Pity On My Expectation!

My understanding never exceeds my expectation,
This is how I built my world around.
A rising Sun, it never disguises my sight
Neither the dying Moon,
They all charm me, and
I live my life, thoroughly understood!

But my understanding, it precedes my existence
I know the honest contemplation:
It survives amidst the ruins of livelihood
Again my understanding, it surrenders to the existence.

My expectations are limited;
‘A simple breathe in the fresh air,
Few threads of fibre, and
A warm wet kiss’,
And my understanding forbids me all the qualms!

So, how do I go about living, in my existence?

Every night, I burn myself, bit by bit
Not to arouse any further temptation that
They heartily called life.
I wanted to burn myself,
Not because I can’t sleep
Nor because I am afraid of the awaiting Morning
But only because,
There isn’t enough love to satiate my hunger
And there isn’t not enough prejudice in my favour
To love me, like I love myself.

In fact, I am hungry and this is my understanding
And I am afraid if it will exceed my expectation.

An Inconsequential Occasion Called Life!

I stand alone,
In front of a disdained mirror, and
Tried calling myself a name
But a voice within said:
“He is no more!”
I respect its earnest disposition,
But my invocation was left unanswered;
May be it was a different alibi:
I stand there and it stood nowhere.

This isn't a poem on life, but on the occasion.

Life Vs. Dead!

My soul wails:
“I am dying”,
And my eyes, all red
Try to weep, but the mirror;
It smiled back.

This is only a life
I thought thus,
And I carry on living
Day after day!

Please, I should die,
Life should never be spent in mercy
Not even in our own shadow.

Thus, I wanted to die again…
Snow flakes and cleavages
And the impending kiss;
Yes, I have nothing more,
For a life,
Except the beauty of it
And its procreation
For another life!

A Dead Man's Poem!

I have a dead body
And it lives with me
The face reads contemplation
The body wears introspection
But it has no name?

Help me identify this body:
I am not a curator of dead bodies, nor
The merchant of dead.
Help me identify this body,
Or at least, help me give it a name:
I think, I am a social being
I should know who is he, and
I want to see how he would have ignored the name!

Tell me,
Will you be comfortable living with an unknown person?
Anyway, let me tell you what I think:
This is a simple understanding
I have had friends
They all have names
And their bodies, it all represents
Who I known them to be?
Some even died of generosity
And some even ostracize their names,
May be out of humility
But I still remember them all,
With a stroke of a word.

But this body,
Lying idle next to me;
Now, I am weary of it’s presence,
Sometimes, it stinks like my body
Sometimes, it reminds me of my lost body.

Oh, I forgot to introduce myself
I have no name
And my body was lost too.

Voice Of A Lousy Timid!

So, here I am, again with few blurts
Look closely, you will see the fizz in the slit
That’s not the blame,
But only an upshot from a night’s stay.

Blurts, in a civilized society, is only a froth
With or without passion.
And the noise it fills, is yet another excuse;
You know, the bastards and their holy wars,
Who really cares if the noise shields the gunshots?
Anyway, a slit was there
And those blurts within the cultural paradigm;
Not yet done, the fizz in the air
And the blemish within the pretext of servitude.

For me, they are just blurts, like my poems
Excuses, nuances and humanity.
So, few more blurts, few more slits
And the corresponding night,
That hardly brings a Good Morning,
It has few more pages to lived by.
For me, it is an upshot, and
My blurts are ever ready for the occasion.

Voice of a lousy timid, I guess!

The Lamp-post, My Sweetheart!

A dirty lamp-post that I called my sweetheart,
It stood there, waiting for me
Every night, in a raunchy street.

Through the canteen, I passed by
And the undisclosed infatuation and the pervert thereof
Chide me every single night, and my humility, so humbled
Hug it so tight; it refuses to let me go.

Thus it became my sweetheart.

A step aback and a glance
Moments later,
My wife back home,
Her warm beguile
And some splendid creatures in the lawn,
They all forbid me my domestication with the lamp-post;
They all afraid, I am alone
And I wonder how do they know!

By the infidels,
They called it the blot, but
For me it is a replenish theme on life.
By the faithful,
They called it passion, but
For me it is dream-song.

It stood there, all by itself
Asking questions and looking for an asylum.

It is indeed my sweetheart.

How She Became An Exhibitionist!

If beauty ever could killed,
I would never have had a scare.
Rather, I would have succumbed:
No more, no less, and
The beauty could have been blamed.
But I knew,
Shadows are there to stay,
Like a puff on ramp;
Few taunts and moments of ecstasy.
There I should have known
Even prayers could have gone awry, all wrong!

Did I know:
A heaven is not enough,
For me, seven colours wasn’t enough either.
A gaze was there, followed by
A grave, in silence.

Beauty, is all like that
Imperfections, tears and eyeballs;
Dolls, hairs and wails.

At least, she became an exhibitionist!

So I write!

In the heart,
She loves to read and write.

Once, she talked about words
That breathed like her soul;
Initially, I was confused:
How do she breathes
And if there are enough words
For a heart, to
Read and write.

Again,
It’s hopeless, just to think about the heart.
In fact, words are useless
If they are to be buried like corpses.

Even more,
She knew nothing;
She only talked a rhyme, all life long.

And today,
I have some words, and
A heart.

So I write.

Smiling Faces!

She will smile, but
You knew she was long dead;
A cold feeling!

What kind of poem is this?

A cold poem,
A bit of sagacity
A bit of love
And cold eyes
But lots of smiling faces;
Still a cold feeling!

I am afraid of smiling faces.

Innocence?

