The Poet on My Wall

Ukhruling isn’t over. I was seriously sick when we reached. And everything was pitch black. I looked at the time on my mobile phone. 6.32pm. I’d woken up at 2.00am, travelled to BIAL (that’s 45 kms for those who care) to catch a 6.00am flight. Got into Kolkata and waited in the airport for two and a half hours. Took the flight to Imphal. And by road to the organisation for the next 4 hours. I’d travelled for almost 17 hours non-stop. No record this. More lengths have been travelled by many who have weaker constitutions than I. But the winding roads done damaged me for hours. I’m not a girl built for such travels, I’m not. In the city now. Driving by, with my city idiot staring-looks. Holi holidays. Five days of it. The petrol bunks, already few are closed. “If they’re open, they get beseiged with groups asking for donations for the festival”. And outside each petrol bunk is a curious thing. Groups of women, four or five per petrol bunk, each sitting there by herself with four or five o...

This is Ukhrul. This is Manipur. This is an NGO. The only NGO I’ve seen, where you’re not left gasping for fresh air after they’ve done their let’s-do-a-song-during-a-break session. They must be church trained choir singers. All of them. Yes, all of them. They sing with perfect pitch and the long-years of practice shows. I am moved – it is only hymns they sing from a stock book of hymns that the conductor (yes, they had one of the participants conduct their song sessions) holds in his hand; and they sang in the local tribal tongue – but I am moved all the same. There were only three women. When MP prepared to suggest that there was only this one problem with the group, they pre-empted her and stated that it wasn’t for the lack of trying. As opposed to those groups who complain “but the president of our kitchen is a woman!” etc. This is a group that is aware of their flaws and their strengths. Cool. They resent us. “What you see in India, is not what you see here…” This is not India. Ha...

Grande Ecole is an ordinary French film with a message that people don't ordinarily care about. The potential for love is explored so interestingly in this film that I wondered if it was just because it's a French film, or if this was a particular philosophy of relationships being explored by Salis, the director. It appears to be a bit of both. The story begins with Paul, who is a student who has just joined a private school and moves in with two of his classmates, rather than with Agnes, his long-term girlfriend. He finds himself increasingly attracted to and obsessed with his housemate Louis, an upper-class cocky athlete, sure of himself and conscious of the effect he has on Paul. But Louis is not interested, he isn't gay or even interested in experimenting. Agnes however, does notice and proposes competing for Louis's affection. If Paul gets Louis, Agnes promises to leave him, but if Agnes gets Louis, she suggesets that Paul should stop exploring his sexuality. ...

sounds i can hear the sounds of the dying stars leave the valley and I know the sound of leaving is the sound of dying a room of one's own i sit alone in this room with a mind in tatters and only see the torn fabric of my sanity. moving? and so then but if not may it be to being. Envy Can you hear the sound of my dreams shattering like fake glass? Brokeback two men slept side by side on that mountain and caressed the emptiness between them Dancing the music isn’t important I’m consumed by the beats and half-beats of new songs i hear them laughing. such happiness. i'm surrounded by these men. these men. these men. and i dance alone.

it’s over yet again we learn how affection fails and proves that the smugness you wear on your face is easily wiped out in a warm room with three minutes of conversation. and it’s over. where have all the men gone? when men leave our beds do they ask ‘what else can we wreck before we go to sleep tonight?’ It isn’t over he was here a while ago and said it wasn’t working for him. I said goodbye And waited for him to leave. He hasn’t. Yet. possibilities do you think it possible that someone else will sing your song? someone else will make you weep into your food every evening? some other will make rejection seem like a rush job at the end of a gruelling week? some other man will make you sit down and write this? and still I haven’t told him that the last time this happened to me I stood out And let the cruel rain Stab my eyes For a long time. And still it rains. best days the best days we've left behind are born every second as painful memories i only asked for more i asked for nothi...

nowhere new I embraced nothing I awoke and remembered I am nowhere new. so love is forever, huh? have you been in love thirteen times and were absolutely certain, this is it. Oh, and this other one. And this one, as well. when he called he said he wanted to speak to me i told him speak he said that the conversation could not be had over a telephone i have a feeling loneliness will call on me tonight

anniversaries whatever dreams we travelled through everytime we kissed like we would run out of skin and however long it took us to get here this is where we always wanted to be. this other genius said conversations never end people merely stop talking another argument he'll make me say sorry it pleases him so he does not know I dream of making him mine for ever and ever and all that but symbols matter most to people who depend only on their imagination and while I dream i constantly scrape the mud off my feet uselessness don't I care? he doesn't think so maybe he thinks i loathe caring or showing it maybe he feels that his way has to be the only way that all poetryis useless unless you care is poetry useless? isn't it caring? I am a patient man i am a patient man it's waiting i hate. work I’ve been working on a 9-to-9 job and this one-sided relationship for some time now

