the newspaper

Look! look!
It is in the newspaper.
the Indian team has reached Sydney.
Let's pray for them.
Hope they come back with the trophy.

Hey! Hey!
What is today?
Today is Monday
the newspaper is filled with Christmas Stars
tell the kids to stop crying
O! how wonderful Christmas is around

Daddy! Daddy!
I am hungry
i have not eaten a loaf of bread
since yesterday...
boy! My boy!
It is not written in the newspaper
so you are not hungry probably
wait till it comes in the paper

i got a gunshot!
i got a gunshot on my chest
It must be in the newspaper.
Look out folks...

Oh! sorry!
It is not in the newspaper
probably you haven't got a gunshot
or it did not bleed at all...

O Son! my Son!

Do you feel cold?
Do you feel thirsty?
It was yesterday
you rose up tall
and looked down
on the paddy field.
You went away
like morning
bright and fresh.
You came back
like evening sky
the crimson sky
so red! so red!
All wet with blood
Open your eyes
it is no time for you
to be slept on my lap
your daddy is weak
he hardly smells alive
O Son! my Son!
Do you feel cold?
Open your eyes<

the story

If i was young
and tell them my story
that my father was killed in a riot
and my mother was thrown into fire
they would have given me a hug or two

If i was old
and waiting for my time to die
and tell them my story
that i had stood against the government
and exiled to Myanmar for ten years
they would say; “my eyes already tell the story.”

with my fist raising against the sky
i am just losing myself inside my story
i will be swallowed at the end
without a trace
Many me, again, will come
to be swallowed
to be sunken
to be drunken
to be numb
to be dumb

O! a story will be left unwritten
until the human fades

A dark room ( for Ka-Dhiren)

The sun was above heads
With its light tearing the different shades
Of green of the summer trees

A dark room!

His clothes hanging behind the door,
An exit to step on the slippery floor.
He dropped himself
Upon his old companion
Bed and pillow

Piled up newspaper in a corner
An old wooden guitar humming a tune
Without a guitarist
A shelf filled with books

Among it, ones that stood out
Were James Baldwin
And poems on Lenin.

Upon the shelf
A black and white photograph
Of his 15 years old love

Who somewhere in South Korea
Sailing backward in time
In search of a signature
Of early universe

What had he in common
With the painting
Hanging on his wall?

A painting,
Something to do
With the painter's mother

Which I heard the painter lost
When the strokes of his brush
Were not so strong.

Not so dark to see his hands
Stretching out in his sleep
To find his distant love.

His spectacles needed to dust
He hardly used it to look
At the far away hushes
Of her lips that moves in silence

Once I overheard him
Saying he doesn't really agree
With the meaning of sacrifice

But a soul, which sacrifices, is his.
He often reminds me of Hemmingway
When we talk of drinks

Darker the room gets
The more it becomes vivid
Like a first dawn
Seen by the prisoners after ages

want to fly to America

your daughter has become a lady
neither do i want to ask you for help
nor do i have enough money
to fly to the Brave New World..
neither am i impressed with the Statue of Liberty
nor do i care to pay homage to the twin towers..
i just want to listen to the words of his
neither does he recite poems of Shakespeare
nor does he sing like the nightingales
nor does he whisper in my ears
he just paints me with happiness
he just opens me up
like he dissect the roses in his lab
Oh! i want to fly
I want to fly to America
how i wish to have breakfast in America
with his Chinese tongue
speaking American english
sitting next to me
and me, a Manipuri
who has been scattered all over in India...
How complete that would be, Daddy?

Winter, Newdelhi, 2007

I was half sunken into sleep.
the day was not so shitty
In this awful city
your call made me emerge
out of my blanket.
we talked, ,
i hardly heard you
i just talked
what i wanted to talk in my dream
we hung up...!
Soon hunger stabbed my stomach
so i tiptoed inside the kitchen like a cat
i found an egg
i found some ngari with green chili
so i whistled the rice in the cooker
like local trains of Delhi-Faridabad route
while the cooker was in charge of my rice
i read little magazine...
i read poems
i strummed guitar
i wanted to talk to you...
i was just hungry.....
still hungry my dear

these pockets are never filled
this heart is never touched by anything
without you! !
so i left my mustache unshaven
let it grow
let it sow
the seed of an artiste in my face
let there be traces of this phase
of my life, that a part is with you

ngari - fermented fish eaten widely in north east part of India

I was stripped (Assam, 24th November, `07)

I was plucking tea
when the Brahmaputra river was overflowing.
nature brought justice to all.
so we suffered together.

Winter paved nature to Spring.
with my little hopes
outshining the green garden
i was singing, dancing and plucking Tea!

the city was celebrating everyday.
i could see its smoke rising.
men were spitting out beetle juice
walking with those shoes.....

the armies were ambushed.
the girls were taken away to be sold away.
my folks were singing our Adivashis' songs.
in the rhythm, i was still plucking Tea!

