Does anybody want
To drift along with me?
Does anybody love
Their motherland in this land?
O! I am drifting;
I am drifting into the river of blood.
Blood of those fighters
In the East Pakistan,
Blood of those who
Popped up in China
Through Lhasa.
I am drifting to become
Blood or flowers
Nobody knows
But unlikely I will be blood
Smile! 
Can you answer me?
Can’t you?
But my friend,
You please keep quiet!
Like a kid in cradle.
Let me play the game
With the Chinese toys.
My friend, you please keep quiet.
Don’t read me
Nehru’s “Discovery of India”
My friend you,
For Manorama’s sake, be quiet!
Your question has no answer
It is as old as our futile revolution
I will tell you
Or didn’t you see in the sun
In your back yard
How the hens’ raised their chickens
That too only with two legs
They didn’t even have hands
They didn’t even have brains
As sharp as yours,
(But yours contributes nothingness)
But you ask the silliest
Don’t ask me your question?
It is like how I will sustain my life
After my parents die
O! I am not stranded to sit hungry
Whole of my life
Watching the new red sun rising
O! Have you forgotten
A lady has been fasting for 6 years.
Why can’t I fast a year?
Why can’t you?
Just give me a year
I can remain hungry
And the coming year
I will be able to feed you too
Not only myself
And my wife and kids.
I have tried enough
To be Indian.
I play sitar.
I sing even Ghazal.
I love Kaifi Azmi’s poetry
I like parantha
On my breakfast table
The smell of railway teas, I still love
I even paid every beggar I met
From Bihar
To Chandni Chowk.
But they don’t own me
My Imphal sounds
Like Nepal to the ears.

They don’t realize yet
My face kind of people
Almost manufactured
The car they drive
The mobile phone they use
The world is half dominated by my face
You are like a pigeon
Boasting around
In your own courtyard.
O! I can’t be Indian I can’t be
I eat pork that makes me
Out of Muslim community
I eat beef that kicks me out
Of the Temples
Neither I can leave pork
Nor beef, such is my life, dear!

We better farm on our own land
Rather than being teased and pissed at
We better cry hungry
Rather than being slapped and raped

We have fields
We had a good history
Before the rice got exported
By the whites of the land
Where the sun had never set
In their Empire.
And now we have actors
To play the angry young men
O! All I need is to teach them how to dance
The dance within the blades
Of swords.
All I need is to teach them
How to deliver dialogues
The dialogues of silence
To face hundreds of Spartans
By a single actor
We don’t need to be from Argentina or Cuba
We can repeat the history
We can be as small as Cuba
But all alone with Shiroi lily blooming
In the end of spring till summer
All alone with brimming Loktak lake
And Sangai dancing in the song
Of Moirang Parva.


Dwipen Khwairakpam said...
This comment has been removed by the author.
Dwipen Khwairakpam said...

Are you possessed?? with spirits of Che Guavera... so nice thoughts well woven in words- unspoken,unheard of... thoughts of that distant land, once called "sana leibak"...
yes! i wish to be drifted along with you..

keep writing..God bless your thoughts...