Kangleimaichou

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...