Innocence, they called so
And he seeks the rime in the frosty nights
May be the chilled bones are gung ho;
Enough for a hungry life
That cherishes the untamed tranquility!

Once in a while,
The hungry soul veiled the cruse
But the subsequent moments were contentious;
Every prejudice and all the favours,
Should we still call it innocence?

Handshake!

A rather lukewarm handshake and some other prosaic obligations; thus mark the meeting of friends and colleagues. During schooldays, there were no such routine announcements by whimpers of a ˜hi’ or ˜hello’. May be we were too raw to season for such servitudes that come with age. But we all felt certain warmth meeting classmates though only after a night’s hiatus. It went for some years.

And today, it seems we are contempt to hug some huge bellies that calls themselves friends. Bully me if I wasn’t a true friend. But the predicaments are more of a prediction like a tenured associate in a firm, who grasps hands like buttering do. Sorry, that shouldn’t be the equation. Rather it should be like: “Make friends before you need them”. So selfish! But think it other way around; you are also one friend to a friend. And the probability factors are high that you might also be just another friend for your so-called friend. A de-facto friend to a quasi friend! Have you ever wonder who stabs, at the back?

The epithet was handshake. Sometimes, it seems we are playing Merry-Go-Round-A-Bush, but without merry. A has three friends all by handshake; B has 20 friends all by obligation and all are happy to swim in the cesspool called friendship. Indeed, friend of friend and my friend! No worries! Everybody has got friends worth a sigma to calibrate the acceptability quotient. How well an individual can mingle and imprint the affable chubby chubby audacity in the group, it is too well decided by the numbers of swarms. Almost impossible to ignore the sight in the cafeteria and at the gallows of food plazas! And another one just fussed in the smoke, at the tea-stall; a sip, a nip, a pup; and we are all friends. Isn’t it?

Have you seen a hand always jutted out from the pit and ever ready for a grasp that we called handshake? Affairs of not so prominent individuals and their malign introspections on friendship kills me my thought on friendship. Only yesterday, I could finish this piece on friendship as one of my friends called me a wasted friend, may be out of sheer pleasure as I have forgot that handshake.

Next time, you meet your friends or in fact, any other human being, first ask for a handshake. A handshake is worth a shake.

Spare Bullets!

I have no words,
Either to loathe or damn the curse
Of being born in Manipur!

So many bad dreams,
But not a single nightmare, and
Each day, a promise here and there;
It's bad.

If you can't digest, or even
If you can't annihilate what's infested in my veins,
Why you need to wield a gun?

Believe you me;
It's all pain in the name of resistance.
Believe you me;
We have blood in the veins.

It seems:
You have spare bullets for each of us
And wanted us to wake up late.
You know,
It's not safe to stay awake,
Late in the night.
You might remember,
It's when dark that do they hunt;
Or may be:
He wanted to check the grim reality;
No, ask his mother:
He was only a child with some responsibilities.

Are you afraid of his words, or
Are you a bastard?

Look around,
He is still here, next to you.
Look,
He smiles at you, at you.

Oinam High School!

There came leaders in white suites,
They called netas.
There followed kids in pink sandals,
Smuggled from Moreh.
And we wide-eyes,
Observed the passing of the time, in silence!

Hello,
I wanted to count some days in my favour
But the silence annoyed me to the chagrin
'The silence is like sin',
I was taught thus!

Oh!
The school was 50 years old
And it has 50 walls for 50 seasons:
Few autumns, few summers, and
Lots of boycotts.
The patches of mud and straw,
And the naked black-boards;
They stand stubborn,
With stakes of low-waist jeans, and
The racket of cellphones…
The resistance of an institution, I guess!

Few blocks north,
Clouds of smoke blow;
In the classroom,
Rare gems taunt the alphabets
And it tarnishes the legends,
Dusts, noise, dreams, circles…

To Home And Back, And Lots Of Questions!

I was on board, with safety belts. Going home after some years, I think four years. These four years, I have not done any traveling, except going to office and coming back and off course, few marketing trips. So, the journey was riveting and sort of adventure for me.

I didn’t sleep the night before, couldn’t wait to catch the flight home. Anxiety prevailed big time. There were images I never thought would be so lively, so far away from themselves. Mind-game? There were times; I would have loved to see them but, it was not possible to rest those imageries without seeing them in reality.

I wanted to see our new home that I never been to, I wanted to hold my little sister’s newborn daughter, I wanted to walk barefoot in the paddy field again and I wanted to cry again for my dried plants. All those memories of childhood, they were all in front of me as if I am part of it. I know, I can’t ignore myself from being a part of it. But I am aware that I have made myself vulnerable to my own belief that I have become distant from all of them; those fields, those evenings…

In fact, those memories have become a heavy baggage itself, a collective resonance inside me. Few tears drops could have done favours upon me, but I played stubborn player with little or no knowledge that reminiscences do haunt like anything. That was a art until I board the flight.

Beauty, in everything!

The thought was seminal, for a happy journey. Mother waiting for me, father pretending not to bother by my arrival! How happy they would be, that was a foolish reminder to me. Parents, they have all the love and we have all the excuses. I had a million excuses.

Now that I have returned again to my exile, I fear had I exhausted the excuses against the responsibilities.

A Few Words On Life!

It’s deeply personal for me,
Water is not enough to quench my thirst; may be
My stewed body needs more than a glass of water; may be
A can of Diet Coke can replace it in the name of futility.

Somehow, something has drugged me my body,
That too in the name of struggle, that they refer life
And proclaimed a civilization on consumerism.

Man is also a good species
It only needs some love and tender.

Far from my courtyard,
Down to his factory
There are never ending trail of futile labour with
The cries in the roadside chugging along,
I have my guts swelled with panic
And it is personal for me.