I walked out with my folks one day
out of my tea garden on the streets of the city
where people love the smell of my hand-plucked tea
i thought i was saved under the umbrella

But I was stripped, I was chased
I was kicked, i was dragged
I was running naked all over the city
With tears, with fear

these hands that plucked the tea covered my breast
i ran, watched by the eyes of the city...
Oh! these hands will never stretch out again for tea
Oh! these breast will not be milked but blood

Liberated zone, Gujarat and the Pig's farm

For decades and decades
Genocide and foeticide
Like usual words on the newspapers
Printing, read away unnoticed like pepper
On breakfast plates
Of men who know no sweat.

The communists are turning into pigs
The pigs of the “Animal Farm”
Look at Nandigram
The pigs just sent the cadres like swan
To the land where the people have cried
Waiting for rain,
Cursing the piggy government
For being ignored
When the pigs wore
The tag “friends of the poor.”

Out of imitation
They fantasize of industrialization
Oh! Is that a civilization?
Or a definition of globalisation?
Oh your poor men needs no such piggy act
You will remain a scar in their lives
You will be remembered
When every peasant sings the harvest song

Inside the liberated zone,
People shiver with sweat
The Maoists knocks the door
Asking their sons to join the gun battle
In return the shivered hands hand out 500rs
When the shivered hands are paid
200rs per month.
At last with tears they depart their sons
To aim the Kalashnikovs down
At their own village
The cops are being ambushed
And left with words;
“It’s a war and forget winning,
We don’t even know how to fight it.”
The Maoists, they spell a true rebel
Still a threat to the poor men.
Some fled the camp and ran to Andhra
Where they worked as daily wager
They read of their own village being burnt
In the battle.
Boys with SLRs patrolling the streets
Where they should be playing cricket
Like every boys in the rest of country

(The above stanza is based on a recent article in Hindustan Times called 'Liberated Zone'. It is all about the truth and pain that the villagers suffer because of the Maoists. Most affected district of Chhattisgarh because of the rebels is Dantewada.)

The saffron turbaned man
Walking and preaching
The streets of Gandhi
Singing a lullaby to the ones
Who are already sleeping.

Gujarat! your priest Mr. Modi
Is not so Holy.
All he knows is playing Holi
With the mask he wears,
With your blood behind your veil

Gujarat, your fathers and mothers
Are resting looking at your colourful play.
On the red stained playground
You are sleeping after the play…
Don’t you smell blood?
Don’t the screams of death wake you up?
Don’t you feel the heat of the flame
That ceases yesterdays?

Oh! wake up before the preach baptize you.
Wake up! before they saffronize your thoughts.

Inside the stories, a story is still left to tell.
Underneath the ground a rusted needle is left,
A wrong foot will be pricked soon someday.
A flame in the middle is untouched and unseen
Its killing roar silences the passers by.


While the sun was setting,
With a little sweet song
A melancholic song without words
She was grooming herself
With a smile on her lip
With a lipstick
Like a painter
Sitting in front of a painting.

While the cattle were heading homeward
And the girls were fetching water
She was wearing flowers in her hair
With or without a care of the darkness
Ahead that evening…
The flowers became alive
As they knew it is what they are for

While the tear was brimming in my eyes
She changed
Transformed from my love of her
That I died and cried
To make her my love forever
She prided on it
Like a virgin bride

She walked away
That very evening
She sang away
That melancholic song in the crowd
Leaving me alone
With the emptiness in the mirror
In which she left her sweet little wordless song.
I found the words were I in the mirror.

While the stars were twinkling
I waited for the song again
I waited for her heels to clank the marble floor
I waited for a sound of her bangles
But all that I sensed was silence
All that gave me some warmth was my own tears

My butterfly, she flew away
Leaving me colour blind


All I want is a freedom
To walk without being stopped
Or questioned
From spring to autumn

All I want is a season
To be naked in the sun
Standing in the middle of road
Reciting my own poem of freedom

All I want is to roam free
In my own land or country
Without being asked my identity
Or about my insanity

All I want is you
To walk away packing your bags
Zipping your mouth
Unloading your guns

Go to the place
Where people have lived their lives
Where they tell a good history to innocent sons
Where they pity us for being what we are…

They have worn our skin
In television, in newspapers and in books
With our broken hearted mothers
With flames that rose from every streets of my land

All I want is my poor men
Writing their own song to sing
Farming their own land to harvest
Bringing up the kids to plough the history

All I want is a good history to start
I have heard enough of rivers crying
I have found enough of death to live again
I have tried enough to rise, let me rise

She (fades)

Nights after nights
Dreams slip away from her sleep
all that remains are black and white
silent and motionless dream
the body aches in her sleep
the shoulder cups those strange chins
tears fighting against the sweats
but defeated hundred times
it just falls on the innocent face
stained with the smell of stink breaths
she serves with tears and her body
while the priest serves with words
she is crucified on her bed
with her yellow blouse open
while Jesus is scented with flowers
and with rich men's wives inside the church

She was left alone
when the world celebrated
its globalisation
they will be her company again
when there is a storm inside them
when no hands know how to grab the dicks
when no site seeing glitters their eyes
And so she waits for a good meal
without a smile on her lips
without hunger to survive any longer
but with tears spreading her world
where rich men drown....

funeral of ronid

I went to the funeral of my friend;
the soldiers were shooting in the air
perhaps they were aiming at his soul
which broke free from being victim
still they were not leaving him
the trumpets were soaring high
the drums were banging
his daughter was confused
whether to mourn or get away
from the devil eyes
His wife in white in tears
rolling and tossing on the ground
like she had been forced
oh! there is no such pain like death
to whom you love when you die..

