never before
i have seen such a face like yours
One side of a face wants to live
with an eye looking
at its future of a crippled life.
One side so dead with a blind eye
with the smashed jaw
and broken bones.
"Brother! touch this
See! the bones are all broken
into pieces"
I touched your face
knowing i would write this poem
helplessly peeping through a night
that tells me 'I dont belong here'
first time i saw you
you were lying half unconscious
at AIIMS
with the nurses giving you injections
that your generation already has more or less
unconsciously on some hospital beds
or consciously hiding from the wind that carries
the smell of a rotten valley
You came to Delhi
with a bullet in your head
with one eye blind
with a father who sold away
his land to save a son.
Perhaps Delhi is the origin
of the bullet in your head
yet you come here carrying
your half dead body
Doctors they looked at you
with their face squeezing out
like rats
You came out saying with the best smile
i have seen:
"they say "bahut mujkil hai""
i distracted you saying
"there was an article on you in tehelka"
you asked "Is my photograph there?"
you wondered how your friends would react
after seeing you.
But your face is the face of our generation
every broken bone is the broken dreams
you believe you will recognize
the one who shot you at that night
Yes, slowly this world will forget
only you will not forget this world
and your father in his slippers
walked away for his sick sister
Leaving us alone stranded
And we shook hands
but you passed me the anger
and you left me
carrying the unconscious land
on your small shoulder saying
with your innocent smile
"i will catch my own vehicle to Manipur Bhavan"
I asked to myself
"who left this land here?"
I see every pieces of it in your face
I see it turning its back on me
as you walked away
like it is prompting;
I can't do anything like every ship of fools.
I watched you fading away
And i found myself in a market
of potatoes and tomatoes
looking for something to cook
that could make me feel home
Collage: Free Verse
Cut my tongue
slip it inside your cunt
it will start speaking
something else to please you
or it may die
before it reaches your womb
it is not the tongue
it is the matter of heart
Waking up at this hour
i cook bamboo shoot
as the dream smelt home
i sold away my freedom
to all birds
in return they pay me
bird's eye view of a tiny insect
who seeks freedom
from elephant
slanted eyes they look at me
poisoning the sound of silence
deprived of a clear blue sky
i pray for a red one
a red sky with nipples
which rain freedom
some go for bullets
some go for tablets
or all they sit by the roadside
chattering like sparrow
and they celebrate
a feast in the name of east
is it sadness or madness
that night is crying
through the hole
of the old banyan tree
with the fallen leaves wiping
the streets scarred by their boots
slip it inside your cunt
it will start speaking
something else to please you
or it may die
before it reaches your womb
it is not the tongue
it is the matter of heart
Waking up at this hour
i cook bamboo shoot
as the dream smelt home
i sold away my freedom
to all birds
in return they pay me
bird's eye view of a tiny insect
who seeks freedom
from elephant
slanted eyes they look at me
poisoning the sound of silence
deprived of a clear blue sky
i pray for a red one
a red sky with nipples
which rain freedom
some go for bullets
some go for tablets
or all they sit by the roadside
chattering like sparrow
and they celebrate
a feast in the name of east
is it sadness or madness
that night is crying
through the hole
of the old banyan tree
with the fallen leaves wiping
the streets scarred by their boots
To a sick Man
To a sick Man
who coughs to be scolded
by his wife
to a sick man
who lays on bed when his night
tangled up in his eyes
to never let them close
to a sick man
who sings like crow
who still collects books of poems
when bombs rain on his tin roof
To a sick man
who demands his friends to revolt
when all he knows is
how not to sleep at night
when his wife is sleeping next
who coughs to be scolded
by his wife
to a sick man
who lays on bed when his night
tangled up in his eyes
to never let them close
to a sick man
who sings like crow
who still collects books of poems
when bombs rain on his tin roof
To a sick man
who demands his friends to revolt
when all he knows is
how not to sleep at night
when his wife is sleeping next
Slippery Indian Citizen
Sailing across the Indian Ocean
fishing with a bamboo stick
all the way from the Koubru mountain
fishing pearls for my love
who left me for good
who left me hanging between my rusty guitar strings
a small town boy I was,
who has seen the ocean only in Baywatch
or in Discovery Channel
I have never smelt an ocean before
but it smelt familiar
it smelt like the god of hand's job
the god that create humankind
No, it was all a day dream
call it a poet's fantasy
I was sailing in my own semen
with my bed as boat
with my zero balance ATM card as map to nowhere
with no compass to tell me I am east or west
north or south.
