they call me an activist

Most of my nights i am drunk
most of the my days i am asleep
and they call me an activist..

I am not surprised
Obama got nobel peace prize

the economist

The economist is a good economist
he has a good looking daughter
with well combed hair
sometimes they are oiled too

he writes weekly in the Newspaper
except that i stop reading it
as news of raping prostitutes
have been reduced

He is a good fren of armies
he listens to them carefully
and never forgets to ask for Jack Daniels
He is a good economist

He listen to them say
“your state needs more BSF ”
He shakes hands with them
He makes fren with revolutionary too

He is a good economist
He knows both the sides
He writes good english
He earns good money

He manages seminars in the University,
about the State being freed from Militarization,
where there is an Army Camp
He sees students among armies everyday

Highway 39, 37 is his topic of writing
Sometimes he praised the Cheif Minister
saying there had never been anyone like the current one
Never forgetting how to become VC of the University

Some people were born artists

Some people were born artists
in rich family
they buy expensive cameras
and take pictures of Children in Slums
and exhibit in galleries...
and the critics say “Mumbai , Delh, has been exposed
thru shutter speed of blah blah blah”

i always wanted to be an artist

She wears one

She is a feminist
with big breasts
we have poetry reading together
once a month in her University
when she reads hers
she uses her hands
She performs poetry

Her breasts hang like ripe mangoes
that once i plucked in my neighbor's garden
she being a feminist
i wonder does she wear bras or not?...
but looking at her breasts
i convince myself she doesnt wear one
cos i know when they hang they really hang
No difference between fruit and breast
Gravity works the same everywhere on everything


God is likely to piss over us
for what i said
about killing him
with a broken bottle of beer
No one of you
shudn't walk out
from ur houses
i take the blame
it is all for me
I will face it..
i will gulp it down
like whiskey nights

feeling like orgasm

while sitting
on the stair
cursing this city
for its weather
Suddenly u feel
a cool breeze
it is like
one of those
instant orgasm
inside the bus
a middle aged woman's
small angled breasts

No one is inviting me

No one is talking to me about poetry
have they all really become poets?
No one is asking me about my ex lover
Have they known the truth?
No one is inviting me to protest events
have they stopped protesting at all?
No one is inviting me to dinner or lunch or party
have they seen me drinking like fish thos free drinks?
No one is talking about AFSPA
No one is talking about Manipuri Literature
Have they all been bought by Sanjay Hajarika?
No one is talking about teen sex
were they all born losing their virginities?
No one is talking of Art
Have they stopped calling their fart art?
No professor is calling me
Have they known I flirt with their wives?

nice neighbor

Life without sugar in kitchen
is not bitter at all
if u have a nice neighbour..

An appointment with the doctor

“your report says you are 29”
“Oh my boy! U gonna catch that old fashioned disease TB
you are too young to have it”
“Im actually 30”
“why did you lie”
“thats what we do in schools we filled the form one year or two year younger
we have been taught how to lie from schools”
“if you dont take rest for a month or so...u surely gonna catch the way what do you do? seemed like u do some heavy works..”
“Im a reasearch scholar”
“what do u research on?”
“aah... about Universe the stars the galaxy....”
“so u use telescope and all heavy are telescopes ,,,do u often lift them up and play with it? Ur report seems to tell me u do some heavy work...”
“i dont use telescope”
“then how do u study stars?”
“i do maths ,,,,algebra to study”
“oh u think u r some kinda god to study stars without looking at it...?,,,what else do you do?”
“aaaahhhh i write poetry too”
“ahhh Kabita!”
“what do you write about?”
“ write about me ..about things i observe...about things i hate///abou things that betray me”
“I thought poetry is about feeling,,,but urs seem to do a lot with only THINGS......
what time do u sleep and wat time do u get up”
“nothing particular....I am insomniac...i sleep sometimes very early...sometimes dont sleep at all”
“thats bad..u have to sleep in time...u have to follow a routine...”
“i know”
“then why?”
“just cant...i dont know why..i am seasoned to this cycle....”
“is it poetry and the THING that makes u sleepless ”
“may be I dont know”
“but u shud know if u keep living that kinda life u surely gonn die with TB”
“ TB is a good company of poetry....but i have never heard a poet suffering from TB”
“so what? U gonna be the first one”
“I will try to change my routine....”
“it is not only poetry that makes me sleeepless....there is music too”
“oh! U think of Music too”
“yes,,,a lot...”
“what type of music? Rafi's suhani raat? Bollywood item songs?”
“ music”
“your music....???”
“yes i play music....i sing a bit too...”
“what do u sing about?,,,is it again the THING?”
“i sing about Manipur, Kashmir, Binayak sen,etc”
“what is Binayak Sen?”
“it is a person's name...he is a great doctor like you,,,he listens to poor people..he treats them free..he was arrested by Chattisgarh police framing as a Maoist ”
“i thot he must be related to bollywood like konkona sen or riya sen....and waht do u sing of Manipur...? ”
“I sing about Irom Sharmila and other issues”
“who is she?”
“she is woman who has been on hunger strike for last ten years demanding of the repeal of AFSPA”
“how is she still surviving? And what is AFSPA?”
“She is in police custody and being forced fed thru her nose....AFSPA allows u to kill over suspicions...many civilians have been killled”
“Ok...what do u get out of singing all thiese thing?”
“then why?....dont worry now u gonna get TB”
“you know what NOTHING is what exactly u live for....u live for NOTHING....I get TB free but I live for what i believe...and By the way TB doesnt kill these days,,,u may be a doctor but i know it too....I have taken too much of ur ur next patient who may be living for NOTHING like you do...”