“not the pictures,
not the memories
just take me along as i am
Oh! my love! my man!
take me with you
take me as i am. ”


The wind is calm and the rain is drizzling.
The sun is half sunken into the mountains
The shallow river is black like hiding beneath a veil
Only the sound of streaming pebbles towards its flow
Water droplets dripping from the banyan leaves
Dripping on the road where you lie
With a knife, stabbed, on your back.
Every falling droplet is a ticking of time
For your losing soul.
You hear a sound of boots
Stepping on the road, ahead of you.
You lift your head with such pain that you moan.
Your hand against the pool of blood, from your heart,
Helping you to put yourself upward to see an old friend
Your eyes squeeze in surprise to see an old enemy friend
You seem to recall your words;
“To kill your enemy you have to make friends.”
Every footstep I make, you slip backward.
Your life is running out on this very road you ruled
I walk closer and closer.
You seem helpless but still spitting blood on my boots.
But this time your aim is not as good as earlier
(You used to love spitting on my face…)
You seem surprise to see my empty hands
To help you grab back your half death life…
I smile like I see a stranger on a road to a funeral.
(Yes! It is indeed a funeral)
You are silent like a lamb but fills with shame and fear
You know I carry a revolver with six bullets in it
Anyone of it is written with your name you know
But I am not triggering it anymore to blow your head
Your tears seem honest enough and your hands tremble
I take you back to life like soldiers helping another in war.
You are grateful to me
I wash you with hot water
While you tell me who stabbed you
You tell me your bones shivered
When the tip of the knife drills through it…
I too know how it feels
So you say “thank you”
But you know no words are needed to me
I have been numb for years
There are layers of hatred and pain covering my bare heart
Nothing can prick me except with blood in my own hands

We go on!

My smiles are not telling you anything about past
My bullets are no more aiming at your heart
You seem to love my hut and running on the empty fields
You are back to the friend I loved once
You cook we eat together
I dig a pool we hide from the sun together
Over a cup of tea
We argue of things we have never argued before
With a cup of tea
We browse the newspaper skipping the front page
The front page is for your disappearance
Disappearance of a young man who steals publicly
Disappearance of a friend who kill friends
Disappearance of a lover who steals human thought
Disappearance of a pretender and traitor
Disappearance of a public figure with many responsibilities
Over a cup of tea
They must be wondering for your death body
Over a cup of tea
You tell me your story why you don’t want to go back
As if I know nothing of you
I smile; you know what a smile can mean.

Days gone by,
Season changes, I change
Clouds drifting from dull sky to clearer sky
Birds flying, leaves falling,
Tears crying somewhere
I change like a potter’s pot
From sphere to cylinder
From thick cup to large and tall flower vase
But I remain clay
Earlier soft, now hard and seasoned in fire
So over a cup of tea
I shoot you down with all six bullets
The newspaper is all splattered with your blood
I cover your face not to see
The smile I brought back on your lips
I burry you in the pool
I dug where we hide from the sun together
Mother earth has swallowed you!
I put a tombstone above you
With an epitaph of my own bloody hand;

“To kill an enemy
You have to make friends.
Hope you rest in peace.
Ghost of This land, William the Preach.
Expired on 28th, October, 2007

Revelation is not expected
Brutally shot with six bullets.”

I am leaving you all alone underneath this soil
I know you are loving it
After the heated six fired bullets is inside you.
You are tamed now
Like a new born calf being held and roped.
I turn my head and turn on my radio.
White noise! …Then
Old Woody Guthrie is singing Tom Joad;
“They stood on a mountain and they looked to the west,
And it looked like the Promised Land.
That bright green valley with a river running through,
There was work for every single hand, they thought,
There was work for every single hand.”

PS : The last five lines are taken from Woody Guthrie's "Tom Joad."

Clown in their Circus

He came, down and low
like he was robbed, he looked pale
and hungry but he said he was fine
he told me he came to see me
yes! I am the clown in their circus.
he said he found a lyrics
on a dashboard in his dream
he wanted me to sing it out loud
with all my moves and breathes
Oh! I was not paid for it
still i did it 'cos
i felt it was part of my existence
he went home singing:
“revolution is all you need
just don't eat what they throw at you”

She came, laughing and singing
like a school girl being driven home
from a hard lesson by an old teacher
she lit up a cigarette
and took a puff of smoke
every time she forgot the song
she passed me the smoke
i inhaled it and soon i realized
i am the clown in their circus
she too found a bottle of Russian Vodka
from her rich world.
Soon we became high
higher than any clouds of Meghalaya
so i sang “Everybody must get stoned”
yes! She too left singing:
“Every body must get stoned”
throwing her long black hair
back in autumn's mild wind..

