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.