Why? Why?
Why did I confuse a pool of my own semen
with Indian Ocean?
Why, you tell me?
I remember reading by heart
the preamble in school of fools.
still I remember by heart
all the fundamental rights.
Yes! I am an Indian citizen
with bonus fundamental rights
"right to to be shot any time
right to be called an militant"
again later that night
I smelt something familiar
I couldn't move too
It must be a nightmare I thought
after reading Hindustan Times
and Tehelka Magazine
with 2000 farmers committing suicide per page
with two women raped in Kashmir in a corner
with Manipur in flames
I couldn't move
I have never understood India's head
but now I felt India is on top of me
with all its blood on my face
suffocating me
that morning I woke up tired
in the garbage boy's knock on my poor door
until the day I went to Khajuraho
and saw those god given positions
I didn't understand that
that night I was in 69 position
with India.
I never had sex that way
but why with India?
Was my citizenship demanding too much?
Why did India let me suck all her blood?
Why did India take my tongue within her slippery organ?
My tongue was stuck, it tasted blood
Why did it all happened before I could see India's face?
Or Is India wearing a burqa?
Nevertheless I discover India
I am the third after Vasco De Gama and Nehru
But I have become a joke
since I claimed it
like my own sperm
dying under the Summer fan.
O! I have become a slippery Indian citizen
fishing with a bamboo stick
all the way from the Koubru mountain
fishing pearls for my love
who left me for good
who left me hanging between my rusty guitar strings
a small town boy I was,
who has seen the ocean only in Baywatch
or in Discovery Channel
I have never smelt an ocean before
but it smelt familiar
it smelt like the god of hand's job
the god that create humankind
No, it was all a day dream
call it a poet's fantasy
I was sailing in my own semen
with my bed as boat
with my zero balance ATM card as map to nowhere
with no compass to tell me I am east or west
north or south.
Why? Why?
Why did I confuse a pool of my own semen
with Indian Ocean?
Why, you tell me?
I remember reading by heart
the preamble in school of fools.
still I remember by heart
all the fundamental rights.
Yes! I am an Indian citizen
with bonus fundamental rights
"right to to be shot any time
right to be called an militant"
again later that night
I smelt something familiar
I couldn't move too
It must be a nightmare I thought
after reading Hindustan Times
and Tehelka Magazine
with 2000 farmers committing suicide per page
with two women raped in Kashmir in a corner
with Manipur in flames
I couldn't move
I have never understood India's head
but now I felt India is on top of me
with all its blood on my face
suffocating me
that morning I woke up tired
in the garbage boy's knock on my poor door
until the day I went to Khajuraho
and saw those god given positions
I didn't understand that
that night I was in 69 position
with India.
I never had sex that way
but why with India?
Was my citizenship demanding too much?
Why did India let me suck all her blood?
Why did India take my tongue within her slippery organ?
My tongue was stuck, it tasted blood
Why did it all happened before I could see India's face?
Or Is India wearing a burqa?
Nevertheless I discover India
I am the third after Vasco De Gama and Nehru
But I have become a joke
since I claimed it
like my own sperm
dying under the Summer fan.
O! I have become a slippery Indian citizen
Stranded
I am stranded
between this city and that land
my body here
my shadow there
nostalgia is a phobia
when nights die slowly
with fragments of poetry
i am caught in a pool of blood
yet my toes dig the morning sand
of my innocent days
i wear this city
with all its street lights
yet i cry the tears
that brought from home
i have sliced the night of this city
with words of anger
yet i sob as i learn
my anger is synonymous to hunger
that i carry from city to city
for the land i never own
between this city and that land
my body here
my shadow there
nostalgia is a phobia
when nights die slowly
with fragments of poetry
i am caught in a pool of blood
yet my toes dig the morning sand
of my innocent days
i wear this city
with all its street lights
yet i cry the tears
that brought from home
i have sliced the night of this city
with words of anger
yet i sob as i learn
my anger is synonymous to hunger
that i carry from city to city
for the land i never own
just a girl
i am just a girl
who bleeds routinely
sometime i bleed tears
sometime silence
And now i have learn
what to do
when i become a woman
who only possess a bed
and a kitchen
i will grow thorn
in the bed
i will cook poison
in the kitchen
salt it with my past tear
and a drop of blood
for every season
and serve them in my stained clothe
who bleeds routinely
sometime i bleed tears
sometime silence
And now i have learn
what to do
when i become a woman
who only possess a bed
and a kitchen
i will grow thorn
in the bed
i will cook poison
in the kitchen
salt it with my past tear
and a drop of blood
for every season
and serve them in my stained clothe
War Cemetery, Imphal
O! foreing soldiers
i pity you all
you just become another brick
where the lovers turn their back on
or hang their inner garments
reading your names
even the kids know
you don't belong here
as surname ends with no "m"
Why dont you tell these living soldiers
to go away before they die like us
or they want the guns to salute their awful coffins?
