Friday, March 07, 2008

a star dies quietly
somewhere in the darkness
sans supernova.
can you see that?

my small world
my piece of sky
my sand stamped on paper
measured with chains
my protons in
the gaseous brew
of expansion...
I cling on
to my boundaries
my moralities, my miniscule
worth space in the
face of immensity
that we dare not fathom.

Big Bang is God!
MATTER matters

and a miracle - gravity
in a split second-
holds me to my narrow feet
my world firm on the ground

Dont I know,Im
detritus on the swirl
in the never-ending
face of enormity?

Tuesday, March 04, 2008

Grass-scapes Transplanted from the Hills to Hyderabad

friends, acquaintances and fellow countrywomen and men

Hamish Sharma
a beef- eating brahmin
from Churachandpur
a Nep who had
never seen his
ancestor's land
(nor does he care!)
ran away from
a home raging with
madness and love
took to arms and
magazines, he watched
the underground
one night, till his
dad's students ,
(not so bright ones)
fellow cadres with
death dancing in
their angelic eyes,
stole him out
of the dungeon
hid him in his
'baba's' school
warned him
how a return meant
a free-ride to
death, guilt
and ruddied nights.
Years later, he thought
he heard gun salutes
fired in the air for
the very same cadres,
not so bright ones....
Death indeed smiles
in the hamlet of

Sharma smiles too
disarming many
a girl, even now
he narrates how
his pious lover
could not make out
grass from nicotine.

* * *

Thangjam Shimrey
bore the brunt
of split yet equally
strong identities:
Naga and Meithei.
He dreamt
of his homeland
of yore, he carried it
on his fingertips
(casually plucking
the guitar strings)
even in his eyes
while crossing the
forest stream
charming his lovers
Back in his dingy hole
in Hyderabad
he thought of his
lover from the highlands
his promises
of the lowland
lad, which were
made only to be broken.
Diwali crackers
sent him a shiver
down the spine
as he broke down
reminiscing the hills
the dry fish
and bamboo shoot
with pork,
the vale of Shiroi-
that transluscentl lily
nascent only to his hills
and the girls with
slender waists
and dancing steps.

He tried
not to remember
the games boys
used to play
with crude grenades
whizzing past his ear
and the cold slap
of water on his skin
when older
boys tried his
manhood in the
Ukhrul's winter river.


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