Kangleimaichou

Seeking quiet corners In the silence of the city By day, by night, Even in the stillness of late hours I carried you. To pursue, to court, And finally, to know If it was mine Or ever would be. I remember Tossing, turning, Muttering to myself, Searching for signs While gathering words. Then, one rainy day, I believed I had it. The dream was mine. Twenty years have passed With the dream, In another city, Where silence and inner peace Slip through my grasp. Penury and ill-fortune Trail me like shadows, Reminding me How fragile, how futile The pursuit can be. Often, I wonder: Have I failed? Is my back now pressed Against the walls Of this city, Of life itself? It is dreadful. It is disheartening. Yet I have nothing But this dream: A flickering flame, A roaring inferno, A monster trapped within. I am no one No titles, no claims, Only belief to shield me, And a longing For a place in the world. After all these years, Oh, dream of mine To possess you Is to know who I am, What I can be. And st...

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...

He kept his word. When he arrived it   was sharp   six, the place hadn’t entirely been released   to dawn , but the temperature was already rising and had become unbearable. I could feel the coarseness of the bag against my drenched back, but I hadn’t bothered to loosen the necktie or to unbutton the shirt that I had ironed impeccably. Barry Brown appeared wearing a light brown shirt which had turned almost dark because of the sweat, he held a folded necktie in one hand, and between the fingers of another a cigarette. In this dusty part of the   outskirt   of the city, his Clarks shoes still shone. He walked up and greeted me, and without a smile asked if I would ‘fancy a fag’. With smoke trailing behind, I led him to the bus terminal, and there we stood leaning against the iron railing, waiting for one of the modified pick-up passenger trucks. Before the cigarette was over, he felt his shirt pocket and took another out. With the butt of the new cigarette betwee...

Even if you cannot Be my lover Stay as my foe So that we meet  At battle, after battle And be that Invincible foe So that we meet  Too often For my quest is  To see you  As often  As I am allowed .

I love it, first in the morning If the coffee is black and strong I love it if I get at least one more. In the bustle, I love the sight  Of rich architecture scattered across Of succinct poetry from nowhere  A fine book I had read decades ago. Amidst the hustles, some bad poetry And abundant predictable pieces. After dusk, engulfed and withdrawn, I love it if it's whiskey or anything That makes me forget the misery  We all live together in this world.  When badly drunk, I want no dreams No recollections, not even the reality. Ah, life, longer you live, harder you try We are either victim of vanity within reach Or the far-fetched evasive dreams.

When the world could be ours There was nothing for us  Thus we drifted with time Not even letting adventures Get in our uncertain path. Little did we know We would find each other In prolonged afterthoughts To treasure what could be ours The known that could be ours And that us rich in love Strange, not this Drifters, we are not But lovers, with unsaid love.

I had been to your town When I only knew you As someone admired. Now I know your town And I know you better  Each bits, I recollect Even the fragrance  The sound of the tides The sight of the coconut trees. I know, it's the mind’s trickery But it does wonders  Imagining you being there  Your laughter subduing  The sound of tidal waves  Your cascading hair  Veiling the sight of costal trees. I know, this is far-fetched  These memorable traces  Will soon fizzle in oblivion. But I love the wonders  I love the very thought  A world filled to its brim With your scent, smiles and beauty It gives me the solace I long seek. 

I have lived a thousand dreams And have sown the seeds of more  I’m that dream bird which you find Perching on the bough of hope  Watching them to germinate I want them to sprout fresh High above the ground  Trying to touch the blue sky If one dies, I create another Some call me dream-keeper  With the unslept eyes Many call me a bird lost in them Whatever name they choose  I am what I do and what I pursue It torments me not, it defines me I am that bird with unslept eyes  Watching my delicate dreams grow.

