His Plot, The Stage and Me!

Somebody came to kill me
He wanted to help me understand this life
By killing me, with his bare hands
With a knife, sharpened for the purpose
With few silent strokes, pulling my hair
Cutting my limbs, toes, fingers, ears
One by one, dissecting the chest,
Plucking the heart and lugging the intestines
So that those pieces can be packed in a box
Like a package for best kept secrets
As a gift to the life, the life himself!

He said, no use of coffins
They are so expensive, they are
Rather weird too, to fill pieces in a coffin
It’s odd, it will look funny
So, better a box, cheaper and handy
There you need only a pair of hands, to hold it
And carry it wherever you want
‘Why disturb others for your death’
And you can even place it next to you, like a pot
Wherever you wish to lay sit from shrines to morgue
And those pieces inside, pieces of your body, people will think it
For a gift pack, or even the holy water, and there
Half the purpose is served for being borne, another
Half was consumed when you are death, for the purpose.

So no worries, while you proudly reside in and
Have a better understanding of the life,
Inside the box, within the rim of a box
The world outside, will admire you, they will
Wait for a glimpse of the box that contains you
Though in pieces, and they will think they are blessed
You know, this world is made of confusion,
That’s what I want you to feel, for the life
In the midst of it, you are the answer and them
The scraps from your shadow,
No need for the cross, no need for the inferno
The box is enough; a box is enough for a modern man like you.

Then I said, if that’s all you wish me to experience
Why the box, and what’s need to be killed, or
To be a dead man in pieces;
I can experience that feeling of living inside the box
By simply living in my thatched hut!
He countered it, and said
You have limbs, and your hairs flaunt a living, and
You may even stretch your leg and
Open your mouth, in a yawn and
Someday you will think that
Someday, like these birds,
Can fly in the sky, with joy and freedom
That I don’t want
That’s what I don’t want from you
For you, a little confusion is enough,
Even after you are dead!

I didn’t know, he had a larger scheme for me
He wanted me, my body, my being to rest in peace, and
He knew, there aren’t any better place, proposition
Other than being stuff a box, though in pieces
To attain the nirvana, of what we could call peace or
Understanding life!

Box is good, much better than my thatched hut, and
Even better than what we called motherland,
They have these sulking prerogatives,
Like obsession and responsibilities
But once you are packed inside this simple box,
There will be no obligations, no worries
Of what’s going there, outside its rim
Thus you will know what is life,
The bliss of ignorance!

He said,
You don’t!

Sick Days!

Should I count my sick days
Or, should I count my birthdays
Either way, I have lost the count.
Good things do they come
But, did I ever asked my share
I know, I have lost the trail.

Never mind.
We have to respect the man,
The man who knows filth and dirt
But, do I have anything to do with him?

Let’s see again:
The distrust that overlook the faith
And the wish that plays evident with the sin;
Are they a worthy couple?

May be!

In fact,
My body is a clay vase,
My soul is sinner’s paradise
And my heart is placed little around the bend
A corner, where love digs faith!

This clay vase, often I paint dreams
But the soul sucks the heart
And the pastel sinner counts the sick days!

I Didn't Grow Up Properly!

I didn’t grow up properly
I had numerous infatuations, and they slapped me
For every slogan I shouted
They said, I disturbed their agenda, and they slapped me
For who I was?

The first age, I was obsessed with guns
The tender age of seven eight nine, I didn’t know
How they all went smoked, with billows from the barrels
And somebody hide his second hand gun beneath my pillow
And I thought I deserve a try, whichever direction it fires
The sound was bustling and the next morning
I have had my first slap in the face.

Mama wanted me to behave and grow tall
The gunshot was forgotten and I became a darling
And my grandpa called me Gandhi, he said
I obey and can write difficult names for invitations
For marriage and obituaries,
Spellings of names I couldn’t pronounce, and
Nonnative spellings of words from the occupation

Then, my first long pant came uninvited
Something tickled me, I was a lousy connoisseur
Wanted to taste the bud, flowers and nectar
Bees and buzzes, thus I got my second slap
I didn’t know the reason.

And I know, I didn’t grow up properly
But happy was me, with all the slaps
They said, I deserve them, for the following
To be a good man, one day, to live a good man!

Anyway, I was growing that very way, for that way
But a single slap, I couldn’t agree with, and
The chilled morning, the chilled bone
The expensive fare, the back bench
The tuition, the examination
The dream, my parents
And the slap
This is loose
But the slap was the humiliation
It mortified my being and the dreams gone sour
But I still don’t understand why he slapped me
Early in the morning,
To a boy who was going for few lessons
On Physics and Chemistry;
I still don’t know who was he and why he was waiting for me
Early in the morning.
I still don’t know had he got any kid of my age
Going to school and waking up early for an extra class
I still don’t know, how many he would have slapped
I still don’t know, had they all went quite
Like me for all these years
I still don’t know, how many kids deserve the slap

Yes, I dint grow up properly
In the land of million mutinies,
My land, my land
Spare those kids
They are innocent
They are the dreams, and
Someday, they will sing songs on you and your valour
But, for every single slap, my land
You lose a son, you wreak a dream
With every slap, you destroy a family
With every slap, you create an outlaw
So, spare those kids
They are innocent.

