Poetry, Poverty, and Protest: Thangjam Ibopishak Meets Imphal Talkies

Discover the powerful poetry of Thangjam Ibopishak in our latest blog, featuring translations of Manipur, I Don’t Want to Die for You, The Story of Misery and The Fragmented Statue. These poignant pieces explore themes of sacrifice, poverty, and cultural disintegration, enriched by a connection to Imphal Talkies’ music project. The translations offer profound insights into Manipuri life, blending protest and reflection into a narrative of identity and justice.

🕮 Contents

Front Matter
Manipur, I Don’t Want to Die for You (Manipur, Eihak Siningde Nahakkidamak)
The Story of Misery (Lairabagi Wari)
The Fragmented Statue (Ningkhairaba Murti)
End Matter

Poetry, Poverty, and Protest: Thangjam Ibopishak Meets Imphal Talkies

Image: Adapted from a DP from Oja Thangjam Ibopishak’s personal profile on Facebook

Front Matter

Thangjam Ibopishak, a renowned poet from Manipur, masterfully blends deep reflection, biting critique, and vivid imagery in his poetry. This collection features three impactful poems—Manipur, I Don’t Want to Die for You (Manipur, Eihak Siningde Nahakkidamak), The Story of Misery (Lairabagi Wari) and The Fragmented Statue (Ningkhairaba Murti)—which provide a profound insight into the intricate tapestry of Manipuri life, history, and identity. These emotionally charged poems, filled with social commentary, have been translated for a music project by Imphal Talkies and the Howlers, allowing their powerful themes to reach a broader audience.

In Manipur, I Don’t Want to Die for You, the poet challenges the glorified idea of sacrificing oneself for one’s country. He delves into societal fractures—poverty, exploitation, and inequality—while emphasizing the importance of individual choice in rejecting unwarranted martyrdom. The poem resonates with raw emotion, serving as both a lament and a call for justice. The Story of Misery offers a stark depiction of generational poverty. Through the perspective of a struggling father and his inquisitive young son, Ibopishak sheds light on the unyielding hold of deprivation and the quiet strength that endures in the face of hardship. In The Fragmented Statue, the destruction of a historical symbol symbolizes cultural fragmentation. The imagery of the shattered statue set against a backdrop of social turmoil evokes both sorrow and a pressing need to contemplate Manipur’s identity and future.

These translations, accompanied by music from Imphal Talkies, enhance Ibopishak’s powerful words, merging different art forms and amplifying their significance.

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Manipur, I Don’t Want to Die for You

Manipur, they call you mother,

Let me, too, embrace you as mother,
Yet I falter at the thought of dying for you.

Amidst the dust of this land,
Under the reign of today’s power,
I feel my sanity slip away.
In poverty, some languish,
In opulence, others thrive,
When all are your children,
Does anyone remain a stranger?
Manipur, I hesitate to die for you.

Among humans,
There is a divide of light and darkness,
A gulf between heaven and hell.
Whose making is this?
Whose mandate is this?
The fortune of gods, their folly,
Can't solely be their boon or blunder.
This cannot be destiny,
That poverty plagues the people,
That sin burdens the sinful,
That it’s divine will, that it’s destiny.
Manipur, gods will be mad with you.
People crush others to survive,
People feed off others' toil.
Hey, humanity,
Why lame blame it on the gods?

If we claim a deity we must name,
If we claim a creator is our aim,
Humans and beasts, birds and insects,
All are living, without defense,
No strong, no weak in essence,
No wise, no fools in sight,
In his eyes, all is unified,
Mother Manipur, I name you dear,
But not to die for you, I fear.

If death beckons, let them die
Let those who drain you dry
Let those who loot and terrify
Let those who seek only to enrich themselves
Let them die;
Why should I be the one to die?

I fear no death’s call,
Nor am I one to clasp and cling,
Unaware of my surroundings,
Nor to old age that I may attain.
When my time arrives,
I will depart,
But why should I sacrifice myself for you?
--

The Story of Misery

This is the tale of poverty’s grip,

The poor man’s father, born a slave, let’s sip.
The patriarch relied on others, far and wide he strayed,
Seeking a day’s meal, in misery he stayed,
Poor as a pauper, life in disarray.

But this is just the start of the plight,
The poor man himself, in endless night,
No change to come, nothing new to see,
Sleeps a little, eats a little, oh so drearily.
Poverty whispers, “Why strive anymore,
When rock bottom’s hit, and life’s a chore?”

I’m struck by poverty’s relentless hand,
Amazed by its grip on his barren land,
And it’s frightening.

But what truly astounds, what chills the bone,
Is the poor man's son, just five, not yet grown,
He knows not theft, nor rudeness sown,
He begs not, nor asserts his own,
In the market he wanders, curious and meek,
Searching without words, digging not deep,
His father chuckles, to neighbors clear,
“My son, a coward? Never fear.”

The Fragmented Statue

Last night, a roar tore through my veins—

a crack, a splintering thunder
shattered my silence,
like an earthquake’s sneer
at the Old Khwairamband Market.

Bhagyachandra’s statue, once proud,
now lies fractured in the dust;
his crowned head,
a forlorn whisper on the ground.

Crowds surged, a sea of purpose,
each with their eyes locked on the ration shop,
barking, “First, mine!”
“Mine, too!”
The land was draped in white,
a canvas of desperation.

So were the Meitei,
stripped and starved,
like the rubble of Kangla’s ancient walls.

On a forgotten edge,
the severed head lay alone,
a broken monarch against the fading horizon.
The old Canchipur palace, a tremor
in the dim and distant sky,
shuddered beneath the grey.