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.
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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