Oh! there came another existing soul
he or she by that time, i did not care
the soul was hungry
i stole an egg from my neighbor's fridge
i boiled it and threw some salt and pepper on it
than it was fed, soon a cup of tea followed the egg
i sang the soul “i am the clown in their circus”

my little mad child

It is for you!!
Every time I turn on the light
You run away
I can see your tails being stuck
Smell of your wet hair
Fills me and drown me
In your memories..
Tell me one reason
Why you love to run
When you say you want me
In a very Dylan way
Like I am the north country girl
Like I am the sun in Mozambique
Like I am the dune on the beach
Like I am the tambourine man
For your sleeplessness
Or you wait for the saxophone
To blow by Knopfler
Under the blue Ocean
Or you want me to ride a horse
Upon a saddle and come saying
Picking a garland
This is what you left along the road
To your poetic friends and rich world
Once we bought it, you remember!!
Oh! funny is life
Oh! sunny are the days to come
Horny are the words inside clothes
Silly are the innocent ways we were .
Where is the end to start
You just leave before we end
You just puke before i feed
I just die before we lie

American Dollar

about me
they die and lie
for me
they fight and cry
about me
they prostitute the child
for me
they suck the lives
about me
the newspaper prints
for me
they come and go
about me
they roll up the collars
for me
they are not capitalist
for me
they are costumers
i am a widower
left alone to prostitute
to substitute
whores and boars
i am the american dollar

A widower, I am

I am not heard
As I am hurt

I am so silent
Like those mountains

I am not fine
As I miss my old wine

My company was she
When I walked and slept

She tickled me
With her fingers on my hips

She flickered her cigar
Till the ashes filled the fish jar

All it was I
Who saw things between my eyes

Never knew myself
Like those books on the Wiseman shelves

It is all me
Tossing and rolling in this sleep

The widower I am

It is only I
Looking out for a better goodbye

I walk
They look around for her
But no one shows up

I talk
They wait for her name
But my tongue misses it out

I sleep
The dream comes
But all black like crow

I eat
They serve me the Lebanese rolls
I miss the taste and the cream

I drink
But I miss the fire

It is all I now
Who made her say

She is weak like a thin twig
She sobbed

I knew it was not she
It was meant to teach me

Something I had not learnt
In this life of 26 years

I said it is just a chapter
She said don't flatter

And she lost me

Akhu's Protest Blues

I have seen people burnt to death
They watched lamenting, “it is indeed sad”
I have seen gunmen snatching money
In the name of revolution, Oh! It is funny
Even some activists turning to fundamentalists
What to wear and not, Oh! Not so socialist
What to drink and not, Oh! I am so pissed
Even they want the motors to howl with the scripts
The madness of fanaticism is in its peak
I have heard of activists going to Geneva
To see the place and back with sweeter saliva
I have read writers and essayists
Who live in one-dimensional universe,
I forgive them they have lesser idea of Physics
My own drunken green men are still strayed and barking
On the very streets where their folks protested..

Before my hey days are over
I am going to load my gun
It is not fun
Watching the whores-like
Politicians and gunmen
Robbing me and my woman

I am going to protest in my thong
Under Samu-Makhong
Whoever that comes closer with boots
I am going to shoot
I will ask my percentage
From every breath they take, they are ass!!

I protest against the politicians
Wish I could make them run naked
To see how fatty their asses are
I protest against the magician-like builders
They can not let it stand straight and tall
When a neutrino passes it is going to fall
When there is a piercing of virgin it is going to fall
I protest against the gunmen
They do not deserve a gun but a pinch of sand
Not even a yard of land in this land to stand
I protest against the cops
Wish I could turn them to corpses

I am a burning candle
Trying to lit a volcano
I am a broken bangle
Trying to set her free
I am the jingle
That starts after the end
I am the singer
Who sings this song of protest…
Kill me before
I kill you

A New World: Maria

Now we came to a good end where we both agree to New World. Maria's coming back leads to a new world where no blood shed revolutions exist and no to poverty. We both know this is something impossible but for the sack of pleasing ourselves, who are well affected by unseen things happening around, we just come to this end unknowingly.

And this was written by my friend:

enough to create a new world,
without fear hate or deceit..
where fathers do not die,
with bullets in their head and dreams in their eyes.

A new world,
where an eternal spring,
blossoms in unending green,
where rivers flow filled with elexar
and winds bring changes of prosperity.

A new world
where my friend you and me,
sit together and share a laugh
watching rainbows which span the mountain.
The same atmosphere
same mountains
same people
brightened with gloss of brilliance,
which maria can bring

Maria is enough

My reply:

she searched her soul
found it thousand times
she hit the same atmosphere
same mountains
same people cupping their chins
with their awful hands
Maria knows no sacrifice
she is programed
and following her selfish genes
implanted on her breathe
yeah things cant be destroyed
you have to make them to ashes
and wash it away
indeed it is the way
Maria knows exactly
what is she upto
not a hand not a word
of sympathy she needs
she is enough

Maria's Melancholy

Still we are high and my friend replied back:

Maria’s melancholy,
A mysterious misfortune;
Maybe be a myriad mirage.
She searches her slain sire;
Sublimed into supernatural…
Subconsciously simulating stormy scourge.
Blood boils, brews bigotry;
Bounces brains beyond bizarre.
Leave no latitude for logic.
Lives are lost; leaving lesions.

