I think something broke inside me the day he touched my face. I felt disrespected and cheap. Not because his fingers felt foreign nor cold when it ran slowly over my cheek and hovered around beneath the wild strands of hair. It was the kind of touch which is inconsistent and restrained; the kind which kills you from inside, steadily, silently. No matter, it was going to disappear the next day. As rightly assumed, it did so.

It was a mistake not because I was afraid of the wild opinions. It was a mistake because it tricked my brain and it made me feel move closer to my heart, letting my emotions rule me, letting my feminine urge to save overwhelm me.

I knew, nothing good would come, now that they have stripped my flowers from its garden. The evil hands uprooted each and every takhellei it could get its hands on. It’s been lying barren and dry for the past three weeks. With each step and each glance I took on the empty patch, a piece of my heart dies inside. 

 After all, the night's darkest before dawn,

I wonder if I will ever forget this pain

just like I can't remember that pain,

only words remain.

Only this, I repeat to myself,

only this, to keep me sane and grateful.

The pines trees looming around

whenever I lose my soul,

whenever I feel the ache,

How I wish the story remains the same

knowing it's never gonna be the same

for I have left myself all these years 

in another's body, in another's soul,

wrapped in my ego, sunk below consciousness

lost between to be and not to be

lost forever as it seems to be. 

Little deaths that comes with little joys in life,

strikes your soul like tiny needles puncturing a giant balloon, not a burst, not a blast, not a bomb,

just a lonely slithering river of sand in the hourglass

holding on to the glass walls

hovering above the quicksand.

ꯇꯟꯗꯟ ꯑꯃ ꯂꯩꯔꯝꯃꯤ꯫ ꯑꯉꯥꯡ ꯅꯨꯄꯝꯆꯥ ꯑꯃꯅ ꯐꯥꯔꯒ ꯂꯤꯛꯂꯤꯗ ꯍꯥꯞꯆꯜꯂꯤ ꯑꯗꯨꯒ ꯃꯄꯥꯟꯗ ꯁꯥꯟꯅꯕ ꯆꯦꯟꯊꯣꯛꯈꯤ꯫ ꯂꯤꯛꯂꯤ ꯃꯅꯨꯡꯗ ꯇꯟꯗꯟꯗꯨꯅ ꯈꯜꯍꯩ‌‌ꯋꯤ ꯀꯌꯥꯗ ꯃꯉꯥꯎ ꯊꯤꯈꯔꯕ ꯑꯉꯥꯡꯅ‌‌ꯣ, ꯑꯩꯕꯨ ꯀꯩꯗꯧ ꯍꯥꯏꯕꯅꯣ꯫

In short,

In the beginning, there was an orange.
An orange which I brought to school.
I gave it to my friend who gave it to him.
And that was that.

Then there was this tall lean shy kid who put on ponds powder on me.
I stood still near the wall closing my eyes,
turning my face to the side,
both my sweaty hands placed on the wall.
He brushed his fingers on my cheeks,
powder all over my face,
he walked away laughing.

I was drenched when I reached school,
offered me a hanky to dry myself
which I washed the next day and gave back.

Another day, another date, I was drenched again,
the only person with no sweater on.
I was offered a sweater, everybody giggled,
I denied.

Other days
I was offered a ride back home.
I denied.

Once in an school excursion,
I brought noodles with me,
big shreds of cabbage on it.
No one ate, making fun of it.
Then a fork swooped in, took a scoop,
He smiled and told me it was really tasty.

We parted.

This was the time when I fell in love with a girl.
She is a bit crazy but exceptionally witty.

These three years,
I have no sweet memories,
only many lessons learnt.

Then just when I thought I have put my life together,
it crumbled in front of my eyes,
howling and whirling,
no life, no cheers,
just a body.

Amidst, I was told I was a firefly.
a helpless tandan after all
in a Kafka's world,
A dead Sylvia to a dead poem.  

Sneaking through towns and rivers,
with every chat and every scenes
the grey pebble in Imphal turel
lurk around and
Whisper to me
of childhood memories
of that lemon leaf in my diary
of evening games in the lampak
of mother's voice with twig in her hand
of the bushes on the river bank
where syringes are scattered
of the potfam of abokmu
where she prepares singju for us
of taji's erratic yelling
for playing in his lampak
of the scarlet jamines
which we used as prizes for the race
of which juice we sucked
and threw at the khongban
of thaja and how she plucked
and stole this rare flower daton got from Ukhrul
of puspi and how she hit me on my ankle with a stone
of the marbles, kokpik and kokchao, tenjei, kotis and all
of the sounds mixed with bombs and festival crackers,
guns and tyre blast
of dipping in the river with our shirts on
and lying one the waves with our eyes closed
the water slipping beneath us
of iche sanatombi being dragged by the erei
and the laugh we had afterwards
I heard she got married but divorced now.
of cheton with whom we hanged out after school
whose sexuality was gossiped by the leikai
whose perseverance let kebisana finish graduation
who won medals after medals 
couple of years back
She died of both kidney failure
My grandma too, of old age
she defecated like hell and ate nothing
her eyes rolled up, my hands on hers
I felt the fading warmth
leaving her ice old
those tubes on her nose and elsewhere
strangling and suffocating her
when she was near death
and me, sitting by her side
holding both my breath and tears
father had told me not to make sounds
in the hospital
he broke down at home, wailed once
near her body which lay on her bed silently
and then there is my cousin too
who had a stroke at 40 and died slowly at dawn
sleeping beside his 13 year old son
in a hotel room in mayangland
He and his wife, nanama, had come to drop me off
at the airport when i was leaving for hyd
they had packed a packet of ngari for me
sister called me up in the morning and broke the news
i cried, he consoled, i pretended, i went for the class red-eyed
i came back and cried again alone
by the time i went home
i had missed everything
except for my sister and her cancer
and the radiation therapy
her hairs falling out, searching for wigs,
buying it and going for echemubi's wedding together
my sister's poems,
my sister's china's stories,
my bother's love stories
my ma's and ba's comforting home.

Foucault is gay
he had AIDS.
Butler is a lesbian.

Gay: Adjective-homosexual.
Lesbian: Noun-Gay woman.

You are gay but not lesbian.
You are a lesbian but not a gay.