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.
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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