She should sit and search her soul;
Sober out and see,
Sacrifice her sire made,
For her and her unborn children,
Who will till these forgotten fields….
Sow peace and reap a golden harvest,
And remember their grandfather…
He will live in them forever.
“Matter can neither be created nor can be destroyed.”

Maria's Swollen Eyes

Even the witches in Macbeth
Will not be able to trace a bird
That flew over Maria’s head.
Neither can they tell the fortune
Nor they are informed about hands of death
They have to seek for shelter from the storm
Maria’s swollen eyes gonna get burst in blood
It gonna paint the town in red

The real prey is now praying to the sun
Not for another night
Which took away Maria’s daddy
Where the wind blew away
Daddy’s sonnet
And fitted a bullet in his head
The sky will be torn apart
The clouds will get darkened than ever

Maria is reaching them
Marching on the same roads they used to
Maria has forgotten the friendly fields
Where she walked upon the cotton like soil
Now all that she remembers
is the soil that buried his father and her dreams

Maria's Blues

Our conversation still lasts

By my friend :

Maria had swollen eyes,
swollen with rage,shock or guilt,
I do not know..
The mist in them clouded the crystals they used to be.

The fields lie barren,
her father used to till them..
Orphaned like her on the alter of hatred.
But who will sing songs of sacrifice
her father made for me...
or her maybe.

She searches for a sunrise,
which sleeps inside her,
potent enough to change the way rainbows used to be.

and I have a deep resolve;
To spread the warmth abound.
on the fluorescence of rice saplings,
yet unsown
on those friendly fields

Maria's Daddy

Soon Maria became a medium in which we have our conversation about poverty, revolution. Yes indeed it has become a bed time story. But it does not stop haunting me.

Maria a name of my poetry came out in real and made me sleepless many nights.

Never a character in my poems so far existed in mind. Perhaps it is the first character i have and it will remain forever haunting me and hovering in my poetry land.

She was a synonym to revolution, a revolution next to impossible. Being a girl left her with no chances to fight back against the people who took her daddy’s life.

She was lost in her thoughts of getting her grip on the neck of her enemies...........

I am lost too..... Maria, just like you

Maria's daddy could be you
Who hated his empty stomach
Whose eyes were fixed to the rainbows
That never set its shadow on earth

He admired the Olive green
Just for the respect they got
They neither protected him from bullets
Nor from the sunny days and rain of summers

Maria a name of a song
You could hum on any journey
Like any newspaper wrapped sweets
It was sweet to look at and lovely to hear
But the red eyes you and i never felt
Cos it burns
We do not wanna get burnt

Her daddy got burnt
He was not confused
Yes he hated everyone
Except the blade of the plough he used
That too cut him into pieces at the end

There is no red revolution left
Everything seems wild and out of hand
Maria has gone wild too
She is longing for another dawn
To steer the day in her ways...

A man who met Maria

In my last update of this blog, I posted a poem called “Maria.” I pictured Maria as a victim of a society which is economically inefficient and politically anarchic; a synonym of such society is Manipur, my homeland. Her father, an ordinary poor man, was sick of his life and wanted to revolt against the suck system which eventually cost his life. Maria was left alone. She found no reason to live.
Her mother and siblings were not mentioned in the Poem so far.

A friend whom I came across through Orkut wrote to me a poem in reply to Maria:

I met Maria, once
By the bridge on Imphal river.
Under the open autumn sky.

She had thousand questions in her eyes
and I had answers to none...
Who perhaps killed her father?

He was a nice man,
I knew him well...
And we often used to sit together
Trying to understand each other...

I do not know how much he understood me,
But sure I was..
He was like me
a human with a heart...

He was killed,
Stuck between distrust and hatred;
Of men in olive green
Men with red rhetoric

But what I should tell Maria,
Was it me or her
Who bore the burden of her death…?

Me ..
I was his Faith in olive green
And she
His hope in red revolution.


It was the time
Maria was young and fine

News in the radio
Breaking silence of shadows

Maria’s daddy was shot
Nobody knew what he had shot at

Maria ran out on the streets
Streets to the death and shits

She found bullets in his head
And a sonnet in his pocket

She dug the soil of his garden
Buried him with a garland

Turned her head to the captain
Said, “Thought you been kind.”

Maria ran away with her red eyes
Looking at the setting sun and the sky

Flowers shattering into petals and stamens
Wind humming what tomorrow might bring

Maria has become a bed story
But there is yet, to come, a glory

Dawning Sky

Another dawn with another poetry
Woke up sweating with insanity
The old ceiling fan crying tirelessly
With its dust sprinkling all over the room
Sleeping bare-naked on the floor
Scratches all over my body
Turned the light on
Checked whether I was bleeding
The clock struck 4 ‘o clock
The empty bottle of coke
Rolling back and forth
In the mournful rhythm of the fan

Lit a cigarette
Opened the door to the dawning sky
I inhaled the smoke
With a deep breathe
The fire glowed like a firefly
The twinkling fading stars
Beneath Dylan’s diamond sky
The tall buildings aiming at the sky
The next-door old man with his Tiffin
Leaving to earn for his daughters’ wedding
Summer at dawn has its own beauty
Inside every room there is humidity

