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.
Delhi was once Chinglen’s ‘cradle of love’. With his student years over and the love that once comforted his stay has come to a tragic end, he is seized by a strong urge to flee the city. Run as far as he can from the memories of love. As a costly escape is beyond means, he returns to Manipur, a place long marred by protracted violence, a failed revolution, an engineered incessant political chaos, and already neck-deep in corruption. Perhaps to lick his wounds and hide with the beguiled sense. That the distance and the rich bizarre should shield him from the very memories sloshing thick inside him. His attempt to keep himself engaged as well as to make a meagre living lands him a shoddy journalist job and the opportunity to pursue a PhD at the state's only university. In the absence of his laidback editor and opportunistic professor, he teaches himself some degree of creative writing and dabbles in academia. As he moves further into the labyrinth, he learns the hard way that trying...

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