Different versions of democracies
Different takers of liberty
How it differs with my neighbours
It’s all very personal for me.

There were queues, now
All we have is a partition,
A single partition
But so prominent,
It is no more personal for me.

The Pain with Wisdom Teeth!

Is this pain worth? I doubt it. I was presumed to be wiser, by now. I mean, I am no more a teenager. But wiser, I doubt it too. Wiser or not, a pain never ceases to haunt me. First time, it happened so while I was just about to join Higher Secondary after my High School. It hurt, I remember. But it brought pleasant expectations, rather prospects of being a grown up. And I thought, the pain was worth for a person to be declared matured. It could be one most those defining phases of life. Unluckily, I didn’t know that it was only a jaw-cular pain, nothing more. But the experience was not a jocular pain.

Just returned from home, after attending Ningol Chakkouba. After a long time, I got to savour good enough delicacies to satisfy my hidden vice of gluttony. I was happy. Six days at home and some twenty invitations! That was not ordinary and mother’s feed, that wasn’t ordinary either; for guy who has been staying far away from home for some good years.

And that pain again.

In between, I forgot what has transpired within the last few months. I was naïve.

This past September, I had my share of trouble. Fever and all. I blame it on seasonal change for good. But the actual reason, no, cause was a maverick Wisdom Tooth, which has been trying to protrude for the last 14- 15 years. Its struggle associates my own struggle with lots of loathsome pain. I can’t eat, I can’t open my mouth, and I can’t even smile. And I had to take sick leave for none of my fault. It was not fault. I have good numbers of teeth. I don’t need that extra tooth, for whatever reason; of being wiser or grown up mature. I can even open cokes and beer bottles, with bare teeth. I am proud of my teeth, but this extra tooth, I am not happy.

Ok. I forgot to mention that, unlike most of you guys, my jaw does not have enough space for these latecomers.

I do wonder, where and how it lay dormant for better parts of the year and sprung to life whenever there is change is climate, from cold to hot, from winter to summer. Even, I can’t traveled from one place to another having different season. It will just arrive without any notice, every few months break. And poor me; I suffer the pain. Even my parents are worried lot. And at office, everybody thinks that I am growing it for fun.

And the worst part is, every time I consult doctors to remove it surgically, some said it requires some more time to mature it, so that they can hold it to extract. Some said, it is not good to extract. It directly links to nervous system. May be they are seeking pleasure in the jaw-cular pain.

By the way, it is called Mandibular Third Molar. I don’t know how the name Wisdom Teeth came into being. Whichever name it fits well, I am not happy with it.

Few months from now, I will have another duel with my Wisdom Teeth. I hope, this time I will certainly gain some wisdom.

Drivers!

Most of our drivers are usual nuance; they speak a lot, for every occasion and even follow our sighs. At times, some would rather disparagingly ask if we are all happy with our work and it usually follows up with brief and precise questionnaires on our weekends. In their minds, we all have ecstasy nights, pills and all. I appreciate such engaging talks but at times, it distracts him from the actual service he ought to provide us. Add to this, his antics in the road; ‘A social malice’, I curse thus, every time our cab whizzed past another vehicle.

Speed thrills but kills! Whoever has said that, I always try to share this simple thought with every driver. Most of the time, I find myself a timid crawler, with no respect for time and speed of our so-called new generation. They said they kill the time. Sometimes, I am too worried about their real intentions; I could only beg them to drive sane and in control. I don’t think any of us would need to kill the time!

In fact, I am famous with all the transport POCs in our organization. They all know my name, my employee code and even how long do I talk in phone while coming to office. Obviously, our beloved drivers must have described how I professed and how do I look like including some parts of my daily routine, like talking in the phone, a brief nap, few transpiring gaze at the girls from within the glass pane and my favourite songs.

One benefit of working with a BPO is, conveyance is free. Free pick-up and drops, at the doorstep! But sometimes, it irritates so much that I wanted to walk myself; both ways from home to office and office to home.

The Sunday Poem!

A tired body,
A heart that aches, and
A dull day:
My Sunday poems lament my existence.

Last Sunday,
My body looked like a poem in tatters:
My loose bones hung like a decorative scarecrow,
A poor man’s bamboo pole to stand on and
The breeze that mock with the poking crows;
I resembled a skinny whore waiting for words to pity upon.

Each Sunday,
I resolved to set a day of countenance;
Today is also another Sunday
And I will get another chance to frown at it,
Its shredded newspapers on the week, and
The lousy reminders of all the mistakes.

This Sunday,
I will sail my soul to another planet,
So that I can sleep a while, and
My tired body can be balm at a hidden saloon, there
I will grow my heart again, in their delicate touch.

Today
I will pray:
'My Sunday shouldn’t cry like my poems.'

I was borne again!

Yesterday night,
Somebody bring me the news of me being born.

Yesterday night, I was born again.

I followed the messenger through the haze,
May be that was also a dream; and
Shovels and swords and knives and shields
Guns and bullets and grenades and helmets
May be those were my gifts from the Magi.

My spine shivers.

Another death, I thought again:

My corpse was the dispensation towards the God, and
The shredded membrane forecast the arrival of another pedestrian.

My soul laughs.

Yes, I was borne yesterday night.

Look at my umbilical chord:
I still clutch the belief threadbare, and
It smells the ruffian nerves.

I should breathe easy.

Another birth, perhaps:

Some caricature,
Strips of veins,
A super fast car, and
Her leather jacket with a damn.

Little far away, a mannequin smiles:
I am borne again.

Mami Sami!