The cigarette burnt out soon
The fire seemed to lit the sun
Soon it rise
Clearing the sky
My dawn was over restlessly
And a beginning of poetry
I sat down with a pencil and note pad
Facing my messy kitchen
The pressure cooker often distracted me
The empty sack of rice made me worried
Soon a cat caught my attention
And she took away my poetry

Poetry to me
Is as instantaneous as bullets
I cannot follow Mayakovsky
I do not aim to make it a sonnet
How can I write about Chile?
I am not Neruda or any Poet
And not about black Americans
I am not Baldwin or Toni Morrison
I see limited things
As my space and time is too
They do not see things that I see
There are many like me who are voiceless

How I started and how I ended
It seems there is no flow
But it is a mirror
And in mirror you do not see
Any discontinuous image
Do you?
Look at my dawning sky
And look at my mirror image
You think there are broken paths?
You think I am trying hard to be a poet
No, I am not
It is just a celebration of little me..

what are you upto?

I address to you
My lost-track trekker
Our comradeship
Will not last long

You started it
With a saddle on a pony
And you left it
Wounded upon the field of paddy.

Your redness fades
Towards nonsensical usual fun
Of attracting attention
Of people to your sons.

So many boys and girls
On the same road
We died
Over a mouthful of rice

So many ladies are fish netting
Worrying with the sun’s setting
In your non-appearance

No wonder
If you come asking
The number of meals
You missed

In return
You will take away those fish
Which forget to breathe without water
Like water is to fish
Money is to your revolution.

Forget the revolution
Still you have not brought a change
Except your black boots and belts

So many men succumb
Waiting for a change in this world
Never realise there is in between a wall
Greater than “Great wall of China.”
And a comrade like you towered it
Against the clear sky of promises.

Your sons are foolish
All they know is only two things smoke
The guns and the fast cars.
They drop the horses dead on road
They left the enemies’ radio turned on
Unknowingly they sang along
From the basements they honk

How do they get out of your cage?
A cage next to freedom and liberty
As you promised.
They will soon drown
In their own blood, inside the ladies’ gown.

Thought you would show
There can be a way
Not to the gutters
Not to the mountains
But on a plain
Not upon the painted chairs
Not underneath the earth
But beneath our different faces and skin

Winter nights are warm for you
Because you sleep on the ashes
A left over heat of your tamed anger
How shall I categorize your act?
So many outfits or idiots like you
Rule my moves and heartbeats

I collect every teardrop and sweat
I shed
You take it way and say
You are wiping it
Not the tears I want you to wipe
But stand by me when I sweat

I sleep less
Since the day I smelt the burning
Thought I would be numb
But no, eventually got burnt

Wish I could scratch their eyeballs out
The ministers’.
Wish people really burnt them
On the streets
Where the Dogs are guarding them

You soon look back
Where you left the beginning
Or we will come to the end…

A Lonesome Try

Tongue cut out,
Black ribbon
Across the eyes
Not a hand to wipe
The tears off.
On the knees,
Walking towards a window
A light from a window
Beaming on the eyes
A subject of a depressed artist
It could be
But the heart beats
He cannot paint
With his brushes
He cannot make it
So red like blood
With his knives
Sorrows and painful
Memories of the days
Are darker
Than every funeral
Mourners' clothes


I did not want to exist that moment

As I felt pointless to tell the truth

And there was nothing that you would think

Is reasonable to cry out

I was broke since I became

Part of this rich cultured world

I was so torn like a bamboo basket

That had been soaked and forgotten

And still I am.

I wanted not to be me

I looked around for a change

But the mirrors reflected only me

I crashed the mirrors

And got inside it

And I ended up inside a saloon

With a barber with the longest hair

I asked him how could I change?

He thought with the scissor picking his teeth.

A smile brightened his face

He said, “That is why I exist.

I like people like you

Who comes to me with better meaning of me

Not just to cut their hair to bear the sunny days.

And I wanted to be different

That is why I have this long hair.”

So he shaved my head.

And the lady to whom I lost myself

Did not like my shaved head

Or she hated me sweating

And I was sweating

But I was calm and quiet

Like it was a winter night

“Anyway” was what her eyes meant

She held my hand took me to her stairs

Where she faces the windy side of the city

I felt for the first time I was not in the city

She was making some soup

While I was watching the children flying kite

I saw the freedom,

The kites have felt

Strolling and winging

In the never ending sky,

In their eyes

Even if they came out from a 10 square feet room

My lady offered me the soup

With a steel spoon

Which once we bought

From the famous Darya Ganj Sunday Market,

Not to be mistaken

It is not the place where western influenced people go

To look for Levi’s pair of jeans

Or anything-branded clothes,

It is the market where books are sold

In the cheapest price they could be

It is where from I bought “Cinnamon Peeler.”

As I looked deeper and deeper

In the sky facing the wind

I was again reasoning for my existence

But she stopped me

And asked me “Can you fly Kite?”

I said no and had a sip of soup

She asked, ”How come?

Hadn’t you even tried once?”

