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.
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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