

Nihilism 101

A Brief Introduction to Nihilism
All things are subject to interpretation whichever interpretation prevails at a given time is a function of power and not truth.
Friedrich Nietzsche

2061: A Future Summon

I’d hope to see the day
Despite my lungs’ obsession with smoke
I’d want to put them on a pedestal though
Like justifying they are mimicking
The never-ending funeral pyres in the town
Out of these several inflictions I’d also wish
Today is the good time as any
But a hope has always been in flames
Gladly, even more than a million Zippos in flame
Of a time favourable to happiness and happier people
Of a life apt for calling a life and livelier milieu
Of so many things
So many things that now
The beginning is unknown of
Still — of so many things that we know
We know: it is of things like peace
Or more like love, and more happiness

But away from the dreams, in real
Only questions, aplenty, are packed like ngâri
Like, whether the army should be still protecting democracy
Like, whether my life, uprooted, should still be swaying like a lily
It would be suicidal in the bleakness of the present
To see only the destroyers
To go by the currently ticking clocks
Life is the future.

An Open Letter to the Coordinating Body of Scheduled Tribe Demand Committee Manipur

Dear Ma’ams,

It is time to play with your grandchildren, laze and lounge in your home having work for half a lifetime and reflect on the successes and failures of the past. But it is quite commendable that the old-timers like you have been taking an active role in addressing socio-political issues, particularly on the ‘growing need for protection of Meitei/Meetei under the Constitution of India’. However, in the brouhaha, you are missing some fundamental points that can prove foolhardy for you if you overlook it or are too much committed to the cause that you see nothing but your prized demands.

For such an unbending commitment, it is no surprise that you have stocked up some generic responses to any argument against those who are sceptical about the inclusion of the Meiteis in a ‘privileged’ class. Anyway, today, we have some facts and you need not argue and considering your vast experience from professional and personal lives, you can see that these are indeed true.

A long time ago …

Obituary: Oinam Ibobi (1948–2016)

Last Sunday, 18 September 2016, even in his death, our dear Oinam Ibobi made it clear that he is no god and his good soul was burnt to ashes at a crematorium by the Nambul riverbank. When the funeral was underway some of his friends whispered he will reach the place of angels and saints in his holy yet unknown reincarnation in that imaginary place located one infinite kilometre away from the Kangla Fort. Meanwhile, his family members remained silent and many of them were choking from tears and smoke from the blazing funeral pyres and the burning bodies of Mr Oinam.  

Gone, Oinam Ibobi has gone and he left behind three wives, fifteen sons, six daughters, an unknown number of grandchildren and four mistresses. Perhaps he had achieved everything that he aspired and wanted his descendants to continue the legacy but not everything can be predicted—unless of course you are those astrologers that Burmese military leaders refer to, particularly in times of trials and tribulations. Perhaps he …

Tarantino, Minimally

When people ask me if I went to film school I tell them, ‘no, I went to films.’
– Quentin Tarantino

A Day a Week

This random collection of seven poems is from a series of DIY sessions on Adobe InDesign and page composition. See another work from the series: The SCUM Manifesto by Valerie Solanas. The copyright of all these poems belong to the respective owners. These poems from public domain sites have been reproduced here for informational purposes with no commercial motives.

a plain of thought

and then, there are these stuffs, it’s:

just a metre away for the largest lake to become a sea
just a memory away for amnesia to become the alzheimer’s
just a gunshot away for marx to become mao
and i realise the loktak is a home to a thousand gunmen
some protected by the law, some others not

just a kilometre away for north india to become the south
just a satan’s hiccup away for inferno to become the infernal
just a button, an extra, away for moreh to become thailand
and i have found your partner is an assassin
my partner a monster

just a fix away for the opium to become heroin
just a mayang away for manipur to become india
just a pellet away for indian kashmir to become pakistani kashmir
and it’s already out on the street; leave pakistan
leave afghanistan; heroin is better than india

just a boundary away from india to become burma
just a degree away for the angle to become an angel
just a bank account away for revolution to become extortion
and they say the rebels are in burma

The SCUM Manifesto by Valerie Solanas 1/4

I declare, as Valerie Solanas (1936–1988) would want from men: ‘I am a turd, a lowly abject turd’ yet still I like this American radical feminist, maybe because I like crazy people. Or maybe it’s her work, especially, the SCUM Manifesto with its shock value that has literally nothing for me as a man, but then again it tells you a thousand things that a thousand of conformists or a similar number of ladies and gentlemen would never be able to. It could be also her anarchist beliefs that I like her. Incidentally, she was the sole member of the Society for Cutting Up Men!

Love her or hate her, Solanas will always be remembered for her prescience as much as she is infamous for shooting Andy Warhol in 1968.

In my native tongue, Meiteilon, a turd would be a ‘thibot’ (/θeebōtt/). To re-introduce myself, I might be a ‘thibot’ or a ‘biological accident’ nonetheless a human as well, and in contrast to Solanas’ female rage, I consider men and women are the same animal; nobody is above and none…

The SCUM Manifesto by Valerie Solanas 2/4



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