Yes, I didn’t grow up properly
In my land, and today
I am in exile, weaving a dream for the land
Earning a few pennies, to grow a farm
Full of innocent dreams and
Create a my own land
Where kids can wake up early and got to school
Without any fear of slaps and checking drills
Where kids can learn lessons on best of sciences and poems
Without worrying about strikes and bandhs!

Has The Dead Arrived?

Everybody is singing the songs of dead, and
Nobody really cares if it has, indeed, arrived?

I have known a long time ago, even
Before I wasn’t conceived inside my mother’s womb,
For a matter of fact, that time,
Mother, all of a virgin and naïve
She didn’t even know who my father would be, and
That someday, I will be writing poems on the dead.

My father, he is still a proud man, with little money
And my mother, worried about the future, pray
Every night and quietly my plan weaves in the dark
For another poem, for another dead poem!

Today, as I write another dead poem,
Existence becomes a mockery and it ridicules
The passion, that we called life!

These dead poems, I worry
Had they borne along with me, in their shadow
Of innocence and pittance, to celebrate
Subjugation as debt of alliance;
Those dead poems, I worry
Had they conspired along a generation, in the shadow
Of illiteracy and exploitation, to mark
The extinction of a clan!

Lot more dead poems
Lot more dead poems
Dead poems from classrooms
Dead poems from kitchens
Dead poems from farms
Dead poems from offices
These dead poems, they can’t be silent witness
These dead poems, they are the songs of our time!

My worried mother, she called me back home
She has graves ready for each of my dead poems
So I asked:
Has the dead arrived?

Death Cries In Manipur!

My presence was suspicious,
It smelt rotten spirits everywhere, and
Questions on morality repeated itself like a rhyme.

Something strapped my soul, it has got
Spikes that swerves between faith and betrayal
Yes, they are all legends in the streets of Manipur,
With play-cards, with fancy slogans,
And the Death stood there alone!

Little suspicious, in the games we play
Of killing, of brutality and brotherhood;
Ask me, are they real, these corpses,
These bruises, these slogans, these gallows?

I leaned on him and explained holding my guts:
No, these are the remnants, only the leftover
Of a great feast, fed upon and
Of carnal existence with revenge and extermination and
Of cleansing for a great civilization!

He cried.

Running Away!

What I knew was death, yet
It seems, I am afraid of it
I have known it and I am aware of its eminence
Then, why I need to bother about it?

Yes, I have nurtured this life,
I have even dreamed of living a thousand year
But what?
Millions died and millions continue to dream
Few more despise it, lot more hate it
But what, what for me;
I know it’s coming, yet
It seems, I am running away from it!

Kennedy's Question!

My friend Kennedy, he said
He is afraid of death and according to him
Dying in the hands of an illiterate, like those
Numerous killings in Manipur; and
What is even more remorseful is
All the education and dreams gone wasted in the drain
For every single corpse, known or unknown
There’s no reason for it, hell or heaven,
For good deed or sin!

And I said, you too portray like me
How we should die, then
I remembered, we cheered for the tenth time,
And continued talking about Manipur!

While drowning another peck of whiskey
Cigarette in one hand, he asked me:
Can you bear the first bullet, for the cause!
I didn’t answer and he heartily laughed, and continued:
Everybody is afraid to die, whichever form it is;
You die of cholera, you even die of accidents
But taking bullets, it’s not worth
Even for a patriot, whose bodies are like mine,
All flesh and some tender love!

I looked at him and filled another round.

The reminiscence looms large, and
Early morning newspapers and even the news
Brought home by keithel kabi(s),
They all bear the frightening aspects of life,
In Manipur, an eight passed pity upon a professor
With certain demand letter, with or without an insignia
And the stamp was the thunder of cheap bullets
And we were guilty by association, with
Dreams and aspirations and Hunger!

* Written some months back.

Waiting For Another Morning!

They called it morning blues,
For me, they were appetizers, for the day ahead;
My days start with little starters, that
They called whimpers, being not able to recite
In the morning, unlike crows and cows
And they called it morning blues;
Sounds without sounds,
They are yawns!

Hard to believe though,
Like the music in the background
Shrieks, fire guzzlers and chants
In the morning, I seek words that sound wise
Profound words and lots of words
That explain yesterday night’s hangover, over
A fickle play called life!

In the morning, I hate to recite
No matter how disturbed I was yesterday night;
Shadows and all, so I need starters
But they still called by whimpers and
I continued to celebrate life;
No matter how fickle it’s shade are,
Quietly, waiting for another morning!

A Talking Poem!

Few more lines could have done.
But nowadays,
Words are more or less like deadpans:
They obey my whims and
They boil.
My whims are self-effacing, like myself.

So where are those lines?

I found myself,
Most of the time, humbled by words and
The perils chug along.