Lucky me, I got to see some parts of a Manipuri Film called “Mami Sami”. Believe you me, I was crying. Some scenes, I think, can’t be captured again. Without any prejudice, I mean, me being a Manipuri; are so overwhelming and realistic, I just can’t think of any other means other than those frames. And the theme song, I have only words of appreciation. I can only hear it nonstop, day in day out…

I didn’t watch much Manipuri movies fearing the so-called “Inspired” parts that my friends talked about. But this one, I prescribed it for every one, I mean everyone.

Despite so little infrastructure and limited funding; this movie is so well made, it deserves kudos. And the plot is so well crafted, it can be narrated a million times, more so in the context of the present day Manipur. But realistically speaking, the situation and events depicted in the movie are relevant to every society.

I love all the characters; Binata perfected the role of Tayal, the main protagonist. Her part is to play an innocent girl, a tempting lover, an enterprising wife, a devoted young widow and in fact a Manipuri woman caught in the crossfire of life and love and tradition and her own vivacity. What can we ask from an actor? Even more, no make-up, no gloss; she lived the character. Now, I want to meet her. Sadanada’s role of Wangthoi is engrossing. He brings the maturity that was rather missing in the male characters in Manipuri cinema. I don’t know the names of other actors and characters they played, but they are all perfect. Each one of them lived. In particular, the character of the husband of a village woman who wants their only son to learn modern songs, instead of his insistence to make his son a folk singer is worth observing.

Loktak Lake has been shown in its grandeur, though I hate to see the swallow water level and ever expanding Phumdis (floating marshes). That’s the reality. So, good for us! The incessant raining, it adds up to the reality of the theme and stage.

It is said that this movie is a Digital Cinema. I don’t know much about this kind of movie making or genre. But, it has been said that a digital-camera was used to film the entire movie and that too hand-held. The very probability of producing such a movie is next to impossible. But, you can expect such things in Manipur and from Manipuris. I too have a living memory. While I was in DM College of Arts Hostel, I witnessed a movie-shooting event. And I am still amazed, how the chassis of a bullock-card was used as a crane of a camera to film a fight scene from the top! One of my seniors did helped while rolling the camera using a rope, so as to keep a balance while filming. I think, film industry? in Manipur has developed. So, we can expect much more.

I don’t know how many of us still remember Khullang Eshei (traditional songs for cultivation). Thank God! I got to hear it again, with many more traditional renditions on life, on a serene and idyllic life, watching this movie. Thanks to Lancha Ninghtouja. He is the writer and director of the movie.

There are so many other glorious aspects of this movie. I cannot elaborate them all. The movie sums up with the dialogue: “Nang lande, eikhoi kanashu lande. Ekhoibu lanhanlibashe matamshinane”. I can’t translate it, either. Sounds of gunshots in the backdrop, though it is quite disturbing, yet it percolates the movie into realism. This is the best of the part of the movie. How can an individual nurture her/his dream amidst constant reminder of disorder? And the dilemma is, you can only escape to the chaos.

My Face!

Somebody visited my orkut page but didn’t leave any message. It was shown in the Recent Visits. I don’t know the name and the face either. Is it possible to have two persons having the same name and same face? Out of curiosity, I give a return visit; we may call it courtesy visit. But, I was not happy with that, I did browse through. It was like, I was doing some sort of recce for an impending tour, which looks quite possible looking at the photograph associated with the visitor’s profile. At times, it seems to me, this routine visit could well turn out to be a beautifully coordinated Combing Operation to find any thing, anything that may convince my purpose. In fact, that photograph was unusual.

After a brief while, I came to the conclusion that, that somebody might be looking for someone who has got the same name as mine and has got same face like mine. No worries, I thought to myself. My face is not my product. I can create toy guns, using mud and clay and other assortments. I can make collages. But not my own face! I didn’t create it like those celebrities. I hadn’t even done a make-up, except my glasses. I have no issues somebody having same face as mine. Rather obscure though, but I feel proud. The face that I carry around here must be God’s favourite one. What a creation!

The face intrigued me. It bemused me.

But, I am not devoid of the thought of an image that my face carries. This very thought floors my happy disposition.

Words and Bodies!

Only them, not me:
She was beautiful. He was intelligent.
And they make love and it illustrates the sweaty, meaty, stony images.

This time, I don’t want to be part of it.

The primal aspects, like co-ordinates
The vital components, like seeds
The livid bodies, like canvases

Somebody got to wake me up!

My burgeoning mind glowed with shame and the subsequent ascendency;
It were displayed and spattered like her beauty,
All naked and abused!

Somebody got to wake me up!

No.
I can’t think without me knowing about it.
No.
I can’t even imagine to feel like staying awake, in the haven.
No.
I ought not assume if it were all real.

It can't be real without my bodies:
Illustrations depicting her and some loose bones.

Somebody got to wake me up!

Look!
These sprouts.

My words carry me thus far, these far
And my imagination lingers within its beauty.

Shadow!

It’s elongated, and
Its wavy graph doesn’t fit well;
Not too well with the struggling pace.
Though, I still allow it to follow me,
Just in case, if any companion needed be!

The sunset and eminence of the night,
It seems a coffin has a readymade shroud. And
My elongated shadow hardly discern this death hour, and
My struggling pace waits each crescent like an episode on life.

I saw the sunset;
It was a delightful sight with so many worries.
Suddenly, it seems to me:
My elongated shadow has brought back all those memories;
The very passages and their ceremonies on life.

Oh!
Little while ago
A labour room expediency comforts the spirit:
A wavy shadow of occasions, together
With some qualms and a dying sun
It’s the shadow again
That wavy shadow!
This time, I wasn’t part of it.

The laughing stock!

