Kangleimaichou

Stood in front of this stall having kabab, with ascending smoke over our heads and surrounded by veiled ladies and skull-capped men who had just come out of one of India's most renowned mosques. After it, it was again among a lot of people, but the delicious desserts in glazed earthen cups and authentic biryani could make anybody not to think of the crowd, instead it would make you feel privileged.

He lives in a tent surrounded by empty bottles, when asked if I could photograph, he didn't even look at me, instead he remained puffing his local cigar looking at the distance

The Dutch came, promised us money for our milk. Most of us were motivated, but we don't ride horses like the Americans. But we like their boots, their jeans, and when we all are in cowboy boots and tight jeans and the temperature dropped we like to have our fair.

I wear to work what I think it suits me. It makes no sense for me in walk in what could be yours. For what I wear, I don't ask anyone; I used to visit my father's factory, there they had one colour. I grew up in that colour, and now it represents the affection I have for him. So you know it couldn't be others', like the distinct taste for food, I have this self-discovered design and colour.

After a long day I like to be below a tree to be in such a shade, enjoying me smoke and thinking about the water before me.

Sent to the 'ghetto' at an early and years later castrated only to make the her in me feel it was time to come out of the closet. We don't go to schools, we are trained to dance and beg at traffic points of the metros. They know we exist, and we exist in our demarcated areas as 'pushed-out' kind. They say there is equality. Well, yes, there is only when we return to our place, among our own kind. How could my father walk with a proud face when his son roams the streets of the city in sari and dances for money? I don't think about them, my family, anymore. My family means the 'pushed-out' ones in the 'ghetto.'

The good thing about this painted face is that people can't tell anything about me. If you want to know then you look at the eyes, for they are not painted. The first time I went out in this clown costume with the face painted I was nervous. Everyone stared at me and laughed. Many of them even had their photographs taken. But after six months, five hours each day on the roads, I am an experienced man; even my eyes can betray you.

Down a crunchy path, partly concealed by tall grass on either side, I got to this dark tunnel: a dark nest frequented by love birds. It must have been a strategically important place in the past, but today it remains almost ignored and littered with waste.

This site at the foot of this once-green hill now topped with new buildings was ours. It was only us. We haven't known migration, but we have learned adaptation to an extent. When the white men planted this red-painted Victorian structure at the foot of the hill they left this old tree and a few others which have housed many of our generations.

People say one should take a walk in one of the boulevards, some say the paths along the canals in Venice are breezy enough to arouse senses, many suggest an idle stroll around Trafalgar could bestow you a different mood. I suggest you try this, in Langthabal which runs along the foot of Heibok Ching, to know what it is like to be in Kangleipak.

It would have been them, before the sofas, the Danish furniture, the bean bags and the plastic containers entered our houses; just like Takhelei being replaced by roses. In a quiet corner of Khwairamband Market, Imphal, Kangleipak.

"We waste nothing; from the bits of flesh between the jaw bones to the eyeballs we sell. It's business, and there are customers with varied tastes."

Her incomplete rhymes entertain you, her cries make the place alive, the mere sight of her introduces to the world one has long forgotten; the world of innocence and untamed spontaneity.

When I plough this patch of land with hope I sense the scent of earth, and the scent, mixed with hope, only enhances when the colour of the fields turns yellowish.

For my beloved Uncle, Udoy Thongam, who passed away this morning. The Uncle who told us the stories of Revolution. The unique Uncle from whom I learned what to absorb and what to reject. The Rebel Uncle who turned his back to gods but worshipped my grandparents.

It was my grandmother who had brought the parent of this Kundo from her home. She grew it and it flourished as a healthy bush below the shade of pomelo and mango trees by the family pond. When we moved out from our grandfather’s yumjao my mother brought this kundo plant. Within our bamboo-fenced plot, by another family pond, my mother planted it. She joked one morning,” I want you to find a woman who deserves the kundo here. I will tell you which ones to be picked. Tell her that your paternal grandmother did the same for your father, and I threaded them for your father.”

"Chinglen, you talk as though you know it, you know death. Why you keep saying it when you are so young. I know people have tried to talk you out of what defines you, they ask you to get new clothes or more money. But you should know that you are just like this golden disc to me."

First, it was those green reptiles, simply lying stuffed with heavy food but picked up to entertain parched humans. Then the green parrots trained to fetch cards from hands. The world is never a fair place, the victors and the powerful always expect things to go according to their whims. You all could have been in a swamp enjoying the sun or pecking my grandma's mangoes. I could have left you alone, but they flocked the invented place in tens and one among them was to find you, and you were too colourful and you just stood out. Beauty certainly comes with a price. Dogbane beetle

I don’t know what they call me. I don’t if there is a future, security and something that I can’t see at the moment. But I do know that sometimes people are nice and to a lot of people I am a disgrace. If I could do something different? I took my first steps near a gutter, and today I sleep by a different gutter. There is no use thinking too much. It is the unexpected moments that I live for.

Chewed some fresh tamool and sauntered the street in Laimukhrah . I heard someone say, "He look press man with camera and all.", then asked, "My photo come in paper tomorrow?" The tamool which had made my lips and mouth red now made me dizzy. I wanted some water and give myself some space. With the voices remote and yet the people still active I was able to see the other side driven my a sub-conscious mind.

You say my fish bad, and I try sell bad fish before it's late. No, saheb. I sell you bad fish today you not come back tomorrow. Who lose, huh? I want my regular customer, very happy, they come back all the time. I no sell today and run away.