mirror his eyes look for me but he cannot see his path is crowded with the shadows of my footprints today is different i sit here quiet. waiting for the night and his lips. there is this night there is this night some nights away when the tears are done when the cold you feel on your ears has touched elsewhere when his hands comfort and caress your face and he looks inside you and all the metaphors in this world cannot change it into mushy poetry item number roses are expensive valentine’s is market driven parties bore me but you dance in the room like you want me to love you this morning this man said he needs me took me in his arms ran his fingers rough on my unshaven face kissed last night's breath waking my eyes to-day and let me sink in his need how do you talk? he begins. he twists his tongue around yours. grasps your mind in his hair. pinches you till you’re red with thought. grapples with your hands for expression sucks your nipples for desire puts his head against your ch...

the depressed words begin in the beginnning was the word and it spoke conversations usefulness pain has its uses. it reminds me at times that i should be grateful. The depressed poet Hope, my muse, was dead three days ago he came to me in his shroud and asked that I kiss him farewell but I had no strength for even that.

They’ll write of me when I’m gone (But for what use? Who will want to know?) They’ll write that I sang sad songs That I worshipped only my self That I only loved a few and lusted for many That my pain was middle-class That my angst was middle-class That my struggle was no great struggle That the destiny I shaped was the same as a million others That though I fought for greatness I reached only a half way And half greatness is only angst That my theories didn’t exist That my practices were unpracticed That all the visions I had, were leftover nightmares That whenever I thought of completion It was the urgency of the deed, not its necessity that mattered That in sickness, I stayed sick And being healthy was of little use That I fought a million wars To fill the ears of a deaf man That I bore some billion children from infertile wombs That even my metaphors sucked big time That had I tried a little more, I may have achieved greatness That had I reached further, I might have become brave ...

A little while ago, I thought I saw this night Pretend. And look away. Turning brighter, Growing lighter, Allowing, some warmth, as if the sun, to me. Then she pretended to turn back. Turning back. Again. And all that warmth, And all that light. Was nothing but pain. From a little while ago.

a wonder sits on my shoulder now he thinks of you and sighs and touched by the scent of a bolder love he waits with sightless eyes perhaps this waiting will not tell him more than love can rhyme perhaps my nature will not learn him more, nor give him time but he waits and thinks and claims of me a brighter, lesser wrong and crying, cries, ah, my nature oh, my nature. now that you are gone. resist. resist. he will not turn for all of love's soft kisses his dreams are lost, his man is wrong and rhyme is all he misses oh shame that one is rent again this heart will fail anew but nothing fairs so well as time when no one comes to you so he sits and waits and claims from me a rhyme, a tear, a song then sighing says, ah, my nature oh, my nature, now that you are gone.

Do you want to know why I effortlessly utilise the feminine pronoun for individuals, despite whatever accoutrements/genitals they come with (pun intended)? It has to do with being a man. About the power that being a man brings with it and indeed about the agony of it all. Because being a man is a difficult existence (and I don’t mean to oppose this against being a woman, for surely, that is a more difficult existence and being a hijra is perhaps the most difficult of them all). In fact, the attempt at being a man or the effort to remain one is a deeply hurtful and resentful thing. Each attempt or effort determines how you shall behave, whom you shall love, how you shall function in society, what is expected of you, what you must consider your duty, how you must express your emotions etc. All of which endlessly bind, or imprison, individuals into ways of thinking and living that undermine their true ‘value’ as beings whether male or female. To resolve this, it requires that one cease to...

We haven’t learnt our lessons yet. The population is merely an interruption to a larger purpose. How do we overcome madness without defeating peace? They worked or pretended to for their freedom. I pretend to be free and do not work. Every word has always been a painful journey. Sometimes they’ll let you live, if you’ve died enough. But what use is dying? Especially if we only die to experience living? To become better, you begin with suffering. You can’t tell blood from water on tar. Rain and blood flows along our roads. We shan’t forget the roads that our blood has travelled. Little by little, the hour grows on me and I wait for end. Only to find the end is gone. I am new every minute. First, we scare them; then we make them believe what we want them to believe; then we separate them according to what they believe; then we murder them because they believe differently. We are powerful because they are scared, not because they do not believe as we do. Our power is over dead people. F...