i pity you all
you just become another brick
where the lovers turn their back on
or hang their inner garments
reading your names
even the kids know
you don't belong here
as surname ends with no "m"
Why dont you tell these living soldiers
to go away before they die like us
or they want the guns to salute their awful coffins?
bomb me
arrest me
my mind is a revolutionary one
it is going to explode anytime
Or Bomb me
with all your grenades
with all your smart ass agents
I have written my own epitaph
"To the generation
i have left my revolution
to prostitute you all"
my mind is a revolutionary one
it is going to explode anytime
Or Bomb me
with all your grenades
with all your smart ass agents
I have written my own epitaph
"To the generation
i have left my revolution
to prostitute you all"
Junky Poem
Nights we know are dark
Days we have survived are bloody
and how can you ask me not to drink
Air we breathe stinks
food we eat rot in our mouth
and how can you ask me not to smell her bosom
Days we have survived are bloody
and how can you ask me not to drink
Air we breathe stinks
food we eat rot in our mouth
and how can you ask me not to smell her bosom
To the tourist
Forget about Chandni Chowk
Forget about Jama Masjid and Lal Qila
Come to my Imphal
Don't forget to bring your Sony camera
You drench in the rain of Imphal
or you take a bath in Imphal river
and take snaps in different pose
and show them to your grandchildren
they will believe you are a war returned hero
even you are all wrinkled and withered
Forget about Jama Masjid and Lal Qila
Come to my Imphal
Don't forget to bring your Sony camera
You drench in the rain of Imphal
or you take a bath in Imphal river
and take snaps in different pose
and show them to your grandchildren
they will believe you are a war returned hero
even you are all wrinkled and withered
Time
Time never knocks at your door
it never arrives, never departs
Time will never treat you like a stranger
yet it will never greet you
like a morning cup of tea with steam
Time is a spinning wheel
but you never come back to the point
where you started
Instead you get older and older
while time remains young
with your memories of childhood
Hell to the ticking clocks
Hell to the big city clocks
without them too
time never stops
Even if the human civilization shatters
Time will never depart
Time marries not the sun but the Universe
Time never climbs to the church bell
it is you that announce the death
and ring the bell saying "it is the time to mourn"
It is you, Human Being
and your awful agony
that surrenders to time
Thinking it is your enemy
it never arrives, never departs
Time will never treat you like a stranger
yet it will never greet you
like a morning cup of tea with steam
Time is a spinning wheel
but you never come back to the point
where you started
Instead you get older and older
while time remains young
with your memories of childhood
Hell to the ticking clocks
Hell to the big city clocks
without them too
time never stops
Even if the human civilization shatters
Time will never depart
Time marries not the sun but the Universe
Time never climbs to the church bell
it is you that announce the death
and ring the bell saying "it is the time to mourn"
It is you, Human Being
and your awful agony
that surrenders to time
Thinking it is your enemy
Tonight, Loneliness and the Princess
waited for such fine weather
Finally it arrives tonite
and it catches me with my loneliness
and I am trying now to hide
My existence has been questioned
This curtain talked to me many times before
but tonight it is just a piece of unwashed clothe.
how must i learn to kiss this night
with this weather?
My love, she is shooting me arrows
right at my atheist heart
reminding me the princess
who spat at my face
for the land i talked so much.
