Wednesday, 6 September 2017

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.

Tuesday, 5 September 2017

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. 

Monday, 4 September 2017

At dusk,
a confused tandan
once sat on a sambal lei,
lean and green. 

A young boy came running
whispers to himself
walks in slowly.

It lies inside his cupped hands
flickering its tail.

He peeks inside and smiles to himself

Trapped in the dark,
it lowers its tail
ceasing to flash,
feeble and yellow.

Wednesday, 30 August 2017

Somewhere in the corner of my heart,
I secretly adore Aung San Suu Kyi.
What if we had a woman like her!

I loath Malala Yousufzai,
that small hypocrite,
that coward who fled her home
who left her home,
who reminds me of Sharmila, 
who went on a hunger strike
but fell in love with Desmond,
a mayang desmond, a minai himself.

They both remind me of the deserter,
that MU professor, who ran out of place to keep his ego,
who deserted his fellows,
who looks like Joker from Batman,
smile or no smile,
with his creaking voice on Impact TV.

Wednesday, 23 August 2017

What constitutes a woman?
Her eyes, her slanty small eyes
Her nose, her broad low nasal bridge
Her skin, her soft yellow skin
Her face, her broad budding face
Her hair, her streaming black hair
Her breasts, her tiny uninviting breasts
For which no suitable bra exists in ‘her’ country
For which she needs to find the most expensive one in ‘her’ country
Which resemble nothing like the onscreen celebrity’s.

Her dress, her flamboyant cotton sari
Her anguish, of not belonging anywhere,
of floating around in an ahistorical space,
of being asked to belong to her mother.
Her voice, her elegant voice that speaks of genital organs,
A faceless corpse, robbed of her face, her body, her head, her voice.
A human with blood and veins and a river of memories.
You see your reflection,
In the mirror,
in rivers,
In ponds,
in your photos
You see your mongoloid face and you hate it.
Your little head is confused
'why i don't look like my friends. Them has big big eyes, them has long nose,'
Your little head is confused.
I'm telling you.
Don't. There is no point.
You are who you are.
Your nose is not gonna grow,
your eyes are gonna remain small
Your skin as yellow as you were born.
Well unless you go for cosmetic surgery.
But then, You don't wanna become another Michael, do you?

'But darling, you are wrong
'love conquers all'
I heard it somewhere,
Was it Chaucer?
Was it Socrates, plato?
My English friends told me so,
its all what we must do.
Let me show them my love.
They can kill but I love them,
they can rape but I love them,
why so much hate'
Yes why so much hate,
Why cry when your life is spared if not your dad's, or brother's, or sister's or someone's who you don't know,
Why talk so much when your ngari is taxed,
When your people are evicted for electricity,
That's development, you don't want growth?
Why curse, why wish when your life is spared if not your job, your family, your Leikai.
Why wish!
When lost for words, go for law.
When fallen in a pit, drown and wasted, drag your fellow.
When lost for words, hang on to you gender
Let your misguided soul wander.
Sinking low, icy blow.