The smoke breaking free from fire
Scattering in the sky
The lamppost across fields leaning on air
Naked wire entangling on it
The shallow water reflecting the hunger
Of the fishing ladies and the farmers.
Water droplets on the leaves
Teasing the eyes of many fools
The long and tall bamboos bending
Bearing the weight of black crows
The ashes been blown to the eyes of the people
The ashes of the death
They go blind, they see no routes
Moonlit nights open the eyes of blind
Oh! The leaves move in the wind
The droplets strike the ground
Before I can let go my thirstiness
The birds been disturbed at nights too
The young men dozing under the old banyan tree
Upon their wet towel after a bath in the Imphal river
The old men sitting and day dreaming
In the courtyards
Watching their daughter-in-laws
Mopping the floors
Weaving and knitting
their incomplete dream like warm cloths.
The one and only mother market
fills with noise and commotion
The prostitutes in their slangs communicating
Looking for young rich men
Who will listen to their mournful screams
The ladies from hills bargaining the price of the day
The protestors sitting in every corner
Cursing the armies and their laughter
And every tea hotel has the newspaper
With the picture of the fasting lady
Every solid angle I look at
I can see the tired soldiers patrolling
Pretending tough and cruel
If I smell gunpowder
I know what tomorrow might bring to the roads
i am crying (protesting against the Heirok Incident of 22nd march)
I am crying,
lying on this ground of blood.
the roads were stinked with blood
of the Paorabi bomb blast Incident
Now again, they apologize
for another three lives
what should i be saying or crying
i am left with nothing more to lose
they claimed it is a fight
against the government
Oh! those nights were the government
those lives were the politicians
whom your men depends
to hide from the soldiers
i am crying with blood
i am dying
without a heart beat left in my body
Please give up the guns
pack your bags
and jump underneath the soil
i would love to see a cactus
growing out of you
but don't spoil Loktak
it has already lost
the story of Khamba-Thoibi
we have brought nothing home
what you brought is tear
and you, a hypocrite
in the name of revolution
in the name of the son of this land...
Go kill yourself
let me not hear a gunshot anymore
just die suffocate yourself
with the phanek of the girls...
i am crying, i am bleeding
I have become Manipur
lying on this ground of blood.
the roads were stinked with blood
of the Paorabi bomb blast Incident
Now again, they apologize
for another three lives
what should i be saying or crying
i am left with nothing more to lose
they claimed it is a fight
against the government
Oh! those nights were the government
those lives were the politicians
whom your men depends
to hide from the soldiers
i am crying with blood
i am dying
without a heart beat left in my body
Please give up the guns
pack your bags
and jump underneath the soil
i would love to see a cactus
growing out of you
but don't spoil Loktak
it has already lost
the story of Khamba-Thoibi
we have brought nothing home
what you brought is tear
and you, a hypocrite
in the name of revolution
in the name of the son of this land...
Go kill yourself
let me not hear a gunshot anymore
just die suffocate yourself
with the phanek of the girls...
i am crying, i am bleeding
I have become Manipur
sons of the bitch(condemning the killings of non-manipuri)
like nomads
they came to this land of cheap bullets
when the sons were lazying like cats
when home meant shelters and food.
when children cried with empty stomach
and no more tears to roll down on the cheeks
they left the railway tracks to the beggars
they found a song to sing
and the sons of this land
listen to the nomads
hammering the mountains
for a couple of meals
the soil of the land has tasted their sweats
they had laugh at the jokes of the people
they had learn to breathe with the fish
the sons of the bitch came that day
the sons of the witches woke up from the wombs
they left the field painted in red
they left the ladies in white
Here is one left breathing
half killed with his scissors
half death with the half mended shoes of yours.
are you sparing him to narrate your heroic act?
You! sons of the bitch,
who do not know how to stitch,
who is going to be your patron
when will you ever learn to see
what do human value and home mean?