O princess, you were sweet
with your foreign tongue
forgive me as i was just the clown
in the circus of that night
forgive me as i was not a real patriot
in Imphal but in delhi
Your love slapped me
and i was Pacha Meitei
crying on the shoulder of Imphal
No! i was crying on the shoulder
of my friends,
the slap was sweet
and as quick as bullet
But it never can dry my tear
it is all i have
and i am proud for every drops of my tear
This night has lost its way
my loneliness confuse it
my existence seeks no meaning in my poetry
but tonight i see myself crumbling into the ants
and looking up at my very door
which i hit many times
cursing the land i love
Finally it arrives tonite
and it catches me with my loneliness
and I am trying now to hide
My existence has been questioned
This curtain talked to me many times before
but tonight it is just a piece of unwashed clothe.
how must i learn to kiss this night
with this weather?
My love, she is shooting me arrows
right at my atheist heart
reminding me the princess
who spat at my face
for the land i talked so much.
O princess, you were sweet
with your foreign tongue
forgive me as i was just the clown
in the circus of that night
forgive me as i was not a real patriot
in Imphal but in delhi
Your love slapped me
and i was Pacha Meitei
crying on the shoulder of Imphal
No! i was crying on the shoulder
of my friends,
the slap was sweet
and as quick as bullet
But it never can dry my tear
it is all i have
and i am proud for every drops of my tear
This night has lost its way
my loneliness confuse it
my existence seeks no meaning in my poetry
but tonight i see myself crumbling into the ants
and looking up at my very door
which i hit many times
cursing the land i love
Curfew
I
Starving fathers and mothers
spitting saliva
defying hunger
protesting sitting at their courtyard
sipping black tea
talking insanity of Mr. Ibobi
while their children walk out on the roads
giggling wiping their watery nose
with white chalks
writing on the deserted road
whatever they have learnt in schools
whatever they have heard in songs
"Unity in Diversity"
"Sanaleipak Moneypur"
II
Dangling phaneks and bras and panties
singing freedom in the wind of wild east
from the top of their lungs
wind kissing the fallen leaves
burning tyres spinning towards the military trucks
broken mirrors singing "Cut me if you can"
and the last cry, cupped by silence,
looking again for its way
to find its destiny in history, in books
in speeches.
Starving fathers and mothers
spitting saliva
defying hunger
protesting sitting at their courtyard
sipping black tea
talking insanity of Mr. Ibobi
while their children walk out on the roads
giggling wiping their watery nose
with white chalks
writing on the deserted road
whatever they have learnt in schools
whatever they have heard in songs
"Unity in Diversity"
"Sanaleipak Moneypur"
II
Dangling phaneks and bras and panties
singing freedom in the wind of wild east
from the top of their lungs
wind kissing the fallen leaves
burning tyres spinning towards the military trucks
broken mirrors singing "Cut me if you can"
and the last cry, cupped by silence,
looking again for its way
to find its destiny in history, in books
in speeches.
love in the time of killings
Don't tell them
I send this love letter
in this time of protest and killings
but to be frank
when the ground under my feet
is soaked in blood
I can no longer be hopeful
of my generation
except our love
How insane i am
to think of making love with you
when they are slaughtering my generation?
can you believe?
Our devil minister, chief devil
is waging war against us
handing Ak47s, SLRs, LMG to the mindless dogs
and all we have is a mountain of ashes
and he knows Mountains are famous for their silence
we can not wage war against him
He is not alone too
Delhi got this "Kill East Policy"
since then our lives are dicey
I have even given up to be so focussed about life
I believe for one last time
we must make love
and let it sprays on these streets
where i walk with fear
let our screams run in river
let our sweat be fuel to burn him alive
His and their bullets may be a big full stop in our lives
But our love will live forever
wearing our old clothes
I was just telling my freind
"So what, if we are soaked in blood
Our heart is still hungry to own a land of peace"
But deep down in me
I can't wait to see our love
throwing light in this age of darkness
Yes, it is the age of darkness
I am writing this letter sleeping next to you
and i can't see you and i dont know when will you receive it
I send this love letter
in this time of protest and killings
but to be frank
when the ground under my feet
is soaked in blood
I can no longer be hopeful
of my generation
except our love
How insane i am
to think of making love with you
when they are slaughtering my generation?
can you believe?