I said no

I don’t want to feel unrealistic freedom

That the kites feel at the highest altitude

That too control by a soft thread,

May that was the reason unknowingly

I had never tried it……

burning me

things got burnt on the roads
and every lanes
that we have walked.
the fumes from the corpses
that had been torn
apart by the bullets
of smoking Guns
you think it is chaotic
and messy to see such bloody bodies
being displayed on the streets
but deep inisde a silence is haunting me
remembering the brighter lights
walking thru the tunnel of death
wish i could be a mother too
to guide the children
with the burning torches

Evening gossip in May 2007, Imphal

Evening came with all the stories
That one had seen on the day
Seven or eight of us were sitting
At the gate of one corrupt executive engineer
It seemed every one was a story teller
And soon we ran out of stories
It showed no one had stepped their foot
Out of their safe house or was it a bandh?
One was dreaming to go to Mumbai
One was saying to open a second hand cloths shop
Those cloths, you know,
The one you often know by its smell
One newly married guy started
How he listened to "Tambourine man"
When he did not have his pills
And asked his wife to sleep on a separate bed
It started drizzling suddenly
Everyone stood up
And ran under the little pan shop by the road
Which leads to Ukhrul
A married man chewing pan with his lips
Turned red like a woman pimp
In the bollywood movies
Welcomed us with his stories
He said he once was working as a bus conductor
And claimed there is no difference
Between being a conductor
And airhostess
The difference was how we smell
And the mini skirt chicks smell
He started with how Old Monk
Made him awake the whole nights
And playing cards inside the Howling Night super bus.
In between his different stories
He also kept mentioning about some ongoing Soccer league
He said his wife had never to cook with fire woods
Even when the blockade was going on
Oh! The stories went on

Soon there came another guy
In a drenched sleeveless shirt
Saying he just returned from a field
Where a guy was killed and left
By Manipuri Commandoes
Commandoes claimed he was an insurgent
But he said the body was his friend's
Who was married for five months…
And have a three months old baby
He just looked at the rain and sigh:
"Fuck these Commandoes
They put a revolver in his hand
And said he was so and so
And see tomorrow in the newspaper
How the media narrates this incident
Oh we are not safe to walk on this land"

Suddenly a two drenched girls passed by the road
In the famous vehicle of the town called "Activa"
Every one seemed to forget what we were listening to
We just felt happy seeing the two girls
Some passed some comments
Some said she must be great in cooking
Some really seemed to see their curves

They went on like a rolling stone
Some mobile phones kept on beeping
And the receiver kept on showing it to others
Who does not own one...
Soon everyone has departed
To sign their evening signature
To the local liquor shop
Alcohol is banned by many outfits or idiots
But by nights everyone smells good
Like the Jasmine I smelt once
Inside the Pune University campus

Darkness all around the town
Every lane is filled with drunk and doped sons
Every one has got a gun
It is cheaper than the pumpkin from Moreh
The authorities make it cheap
Whether you look down from a mountain
Or drown inside a pool of your own urine
Or you dream to make love
Inside the war cemetery with your love
All you see is the gun
Because you are the son
Of this land

I Am Naked

I had painted myself in blue
When I swam across the ocean
They saw my skin

I was naked

I had painted myself in yellow
When I walked through the field of daffodils
They saw my skin
I was naked again

I had coloured myself in black
When I slept deep in the darkness of night
But they saw me
I was strangled in the dark
I bled and puked my life out

Once I met a man
He was everyone
he could possibly be
A lover, a friend, a feminist
A loser, a man, a communist
A liar, a bastard, a capitalist

He spoke like the man
Upon the steepest mountain
Who could taste blood
When he stood under the fountain
But he saw my skin
As I had shed my clothes
For a bath in a pool
Of the dreams that he showed to me
I was a naked girl again
Then a spear pierced me
I drowned in tears of my crying

The travelers are deaf and blind
If the road runs against weakness and helplessness.

"All men are equal"
Why men not women?
Or is it like this:
"All women are slaves
and born to give birth to men"

Now I have nothing to speak of
Except the silence of intolerance
Yes, I am naked
Look at me,

Look at my skin

Feel the curves
Get on my nerves
If I am not wrong
You enjoy your mother.

A Silent Night's Sketch Of Summer

silent night silent memories
gradually grab the darkness
and leads me to a highway
Of rainy days
On the beach of an Ocean
where pink is the slippers
where blue is the water
where yellow is the sky
where flowers bloom in her hair
I forget I am colorblind
indeed I am not
indeed I see the colors
of things that i have not seen
earlier when i was crazier!!
my windows opening
against the darkness
the yellow curtains
that i washed once
on the new year eve
waving in the air
making me realize
i am nowhere on a highway
but inside my room
Silent cries
of the babies in their sleep
the roaring air cooler
the woman sleeping in the balcony
opposite to mine
not caring of her wayward blouse
as the sun still reminds
how hot the day will be
and the night is followed
by the husband's rebukes.
summer here is different
night here is not silent and still
might sound to you like a lie
but the flowers would have withered
by now if you were here
without an umbrella
One more thing
i want to tell you
mornings are incomplete
without the silent alarm
of your touch to wake me up
by your hands with the black mole
you know i am not colorblind
because i blindly look at the colors
and chose the one i had once
here April is ending
but it is where T S Elliot
starts his Wasteland
Oh! i just dragged him in
to make it poetic
because i have a habit
of making things sound poetic
even i will leave this world poetic
even i will drown poetic
Even i cry poetic
i see things like i am reciting a poem
the crowded markets the roadside romeos
the beggars the winters the autumn
all things are poetic to me
even the dirtiest politics
of the men in the chair are poetic to me