Ok!

I have become the proverbial laughing stock. This isn’t the problem, though. The problem lies somewhere else. Let me tell you: I don’t choose to be unhappy. Rather, I pretend to be unhappy. This life is awesome, fabulous, fascinating and colourful. I have lost count of my happy moments. Now, you believe me, I am happy as anybody could be in this earth.

• For I love despair
• For I play blind to the reality
• For I pretend the responsibility

Of what:

• Of a destitute
• Of a life less lived
• Of a person
  

Some tongue in cheek comments; I listened them all, through my ear and stored them to reprocess in my favour. We should learn to live on reprocessed products. Everything has been exhausted, including love and faith.


I thought, they knew me by my name…the infamous name. Sorry, my dreams were rather bizarre. My name was up for an auction. No prejudice but all the chauvinism were there, put together by an unknown curator; that’s how we make-up the untold stories of so many lives! Who knows if somebody is following you the way you are following me.


Do I need to talk again? No, never!


Yes, asking questions are comparatively easier, for us fools. But, we do not have ready-made answers and do not follow all the protocols of servitude, that we called life. Yet, the truth is written on the wall. Live your own lives. If somebody asks me about my life, I would rather ask over if you know me that well, for a question like that?


Even easier is to give advice. Advices come in all virtues. But I hate these virtues like any other vice, for that connives like evils do, in their favour. You must have read few lines to come up to me and thought of this opportunity to pass on few advices. I respect that. But, beyond that, you are just another shadow to me. I know you will fear to face the light. That’s life. And that light is truth. Everybody comes with certain past following them and they think of imageries and metaphors, just to avoid it.


This is what has happened recently. [I creep a lot!] I cannot accept other’s truth. It seems to me, the eyes of truth are inside me and watching every step of mine. It reminds me of three versions of truth. Unluckily, it’s my life. And the truth was a part of my life.

And I don’t fear to be weak. This is my way of tackling your so called virtues. The only virtue that I know is love. Somebody will come in the name of love.

Whatever!

Sometime ago, I was made to think that Love is just another bullshit. Bullshit. Much earlier, before such famished thoughts started to inhabit in my mind, I was of the believe that Love is serene, it’s beautiful and we can do everything for it. I was in the same disposition until recently; one and half years or two years to the present. Everybody has a bad morning, I knew. But, for me, one bad morning wasn’t enough. Love wrecks life and people die. And those who are weak and fragile like love itself, just crumble. I know I am weak.

Ever thought like calling a name, so loud the whole universe listen to your voice…Ever wonder if the monsoon rain has more rain drops than your tears or, ever hold a photograph like your own heart that it starts to beat…Heart aches!

Whatever!

I am still carrying on, living everyday!

A so called poem can shout too...

When she reads my scribbles,
I erase them:
Word by word,
Event by event, in my mind.

When she reads,
She poses questions;
Questions of varied interests,
But none mine.

In between,
Her interest reminds me of the relationship;
She caresses the pages and my heart bleeds.

Anniversary!

I don’t want to recollect some events. I don’t even want to think about those events. But life, as it is, is all about remembering the past and moving ahead. A person may call it learning from the mistakes (if mistakes were the reason for the past) and someone can call it the foundation for the life ahead. Whatever it may be, the past is another part of life. We cannot just ignore it. I am not preaching. I am just saying. Yea, I can’t practice what I preach.

Another something got the better of me. And here, I am with some flashes of memories though in words.

I know I can’t relate it as vividly as I would have like to as I am too preoccupied with what has happened rather the event. A third person could have narrated it better. But, I think, I am the only one left with this memory. The event was long forgotten. No remnants. No nothing.

No. I can’t.

Today is the anniversary, I think 12th anniversary of a relationship that turn my world upside down. Should I celebrate it? Today is Sunday. I am free. I need her approval. No. I am not too sure if she wanted to celebrate it the way we used to. But, I know she must be feeling lonely. She might also be remembering the first time we bowed to become one.

My left wrist still proudly flaunts the scratches your nails plowed. Life moves ahead but some scratches never heal.

A toss to the ANNIVERSARY!

Oh! Holly shit! Doctor forbids me alcohol. Says, “You have had enough of it”. A toast gone waste. Whatever, a toast is a toast, with or without it. A toast! Now, I will certainly become the toss ka boss. Will it be enough for an anniversary. Anyway, a toast, whatever it may be.

A word for me: Alienation!

A word for me!

Alienation: I am not looking for the meaning, neither the actual nor the concealed. But, I am not comfortable at the very thought of using it as a word. Anybody can use it anywhere, where the user thinks it befit. One of my close friends mentioned about it while we were talking about what constitutes India, the great land. His point seemed valid: “Alienation comes from the within, from the self. Don’t think about it. Don’t think that you are alienated from the rest…and so on.” Suddenly, I thought of my look and how I pronounced their names. Something disturbed me!

I wasn’t comfortable.

The moment I reached home, I checked the meaning of the word, just to make myself comfortable. After all, I am going to the office next day, again. And I will meet the same people with same name and same features. I don’t want to be alienated, from within or outside. The meaning was same and I think, still the same. Even more, we were taught that we are not aliens. And further, we are working here, earning and living as citizens, just to confirm that we are not aliens.

So, where did I got myself alienated! Am I unfair to myself, despite all these privileges or am I just not able to think beyond myself? But one thing is for sure; I am not comfortable listening to this word. This doesn’t mean that I desire to be a part of a certain group. In fact, it may undermine my sense of a Universalist, irrespective of where do I reside and how I was brought up! It seems, my uneasiness lies deep inside me, as a part of me, to the retorts of senses (of being a human being) when someone try to distinguish me as an individual of certain unfamiliarity, may be in admiration or may be in utter surprise. In fact, alienation comes from within. And the ensuing question is: how deep and profound can it be!