Our devil minister, chief devil
is waging war against us
handing Ak47s, SLRs, LMG to the mindless dogs
and all we have is a mountain of ashes
and he knows Mountains are famous for their silence
we can not wage war against him
He is not alone too
Delhi got this "Kill East Policy"
since then our lives are dicey
I have even given up to be so focussed about life
I believe for one last time
we must make love
and let it sprays on these streets
where i walk with fear
let our screams run in river
let our sweat be fuel to burn him alive
His and their bullets may be a big full stop in our lives
But our love will live forever
wearing our old clothes
I was just telling my freind
"So what, if we are soaked in blood
Our heart is still hungry to own a land of peace"
But deep down in me
I can't wait to see our love
throwing light in this age of darkness
Yes, it is the age of darkness
I am writing this letter sleeping next to you
and i can't see you and i dont know when will you receive it
to the CM
We all know
your existence in our poetry
is not as some flowers or the moon
but as the rapist of Mother Manipur
who still sucks her dead nipples
who still melt her frozen blood to sell away
to the Parliament House;
in return you get full loads of army trucks
to make this land a funeral house
You jump over
from one death to other
sucking lifeless cold and dry blood
How long How long
the white kurtas can veil the red blood you sucked?
It is all transparent now
We all know
Our history has reserved a big chapter for you
to sit, sleep and eat with your gluttonous heart.
your existence in our poetry
is not as some flowers or the moon
but as the rapist of Mother Manipur
who still sucks her dead nipples
who still melt her frozen blood to sell away
to the Parliament House;
in return you get full loads of army trucks
to make this land a funeral house
You jump over
from one death to other
sucking lifeless cold and dry blood
How long How long
the white kurtas can veil the red blood you sucked?
It is all transparent now
We all know
Our history has reserved a big chapter for you
to sit, sleep and eat with your gluttonous heart.
i am your son
Mother, I am sorry
I am still a loser
I can't still earn
Yet i know
the last few morning stars light the sky to dawn
and the dawn pulls up the sun from ocean
and morning arrives with sleepy school kids
and noon comes with lunch
evening arrives with gossip
and night with street lamps with no electricity
Still i can't manage a day
trying to do so many things at a time
as i know life is short
and i am scared i will miss what i want to be
and no one pays me, mother,
for what i want to be
such is this world, Mother
and i am a loser with a the tag
"I am your son"
I am still a loser
I can't still earn
Yet i know
the last few morning stars light the sky to dawn
and the dawn pulls up the sun from ocean
and morning arrives with sleepy school kids
and noon comes with lunch
evening arrives with gossip
and night with street lamps with no electricity
Still i can't manage a day
trying to do so many things at a time
as i know life is short
and i am scared i will miss what i want to be
and no one pays me, mother,
for what i want to be
such is this world, Mother
and i am a loser with a the tag
"I am your son"
bleed generation
We sat the evening in a park
with Sanjit's body and Rabina's chappals
with no key to a room
we were stranded like rats in a crowded city road
we sat with one kilogram of chicken
with one royal stag bottle.
we waited for any room to be opened
to house our tired souls
and the fake encounter
we didn't know how to handle
as we have seen so much of it
or read or discussed in many useless
conversation that lasted like
a burning of a mantu bidi
we measured our past
with many pegs of whiskey and vodka
we sang a victim's song
we fed ourselves everything we couldn't digest
we shot the night
peeling the streets of Delhi
and reached Gurgaon
among the skyscrapers
we were the ants
we were the drunken ants
who forgot to move
we were the witches
that rode brooms...
leaving behind our roots to the poet
who desires it sitting in the clouds of Meghalaya
again we sat in a field
the naked dead poet chased the roaring planes
the painter threw his phone
to a canvas of black holes.
our urinal telepathy led us to a bush
and the dawn broke
and it was drizzling with our little pissing
the city was rained with our territorial pissing
we dipped our poems
in the sweet cups of tea
we all forgot
where was the dead bodies
when we saw each other
when the first rays of sun struck our ugly
little drunk faces
and we laughed plucking the tiny white flowers
if white was the symbol of peace
then i plucked enuf white
that my land would turn into white ashes
we kept on riding, driving
as we knew we are the Bleed Generation
with Sanjit's body and Rabina's chappals
with no key to a room
we were stranded like rats in a crowded city road
we sat with one kilogram of chicken
with one royal stag bottle.
we waited for any room to be opened
to house our tired souls
and the fake encounter
we didn't know how to handle
as we have seen so much of it
or read or discussed in many useless
conversation that lasted like
a burning of a mantu bidi
we measured our past
with many pegs of whiskey and vodka
we sang a victim's song
we fed ourselves everything we couldn't digest
we shot the night
peeling the streets of Delhi
and reached Gurgaon
among the skyscrapers
we were the ants
we were the drunken ants
who forgot to move
we were the witches
that rode brooms...