Our love song
One winter night in this fucking capital city of India
Somewhere in south, somewhere in our cloud
We sat face to face talking like everybody else
But we talked tear, we talked silence of cold winter nights
We caught each other with same blood under our veins
How you wanted to tell a story which never were told
How I wanted to write a poetry which never were written
We felt we will sail across the sea against the storm
Sung by this capital and the traitors among our colors
We indeed sail everyday with every cup of tea we share
With every puff of smoke we smoke
Despite the silence we see at each others’ eyes
A salute to the death man
A song to his grave and for his men
We will have someday
When the sound of enemies’ drum is fading
Let’s wait for the tear from their laughing mouth and the eyes
They will die with tears of joy in people’s eye
But we know what a drop of tear means when we die
The past often brings us a moment without so many faces
But a face which you regret for not wiping the tear
Yes the story of your friend who never tucked in his shirt
And how the laughter made your anger burst out
I could see in the eyes I saw
I could hear at the words you uttered
My brother my song
We are the numbers in the dark
With which you can unlock any capitalistic bank
With which any untold story can be told
We are indeed dark
We are indeed the another side of their lives
A flag is waving for you and me
To welcome against them
Against the bullets of their gun
Yes! We will have great fucking fun
Somewhere in south, somewhere in our cloud
We sat face to face talking like everybody else
But we talked tear, we talked silence of cold winter nights
We caught each other with same blood under our veins
How you wanted to tell a story which never were told
How I wanted to write a poetry which never were written
We felt we will sail across the sea against the storm
Sung by this capital and the traitors among our colors
We indeed sail everyday with every cup of tea we share
With every puff of smoke we smoke
Despite the silence we see at each others’ eyes
A salute to the death man
A song to his grave and for his men
We will have someday
When the sound of enemies’ drum is fading
Let’s wait for the tear from their laughing mouth and the eyes
They will die with tears of joy in people’s eye
But we know what a drop of tear means when we die
The past often brings us a moment without so many faces
But a face which you regret for not wiping the tear
Yes the story of your friend who never tucked in his shirt
And how the laughter made your anger burst out
I could see in the eyes I saw
I could hear at the words you uttered
My brother my song
We are the numbers in the dark
With which you can unlock any capitalistic bank
With which any untold story can be told
We are indeed dark
We are indeed the another side of their lives
A flag is waving for you and me
To welcome against them
Against the bullets of their gun
Yes! We will have great fucking fun
singing poet
i never mean to write a song
i never mean to feel so upset about the things
i never asked them to pay me
but i still dont give up to fight
my fight is weird my battle is a joke
but still my breathe is not to survive
my cry is not to release my pain
my songs are made not to be listened
If you listen you wont blink a eye
you wont breath a moment
'cos i have loved you enough
to be your friend to be your voice
all dreams at a time coming
to be seen by the eyes
to be heard by the ears....
what would you feel if the bamboo blooms
in your own eyes
will you cry for the menace people talked about
or would you enjoy the moment
trying to smell it trying to pluck it
it is happening to me
it is occurring in my only time of 27 years
So i would smell it i would bleed for it
i would die for it i would cry for it
i would laugh for it i would kill for it
to sing the songs for you
for you for you for you
i spend the nights sleeplessly
i cry with the pillows not to be seen by you
i fight with my stomach not to be ordered by them
it was happening to me it was real
now i have seen the rainbow
with its color and dispersion
no one can stop me from singing and being a poet
i never mean to feel so upset about the things
i never asked them to pay me
but i still dont give up to fight
my fight is weird my battle is a joke
but still my breathe is not to survive
my cry is not to release my pain
my songs are made not to be listened
If you listen you wont blink a eye
you wont breath a moment
'cos i have loved you enough
to be your friend to be your voice
all dreams at a time coming
to be seen by the eyes
to be heard by the ears....
what would you feel if the bamboo blooms
in your own eyes
will you cry for the menace people talked about
or would you enjoy the moment
trying to smell it trying to pluck it
it is happening to me
it is occurring in my only time of 27 years
So i would smell it i would bleed for it
i would die for it i would cry for it
i would laugh for it i would kill for it
to sing the songs for you
for you for you for you
i spend the nights sleeplessly
i cry with the pillows not to be seen by you
i fight with my stomach not to be ordered by them
it was happening to me it was real
now i have seen the rainbow
with its color and dispersion
no one can stop me from singing and being a poet
Tears from the mountains
You dug an ocean of belief within our drunken souls and eyes
Where we were convinced to see the salty water as blood of our men,
The salty sweat of farmers who were once called out on the fields
Against the great fucking clatter of gunfire by our unsung father Irabot.