I wanted to be fair to myself and off course to the unbound opportunities we have been bestowed upon. Still, somewhere within, certain apprehension resides heavily. I don’t know why. I can purchase what I want, asking for bargain and best of products, in their language. But, I am not happy even after I got what I wanted at my own terms. This, in fact, is in itself a worrisome trait. And unluckily, I cannot blame myself. The reason: they see me as a different among themselves, which includes me too. Something in their cadence, include unexpressed desire to exclude me and it parades naked before my conscience. Teasing, they have it at their disposal anytime they want and anywhere they care to!

I was made to be a snub-faced and I often parody the same taunts without any fear. But at hindsight, I am afraid what if this happens to a girl or a more receptive person: the feeling of alienation in a country we called “our country” or, in a liberal perception, a sense of being the second group!

Do we need to find our own country? Everything is not right here.

Sick Leave!

This season is unusually bad. It may be just another premature symptom of climate change that we have been talking about, ever since our kindergarten days. Each one of us had to speak on a topic of our choice on climate change and points were given for each resolution the class agreed to work on. Yea, those were the brains of tomorrow. Now, the tomorrow has arrived. I was on sick leave and got a chance to ponder upon those days. How worried those kids were? They were afraid; what if their playgrounds were inundated, what if the earth is dried and turned into a vast desert! They would huddle in the corner and murmured, how long would they live.

Other noticeable symptoms are: Global Warming (AC or no AC), No more sinking of Titanic’s (melting Iceberg or raising sea level), unusual news of snow falling in Dubai and Sahara Desert (No theory, with or without graphic simulations), bomb blasts (with or without timers , our earth is so warmed now, bombs explode even if it was not planted), bigger pimples and their bête noir cosmetics (beautiful or ugly) and bigger families and flood and drought and market turbulence and everything, including my headache.

These few weeks, I have experienced bad to worse. I am weak and tired. Walk few steps and I feel as if I have been walking ever since. No appetite for a foodie. Worrisome! Some precaution and some medicines, that’s not enough.
Look at my reasoning. I blame it all to the climate change. As a human being, I eat, I breathe and do whatever a living being ought to do, just to stay and fit. Yes. No smoke, no drinks as of now, I think for the last four months. What a long period! But, I am still weak. No one to blame, I blame it all to the season.

Poor me! I am exhausted to my seven sick leaves that I wanted to utilize later in the year end with flimsy coughs and pain. Zero sick leaves in my balance and I will have to think before I felt sick. This season is really terrible.

Saturday Bombings!

Seven days in a week and only one Saturday. Not fair. But, lucky we are, there is only one Saturday. Little irrelevant? But the recent bombings in the country suggest that terrorists want to release their horror shows only on Saturdays. What a day? We eagerly wait for weekend and they just need the arrival. What a day, Saturday day! Whatever the agenda could be, Saturdays are becoming rather fluky days for bombs. It explodes everywhere, on Saturdays.

Three major bomb blasts on Saturdays:

- October 29, 2005 at Ahmadabad
- July 26, 2008 at Ahmadabad
- September 13, 2008 at Delhi

Yea, if Saturdays can be party days for bomb planters, why not Fridays and Sundays. And obviously other remaining days of the week. However, how interesting it could read, most of the major bomb blasts in India (or may be anywhere else) happens on weekends. Easy targets, soft targets and nice days!

- April 14, 2006 at Delhi (Friday)
- September 8, 2006 at Malegaon (Friday)
- July 25, 2008 at Bangalore (Friday)
- August 25, 2007 at Hyderabad (Sunday)
- October 14, 2007 at Ludhiana (Sunday)
- November 24 2007 at Lucknow, Varanasi and Faizabad (Sunday)

No kidding, our weekend parties can be bomb parties in the future. I was thinking if we can change our weekends to more secured Wednesdays or Thursdays. These days might not have proved too holistic in the past either, either. But, in the present context, it seems they can at least put some apprehension on bomb planters’ minds. They would rather disapprovingly say, ‘Oh! This time, the weekend is coming on Wednesday.’ Jokes apart, if days could protect us or instill some sanity on their minds, I am ready do sacrifice a weekend of the two. At least few more lifes would be saved.

What do we do on weekends? We relax. We spend time with family members and celebrate life. And what these guys do on weekends? They experiment their wares. And fuse our wires. Why can’t they do it in friendly manner? May be they don’t want family gatherings! I don’t know. Even if they wanted those in power to listen to them with bomb blasts, announce certain dates earlier that we are going to blast some bombs here and there against this and that. This way, their agenda can be better heard and also be appreciated. Everybody will look in amaze and convinced. But what these guys are doing is not done. My little frightened soul cursed so loud, my heart almost explodes. You know, if bombs can be exploded, hearts too can be exploded same way. But, the real impact will come from heart explosion.

May be we need to plant our hearts in dustbins of the society as a pre-emptied attack on this malaise called, terrorism. Oh! My take on terrorism is: the act of spreading terror, with bombs or without bombs.

OK. Where am I? Today is Sunday.

My weekend will be a waste, today. And some of us will damn these weekends all life long. Please, do not tease us with bombs and guns. We are human beings.

Bombs, cheap bombs
It spits splinters and shrapnel in the smoke
It pretends to speak in the dark
No. It bores a hole
No. It mimes a child
No. It tears a heart.
Bombs, cheap bombs
You are not my friend.
Bombs, cheap bombs
We have human spirit
We are not cheap bodies
Bombs, cheap bombs
The mangled bodies
The charred remains
These are no cheap remnants
These are the themes of insanity
These are the colors of freedom.
Bombs, cheap bombs

You are not friend.