leaving behind our roots to the poet
who desires it sitting in the clouds of Meghalaya
again we sat in a field
the naked dead poet chased the roaring planes
the painter threw his phone
to a canvas of black holes.
our urinal telepathy led us to a bush
and the dawn broke
and it was drizzling with our little pissing
the city was rained with our territorial pissing
we dipped our poems
in the sweet cups of tea
we all forgot
where was the dead bodies
when we saw each other
when the first rays of sun struck our ugly
little drunk faces
and we laughed plucking the tiny white flowers
if white was the symbol of peace
then i plucked enuf white
that my land would turn into white ashes
we kept on riding, driving
as we knew we are the Bleed Generation
Tomba and the Poem
I met you when the poem was in cradle
We never talked too when the poem was crawling
We talked only after we crossed Bramaputra River
And In the noise of the train
We brushed our teeth together
You came with a pain in your heart
With your bags full of untold stories
So we stood together washing our face
Staring at each other through the broken mirrors
Of that summer train like school kids
You kept on singing “Californication” till the train halted
We travelled the city in auto rickshaws
We looked at each other through its side mirror
And a time had come we shed our clothes
But not for the hot summer
But Inside my tiny little room
Inside which I had cut my hands many times
For my idiotic thoughts and stupid worries
The poem too shed its clothes
Growing its limb as we breathed fast
Many nights you sang “Sunflower Sutra”
To the poem and it slept away like a sweet girl
Slowly you opened your bags
And words fed the poem, it cried and cried
Helplessly like it had be thrown down
From the terrace of your brick house
And you and I became the most beautiful thing
On earth while the poem wept for your stories
We were sweet like anything under your thick blanket
(Still I smell your blanket)
You read me Shakespeare
And explained as you knew I hardly understood
And asked me “Isn’t it beautiful?”
And I nodded my head and said Yes!
And we kissed
We cooked together the best Kangsoi
We slurp it like cat
The rice, we ate
Like we had been the prisoners of war in the city
In the night in the day
We always had monsoon
And still we were always eager for it
But the poem was all wet with it
One day in a crowded railway station you departed me
And I popped up with the poem and my guitar
In a strange place with strangers
There I made friends with strangers
They were all Bengalis and Marathis
One drunken night in a cheapest bar
They snatched the poem from me
On the very table where matchsticks were thrown out
Like death in my homeland
Where ashtrays were filled with stars and galaxies
They read it, sang it out loud in their mother tongue
Like the cigarette in my hand, my heart burnt
So in the ice cold glass of whiskey I dived
And with my heavy heart I slept away the night
Next morning I woke to a field of marijuana
And I, who was poor and hungry always
Had to eat, smoke and fuck the leaves
So I emerged next to the poem again
Sitting in a library of astronomers
The poem flew among the stars and galaxies
Searching for its root
It even asked why Newton was kept under an ugly Banyan tree
Why was there a stone imitating apple
And it flew to Moreh
And rested awhile sleeping
Inside a hole of a half opened pumpkin
It woke up all yellow
And again it flew back to America
For all my wanting to be a beatnik
And learnt to have free sex
One day again I popped up next to you
You came to me with no flowers as usual
We felt complete with our weekend drinks
And monsoon arrived
But the poem was walking free on the streets in our land
Like a rag-picker
It wore the blood of Paorabi Bomb Blast in October
It lamented for the highway 39
It laughed at the futility of revolution
It sang for the barber’s radio
Crying for the barber who was killed
Now the poem doesn’t bother you and me
Only sometimes you ask me where is it
You have forgotten too “Sunflower Sutra”
And I don’t know too where the poem is gone
With its broad shoulder
Without bothering our stories
Now it has become a Lamjasara
I never bother too
Where the poem is walking away or doing
But if it has done something wrong
They will come looking for me
As I raised it from that streets of orphans
We never talked too when the poem was crawling
We talked only after we crossed Bramaputra River
And In the noise of the train
We brushed our teeth together
You came with a pain in your heart
With your bags full of untold stories
So we stood together washing our face
Staring at each other through the broken mirrors
Of that summer train like school kids
You kept on singing “Californication” till the train halted
We travelled the city in auto rickshaws
We looked at each other through its side mirror
And a time had come we shed our clothes
But not for the hot summer
But Inside my tiny little room
Inside which I had cut my hands many times
For my idiotic thoughts and stupid worries
The poem too shed its clothes
Growing its limb as we breathed fast
Many nights you sang “Sunflower Sutra”
To the poem and it slept away like a sweet girl
Slowly you opened your bags
And words fed the poem, it cried and cried
Helplessly like it had be thrown down
From the terrace of your brick house
And you and I became the most beautiful thing
On earth while the poem wept for your stories
We were sweet like anything under your thick blanket
(Still I smell your blanket)
You read me Shakespeare
And explained as you knew I hardly understood
And asked me “Isn’t it beautiful?”