  A son becoming a monk means that soon he was going to be in the Potala and thus he will be around his Holiness. It was then, long long ago when his Holiness was just a boy and Mao's had a reputation in the world. Today, the memories of Lasa is distant, and by now the streets must have been run by the Hans. No one is going back, all that we have is FREE TIBET printed on the shirts and the flags which you can buy in our settlements spread across India.

"You always asked if I had looked at any beautiful flower with you in my mind. Before I met you I had looked; I had always looked at flowers from the angles I wanted and the backgrounds that would make them shine. I carried what you asked in my mind, thought over it several times. It is different now, different that the moment I see something beautiful I wish you were there so that I could see the happiness on your face. I know that moment will never come, for you are the love who I can never have. But I am happy that when I see something beautiful I do think about you."

"These Mugal buildings that you see around here were built on snatched lands. In what you now called Delhi our ancestors were farmers. Then the white men came and enacted Land Acquisition Act. We were evicted and settled somewhere. And when India became an independent nation, during Nehru, we were again evicted with the promise of meagre compensation."

"Damn old post box, man, much much older than my grandfather. But thela ( push cart) not so old nah. only ten years. But owner left many years back and never came. But children think cart same old as post box nah."

Shallow it may look and the current may appear slow, but it always has enough water to defeat even the severest of the drought, and its current strong enough to push the water as far as the ocean. Not lesser than this shallow river with slow current, my heart carries enough love to create a history and enough strength to outlive the emotions of generations.

  A Naga baba at Haridwar "Arey baba, welcome, welcome. I happy you like listen my story, also happy you take my story your country. I come here many many years ago with my guru. I boy, he teach everything. Now I find peace. Life good, my guru good. Haridwar my home now. I like many many people come pray god. You come for god too? Come, come you look good man, from good country. Take photo my guru, my friends, and we smoke. Good god smoke, you like for sure, baba. But why you listen my story, meeting my guru, my friend and do god smoke and say 'god live because you live?' No good, against god. Now you look good, look come from good country. But you not for real."

Never mind, we 're gonna leave behind what we can't take. Take what you can and lock the old house. Its walls and thick roof will keep them intact. We could collect when we return once the future is built elsewhere. You shouldn't look at everything. The umbilical cord in the earthen pot must have turned earth. From now on we must learn new things, new practices, think like what some say they think . A bigger world is there, why do you cling to that shallow or empty world in this place? It's one life, and you must live it. The bus leaves soon, oh we should be thinking train and the bustles of people who have made a better place. Don't you let me drag you, now. I already feel so rotten here among these rats! You must overcome , shake it off and start moving. For chrissake! The house is locked!

When your parents tied your shoes laces before you were sent off to school, they saw this person who would mature soon, understand the world and someday would do something to change this place. They also saw your return when you left the place with future before you. A few years have transformed you to the point that today you begin to see this place as some Japanese tourist would perceive; your p ity for the place is found in the few tea tabled casual words; your attachment to the place is the grumpy week-long stay. It’s a free world, though; you have the right to choose what illusion or what inferiority complex you prefer. But just don’t fake that it really is yours when you have nothing to hold onto in this world. You can forget that the past exists; the scent of mud faded long ago; its people are strangers; its smell disgusts you; its sight are ‘very remote’; and you don’t even understand their medium. But just don’t say that you really care. It sounds like those gr...

I have lived too much of it, I have known it too well, enough to know its cul de sac. Now life's spontaneity doesn't surprise me, a point where humans appear in their true colours, where humans display their dead hearts to justify their conducts. There are only takers, but nothing is given in return. At such time one turns to extreme solitude to do what justifies one's existence. Grim, they will say, yet they enjoy grim comedies.

The whole sky remained concealed the whole day. When it was released from its clutch, only to disclose the approaching dusk, one happened to be walking in the woods.

New Delhi is eternally soaked in rich chaos and congestion. And if you happen to be from a quiet corner, you know what to expect. But a coin becomes real to you after you have seen its sides; you would certainly consider yourself lucky if you explore the city’s magnificent gardens.

Oh you , my  gracious Oh you ,  my youngest nymph  Dance, dance to excite the rain Oh you ,  sweet heart  Dance, dance till the earth joins Oh you ,  damsel For who men unsheathe swords Dance, dance  to  make your ancestors proud  Oh you ,  my soul Dance, dance till you enthra l l the earth Till your footsteps are felt  In the core of the earth Dance, dance ,  my beloved  Till the rain dances to your tune Dance, dance ,  my fare lady  Till the world comes and joins you Dance, dance ,  my life Till you they come and rest at your f...

  Let your voice balm  This aching soul Let your smile s bear this sight Your scent shall  Place this soul in a spell When I wake up  Healed When I walk thinking And  hopeful Hope I shall find you In the moonlit nights The fireflies shall help My sight In days  I shall walk this surface Drinking little Resting in quiet corner s Savouring what little I get But I shall  walk Looking for you Longing you In heart and mind And when  my  body fails, When sight has left, When I lay helpless, Then Memories Will prop They will be my company They...

Long long time ago there existed a few families. My ancestral family was considered wise, and all family members could read and write Sanskrit. But the other families were simple hard-working people who knew nothing but farming and their kin. Time passed, but the knowledge and the language remained in the family as it was passed down from one generation to another. We would teach the rulers a few words every now and then, but to those sun-burned lots we never disclosed a thing.  With unwavering favours from the ruling dynasties, we...