Is my God your God!

Is my God your God!

It says, God is one. For some years, I was happy thinking God is only one and He knows everything; who is good or bad, who is sincere and who is lazy and he judge everything by a common parameter. But I was wrong. This has been observed that there are lots more of Gods. And my belief is rather convincingly proven by fact that people fights in the name of religion. My God is more powerful than his God, my God is more helpful then your God, etc. etc.

Here, my sincere undertaking is to project my own God as innocent, simple plain God. I don’t want sacrifices being offer to my God. It would be scurrilous to my God himself.

Must be a joke!

Whatever it might be, I have known this much that people kill each other in the name of religion and drank blood to purify the butchery.

May be my God is different from his God.

Where do I fit!

Where do I fit? I often wonder, thinking about a place for myself in this world. I have grown up observing this world and the people in it. I am not different to them. I have had my share of love, hatred, betrayal, joy, sad; everything a human being could experience in a lifetime.

But something is still amiss here.

I don’t know what am I doing here? Even worst, I don’t have an alternative. Its not that I hate taking the chance, but the amusing facets of this universe incites my arrogance to hold back, may be for another lifetime. What conspires in my mind, against this proposition is: what else, weren’t these enough, are there any further feelings that I am yet to face! Simply, put this way: I am not afraid of death, in case, dying is the only alternative to this life. Change this life. Live a life, different to this life. Can it be another option? I don’t think.

Anyway, where do I fit?

As an individual, I try to evolve myself as a better human being. I don’t how good a person I have become in these two and half decades. But, in these years, I have able to conjure up a world for myself, of myself, with no complaint. It has no pain. Yet, my world is far from being perfect. It has no place for me. No place for me here too!

Some birds, some trees, some friends, they aren’t enough for me as long as I am not a part to myself. I have become a misfit to myself.

Ok! I should have asked this question to myself.

Birthday!

This post was to be posted on 5th September.

Blossoms! Life is a flower.

Every year, this day arrives with so much fanfare, I can only deny the occasion. Somebody called up unexpectedly. It can be counted as a gift. I took it as a gift. Gifts galore, but none like it.

I have a small world. Every part of it can claim the whole as their own, irrespective who the real owner is! This has enabled all of us to celebrate life with many occasions thrown in. What else? I was happy like all of them.

Somebody wanted to celebrate my birthday, the way she wanted to celebrate. I deny, like any other occasion. For I hate crowd. It is not that she will gather a whole populace, but I fear what if it happens so. You never know. My small world can turn into a pool humanity, known and unknown, guest and intruders… I think everybody wants to wish a birthday or two in the pretext of fun and off course, as a well-wiser. I won’t be able to accept their hugs and kisses.

My birthday happens to fall on Teacher’s Day.

[ Oh! The funny part on having a birthday is; I have three Date of Births, the first one is obviously the day I was born, second, the date my class teacher filled up in my Matriculation Form as my actual date of birth, and the third one, my date of birth recorded in Electoral Voter List. All of these dates are different.

Let me tell you, it’s little worrisome for me to decide which one should be given the priority! I know, I was born on a certain date on certain time. That’s my birthday. But I live my life as this-much-aged person reflected in my Academic Certificate, which in fact becomes my actual birthday, and this date ever so slowly swallow every sphere of my life. I am only 20+ years old, in cognito and accepted.]

Yea, she called me up and wished me “Happy Birthday”. I was happy. It is such a happy feeling, a very happy feeling. One call, one wish: I wonder how could I cherish it whole life long!

Next September, I know, it will be different.

Clouds and Images!

Something caught my eye. I am a bi-spectacle. But, it didn’t hinder my view and the image clearly obstructed my view. This was how it caught my eye. In fact, I wanted to see something else. I have no surprises. I knew it too well; this is life.

Nothing.

My mind goes back to something else... comes back with an unknown knot that bound the view rather unsympathetically with my eyes. This time, I wanted to know what it was. Her eyes blank, her skin pale, her hair un-combed and she didn’t moved. My head wrested on the shoulder and I thought it was heavy. Life is a burden if you can save yourself from the views that our senses forbid. I was not uncomfortable but restless. Where did I stand? No, I was in a moving cab.

What a loathsome imagery!

I was all there, all by myself. I couldn’t count on my fellow cab mates. I can’t just say what happened like it. But all the stories of seeing freak and random are rather prominent in the long drive home, in the dark, in the night. It seemed something will just poke out from nowhere. What we come to know better is; it is disgusting to think about it. After few days, everybody stopped by themselves. But the glint of darkness and scare were left unmoved in our minds.

Oh! I was talking about what had caught my eyes. She was beautiful. She moves next to us. It seemed to me, a glance would not be enough. I looked flat at her eyes and the cloud dispersed itself with the wind. It reminded me of my favorite children’s poem on cloud. Look at the clouds. They have all the images in the mind. Think of an object, and it was right there; laughing at you.

Now, the only difference is, I don’t have time to see in broad day light. And the clouds in the night are dull and dark. Even the most beautiful girl was breached with disbelief. And her image: merely a shadow in night.

Anyway, I don’t believe if belief. To be frank, I am scared to put this in words.

She will certainly ask: Are you still busy?

A shoddy image

A shoddy image,
The weight of isolation and some wishes.
Don’t look around,
You won’t find the shadow.