just another Bday

After months
I took out
my Bata leather chappals
and walked it to the Cobbler
he fixed it and polished it
i dropped 20 bucks
and walked back home
singng “English man in new york”
across the shitty slum
i slipped over a half eaten banana
and tore my slipper again
again i walked limping
to the cobbler
and dropped ten bucks again
he fixed it
and i walked back home
looking at ground silently
singing nothing
and a five hundred ruppee note
found me...
and i went straight to the liquor shop
called the day my birthday
and talked to few artists...
what kinda artists i dont remember

want to tear my poems someday

I wud love to tear my poems
but how?
i dont know
most of them
i type in my netbook

i need to buy a printer
to tear my poems
oh! that means
i need money
to tear my poems

8 am

8 am
just got back
from my usual morning walk
Oh! i dont walk evry morning
i walk only when i had a sleepless night

i saw an 8pm bottle
crying out its emptiness on the road
when the dogs urinated in it

i saw the old man sitting
shrunken withered
behind his thick glasses
betrayed by his own shop
where he once bullied me
while buying eggs
(he gave me broken ones)
now he is not allowed
to open the shop without his son
as his eye sight is very weak
and cant see the difference
between 100 and 500

though he noticed me and said
“why dont u cut ur hair, bahadur? ”
i screamed back as he is bit deaf
“I am not bahadur”
“how does it matter?
You still make chowmein
i have seen you buying noodles”- he said

oh what a stubborn old prick is he
in his withered nuts

7 am

I observe lots of thing
about her, the woman that hurried
to the bus stop in a loose sari
to drop her young son..
I wont tell u a single thing
about it

6 am

6 am
I needed nicotine
i got down from my flat
there was only two shops opened
mine was not opened
I am very particular about
from where i buy my things
like a thin black drug user
in hollywood movies
who is very particular about his supplier
i just dont smack
anything just like dat

So i waited for my shop to open
the owner came in yellow shirt smiling
behind his thick black moustache
greeting me “Oye Ronit”
D or T, he doesnt care...

he pulled up the shutter
and the first thing i saw inside the shop
was the thing that said “STAY FREE”
in big bold letters
and in smaller letter
it said “SECURE”
and i suddenly envied those girls, ladies, women
who get to use something that say “stay free”

What a luck a man has
we get things that say “Just do it”
and who knows where against the wall
or in the bushes of thorns...

i got my nicotine
with a free poem in my mind
and came back whistling

5 am

5 am,
bored very bored
not sleepy at all
not at all

The dharma bums became just another book
Bukowski was too old to excite me
Tenzin Tsundue was too much about refugee

i decided i wll have the darjeeling green tea
remembering what my neighbor said
“Green tea are for intellectuals”
So i decided to be an intellectual at 5 am
naked and ant bites all over my body

entered the kitchen
the basin was full with unwashed plates
i peeped insde the pressure cooker
something was spoilt
i cudnt fgure out...
i smelt it...yet i ddidnt know what was it
i didnt remember what i cooked two days back
but knew for sure it was rotten like hell

so rinsed the plates and pressure cooker
while the tea boiled
two little mouse came out
they too have decided to be an intellectual like me
It seemed

but i shooed them away..
with the pressure cooker lid
as im very particular about who else
are inetellectuals around me

and i sipped the tea standing in my balcony
flirting with the Sun-less- not-so dark sky
and believed “The Sun is a shameless Bitch”
as it comes up everyday .....

this time

this time ..Did i actually kill God
with a broken bottle of Beer?

Everytime I got drunk I killed a God
How many i have killed
Some with my spits
Some with my shits

Reading Books

Reading Books wont make you wise
u have already eaten enough shits
without thinking
the books were written to be read
that's why you read it foolishly
after your meals...
Just come out and sit in the streets
see the flies flying
see the bees buzzing
do you know why they fly shaking their butts in the air?
They know too little things of this shitty world
they dont read the books you read,,,
they just dont care...

that's my style

the grasshopper committed suicide
in my toilet bucket
there was not even enough water to drown him
but he did managed
that's his style

And me, I say "I am dead"
in every little poem i write
in every night i drink
I punch life away
I hang my soul from the ceiling fan
and burn it with cigarettes
and i live and I am gonna be thirty one
and that's my style

when relationship went wrong

When my first relationship went wrong
I became a poet
when my second relationship went wrong
I became alcoholic
when my third went wrong
i started sleeping on the roads
When my fourth went wrong
I published a book
named 'love is a whore'

Booze Hunt

3 am
we went to Nizamudin to get booze
crossing the shitty railway tracks
that smelt of real India,
with a dirty drunken old man
who led the way

we got two half bottles of Royal Stag
and two beer bottles for the ladies
we drank all
and they all went to sleep
how boring were they
they didnt even whisper
"we are fucking drunk "

Only me left on the road
looking around for a clean place
To sleep
but the damned dogs shooed me away