He came lugging himself Talking in a hurried fashion  When he had to or felt liked He was quiet, otherwise Only the sound of his shoes  Suggested his presence. Such a sight was an enigma Such a presence raised questions. Some said he had gambled all. Some said he had drunk even heirloom Anything anyone said was convincing He could be anything, and anyone. What wasn't said or known, though Was that he had come with a past An elaborate and richly curated past All in place and repeatedly counted  In his museum of memories In which he continued to live. When the world inside was so complete When it was all elaborate and rich, Why would he creep out from the shell?   Such a world, such a past His persistence in curating  And the passion Were all an attempt to mend  His heart. In pain, and in endeavours  He knew well of others’ He was that man, older than  His age, walking much older  The man of enigma, with verses Flowing from his fragmented heart...

Like not looking  again  At the beautiful sky  above He chooses  not to think about her Ever again,  without realising  That  the universe is incomplete  Without the sky above And a life  without her thoughts  Would be without  A purpose.

Below the blue sky Partly veiled by clouds The storks hurried home  Below them the pigeons followed  And below them the city gleamed, Sprawling and intimidating. Such was the morning sight  Such was the afternoon Eternal and impregnable. Like one feels when all is rosy, When one is sunk in oblivion. When the colour altered, The blue disappeared behind grey And soon the grey behind black. The city below surrendered its gleam The anxious residents hurried home . It was a downpour outside It was a sight of splatters On the glass now cleansed The gloom and the splatters Soon concealed the world outside Slipping slowly into dusk Turned the glass a mirror In which the self was seen Then the corner across the aisle Where the heart of oblivion resides. 

Dripping sweat, almost drenched  Every morning, every day in a rush Heart throbbing and mind anxious  Eyes grope for the familiar sight  Well familiar, and yet nowhere close If the sight seeks, the mind presents  The clearly painted distinct portrait  Once drawn in solitude with dedication. The shoulder-long jet black curly hair She sometimes gathers into a bun The round face adorned with black eyes And the lips that pucker when alone Making the dimples more prominent She has spoken at length about  Close ones, friends, acquaintances Even random people you don't recall But she hasn't even looked at you In the eyes always seeking her Nor has even thought of uttering  Your name, which she knows well.  Eight winters back, you said What the heart wanted to utter.  The words were true, the heart was pure  But she was already someone's Strange that he looked and found  Nothing in her, for there was nothing That she could give or bestow....

In a town splattered red Where innocence often nipped  Hope was unstained patches.  Then the splatters gathered  To mark the stricken place  With a pond sloshing red.  There we floated boats  In remembrance of siblings  Whose blood filled the pond. Time brought changes: The pond grew to a lake Began to feed rivers,  Taking our tales to places  That we make boats of hopes Float them on sibling-blood And row them with their bones.

Inside this oven We scurry and drip Our easy anger defanged Panting, even in shade Ceaseless blabbers replaced  Even eyes unable to cast  Embittered looks This the summer has done  Even to the flowers Blossom to wither soon Leaves only to fall  Before they sprout  Branches discolored Desperate to shake off The tiniest birds No longer chirping. In this summer Our eyes no longer meet Everything, even love, Dry up and disappear  And we outdo Even shifty squirrels In our pursuit for solace  Which the humming machines, With air-lifted parts, feed us.

I have returned to find  In the familiar lanes  In the pockets we all know  The vestiges we had left  I have returned to see you In memories I can gather The memories of innocence  In which we were naive  Impulse was the steam  Little was the grand life  But life so complete  Nothing could replace it We didn't outgrow it We drifted and were lost In deep oblivion  How effortless it is to think  To appreciate its past glory  And to stand with a smile  With the dreams belittled.

  Strange times we are living  Strange that far tidings  Bear little meaning.  When writers write to please  Poets fail to recognise muses Painters check pockets Before portraits are made Singers sing the agreeable  Parents teach offsprings  Their best servility.  Times, indeed, are strange  Thoughts, words, beauty, muses  Dreams, courage and morality  All should be locked up And stowed in a dungeon  Lest they see the light  Lest they begin to sprout.