Her photograph; I scanned and it latched an overwhelming part of my present. May be it wanted back all she could have had, or may be it wanted to suggest that I can start all over again by taking a look around…may be because, it displays the life. This was a shoddy image with all the imitations on life and I (most of the time) couldn’t see what’s right in front of me. Her face!

Yesterday night, I was trying to keep a balance on myself. I measured my tummy. It’s fat. I rather gently pressed my wrist (I am recovering from weakness – a sort of illness). My pulse beats fast. It’s bad. Pretty bad! My first presumption was: I am crazy, a rather rude fellow; who knows nothing more than the self. All the deficiencies and her face, my pillow and how she would hold my hand...that was also a part of that shoddy image. Damn it. This maniac brain has to stop thinking. Or else, I will have to cover myself with all her images…pretty and beautiful, all.

Against the wall, there is a calendar. I wondered what could each day say, or rather the anniversary! I do sure understand all the markings in the diary and each memoirs have all the glimpses. But none of us prepared. Both of us risked too much for comfort and I feel a little surreal to live in this emptiness called life. I took the plunge and the mistake was all evident in the photograph. It has become a ritual.

Yesterday night, I was a specimen
And the images of gifts and limbs,
They all scattered.
But, it was dark
And each moment were long
And my mask floats in the sky.
I wanted to sleep,
But the shoddy image
Caught the glimpses shrouded in the cacophony of loneliness.

No words for me!

Tonight, something isn’t quite right. Along the passages of unknown phrases, I wished to pour in some words. But they didn’t come up good. I couldn’t understand a single line doing me favor. It’s hard time for me…nights without dreams, and words without meaning.

I was thinking if we can meet again. And look, what has come up: irrelevant self; finds myself mistaken for someone else and seem lost off my fundamental expectations. I wanted to meet someone. I know I am too weak to pretend myself being happy alone. I can’t be alone. Living alone is also a form of decadence. It leads oneself to think that we are sufficient to self. That’s not so. Life will be a scurrilous song if you can’t include a line for that someone.

Anyway, let’s see if these few words can copulate.

Let’s meet again, for all that more. I have borrowed this line from somewhere. But couldn’t use much, anywhere! Let’s meet. It’s so simple a sentence to carry the burden of the aching hearts. Let’s meet; once did she promise me thus. But it’s yet to happen.

If I were to wait for the promise to fulfill, I should have also known that promises can also be broken; either way. Better for me, she didn’t recognize the subsequent meetings as me. And how do I consider it was fulfilled for she wanted to see me as another human being, not as me, I, as used to be. But, I was me as usual.

It’s dust.

An ordinary day:
It didn’t rain; only a brief sunshine with
Lots of dusts!

I walk an ordinary road, with
Lots of dusts!

I live an ordinary life, with
Lots of dusts!

In an ordinary day,
All the dusts in the world conspire
All the dusts in my world unite…

Let’s treat courteously;
Let’s all be evident to life:
It’s dust.

If I had only dreams,
You were all I could relate to.

In my dreams,
In specks, I see you.

May be that’s how dreams we see.

It’s dust.

I need somebody like you!

It seems to me,
I need somebody like you.
It seems to me,
I need someone other than myself.

All these while,
I cared for myself
And worried:
Will it pass like ungenerous fortunes?

It seems to me,
I need somebody like you.

Not always!

You know,
I was worried about my lost faith
And blame myself for the fool that I was!

But every time I see you,
I think I need you.

It’s like touching a nip,
It’s like a drink.

Little far away,
In the stream, in the shoal
My steps match yours
And I left them to settle in the cool breeze.

It seems to me,
I need somebody like you.

Thoibi, another name I want to forget!

After a brief hiatus, here I am again, with some blurts. What have transpired in between, that’s quite disturbing to ponder upon. But, as usual, the order has been restored again, with the coming of another summer. I do wonder about seasons. I do remember the order of life…the beginning and the end and the beginning again. Though, somehow, it may not conjunct with what we have wanted to believe it to be.

Anyway, this summer will be spent remembering a name. Thoibi. And who knows: it may be a name, nobody wants to believe in?
I am a habitual serotine. I am late. I am late with everything. It took me for so long, so long, to call a name as Thoibi. This is a name sprinkled with the essence of truth and beauty. This has been always a name with profound opportunities. But with so many artificial ambiguities, I could not have conceived more than a mere word that sounds like a recursive abuse.

And the order is, I have able to save the name. Off course, I want to forget this name!

In between…

In between, a mackled strip continues to exist…I could not imagine having lost the very sight of my existence, though the acceptance of the fact is very much a daunting task for the soul. Sometimes, bereft with a sense of loss (obviously unknown) and the restrained (don’t know what), I tried to provoked myself to continue living. There are enough of malefactors, its life! There is no dearth of chances, this is also life! So, I tell myself thus: “Beware of yourself! Don’t listen to its fickle proclamation that life is not worth a pain.”

Look at the subsequent menologies:

1. Today, I am writing this piece of shit,
2. Wondering about all the possibilities of reading this piece with new morning, each day, and
3. Here are strong chances that I will yet again write another medley of words.

Then, I will try to see if its all clear in the welkin. No clouds.

Dreams!

Having survived a torrent of inconsequential rumors about me being death, today I conspire to live another day. Those rumors were ugly as myself and my life. They made feel me rather useless. But, still, I don’t think that worst is over, for I know I am still alive.
Unlike a living day, my dreams have all the clues about life. There were hardly any dream that didn’t unravel the hidden theme of life. In my dreams, I see myself as a strong person, making all the sacrifices that I can make. There, the sordid presence of my conscience alarms me and no more I am in dream. I have always wished to make some sacrifices towards life. Sometimes it seems superfluous talking about life and sacrifices, but the fact is that both broth.