Now when we open our eyes when we stage the play of your untold fable
Which you never sang in front of us, which you never asked us to listen to
You are gone but we know you have won, you have won inside us
You have won the tear of silence, the tear of the mountains
You have won the bullet through your chest, through your head
And you will never fade because you were never a fake
Thousands of roads may come to drag us
To make us crawl against the ground
Which they painted with the scar of their boots
But we will smell your blood on the ground
We will raise our head against the barrel against the rifles
You may lay silent underneath this earth
You may burn to ashes and wash away by the wind
But the tears from the mountains
Can neither be blown away by the wind
Nor can it be washed by the smoking guns
And we will swim in it to reach you to follow you
A thousand poems in your name
A thousand songs for your thoughts
A thousand of us for the land you loved will be living
To cry the spirit of a new crimson sky
Where we were convinced to see the salty water as blood of our men,
The salty sweat of farmers who were once called out on the fields
Against the great fucking clatter of gunfire by our unsung father Irabot.
Now when we open our eyes when we stage the play of your untold fable
Which you never sang in front of us, which you never asked us to listen to
You are gone but we know you have won, you have won inside us
You have won the tear of silence, the tear of the mountains
You have won the bullet through your chest, through your head
And you will never fade because you were never a fake
Thousands of roads may come to drag us
To make us crawl against the ground
Which they painted with the scar of their boots
But we will smell your blood on the ground
We will raise our head against the barrel against the rifles
You may lay silent underneath this earth
You may burn to ashes and wash away by the wind
But the tears from the mountains
Can neither be blown away by the wind
Nor can it be washed by the smoking guns
And we will swim in it to reach you to follow you
A thousand poems in your name
A thousand songs for your thoughts
A thousand of us for the land you loved will be living
To cry the spirit of a new crimson sky
the tailor (just another poem)
Here comes not the Sun.
there comes not a Bollywood Item Girl.
here comes another poetry
it springs up from the shits
Of slum dwellers and the dogs.
the left out old man
with the thick glasses
sitting in the corner,
stitching a trouser,
worries not for global warming
not for another winter
but for something,
you and I do not know.
Without him
My Honorable Chief Minster 'O! Ibobi'
would be naked...
he will be giving speeches
in Naked.
Preaching the Revolutionaries,
how to construct Fly-Overs
leaving his ten percent.
Or he may be too small to notice
in this world.
Think about George Bush!
He would be Naked too
with his squeezing scrotum
and every time he screams
'Fight terrorism! ! '
the balls will enlarge
Oh! that would be like another
great flick of this century
where people talk
only of Globalisation...
Oh! pray the tailors
if your balls do not want to be crushed
on the streets you walk.
Please notice the old tailor!
there comes not a Bollywood Item Girl.
here comes another poetry
it springs up from the shits
Of slum dwellers and the dogs.
the left out old man
with the thick glasses
sitting in the corner,
stitching a trouser,
worries not for global warming
not for another winter
but for something,
you and I do not know.
Without him
My Honorable Chief Minster 'O! Ibobi'
would be naked...
he will be giving speeches
in Naked.
Preaching the Revolutionaries,
how to construct Fly-Overs
leaving his ten percent.
Or he may be too small to notice
in this world.
Think about George Bush!
He would be Naked too
with his squeezing scrotum
and every time he screams
'Fight terrorism! ! '
the balls will enlarge
Oh! that would be like another
great flick of this century
where people talk
only of Globalisation...
Oh! pray the tailors
if your balls do not want to be crushed
on the streets you walk.
Please notice the old tailor!
In This Land
The bullock carts, the rice and mices
The newspapers, the bombing and gunning
The prostitutes, the market and wicked
The June 18th, Chitaranjan and Sharmila
All splatter upon a table or mat
With different answers
With different meanings.
The left out issues pop up like bubble
And leave meaningless in those smoky rooms
Where they sit or squat.
The views differ from table to table
From mat to mat, after every peg
In this land
The sons are being judged
With a little help of alcohol
Ones that wear the smell
Would be forced to walk
With garlands of empty bottles
That clank like bulls on the paddy field.