they say i am crazy
she said i use my poems to attract
the girls in pink
to follow me and fall together
into the category of stupidity
but i know who loves my poem
and who does not
Once i was told
"i am like this"
yes I am like this
i have been living for seven years
in a place called Sunlight Colony
where the Sun never bothers to shine
but the heat waves strike
in every summer
not a summer i missed
not a drop of sweat i left untasted
not a song of Bob Dylan
not a word of his protest
i missed
whether it is summer or winter
everything is poetic to me
even the Russian language
sounds to be rhymed
even if i don't know
when it does not snow in Moscow
Oh! Summer nights are poetic
Oh i can keep on writing
without an end
like the vastness of your blue sky
like the never ending dreams
of the dying old man
Like an orphan
i can narrate you the darker side
of the father daughter relation
like a river
i can keep streaming my ink
forget to tell you
about the children in summer
Oh! they are lovely
but dirty and stink
they love to have sugarcane juice
the juice of the poor
they love to play cricket
every kid here is Sehwag
when power goes off
the streets are filled with balls and bats
bigger and longer than the kids
they sweat they sweat
till they faint till the power comes
for another Bollywood calling.
yesterday a small girl in her panty
bearing the heat with her running nose
asked me, "Are you a Sardar?"
i said, "no."
then she asked, "why do you tie your hair
why do you have long hair and pony tail"
I just smiled with my small slanted eyes
made even smaller than ever in a childish way
my Hindi ran out before I could reply
even if i would have known proper Hindi
i would have been blank
still i have no answers..
where was I
where Am I now
i just do not know.
But Everything is poetic
but i know thats why i survive

Tapan's Flutes which i brought from Pune..

What shall i do with your flutes?
Should i give it to those communists
Whose voices have not been heard anywhere?
Or should i make a whistle blower out of it
For the silent Indian trains
which carry the outlaws, the rapist, the theives?
Or should I take it home to Imphal
Where the Green men rule and make us crawl
Under the Unkind Sun?
Or should I give it to Dr. M Sami
As the last gift from your side
For showing you those Mughal styled Biryani
With flies all over it
In the crowded market of Okhla?
Or should i leave it too a bengali sweet shop
to collect it by a Bong who pretends to love art
And who talks of rabindra sangeet and revolution.
Or should I come to Howrah or Coffe House
To play my distorted tune
Of Pather Panchali (song of the little road)
Tell me before its too late
or you are on the way to take it back
I am leaving this capital soon
This city is dirty and shitty
I hate being dirt
And had too much of flirts
With these north Indian girls
Who have round eyes and pointed nose
Home is calling me
Neither I can wait for the another dawn
Nor i can come to Howrah
Nor i will play anything
I am just going Home!!

Streets Of Imphal

it is on the streets of Imphal
where blood streams out from the wall

it is on the streets of Imphal
where the smoking guns walk

it is on the streets of imphal
where the effigies of Ministers' being burnt

it is on the bank of Imphal river
where doped youngsters hide and giggles

it is on the streets of Imphal
where lovers are caught for the act of love

it is on the streets of Imphal
where you see the red stars hanging

it is on the streets of Imphal
where protester burn themselves alive

it is on the streets of Imphal
where civilians been killed for no reason

it is on the streets of Imphal
where you see the masked rickshaw pullers

it is on the streets of Imphal
where mothers are in flame at nights

ask me not a reason
for being a seasoned
Victim in this battle
of self determination

every morning leaves a dream
haunting across the streets of Imphal

we talk
of it got caught
in this town of frauds
we swam across
to run away like a toad
but the tails got stuck
at where we belong

we sing a song
to forget the dawn
as it never brings
a new me and you

Oh! Imphal,
home to many homeless soldiers
cemetery for many mothers' son .
i wanna tailor a gown
for you for every chaotic nights
that you have suffered.

Give me a day
they do not threat me
Give me a night
i do not hear a bang

I will show you the dream
which never slips away
even if the dawn breaks

Beggar's Lament

I curse you for all the good foods you eat
I hate you for all the warm winter cloths you wear
You disgust me with your unkind nature
Your pockets are with full of silver coins
But do not bother to notice a cripple
Who crawls towards your civilized door
Do not bother to look at it with an eyen open.

You are served with an apple a day,
Two meals and a breakfast a day.
You change your cloths

For every move you make.
The men come to polish your nails.
The men come to wash your inner wears.
And when you walk for a yard you pant

You just sweat and feel uneasy.
Your belly like you are pregnant

Coming out of you

You are so ugly and funny

I curse you for feeding your dogs with meat
I hate you for spitting

All over my road where I sleep
You disgust me with the way you scratch yourself
I am not going to beg you anymore
Even for all the good foods you have
Even for all warm winter cloths you have
Even for all the Gods you know

You have never slept on a road
You have never begged to anyone
But to the whores
You think I belong to this road.
There are thousands of roads
With thousands of people
Who sleeps half naked on the pavement
I am not alone
Half of your civilized world
Sleep on the streets……….