And I nodded my head and said Yes!
And we kissed
We cooked together the best Kangsoi
We slurp it like cat
The rice, we ate
Like we had been the prisoners of war in the city
In the night in the day
We always had monsoon
And still we were always eager for it
But the poem was all wet with it
One day in a crowded railway station you departed me
And I popped up with the poem and my guitar
In a strange place with strangers
There I made friends with strangers
They were all Bengalis and Marathis
One drunken night in a cheapest bar
They snatched the poem from me
On the very table where matchsticks were thrown out
Like death in my homeland
Where ashtrays were filled with stars and galaxies
They read it, sang it out loud in their mother tongue
Like the cigarette in my hand, my heart burnt
So in the ice cold glass of whiskey I dived
And with my heavy heart I slept away the night
Next morning I woke to a field of marijuana
And I, who was poor and hungry always
Had to eat, smoke and fuck the leaves
So I emerged next to the poem again
Sitting in a library of astronomers
The poem flew among the stars and galaxies
Searching for its root
It even asked why Newton was kept under an ugly Banyan tree
Why was there a stone imitating apple
And it flew to Moreh
And rested awhile sleeping
Inside a hole of a half opened pumpkin
It woke up all yellow
And again it flew back to America
For all my wanting to be a beatnik
And learnt to have free sex
One day again I popped up next to you
You came to me with no flowers as usual
We felt complete with our weekend drinks
And monsoon arrived
But the poem was walking free on the streets in our land
Like a rag-picker
It wore the blood of Paorabi Bomb Blast in October
It lamented for the highway 39
It laughed at the futility of revolution
It sang for the barber’s radio
Crying for the barber who was killed
Now the poem doesn’t bother you and me
Only sometimes you ask me where is it
You have forgotten too “Sunflower Sutra”
And I don’t know too where the poem is gone
With its broad shoulder
Without bothering our stories
Now it has become a Lamjasara
I never bother too
Where the poem is walking away or doing
But if it has done something wrong
They will come looking for me
As I raised it from that streets of orphans
freedom death
I ran away from the sun
I hid from the moon and its soothing shine
Still I heard the bomb blast
Still I heard the burning of the burnt lives
And I lost my count upon death
I became a deaf who hears only coffin nailing
And a day came
That the history of mankind
Said “when death walks upon a land
There soon will be freedom”
So again I started counting coffins
As I sold coffin
I even broke my doors and windows
For the carpenters who make coffins
I took my bills to the court
And measure at the weighing machine
The machine said justice must come first
So I left with disgust as I have never heard
Of such word as ‘justice’
And went to a church
I took off my clothes
And show the counts on my body
I asked “when is freedom arriving
When will it ever land up in my homeland?”
He said “I don’t have an answer
I was just a freedom fighter
Who had died without a light of freedom
On me”
And now I leave the question to time
As I have been forced to be one of them
I hid from the moon and its soothing shine
Still I heard the bomb blast
Still I heard the burning of the burnt lives
And I lost my count upon death
I became a deaf who hears only coffin nailing
And a day came
That the history of mankind
Said “when death walks upon a land
There soon will be freedom”
So again I started counting coffins
As I sold coffin
I even broke my doors and windows
For the carpenters who make coffins
I took my bills to the court
And measure at the weighing machine
The machine said justice must come first
So I left with disgust as I have never heard
Of such word as ‘justice’
And went to a church
I took off my clothes
And show the counts on my body
I asked “when is freedom arriving
When will it ever land up in my homeland?”
He said “I don’t have an answer
I was just a freedom fighter
Who had died without a light of freedom
On me”
And now I leave the question to time
As I have been forced to be one of them
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