O! the bottles!
They clank sweet and soothing.
This sweetness was something else
Before they were emptied
The ladies in sarong,
After the sons, they follow
Until the sons walk a straight line
Like a tamed dumb soldier.
They wait for evening
To recite the poems
To imitate the actress
To throw the empty plates in air
To read out the oiled newspaper
They gather not in church
Not in temple,
Not by the bank of Imphal river
But in this evening school of ethanol
As they name it as their code
They are the slices of cucumber
In the sandwich of corrupt politicians
One side buttered with gun powder
Other side marinated with uselessness
All they make sense is in this “Evening School”
The newspapers, the bombing and gunning
The prostitutes, the market and wicked
The June 18th, Chitaranjan and Sharmila
All splatter upon a table or mat
With different answers
With different meanings.
The left out issues pop up like bubble
And leave meaningless in those smoky rooms
Where they sit or squat.
The views differ from table to table
From mat to mat, after every peg
In this land
The sons are being judged
With a little help of alcohol
Ones that wear the smell
Would be forced to walk
With garlands of empty bottles
That clank like bulls on the paddy field.
O! the bottles!
They clank sweet and soothing.
This sweetness was something else
Before they were emptied
The ladies in sarong,
After the sons, they follow
Until the sons walk a straight line
Like a tamed dumb soldier.
They wait for evening
To recite the poems
To imitate the actress
To throw the empty plates in air
To read out the oiled newspaper
They gather not in church
Not in temple,
Not by the bank of Imphal river
But in this evening school of ethanol
As they name it as their code
They are the slices of cucumber
In the sandwich of corrupt politicians
One side buttered with gun powder
Other side marinated with uselessness
All they make sense is in this “Evening School”
drifting
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.
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.
how i wish not to be you!
You act strong
Like you never long
For being a perfectionist
Your deeds are optimistic
You often laugh at people
About their love lives and fables
Deep down, your heart is desperate
To beat it for an exaggerated
Love story from Korea.
A little did I know about the phobia,
That you would be fallen
On your knees upon this soft cotton
Field of love
As white as dove
You know now that’s the safest field
To play upon, and you found pills
To love, and the land, you don’t have to till
Get married, earn and earn
With your sons, You will have fun.
Keep mum and sleep every night
An organized way of life
You will live like thousands of men
You will be a fan
For some Hollywood stars
Say Robert de Niro or Leonardo
You will read Gorky’s “Mother”
And you will smile upon yourself
For not being that drunken father.
Oh how I wish not to be you!
How I wish not to wash my hand
On the same pool you wash!
Can you make sense out of my poems?
Can you see the differences in the two faces of a same coin?
Your ignorance is acute
Your baby girl is also cute
But this earth is not cube
There are no edges for pain
So it goes on in an organized way
I wish we could have a talk
Over a cup of coffee.
Like you never long
For being a perfectionist
Your deeds are optimistic
You often laugh at people
About their love lives and fables
Deep down, your heart is desperate
To beat it for an exaggerated
Love story from Korea.
A little did I know about the phobia,
That you would be fallen
On your knees upon this soft cotton
Field of love
As white as dove
You know now that’s the safest field
To play upon, and you found pills
To love, and the land, you don’t have to till
Get married, earn and earn
With your sons, You will have fun.
Keep mum and sleep every night
An organized way of life
You will live like thousands of men
You will be a fan
For some Hollywood stars
Say Robert de Niro or Leonardo
You will read Gorky’s “Mother”
And you will smile upon yourself
For not being that drunken father.
Oh how I wish not to be you!
How I wish not to wash my hand
On the same pool you wash!
Can you make sense out of my poems?
Can you see the differences in the two faces of a same coin?
Your ignorance is acute
Your baby girl is also cute
But this earth is not cube
There are no edges for pain
So it goes on in an organized way
I wish we could have a talk
Over a cup of coffee.
the newspaper
Look! look!
It is in the newspaper.
Honey!
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...
It is in the newspaper.
Honey!
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<
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
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
Daddy!
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?
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
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
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.
butterfly
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
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
freedom
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
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
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