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.